Time Next

by Carolyn Cohagan

  Where are my friends? Remembering the look of abhorrence on Deborah’s father’s face, I have to wonder, are they even alive?

  Four

  On the walk home, I try to make note of certain houses, streets and numbers. I want to understand where I am. When the moment comes to break away from the Dixons, I have to be ready. I’m starting to appreciate the bright colors that everyone paints their houses, because without color, the buildings and streets look exactly alike.

  The heat seems different here than in Manhattan. I’m not used to feeling the sun directly on my skin. At first, the warmth was a relief after the frigid food hall, but now I feel overly exposed, like a newborn being held too close to the furnace.

  The air smells different, too, mostly in that it doesn’t smell like anything. At home, a person is assaulted with scents every block—horses, uncollected garbage, spices at the market, the homeless. Not to mention the noise—the busses and cars, the people, the Bell.

  It occurs to me that walking through Kingsboro, with its lack of sounds and smells, is like being locked up in the Asher’s guest room. What is it with rich people that they’re so determined to shut out the world? I shudder thinking of an entire town of Ashers.

  By the time we arrive back at Tabby’s house, I’m hot and sticky. Tabby looks fresh and dry. The good news is that I’m fairly confident I could find my way back to the Leisure Center. Ditching my Bee is a whole other problem.

  When we walk through the front door, I’m surprised to find the living room filled with people. Rushing forward from a cluster of guests, Bithia embraces me. “Welcome home, Nina!”

  “Mina, Mom. Her name is Mina,” Tabby says. I’m surprised Tabby remembers.

  “Do you girls need something to eat?” Bithia asks.

  “No thanks. We had compressions,” Tabby says. My stomach turns a little at the memory.

  Gilad emerges from the group. “Come and meet everyone,” he says, taking my shoulder and guiding me to the middle of the room. It's a gathering of around twenty men and women, mostly old people wearing gray or white, smiling at me with sympathy, as if they’ve heard I have an incurable disease.

  One of the younger faces belongs to Jeremiah. He has no weapon, but he still looks intimidating—thickset with a torso like an upside-down triangle. His black hair and blue eyes would make him handsome if he didn’t look ready to eat metal.

  Two women standing in front of a couch quickly divide to make room for me. They seem to want me to sit down, but the men are standing, so I’m not sure what to do.

  Bithia says, “Don’t you want to sit down? Do you need to make a pee-pee first?”

  I wish I could crawl under the sofa.

  “She’s not a baby, Mom. Jeez,” says Tabby. “You don’t have to talk to her like she’s Corny.”

  For once, I like Tabby.

  “Sorry, dear,” Bithia says, looking around at the others as if she’s offended them and not me.

  “Let’s all sit down, shall we?” says Gilad.

  As we sit, Tabby heads for the stairs, saying, “I’ve got a lot to do for Prom, so . . .”

  “No, Tabby. You’ll stay,” says Gilad. “This will be good for everyone.”

  Sighing one of her sighs, Tabby comes to the couch and rests on the arm, ready to bolt as soon as possible.

  A bald man in glasses opens a book bound in beautiful red leather. His head is oddly shaped, with skin that’s tight on top and loose and saggy at the bottom, like a partly deflated balloon.

  He reads aloud. Everyone says the words along with him, including Tabby. Before long, he says, “So be it,” closing the book. The others repeat, “So be it,” and then relax back into the chairs and sofa. All eyes turn to me in question, but I have nothing to say.

  Bithia giggles nervously. “How was the Leisure Center, Mina?”

  I say what I hope will get me out of the room the fastest: “It was nice, thank you.”

  They all nod in approval.

  The bald man says, “You have seen what our people can supply: community, safety, comfort, ample provisions. Life here is beyond compare.”

  A woman clears her throat.

  The bald man chuckles. “Yes, Marjory. Life here is almost beyond compare, but we’ll get to that soon enough.” He smiles at me, and the baggy skin under his chin wobbles.

  This is Ram, I assume, their leader. How can his people listen to him without staring at his jelly neck?

  “Don’t you look nice in green!” says a woman with big lips and long auburn hair.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see Tabby snicker. She and her friends made it quite clear that they think the color I’m wearing is repellent.

  The woman called Marjory wears a white skirt, white blouse, and white cardigan. She has a perfectly clipped gray bob and sits with her back ramrod straight. She says, “How happy you must be to finally be free of that veil.”

  Everyone continues to gaze at me, but the smiles have disappeared, replaced with unconcealed curiosity.

  Anyone would know from Marjory’s tone that she expects me to agree with her and say, “Yes, I’m very happy to be free of my veil.” But is it true? Ayan and Rayna would be happy that I’m walking around without it. Nana would probably be proud and a little jealous. But I don’t know how I feel about it yet. I know I hated being in the Leisure Center with everyone gaping at my face.

  Ayan was certain that the veil was about men’s lust. But I was also taught that it was about being humble before God. And isn’t it good to be humble? I’ve started to feel that coming to Queens was very self-important and that maybe God is punishing me. I’m longing for my cloak and veil, to pray on my own and commune with the Prophet. I know from Beth’s question when we arrived that believing in the Prophet is not a good thing. Is my bedroom private enough for me to pray there? Or will the Dixons always be watching me?

  Everyone is waiting for my answer. I give them a piece of truth. “I like the freedom of seeing things more clearly.”

  They all nod in a knowing way, as if I mean more than having better peripheral vision. I want to add: I just wish you couldn’t see me so clearly.

  “I think we should introduce ourselves,” says the woman with the red hair, smiling enthusiastically. “I’ll go first. Hello, Mina. I’m Rachel. I’m one year Gray. I’m the mother of four children––two Whites and two Greens.” She smiles and looks to her left at Jeremiah.

  Looking not at me but straight ahead, he says, “My name is Jeremiah Benjamin. I’m eight years Blue.” He speaks in a monotone voice, as if giving his information to a superior. “I’m a Sentry, like my father, and my father’s father. Next week, I’ll take my Black exam.”

  “He’s taking it much earlier than most people,” says a pretty older woman sitting across from him. Her bright indigo eyes shine with pride. She has silver hair and a lovely complexion. “I suppose I should go next. I’m Jeremiah’s mother, Naomi. My husband is sorry he couldn’t be here today, but he’s patrolling the perimeter. We’re both just so proud of Jeremiah we could burst!”

  Jeremiah remains stone-faced, but I perceive the smallest twitch of annoyance on his lips.

  “You’re forgetting something,” mumbles Marjory.

  “Oh!” Naomi says, becoming more sedate. “I’m ten years Gray and my husband is two years White. I’m also the mother of a Green.”

  Marjory nods, satisfied. And then, I didn’t think it was possible, she sits up straighter. “I’m Marjory, ten years White. I’m the assistant bookkeeper in the head office, and I lead a devotion group on Friday nights. My husband was Marcus and he’s dead.” She looks around the room as if someone might challenge her on this fact. “I live in the very simple blue house on the corner.”

  “Marjory, you sure take pride in not being proud,” a high and surprisingly squeaky voice says. The comment has come from a man sitting across from me in an overstuffed chair. I hadn't noticed him before. He has tight curly hair and large gray eyes. He’s small and boyish in statur
e, but something about the way he holds himself tells me he must be kind of old.

  The room has gone quiet as people look at one another, and, as the moment stretches out, I wonder if Marjory or the squeaky-voiced man is in trouble. At home, it would automatically be the woman, but I have no idea here.

  To my astonishment, Naomi bursts out laughing. Then the bald man joins her, and then Rachel, and soon everyone is laughing. Even Marjory manages a smile. What just happened?

  “Oh, Ram, you are such a tease,” says Rachel.

  The curly-haired man smiles mischievously.

  This is Ram? Their great leader? The one that Bithia needed to consult before she could tell me anything? Sitting in the overstuffed chair, with his feet not touching the ground, he looks like a teenage boy who missed his growth spurt.

  Ram gives me a playful grin. I try to return his look with a neutral expression, but I’m sure my mouth is agape.

  “Maybe it’s time for Mina to introduce herself,” he says.

  I don’t know what to say.

  Everyone leans forward in their seats.

  "I’m Mina. Peace," I say. This doesn't sound right. I think of the other answers. "I’m not married . . . and I don’t have children.”

  Some of the women look surprised, and I see Rachel nudge her neighbor.

  “Tell us about your parents, then,” Ram says with warmth. “Your brothers and sisters.”

  I think of my father and his water plant. Has it been destroyed? Or did Uncle Ruho have Father arrested before he could do anything about the bad water? And Mother. I slapped her the last time I saw her.

  “I don’t want to talk about my parents.”

  Ram nods. “That’s fine. You don’t have to tell us anything.”

  Marjory gives him a stern look. “We need to know about the electricity, Ram.”

  Hopping out of his chair, Ram stands right in front of me. “I’m sure we’re boring this young lady to death. I suggest that she and I go for a walk while the rest of you discuss permits, landscaping, and other topics too tedious to mention.”

  The men and women who have not introduced themselves look disappointed.

  Ram says, “Fret not. You’ll see Mina again at the Worship Hub.”

  Everyone seems to cheer up. Why do they care about spending time with me? One minute they’re shoving my face in the ground, and the next I'm the most popular party guest in town?

  I look to Gilad to make sure he approves of me leaving with Ram. He’s beaming with pride.

  “Madame.” Ram opens the front door, motioning for me to walk out in front of him. My Bee is waiting there, buzzing happily above our heads. Ram looks at it and makes a quick waving motion with his hand. Without hesitating, the Bee flies off into the sky.

  “Where’s it going?” I ask.

  “To an enormous metal hive,” says Ram.

  “Really?” I say, amazed.

  “I’m kidding,” he says, smiling his mischievous grin again.

  “Oh,” I say. “You must think I’m pretty dumb.”

  His face gets serious. “Not at all. In fact, I think you are very smart and very brave. What you did to get here is truly incredible.”

  I’m surprised. I didn’t think the Apostates had any idea of what we went through.

  “You and your friends are extraordinary, and I look forward to getting to know each and every one of you.” He clasps his hands together. “Let’s walk. There’s a lovely park down this way.”

  We take a different route than the one to the Leisure Center. This one involves more trees and dirt paths. Ram points out a few birds, and we even see a fox hiding in the grass. He can’t believe I’ve never seen one before.

  “Kingsboro has the greenest grass I’ve ever seen,” I say, and it’s true. Each blade is so green it’s almost reflective.

  “You have the Elders to thank for that. We paint every two months.”

  “Paint?” I ask, startled.

  “We can’t possibly use our water on such frivolities, but the Elders think the color is a spiritual booster. I wish I could say I hated it, but I confess, I love a crisp green lawn with a nice bed of roses, don’t you?”

  Still absorbing his words, I murmur, “Mmmhmm.”

  “What did you think of the Elders?” he asks.

  Those were the Elders? “They were younger than I was expecting,” I say.

  He smiles. “Yes. ‘Elders’ suggests ninety-year-old men in togas, doesn’t it? But they’re just a little group that the town uses for advice. And Jeremiah isn’t an Elder. He’s there for security.”

  “Why?” I ask, nervous that I already know the answer.

  “Some people are unsure about Propheteers and what you are capable of. Please forgive them. I find it ignorant and rude, but at least Jeremiah wasn’t armed.”

  “There was a man today at the Leisure Center . . .” I say, unsure if I should mention him. “He seemed to hate me, and he’s never even spoken to me.”

  “Was he a bit unkempt?” Ram says.

  When I don’t answer, he says, “It means ‘messy.’”

  Feeling foolish, I say, “Yes. He was messy.”

  “Mr. Tanner. Yes. He has a particular problem with Propheteers and my decision to give you refuge, but please, ignore him and any others. They won’t bother you, I promise. You are under my personal protection, and they know it.”

  Protection from what?

  We’ve reached a huge expanse of open green grass with a pond in the middle.

  “This is Peace Pond,” Ram says.

  “It’s beautiful,” I admit. It's wonderfully still and quiet.

  “I find it relaxing,” he says. “I come here when I need to get away from people.”

  “Don’t you like the people here?”

  “Of course. I love them. But just because you love someone doesn’t mean they can’t annoy you.” He grins.

  “Why does Mr. Tanner dislike, uh, Propheteers?” The new word is awkward in my mouth.

  “The same reason most people hate things—you’re different, your culture is unknown. Maybe you want to change the way we do things.”

  “No, I—”

  “Of course you don’t, but Mr. Tanner can’t see that. All he sees is something foreign that doesn’t belong, like grit in his teeth or lice in his wayward hair.”

  Grit or lice? Ram is not making me feel better. “But the Elders don’t feel the same way?”

  “No, they don’t. Especially since I told them how special you are.” Becoming more serious, he walks closer to the water. “Two months ago, I had a dream I was crossing a bridge, and on the other side awaited a crowd of Propheteers. It took me a long time to get across, but when I finally did, one of the men in the crowd came forward and held out his hand for me to shake in solidarity. When I looked down, my own hand had disappeared. How could I possibly unify our cultures if I could not return the simplest gesture of reception? Then I heard God’s voice, and He said, ‘Fear not, for I am sending you a new hand, and it will lead the way to greater peace and prosperity.’”

  After he looks at me for a while, I realize this is the end of the story.

  “Don’t you understand?” he asks, seeing my confusion. “You, the Manhattan Five, are my new hand—five new fingers! You will lead the way to peace and prosperity between our two people.”

  Ram is so excited about his interpretation of the dream that I feel it would be rude to contradict him. Do I believe in visions of the future? I’m not sure. I’m especially suspicious of them if they involve me.

  “Let’s rest.” He leads me to a huge rock by the pond, and we both sit down. As his legs dangle over the side, I can’t get over the feeling that I’m with a boy and not a man. “What I’m trying to tell you is, I’m glad you’re here.”

  I give him a small smile.

  “You don’t have to pretend to be happy, Mina,” he says. “I know things are difficult for you right now and that you miss your friends.”

  He seems genuine i
n his sadness for me, but isn’t he the one keeping me away from them? He puts his hand on my shoulder. “Stop smiling. Stop acting as if everything is okay.”

  I open my mouth to protest, and, to my surprise, emit a smothered sob instead. Embarrassed, I try to keep tears from following.

  “Let it out,” he says. “Relax, stop pretending, and just let it all go.”

  I begin to cry for real, with hard gasping sobs, both from the relief of acknowledging that I’m miserable and from the deep frustration of people ignoring my questions.

  “Just breathe deeply,” he says. “Look at the water. It will make you feel better, I promise.”

  “I don’t w-w-want to feel better. I want to see my friends.”

  “Of course you do,” he says. “If I were you, I would want to see them too. I would want to rip apart every house until I found them. Is that how you feel?”

  Is this a trick question? Is he testing me to see how violent I am?

  “And I sure wouldn’t trust anyone. Not me, not Bithia, or Gilad. Or Tabitha.” He chuckles. “That Tabitha. What a piece of work. I hope your trip to the Leisure Center wasn’t too unpleasant.”

  When I don’t respond, he says, “Your friends are perfectly safe. They’re being treated well and with great respect.”

  “Then why can’t I see them?” I say, voice rising.

  "I'm hoping that will be a bit more clear after our talk here today."

  The world seems to stop as I wait for him to go on.

  "Can you breathe deeply for me again, please?" He inhales loudly through his nostrils. Wiping my nose, I imitate him. "Thank you. If you don't breathe you'll pass out, and we can't have that." He smiles, but I am sick of his smile. I want an explanation.

  He surprises me with his next question. “Who is the Prophet to you?”

  I continue to breathe deeply.

  “Don’t worry. You’re free to discuss Her here.” He looks around as if to remind me we’re alone. “I’d really like to know about your spiritual relationship with Her.”

  I’ve never had anyone ask me who the Prophet is to me specifically. I suppose I grew up thinking that She was the same for everyone. I thought that God, the Prophet, Uncle Ruho, and the Teachers were all equal. The more Nana and the Laurel Society taught me about Uncle Ruho, and the Teachers, and how they’ve twisted the Book, the more they all separated in my mind. The Prophet has remained sacred among all the power grabbing men. “She is pure,” I say, attempting to explain my thoughts. “She’s my Divine Mother.” Her first followers called her this, and I’ve always liked it.