“My fiancé was––” I catch myself. “––is––not a nice man. He treats me very badly. I defended myself. For that, his family wants to punish me.”
“Fascinating,” says Solomon. He walks down to my feet. “Take my hands.”
When I reach up, he grabs my hands and yanks me forward. The weight on my back is so great that I think my arms will be ripped from my torso, but eventually, I’m standing.
Was that it? He got the information he wanted?
“You need more time to think things over,” he says. “And I need breakfast. So you’re going to put your hands back on the wall.”
I’m tempted to say that I need breakfast, too, but I do as he says.
“When I come back, maybe you’ll be ready to tell me what really happened between you and your fiancé’s family. Okay?”
He walks to the door. Before he reaches it, he turns to say, “Don’t consider sitting down or moving from that spot. You’re being watched, of course.” He smiles, smoothing his hair down across his forehead. “See you soon.” He walks out the metal door, which closes with a loud bang.
What just happened? How much did I tell him? When will he be back?
Despite the rocks that have been removed, the backpack is still painfully heavy. As desperate as I was to get off the ground, I’m more miserable standing up, the enormous weight threatening to pull me down again. What happens if I fall over accidentally? Will I still be punished? I don’t want to find out.
Trying to ignore the straps cutting into my skin, I concentrate on the story I need to tell about the Ashers. How much of the truth should I share? How much does Solomon already know? Most importantly, can I come up with a story that is believable and doesn’t involve murder?
Nineteen
What makes the next hour worse is the people walking by. I can see them through the windows. The residents come and go from breakfast, and not one acknowledges my existence. Girls and boys my age chat with one another, but no one looks at the girl in anguish in the courtyard.
I feel smaller than dust.
As another hour ticks by, I accept that Solomon is not just eating breakfast. He may leave me here all day. I gradually become enraged.
I convince myself that I am strong and different from the other people here; I won’t be broken by a bully with bad breath. I stand taller to show the people in the windows that I’m tough.
I think of all the sins that I’m sure Solomon is guilty of––pride, vanity, wrath. I imagine him wearing a backpack filled with rocks that are not only heavy but hot from resting in a nearby fire. I would order him to stand still against the wall even as the rocks began to burn him.
Dark thoughts like this one fly through my mind, frantic and combative as birds caught in a net. How would Solomon do with a Twitcher? Could he even survive Manhattan? After a few years in the Tunnel, I wonder how tough he would be.
The Unbound have no Tunnel. This backpack seems to be the worst punishment they have for me. And I can take it.
As the morning moves on, my outrage fades, and the backpack becomes heavier. I slump, trying to shift the pain away from my upper back, where it feels like someone has put clamps on my shoulder blades.
I concentrate on happy thoughts: Sekena in front of her sunlamp; Juda laughing and eating squirrel; Nana reading me the museum section of the Primer:
The opulent residence that houses a private collection of great masters was originally built for industrialist Henry Clay Frick. The firm of Carrère & Hastings designed the 1914 structure in an 18th-century European style, with a beautiful interior court and reflecting pool.
What I wouldn’t give to have Nana reading to me right now.
Nana. I won’t ever see her again. Her plan for me has been a complete failure. I am a failure.
I keep concentrating on the Primer. I resolve to go through it page by page in my head until Solomon returns.
Eateries under the Major Food Group umbrella, the one that brought us Sadelle’s and Dirty French, are equal parts sustenance and scene. This Meatpacking number, a people-watching glass box tucked beneath the High Line, is no exception.
Another hour or so passes. I can only guess the time.
How could I have possibly thought it was a good idea to come to the Forgiveness Home? Tabby told me no one sane would want to be here. But I wouldn’t listen. I was sure I knew better, that it couldn’t be that bad. She couldn’t have known about standing outside for hours with a backpack of rocks, or surely she wouldn’t have helped me, right?
But would I have abandoned Juda to rot here? Thinking that I could come in here and help him escape makes me an idiot. Who do I think I am?
Coming here was a huge mistake, but it’s not my first. Why did I have to choose this subway stop? Maybe if I’d chosen a different tunnel, we’d all be free now. Or maybe my mistake was including other people at all. I should have left Manhattan by myself and left the others to live their lives. If I’d never talked to Juda . . . . If I hadn’t followed him down the stairs . . . or kissed him.
Queasiness surges through me as I consider never having met Juda. My insides knot at the idea, but at least now he would be safe at home with Rose.
I jiggle my head, shaking away unpleasant thoughts. Nana would say, “Trying to change the past is like trying to become two inches shorter. It’s impossible and will just make you slump around in a depression.”
The straps of the backpack dig deep, seeming to pull skin from behind my ears and down my neck. My legs are so tired, my knees are shaking slightly. I’m desperate to take my arms off the wall just for a second. They’ve been in the same position for hours. I need water and food.
The Prophet said, “Each person’s Hell is perfectly fitted to the size of his or her sin.”
This must be my Hell.
It’s about time I admit that I deserve it.
I killed Damon. I spurred him on, made him walk into deep water knowing he couldn’t swim.
I killed Mr. Asher. Damon was trying to kill Juda because of me. If I’d just behaved correctly, none of it would’ve happened, and they’d both be alive now.
My parents . . . . I don’t know that I can bear to think about them. Certainly Father has lost his job. They could be on the streets.
I’m a horrible, selfish person, and everyone knows it but me. God knows it, and that’s why I’m here, unable to move, pain shooting through every limb of my body. I begin to sob. I don’t know how much longer I can do this. Will Solomon ever come back? What if he leaves me here overnight? I cry harder.
The sobbing causes my shoulders to tremble, and the straps of the backpack slide further inward. I’ve been standing with my back curved, so I straighten up, hoping to help the pain in my neck. But the shift is too much, and I tumble backward onto the ground.
I land hard, the rocks cutting into my skin. I gasp at the new pain. Luckily, the size of the backpack keeps my head from hitting the ground. I lie there, my legs and arms becoming jelly now that they’re no longer being forced to work.
“Don’t consider sitting down or moving” is what Solomon said, but my body is so exhausted, I don’t know how I’ll ever get up again.
I pray, not to the Prophet or to the Savior, but directly to God.
I’ve been terrible to you. I’ve disobeyed you and you have no reason to help me, but please . . . I want to be a good person. I’ve been so confused. I want to do the right thing. Just show me how, and I’ll never be disloyal again. I promise.
All I can hear is my breathing and crying. My nose runs, and my arm is too tired to lift my hand to wipe it.
I’ll lie here until Solomon returns and then beg his forgiveness for disobeying him. It’s my only choice.
“You have to get up, Mina,” a voice says.
I know that voice.
It’s Juda.
I look up at the sky and then the roof.
“You’re being watched,” he says, “but they can’t hear us. Just listen,” he says.
Followin
g his voice, I notice an open window on the second floor. A shadowy figure lurks there.
Sensing I’ve spotted him, he says quietly, “Don’t move. Don’t look at me.”
I glance back at the sky.
“Are you okay?” I say, trying not to move my mouth.
“Don’t talk,” he says with force. “They’ll see you and come. For once in your stubborn life, please, just listen.”
I almost smile.
“You have to get up, Mina,” he says.
I close my eyes. I can’t.
“If Solomon comes back and finds you on the ground . . . it will be bad. Worse than it is now.”
I keep my eyes closed. Is Juda really here? Maybe this is a dream, like the time I thought he climbed into the bathtub with me.
“If you stand, you can talk to me,” he says.
I don’t move. If I can just sleep for five minutes before Solomon returns, I’ll be better prepared for whatever is coming.
“Listen, to me, Clark. You’re going to sit up, and then you’re going to stand. You’re better than this.”
I open my eyes. I want him to leave me alone.
“Stand, Mina. Let’s go!” He’s barking at me like a soldier.
When I still don’t move, he says, “Ruth told me that when Solomon took her to the courtyard, he started yelling at her, and a bird pooped on his head.”
I laugh. I can’t help it.
“See? You have energy. Stand!”
Lifting my head, I look down at my body, which seems to belong to someone else. I lift my torso slightly, and my bloody back unsticks from the backpack. I begin to slide the straps off.
“No,” Juda says. “Keep it on. They’ll see you take it off.”
I want to yell at him, but I leave the straps on. Leaning forward, I pull my legs underneath me. My balance totally off, I move like a colt standing for the first time. A small breeze will topple me right back over. My thighs shake as I straighten up.
Stabbing pain returns to my neck, shoulders and lower back, as I return my hands to the wall.
“Good girl!” says Juda.
I don’t appreciate being spoken to like I’m a dog, but this isn’t the time to bring it up.
“The camera is on the wall behind you, but it’s really old. If you tilt your head down, you can speak to me,” he says.
Anxious, but desperate to talk to him, I tip my chin to my chest. In a low voice, I say, “I miss you.”
“I miss you, too,” he says. “So much.”
“I’ve been trying to find you.”
“I’ve been here. I ask about you all the time.”
I smile, thinking that he’s been as desperate to find me as I have to find him.
“Are you okay?” he asks.
He must be joking. “No, I’m not okay.”
“Is anything broken?” he says with worry. “Did Solomon hit you?”
“No.”
“Good. Tell him you want to repent your sins. Then he’ll bring you back inside.”
“I do want that,” I say.
“What are you talking about?” he says, almost angry.
I can’t answer right away, because I’m afraid of crying again. “I’m sorry I brought you to Queens. I’m sorry I made you hit Damon and lose your job. I’m sorry you had to run away. I’m sorry for everything. It’s all my fault, and I want God’s forgiveness.”
He makes a weird sound with his mouth––“Ffftttt”––but I have no idea what it means. “I know you think you hold a lot of power over me, but if you think you ‘made’ me do any of those things, you’ve really become deluded since we last saw each other.”
I wish I could take comfort in his words. “We killed a man, Juda. There’s no worse sin.” I don’t care if Solomon or Kalyb can hear me. God knows the truth.
“He was trying to kill us!” he says. “And he killed his own father. God sees what’s right and what’s wrong. You know that.”
I wish I were sure.
“You’re tired, and you’re hungry. I understand. But you cannot tell Solomon about what happened to Damon.”
“He wants me to confess my sins, and I want to confess them.”
“No!” he says. “Do you want to see all five of us on trial for murder, when the people here can’t possibly understand what we were going through or what really happened? The last time you saw Damon was when you fled his apartment, got it?”
All five of us on trial. I have to tell Juda about his mother. It won’t be good for him––it will make him suffer greatly–– but I’ve seen his wrath when someone keeps secrets from him. What if Rose’s illness is God’s punishment for killing Damon?
“I have to tell you something,” I say.
“I forgive you, Mina. God forgives you. Stop punishing yourself.”
“No, it’s—”
The door to the courtyard opens and Solomon enters, a big grin on his face. “Where were we?” he says.
I glance at the window and Juda is gone.
Twenty
Solomon’s footsteps crunch on the gravel as he approaches.
What if he puts more rocks in my backpack? I can’t possibly endure one more.
He leans into my ear, whispering, “What do you have to say to me?”
Hoping to cut him off from asking about the Ashers, I say, “I want to repent.”
“God loves humility,” he says with joy. “God is ready to hear your sins.”
Searching for courage in Juda’s words, I say, “I did not respect my parents or the decisions they made on my behalf.”
Solomon circles behind me, mumbling something I cannot hear. Then he says, “What else?”
Nervous, I add, “I gave my heart to a boy who was not my betrothed.”
“Did you fornicate with him?”
“No!”
“Did you attempt to?”
“No.”
“Did you touch each other in inappropriate ways?”
“I . . .” What does that mean? We kissed. We held each other. Nothing felt inappropriate. “No.”
“Don’t lie.”
“We didn’t.”
“Who taught you to be this Jezebel? Did your mother put ideas of the devil in your mind?”
“No.”
“Your friends?”
“No one.”
“You’re lying. Deceit and sinfulness do not appear from nowhere. They fester where they’ve been planted. Who sowed these ideas in your soul?” After a moment of silence, he says, “Someone taught you to be liberal with your desire. Who was it? Some other Jezebel floozy. Your sister? Your cousin? Your grandmother?”
“She’s not a floozy!” I snap.
Solomon smiles. “Your grandmother led you astray.”
Nyek. How could I have given away this information so easily?
“What else did she tell you? Did she teach you that the Unbound were evil and needed to be infiltrated?”
“No—she wanted me to come here to be safe. She wanted me to escape.”
“Why?”
“She knew that I was in danger.”
“Did she teach you to hate men? Did she teach you how to fight?”
“No! She taught me how to read.”
He sniffs. “I think you’d be better prepared if she’d taught you how to punch.”
He is correct in that I would very much like to punch him right now.
“The Unbound are taught to listen to and obey their parents,” he says, “but, more importantly, they are taught to obey the rules of God. You were listening to the advice of an elder, but you must understand going forward that the laws of God are paramount and that they will never let you down. You will never find yourself again in the position you are in now—confused, lonely, in pain—if you follow the Lord. Do you understand?”
I nod.
“You strayed so far from the path that suffering was inevitable. Your grandmother was a provoker, and no one blames you for listening to her, but now it’s time for you to become an
adult and see the world for what it really is. When you do, there will be reward upon reward. The first one will be removal of this backpack. Next will be acceptance among the Forgiveness Home community. And finally, when you are ready, you will be able to return to the Dixons. And you will feel so light, so blessed, that you will be happier than you ever thought possible.”
He’s smiling; his voice is calm and reassuring. “Are you ready to be blessed, Mina?”
I nod, tears forming at the thought of taking off the rocks.
“Good.” He crosses his arms. “If only you had fully released your burden.”
“But I told you everything! You—” I say.
He cuts me off with a brisk, “Chh.” His face hardens. “You still haven’t told me what happened to your fiancé.”
“What do you mean? He’s––”
“Don’t make it worse by lying. You’ll keep the backpack on until you decide to tell the truth.” Walking to the door, he pushes it open. “Come with me.”
He can’t be serious. I’ve had the rocks on my back for at least six hours. Standing here was hard enough; I can’t possibly walk around.
“Don’t make me ask twice.”
With great effort, I make my way across the stony ground. If I lean any direction, I will tumble over. Once I reach the door, he leads me down the hall. He walks quickly, and I struggle to keep up. The pain from my back and shoulders shoots down my arms and legs.
We walk through several hallways, past a few men in purple. Is Solomon finally going to feed me?
We reach a room full of empty bunk beds. Thank the Prophet, the Savior, God, whomever. Solomon is going to let me lie down.
“This is the girls’ dorm. That will be your bed,” Solomon says, pointing to a top bunk.
He doesn’t have to say it. He wants me to climb up to the bed with the backpack on.
I tell myself that at the end of the climb is a mattress and sleep.
Two wide planks at the foot of the bottom bed form a ladder of sorts. I approach slowly, wondering if I still have enough strength left to climb.
I put my right foot on the bottom rung and hoist myself up, but the weight of the rocks pulls me right back down.
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