Blue Window

by Adina Rishe Gewirtz

  The boy said nothing, but he curled in on himself and blinked rapidly in the shadows.

  “Leave him alone,” Susan said. “Like Nell said, he’s not doing anything.”

  Liyla gave a triumphant laugh. “Exactly! Nothing but spreading his filth and dragging the rest of us down.” She shook her head in disgust. “Come on. Farther from him we get, the better.”

  She turned to begin walking again, motioning for them to follow. But Susan didn’t go. She looked back at the boy, crouched there between the sleepers, still watching them. After a second, she slipped the second peach from her pocket and tossed it his way. He pounced on it, and Susan heard Liyla suck air sharply through her teeth. The girl looked up and down the block, shook her head, and blew out.

  “Don’t you know what they say about feeding the useless?” she scolded, shaking her head at Susan. “What were you thinking?”

  At the moment, Susan was thinking that she’d get a certain amount of pleasure from giving Liyla a swift kick. She pressed her lips shut and tried to think good thoughts.

  “What?” Nell asked the girl. “What do they say?”

  “Give them a gift, they’ll pay you double, in the only coin they know — that’s trouble.”

  Susan stared at her sourly, wondering if Liyla’s entire education consisted of memorizing ugly rhymes. It seemed like it.

  For a moment, Liyla looked as if she expected them to clap for her. When they didn’t, she sagged a little.

  “Well,” she said, “I guess I can’t expect you to know it. Probably don’t teach you much in the ruins, do they?”

  She shook her head and turned, heading back up the street. “Let’s go,” she said. “Before the red cloaks come and think we’re useless, too.”

  With a last guilty glance back at the boy in the shed, they followed.

  Susan had once heard a friend’s grandmother say that no matter what the calendar told her, when she closed her eyes, she was still a young mother, with a small daughter. It didn’t matter that the daughter now had a daughter of her own. The picture hung there inside her head, unchanging. Susan had thought about that, wondering whether she had her own picture, hanging behind her eyes. Now she knew she did. While Nell toted around her blanket, and Kate and Jean carried their Barbies in their waistbands, Susan held on to the picture of a girl who was good at the supposed tos in life. She went to school and did her work and helped at home. She liked checking things off lists and knowing she’d done them right. Supposed tos. Ought tos. Shoulds. She had those covered.

  The picture had suddenly become clear because all the supposed tos had gone wrong. The Susan in the picture was not meant to be walking down a foul-smelling street, following a petulant girl who could use a shave, or — she corrected the thought — a wax and file.

  “Maybe we should get away from her,” she said to Max. She kept her voice low, not wanting Kate to hear. Her sister clung to her hand, round eyes taking in all the sights, none of them good ones.

  He shook his head. “You want to get lost here? At least she knows something about the place. Somebody’s got to help us make sense of it.”

  Susan wondered if anybody could. The farther they walked, the less sense it made. On the other side of a short alley, they caught a glimpse of laundry day. Bunches of people milled in a large square, arms full of clothing. The machine Liyla was so excited about turned out to be nothing but a spinning black barrel, powered by steam.

  “You see those in museums,” Max said, astonished. “They’re like a hundred years old! And what is that? A musket?”

  A red-cloaked man, gun slung over his shoulder, stood checking off names on a list as people jostled one another in line. A couple of red-sashed children moved up and down the row, keeping people in order.

  “What are those kids doing?” Susan asked the girl. “They’re not soldiers, too, are they?”

  Liyla laughed. “Purity Patrol. Even girls get to do it. Now, that’s really being useful.”

  Susan cringed, watching the patrol members prod people twice and three times their age. The square looked crowded and hot.

  “You’d think they’d spread it out a little,” Nell said. “Who says everybody has to do the wash on the same day?”

  Liyla made a face that said she was long-suffering, having to answer such questions. “Only the law — that’s all,” she said. In a little singsong, she recited another one of her strange rhymes:

  “Wash day’s here, don’t you forget it.

  Be in the square or you’ll regret it!”

  She caught sight of their dumbfounded looks. “Well, everybody’s got to keep clean, don’t they?”

  “That boy didn’t look too clean,” Kate said to Susan. “The one you gave the peaches to.”

  Liyla snorted.

  “Well, not discards,” she said. “’Course not them.”

  It occurred to Susan that she’d been walking along teetering between panic and outrage, and she really did have a choice. She decided on outrage.

  “That’s ugly,” she said. “Stop it.”

  Liyla looked at her in genuine surprise.

  “It’s only the truth,” she said. “What am I supposed to say?”

  Supposed to. Here, Susan didn’t really know.

  “Well, not that. That boy deserved food as much as anybody.”

  “Deserved? What in the name of progress does that mean?” Liyla asked. “Where do you get such ideas? Reject’s a reject, and useful are useful. What else matters?”

  “Don’t you feel sorry for them?” Jean asked Liyla. “Even a little?”

  Liyla considered this as if it had honestly never occurred to her. After a minute, she shrugged.

  “Might as well be sorry for one of our chickens when she won’t lay and turns into supper. Doesn’t change anything.”

  She started back down the street, unfazed by the looks they gave her.

  Susan thought that maybe Max was right about following her. Nothing seemed to bother Liyla, and maybe not too many other people could lead them through these strange streets, unruffled by everything. She did seem to have a firm idea of where she was headed, too.

  Only once during the walk did the girl falter. She had taken them deep into the city, where squat buildings took the place of squat houses, their outer walls plastered with decaying flyers and newer notices pasted over old until the bricks were no longer red or even brown, but a mash of gray, the color of leftover paste. The occasional hot breeze set the wall aflutter and sent the grimy, torn bits swirling into the street.

  They had weathered one of these small blizzards and turned into the next alley when Liyla stopped short and let out a yelp. Someone had been leaning against one of the grimy walls halfway through the passage and bolted upright at sight of them, nearly as frozen as the girl.

  He — by the height of the figure it seemed a he — wore a hood, and every inch of his body was covered in mottled-green cloth. Despite the heat, gloves encased his hands and thick mesh hid his face.

  “What is that?” Jean whispered.

  Liyla didn’t answer. Her breathing had quickened, and she lost her grip on her basket. It fell onto the broken paving stones, spilling plums into the path.

  The figure seemed to study them a moment. Hesitating, it took a step forward.

  Liyla’s hands flew up, and Susan was stunned to see a knife in one of them. “You get back, you! There are six of us! We won’t go easy!”

  Again, the silent figure paused. Liyla stood breathing hard. The knife trembled in her hand. The figure only regarded her another minute, then turned and walked away.

  The girl refused to move until he was out of sight.

  “Fanatic,” she breathed, slipping the knife back into the pocket of her jumper. “Never seen one that close before. We’ll take a different way home.”

  They helped her collect her spilled plums, blowing dirt off them and rubbing them against their clothes, before she led them from the alley. As she moved quickly back across the s
treet into the harsh sun, Susan regarded her with new respect.

  “Do you always carry that knife?” she asked.

  “Have to,” the girl said, patting her pocket.

  This time, she didn’t need to elaborate.

  Liyla’s house looked like it had been on the losing end of a beating. An unstable fence of wooden planks leaned crazily round it, gaps like missing teeth strung closed with chicken wire. The house’s outer walls had once been whitewashed, but they’d yellowed in the sun and were bruised now with patches of red-brown clay that wept in the heat. Off-center windows peered blackly out at the children from its smeary face. Still, a jaunty red sash hung over the front door, which Liyla proudly pointed out as “the sign of the Genius.”

  “You wait here,” she said, directing them to the chicken yard around back. “I’ll go talk to Ma.”

  A small pen housed the chickens on one side of the yard, just paces from an outhouse of weathered boards with a sloping roof that had buckled with age. Near the back fence, the ground had been dug up and the hole trimmed with rocks. Susan looked into it and saw a fire pit, a nest of ash and coals like small gray eggs. In the muggy air, the aroma of burnt wood coming from the pit proved the only relief from the unfortunate mixture of chickens and outhouse. Worst of all was the chopping block, a stained old stump that sat in the center of the dusty yard in full view of the chickens. Several sawhorses, some upright and some on their sides, littered the rest of the yard.

  Max wrinkled his nose and inspected the chickens, which slept fitfully, bunched together in the shade.

  “Have you noticed,” he said, “that the animals look okay? How come they’re not different, like the people?”

  Susan jumped the fire pit, squinted into the sparse grass to make sure she wouldn’t be sitting in chicken leavings, then slid down to sit with her back against the fence post.

  “I’m too tired for science questions now,” she said. “And hot.” She pulled her sticky collar away from her neck and blew into it, trying to make a breeze.

  Max squatted beside the chickens. “We’ve got to figure it out, though.”

  The splintered fence jabbed at her back, and Susan jerked away from it in annoyance.

  “What are you going to figure out? The whole world?”

  “Maybe.”

  Kate and Jean had pulled their Barbies from their waistbands, and now Jean stood by the fence, running her doll along the boards. Bump. Bump. Bump.

  “You said we’d wake up at home,” she said dejectedly. “You said somebody would help us.”

  Susan rolled her eyes. “We’re working on it,” she sighed. “Will you give us a second?”

  “It’s been all day,” Jean reminded her.

  Kate, meanwhile, sat smoothing her Barbie’s hair. She kept her eyes locked on the doll, as if ignoring the ugly yard would make it go away.

  “Do you think she’ll be able to help us?” she asked. “Liyla’s mother, I mean.”

  “If she’s anything like Liyla, I doubt it,” Nell said gloomily. She had taken one corner of her blanket and thrown it over her head to keep the sun off. “I don’t know why we’re trusting her at all, not after that man called us wares.”

  “Yeah, what did he mean by that?” Kate wanted to know.

  Max shrugged. “Nothing, probably. Anybody who talks as much as Liyla can’t be too crafty. Don’t worry.”

  At the moment, don’t worry sounded to Susan like the most frightening words in the English language. Worry seemed the only sensible course of action in a place like this. But all she said was “I hope you’re right.”

  She noticed that her arms were sunburned and poked at them with a finger.

  “Anyway,” she said, “I don’t see that we have much choice. Somebody around here’s got to know something. Liyla’s mother’s as good a place to start as any.”

  She heaved herself off the scratchy fence, got up, and surveyed the area. The next nearest house stood far enough from Liyla’s that a shout wouldn’t rouse the neighbors. An old-fashioned well, complete with chain and bucket, marked the boundary between the houses, and a lean cow grazed on weeds just past it.

  “Hey, Jean,” she said. Her little sister still ran her Barbie mercilessly across the fence. “Look at that old cow.”

  Something flickered in the corner of her eye. Susan turned and saw a hooded figure, swathed in green, standing beside the well.

  She grabbed Jean.

  “Into the house! Quick!”

  In half a second, they were scrambling for the back door, yanking it open, and barreling through. Nell slammed it behind them.

  Susan blinked, blinded after the glare of the yard. When her eyes adjusted, she saw Liyla and her mother, on their feet on either side of a rough table, gaping at her.

  “What’s wrong?” Liyla asked.

  “Fanatic outside,” Susan breathed. “Near the well.”

  Liyla’s mother jumped from her chair and ran to the back door. Susan looked over the woman’s shoulder as she opened it an inch and peered outside. The hooded figure had gone.

  “They’re fast,” the woman said. “Faster than anything. Soldiers hunt them all over the city and never have caught one.”

  She closed the door, bolted it, and turned back to the children. If she’d been surprised at the sight of them, she didn’t show any of that now.

  The woman wore her hair pulled into a knot so tight on the top of her head that it dragged her forehead up. She wore a jumper much like Liyla’s, except hers was covered with an apron that might once have been white, maybe when Susan’s grandmother was a little girl. But what drew Susan’s eye was her face. She was pinched and stubbled, a dried-up version of Liyla. Her expression brought to mind the man who guessed people’s weight and height at the county fair. Susan had seen him once on a break, and even when eating his corn dog and funnel cake, he couldn’t seem to look at people without taking measurements.

  Liyla’s mother studied the five of them in the same way. Her eyes moved from Susan to Max to Nell, and she wore the smile of someone who had just won the lottery.

  “Oh, my, what wonders,” she said, resting her gaze on Jean. She leaned over and pulled Jean’s chin up so she could look into her face. “You’re as exquisite as an old painting! And this, how amazing!” She reached for Jean’s Barbie.

  Jean pulled it to her chest and shot a pleading look Max’s way.

  Max bit his lip. “It’s all right,” he whispered. “She’ll give it back.”

  Jean reluctantly released it.

  “So this is the model, then?” The woman looked from Max to Susan.

  With the heel of her hand, Jean pushed a sweaty lock of dark hair out of her eyes.

  “It’s just my doll,” she said.

  The woman smiled giddily and handed it back to her.

  “Of course, of course it is!” she said. “But who gave it to you? Hmm?”

  “My father,” Jean said. A stubborn edge had crept into her voice. “For an unbirthday present.”

  At this, the woman raised an eyebrow, but Liyla said, “I told you, Ma: they don’t remember.”

  For a long moment, the woman considered them again, taking in faces, hands, clothing, dolls. Kate squirmed and Nell squeezed her wadded-up blanket, her fists clenched.

  “We do know we need help, though,” Susan said, unable to stand the inspection any longer. “Can you tell us who around here might know about — strange things?”

  At that, the woman abandoned her calculations and grinned widely. “Strange things? Well, you leave that to me. I’ll find the right one to help you first thing in the morning.”

  She was peering into Nell’s hair when she said it.

  We are not staying here,” Nell said when Liyla and her mother had gone out to the yard to make dinner. They heard the squawk of chickens and then the hollow snap of ax against chopping block. “Please tell me we’re not.”

  Susan turned away from the back door and looked around the room. The house was li
ttle more than a large open space outfitted with a fireplace and table, a rag rug, and several chairs, rough ones beside the table, better ones near the cold fireplace. The only bedroom she could see was through an open door on the right side of the room, and on the far side of the back door, a curtained alcove half hid an unmade bed beneath a good-size window.

  “It’s not that bad,” she said, raising her voice over the sound of panicked chickens. “It’s okay.”

  The others disagreed. It was that bad. They insisted on searching the place, sure they were going to find the skeletons of a few of Liyla’s playmates somewhere. Under the rug, Jean uncovered a trapdoor.

  “See!” Nell shouted when they’d pulled the rug away. “Close your eyes, girls! I don’t think you’re going to want to see this!”

  Kate drew back, but Jean got down on her knees beside Nell. Max, who’d been rolling his eyes a minute before Jean yanked the rug back, now bent over Nell’s shoulder, his mouth pressed into a thin line.

  A hinged handle lay in a shallow dip in the wood, so it left no bump in the floorboards. Nell pried it up and heaved the door open. A puff of cold air issued from the dark under-floor. Susan shivered. Dimly, about four feet down, she could make out a square of dirt. Nell lowered herself to it. Shoulders jammed together, they leaned over to peer in after her.

  “Move out of the light! I can’t see a thing down here!” she said. “My gosh, it’s cold!”

  “Maybe it’s a crypt,” Max muttered. Susan hushed him.

  They tilted back to give her some light, and Nell gasped. Susan’s stomach dropped.

  “What? What is it? What has she got down there?”

  Susan stuck her head into the hole, but Nell shoved it back.

  “Bones!” Nell said. “Oh, gross! There’s a whole lumpy row of them! And then — ugh! What’s that? Underneath she’s got a basket of something dark and bloody looking.”

  Jean had begun to make a gagging noise, and Kate’s face had turned the color of chalk. But Susan paused a second.