One

by David Karp

  Burden sighed a long, shaky sigh and turned over on his back to stare at the ceiling. His arm ached from the needle. He would not starve to death. They would not let him starve to death. They would not let him die. The State wanted all to live. He was a citizen of the State and he had a right to live. Burden still stared up at the ceiling. Where was the light coming from? It was gray and yet it was not daylight. What sort of day was it outdoors? Burden groaned. No, he couldn’t lie there naked like an animal. He had to get up.

  Painfully he used his arms to raise himself to a sitting position but he immediately felt lightheaded and would have fallen backward had he not put out an arm stiffly against the floor. He let his head droop forward, waiting for blood to fill it, to clear the pale fog that began to close in front of his eyes. He tried to move his legs but they felt inert. Burden rubbed his hand along the shinbones. They felt cold and sharp, as if they did not belong to his body at all. Burden sighed helplessly and was grateful for the concrete walls and the concrete floor. Behind them was intelligence. Behind the walls was reasoning. He was not alone in the world—not if he never saw another face or heard another voice. They came into the room and they had fed him while he was unconscious. He was not left alone in the world. He existed in their minds, in their talk. There were places warm and cheerful and well-lit where his name was spoken, where he was remembered, where he existed. No, it was not the same feeling as being abandoned on a glacier, naked, forgotten, facing the horrors of a hellish night of indifference. They knew he was there and from this Burden drew a thin stream of warmth. No matter how cruel, how brainless, how sterile the room was, it still breathed human life. Human hands had built it and human minds remembered it existed and that he was in it. As long as he could cling to that they could not make him suffer the worst. But it was not they who wanted him to suffer, was it? The State desired only the happiness of its citizens. It was its reason for being. What of this citizen? What of this chilled, aching, bearded, naked citizen? Did they want his happiness, too? Burden shook his head. Merely to sit upright was too exhausting. He despised himself for it, but he lowered himself to the floor, to stare up again at the ceiling, his body throbbing its deep thankfulness.

  His father had been a small, precise man with cultivated speech and perfect manners. He had never heard his father shout but he had seen rage in his father’s face and he had heard it, under control, in his voice. Burden, as a child, could not face the rage. He felt that something awful, something terrifying would happen if his father looked that way, spoke that way with the fury rushing like a swift, angry, cold-white mountain stream under the clear glass of his controlled temper. As a child Burden had thought that no one could look at his father’s rage and not turn to stone, like the men in the fairy tale of the Medusa. When his father was very angry and his face grew pale, Burden had clapped his hands to his face so that he would not turn to stone, so that his voice would not be locked within the stone, unable to get out, to be heard.

  Burden put his hand to his throat and caressed the skin, feeling the scratch of his beard. To turn to stone and to keep one’s soul inside, unable to close the stone lids over the stone eyes, unable to open the stone lips, to move the stone tongue, to utter a sound. It had been the nightmare of his childhood that one day his father had pulled away his hands and he had had to stare into the face and see that overwhelming fury and then had turned to stone. As a child he had wondered what they would do with him. Would they keep him in the house, out of sight of visitors? Or would they set him up in the garden with a ring of bleached pebbles around his feet and never pretend that he was anything but a piece of sculpture? And if they turned his back to the house he would never be able to see into the windows, never be able to move his stone feet and his stone limbs, never be able to hold out his stone arms to his mother, to put his stone hand against her warm, soft, living hand of flesh and bone. He would stand until his soul broke with weariness, with the desire just to sit, to lie down, to rest. He would stand while the house aged and dried and rotted and his mother and father died and Ralph died and all of his friends and neighbors died and people would come into the neighborhood who did not know him and no one would ever know that there was a real boy inside the statue that stood in the garden with its back to the house.

  Burden smiled gently. He had not thought of that fantasy in many, many years. Except that now the nightmare had come true. He was imprisoned in stone and it was not as horrible as he had thought it would be. And yet, Burden frowned, the fantasy had come true in just the terms he feared it might. He had looked upon the face of the State and it had turned him into stone. But the State was not his father. Or was it? Burden turned his cheek toward the cold floor and looked along its length, feeling the chill seeping into his cheek. Could he give to the State what he could not give to his father? He respected his father, he feared him, but he never loved him. He could respect the State, he had learned fear for it, but love? Yet it held him in its arms and offered its gross lips and waited. He knew that if he loved it he would no longer be a heretic.

  Burden rolled his head so that he stared directly at the light that came so mysteriously from the ceiling. Why did they not vary it? Just the least bit. Darker or brighter. Its constancy sickened him as a moon might that remained forever fixed in the sky. Could he ever get out of this room? How would they ever know how he felt unless they asked him? Or had they asked him in the dead hours of the morning? Did they ask him under the influence of the drug? And what did he answer? Did he say to them that he wanted no more of the room? That he wanted no more of the loneliness, no more of the nakedness and the cold, and of the light that never changed? Did they hear that from him under the drug? Or was he even more stubborn than he knew? Burden exhaled desperately and felt his head throb. He must want to get out of the room. He must want to get out so desperately that he would tell them so under the drug.

  He rested on the floor, his brain aching, his will sharply urging his mind. Tell them, tell them to let me out—in God’s name, tell them I want to get out.

  18

  At four o’clock on the morning of Thursday, twenty-second of October, the ward attendants DeGrey and Lehman listened to Lark speak to Burden, dirty, chilled, supine on the floor, his arm receiving the drip from the dextrose and glucose bottle.

  “What is the State?”

  The State wishes me to live.

  “Yes, the State wishes you to live and to be happy.”

  I am not happy.

  “That is because you are alone.”

  It is awful to be alone.

  “Yes, it is. Would you like to be with others?”

  Yes, yes, yes, yes.

  “You will be with others soon.”

  Please, please, soon, very soon.

  “Yes, very soon. Do you know the State wishes you to be happy?”

  Why does it treat me this way?

  “Because you wanted to be left alone.”

  I don’t want it any more.

  “Then you’ll be kept with others. Will that make you happy?”

  Yes, it will.

  “And if it doesn’t?”

  It will. I promise. I know it will.

  “The State will help you to be happy in any way you think you will be happy.”

  I’m glad.

  “The State knows the true path to happiness.”

  Please don’t leave me here any longer.

  “Would you follow the true path to happiness?”

  Yes, I would.

  “If the State shows you the true path will you believe it is the true path?”

  Does the State know?

  “Yes, it does. Don’t you believe that?”

  I don’t know any longer.

  “The State does know. Believe that.”

  Yes, I’ll try.

  “You must trust the State.”

  I’ll try.

  “You have been very sick.”

  Yes, I know.

  “You’re getting better. But you m
ust help yourself.”

  I’ll try.

  “Good.” Lark then rose from his kneeling position beside Burden and nodded to the mechanic who leaned over and fixed the earpiece securely on Burden. He then reached over and flipped the switch.

  “The true path of happiness lies in loving one’s fellow citizens,” the recorded voice said evenly, calmly. “To understand what this means think of a family. Not your own, perhaps. Think of a family you might have chosen for yourself as a child, if you had had the power. The father loved the mother and the mother loved the father. The parents loved all the children and cared for them. And the children, in turn, loved their parents and obeyed them. It was a home without fear, without pain, without unhappiness. It was perfect and complete in every way. You belonged there and you were welcomed there. You could always return no matter where you had been or what you had done and be loved and understood and accepted. The State is like that. The State is your family and your fellow citizens are your brothers and your sisters. You need not do anything to earn your place in the family. You must only believe in it. You must only trust it. You must only love it. The State does not care if you are wise or stupid, handsome or ugly, brave or cowardly. The State wishes you to belong, to be happy, to be at peace with yourself. The State will always care about you no matter what you have done. If you are sick it will nurse you to health. If you are tired it will provide you with rest. If you are frightened it will protect you. Your brother and sister citizens are ready to embrace you, to call you their own. Come and join them. Don’t remain frightened and unhappy and bitter outside of the family. Come and be one of us.” The recording droned on as Lark walked up to Lehman.

  “He will be taken to the Psychiatric Division after you’re done in here,” Lark said softly. “They’ll be expecting him in the locked ward.”

  “Yes, sir,” Lehman said respectfully, watching Lark.

  “Nothing else except that I want to tell you and Mr. DeGrey again how much I appreciate this work. You’re helping this man enormously.”

  “Lehman can see how miserable he is,” the attendant said softly, looking at Burden with pitying eyes.

  “Are you Church of State?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Do you think he would be happy in the Church of State?”

  “It would mean a new life for him, sir.”

  “Yes, I think you’re right. But we’ll have to cure him first, won’t we?”

  Lehman nodded grimly, looking at Burden with determined eyes. “The people are one. He will come to us and join with us and he’ll never have to lie naked and groaning on a floor like this. It is an awful thing to have a troubled spirit.”

  “Awful,” Lark agreed.

  ii

  It was a room and he was still naked in it but there was a difference. The light. It was no longer gray. It was brighter and clearer, almost like daylight. Burden stirred and knew now that he was no longer on a floor. He was on a bed. His heart bounded inside him. He looked up at the ceiling. It was low, no more than eight feet above him, and it was simple, blessed white plaster, glowing with daylight, with ordinary fluorescent fixtures set into it. An involuntary small cry of joy came from Burden as he ran his shaking fingers over the bed sheets. They were warm and clean and the walls were not rough concrete but a smoothly painted white surface that gave back the glow of daylight. Burden rose on an elbow and saw that his bed was one of a row of beds. Bedclothes were rumpled, speaking volumes to him of people who had been in them just a few moments before. Burden’s sense of lightheadedness overcame him and he had to fall back, but an enormous wave of gratitude swept over him. He had told them and they had believed him. He was not alone. Others used the beds, they would be back, wherever they were now. Burden stretched out, his stomach churning with excitement. He had been taken out of the room with its awful gray light, its curving walls, its idiot emptiness. He was no longer an abandoned animal left to madness.

  There was no need now for him to get up, to walk. He could wait and rest. Someone would come and speak to him in a while, surely. It was that certain knowledge that made it possible for him to lie in bed, his eyes closed, softly thanking God.

  Burden heard the soft slap of a slipper and turned his eyes. A tall man wearing loose pajamas and backless slippers came down the aisle. He walked carefully, with a great air of self-possession. Burden watched his progress with almost hungry eyes. He did not seem to be a sick man. In fact, he managed to give the shapeless hospital costume a certain air of dash, of sartorial elegance. He had plain, straight black hair that was freshly cut and carefully combed. He was closely shaven and his skin had been dusted with an aftershave powder so that his severely classic face seemed to be chiseled out of marble. His eyes were an electric black and looked like the eyes of some proud, wild bird. He paused when he was just a bed away from Burden and he leaned slightly. It was only then that Burden realized that he was leaning on a cane. But it was not the sort of cane an invalid used. It was altogether different. Burden had only seen one other like it in his life and that was in a photograph taken of his grandparents’ wedding. It was what used to be called a “dress” cane. It was polished black wood with an old ivory top. Burden suppressed the smile. It was appropriate to the man, incongruous to the place.

  Burden waited for the man to speak but he did not. He merely leaned on his cane, regarding Burden with those sentinel eyes. For a reason he could not fathom, Burden began to feel that the man’s eyes were unfriendly, that the look on his face was harsh and disapproving. Burden was about to speak when he heard footsteps at the far end of the room. As he turned his head to look, the man spoke sharply.

  “You’re filthy! Filthy!”

  Burden turned his eyes bewilderedly back to the man with the cane. Before he could reply, the man straightened up sharply and smacked the point of the cane loudly on the floor. “Don’t you understand the common decency of remaining clean? Your body stinks! I can smell it from here!”

  “I’m sorry,” Burden murmured, but his words only seemed to infuriate the man with the cane.

  “Hideous! Absolutely hideous! I won’t be able to stay in the same room with you! You ought to be placed under scalding water and scrubbed with a common brush!”

  The nurse whose footsteps had distracted Burden came into sight. She was a motherly woman. She came up behind the infuriated man with the cane, passed him, and stopped at Burden’s bed, placing her plump, capable hands on the footboard of the bed.

  “Well, you’re awake. That’s nice,” she said in a voice so devoid of any malice that Burden immediately warmed to her. “Are you hungry?”

  “I don’t know,” Burden said, keeping an eye on the man with the cane who continued to glare at him. “I think maybe I could eat some soup or something light.”

  “He’s filthy!” the man with the cane virtually shrieked.

  Burden started at the sound but the nurse behaved as if she had not heard at all.

  “Well,” she said, patting the bed, “I think we can manage some soup for you.”

  “Clean him, clean him!” the man with the cane shouted at the nurse, but she behaved exactly as if he did not exist.

  “I think perhaps I would like a bath,” Burden said softly.

  “If you wish,” the nurse said with a smile, “after you eat.”

  “I’ll return after that’s been washed,” the man with the cane said indignantly, and marched down the aisle out of the room.

  “I’m afraid I’ve offended him,” Burden said softly after the man with the cane left.

  “Oh, don’t mind him,” the nurse said with a short laugh, “he’s a fanatic on cleanliness. If we spent all our days and nights scrubbing we wouldn’t be half clean enough for him. It’s very odd, too, because he has some disgusting personal habits.”

  “Such people generally have,” Burden said quietly.

  “I’ll bring you some soup and a bathrobe. After you wash and have your shave and haircut I’ll see that you get fresh pajamas.
”

  “Thank you,” Burden said gratefully.

  “That’s all right,” the motherly nurse smiled, “you’ll feel better with a bath and fresh clothes and some food.” She started to go and then stopped and turned back, “Oh, there’s just one thing,” she said. “My name is Miss Funston. I’m on duty for eight hours and then the night nurse comes on. You probably won’t see him if you’re a good sleeper. Most of the boys in here are good sleepers. They hardly ever get up in bed.” She smiled again and started to turn but remembered and checked herself. “Oh, there’s one more thing—that man with the cane. His name is Victor. I wouldn’t talk back to him or get involved in any discussion with him. All the other boys know him and leave him alone. If he thinks you’ve insulted him he’s liable to use the cane on you.”

  “Oh,” Burden said, making a small sound, “but why don’t you take it away from him, then?”

  “He’d be completely miserable without it. And since everyone knows him they stay well clear of him and so there’s really no danger. Just pretend he isn’t around. After a while he stops roaring and goes off.” She smiled warmly. “That’s what all the other boys do and they’re quite right. It works perfectly.”

  “I see. How many—” Burden hesitated and then with a self-conscious smile used her term, “boys are there here?”