Pucker

by Melanie Gideon

  I sit next to Emma, who has been allowed to keep the special clothing that protects her from the sun. She’s younger, maybe eleven, and she’s crying softly. All of us can hear her. I don’t reach out to comfort her. None of us do. Right at that moment, we can think only of ourselves.

  SEVENTEEN

  “WHOA.” NIGEL PULLS ON THE reins and the horses toss their heads. “The Laundry,” he announces.

  We’ve been traveling for over an hour. Nigel has stopped at a large wooden building with sliding doors. The smell of bleach permeates the air.

  It’s our first look at the Changed and my group stares at them in silence. I can tell they’re taken aback at their beauty. They have a strange luminosity about them, as if the light around them is constantly being churned.

  “Angels,” whispers Emma.

  “No,” says Rose. “People just like us.”

  Although my group is enthralled with the Changed, we don’t seem to inspire the same fascination. The Changed aren’t looking at us; in fact, most of them are looking beyond us with careful gazes. Are they doing that in order to make us feel welcome? Often people do that with us freaks. They pretend they don’t see our abnormalities. That’s the worst. It’s like pretending you don’t see a skyscraper on fire. At the same time, you don’t want someone screaming, “Call 911,” when they see you. But the Changed used to be us. Don’t they remember?

  “Back to work,” says Nigel, and the Changed obediently return to their giant cauldrons of steaming water.

  The wagon rolls on. The countryside gleams as if it’s been freshly scrubbed with Ajax and steel wool. Cardinals call to one another and locusts whir in the branches of the pine trees. There are meadows, furrowed potato fields, and manicured vegetable gardens. I can’t help but be moved by Isaura’s untouched beauty. That is, until I think about what this place did to my family.

  I glance at Emma, who’s curled up in a ball, no longer moving. Finally I shake off my self-absorption and place my hand on her back. She’s so skinny I can see her shoulder blades right through her jacket. She shudders at my touch.

  “We’re almost there,” I tell her. What can it be like never to have stood in the sun?

  We drive by a lumberyard, a dairy, hay fields, and a barn. By the time the wagon arrives at the Compound, the rest of my group knows how they’ll be spending their days: chopping wood and making soap, plowing and planting, weeding and harvesting, haying, threshing, and slopping pigs.

  The wagon comes to a halt in front of a white clapboard building. The scent of baked apples comes wafting out. I can just visualize the cinnamon and the cream and the little pats of butter on top. My stomach begins to rumble and I want nothing more than to go inside and eat. Suddenly I feel terrified. I pinch the inside of my wrist hard enough to draw blood. I could sink down into that smell and lose myself. Forget why I have come. Baked apples are not for you, I remind myself. Finding your mother’s Seerskin and getting the hell out is.

  “Quicksilver, Thomas, climb down,” instructs Nigel. “Your Host is here.”

  I clamber out of the wagon and stand in the dusty street, unsure of what to do next. A man materializes in the doorway of the building. He crooks his finger, beckoning me. “I’m Dash 482,” the man says, sizing me up. “Let’s go.”

  I hesitate.

  “Now,” he says menacingly, stepping out of the doorway.

  It’s too late to turn back. I obey.

  EIGHTEEN

  THE SIX OF US EAT alone that first night, like children getting their meal out of the way before the adults sit down with their wine and lamb chops. The Changed are still out on work detail; they won’t return for another hour.

  It can’t be later than four in the afternoon and the sun streaming through the windows of the refectory is a soft pinkish gold. The light nudges me outside myself; I can’t believe I’m back in Isaura. None of us speak. There’s only the sound of silverware clinking against the pewter plates.

  “Listen closely,” says Dash, clapping to get our attention. “These are your Hosts.” He gestures to the five men and women sitting with him at a circular table.

  “You’ll live with us during your first hundred days in Isaura. After that time you’ll be assigned to dormitories. Let me warn you. There will be an adjustment. You may not find this easy. This is not America. None of us is rare here. None of us is exceptional or special. The sooner you realize this, the quicker your conversion will be. Do you understand?”

  We nod like good Recruits.

  “The longer you’re here, the easier things will get. I can promise you that,” says Dash. At that point, I tune out. I wriggle around impatiently in my chair. Dash doesn’t notice; he’s too busy proselytizing.

  About ten minutes later he finally wraps up his little sermon.

  “Look around you, then. This is your surrogate family. I suggest you get to know one another. It will be easier if you figure out what you have in common rather than what separates you,” he says.

  Dash pauses, trying to gauge whether he’s getting through to us. His gaze falls on me. I attempt to look both worried and excited. He scowls. I’m not fooling him. Or maybe he can’t see past my scar tissue.

  “All groups meet once a week. Elect a foreman. Someone to represent you all.” Dash waves his hand at us dismissively and sits down.

  I size him up between bites of mashed potato. Dash is in his early twenties, lean but really fit, probably from chopping all that wood.

  I remember the Host my mother and I saw that day we went to the Compound. The way he watched us, as if he were trying to memorize our faces. Perhaps he turned my parents in, somehow figured out that they were malcontents and tipped off the Ministry.

  Other than Dash, the Hosts don’t look like watchdogs at the moment, though. They look more like a group of Pennsylvania Dutch, getting ready to attend a barn raising. All of them wear brown canvas work pants and blue shirts. I feel rather than see their eyes descend on me. I turn my attention back toward the table.

  Then Dash stands up again. “Forgot to mention,” he drawls. “Tomorrow morning Nigel 581 will take you all to the Ministry. That’s when you’ll be Changed.”

  I drop my fork as a jolt of pure adrenaline races through my system, desperate to find some way out. Tomorrow? Somehow I never imagined the Change would happen right away.

  Michael belches. His greasy hands hang from his wrists like two platters. “Pass the potatoes,” he says.

  Rose, the paralyzed woman, studies me. “Are you having second thoughts?” she asks me softly.

  “Aren’t you?” I say.

  “I’m not,” says Jesse.

  “Me either,” echoes Jerome loudly. “We can’t wait to get the hell away from each other.”

  Suddenly Dash is standing at our table. “Who’s having second thoughts?” he demands.

  Like children keeping a secret from the teacher, none of us answer.

  “You?” Dash asks me.

  I shake my head. My heart is hammering.

  “Well, I’m not sure I believe you, T. Everybody has second thoughts.”

  He called me “T.” I haven’t heard that name for nine years. Not since the day my father died. But how could Dash know about that? How could anyone know?

  Dash waits for my response. I don’t know what to say. Suddenly I don’t feel capable of doing this. Masquerading as a Changed. Finding my mother’s Seerskin. The walls of the room collapse and grow smaller.

  “Um,” I say.

  “Eat, asshole,” Jesse whispers.

  I have the sudden urge to laugh hysterically. Instead I cram my mouth full of food.

  We’re all a little scared when the time comes to split up after dinner. We have known each other for only a few hours, but the intensity of our situation has united us.

  Have you ever seen a five-hundred-pound man walk? It’s a nearly impossible feat. Michael is able to take two or three steps and then he has to rest. He looks like he’s about to suffocate—the effect of
gravity on pendulous flaps of flesh. I try to help. I nearly fall under the weight of him until Jesse and Jerome prop up his other side.

  “Thanks,” I whisper.

  “Nice teamwork,” comments Dash, his hand under his chin, as if he’s watching sperm swim around in a petri dish. Slowly we make our way to Nancy 499’s house, where Michael’s staying.

  How can I best describe the Compound? Have you ever been to Sturbridge Village? Just like that, minus the gift shop where you can buy bayberry-scented room spray and hore-hound candy. The Compound is dotted with small clapboard buildings that are grouped around a central village green. Suddenly the air fills with voices. We stop in mid-stride, a parade of freaks, and the Changed are all around us.

  “Let them pass,” says Nancy.

  They move around us like a current, intent on one thing: the Refectory. It’s only then that I become aware of the gonging—the bell that signals the end of the workday. In a few minutes time the Refectory doors swing shut and the green is deserted again except for us.

  All the Hosts have houses of their own; the rest of the Changed live in dormitories. Among the Changed the Hosts hold the power.

  Dash and I are the last to go home. Finally I stand in his kitchen, my knees wobbling with exhaustion.

  “Bathroom’s outside. We’ve got running water. No electricity. You’ll stay here.”

  He opens a door. My room contains a bed and a chair, little else. On the bed are two neatly folded piles of clothes and on the floor a pair of boots. There’s one window that looks out on the green. There are no curtains. I’ll have no privacy.

  “You’ll find two changes of clothes. They’ll need to last you all week. Laundry is done on Saturdays,” says Dash. He stands in the doorway, waiting. I squirm under his gaze. Am I supposed to do something? Give him a tip?

  “Come on,” he says, thrusting out his hand. “Get changed and give me your old clothes.”

  Oh no! My Barker’s. I’ve smuggled it in. It’s a tiny book, the size of my hand, and at the moment it resides in the back pocket of my jeans.

  “Okay, just give me a minute,” I say, moving to shut the door. I have to find somewhere to hide the primer.

  “No,” he says, stepping into the room. “In front of me.”

  “I’ve got to go to the bathroom.” It’s the only thing I can think of to say.

  He snorts. “Get undressed.”

  “No, I mean it. If you don’t let me go, I’ll have an accident.” I squeeze my legs together for emphasis.

  “Jesus,” he says, and moves aside.

  I run to the outhouse. I look up and see he’s watching me from the window. I swing the wooden door shut behind me.

  “Leave it open,” he yells.

  Luckily it’s dark in the outhouse. I slide the Barker’s out of my back pocket with one hand and undo my jeans with the other. There’s only one place to hide the book. I bury it in the pail of lime. I’ll have to retrieve it tomorrow.

  “Move it, kid,” Dash hollers.

  When I get back to the room, I hurriedly strip down to my underwear and then I reach for the brown pants.

  He holds out a burlap bag.

  “Put your clothes in here.”

  I watch him eye my Levi’s hungrily as I fold them into a square. He’s probably sick to death of wearing those puffy pants. Here’s my opportunity to make nice.

  “They’re yours,” I say, handing them to him.

  He takes my jeans and caresses the faded worn fabric with the fingers of his right hand. “Well, I’ll be damned,” he says. Then, with his left hand, he pulls me toward him and forcefully grabs the back of my neck.

  “You think I want your cast-off jeans?” He grins. His teeth are perfect—thirty-two squares of peppermint gum.

  “No, sir. I just thought you might be tired—”

  Dash drops the jeans to the floor. “What kind of a game are you playing, T?”

  “No game,” I say, trying to wriggle out of his grasp.

  “I don’t believe you, kid. How’re you going make me believe?” He leans forward, his breath a hot vapor in my face.

  Panic makes my skin tingle. Things have escalated again suddenly. “Look, I was just trying to be nice,” I say.

  “For Christ’s sake,” says Dash. He stares at my face and his nose wrinkles with repulsion. “How long ago did that happen?”

  “When I was a kid,” I say.

  “Bet you don’t have many friends.”

  “No. No, I don’t,” I say.

  “Ever kissed a girl?”

  “I don’t see how that’s relevant,” I say in a soft, tremulous voice. Then I screw up my face as best as I can (which is not easy to do when your skin is all puckered), as if I’m close to tears. For the record, I’m not; I’ve withstood far worse lines of questioning.

  Dash gives me a disgusted look, then releases me so quickly I topple to the floor.

  “You, my friend, better get with the program,” he says. “Know what the program is?”

  I nod. My eyes are watering nicely. Dash is all blurry.

  “Oh, stop your bawling,” barks Dash.

  I fold my jeans and T-shirt into a neat pile, stuff them in the burlap sack, and hand it back to him.

  After Dash leaves my room and the sound of his footsteps recede, I let the upper half of my body fall back on the bed. My feet I keep firmly planted on the floor. I’ve made it to Isaura and past my Host, at least for now.

  NINETEEN

  “SHOWTIME,” SAYS DASH.

  I wake to find him standing over me in the dark.

  I sit up, totally disoriented. I’ve only been in Isaura for six hours, yet it feels like a week. I have been dreaming about Patrick teaching me a wrestling move called the Tombstone Pile Driver. I want to stay in the dream. It seemed so real I could smell the school gym: the rubber, sweat, and Dorito stench.

  All the Hosts and my fellow immigrants are waiting for us outside. Because it’s night I see Emma for the first time. She’s taken off her gloves and pulled back her hood. The ends of her long curly brown hair are wet from where she’s sucked on them. She smiles at me shyly.

  The green has undergone a transformation as I’ve slept. A stage has been erected. Torches now line the cobblestone walkways and the entire population of the Compound has been assembled. By the looks of it, they’re waiting for us.

  Michael’s Host, Nancy, sticks him with her elbow. “You first.”

  Michael lets out a soft groan.

  “I don’t think I can do it,” he whispers. His forehead beads up with sweat. He breathes heavily, nervously looking across the green at the crowd.

  “Sure, you can,” Jerome says. “Hundred feet, that’s all. Hundred steps, it’ll be over. Come on, we’ll count them together.”

  Emma takes Michael’s hand. He pats her head like she’s a small animal.

  There are two long rows of benches and a center aisle set up in front of the stage. We have to walk down that center aisle to make it to the bench designated for us. Those last twenty feet are interminable. I can’t help but feel this is a church and we are the motley wedding party. Luckily we lurch forward without having to endure any gawking. The Changed barely move. They sit gazing intently forward as if watching some movie only they can see. There are two empty benches up front. We sit in the front row and our Hosts sit behind us.

  Dash leans forward and taps me on the shoulder. “Tonight you’ll be witnessing,” he whispers. “We do this once a month.”

  I get a sick feeling in my stomach. Witnessing. It has a religious ring to it.

  “Welcome,” squeaks a voice. The curtains slide open to reveal an ancient man sitting on a tattered and stained red velvet chair. There’s only a smattering of applause, as if the real star has been delayed and this act will now have to be endured.

  “For those of you who have just arrived, I am Geld 32,783,” he says. Then he shakes his head. “No, Geld 32,784.” He looks upward as if consulting someone. “I think that’s ri
ght,” he mutters.

  I do a quick calculation in my head. This man has been in Isaura for almost ninety years!

  The Changed begin whispering and soon they are having outright conversations. Geld doesn’t seem to notice. He keeps speaking, but his voice gets softer and softer, and soon I can’t hear anything he’s saying. I have the urge to steamroll right over him too. I turn to Emma and ask, “Did you enjoy dinner?”

  I can’t believe I’m asking her something so stupid.

  “Yes, I did,” she says brightly.

  “Did you prefer the green beans or the corn?” I continue.

  “Oh, corn!” she declares, looking like she’s about to break into song and tap-dance.

  I keep glancing back at Geld, who seems to shrink in size the longer he sits up there and the louder the audience gets. Finally he’s taken away. Once he’s out of sight, everyone becomes quiet again and I feel ashamed for ignoring him.

  “My name is Mitsuko,” says a voice from behind me.

  I swivel around in my seat and see a tall Japanese woman striding up the aisle. Her long hair is wound up in two buns on her head. She wears the regulation brown pants and blue shirt, but she doesn’t wear the boots; she’s barefoot.

  “I’ve been Changed for ninety-nine days,” she says, walking onto the stage. She looks in our direction but doesn’t actually see us. It’s more of a sweeping glance that makes it appear as if she does.

  “Honored Hosts.” She bows deeply.

  Nancy 499 stands.

  “I am ready for the questions,” says Mitsuko.

  “Why don’t you go back to the place you came from?” asks Nancy. “You have free choice. You can leave anytime.”

  “I don’t leave because I can do this!” Mitsuko cries. She lifts her arms over her head, does three quick hand-springs, and lands in a split.