The Salvation State

by Marcus Damanda

  He stopped the car and rolled down his window.

  “For you,” Mom said, “I’d do that. Only for you.” She still looked away from him.

  The guard was coming. Wordlessly, Daniel flashed the visitor pass. It wasn’t like this guard didn’t know who they were, but the rules were the rules. Usually the guard just waved him through, also wordlessly. But not today.

  “Blessings of the Lord,” he said from behind the mask.

  Daniel repeated it back to him. Then shouldered his mother. Eventually she muttered the words.

  Like freakin’ telepathy. It’s like you’re testing us to see if we mean it.

  The gate opened, and Daniel drove through to the visitor parking lot. Finding it almost empty, he parked the car in the space nearest to the entrance. He took the keys out of the ignition and pocketed them.

  Now would come the part where they clasped hands, he knew, and readied themselves for Dad. He was different every time, sicker every time. Less every time.

  “I’m not going in,” Mom said.

  Daniel waited. She had said that before. All part of the pattern.

  “Really, Daniel, I’ll be here when you get back. I can’t do it today.”

  He didn’t bug her. She knew her way well enough once she changed her mind. She could follow him in. He just didn’t feel like going through the whole “Convince Mom” drill today.

  “Okay,” he said and got out of the car, breathing shallowly or not at all until the voice on the outer intercom allowed him inside.

  If Hell exists, then this is what the outer ring smells like.

  ****

  “Property and Claims Office,” said the guard at Visitor Admissions. “You’re right by it, kid. First hall on your right, then first door on your right.”

  Daniel was sure he hadn’t heard correctly. He’d never been directed that way before. He needed to go to the prison infirmary. There was no way his dad was well enough to be anywhere else.

  It was the stupid mask. The guards even wore them indoors. It was like listening to the intercom voice through a dampened cloth.

  “Didn’t you hear me?” the guard demanded.

  “My dad’s in the infirmary.”

  Even through the mask, the sigh was audible. “You’re as dense as your old man,” said the guard, pointing with finality. “Just go where I tell you, already.”

  Daniel supposed he was. Nevertheless, he did have a notion of what had happened. He might have even guessed it in the car—the guard’s greeting, his mother’s unwillingness to accompany him. Had she sensed it somehow? Mom didn’t even believe in that kind of perception.

  You coward bastard, Daniel thought.

  “Oh, and I’d lose the attitude,” said the guard. “You should just see the look on your face. You’re old enough to be here yourself, you know.”

  Daniel turned from him and followed his directions. He didn’t cry. He supposed he might later. The news was too big to get his head around, even though his father had already been effectively dead for some time.

  At the Property and Claims Office, yet another gloved and masked guard slid him a plastic box through the gap in the partition window. It looked like it was filled with dirt and rocks. “That,” he said, “is your father.” A slip of paper followed. “And this,” he said, “is the bill for his cremation. It comes due at the end of the month.”

  Four hundred and twenty dollars.

  “You’ll notice that includes postage for mailing the container back, which is prestamped for your convenience. Do us a favor and wash it out first.”

  Daniel pocketed the bill, took the box in two hands, and stared down at it.

  “That’s it,” said the guard. “As of last Tuesday, your dad willed everything he owned to charity and to the state. It’s a good thing the car is in your mother’s name, huh? You still have a ride home.”

  Daniel saw only the prestamped box. He made himself not look up. His heart filled with a desire to throw himself at the glass and scream. If he looked up, he would do it.

  “You have what you came for,” said the guard. “Now get it out of here.”

  ****

  Tuesday, August 11

  Emmanuel Christian Church

  Annapolis, Maryland

  Alison Riggs sat in a folding metal chair, watching Rebecca’s shallow breathing. Watching her sleep with her beautiful eyes half open. Watching her recover from whatever poison this “Wendy” from Angel Island had administered through the IV.

  Deciding it was better to use too much water as opposed to not enough, Alison picked up the eyedropper again. Her fingers shook as she squeezed it over Rebecca’s eyes. The pillow was damp with overflow. Rebecca’s hair was soaked.

  The “bed” was a cot, actually, and the room was her church’s main chapel. The cot was right in front of the communion altar. All of the machinery wired to her daughter was on wheels.

  Solomon tests were relatively new. Neither Alison nor Mike had ever received one, nor did they even know what happened during its administration.

  A leap of parental faith, Michael had called it. These days, everybody eventually gets one. It’s safe.

  Doesn’t mean I have to like it, Alison had replied.

  The drug Rebecca had been given served two purposes: to put her in a state of “emotional equilibrium” for the interview, and then to make her forget the content of that interview. Parental observance was forbidden. No one had ever reported what actually went on during a Solomon test.

  She might not even remember anything going back one or two whole days, Wendy had said. It’s for the best, Mr. and Mrs. Riggs.

  From the front of the chapel, Alison heard the echo of opening doors as Michael stepped in. After three hours of conspicuous absence—during which time he was supposedly “going over details” with the Angel Island reps—he had finally decided to take an interest in Rebecca’s current condition.

  There weren’t any other chairs, though. Only pews. He remained standing. He looked pale—older, somehow.

  I’ll tell him tonight.

  Over the course of the previous forty-eight hours, Alison had not been idle. Secretly she had inquired after openings at Damascus Teenage Retreat, a highly regarded spiritual revival home for girls that offered both ongoing education and two-week “fixes.” The discussion was not over. Not by a long shot.

  “Michael,” she said, “what’s wrong?”

  He knelt by Rebecca’s side, took her clammy hand, and looked sidelong at Alison. “They already approved it. Rebecca’s application. Just now. They won’t even charge us for her enrollment. They say they can pick her up this Friday.”

  Alison shook her head. “Already? That’s impossible.”

  “They say she’s a perfect fit,” he said, but his eyes were glassy, full of doubt. “We have twenty-four hours to make it official.”

  Rebecca stirred, heaving in a sudden breath. Her eyes fluttered.

  “It’s a formality,” Michael said, finger-combing Rebecca’s wet hair. “Nobody ever says no.”

  We’ll see about that.

  Rebecca’s eyes were wide open now. Darting. Disoriented.

  She tried to speak—and failed.

  Chapter Two

  Second Thoughts

  Wednesday, August 12

  Annapolis, Maryland

  Rebecca ran.

  Free, she thought. I’m totally free right now.

  It wasn’t strictly true. The circuit was the same she and her mother used, back when they had both liked to jog in the late afternoon. There weren’t any bad neighborhoods in Annapolis—nor anywhere else Rebecca had either lived or visited—but she still wasn’t allowed beyond this perimeter without supervision. And yet, the activity did make her feel free. The circuit was eight miles long, and she was alone. While on it, she could think anything she wanted without being judged or bothered. Her mind, at least, was free.

  Those drugs got in my head. They picked my brain to pieces.

  She didn’
t remember any of it. She could not remember anything after her father broke the news to her. Her parents, along with a middle-aged “counselor” from Angel Island, had tried to help her fill in the blanks, just to reorient her. But it hadn’t worked—neither the blank-filling nor the reorienting.

  Still, she was sure of one thing: the drugs had dissected her thoughts and laid them out on the not-so-proverbial table to be observed and recorded, like the organs of the frog corpse she had labeled in her seventh-grade True Science class. And just like that, they had said yes to her treacherous father. The results must have been transmitted to Angel Island immediately, and then read right away, for the answer to have come so soon.

  “You’ll be one of us,” the counselor had said, her tone soft and welcoming and kind. “The Reverend can’t wait to meet you.”

  Reverend Who? Rebecca thought. She’d never even gotten the name of the middle-aged counselor.

  Halfway through the circuit, passing over the wooden creek bridge and going the long way around the community pool, Rebecca found she was sweating much more than was normal for her. There were days when she could do the whole circuit twice, but she guessed today would not be one of those days. It was breezy for a summer morning, and she was dressed in knee-length sweat shorts, sneakers, and a tank top—the minimum for public decency in summer. She should not be sweating like this.

  She stopped to catch her breath and tie her hair back, then took a swig from her water bottle and shook her head against a mild dizzy spell.

  She felt better today, but she still didn’t feel right.

  She should be hungry, but she wasn’t. It was almost lunch time, and breakfast, to Rebecca, meant a couple slices of toast and a glass of orange juice.

  Just before breakfast and school was her normal time for running these days, since she had stopped going with Mom. It didn’t much matter today, though. There was nothing on her schedule, and therefore no need to go out so early. She’d even considered skipping her run entirely. One lazy day wouldn’t kill her.

  That’s your devil’s half talking, she thought.

  She started moving again, leaving the park behind and working her way back into the neighborhood. Her church would be in the middle of that, a modest little white building on a grassy hill, but before she got there, she’d pass Andrea’s house. She thought of going the long way around that too. Heck with Andrea. Rebecca didn’t care if she never saw her, or her house, ever again.

  But the thought hurt.

  She did the right thing, you know, one half of her conscience told her. She did what she was supposed to do. What any true friend would do.

  To which the devil’s half of her conscience responded, Yeah, and look what all that help got you.

  She could see Andrea’s house as she rounded the corner and picked up speed. She had a fleeting thought that she could manage more speed, still, if Andrea should suddenly emerge from her door and attempt to join her. But no, that would not happen. Andrea had school today. Rebecca, on the other hand, would very likely never have school in her hometown ever again.

  Weird, since all this had come as a result of her skipping school in the first place.

  She left Andrea’s house behind. One mile after that, she passed her church without looking at it. Another mile and a half later, at the end of the circuit and her run, the small house she still considered home came into view. The front door was open, and Mom sat on the front porch.

  Huh, Rebecca thought, adopting her mother’s scolding tone. Trying to air-condition the whole neighborhood, are we?

  Mom stood and waved her over. As if she planned on going anywhere else.

  Rebecca jogged up the porch to her. “No hug,” she said, panting. “I’m a big sweaty mess. Need a shower.”

  Mom hugged her anyway.

  Rebecca sighed through it. “Now we both do,” she said, and Mom laughed.

  Then Mom said, “In a minute. Get inside. I have news.”

  ****

  Surveillance reported nothing out of the ordinary. As usual, local cops had handled it. For Rebecca’s morning jog, that had required three officers. The best way to avoid detection was to never outright follow the subject in question.

  If Rebecca planned on running away—in cases of parent application, about half of them did—she’d made no move so far. And that was good. The ones who didn’t run typically made better campers in the long term.

  Receiving the report on her flight back home, the counselor palmed off her phone, sat back, and closed her eyes for a nap.

  All normal. She liked normal.

  “Normal” kept the Angels of Death at bay.

  No one wanted Barney and Wendy involved, where it could be helped.

  ****

  Second Salvations Camp 6: Angel Island

  Ruth Black sat in front of her computer, thunderstruck.

  She wasn’t often taken by surprise. This week, however, she had been taken off her guard three times. The first had been when she’d viewed the results of Daniel Forester’s Solomon test. The second, only yesterday, when she had seen Rebecca’s results—which had been even more unusual than Daniel’s. And now, this.

  At the top of her application files, four words blinked in red: Rebecca Riggs, application withdrawn.

  Underneath that, a checked box cited the reason: Acceptance of Alternative Enrollment.

  And, beneath that: Location: Damascus Teenage Retreat, Two-to-Four Week Term of Residency Pending Successful Completion of the Spiritual Fix Program.

  Ruth blinked deliberately, as though in expectation that her vision would somehow correct itself with a second look. No such luck. And there was more, in the comments box:

  It is with difficulty that my wife and I have decided to withdraw our application from Second Salvations for the time being. We feel it wise to first explore shorter solutions for our problems with Rebecca, and we find ourselves reluctant to step aside for the remainder of her childhood. I am extremely grateful for the effort and expense put forth by Angel Island and its representatives, all in the interests of my daughter’s spiritual well-being. I do hope that I will be allowed to reconsider your program in the event that things do not work out at DTR.

  Best wishes,

  M. Riggs, Asst. Pastor Emmanuel Christian Church

  “You must be joking,” Ruth said to the screen.

  It was not lost on her how Mr. Riggs had begun the letter with “we,” indicating himself and his wife, and then finished it with “I.” We were reluctant to give up Rebecca, while I hope to be able to reconsider later.

  A pathetic little man, obviously incapable of running his own house, his puppet strings yanked at will not only by his daughter, but by his wife. Unbelievable. And to think, some bleeding-heart idiot had given him an assistant pastor’s post.

  In matters of dissent with her own husband, Ruth never got her way. But that was how things were supposed to work. Obedience was biblical.

  When marriage becomes a democracy, Matthew liked to say, it breaks under constant conflict. When families do, civilization collapses.

  It had been three years since DTR had wrangled an Angel Island application away from her. Ruth had never thought to encounter such inconvenience again. Second Salvations was in full bloom, growing by the hundreds every year. Damascus Teenage Retreat, on the other hand, was content to be what it was.

  Mrs. James was old. Ruth supposed that was probably why she didn’t take a long view on things. A Christian view, however, considered generations to come. Ruth had always doubted the Christianity of Mrs. James.

  Rebecca would come to Angel Island. She belonged here. Ruth had fixed problems like this before. Matthew would give her free rein to do it too. He wouldn’t even question her. It was her area of expertise. Besides, as long as the bodies kept washing up on his shore, he took no interest in how they got there.

  Ruth hammered out a quick response to the comment box letter:

  Thank you for explaining the reasons behind your decision, Mr.
Riggs. While I must insist that Rebecca is an ideal candidate for the unique services we provide at Angel Island, I respect your authority as Rebecca’s father and as the head of your house. Of course, we will keep your daughter’s file active in the event you reconsider, and I will continue to pray for Rebecca and your family.

  She flicked the send button with her middle finger, grimacing with distaste.

  She was fairly certain Wendy was still on the mainland, probably on her way to Pittsburgh by now. That was fine. They could start with Daniel. And DTR was in Pennsylvania too. Assuming Michael Riggs had enough man in him to send Rebecca away for the so-called “fix,” she’d be pinned down for two weeks at the least. Plenty of time.

  Ruth put her earpiece in and voice-channeled Barney. It was best to be thorough.

  ****

  Thursday, August 13

  Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania

  Daniel took his mother’s hand, and together they passed under the threshold into the church. This is a first for me, Mom. How long has it been for you?

  It was almost 7:00 p.m., and the evening service at Eternal Witness was packed. Within the milling crowd, Daniel could pick out kids from school, teachers, and one of the local cops. He saw people who had worked with his father at the post office, and there were a few from Corner Grocery, where his mom had worked.

  Most everyone’s done for the day, Daniel thought, waving at a classmate he recognized in the foyer. They’ve all had dinner by now. This is what normal life is: school—or work—then food, then church.

  Not that those considerations made much of a difference to Daniel. Mom had yet to find a new job, and the Samaritan Kitchens didn’t open again until later. He and his mother had nothing but time when the school day ended.