The Salvation State

by Marcus Damanda

  Daniel’s classmate turned from him, and Mom’s fellow bag-stuffers retreated into the chapel as though propelled by reverse magnetism. Well, that’s nice. He wondered if their prayers tonight would include a forgiveness request for being assholes. Probably not.

  They were dressed in the best they had. For Mom that meant an old blue dress that hung on her loosely, the dress of a younger woman not so thin and frail. For Daniel it meant a collared white shirt and corduroys. His only shoes were a pair of battered sneakers, terribly conspicuous compared to those of his churchgoing classmates, all of whom wore polished dress shoes. Looking around, Daniel noted almost all of the boys wore ties too.

  We need money, he thought. I should quit school. I should find work myself.

  Mom wouldn’t hear of it, even though Daniel’s college prospects amounted to little more than a dim, unhealthy dream. He had not yet told her about the four hundred and twenty dollars they owed to the state. Maybe that would convince her.

  Or drive her totally over the edge. She’s already close.

  Daniel had expected to be scared, stepping into a real church for the first time in his life, faking faith for the benefit of a society that had all but cast him out. But there was no fear, no apprehension, no tingle of dread or excitement. He wasn’t even vaguely nervous. Daniel felt nothing, even as the gray-suited pastor met them in the church foyer and shook his hand.

  “You must be Danny,” he said, his voice projecting welcome and warmth even as the smile struggled to reach his eyes. “God be with you.”

  Daniel didn’t know what to say. “You too.”

  Half a second behind him, Mom gave the expected reply: “And also with you, Pastor Harland.”

  The pastor chuckled good-naturedly. “Mrs. Forester, it’s been so long. Last I saw you here, I hadn’t even gone to seminary yet.”

  Mom smiled back. “It’s been that long. Too long. I’m surprised you remember me.” She managed to sound sincere.

  Thankfully there was a line behind them, driving them away from Pastor Harland and into the chapel. Daniel didn’t want to sit conspicuously at the back—playing the part of reluctant parishioners ran contrary to the purpose—and Mom didn’t want to sit anywhere close to the front. They found a place in a pew near the middle.

  Aisle seats. Quick exit.

  The rest of the congregation gave them room, not only in the row they occupied, but in the empty spaces just behind them and in front of them. Sitting in that space felt like sitting under a spotlight. Separate as they were, Daniel felt eyes upon him, furtive and yet staring, and hastily averted when he tried to meet them.

  People faked faith all the time. Daniel was aware of a few other families in his apartment complex who did, and he found himself wishing he and his mother had chosen a church one of them had. But then again, sitting with them would have been conspicuous too. And Mom wanted familiarity, to the extent that was possible after such a long absence.

  “It’ll take a while,” Mom had said. “It’s like any other club you can think of. We won’t be one of them until someone else new shows up.”

  Daniel looked over his shoulder, back the way they had come in. He noted the attendance deacon standing just inside the foyer, identifiable by the bar code reader he wore on his hip like a six-gun. Daniel checked his pockets and was relieved to find their time cards. This whole thing would have been a waste if he had forgotten them. If only they’d been flashed coming in, before services, maybe they’d have been able to sneak out and still get the credit…

  And yet, as the choir filed in and services began, Daniel found he wasn’t bored. He was actually at church. The very novelty of it demanded his attention.

  The first five minutes consisted of stragglers finding their seats as the choir sang “When the Lord Calls Me Home at Last.” Toward the end of the hymn, as Pastor Harland ascended the carpeted crescent steps that led to the pulpit beyond the communion altar, Daniel saw his mother actually moving her lips, silently lip-synching the words. He guessed she wasn’t even aware she was doing it.

  Her eyes became glassy, sheened with distant remembrance.

  Daniel looked straight ahead.

  Pastor-led prayer followed the hymn. When all heads bent forward, all eyes closed, Daniel bowed his head with them. But he peeked.

  Mom wasn’t peeking. She was drying her eyes, but they remained closed. Her lips still moved, albeit in silence.

  When heads lifted again, it was for church announcements. These were led by a procession of important people: Mr. Sharpe, the accountant, who tracked their fundraising progress toward a remodeling of the Sunday school classrooms; Mrs. Flaherty, who needed to reschedule the praise-and-worship band practice; Miss Bryce, who was still seeking volunteers for the late-summer youth mission to Peru…

  “Mom…,” Daniel whispered. “You okay?”

  She was fishing in her purse for a tissue. For the briefest moment, she stopped and looked back at him sidelong. “I’m fine.”

  The offering plates came next, again accompanied by the choir singing. Daniel watched them pass through the rows up front, watched every single parishioner contribute. He caught a forgetful father two rows ahead of him quickly and surreptitiously passing his young daughter a five-dollar bill just before a plate reached him. She dropped the money in with a broad, benevolent grin. From all four corners of the church, cameras rotated and whirred.

  Daniel checked his wallet: a twenty, a five, and three ones.

  He looked at his mother, who nodded at him. He passed her the five. When the plate came to them, she gave it up, and he reluctantly surrendered the one-dollar bills.

  There’s a hell of a lot of money in that plate.

  Most of it was stuffed into church-issued envelopes that identified the contributors. There was no way to know exactly how much there was, nor how much of it was cash. But this much was certain: it was more money than Daniel had seen in one place since before his father’s arrest.

  His eyes followed the offering plates until they returned to the front of the chapel. He watched one of the deacons whisk away the entire stack through a door in the back.

  Left side of the building. Probably no window there. Probably kept in a safe.

  Maybe not. Couldn’t hurt to check.

  ****

  It was eight thirty before they returned to the comfort and isolation of the car. Their quick-exit strategy hadn’t worked out. Most of the congregation made it out ahead of them—official members of the church didn’t need their attendance recorded via barcode—and by the time they finally made it outside, half the parking lot was snarled in a traffic jam.

  Mom put the key in the ignition.

  “Wait,” Daniel said. “Let it thin out, Mom. Save some gas.”

  She sat back. For a moment she glared at him, but then her common sense seemed to return. She watched the traffic.

  Daniel closed his eyes and leaned his head back. “I worry about you.”

  “Don’t,” she answered. “Look, Daniel, I’ll go to CG tomorrow. Maybe they’ll take me back now.”

  They’ll probably need you barcoded, like, fifty more times, he thought. Like inventory. Like their groceries. “That’s not what I mean.”

  “Oh, that,” she answered. “Son, look at me.”

  He opened his eyes and did as he was told. When she adopted that tone, he always did.

  “Don’t be an idiot, Daniel. I’m playing the part.”

  He searched her countenance and found truth.

  “You should too,” she said. “That church is part of New America Unity. It’s the same people who accused your father of ‘sedition,’ probably just to get back at me for leaving them. But they’re also our quickest way back.”

  “I know. My idea, remember?”

  “Yes. It was. And if we’re going to do this, we have to do it right.”

  Chapter Three

  Wayward

  Friday, August 14

  Annapolis, Maryland

  Rebecca
stood before her bedroom mirror, appraising herself.

  The day uniform for “short-timers” was a dark blue knee-length skirt, white socks, and a long-sleeved baby blue button-down shirt, along with a vest that bore the Damascus Teenage Retreat logo. The shoes were buckled, black, and uncomfortable. The rulebook hadn’t specified if she’d be able to keep her hair in a tail—and so she did, figuring someone would let her know pretty quickly if that was a problem.

  You said you’d be good, the angel half of her conscience reminded her. All the kids in the pictures were wearing theirs down, like you did for picture day.

  It’s a pony tail, her devil’s half answered. No big deal. And if it is a big deal, they’ll say something.

  Her suitcase, lying open on her bed, easily fit all she was allowed to bring with her. It included a second identical uniform, as well as casual clothes and shoes that would only be permitted indoors after supper or in the exercise yard during phys ed. She went to her bed and zipped the suitcase shut. Her mother rummaged around downstairs, and Rebecca looked out the window to the rising sun, then to the driveway. Dad’s car was already gone.

  She’d never been out of Maryland before. She’d never been separated from her parents. Never been punished like this.

  You dodged a bullet, Rebecca. It could have been worse. It still could be, if you blow it.

  For two weeks there’d be no kickboxing class, no shooters club, no choir. She didn’t even know if there was a track for her to run on at DTR. She wouldn’t know anybody. And she’d miss the youth-group outing to the Baltimore Aquarium, which her mother had specifically scheduled for her fifteenth birthday.

  If your parents had sent you to Second Salvations, you would have disappeared for three years. This is half a month. You can do this. You should be grateful.

  “I am,” she said, facing her reflection again, wiping some kind of annoying dust speck from a bloodshot eye.

  Grateful to Mom, anyway, her devil’s half amended.

  Then tell her so.

  The initial relief had been nearly overwhelming, a feeling very close to actual joy. Of course, she’d known there would be a catch. There would have to be. But, sleeping on it last night, she had not been able to shake the simple truth that she was going to a reeducation camp for problem kids, for bad kids. To be thought of in that way by her mother and father hurt—partly because she suspected she deserved it.

  “Hey.” Mom, standing at her open door.

  Rebecca’s breath caught, surprised. “Hey,” she answered, “way to catch me all ninja, Mom.”

  Mom stood next to her in front of the mirror and wrapped an arm around her shoulder. “You look nice. Ready? We really should go. Could be traffic.”

  “Don’t want to be tardy on my first day, I guess.”

  “Today I’m pretty sure they’d give me the demerit, not you.”

  “Good,” Rebecca said, easing out from the shoulder hug and hefting her suitcase. “Because I’m not planning on getting any. You’ll see.”

  She wanted to add, You made the right decision, Mom. I don’t need Second Salvations. Thank you for not sending me away forever. But she didn’t. Try as she might, she just could not force herself to be grateful for this.

  Downstairs, a knock at the door. It was only seven in the morning. Outside, her friends would be gathering at the bus stop, but by now they knew better than to be expecting her to show up.

  “She wanted to say good-bye to you,” Mom said. “Wish you a good trip. She called last night. Dad said it would be okay.”

  Andrea? Really?

  “Mom, no,” Rebecca said. “I don’t want to see her.”

  Her mother’s features tightened. “You have to,” she said. Then she added more softly, “Your father says you should thank her.”

  The prospect was mortifying.

  “She’s your friend, Rebecca. Her parents say she’s been suffering all week.”

  “Why?” Rebecca asked, unable to keep the challenge out of her voice. “Everyone agrees she did the right thing.”

  “The right thing isn’t always easy.”

  She’s a snitch, Rebecca thought, staring at the floor, the suitcase gaining weight in her hand. That’s all.

  “Rebecca,” Mom insisted, and whether she was summoning patience or fighting down actual worry was suddenly difficult to tell. “Please, honey. Just do it. Then we can go.”

  The knock came again.

  “Fine.” She tromped out into the hall and thumped down the stairs. She set her suitcase in front of the door and paused. On the other side of that door was her best friend. She’d certainly thought so, once upon a time.

  But the bible taught her not to put too much trust in people.

  I will never get that close to anyone again, she thought and opened the door.

  Andrea was in her normal school uniform: polo shirt with a simple cross badge on the collar, loose-fitting slacks, and loafers. Her backpack was slung over her shoulder. Inside, no doubt, she had her typical Friday lunch of chilled sushi in that fancy and expensive thermal plasti-cap of hers.

  “Hi, Rebecca.” Her face was troubled, but her eyes looked Rebecca up and down. She bit her lip, waiting. Her foot tapped, nervous or impatient.

  Rebecca felt like she was wearing a prison uniform. Which, strictly speaking, made no sense, as her DTR clothes were a lot more formal than Andrea’s. Still, the feeling persisted.

  Andrea tried again. “Just wanted to say bye since I won’t see you for a couple weeks.”

  “Okay. You’ve said it.”

  “Rebecca, look—”

  “So, yeah, Dad says I’m supposed to thank you. Probably thinks you were looking out for me.” Rebecca felt the presence of her mother behind her.

  “That’s right,” Andrea said, her voice tremulous. “That’s all I wanted to—”

  “Thank you,” Rebecca said. “I hope you’re happy. Friend.”

  And she shut the door on her.

  ****

  New Sinai, Pennsylvania

  Damascus Teenage Retreat

  Paula Darby made sure she was presentable. Friday mornings meant new arrivals, and as the head prefect at DTR, she was determined to meet them all as they arrived. Most would be frightened and would benefit from a little kindness at the door. Others would need to learn who was in charge right away. All would need to know from the start that the program was non-negotiable and for their own good. The sooner they did, the happier they would be—and the sooner they would get to go home.

  Paula was a big believer in first impressions, and she had no intention of letting Marcy Barrows make them whenever it could be avoided.

  Riding the elevator to the lobby, she was reasonably confident Marcy would not yet be at receiving. The sign-in deadline was noon, almost three hours from now. The head caretaker, Mrs. James—secretly called “Queen James” behind her back by nearly everyone except for Paula—usually didn’t show up at her office until ten on Fridays. She’d be visiting the classrooms, observing teachers…

  But no. When the elevator door opened, Paula saw the office was occupied. Mrs. James waved her a silent greeting as she powered on her computer. Paula waved back.

  And there, in the row of chairs at receiving, the first of the new arrivals sat between her parents. Curly brown bangs did little to conceal the apprehension in her eyes. Her knees were pressed together, her hands clasped in a tight fist on top of them. Her father still held her suitcase.

  Paula went straight to them and curtsied to the father, smiling brightly. “Hello, sir. Hello, ma’am. I’m Paula Darby, head prefect at Damascus Teenage Retreat. You’ll be able to sign in and all that good stuff in a half hour or so, once Mrs. Schuster checks in.”

  They shook her hand and introduced themselves as Mr. and Mrs. Gretchen. The girl’s mother nudged her out of her seat and onto her feet.

  “Caroline Gretchen, Miss Darby,” she said at length. “I’m pleased to meet you.”

  “Miss Paula,” she gently correct
ed. “Last names for the teachers and admin, okay?”

  Caroline nodded.

  “Good to meet you too, Caroline,” she said, withdrawing. “I’ll show you around later, when the rest are all here. I should probably check in with the boss.” There, she thought, crossing to Mrs. James’s office and peering in. Now, even if Miss Marcy shows up right now, at least one of the newbies will know we’re not all like her.

  “Come on in, Paula,” Mrs. James said, staring straight ahead at her computer screen. “And do close the door.”

  Paula obeyed. “Good morning, Mrs. James,” she said, curtsying again. “Anything special this Friday?”

  “Oh yes,” Mrs. James said, turning the screen a full 180 degrees so Paula could see the new resident profile displayed there. “I think there is, at that.”

  Paula looked over the picture. Another kid, fifteen or so. Nothing particularly interesting at a glance.

  Mrs. James pointed out the window, and Paula looked.

  There, just outside on the asphalt circle that framed the angel statue and the fountain at DTR’s entrance, were two media vans from Channel 4 and another from Channel 7. Cameramen unloaded equipment; technicians trailed wires. And—good heavens—was that really Deborah Fisher?

  It was. The news lady from Channel 4 News at Five was giving orders, first to one disgruntled techie and then to another. Paula could sense their annoyance, even from inside behind a closed window, but Ms. Fisher was either immune or oblivious to it.

  “Wow,” Paula said. “What brought this on, Mrs. James?”

  “Our new celebrity,” Mrs. James answered, her voice unruffled. “One Miss Rebecca Riggs.” She tapped the top of the computer screen, drawing Paula’s attention back to it. “It seems her father, a youth pastor somewhere in Maryland, reneged on an application to Second Salvations before settling on us. He’s giving a TV interview, I hear. Damage control for his public image.”