Time to get this over with, she thought, taking a breath.
She left the bathroom and knocked on the office door.
****
“Enter,” Mrs. James said, rising from her seat and coming around her desk.
She’d spoken to young Miss Rebecca Riggs several times before. Every time, it was the same thing: “Yes, ma’am,” “No, ma’am,” “Yes, Mrs. James, on it,” et cetera, et cetera. Just like the rest of the girls, Rebecca was always on her best behavior when in Mrs. James’s presence. But Rebecca was supposed to have been different. Mr. Riggs had been clear that she would need special looking-after.
And here she now stood, with unmistakable trepidation, hands clasped in front of her at the waist after curtseying, a model resident, everything Mrs. Riggs had predicted—and nothing Mr. Riggs had.
Somewhere in between those two predictions, underneath the carefully maintained façade, Mrs. James imagined there lived the real Rebecca. Frequently enough, she wondered if the strict regimen and routine of DTR might not be adjusted—relaxed just a little, without sacrificing its biblical foundation—to allow her charges the chance to be themselves. To confront themselves, really, and truly become the Christians she wanted to help them be.
Mrs. James smiled. “You’re not in trouble, child.”
The eye-blink and the released breath told the tale. Rebecca’s relief was palpable, even without her response.
“Thank you, Mrs. James. I was a little worried.”
One could not blame Rebecca for following the rules perfectly, in the end, although the ability to do so revealed nothing of her inner heart. The older Mrs. James got, the more she doubted herself. There had been a time, not ten years ago, when in her pride she’d never doubted herself. This place will be an oasis within the Revival, she had thought then. An alternative to the hyper-fanatical “Christianity” of Second Salvations. Now she often wondered how much they had in common.
“Let’s pray together, Rebecca. And then get down to business. You are missing spiritual counseling, so we’ll have to make this count as it.”
Together in front of the desk, they knelt.
“Business” would mean making Rebecca watch the ridiculously uncomfortable television interview her parents had given. Mr. Riggs had called and specifically requested it, obviously unaware of how trite and insincere both had come off, although in different ways.
Mrs. James had advised against it, had told him DTR didn’t usually interrupt their established program at the request of parents. But Mr. Riggs had been that close to shipping Rebecca off to Angel Island. As put off by his request as she had been, she didn’t dare refuse. Rebecca’s father needed to believe his daughter was getting what she needed here—not only because it was, hopefully, the truth, but also to spare her the brainwashing, the torture, that some whispered went on at Second Salvation camps.
Eyes closed—after taking a quick peek to make sure Rebecca’s were as well—Mrs. James asked, “You first or me first?”
“Please, ma’am,” Rebecca said. “I’m totally useless at starting, except when I’m by myself. I’m sorry.”
Mrs. James put her arm around Rebecca and commenced with the prayer.
****
Rebecca didn’t know how to react when Mrs. James pulled up the video on her computer and sat her in front of it.
“You father called this morning. He wants you to watch this.”
Rebecca watched, saying nothing for the whole ten minutes. She guessed she was supposed to cry. Unfortunately, she didn’t feel much like crying, and she wasn’t any good at faking it.
She felt guilty, but not for cutting school. Watching Mom and Dad on screen, she felt the tension between them, imagined the argument that would have surely followed when the cameras went away.
I caused this.
Once dismissed, she departed the office but stayed in the lobby. It was 5:50 p.m. Any minute now Caroline would show up for their night out. Miss Paula too—with keys to the DTR van—along with the other kids, all younger than her, who had stayed out of trouble over the last several days. None of them would be getting knuckle-strapped this evening.
Family arguments at the Riggs’s house used to always be just between her and her father. Later a few had involved her and her mother. Now, like the flu, the arguing had spread again, and Mom and Dad were sniping at each other.
I’m wrecking my family.
She reached into her skirt pocket and pulled out the most useless possession she had brought with her to DTR: the little chain with her house keys. She carried it everywhere. It had a tiny picture encased in plastic that she looked at every now and again: her family, just the three of them, at the beach. They were all smiling, all happy—not TV-happy either. Real-happy.
The picture had been taken last month. Was that the last time they’d been so happy together? It might have been.
Even through the guilt, Rebecca had a thought that maybe Caroline wasn’t the only homesick one. But she didn’t just want home. She wanted home as it had been, before.
Miss Paula appeared in the lobby before Caroline and the others, wearing her black vestless head-prefect shirt and whistling happily. “Hi, Rebecca,” she called, coming to her. “You’re here early.”
Rebecca tilted her head back toward the office door. “Had an appointment.” Then, studying her feet, she said, “I don’t think I’ll come tonight, Miss Paula. I don’t deserve it. I should be at services.”
Miss Paula rolled her eyes at the ceiling. “Oh, yeah. That. Look, I know all about the video. Seen it myself. Listen to me, Rebecca—if you judge yourself every day for every sin you’ve ever committed, you’ll never leave your room again. No one would. This reward is for this week, got it?”
Rebecca didn’t answer.
“Caroline will not be pleased if you stay here,” Miss Paula said in a low voice.
That was true. Reluctantly Rebecca nodded. “Yes, Miss Paula. You’re right.” About everything, she thought but did not add, afraid it would come out wrong.
The elevator opened, and Caroline came bounding through, quite recovered from their earlier encounter with Miss Marcy.
Rebecca put on a happy face. On TV, it would probably pass.
****
As the sun went down, Daniel lit a candle and sat down to do his homework.
The candles were almost gone. If it were up to him, he would not be wasting one. Most nights at their apartment, when daylight ended, all light ended. Occasionally there’d be enough of a moon for him to sit by the windowsill and idly putter through his assignments. Usually he made an effort to be done with all of it before nightfall, which had been easier before they’d begun going to church every afternoon.
He hated using up a candle for this. There might be another time, an emergency, when they would need that candle. But Mom had to believe he was doing his homework. He didn’t have the time or the fortitude just now to argue over the little things.
He was hardly aware of which book was open in front of him. He wrote his heading on the paper by pure autopilot while his brain was otherwise feverishly occupied. He was going over the plan in his head, steeling himself to take advantage of the opportunity fate—or God, or dumb luck—had presented him. If he didn’t do it tonight, he never would.
And if he pulled it off, candles would no longer be a concern. They’d have electricity again. They’d have enough money to get by until a paycheck or two put them back to normal. Dad’s ashes would be paid off. They’d put some things in the refrigerator instead of going to the Samaritans. They’d cook.
Mom squeezed his shoulder, looking over it. “That looks hard,” she commiserated.
It was his functions of trig book, he realized. And, yeah, the material was not easy. “You have no idea,” he said, pretending to look at it.
“Well,” she said, “I do have some idea. Distant memory. I was sixteen once, you know.”
It was hard to believe, even though she wasn’t yet forty. She had too m
uch gray in her hair. Her fingers were practically all bone. In poor light, her once-beautiful face almost resembled a stripped skull. Daniel thought maybe a return to routine would have reversed some of that, but it hadn’t yet.
She took her hand away and kissed the top of his head. “Goodnight, Daniel.”
“Already?” he asked. It was only eight o’ clock. She’d only been home an hour.
More and more, the routine had gotten like this. Work, church, food, bed—nothing else. The bed part now lasted ten to twelve hours every night, and that couldn’t be healthy. But tonight it was what he’d been hoping to hear. She had to be asleep for this. He needed to slip away, not sneak away. She couldn’t know.
“What else is there to do?” she asked, heading for the couch.
“Good night, Mom. I love you.”
****
“Daddy-O’s,” Miss Paula told them, “used to go by the name ‘McDonald’s’ until the whole chain got bought out by Reverend O’Malley back in the first years of the Revival. He not only bought the business, but he had every restaurant redesigned to reflect a more innocent America, like there used to be under President Eisenhower. That was long before the Scourge. Would have been the 1950s, I think. Don’t quote me on it. But that was back when everyone believed in the bible and was happy and got along with one another.”
Rebecca knew all that, although her companions, including Caroline, seemed to absorb the information like actual news. Her father had told her New America Unity still made a huge percentage from the business. She wondered how much of that Second Salvations got, but she didn’t ask. The “See Ya Later” camps and DTR were—also according to Miss Paula—in competition with one another, at least in a business sense.
Miss Paula didn’t seem to think much of Second Salvations.
Daddy O’s was their last stop for the night. When Miss Paula pulled the van into the parking lot, Rebecca saw a nearly identical van parked right next to them. Along the side, the words “Prodigal Sons, Where the Father Reclaims His Children” were painted in a flowing red script.
“Here we are,” Miss Paula said. “I don’t know about you five, but I’m starved. DTR is picking up the tab tonight, so you can get whatever you want.”
It was nine thirty, and Rebecca—who was by now accustomed to dinner at six, sharp—felt like she could put down the whole menu, plus a milkshake, without much difficulty. She hoped that there wouldn’t be too long a line at this hour.
She was glad she had come, though. Sitting in the DTR chapel would have only made her feel guiltier than ever. Instead, she’d seen a show tonight, walked a glass tunnel that linked the buildings in the Masada skyline, and played games with Caroline at an arcade. A pretty good payoff, it turned out, for not behaving like an idiot for five days.
They climbed out: Rebecca, Caroline, a few younger girls named Jenny, Laura, and Patty, and finally Miss Paula, who slid the door shut behind her. “Hey, Greg!” she called out, waving her hand over her head as though Greg was three miles away. “Fancy seeing you here.”
Rebecca thought she recognized the name. Wasn’t Miss Paula supposed to marry a certain Greg in a couple years or so? Rumors, but still…
A young man waved back, grinning broadly. Greg could stand to lose a few pounds, but he looked pleasant enough. There were three boys with him, hands in their pockets, looking bored. The Prodigal Sons had been waiting for them, apparently.
Conspiracy. Miss Paula, how unbelievably sneaky of you.
On the other hand, if the “daughters” and “sons” were ever going to have a social event, it would, of course, at least be under the watchful eyes of a couple chaperones.
“Remember,” Miss Paula said, “DTR rules still apply.”
Greg held the door open for them, and both groups filed inside. Even though the boys had arrived ahead of them, the girls went in first. Miss Paula hazarded a quick press of Greg’s hand as she went. Quick, but Rebecca noticed.
More significantly, though, one of Greg’s charges smiled at her. He had looked right past Caroline and beamed at her.
“Hi,” he said as she passed him.
She offered a rather abashed finger wave and raised an eyebrow, struggling for offhandedness. “Hi,” she said back.
He was maybe a year older than her, with short-cropped black hair, hazel eyes, and totally fit. And undeniably cute.
Don’t, she commanded her devil’s half. He probably lives a million miles away anyway.
The two groups, at the direction of their prefects, picked out a common area and found seats before ordering. They segregated themselves automatically, girls on one side and boys on the other. Miss Paula and Greg bridged the gap.
Awkward silence followed.
“All right,” Greg said, sweeping out a pad and a paper. “Menu’s up on the register wall. Figure out what you want and write it down. Brian, place the order for us?” He slid the Prodigal Sons’ charge card to the boy who had said hi to Rebecca.
“Sure thing, boss,” Brian answered smoothly, again glancing at Rebecca.
Miss Paula fished in her bag for stationery, then accepted a slip of paper and a pen from Greg. “Same goes for you,” she said to the girls. “And—”
“I’ll go,” Rebecca said, returning Brian’s soft smile.
“You volunteer for everything.”
“No trouble, Miss Paula. I don’t mind.”
“And Rebecca will place the order,” Miss Paula said, shrugging.
****
At Daddy O’s the female employees all wore long skirts and knee socks, along with bright red or yellow sweaters that featured the letter O prominently above their name tags. The guys wore red or yellow letterman or suit jackets. There was some kind of gel in their hair, and they all wore horn-rimmed glasses, presumably without regard to whether or not they really needed them. Gospel songs, all recorded forever ago by dead people with names like Elvis and Johnny C alternated with more contemporary praise-and-worship songs.
It was a staple of life in New America, the eternally turning Golden O, like apple pie and mixed martial arts. Wherever you were, you could almost feel at home when you ordered a box of nuggets at Daddy O’s. They were the same everywhere.
“So, I’m Brian Carson,” said the boy standing in line with her. “And I’ve never seen you here before.”
“Rebecca Riggs. You guys get to do this all the time or something?”
“No,” he said, winking. “I’ve actually never seen anyone here before. First time you, first time me.”
Smart alek, Rebecca thought. This boy was a little too sure of himself for her comfort, a little too happy with his own perceived cleverness. But he seemed nice.
“I’m from Jersey. You?”
“Maryland.”
“Oh. That stinks.”
“Hey!” Rebecca said, unsure of whether or not to be offended and finding herself chuckling instead. “I kinda like it there.”
“I’m sure it’s great,” he said as the line advanced. “Better than New Jersey, anyway. Was just hoping you were a bit closer to home.”
That was rather forward. Brian was a boy her father would very likely label dangerous. And that was intriguing. “Why? You don’t even know me.”
He looked straight ahead. “Maybe I want to, though.”
****
Daniel wore his Pittsburgh Steelers jersey, which was the closest thing to all black he had that fit loosely enough. The tire iron was in the front seat next to him, resting atop a pair of rubber gloves.
This, he thought, parking the car three blocks away from Eternal Witness, is insane.
He shoved the gloves in his pants pocket and tucked the tire iron under his shirt. Holding it there with one hand and opening the door with the other, he reminded himself that he was not committed yet. He still had to see what it was like around the building and make absolutely sure there was no sign of life inside.
He passed Corner Grocery on the way. At ten o’clock the streets were almost empty,
and those few who were out were mostly homeless folks with their backs propped against walls or curled up in alleys that had dumpsters. One of them sat cross-legged, asleep, still holding a sign that read: I have found God. Praise His name. Please help.
It was only too easy to imagine himself, or his mother, among them.
There was the occasional police cruiser too, always with the slow-swirling white searchlight on its roof but no sirens. None of the vagrants or the homeless would give Daniel any trouble. The city of Pittsburgh was as well-behaved at night as it was during the day.
The others he passed on his way to the church were, in all likelihood, people who lived right here in the neighborhood. They were probably coming home from a job at a store or the hospital or the fire department. Weary and silent, they took no notice of him. Daniel was old enough to work. In the darkness and shadows, he blended right in.
Approaching the church, with the rising silhouette of the cemetery behind it, he passed fewer and fewer people. His plan was to actually wait for a cop to pass. When one did, he figured he’d be safe for a time. That cop, at least, would have the rest of his patrol—or beat, or whatever it was they called their route—to complete before coming back.
He did not look at the cruiser as it glided past him, washing him briefly in its white glow and then passing out of sight. No one was around him. No one was watching. The window he wanted was nestled deep in the black shadow cast by the Church of Eternal Witness.
Now or never.
He ran for it.
Time was going to be the most important thing—more even than stealth—provided he could be sure no one was in the building. As he raced along, tire iron in hand, he listened for a presence. His eyes searched everywhere for any hint of a secret sentinel lying in wait for him. But there was nothing.
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