Pressia pulls the doll head to her chest but doesn’t know what to say. She doesn’t want to be part of this tribe of women. She wants to get through this and build a life with Bradwell. If we don’t see each other again—the thought alone scares her.
The mother with the white hair says, “We will be standing guard. Don’t try to leave, or the next time we shoot, we will aim at your heart.”
PARTRIDGE
STRAWBERRY
Just a couple of days later, Partridge and Iralene are at a picnic surrounded by a low gate. Where did the gate come from? Was it put up overnight? It’s the kind of gate that was used to enclose people’s front yards during the Before inside of the larger gated communities—gates within gates. It’s in place now so people know not to get too close. This picnic—though unannounced—has a growing audience.
“Act natural,” says one of the women in Iralene’s entourage as she fixes the collar of Iralene’s dress.
“Act natural?” Partridge says. “Isn’t that an oxymoron? I’m acting and so it’s not natural.”
The woman sniffs and walks off.
These women were the first to gather at the gate, but soon there are over a hundred people. “Who knew anyone would want to spend their time watching me eat a triangulated sandwich and sip lemonade?” Partridge only picks at his food, shoves it around on the paper plate.
“Not you,” Iralene corrects. “Us.”
“Us,” he says. “Sorry.” He thinks of Lyda—that’s the us he’s supposed to be a part of.
“Now I know how fish feel at the aquarium,” Partridge says.
“Don’t tap the glass!” Iralene says.
He looks at the upscale apartment buildings surrounding the park. One of them is where he stayed when he was first brought back into the Dome—where, on one of the lower floors, there are people suspended in time, each in their own dark, icy capsule. “You know we’re not far from them,” he says.
“I know,” she says so quickly and unemotionally that he’s not sure if she really knows what he’s talking about. She lifts a strawberry. “It looks real. Doesn’t it?”
“Isn’t it real?”
“I think it’s edible.”
“That’s different from real,” he says.
She bites and the crowd—people who mainly survive on soytex pills and supplements—seems to lean in. She smiles and says, “Mmmmm.” Then she lifts the strawberry and holds it to Partridge’s lips. “Eat it.” He wants to ask her if she’s still on board as a guide among the capsules.
He opens his mouth. She pulls the strawberry away, and then as he starts to protest, she fits it into his mouth so his teeth bite into the cool sweetness. The crowd murmurs happily.
“You know that if I tapped your nose right now, they’d erupt in awwws,” she says. “We have a lot of power.”
“I’ve never had less power in my life.”
Partridge glances at the crowd. He catches the eye of the young woman who told him to act natural. She waves a cautionary finger at him; he’s not supposed to acknowledge the crowd because it makes them uncomfortable. And they do, in fact, shift their feet and look away.
He turns back to Iralene.
“We do have a lot of power, Partridge.” She taps him on the nose, and the crowd awwws—maybe led by the entourage, but the awing is considerable. It makes him nervous—the immediacy of it.
He lies back, as if he’s at a real picnic, arms crossed under his head, staring up at the false sky—all the better to pretend the audience isn’t there, surrounding them.
Iralene lies back too. She rests her head on his chest, nuzzling under his chin.
“Your friends hate me,” he whispers. “Aren’t I supposed to be the good guy?”
She whispers back, “They think you’re spoiled and shallow and cruel.”
“Wow. I’m spoiled and shallow? I could say the same of them.”
“They think you’ve had everything handed to you on a silver platter.”
“Not the first time I’ve heard the complaint.” The academy kids always thought he had it better than they did—Willux’s son. Weed was just accusing him of this, in so many words, too. And then when he escaped the Dome and was on the outside, he looked incredibly spoiled to Pressia and Bradwell and, well, everyone he met.
“And cruel,” she whispers. “You didn’t react to that.”
“I am cruel. They’re right about that,” he says, keeping his voice low.
Iralene lifts her head and gazes at him. “You’re not cruel. They don’t know you like I know you.”
“I’m failing everyone I know, everyone I care about.”
“Even me?”
“Yes, you. I care about you, Iralene. You know that.”
“I haven’t forgotten my promise,” she whispers. “The favor for a favor.”
“You have a plan?” Now he knows why she picked this spot. She’s very well aware of how close it is to the building with the capsules.
“I brought a radio. You’ll have to dance with me to make this work.”
“That’s part of the plan? I have to dance in front of all these people?”
She nods. “You have to dance and pick me up and spin me around. Beckley is going to help. And I have someone on the inside—an expert—waiting.”
Damn. “Dancing? Can we do this any other way?”
She shakes her head and smiles. “Nope. It’s part of the plan.”
She sits up, reaches into the oversized canvas bag, and pulls out a small radio. The crowd whispers among themselves restlessly, as if this is just what they’ve been waiting for. She turns it on and fiddles with the dial. A song comes in clear. It sounds like the dreamy plinking music of the old amusement park he went to as a kid. What was it called? Crazy John-Johns. He remembers the merry-go-round, the roller coaster, the sweet candy swirled airily on a paper stick.
And then there are drums.
He knows what he’s supposed to do. The dancing has to be his idea. He stands up and extends his hand. She takes it, and he pulls her to her feet. They step into the grass. He lifts one hand and puts the other on the small of her back. The song is happy and sad at the same time. The singer wants to be older, wants to live with his girlfriend, wants to be able to say goodnight to her and then sleep with her. The last time Partridge danced was with Lyda. They were in the academy cafeteria, which had been transformed for the dance with star decals pasted on the ceiling. He remembers the way she smelled—like honey—and the feel of the silk of her dress and beneath it, her ribs. That was when they first kissed.
But here’s Iralene. Wouldn’t it be nice, wouldn’t it be nice, wouldn’t it be nice… The singer keeps singing that same phrase. He wants to live in a kind of world that they both belong in. This isn’t it, Partridge thinks, with the crowd swaying around them. This isn’t it at all.
Iralene’s hand fits perfectly in his. She reaches up and touches the back of his hair that brushes the collar of his shirt. She whispers into his ear, “Pick me up and spin me now. Pick me up.”
He lifts her as the singer says he wants to talk about it even though it makes it worse, but still he wants to talk about it. And while spinning Iralene, Partridge thinks of Lyda, which makes it worse, but he can’t stop himself. He feels that longing. He closes his eyes. Iralene is light. He spins her around and around. He looks up at her face, backlit by the fake sunlight, and she’s smiling, yet her eyes are wet with tears. Wouldn’t it be nice… He sees this song for a second the way Iralene must see it—Wouldn’t it be nice if this were true… Wouldn’t it be nice if he really loved her… Wouldn’t it be nice if they could get married and stay together forever… Did she choose the song? Is this what it means to her? The singer wants to get married so that the two of them can be happy. Partridge feels like crying then, spinning and spinning her.
The crowd is clapping now because they know the song is dying down.
If things were different—if he hadn’t already fallen in love with Lyda, maybe he
and Iralene could be together. Maybe they could even be happy. Maybe he’d love her the way she wants him to. He even wishes—for a moment—that things could be the way Iralene envisions them; it would be so much simpler. Then he feels guilty for the thought. No, he loves Lyda, and he’s going to be the father of her baby.
The singer tells her good night, tells her to sleep tight, calls her baby.
As Partridge sets Iralene down, the crowd seems to keep spinning around them. And while still holding her waist, she puts her hand to her forehead and says, “Partridge! I’m so…dizzy.” And as her knees give out beneath her, he holds her closer—so close he sees her lids flutter.
The crowd gasps, and Beckley is there, quickly. He says to Partridge, “Pick her up.”
Partridge lifts her to his chest.
“Stand back, people,” Beckley says. “Let’s get her somewhere cool.” He shouts to the other guards. “Stay here. Crowd control. We’re moving her indoors. Make sure no one follows.”
Beckley leads Partridge away from the crowd, down the sloping lawn toward the building that Iralene promised she’d get him into and lead him through—the place she’s known all her life and never wanted to go back to.
Her eyes flit open. “See, Partridge? I’m good to my word. And you will be too, when the time comes to return the favor, right?”
“Of course, Iralene,” he says hesitantly. “Of course.”
PARTRIDGE
RISKS
Someone’s been here before them. The fake living room flickers over the cement walls. Iralene is holding Partridge’s hand, Beckley beside her. This is the home she’s known. He can tell that it scares her now. Partridge recognizes the fluffy white rug, the little panting dog, the massive sofas and armchairs and modern art hung on the walls, and the shiny kitchen where the image of Mimi once made muffins, over and over, telling Iralene—sitting at the piano across the room—to start the song again.
But this loop isn’t the one Partridge saw before. The image of Iralene walks into the room wearing a robe and slippers, then into the kitchen where she pours herself a glass of milk and grabs a plate of cookies.
“I hate this one,” the real Iralene says, gripping Partridge’s hand tighter. “Your father made it for my mother. A Mother’s Day gift.”
Her mother arrives from the image of a door that Partridge doesn’t remember being a real door. She too is wearing a robe, tightly cinched.
Mimi says, “How about some girl talk to go with your milk and cookies?”
The fake Iralene says brightly, “Okay!”
Partridge keeps walking. “The hallway is in that corner, right? The one that leads to the capsules?”
Iralene’s hand slips away from his. She walks to the image of her and her mother. “Sometimes I think he actually wanted us to be happy,” she says.
Partridge glances at Beckley, who says, “We don’t have much time here. If we stay too long, people will think you’re actually sick, and they’ll start to panic.”
Iralene steps inside of her own image. She knows her part and her lines. She lifts her hand in perfect sync with the image and twists a strand of hair. She and her image both say in unison, “There is this one boy at school. I think he’s really special.”
“Oh really!” Mimi says. “And does he think you’re special too?”
The image of Iralene dips her head down shyly. But the real Iralene reaches out to touch her mother’s face. Of course, it’s not there. Her hand slips through the air. “There are ones of me when I was even younger. My mother teaching me to sew. Her reading storybooks to me on the sofa.”
Partridge is chilled by the idea of watching your life instead of living it. “Did my father watch these?”
“He couldn’t just take us in and out of suspension every time he missed us. He had to have these little moments of us now and then. And my mother and I watched them, of course. They were fairy tale versions of our lives. We loved ourselves in them. Each time he’d bring a new one to us, we’d savor it together.”
This was happening when Partridge’s father was ignoring him and Sedge, when he’d sent them off to the academy, when, after Sedge was supposedly dead, his father didn’t even bother to let Partridge come home for the holidays. He’s weirdly jealous but also sickened. This was no way to love a family.
Iralene laughs at her mother’s image, which is saying how wonderful Iralene is, how any boy would be lucky to win her heart. “My mother would have never said that in real life. She’d have said, You have to make him fall in love with you. You have to be perfect, Iralene! If he’s a worthwhile man, you’ll have to trick him into loving you.” She turns to Partridge and Beckley as the images of her and her mother keep talking. “I’m not the kind of girl a boy would naturally fall in love with.”
Partridge isn’t sure what to say. She’s lovable—just the way she is—but he can’t love her.
Beckley’s the one who speaks up first. “Do you know how many men are in love with you? Your image has been plastered on every screen.”
“They love my image, then,” she says flatly.
Partridge shakes his head. “No, I don’t buy that. One real look at you and—”
“And what?” Iralene says, so eager that she cuts him off.
“They see through the image to you,” Partridge says. “The real you.” She walks to Partridge, grabs his arm, and pulls him close. He feels guilty every time he’s kind to her. He’s only giving her false hope, and he’s betraying Lyda. But what should he do? Be cruel instead?
“Let’s go,” she says. “This way.”
She leads him and Beckley down a hall. The doors on either side are marked with placards—numbered specimens and names. The air buzzes with electricity. Iralene pauses when she comes to the door where her name used to be. Her mother’s name is still there beneath the now-empty space—MIMI WILLUX.
“Does your mother still come here?”
“She can’t afford to age, especially now that she’s single again,” Iralene says matter-of-factly. “But she’s been out for all of the memorial services and our date.” She puts her hand on the door. “I won’t go back, though. I made her promise that I could be free now.” She tilts her head. “Well, as free as I can get.”
They move on down the hall.
This place is hauntingly dark and cold and dismal. Bodies exist behind every humming door. Bodies held in time—for how long? Damn it. Weed was right. If he can get them free, up for air, what the hell is he going to do with all of them?
“Dr. Peekins!” Iralene calls down the hall.
They hear the scuffle of shoes. Peekins turns a corner and stands with his hands on his wide hips. He’s a short, duckfooted man of Partridge’s father’s generation. “Iralene,” he says.
“Hi,” she says warmly.
The two hug.
Iralene says, “Dr. Peekins was the first face I saw each time I came up for air.”
“And I had to put you down sometimes too, which was unpleasant when you were little, before you fully understood.” Unpleasant—it’s the kind of euphemism that people in the Dome use when something is awful, unconscionable… Partridge can only imagine what it was like to put Iralene under as a child.
Iralene tilts her head and says, “You told me bedtime stories, remember? The baby in a basket in the woods who grew up to be strong and beautiful.”
Peekins’ eyes are wet. Was he a father figure for Iralene? “Of course I remember.” Then Peekins turns to Partridge. “And this must be the young man himself!” Peekins holds out his hand. Partridge shakes it. “We’ve never had the pleasure of meeting, but of course, I know who you are.” For good measure, he shakes Beckley’s hand too, which Partridge likes. A lot of people ignore Beckley.
“Partridge needs your help,” Iralene tells Peekins.
Peekins’ eyes dart up and down the hall. He takes a step closer, lowering his voice. He seems to know that helping Partridge might be dangerous. Has Foresteed told Peekins that he’s in ch
arge? “Does this have to do with Weed?”
“Has he been here?” Partridge asks.
“He’s sent word. The Hollenback baby,” Peekins says softly. “And now Belze.”
“Yes,” Partridge says. “Odwald Belze. Can you help?”
Peekins rubs his eyebrow. “I’m not supposed to…”
“It’s important,” Partridge says.
“Yes, but there are conflicts, you know.” He scratches his chin. “Things beyond my control. I can only do so much.”
Iralene touches his shoulder. “Please. Can you try?”
His face softens. “This way.” They follow Peekins down one hall and then another. “Belze is an older man and a wretch, and he’s been kept under for a long time. The deep freezes are much more complex than the short ones, as Iralene would know—kind of the way it works with anesthesia.”
“Can you bring him up carefully?” Partridge asks.
“I’m always careful,” Peekins says, and he stops in front of a door marked ODWALD BELZE. “But there are risks.”
“The other alternative is to never bring him up for air—never even try it?” Partridge asks. “What’s the difference between permanent suspension and death?”
Iralene nods. “Every time I went under, I wondered if I’d be forgotten.”
“I’d never have forgotten you,” Peekins says. “You know that.”
Peekins opens the door. Iralene and Partridge follow him into the small room. Beckley stays in the hall, standing guard.
And there’s a six-foot capsule, its glass foggy and iced gray. Partridge feels a chill—from deep inside of him to the surface of his skin. Peekins wipes the glass, revealing an old man’s frozen face. His expression is stiff and pained. He has a long dark pink scar running down his neck, bisected a third of the way down like a cross. Pressia’s grandfather.
“Where’s his leg?” Iralene asks.
“He came in that way,” Peekins says. “It’s a kind of fusing actually. Something from the Detonations. There’s a clump of wires at the stump. From what exactly, who knows?”
Burn (The Pure Trilogy) Page 22