Ophelia Immune_A Novel

by Beth Mattson

  “We could find better Doctors. Show everyone how the Science really works. Tell our Families …”

  “We’ll certainly show people a thing or two, but Doctors, Scientists, Rangers, Families -- they’re all the same. Only Friends are worthwhile in this world, and barely that. Only those of us who can tell who is really cool. We could be cool.”

  “So we get everyone working together to learn?” I asked.

  “Not everyone. But, yeah, something like that. We will say what is cool.”

  She spat in the grass, stretched her lungs with a great sigh and rested her head on my chest. I sank into the mud beneath her weight. She was wrong. She had one of the mean fathers. If Dad had known that I was Immune, he wouldn’t have killed me. He just would have killed Juliet, like he killed Immogen, but he would he have kept me around with Mom and Hector and anybody she could cook up to join him, wouldn’t he? Would he have killed me to protect them? If I had waited until daylight, if Dad had seen me better, would he still have let me go to wander alone, or would he have killed me before even looking for a real Cure? Could there be a real Cure? Was Kite right?

  Tears ran down my face, into the black soil of the abandoned Park. Kite wiped one from my cheek.

  “Come on, Little Friend. Let’s go see Carlos' toys.”

  I didn't know if I believed her. I didn't know if fish were not really killers anymore or if she was right about Family, but I let her pull me to my feet and grip my hand as we walked to the Safe House. When my head stopped spinning and I realized that we had arrived, she placed her carved wooden block in the middle of the metal tray that rested behind the rollers of the printing press, for Carlos to see. He admired it and pulled out the trays of letters that they would use to print the words for the Flyers. I stared out of the windows of the locked office, lost in thought until Carlos' daughter, Sylvia, caught my eye. She was waving at us from the middle of her tens of similarly-aged nannies. I wondered if Carlos would return her sticky sweet wave, or if he would fail her like Kite's and my father had failed us. The girl giggled and drooled lemonade.

  “How can they? How can people ignore their children? Kill their children? Sell their children?” I wondered out loud.

  “I know, terrible isn’t it,” Carlos turned a screw more tightly into the printing press, but without looking up at his own daughter.

  “Because Families are stupid,” Kite responded, “And Society believes that girls are dispensable.”

  “I think it might also be because they are Hungry,” I said, “Your dad poisoned the water and killed all of the fish, so they have nothing left to eat. Couldn’t we feed the people? Could we make some Awareness Raising Flyers that parents shouldn't sell their girls for food? Could they eat the fish if they're not sick anymore? We could tell them about the real Science. With Art. To help the Families. Couldn’t they just eat the fish now?”

  Carlos blanched. Kite glowered.

  “Gross!” the tall Bow Girl piped up from just outside the glass, “I heard that! That's gross!”

  “Seriously. If you don’t know how to save the girls properly,” Kite pinched my elbow and pushed me towards the door, “Maybe you should just go learn with them.”

  Carlos handed me a brand new, unused notebook and a freshly sharpened pencil.

  “You’re welcome to join the girls at the school table,” he smiled.

  I glanced at the table full of slouching children, gathered around the marker board, with a studious girl instructing them.

  “You too, Bernice,” Carlos pointed for Bow Girl to return to her studies, “Go learn. Have fun.”

  “Yeah right,” Bernice sulked, “School is so much fun. I’d be better off with my bows and arrows.”

  Kite pumped a solidarity fist at her.

  “I think school is fun,” I told her.

  She scowled and stomped ahead of me.

  I chose a chair at the end of the table. I adjusted my paper and pencil to look organized, setting my eraser parallel to the edge of my paper. Every girl at the table did the same. I itched my nose. They itched theirs. I sat up straight and looked at the board attentively. They tried to focus on the girl who was teaching and on me at the same time.

  I opened my notebook and diligently combined the long words that the Teacher had written into the correct conjunctions. Musn’t, my paper said. Je t’aime, my paper said. The girls scribbled on their worksheets. A toddler, trying to be included, colored with a thick, broken crayon. She drew me a squiggly heart with a crooked ax inside. She came and stood next to me, in the middle of the lesson, pointing out the different elements of her picture. I patted her lightly on the top of her head but encouraged her back to her own chair. I didn’t want to miss out on any of the lesson or get too near her thin, fragile skin.

  When they were finished learning, I watched them shove their papers into their cubbies and chop carrots for dinner. I saw them laugh and push at each other as they threw the garbage bags out the front door and down to the dumpster on the old factory floor. They pranced when they went anywhere but to wash their bowls, and even when they arrived at the sink, the bubbles cheered them. They wore the bubbles as beards and sideburns and floppy hats. They were soaked from head to toe by the time they peeled off their dirty clothes and slid into clean, dry pajamas. They shoved brightly colored toothbrushes in their mouths and swirled them around enthusiastically. Most of them spat in or near the sink, standing on stools, sitting on the counters or each other’s knees, froth dripping on their toes.

  I felt a small hand on my arm. I jumped.

  “Come on Ophelia, let’s go,” Cherry motioned to the long, full bedroom.

  “Pheelea, you read stories?” Sylvia asked.

  I half-recognized the Book that Carlos’ tiny look-alike carried as she took me by my sleeve and led me to the long dark room of thickly–painted bunk beds. She left me standing in the middle of the rows, near a plumped velvet armchair. I looked around, realizing that there was no one else to tuck them in. Kite and Carlos were busy with their business. The girls had beds but nobody to tuck them in. I could do it. I sat down on the plush cushions and cleared my throat. It rattled. The girls giggled and then quieted themselves to hear the story.

  After two false starts for those who had not remembered to use the toilets, I sat, surrounded by their bunks, with the Book on my lap, my raspy voice recounting the exciting tale of three bears and a small girl who liked to steal their cooked, nutritious cereal. I read it twice, from the two sets of words on the page, once in English and once again in French. A few girls shouted out the Spanish translations. At the end of the story, I heard soft, sweet snores and sighs circling the room. I pulled their sheets up to their chins and patted their legs under the soft cotton. I needn’t touch them to take care of them.

  “Kiss my stuffed lion,” a very small girl demanded in a whisper.

  Pleased with my efforts, she held out her own head for a kiss. I only paused to snatch a spare pillowcase, folding it double, holding it between her forehead and my lips to plant a soft smwack between her eyes. She rolled over under her blankets and fell asleep. The other girls who were still awake requested a kiss each for their dinosaurs and dolls, and then I latched the door quietly behind me.

  I busied myself sorting out their tangled shoes and stacking them in line on the rack. I tossed their socks into laundry bins, straightened the chairs in the kitchen and wiped all of the toothpaste from the counters and doorknobs. Sure that Kite and Carlos were still busy setting the type, I set down my cleaning rag, and slumped into the soft cushions of the couch nearest the bunk beds.

  Kite woke me with a harsh pinch to my nipple. I pushed away her inky, silken hand, reaching for her mouth instead.

  “Wake up, Lazy Bones.”

  She pulled away, taking me with her past the living room. She pointed triumphantly at the office table, layered a foot deep with bright blue and neon orange Flyers. Carlos beamed and clinked the three glasses in his hands against the bottle that he was opening.
Kite giggled and sloppily dumped a bag of flour into a bucket half-full of water. She stirred it with a wooden ruler.

  “Let’s go Flyering,” she bounced on her heels.

  I picked up an orange slip of paper and sounded it out. Kite’s carving was surrounded by letters.

  Buy a Wife,

  End a life.

  Support Girls,

  Not Dirtbags.

  “They look great! Congratulations!” I told them.

  Carlos poured three glasses of rusty water and handed them to us. I took a large celebratory swig. I choked and burbled. It wasn’t water.

  “Wait to say ‘Salud!’” Kite chided me.

  “What is it? Will it make our guts stink like milk does?”

  Kite rolled her eyes and rasped through the corner of her mouth, so that Carlos wouldn’t hear.

  “It’s Liquor. It's more like tea than milk. It will be fun. Just drink it.”

  She pulled away and held her glass high.

  “Salud!”

  “Salud.”

  “Salud?”

  We all clinked our glasses without breaking them, and then drank Carlos’ syrupy Liquor. I looked at mine. It was golden. I sniffed it. It smelled like caramel. I took another sip. It tingled the whole way down. I licked my lips while they poured more. I held my glass out, too. I drank it down, enjoying the sweet burn.

  I stumbled backwards and sat with a thunk on the map table.

  “Wooooooooo,” I intoned, “This is tasty.”

  “Let’s go!” Kite jumped up and down, “Let’s go Flyering right now!”

  Carlos looked to me. I looked to the dark, starless sky outside and leaned backwards on the map with my eyes closed. I wanted to sleep like the girls. They shouldn't be left alone, but Kite ripped me to my feet by my arms. I was dizzy.

  “Let’s go. Let’s go!” she pleaded.

  “The flyers are cool,” I agreed.

  Carlos went to the coat hooks by the front door. He swirled his cape around his shoulders and set his top hat upon his head. I looked back at the girls’ bedrooms, but then I had to focus my eyes on the stairs that we were descending to the empty factory floor. Carlos locked the door securely behind us. I heard the eight clicks of the bolts sliding into place, with the girls safely inside. If Sylvia or any of the little ones woke up, they would have Cherry, Bernice, and all of their older Friends to look out for them. I struggled to adjust my night vision and followed my companions into the night.

  The Drunks

  I didn’t mind being pulled around the pitch black city. The air whipped freshly off of the River. My face and even my fingertips were Warm with the tart juice that swirled inside of my guts. My ribs sloshed agreeably. I held the wheat paste bucket that Kite and Carlos dipped their brushes into, stirring it to keep it from going solid.

  They slathered wall after wall with the Flyers, working our way closer and closer to the center of Turington, covering Factories and High-Rises alike. Glue dripped all down the front of my t-shirts. I giggled and swiped at it with a hand that had more glue on it. I itched my nose. I felt the glue stick there, too.

  “A-o-u-t! A-o-u-t! August is so great,” Kite sang to the tune of Around the Old Burn Fire.

  “Agosto, Agosto, A-go-stooooo,” I belted out to the melody of Hand Me a Hammer.

  Wall after wall was slathered with sticky flour and water that held the Awareness Raising Flyers in place.

  “Buy a Wife, End a Life!” we shouted to the heavens, and to anyone who would listen, which was no one. Everyone slunk away from the racket we were making.

  When Kite and Carlos decided mid-waltz to paste every pair of dirty underwear they found to building walls, I sent them off to sit with the extra Flyers while I scraped down the underwear that they had already hung. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw them moving methodically.

  They had cornered a line of Squatters who had a cook fire blazing, handing them Flyers. I rushed over. I pulled a Flyer out of the bone thin hand of a man who was about to chew on the corner. His compatriots tossed theirs into the fire for fuel before I could snatch them back.

  “Kite! Carlos!” I scolded, “What are you doing? Wasting supplies just to taunt the Hungry? This is not a Highrise Penthouse fiesta!”

  They stopped and looked at the ramshackle group of Squatters in front of us. They were as skinny as the girls who got sold at Auctions. They hugged their knees and swayed in the wind. One of them stirred the pot over the fire. I peered into it. Small slivers of carrots and celery danced over the clear bubbles. A rat skin lay off to the side of the pot, the rest of the rat soaked its bones in the pot, making weak broth.

  “They are Starving and cold! It is the middle of August and they are frigid! They do not need Flyers shoved in their faces, except to burn. They need food! Families like these are forced to sell girls to try and eat.”

  Carlos kept his eyes on his ankles.

  “Not cool, Ophelia,” Kite slurred.

  “The rats aren’t enough to go around,” I eyed their empty wagon, “You know what they need? They need fish.”

  The Squatters didn’t make eye contact at my gross suggestions. Kite glared at me. Carlos grimaced.

  “Tell them, Kite. Tell them what you told me. Tell everyone that fish is safe to eat now. Tell them we could do things right and not be so hungry. We could use your Flyers to tell everyone the truth. We could make beautiful flyers that tell about the real Science.”

  Kite hacked a loogie into the Squatter’s fire. Carlos studied the motley crew carefully, saw their ribs from underneath their rags.

  “Is that really true?” Carlos asked.

  “You could eat fish, yes,” Kite snarled, “But I think it’s a waste of time to deal with Doctors or Rangers or worse, Families.”

  Carlos rubbed his chin, wiping more glue there. He looked at me. He sighed deeply.

  “Ophelia might be right. People need food if they are going to stop burning our flyers and selling their daughters.”

  “She is not right,” Kite shouted at me, “Maybe you should shut your mouth about things you don’t understand. Really not cool.”

  “I do understand,” I slurred, “Everyone is Hungry. Let’s feed them. Help their Families.”

  She punched me in the ribs. My legs sprawled out beneath me and I fell backwards onto a pile of trash. Kite laughed at the look on my face. The liquor still felt pleasant, burbling under my skin. Carlos waited to smiled until I joined in. We all laughed. We couldn’t help it, the booze was Warm and we were all invincible.

  The Squatters shuffled nervously.

  Kite gave me a hand up out of the rubbish, holding herself from collapsing against a Collection Bin with the hilarity of it all, the hooch bottle still in her hand. She hollered like a pirate and waved the bottle in the air before bringing it to her lips and chugging it down her throat, spluttering when she laughed again.

  “That’s it,” she announced, “It’s empty.”

  Kite raised one finger to my collar bone, where she jammed it bluntly, her knuckles bouncing off of my messy layers. My head rolled unstably on my neck.

  “Look at this,” she slurred, “Ophelia actually has a good idea, and I think I like it.”

  I looked down, but couldn’t quite see what she meant. It seemed that a Flyer was attached to my shirts somehow. I felt for it with my numb digits. Kite batted my hand back down.

  “Leave it,” she said, and turned to Carlos, “Mira. Ingenio. A walking advertisement. It looks great. I really like that orange.”

  Carlos tottered over, wrinkling his nose when he saw the Flyer attached to me. He leaned against a wall, dry heaving. Kite continued.

  “Don’t be so squeamish, Carlos. She’ll be fine. Isn’t this a great idea? We need something people can wear. Perfecto.”

  Carlos nodded and stumbled away from us, to find another wall to lean on. Kite tried to follow him and, still talking, slipped in a puddle of used truck oil and plowed face-first into the bricks, then the ground.

>   My collarbone tingled. I looked down to see the orange Flyer waving up at me. I tried to pull it off. My fingernails felt metal instead of paper. I pulled. A rusty nail came away in my grasp, covered in my black blood, shimmering in the lamplight. It must have stuck into me from the trash pile. It had been pinning the Flyer to me. I snorted.

  Carlos vomited the rest of his dinner onto the wall. Kite stood up on unsteady legs, her face bleeding and dripping. I dropped the nail and staggered to them.

  Carlos inched away from us, along the bricks to his home, unable to face our gore while the world swirled around us. I ripped off a part of one of my shirts and held it to Kite’s face as a bandage. She held it up in front of her eyes.

  “Oh piffle,” she stood up and stumbled towards our apartment, “My face doesn’t even hurt, of course. I am fine.”

  She fell down into a dirty puddle full of bird droppings. I grimaced and stood at her wet side. She lurched for me and clung to my arm.

  “Batteries. We really need batteries, Ophelia. We need them. Tonight. Right now. Otherwise no radio shows in the morning.”

  I steadied her on her feet as she stroked her damp fingers down my neck.

  “You’ll go get batteries, Ophelia? So we can listen to the radio in the morning?”

  “Sure, sure. Of course I will,” I staggered off in my own direction, leaving her behind, listening to her shouts of thank you and other praises – some of them in flowery Spanish that inspired me further. I bowed several more times, holding my hand to my heart and muttering dutifully, “Yes, batteries. Batteries for you, for you my Friend.”

  I followed the curve of the alley carefully, tripping along past rats chewing on rotten potatoes and a broken umbrella rolling in circles. It stopped when one of it's spires became stuck in the only dead zombie sprawled across the pavement. I found a trashcan to use as a stool and propped it under a Highrise fire escape.