Elias's Fence

by Steinberg, Anne

  She stopped and looked around, afraid of being overheard. "God bless you," she whispered.

  "God bless you, too," Christine responded. They both knew they were among that tiny minority who still believed.

  It was that very week that Anderson decided to reduce Rosa's hours. He realized he couldn't let her go without problems - Christine would fight it and once in a great while she could be stubborn about little things. And it wasn't worth it - he'd just ride with it.

  "Christine, we have to talk about Rosa. I need quiet in the house right now. I can't have those little brats coming here every day. I have an important campaign coming up and it seems they're everywhere - under chairs, in closets, in the hall. Pay her - it's not a question of money - pay her a weeks wages, but I don't want her here more than one day a week. Is that clear?"

  Christine's mouth sprang open prepared to fight for this woman, but Anderson's generosity made her agree. "I'll tell her."

  Embarrassed, she muttered the lame excuse to Rosa...the money would help and now Rosa could spend more time with her boys and not have to work so hard.

  Rosa's last chore that day before she left was to empty the shredder. In the top, the coarse brown paper had caught and not shredded. She smoothed the paper and slowly she read the words - kill - rape - and then she rushed upstairs, her whole body alive with fear. She went from room to room calling, "Mrs. Thorpe - Mrs. Thorpe."

  Christine came out of the upstairs sitting room. "What is it, Rosa. What's the matter?"

  She held out a paper.

  "This note - I find in the shredder - not shredded."

  Christine looked at the coarse brown paper that shook in Rosa's hand. "I know, it’s the street people - they left it by the fence. I put it in the shredder."

  "Oh – but – they can't get in, can they?" Rosa asked quietly, reassuring herself. "No, they can't, an electric fence, bars, the dogs - they can't get in, can they, Mrs. Thorpe?"

  "Of course not - I'm not worried. I'm just sorry that they hate us so fiercely," she said.

  Rosa took her leave, grabbing her sons' hands roughly and still muttering as she went out the gate, "No, they can't get in - No!"

  Chapter 10

  Christine's memory, which was usually short-spanned, would not let her forget the notes. Rosa's outburst made her remember them, word for word. They cropped up in her dreams; while cooking, while talking, a sentence would flash into her mind. Who were they? - these street people who hated her so fiercely - those faces from the ranks of the disadvantaged who were left the legacy of the street. It was not her who had placed them there - she didn't understand the world any better than they did.

  Yet she closed her eyes and ears to Anderson's world. What could she do about it? The world had become a madhouse. She was a victim as well. Anderson's money - his ill-gotten money - was the only thing that protected her. She was walled into the prison of the magnificent house and her only thoughts were of how she could protect her children from this world that had gone mad.

  They're good, my children are good, she told herself over and over. But how can I keep them good, she wondered?

  Trying to forget the ominous notes, she began the complicated project of Luke's birthday. She'd make the cake from scratch, she decided, and pushed aside the ready mixes. The effort of sifting flour and beating egg whites calmed her.

  Surely Anderson would buy Luke the 22 - a harmless gun. He could have fun shooting at cans and things like that. Luke was such a perfectionist - he would enjoy improving his marksmanship.

  She was glad this was one of Rosa's days off, for she enjoyed making the special birthday dinner for her son. The freezer was always full, the pantry bulged with mixes and cans of every description. In this world Anderson was important and he was a good provider. Every month, without fail, Secure Cars delivered food - steaks, hams, strawberries, every luxury. They wanted for nothing.

  Sometimes she wondered about his feelings for her, but without a doubt he did love his children deeply - in a different way than she did. Hers was an impotent love. She could do nothing for them, except worry. While he - his money - his connections - gave them everything he could possibly give in this damaged world. They wanted for nothing.

  She wrapped the present she had made Luke. It had taken her four weeks to complete it - the needlepoint belt. She knew he would thank her, but she knew he yearned for the 22. Never mind, boys should be close to their fathers.

  That evening they all came home in a good mood and, to fit the occasion, dinner was perfect. The steaks were succulent and rare, the potatoes dripping with sour cream, even the freeze-dried vegetables plumped up, and the salad was more than passable. The birthday cake was a dream of chocolate swirls, and cherry ice cream topped it beautifully.

  The only sour note was when, again, she forgot to serve the Nirvana. Too late, she remembered, and then, in her hurry, spilled some on the linen tablecloth.

  Lustily they all sang "Happy Birthday".

  "Make a wish," Christine urged.

  "Oh, Mom. That's stupid, but I'm thinking." He closed his eyes for a moment, opened them wide, and proceeded to blow out the nineteen candles - eighteen plus one to grow on.

  Luke opened her present first. "Gosh, Mom, it's really super. The flags - I always wanted one of these needlepoint belts - and you worked in my initials, too." He stood up and threaded the belt through the loops of his jeans. He reached over and kissed her somewhere in the vicinity of her forehead.

  Next he opened Rachael's present.

  "The Dead - The Grateful Dead album! Where'd you get it? It's a collector's item - must have cost a bundle." Luke reached over and kissed his sister firmly on her lips.

  Matt's present was almost overlooked in his hurry to get to the big one. "Thanks - it's neat," and he pushed the shirt to one side.

  A heavy quiet came over the room as Luke opened the square box carefully. He had ripped through the other gifts, but this one he unsealed carefully, picking off the tape as if his life depended on it. As he lifted the lid of the box, Christine heard gasps of pleasure.

  "Oh, Dad, it's wonderful!" Simply lost for words he stopped.

  The gun, the 38, glinted on a pillow of purple satin.

  "Lady of the golden hair..." Somewhere in Christine's mind a voice read the note, over and over again.

  Luke’s voice cut through the illusion. Looking shocked – “What’s the matter, Mom? I'll be careful."

  "I'm sure you will..." and she rose to clear the table.

  They left her alone in the kitchen with just the hum of the dishwasher and the super vac. In a minute the room would be immaculate.

  It was done. Luke had been given the dangerous gun. She felt so disappointed in Anderson - he never listened to her anymore - but no use pouting. It was Friday night - maybe they could all be together. She felt so alienated. They were out in the world all day, but she was here in the house, always fighting elusive fears and the craziness that she felt come over her from time to time. She had too much time to think and the feeling that they were together and somehow she was separate made her feel so alone and terrified.

  Anderson retrieved two full briefcases from the car and her hopes died. "I was thinking maybe we could all do something together tonight," she said feebly.

  "Do something?" he questioned.

  "Yes, maybe Trivial Pursuit - it is historic, you know. Or maybe Monopoly. Rachael enjoyed those games so much when she was ill."

  "Aw, Mom, we're going to the cinema, the show!" the boys chorused.

  "The show? What show?" she asked.

  "The Esquire - it's the first film since last December and we got tickets."

  "But it gets dark so early," she protested, the usual feeling of fear creeping over her.

  "Christine," Anderson interceded. "They have the car. It's perfectly safe, you know. Let them grow up."

  She nodded, defeated.

  "Have fun," but biting her tongue still she couldn’t help saying – “but if you're driving,
don't go East of Delmar."

  "We won't," they chorused.

  The gun was carried out under Luke's jacket. Under the back seat there was a box of bullets. They roared off in the car, tires squealing, waving to their mother.

  ● ● ●

  "Hey, pick up Steve. He's at the corner scoring beer," Matt said and the car was soon loaded with boys' jeers and threats, the smell of beer permeating everything.

  "Let's go over on Delmar - bound to find one of those goddamn street people over there."

  "Yeah. Maybe we could find the bastard that ate Rachael’s cat," Luke agreed. The car, gunned, roared at the corners.

  "Hey! How about a nigger? A real black one, you know?"

  The bravery, bravado, of the about-to-be-perpetrated act circled the car like a gull. The tight groups of men on the street corners heightened their excitement.

  "How about those?” Matt pointed to a group. “We could just open up and fire."

  "Naw! Too tricky. Somebody'd get the license number. Remember, police strike is over."

  "An alley – bound to find one there or find one on a side street."

  The car swerved and squealed about corners and fear sat with them in this unknown territory.

  "Where are those goddamn niggers when we need one?" Luke cursed.

  The anger grew among them like a boil. Too many on a corner...too light – not gross enough.

  "Now - no, he looks all right," and another pedestrian lived through the night.

  Somewhere East of Delmar they'd find the right one to avenge those goddamn sleepless nights, the growling in the alley, and the cat - that simple, stupid, little orange cat.

  "My sister cried all night over that goddamn cat," Matt said - the false indignity almost believable.

  They threw the empty beer cans out of the windows, the clatter punctuating the night. Somewhere a bitch screamed at her man.

  "There man, look!" Luke yelled.

  They all looked. The man was limping across the street, not really old, but his clothes were ill fitting, and his turned over shoes made his limp more pronounced.

  "He's probably cross-eyed, too," someone commented and they all roared with laughter.

  "Shit, he's perfect,” Steve yelled. “Run over the son of a bitch."

  "No, no. That's too easy."

  The car pulled up and stopped beside him.

  "Hey, man. Do you know where we can score some ludes?" Matt called.

  The man stopped, straightened up, and looked in the car at the anonymous faces in the dark interior.

  "Shit, he's not even crippled. He's a goddamn phony," someone yelled.

  Luke, sitting in the back seat, lifted the gun. The transient's eyes, pale and tired, lit up with fear. The gun, not two feet from his face, exploded. His eyes were full of surprise, like large inverted pock marks two holes sunk into his grizzled cheeks. He sank, like in slow motion, in the filthy street. No windows opened, no one came running, and somewhere in the night a baby cried.

  Later, Matt slept soundly, but Luke stayed awake to clean the gun. He looked longingly out the window. The alley was still and empty. He itched to aim at the tiny angels on the fence, but didn't dare. The police strike was over and only an occasional lone straggler went down the alley anymore. The events of the night made him sleepless - there was a hollow in the pit of his stomach.

  He felt cheated. He didn't know how the others felt, but the thrill he had expected wasn't there. It didn’t come. He felt the need to know. Would it have been different if it had been a nigger - or a girl - or a grandmother - or a baby? It was the void that was so disappointing, like a girl looked at - wished for - desired - dreamed about - only when you get her, her cunt was too big, she smelled of sweat, and jerking off was better. It was that kind of letdown. But it didn't stop you from looking at girls and hoping for better luck next time. This was somehow the same. That face - just disappearing into nothingness. No sparks - no excitement. Would it always be like this?

  He touched the barrel of the gun. The stock gleamed, the barrel stood - mysterious - promising. "Bitch!" he spat at the gun.

  It was late, but he'd do Monday's homework - might as well since he couldn't sleep. He needed to finish the main ingredient of his drawing of a building for tech class - the fences. He couldn't expect a good grade without the fences. Painstakingly, he started drawing in the fences. The prestigious groups were designed to have cyclone fences - impossible to get with production the way it was today.

  He took the grid and on the moderate housing put tall antique fences - like the crap his mother had bought. She should've saved the money. He would have preferred it the way it was - then he and Matt could have stayed at the windows, with eyes squinted, and picked them off like ducks in a shooting gallery.

  She knocked softly. "Still up? Your homework for Monday?" she asked, surprised. Timidly she entered her son’s room.

  "Almost done, Mom." He bent down, pretending intense interest in his paper.

  "That's lovely," she said pointing to the mediocre drawing. "It's like our fence minus the angels."

  He nodded. She misunderstood him completely and took so much pleasure in his work.

  "That's really good," she said again. "You need those grades for college. It won't be long now."

  "Yeah, Mom."

  She bent down and kissed his cheek. "Night, son."

  "Night."

  God, he hadn't thought of college. September was just four months away. He'd be big shit on the campus with a gun like this.

  Luke was wrapping the gun up when she knocked again.

  "Come in," he called, annoyance plain in his voice this time.

  "I'm sorry, honey, I didn't mean to bother you, but I remembered these." She held out the folder.

  "Do you remember, you drew these when you were 8 or 9."

  She handed the drawings to him one by one. They were wonderful pen and inks, intricate pictures of buildings. Talent bold as brass leapt from the pages.

  Luke squinted as he stared at the drawings. Could he really have executed them? Now his hand wasn't steady anymore. He felt anger at himself. Where had it gone, this raw talent?

  "Kid's stuff," he scoffed.

  "They're very special," she corrected. Then, spying the gun on the desk, she pleaded with him. "Honey, promise me you'll be careful with that gun. It's not a toy, you know."

  "I will, Mom, honest." He reached over and kissed her cheek. "I'm really tired."

  For the second time, she said, "Night, Son, night."

  He sat down and stared at the gun.

  He was a murderer. Tonight he had killed a man. Could she ever imagine that her son could do such a thing? No, of course she couldn't. The feeling of letdown was strong as ever, and now a sensation of shame was creeping in. Where had it gone, that man's mind, his thoughts, the personality that had been in that body? Did it still exist - somewhere?

  Luke stared down at the drawings. If only he could go back.

  Fear, shame, and regret coursed through him.

  "I'm sorry, Mother," he whispered to no one. "Honest to God, I'm really sorry."

  He opened the drawer, reached for two pills, swallowed them, and waited.

  It came soon, the blank state that was normal - and all was forgotten. The only thing he remembered was that he'd be a big shit on campus with a gun like this.

  Chapter 11

  It was the total alienation that was making her feel crazy.

  Rosa had been taken away from her, but so subtly and cleverly that at first she didn't realize it. It had seemed so generous, so nice, but he knew she needed somebody and now, on the one day Rosa came, the work was so piled up they didn't have much time to talk.

  She missed the laughter of the boys as they played. Now Rosa did not bring them since she could afford the sitter.

  Rachael had slipped back into that shadowy world where they could not even speak civilly.

  Christine was alone, totally and completely alone again. She believed it was a s
in to even think about the terrible solutions that she entertained.

  She must be crazy. Some days she was terrified of her own husband. She did not know him at all.

  In desperation she went out to the yard, to the tree, running her fingers over the carved ‘CA’. When Anderson had carved the initials there, he had loved her. They had come to the house as newlyweds. They were happy then. She remembered clearly one spring afternoon when they sat drinking lemonade in the shade of the oak tree and Anderson leapt up and with a small pocket knife began to carve something on the trunk of the tree.

  "Close your eyes," he commanded. She leaned her head down onto her gathered up knees and squeezed her eyes shut until he said, "Now - look. See, that ‘C’ is for you and this ‘A’ is for me. She had been touched by the entangled letters. He kissed her and carried her into the house and they made love, slowly, on the living room rug.

  "I want to give you my baby," he whispered.

  "Yes - oh yes." She too wanted this, wanted his baby, wanted their genes to live on in the child they were making.

  She remembered his tenderness always, his urgent desire to give her this gift. Again and again she accepted, "Oh yes - yes."

  It was after Rachael, when she could not accept his gift, that he turned away. It was not her fault - she would have been happy to bear him ten children as he wanted - but she was told there would be no more and she remembered his look, that cold, blaming look he had worn ever since.

  She did not know why he desired so many children. Thinking back, he was not very good with them when they were little. It was later, when they were older, that they seemed to connect and it was she who was left out.

  Running her fingers over the twin letters, she tried willing that time back - that time when he had loved her.

  She looked around the yard. To surprise her, one day last week he had sent the landscape gardeners and they had erected a perfect flowering garden, but it was not the same; it was not as if she had planted and weeded the earth. No, it was not the same. Even with all the care and the professional plantings, everything still died near the fence; grass, flowers, vines - all dead. It left a strip of barren dirt that was almost two feet wide. Nothing lived in that soil. Curious, she looked at her fence, and for the first time she felt afraid of it. Stupid woman, she told herself. It's iron, how can you be afraid of a fence - it keeps you safe. But she didn't feel safe.