by Glenn Beck
And then we were there, at the Children’s Village gate. The packed-earth play yard was empty of children again, its toy energy boards lined up. A woman in a white uniform waited by the main door. John’s wife! She had been wearing pink when I saw her standing next to John at the Social Update Meeting. Now her uniform was white. I thought only chaperones wore white. She walked to the bus-box and motioned for me to step down.
“Hello,” she said. “My name is Joan. I’m the supervisor of the Children’s Village.”
I held out my hand. “My name is Emmeline.”
She shook my hand with both of hers, and then said to the Transport Team, “Please return in two hours. I’ve made the necessary requisition for it. Thank you.”
She didn’t look at John and he didn’t look at her. That must be something that can be monitored.
I followed her into the building, down a long, dim hallway and into a room she called her office. She closed the door.
“Have a seat.” She motioned to a chair. It looked flimsy and creaked when I sat down. Her desk was small and the surface scratched. The low morning sun shone through the window slits behind her so that I could hardly see her face. But her voice was kind and soft.
“You understand that you’ve been assigned by the Central Authority to work the night shift here at the Children’s Village?”
I nodded.
She lowered her voice and leaned forward. “I changed the birth record of one of the babies before I requested additional help.”
I put my hand over my mouth to stifle my gasp.
She leaned back in her chair and continued in a normal voice. “You understand the night shift is from dusk to dawn?”
I nodded again, but my mind was still reeling thinking of all the risks she had taken for me, for Elsa. “The night-shift staff works the pink rooms, the blue rooms, and the nursery.”
My heart skipped at her last word. Elsa would be in the nursery. I would see her.
“Rounds are made on all areas so that the children’s needs are always met. There have been concerns, lately.” She paused.
“The concerns have to do, in general, with the children’s apparent failure to thrive. I noticed it when I worked the pink room. Not all children fail to thrive, of course,” she added quickly, “but many do.”
“What does that mean, failure to thrive?”
“Oh, it means not gaining weight like they should. And not learning how to roll over, or sit up by themselves at an appropriate age. Things like that.”
I almost asked about Elsa. But if she were failing to thrive, John would have told me. I pressed my thumbnail, willing myself to keep it away from my mouth and hide my nervousness.
“I mentioned my concerns at our last inspection,” Joan said. “The Village is inspected regularly and thoroughly. The future of the Republic rests with our children. Praise be to the Republic.”
“Praise be to the Republic,” I responded.
“As a result, I was appointed to be Supervisor. It’s a new position. I’ll have to wear white until they decide what color to assign to me. Prior to this, the Children’s Village had no Supervisor. I don’t know if I’m qualified to be Supervisor.” She was twisting her hands together in tight little motions. “I’m afraid of what happens if I fail. If I’m not able to make things change, not qualified enough to make things better . . .” Her voice faded.
“The Authority decides who’s qualified and who isn’t,” I said, trying to reassure her with her husband’s own words.
“Yes, indeed. They do. And you learn quickly, don’t you, Emmeline?”
I nodded. And smiled, but I kept my head down, eyes averted.
“Well, then. There is only one thing that I require of my staff: the children’s needs will be met. It’s the least we can do. Do you have any questions?”
“Your expectations seem clear,” I said.
“Not to all, I’m afraid. Not to all. That’s why you’re here.”
I looked at her. She looked sad.
“Why am I here?”
“Because I need you.” She leaned forward, her mouth pressed right up against my ear, and whispered, “And because Elsa needs you.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Through the window slit I saw children walking behind adults who I assumed were their Caretakers. Little girls dressed in pink. Little boys in blue. They followed their Caretakers in straight, subdued lines to the energy boards. The Caretakers leaned against the fence. I could faintly hear the children chanting:
Every day I walk my board
Walk my board
Walk my board
Every day I walk my board
For my fair Republic.
Joan saw me looking out the window. “Those are our four- to six-year-olds. I wish there were more of them. The older groups are even smaller.”
“Why is that?”
“It’s part of what I’m worried about. The children”—she paused and shrugged—“they just seem to fade. Disconnect. They disconnect from each other. And from their Caretakers.”
“Are the babies awake now?”
“Morning hygiene’s been completed. So they’re taking their morning nap. Toddlers are being taught the slogans of the Republic.”
“May I see them? The babies, I mean.” Please, please.
“Of course. But I’ve got a few things to go over with you, then we’ll take a tour.”
Patience, I told myself. Have patience.
“There are more Caretakers on the day shift than on the night shift because there’s more activity during the day shift. Up until now, there was only one night-shift Caretaker. However, I feel the children would be better served if there were two.”
“The other night-shift Caretaker is Lizzie. She’s not paired. That’s been the Central Authority’s position on night-shift workers. Nonreproductive Citizens work night shifts. Up until now, that is.” She smiled at me. “Lizzie sleeps in a separate area of the Village. She’s asleep now, so you won’t meet her until you come on duty for your first shift. I’ve never worked side by side with her so I don’t really know her.” She leaned forward, closer to me. “Not as well as I should.”
John had told me: Don’t trust anyone you don’t know. Was his wife now trying to tell me something? I also leaned closer as though nearness to her would make her subtle message clearer.
“Your responsibilities will include hourly rounds on all the children. Between rounds you’ll be stationed in the infants’ area.”
“With Elsa,” I finished.
“You will meet the children’s needs. For example, there are scheduled feedings for the infants. Nourishments and feeding schedules are found in the nourishment storage area. The babies are to be held when they are given their bottles.”
She stood up and motioned for me to follow her into the corridor. It smelled of sanitizing solution. A warm breeze floated in from the door.
“You will not be restocking supplies. That would disrupt the children’s sleep. Restocking is done on the day shift.”
I nodded.
“If a child appears ill enough to need intervention, you’ll hang the Children’s Village flag and that child will be taken to Human Health Services. Illnesses requiring intervention include difficulty breathing, intractable vomiting, or prolonged crying with inability to comfort.”
We walked slowly as she talked. I listened intently, determined to do just as she said.
“Fevers are treated with medication. Medication charts are available in the supply closet. Fevers that don’t respond to medication within twelve hours are referred to Human Health Services. Do you have any questions?”
“Not at this time.”
She stepped into a supply closet and closed the door after I followed her in. We were alone but still she whispered.
“Your first shift will be in two days. I understand you are to be paired tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow? I didn’t know that.”
“Also,” she leaned forward, “I
want you to know that I had a daughter once. She died in the illness. Her name was Lois. She was about your age. And I have a son. His name is David. He was home-raised, as were you.”
I studied her face, and found her smile written plainly there.
“He doesn’t know yet,” she said. “They’ll tell him today.”
I put my hands to my face. I couldn’t speak. I was having trouble breathing. “Are you saying—”
“The Authority wanted to pair you with one of the older boys from the Village. It wanted to prove its success.” She gave a little shrug of her shoulders. “Jeremy was a mistake. I tried to tell them. They didn’t listen.”
“After Jeremy, they came back, looking for another partner for you, a male from the Village. But none of the boys are mature enough. I suggested maybe one of the Gatekeepers. They had never even considered it! I may even have mentioned David’s name.” She smiled. “It worked!”
I leaned forward, listening to her every word.
“Home-raised children,” she said, “are special. Trust me. I see them and I see the ones raised in the Children’s Village. I see the difference.” She set her hand on my shoulder. “Welcome to the family.”
Family is important. That’s what John had said. And I could feel the truth of it, flowing warmly from the firm pressure of Joan’s hand.
“Well, then,” she said, “are you ready for the rest of the tour?”
My heart was racing. I nodded.
As we stepped into the corridor, two Village workers walked past us leading a group of children in from the playground. The children were quiet and walked two by two in neat rows. Joan was silent until they passed. We continued down the hallway, which was lined with smaller rooms on each side. “The girls’ classrooms are on the left, and the boys’ on the right. The Central Authority mandates gender segregation after infancy, and you should abide by that rule as best you can in dealing with the children. The classrooms are labeled by age group.”
The four- to six-year-olds’ classrooms were empty. They were still outside learning their energy board duties. I remembered walking on my toy board next to Mother and how easy it had been, almost like a game.
“There’s been some talk,” Joan said, as if she could read my mind, “of putting a small amount of friction on the children’s boards. Every ounce of energy counts, I guess. A decision hasn’t been made yet.”
I thought of the packed-earth common area, the play yard, and all the toy energy boards, lined up, neatly spaced. I thought of the children who had walked past us, quietly, two by two. Children who had never seen their mothers. If the toy boards were replaced with real friction boards, it would turn play into work. It would make quiet children even quieter. It would stifle laughter. All in the name of energy production. Sadness settled over me like a thick fog even though this should have been one of the happiest days of my life. I shook my shoulders as if to shake off the gloom.
“These are the seven- to nine-year-olds’ classrooms,” Joan said, and paused so I could see the children. Girls on the left, boys on the right. Both groups stood facing the flags of the Republic in their respective classrooms, the brightly colored blue-and-green Earth in the center. They were making the circle sign and repeating the Pledge of the Republic.
We pledge our allegiance
To the wisdom of the Central Authority.
We pledge our dedication
To the Earth and to its preservation.
The girls were reciting a little ahead of the boys, so the pledge had a discordant, disjointed sound. One of the boys, a smaller child with blond, spiky hair, was making the circle sign on his nose instead of his forehead. He was grinning, enjoying the farce. His Caretaker hit him sharply on the back of his head. He quickly put his hand to his forehead, and the look on his face made me think of a candle that had been snuffed out.
“The ten- to fourteen-year-olds make up the last group. Their classes focus mostly on the importance of the Republic and its regulations. All Republic, all the time,” Joan said. “And now we’re at the nursery.”
My heart surged.
She pushed the door open and motioned me inside. I took a deep breath and stepped through the doorway. The room had a wet, milky smell. Small bassinets were lined up along opposing walls. On the left side, pink bassinets; on the right, blue. Most of them were empty. I walked down the center of the room, looking back and forth, left to right. Finally, two babies in pink bassinets, one in a blue one. I approached the pink ones. Joan made a motion as if to point out Elsa. I held my hand up and shook my head. I knew I’d know which of these two little girls was mine. They were both asleep. Both had their left arms extended and their heads turned in that direction. That one, that one. She has my nose. And George’s forehead. Look at all that hair, a burnished pale yellow like mine in the picture in Mother’s sleeping mat. Perfect fingers. Tiny, tiny fingernails of pale pink. Cheeks round and full as miniature apples. I pointed to her and turned to Joan.
She nodded.
I bent to pick her up but Joan held up her hand and shook her head no, warning me not to.
“It would be—unseemly, if the Caretaker saw you pick up a sleeping baby.” She looked around. “I wonder where she is?”
“I’m here,” a woman said, “in the storage room. I’ll be right out.” She came out, carrying an armload of diapers. She looked at me without smiling and began placing the diapers on the shelves under the bassinets. “Don’t wake up a sleeping baby, you hear?” she said. Had she seen me bending over to pick up Elsa? Being watched, being overheard was like being monitored. Be careful what you say, what you do. I wondered why Joan didn’t know that, and why she didn’t address this woman’s attitude. Was Joan afraid of this Caretaker?
Joan and I left the nursery and walked back to the main entrance. Already, I missed Elsa, missed seeing her, watching her sleep. The bus-box hadn’t arrived yet so we went back to her office to wait. She closed the door.
“Do others—I mean other mothers, come here? To try to see their babies?” I asked.
“No, not really.”
“But why not?”
“First of all, the Social Reorientation has been very thorough and the Central Authority persuasive. People needed something to believe in, so they believed in the leaders. They repeatedly said that the children would do better if raised by the Authorities. That message was hammered into the people. They heard it over and over until it became truth to them. Besides, all their needs were being met. And not believing in the message, not following the rules, could be dangerous.” She paused. “It worked on almost everybody.”
“Did it work on you?”
She smiled. “Not really. There were a few of us who didn’t accept their philosophies. Or their promises. Your mother and father didn’t. There are others. But not many.”
“How can you tell?”
“You watch. You listen. You wait. But you won’t find them in the children. Over time, the system is all they know.”
I saw the bus-box approaching. It was time for me to leave, but I didn’t want to. I wanted to stay here in this building with Elsa. And with Joan.
“When will they tell David?”
“At dusk tonight, right before he goes on duty. Welcome to our family, Emmeline.” Before she opened the office door, she hugged me and her arms were warm and strong on my back.
“Thank you,” I said.
“Praise be to the Republic.”
“Praise be to the Republic.” And this time, I almost meant it.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The day-shift Gatekeeper made a note on his clipboard when I stepped off the bus-box at my gate.
“You still have to walk your board, you know,” he said.
I nodded.
“Your special job hasn’t started yet, you know.”
I nodded again. He didn’t have any facial hair. He talked like Jeremy, and he looked to be around Jeremy’s age. He had to be a product of the Village. Joan was right. Watch. Listen.<
br />
“Did you know Jeremy?” I asked.
“What’s it to you?”
I shrugged. “Just wondering.”
“He was my friend. At the Village. I was moved out before him. He told me stuff after he came here.”
“Stuff?”
“Yeah, stuff. Like who walked their energy board and who didn’t. Like if one Citizen walked the board for another. Bet you didn’t know he told me stuff. That’s what friends do. That’s what Citizens do.”
I started to walk away. “And he didn’t like you,” he called out. “You’re one of those home-raised. Not like us. He told me about you. He told me about you waking up early. So there.”
I couldn’t change the past. I couldn’t change what Jeremy said or did. I could only think about the future. I kept walking.
Later, as I walked my board, I heard a bus-box at the gate. The same two Central Authority men as before stopped to talk to the Gatekeeper. John slipped out of his harness and went to the back of the bus-box. He took an energy bicycle off the bus and pushed it toward my space. The day-shift Gatekeeper stared at John’s back, but he couldn’t see the big smile on John’s face.
“Central Authority asked Transport to deliver this to you. I’m to show you how to hook it up to the energy download bar.” He fiddled with a hose that was fastened to gears on the bicycle. “Don’t smile so much,” he whispered. “Look serious.”
I turned so my back was to the Gatekeeper and the Authority Figures.
“I can’t help it.”
He plugged the hose into a valve on the download bar and turned a switch. The hiss of the download began immediately. When it was done he removed the hose from the valve.
“Okay, now, you do it.”
I mimicked the demonstration and he nodded his approval.
“Praise be to the Republic,” he said.
“Praise be to the Republic.”