Etta and Otto and Russell and James (14 page)

I
t took more than a week for Otto to finish the deer. At first the legs wouldn’t support the bodies, and then the necks wouldn’t support the heads. He would work meticulously through the night, only to find crumbled piles of paper and paste in the morning. Oats would watch him, quietly chewing on her papier-mâché friend.

When he did finish, at last, and the deer could stand up on their own, he carried them, one at a time, over to Russell’s. He put them in the front yard, just where the other two had been.

There, he said.

Then he walked back home and got to work sketching and planning. Calculating dimensions in advance, this time. An owl for himself, a swallow for Etta.

The next day, Otto received a postcard in the mail. It had a narwhal on it and was postmarked Rankin Inlet. It said,

I’ve changed directions.

Russell.

A narwhal, thought Otto. That can be next. He still had plenty of newspaper.

O
tto was sleeping in the town and the town was sleeping around Otto. All quiet, all dark. Gérald and Alistair and him in the one crumbling old house, dreaming of maple syrup, of shortbread, of cinnamon, and of women who smelled like these things. Soldiers in houses all up and down the two streets that made up the town were all sleeping in their brightly colored and unmatched socks, black boots lined up and ready. The town’s remaining residents, in once-white bedclothes, staring straight up or out, were sleeping with eyes open as they had for years now. Their dogs the same way.

The only ones awake were Michele and Gustav, from Trois-Rivières and Selkirk, respectively, who walked up and down, one street each, looking and listening. Michele, who had so much hair, dark, and Gustav, who had just a little, light and short. They’d walk their streets twenty-five times, then meet at the junction and swap, to keep things interesting. When they met they couldn’t speak or make any noise, so they would just shake hands, silent, formal, and then turn and walk off in their new directions.

It was Gustav who heard something. Something apart from the regular crescendo and decrescendo of Michele’s boots coming and going. Something like a drawing in of breath, but of more breath than natural, like all the breath you could fit in you, all at once, and then a faraway crack, like the baseballs he used to throw against the wall of his school. Then nothing. He started to sweat. He listened for Michele’s boots. Nothing. He sat down on the curb, sweating and sweating, his hands slipping as he fumbled off his boots. He left them by a lamp-post and ran in stocking feet, soundless, yellow and orange,
to the junction.

Michele was there, on the ground, in the middle of the street. His dark hair was getting darker and thicker from the blood pooling up into it, out from his throat on both sides. The wound hung open like Michele’s mouth and eyes.

Gustav moved toward him, then caught himself and turned back again, away, toward the old city hall, where the generals slept, he opened his own mouth to shout to scream, despite what he’d been taught, and the bullet that rang through it and out the back of his skull woke everyone and everything.

Dear Etta,

Everything has gone from all
quiet to all loud. _____ ago we were hit in the night, which I knew could
happen, of course, had been trained for, but, still, felt against the rules,
cheap. I know no-one ever said their were rules, but, still, it feels like their
are, underneath everything, always.

So we lost our hold on ____ and
with it ____ and _____ and _____ and _____ and _____. We have moved back to ____
and no one can sleep. The thing is: it was horrible. But, the thing is, through
all that, all the horror and un-naturalness of it, there was this serge, of
being here and doing this thing, this Right Thing, with everyone. All us boys
here, and beyond that all the boys all over this country, and this continent,
and stretching all the way back over to home, too, to you and everyone.

All moving together, all
fighting together. And even though every-thing was horrible, that thing, that
connectness, was wonderful.

I am fine, don’t
worry.

I know it won’t be for some
time, a lot of time still, but I am told that eventually, they will give me time
to come back home for a few days, I do look forward to seeing you,
then.

Truly

Otto.

P.S.
Still no word from _____
_
, but my ears are open,
always.

Dear Etta,

Its always new towns now. Back
to always moving. Move and hide and wait. Play cards. Listen in every direction.
Then move, hide, wait, again. We wear each town as a new disguise, and they do
too. And sometimes we choose the same towns as they do and stain the gutters and
grass and front steps, until they go on to another town, and we stay, or we go
and they stay. Either way, soon enough, it all starts again.

I have used my gun now, and my
arms and hands and fingernails and teeth. I have never felt so much in my own
body.

There is word that their going
to send us some new boys, to accommadate for those lost, more and more. I have
only _____ as roommate now.

I’m glad to hear there are
still dances up in town, even if there is almost no one to dance with. If it’s
any consolation, we too have no one to dance with but each other. Still,
sometimes we find old records and players abandoned in these towns and play them
with the volume low. Although its almost as quiet as nothing, the few phantom
residents always hear and come out into the streets toward it, swaying and
smiling with cracking faces, like they haven’t heard music in a million
years.

When I come home, I will dance
with you.

Otto.

E
tta put the letter down on her table, put one hand on it. The textured scratching of ink not at all like skin, but close enough. Then she drank the rest of her milk and went to open the school.

Ten minutes after the scheduled start of the day, there was only just Etta at the front, behind her desk, and six-year-old Lucy Perkins opposite, at hers.

Well, said Etta. I guess it’s just us.

Yep, said Lucy Perkins. She was holding her pencil, ready.

Where are the girls?

Farms. They’re needed, now.

But not you?

My mom’s selling the farm.

Oh. I’m sorry. Well. What would you most like to learn about, Lucy Perkins?

I like singing. And cats.

Okay. Today will be Singing and Cats Day. Lucy Perkins Day.

O
ne week later, Willard Godfree, larger area super-intendent of the civic and meta-civic bureau office came to see Etta during school hours. She and Lucy Perkins were drawing a chart of cats by size, from the African black-footed cat up to Siberian and Bengal tigers.

I am sorry to interrupt, said Willard Godfree, wiping his boots on the front doormat, still holding the door open.

It’s fine, of course, said Etta. Good to see you, Mr. Godfree.
Though, in fact, it wasn’t.

Would you like to finish this lesson? I can wait in a desk at the back.

Yes, thank you.

She and Lucy drew a domestic cat, a Canadian lynx, an ocelot, a puma, a Chinese mountain cat, a caracal, an Asian golden cat, a cheetah, a snow leopard, a lion, and four types of tiger. Then Etta left Lucy to do the coloring and walked back to where Willard Godfree was sitting, hands intertwined and resting on the tiny desk in front of him. Okay, she said. How can I help you?

They let her keep the house.

No other use for it, right now, so you might as well, I mean, it’s the least we can do.

There was a possibility that, come winter, when the farms were quieter, they might start the school up again. Or when things quieted down and everyone came home. But for now, Lucy Perkins and any others would get folded into the school in town, and Etta’s school would be closed. A bus or horse would be sent round mornings and afternoons for Lucy. You can ride it too, if you like, if that helps.

Willard Godfree was not at all a bad man. He felt terrible about what he was doing.

I feel terrible about what I’m doing, he said. He took his glasses off and rubbed the place where they sat on his nose. He was old. Too old to fight.

Okay, said Etta.

Once he had gone, she finished the day with Lucy. They made their cats into a poster, a giant, colorful, breathtaking poster. Give it to your mother, said Etta.

I want you to have it, said Lucy. It’s for you. When the kids come back you can show them.

Thank you, Lucy. Do you want me to walk you home?

Oh no, it’s easy. I do it all the time.

Still, Etta walked her most of the way. Until she could see the sagging cream-and-blue of the Perkinses’ farmhouse. Lucy cut through the pasture, past a scattering of lowing Charolais, made huge in comparison as she ran by.

Etta put the poster up in her kitchen, then mentally laid her options out before her on the table. In one pile:

She could go back to her parents. Back to town. Spend time there, reorienting. It would feel good to just be in the same place as them again. To belong in that easy way.

In another pile:

She could try to buy the Perkinses’ farm. She belonged here now. Could stay close. Could learn about cows and chickens and grain. It would feel good to get her hands dirty. To be in her body like Otto described being in his. And maybe Russell would help.

In another pile:

She could get a job. Something to Help. In a factory, say, making things that were needed. Wear coveralls and heavy boots like a man. Use herself to ripple outward into the world.

Well, she said to the table, to the three piles, I guess the choice is easy then.

That night she stayed up late, waiting until the air got cool so the oven could be used without stifling the whole house, and made
oatmeal-raisin cookies and date squares.

Dear Otto,

I don’t know if this works, sending food. I’m somewhat skeptical, as I know our correspondence travels past many hands and eyes on its way from me to you, or you to me. (Your letters are like clumsy snowflakes, with all the different patterns of holes.) But, in the off chance that it does work, you should find a small selection of things here for you. I made them just last night, so you can take comfort in the fact that they were fresh, once. (Growing up, my older sister, Alma, could do most things better than me, but not bake. She would labor away at the same recipe again and again, bringing in my mother for help, sending her away, and always ending up with a too-dry cookie, a raw-in-the-middle cake, bread like worn rubber. It was never hard for me, though, I could feel through the spoon what the consistency, balance needed to be, like knowing if a song is in tune or if something is red or green.)

So, if you cannot find comfort in sleeping or security, find it here, (hopefully) in butter, sugar, flour, fruit. And if this little bit of extra energy lets you move that tiny bit faster or think that little bit sharper to keep yourself safe, well, that’s good too.

Etta.

P.S. They’ve gone and closed the school now, on account of having no students. But don’t worry, I’ve got a plan.

P.P.S. My mailing address will remain the same.

The next morning she caught the bus with Lucy into town.

This is great! said Lucy. We can still be friends, on the bus.

The bus dropped them off at the town’s bigger, squarer school, and Etta walked from there to the post office, and then to the Citizen Women’s Recruitment Center, which had been set up in the back room of Virginia Blanchford’s house. To get to it Etta followed signs through the front yard, around and past windows in which she could see beds and children’s things, into the backyard, and up three steps to the back door, where there was a final sign, in official government font:

CITIZEN WOMEN’S RECRUITMENT CENTER—HERE!

Etta could see bits of the dotted line along which you were supposed to cut on its bottom and sides.

Virginia Blanchford was inside. She had a baby at her breast and two toddlers asleep on a blanket by her feet. Welcome! she whispered as Etta stepped in, to your chance to make a difference! She smiled. Etta smiled. She handed Etta a form. It said,

FAMILY NAME?

CHRISTIAN/GIVEN NAME?

BIRTH DATE?

POSTING ADDRESS?

OPPORTUNITIES IN YOUR AREA (PLEASE TICK PREFERRED):

1. Munitions Factory Work

Have you got a pen I could borrow? whispered Etta.

Of course . . . yes, somewhere. Ah! There. She pointed over both of their heads to a tin with a number of sharpened pencils in it
perched on the top of a bookshelf. Safer up there, she whispered. Etta reached up and took one.

It’s just the one option? she said.

It’s a good option. It’s right in town.

Okay, said Etta. And she put a tick beside

1.
Munitions Factory Work

What happens now?

You give that form to me, and report to the factory. You know where? East edge of town? Past the elevators? Tomorrow morning, eight-thirty a.m. You can go pick up your uniform today though, if you want. It might need a bit of mending, so you might want to get it in advance. Any time before six-thirty p.m. tonight.

It was still early, so, before going to the factory, Etta walked the long way to her parents’ house. She helped her mother with chores until her father got home for lunch, and then they all ate together.

They’re trying to get us to buy a farm, you know, said her father. Like I could do much farming, almost sixty years old.

I don’t mind the idea, said her mother. I think I can still lift and carry. They’re offering a heavy subsidy on the land.

And when the original farmer comes back? Her father.

They know which ones aren’t coming back. Her mother.

And sell their stuff cheap.

Sell their land. So we can all eat.

On Etta’s father’s plate was a white bun with butter. Carrots. He had not yet taken any ham.

I don’t want you to go to any special trouble because I’m here, Etta had said.

It’s no trouble, her mother had said.

Anyway, we don’t want to leave this house. I don’t want to leave my job. Who’s going to edit the newspapers if all the editors become farmers? said her father.

Hm. I suppose if we’re going to starve we might as well be able to read about it, said her mother.

I like this house too, said Etta. And I know someone who might be keen on your farm offer.

You? said her father, looking concerned.

You? said her mother, looking excited.

No, said Etta. Not me. A boy I know. A former pupil. A friend.

She picked up her uniform after the dishes were done, and rode home again with Lucy on the school bus.

How was your day?

There were so many people. I got lost.

But was it nice too? An adventure?

Yes . . . there’s two other girls with my name, so we’re all twins. That’s nice.

Good, said Etta.

The uniform, full navy coveralls with matching head scarf, had holes in the elbows and a crumpled tissue in one of the pockets. Etta mended the holes, threw away the tissue, and then put it on over her dress to walk over to the Vogels’. Mrs. Vogel, out picking rocks in the barley with one of the younger boys, saw her first. She waved at her. Come to help us with rocks, Etta? You look ready for it.

Nope, sorry, Mrs. Vogel. I’m looking for Russell. And, hello, Emmett. That’s some good lifting.

He’s back at his aunt’s. She needs the help now his uncle is gone.

Oh. Okay, thanks. Hopefully I can come help you out another time.

S
he found Russell in his aunt’s barn, singing lowly at the cows while he checked their eyes and tongues.

You! she said.

He snapped around, hadn’t heard her come in. Shhhh! The cows! And then, correcting himself, quieter, The cows.

You! said Etta again, quieter this time, a hissed whisper, didn’t tell me your uncle had gone. Why didn’t you tell me?

Why would I have told you?

Because I’m your friend, Russell. Because that is a big thing. Because you can, no, you should tell me about the big things.

It’s not such a big thing; all the men are going, or gone.

You’re not.

No. I’m not.

One of the cows sighed, a heavy sigh with the weight of a cow. Russell stepped over and ran a hand along its back. Etta, he said, you’re wearing strange clothes.

Oh yeah, said Etta. I wanted to show you. My new uniform. It was hot in with all the animals, thick with close air.

You’re a factory girl now?

A factory
worker
. As of tomorrow. Since they’ve closed the school for lack of students . . .

Oh, I didn’t realize. Oh damn. I’m so sorry. The Vogels needed me, and then my aunt, I would have come, if I had known . . .

It’s okay, Russell, really. Not your fault. All the students are in the same position. Well, except Lucy Perkins.

Her mom’s selling the farm, I heard. He stroked the cow along the grain of her short, dense fur.

Yeah, I heard too. Which is why I came to see you, sort of.

Not just to show me your uniform and yell at me about my uncle?

Not just that. Besides, I only heard about your uncle from Mrs.
Vogel, twenty minutes ago. No, it’s because they’re trying to get my parents to take one of the lost farms. But my parents don’t want to. Well, my father doesn’t, at least, which means they won’t be taking it. So, I was thinking, you should.

I should take it?

You should take it! A farm! Your own! You’re old enough, you’re here! You want one! And it’s in the area, so you could still help your aunt, the Vogels. You could plant and farm strategically for that.

I could take it.

Yes!

But what about Lucy Perkins’s mother?

What about her? She doesn’t want it, I’m sure.

Yes, but if they’re giving away land, how’s she going to sell hers?

Well . . . I don’t know. But that’s not your fault, or your responsibility.

Still. We are all spreading ourselves so thin, now.

Just for now, Russell. Otto and Winnie and your uncle and everyone will come home soon enough and fill in the land again. It’s just for now. And that means there’s only a free farm here for you right now, Russell. You have to take it.

I guess I do.

You do.

Okay, I will.

Of course you will! She was smiling big now, all teeth. It’s exciting, Russell!

I suppose it is. Her smile so big and so real. He stepped away from the sighing cow and toward Etta in his clumsy, unsubtle steps. But why don’t you take it?

I’m not a farmer, Russell. I’m a teacher. And a factory worker now, look at me.