Goodhouse (21 page)

“We're alone,” he said. “Though I think my 1858
Gray's Anatomy
has suffered a calamity.” He gestured to one of the books on the shelf behind him. It had toppled and had a hole in its spine.

“You don't seem very upset,” I said.

“I expect to die by that gun,” he said. “I plan to kill myself, you know. When my daughter dies.”

I sank into my chair. I was shaking. “What were you thinking?” I asked. There was a sofa pushed against the far wall, and a blanket and pillow were arranged as if someone had slept there. A pair of old-fashioned reading glasses was perched on the arm, and a small sprinkling of crumpled white tissues littered the floor. The doctor's shape was still visible in the indentations of the sofa cushions.

He quietly poured some more cognac into the bell-shaped glass and pushed it toward me. “I changed my mind,” he said. “You should try it. Fifteen years in an oak barrel in Limousin. All the way from France.” I shook my head, to say I didn't want any. “Go on,” he said. “You'll get the injection when you graduate, and then you won't be able to touch this stuff.” I took a sip, just enough to wet my lips and feel the burn of the alcohol. It tasted awful, but I took another gulp, and this one slipped down my throat like a bright star.

“You know, there was nothing you could do,” he said.

“What?” I said.

“I was there,” he said. “Don't blame yourself. You couldn't help them.”

“I blame you,” I said. But my voice lacked its previous conviction.

“Hindsight is all damning clarity and revision,” he said. “I'm not sure what the purpose of it is. My father told me that I would regret only the things I didn't do. He died racing a boat, if you can believe that.” Dr. Cleveland's handheld beeped, and he silenced it.

The warmth of the liquor spread from my throat to my stomach. I pressed my lips to the glass and the cognac numbed them. The recoil of the gun still vibrated inside me.

“I'm not saying I believe your story,” I said. “But you can't play both sides. You can't just pretend to be a Zero. Either you're lying or they know you're using them.”

“They suspect,” the doctor said. “But so what? Ione is the prize.”

“What do you mean?”

“Haven't you noticed?” he asked, his tone a little chiding. “We're about to commemorate fifty years of history here—hundreds of visitors, a weekend of celebration. You've seen that monstrosity they're building in the East Field.”

“Of course,” I said. He was referring to the pavilion.

“To a Zero, it's a target.” And I must have looked puzzled, because he said, “You haven't considered this?”

“No.”

“Then it's a good thing I'm here.” He used his foot to pull the trash can closer. He leaned in to retrieve the gun, and before I could react, he began to break it down. “The older something is, the more work it is to maintain,” he said. He shook the bullets out of the cylinder, then handed the metal piece to me, along with a rag.

“You have to cancel the celebration,” I said.

“And give the Zeros another victory?” He shook his head no. “It's interesting,” he said. He pulled a pipe cleaner from a wooden box, then used it to clean the barrel. “All you boys are working so hard so you can get out and join the larger world. But, you know, it's not a destination. I'll tell you a secret.” He looked at me. “You have,” he said, “already joined.”

I set the cylinder on the desk. The weight of the metal made me uneasy. The chambers where the bullets rested were dark tunnels, perfect holes. I reached over and picked up the picture of Bethany. She had braces on her teeth. She was a child in the image, but the scar was still visible, rising from the top of her dress. “Is she very sick?”

“You like her,” he said.

“No,” I said. “I was just wondering.”

“Your heart rate increases when you lie,” the doctor said. He tapped on the screen of his handheld. “You promised to tell me if Beth contacted you.” We stared at each other for a moment. “So has she?”

I looked into his eyes, which were her eyes. I willed my heart to slow. I willed my body to believe what I was saying. My hand tightened on the picture frame. “No,” I said.

He paused and made a low, speculative sound, as if he was not truly convinced. “James,” he said, “I need you to be on your best behavior. No more acting out, no more threatening staff. If you follow the rules, I can help you. We can help each other. Believe it or not, you may have something of value to contribute to this larger world.”

I put the picture of his daughter back, then angled it to face him. He was watching to see if I would give anything away with my body language, but I was very good at being a blank, empty space. I thought of the boys in the hot, low-ceilinged rooms.

“What are you doing to those boys in the Intensive?” I said. “I saw your name on their charts.”

“My name is also in the book you shot.” He gestured to the books on his shelf. “But that doesn't mean I wrote it.”

“Are they going to recover?” I asked.

“Yes,” he said. “That's what boys do. Even you, James.” And then he smiled. “This session went well,” he said. “Don't you think?”

 

THIRTEEN

Everyone in the school did double work group for the next seventy-two hours. There was just over a week until the Founders' Day celebration and the grounds were not ready. The pavilion itself was almost finished, and I spent several days working in its shadow, constructing plywood molds for new concrete pathways and staircases. The slight vinegar smell of fresh paint floated out of an open doorway. Owen labored alongside me, his hands wrapped in paint rags.

Even with the double shifts, there was more work than the students could handle. Tanner had to hire civilian help—professional carpenters, plumbers, and electricians. The school started training groups of temporary proctors, men brought on to assist during the event. I often passed them as I crossed campus, the new hires moving in groups of five or six, an older proctor showing them where everything was located. They stared at us openly, grim-faced and determined, trying to square what they knew with what they saw.

I remember those days felt endless, suffocatingly long. I kept imagining the boys tethered to the wall in the infirmary—their gritted teeth and the reptilian flex of their spines. It felt as if the kick of Dr. Cleveland's revolver were still in my body, rattling around, a spark of chaotic energy. Whenever I passed groups of younger students, I looked for Harold, but I didn't see him.

Only thoughts of Bethany supplied some relief. If I closed my eyes, I could summon her under my hands, feel the softness of her skin. It would conjure some deep lust, something vast that tied me to the world. But even that pull was brief—a flash, a synapse firing, and then silence. I spent hours composing a message to her, or rather, a message to her father in the hope that she would intercept it. But when I hit Send, the message was returned:
ACCESS DENIED. AUTHORIZATION REQUIRED.

On Wednesday afternoon we were assigned to whitewash the walls of a guest dormitory—to lug in bunk beds and the creepy black mattresses that looked like rubber rafts. A proctor ordered Owen to paint the words
WELCOME SALT LAKE CITY!
on the door. The room's wallscreen displayed an itinerary and a roster of names that I disregarded until I saw the word
Choirmaster
. I stopped what I was doing and stared.

“You there,” a proctor said, “back to work.”

“A choir,” I said, reading the word off the screen.

“Quiet,” Owen hissed.

But the proctor was tolerant. He mistook my surprise for derision, or something that mirrored his own feelings. “Don't worry,” he said. “We'll be phasing that kind of thing out of the system. Salt Lake is the last one.”

As I worked, I kept glancing over at the screen. I read the names of the twenty boys, the five proctors, the choirmaster. Maybe it was the fatigue, but I couldn't focus on anything else. The smell of paint fumes mixed with the stench of disinfectant, and all I could think was that in another life, at another time, it could have been my name up there—it could have been me.

*   *   *

The next morning, at 5 a.m., I awoke to an alarm. Owen pulled his pillow over his head to block out the sound. A woman's voice spoke from the wallscreen. “This is not a drill. The campus is now on lockdown,” it said. “Please report to a secure area.”

“Get up,” I shouted to Owen. “It's for real.” I rolled out of bed and pulled on my pants and shoes. I ran to the window, but there was nothing to see, just other faces in other dormitory windows. Boys spilled into the hallway, everybody wondering what to do, pushing into the common room. “Please report to a secure area,” the voice repeated.

The wallscreens were jammed. Students with friends in other dormitories were sending messages, trying to get information. At one point we thought Vargas was on fire, but that rumor was quickly contradicted.

“Fuck this,” someone said, and he began to kick at the front door. Several students shouted suggestions, telling him to hit it with his heel, to strike near the lockset—but the door was solid. It didn't even vibrate. And then, all at once, the message service went down. The alarm cut out and the wallscreens went dead.

If the alarm was bad, the silence was worse. I felt my hands curling into fists. We were trapped. The fire exit at the back didn't open, though a dozen students were pushing against it. The sight of their efforts was threatening to unhinge me. I forced myself to turn around and walk back to my room.

Owen sat on his bed. He'd drawn a big black question mark on a piece of sketch paper. “What's that for?” I asked.

“I put it in the window,” he said, “for the other dorms to see.”

I took a deep breath. My fingernails had cut into my palms. “Did anyone write back?” I asked.

“You're not flipping out, are you?” he said. “You better not be.”

I grabbed the sign and returned it to the window. “Why'd you take it down?” I asked. “They might know something.”

“But they don't have anything to write with,” Owen said. He was almost laughing. “It's completely useless.”

The administration released us three hours later. Only a few dormitories at a time were allowed in the cafeteria. As soon as we got there, people were palming. I couldn't keep up, and Owen had to translate everything into the most basic symbols. There had been another attack—that's all I could make out. “Where?” I said. He spelled a word several times, but I didn't understand. “Tacoma,” a boy behind us whispered. That was the biggest campus in the Northwest.

“Silence,” a proctor called. “Hands apart. You will have ten minutes for breakfast. That is, ten minutes, starting now.”

Half the time had passed, and still not everyone had made it through the line. Boys ate where they stood. “Is it true?” someone asked. “Was it Tacoma?”

“Who said that?” a proctor called. “Identify him.” But nobody competed for the credit, not today.

And then, just as we were taking our dishes to the sand trays, all the wallscreens blazed to life. There was no preamble. Tanner was just suddenly there, speaking.

“I wanted to take a moment to address my students,” he said, “to let everyone know that we will be returning to our regular schedule in just a few hours.” A muscle in his cheek twitched, and he passed his hand over the spot as if trying to quiet it. “This morning's lockdown,” he said, “is a reminder to us all that what we are doing here at Ione is important and necessary work. The true measure of a society is and has always been how it cares for its weakest and most vulnerable citizens. I am honored to be your headmaster, and I hope each and every one of you is proud to have the Goodhouse name,” he said. “Now I invite everyone to join me in prayer.” He looked down, off camera. “Our Father,” he began, “who art in heaven.”

“What the fuck?” someone said. “That's it?”

Everyone began talking at once. Tanner's voice was briefly drowned out by the confusion. Someone jammed a dish in the rotor on the sand tray. A loud grinding, shrieking noise filled the room. “Turn it off,” a voice thundered. “Shut it down.” The proctors closed around us. They tightened like a band.

“Silence!” they called. “Silence!”

“Lead us not into temptation,” Tanner said, and then the power flickered and the transmission was lost, but the final phrases, the ones many of us had learned in childhood, continued to play out in our heads, in our own internal voices, the familiar supplication rattling on, whether we wanted to pray or not.

*   *   *

By late afternoon, we still didn't have any official news, but the rumors were getting more consistent. There were just over two hundred dead at the Tacoma Goodhouse. Boys who'd never spoken to me were asking what I'd heard. “They won't take us on work detail,” someone said, “not today.”

But they did. Before dinner we were marched out to the field across from the soybean crop. Founders' Day would bring close to a thousand visitors and half as many cars, and this field would be the parking lot. The school wanted us to put down a layer of gravel. Creighton and Davis distributed wheelbarrows and shovels. Nearby, a large dump truck raised its bed and dropped a mountain of little rocks inside a cloud of dust.

In an adjacent field, another group was landscaping an area that would hold a row of portable toilets. I could see the main gate from where we worked. There were more guards stationed along the fence. Tanner's kennel was nearby, and I watched the brown, dusty dogs streak back and forth, silent but eager, speaking only with their bodies.

Owen and I were each given plastic square-point shovels and assigned to stand at the base of the gravel mountain. We loaded wheelbarrows when they arrived. The shovel was flimsy and it took a lot of strength to bury it in the pile. “It'd be easier to just pick it up with our hands,” Owen whispered. The white edge of his left eye had a red, creeping rash, as if he'd broken a blood vessel.