Mockingbird (11 page)

She counted the blocks and agreed that there were seven. “But I always counted my five sandwiches at the zoo,” she said.

I thought of
Arithmetic for Boys and Girls
. “After you ate three sandwiches how many were left?” I said.

She laughed. “Two sandwiches.” Then she stopped on the street and made herself look like the moron robot at the zoo. She , held out her left hand stiffly as though it were holding five sandwiches. And she made her eyes blank and held her head cocked to the side and let her lips open slightly, like a moron robot’s, and just stood there, staring stupidly at me.

At first I was shocked and didn’t know what she was doing. Then I laughed aloud.

Some students passing by in denim robes stared at her and then looked away. I was a little embarrassed at her. Making a Spectacle; but I could not help laughing.

We went on to the Burger Chef, and there was an immolation already in progress.

It was exactly the same booth that I had seen it happen in before. It must have been almost over because the smell of burnt flesh in the room was pungent and you could feel the strong breeze from the exhaust fans that were trying to clear the air.

There were three people again—all women. Their bodies had burned black, and in the breeze short flames flickered from what was left of their clothing and hair. Their faces were smiling.

I thought they were already dead when one of them spoke—or shouted. What she shouted was: “This is the ultimate inwardness, praise Jesus Christ our Lord!” Her mouth inside was black. Even her teeth were black.

Then she became silent. I supposed she was dead.

“My God!” Mary Lou said. “My God!”

I took her arm, not even caring if anyone saw me do it, and took her out the door. She walked to the curb and sat down, facing the street.

She said nothing. Two thought buses and a Detection car went by in the street, and people passed her on the sidewalk, all ignoring her as she ignored them. I stood beside her, not knowing what to say or do.

Finally she said, still staring at the street, “Did they do it to themselves?”

“Yes,” I said. “I think it happens often.”

“My God,” she said. “Why? Why would people do that?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “I don’t know why they don’t do it alone, either. Or in private.”

“Yes,” she said. “Maybe it’s the drugs.”

I didn’t answer for a minute or so. Then I said, “Maybe it’s the way they live.”

She stood up, looked at me with a look of surprise, and reached out and held my right arm. “Yes,” she said, “that’s probably right.”

I am in prison. I have been in prison five days. Just printing the word “prison” itself, on this coarse paper, is painful to me. I have never felt more alone in my life. I do not know how to live without Mary Lou.

There is a small window
in
my cell and if I look out it I can see the long, dirty green buildings of the compound, with their rusted metal roofs and heavily barred windows, under the late-afternoon sun. I have just come back from an afternoon working in the fields, and the blisters on my hands have opened and are wet, and the tight metal bracelets on my wrists sting the chafed skin beneath them. There is a bluish bruise on my side that is bigger than my hand where a moron guard clubbed me for losing time when I stumbled, my first day in the fields; and my feet ache from working in the heavy black shoes that were issued me when I first came here. I can hardly hold the pen that I am writing with, because of the cramping in my hand.

I do not know what has become of Mary Lou. The pains I can stand, for I know they could be worse and they will probably get better; but not knowing if I will ever see Mary Lou again and not knowing what has been done with her are more than I feel I can bear. I must find a way to die.

At first, without Mary Lou and with the shock of what had happened to me, I did not want to write again. Not ever. I was allowed to keep my pen and the pages of my journal, which I stuffed into my jacket pocket without thinking when I was taken away. But I had no fresh paper to write on, and I made no effort to find any. I know I had started my journal with no reader in mind—for I was, then, the only person alive who could read. But I came to realize later that Mary Lou had become my audience. I was writing my journal for
her
. It seemed to me, then, than it was pointless to go on writing in prison, in this horrible place, without her.

I know I would not be writing now if a strange thing had not happened this noon, after I had finished my morning shift at the shoe factory and had gone to wash my face and hands before eating the wretched lunch of bread and protein soup they serve us here and that we are required to eat in silence. It happened in the little steel washroom with its three dirty washstands. I had washed my sore hands as well as I could with cold water and no soap and reached up to pull a paper towel out of the dispenser. As I touched the dispenser, awkwardly because my hands were stiff and cramped from yesterday’s fieldwork, it fell open and a high stack of folded paper towels dropped into my hands. I grabbed them instinctively and then winced with the pain of it. But I held on to them, staring at them, and I realized that I was holding a stack of hundreds of sheets of strong, coarse paper. Paper that could be written on.

So much of what is important in my life seems to happen by accident. I found the reading film and books by accident, and I met Mary Lou by accident, and found
Dictionary
by accident. And the paper I am now writing on fell into my hands by accident. I do not know what to think about this; but I am glad to write again, even if no one will read it and even if I find a way to die tomorrow.

I will stop now. I have dropped the pen too many times. My hand will not hold it.

Mary Lou. Mary Lou. I cannot stand this.

It is five days since I last wrote. My hands are better now, stronger, and I can hold the pen fairly well. But my back and side still ache.

My feet are better. After several days here I noticed that many of my fellow prisoners were barefoot, and I reported for work the next morning without my shoes. My feet are still sore, but they are healing. And my muscles are beginning to feel stronger, tighter.

I am not happy! I am very unhappy, but I no longer am certain that I want to die. Drowning is a possibility. But I will wait awhile before I decide.

The robot guards are horrible. One has beaten me, and I see them beat other prisoners. I know it is terribly wrong of me, but I would like to kill the one who beat me, before I die. I am shocked at myself for wanting that, but it is one of the things that make me want to live. He has tiny red eyes like some hateful and cruel animal, and heavy muscles that bulge under his brown uniform. I could smash his face with a brick.

And, before I die, I want to bring my journal up to now. It is still daylight outside. If I work steadily I think I can write about how I came to be sent here before I must go to sleep.

For several days Mary Lou and I had been coming back, over and over, to the book of poems. We would read them aloud to one another, only barely understanding them. One poem we kept coming back to is called “The Hollow Men.” Early one afternoon I was reading it aloud while sitting on the floor next to Mary Lou. I believe I can write the words down:

 We are the hollow men

 We are the stuffed men

 Leaning together

 Headpiece filled with straw. Alas!

 Our dried voices when

 We whisper together

 Are quiet and meaningless

 As wind in dry grass. . .

And that was as far as I got. The door opened and Dean Spofforth walked in. He stood over us hugely, folded his arms, and stared down. It was shocking to see him in my room like this. Mary Lou had never seen him before, and she was staring up at bun with her eyes very wide.

There was something odd about his appearance and it took me a moment to tell what it was. And then I realized it; Spofforth was wearing a broad black armband with the white face of Privacy . printed on it. I recognized it from a school lesson somewhere long ago; it was the armband of a Dectector.

Mary Lou was the first to speak. “What do you want?” she said. She did not sound frightened.

“You are both under arrest,” Spofforth said. And then, “I want you both to stand.”

We stood up. I was still holding the book. “Well?” Mary Lou said.

Spofforth looked her steadily in the face. “I am a Detector, and you have been detected.”

I could tell that she was shocked and trying not to show it. I wanted to put my arm around her, to protect her somehow. But I just stood there.

Spofforth was much taller than either of us, and his dignity and force were overwhelming. I had always been afraid of him and now his saying that he was a Detector had me speechless.

“Detected doing what?” Mary Lou said. There was a slight trembling in her voice.

Spofforth stared at her, unblinking. “Detected in cohabitation. Detected in the teaching of reading and detected in the act of reading itself.”

“But, Dean Spofforth,” I broke in, “you already
knew
I could . . .”

“Yes,” he said, “and I told you clearly that reading would not be taught at this university. The teaching of reading is a crime.”

Something sank deep inside me. I felt the strength and excitement that had been so much of my life for recent days all go away and I was standing in front of this massive robot like a little child. “A
crime
?” I said.

“Yes, Bentley,” he said. “Your hearing will be tomorrow. You are to remain in your room until I return in the morning.”

Then he took Mary Lou by the arm and said, “You will come with me.”

She tried to pull away from him and then, finding she could not break his grip, she said, “Bug off, robot. Bug off, for Christ’s sake.”

He looked at her and seemed to laugh. “That won’t work,” he said. But his voice softened and he added, “No harm will come to you.”

And as he went out the door he turned and looked at me. “Don’t be too unhappy, Bentley. This may all be for the best.”

She went with him without a struggle, and he pulled the door shut behind himself.

No harm? What worse harm could there be than this separation? Where is she? Where is Mary Lou?

I am crying as I write. I cannot finish now. I will take sopors and sleep.

There is more to tell than I can say in the time that I have. But I will try.

Spofforth himself took me to court. I was handcuffed and he brought me on a black thought bus to a place in Central Park called Justice House. It was a two-story plastic building with dirty windows.

The courtroom was large. There were many pictures of strange-looking men on the walls. Some of them were wearing the suits and ties that I had seen in ancient films. One man stood in front of a bookcase, much like Douglas Fairbanks. And under his picture there was writing. It said: “
Sydney Fairfax, Chief Justice
.” And under this, in smaller print, were the numbers 1997-2014. I believe those numbers were what are called “dates.”

There was a black-robed robot judge sitting in an armchair at the far end of the courtroom, facing the entranceway. I started when I saw him; I had seen his face before. It was the face of the Make Seven headmaster at the dormitory in Ohio where I had been educated. An Upper-Management Robot. I remembered hearing once, “All Make Sevens look alike.” And I, being just a child, had said, “Why?” and the child I was talking to had said, “Don’t ask; relax.”

The judge was dormant when we came in. That is, his power had been turned off. Next to him was sitting, also dormant, and in a lower, simpler chair, a Make Four clerk robot.

When we got closer I could see that there was yellowish dust, like that in the sealed-off part of the library, all over each of them. The intelligent-looking creases on the judge’s face were filled with yellow dust. His hands were folded in his lap, and from his right forearm to his chin a spider had built a web, some time ago. There were holes in the web, and dust on it. A few tiny bodies of insects, like dried snot, hung on the remains of the web. There was no spider visible.

Behind the judge was the Great Seal of North America, just like the one in Piety House at the Thinker Dormitory. It too was covered with dust, which had settled thickly on the relief images of dove and heart; and the plasticasts of the twin Holy Goddesses of Individualism and Privacy, which flanked the Great Seal, were also covered with dust.

Spofforth placed me in the defendant’s chair, which was made of something called wood and was uncomfortable. Then he removed my handcuffs, with a surprisingly gentle touch, and had me place my right hand in the Truth Hole that sat directly in front of me. He said quietly, “For each lie you tell, a ringer will be severed. Answer the judge with care.”

I had, of course, learned of Truth Holes, and of courts, in my Minimal Civics classes. But I had never seen these things before and I found myself trembling with fright. Perhaps the fright was made worse by the resemblance so many things bore to the dormitories, and to the time I was punished for Privacy Imposition as a child. I shifted my weight in the hard seat, tried to make myself comfortable, and waited.

Spofforth looked around the room as though he were studying the holes in the plaster, or the pictures of ancient men, or the empty wood benches. Then he walked over to the judge and ran a finger down the side of the robot’s cheek and then looked at the little pile of dust on his finger. “Inexcusable,” he said.

He turned to the clerk and said, in an authoritative voice, “Activate yourself, Clerk of the Court.”

The clerk did not move except for his mouth. He said, “Who commands the court?”

“I am a Robot Rational. Make Nine. I command you to awaken.”

Immediately the clerk stood. Some debris fell from his lap onto the floor. “Yes, your honor. I am awake and active.”