Restoring Harmony (19 page)

40

October 6th-As you sow, so shall you reap.

I STOOD OUTSIDE THE OLYMPIA STATION WITH THE bikes while Spill went in to inquire about trains. It was early afternoon on the second day of walking, and we’d finally made it. My grandparents had taken the kids inside an hour before while we’d waited down the road. I was scanning the crowd for men who looked scary enough to be in the Organization when two guys in white shirts and black pants rode up to me and stopped their bikes next to ours.

“Hello, Brother,” the first one said to me.

“Uh, hello.”

“I’m Brother Paul,” he said. “And this is Brother Samuel.”

I’d tucked my hair up inside my helmet, but it seemed unlikely I could pass for a boy. Still, I tried to make my voice deeper. “I’m . . . uhh . . . Brother James,” I said, using my older brother’s name.

The guy was definitely scrutinizing me, but all he said was, “Nice to meet you.”

“You too.”

“Are you getting on the train?” Brother Samuel asked.

“No. Uh, I’m waiting for Brother . . . Brother Quinn. He’s just using their washroom.”

“Washroom?”

“Bathroom,” I said, correcting myself.

“Oh.”

Spill came out of the doors then, and I waved, “Hi, Brother Quinn!” I called. He didn’t show even the tiniest flicker of surprise. Instead he walked right up to the boys and shook their hands warmly. Fifteen minutes later, the four of us were riding up the Portland-Seattle bike path that ran along I-5, Brothers Paul and Samuel leading the way.

“You were amazing,” I whispered to Spill.

“This is a great cover,” he whispered back.

He’d assessed the situation in about ten seconds flat, immediately getting the picture when they referred to me as Brother James. He listened to their story and told them that we’d also come to the train station to spread the Word and were on our way north.

The Brothers told us the news was that as of that morning, there’d been six confirmed cases of polio as far west as Idaho. Even if the border officials thought a person had a legitimate reason to travel, he still had to have a physical exam to get into Canada.

They were short of doctors too, so the waits were long, and they’d set up campgrounds for people who had to wait for an exam. If even one person came down with polio in Washington, they were going to set up three-week quarantines for all the travelers. Brothers Paul and Samuel were going up there to save the souls at the camp.

Spill and I rode side by side, and I asked if he’d seen my family inside the station.

“Yep,” he said. “There’s a train around midnight, and they should be there by tomorrow morning,”

“Did you talk to them?”

Spill laughed. “No, but I definitely saw them. Subtlety isn’t your grandpa’s strong suit.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, apparently”-he smiled-“he wanted to make sure I knew he got the train tickets because he waved them around so much everyone in the station could see them.”

I was glad they were safe, but there was one more thing I had to know. Spill had decided that it looked kind of obvious for me to have Jewels on my bike rack so my grandparents had taken her with them. I did not like this one bit. “Was my fiddle okay?”

“Michael was holding it on his lap,” Spill said.

“Well, I guess Jewels will be safe enough with him,” I said. “He loves that fiddle almost as much as I do.” As soon as we got home, I was going to give Michael my quarter-size fiddle from when I was his age and start teaching him to play.

The four of us had been riding about two hours when we decided to take a break at an interstate rest stop. It was a big one, full of Transporters and lots of people on foot or traveling by bike. As soon as we stopped, we’d met up with two other missionaries also heading north. Spill’s eyes never stopped moving, even though he sat on the grass with us, drinking water and looking relaxed.

The sun was weak, but warm, and made me sleepy. I forgot I was supposed to be a boy and was half leaning against Spill when a low, black car pulled in not ten feet from us. Out of my peripheral vision, I saw Randall and another man in a suit climb out and I felt Spill stiffen next to me, even though his expression never changed.

“Oh, my God!” I said.

The brothers looked up at me in surprise. The only thing that kept me from bolting was Spill’s grasp on my arm.

“Let us pray,” Spill said. “For a safe journey.”

“Good idea,” Brother Samuel agreed.

The six of us stood and gathered together in a little knot, bowing our heads. Because the Brothers never took their helmets off, it was hard to tell them apart. They all had very tan arms and faces from being outside so much, and even their body types were similar, fit and muscular. Brother Paul began to murmur a prayer. All I was aware of was Spill’s hand on my arm and the sound of Randall’s voice as he talked to the other man. Cigarette smoke wafted from their direction, stinging my eyes. It would’ve been great if they had been rattling off their plans, where they were going next, and all that, but they were just talking about the weather.

“Don’t get used to this sunshine,” the man said. “Always rains in Seattle.”

“Don’t I know it,” Randall agreed.

“Brother James?” one of the missionaries asked.

I snapped my attention back to our group. “Yeah? What?”

“The prayer’s over. We’re going.”

I realized I still had my head bowed even though I’d been faintly aware of them saying
amen
. They were all getting on their bikes, and I hurried to jump on mine and go with them. Spill and I blended into the middle of the group and we got away without Randall seeing us, but my heart was still beating furiously when the black car zipped by on the interstate.

That night, we stayed with the Brothers about fifteen miles outside of Seattle. This was a permanent campsite with Elders, and maybe sixty or seventy members, a canvas mess tent, and a wooden building for meetings. After dinner and evening prayers, we all broke off into little groups around small camp-fires and laid out our sleeping bags. It was cold, but clear, so hardly anyone bothered with tents. I could see the Elders moving from group to group and saying good night. The one called Elder Mathew was nearest to us.

Everyone called him Elder, but I don’t think he could’ve been more than thirty. Of course, most of the Brothers looked to be about my age, so he’d probably been around for a while. He had thick blond hair, almost white, and a meaty look to him, but not really muscular. Soft, I guess was the word I was looking for. When he reached us, he asked if we minded if he sat with our group for a while.

“Please,” Brother Samuel said.

We all sat there, waiting for someone to speak. Finally Elder Mathew did. “Sometimes,” he said, “as with our Catholic brothers, there is a time for confession. I was wondering if anyone has something to confess.”

No one said anything, but my heart raced right up into my throat because he was looking directly at me.

“No one?” he asked, turning to Spill. “What about you, Brother Quinn?”

“Nope,” Spill said easily.

“Brother James?”

“Uh . . . no?”

“Well, then,” he continued, “I have a confession to make. I confess that we know you two are not members of our brotherhood.”

“Sure we are,” Spill said.

No one around the fire seemed to be breathing.

“No,” he said. “And shall I tell you how I know this?”

“Okay,” Spill said, his expression totally blank.

Elder Mathew looked straight at me. “Because we do not have women in the brotherhood.”

I folded my arms across my pounding chest and stared at the fire. What did they do to imposters? I had no idea how to get us out of this, so I hoped Spill had a plan.

“Do you believe in redemption?” Spill asked Elder Mathew.

He looked surprised. “Of course. That’s what we’re about.”

“But I mean here on Earth,” Spill said.

“Absolutely.”

Spill gazed steadily at Elder Mathew. “Would you say that it is your role to help people who want redemption?”

“Most definitely.”

Where was he going with this?

“So, if I were to tell you a story about two people,” Spill said, “one doing a good deed and the other trying to redeem his wicked ways, would you promise to help them?”

Elder Mathew considered this for a minute.

“If it did not hurt others, or put my mortal soul in peril, then yes, I would help them.”

“Oh, it wouldn’t,” Spill said. “In fact, assisting them would be helping more people than you’ll ever know.”

“Tell me your story, then.”

I thought Spill was going to lie. I thought he’d been quickly coming up with fake names, stories, places, and people, but he hadn’t at all. The only thing he said that wasn’t a hundred percent true was he called himself Spill instead of Robert.

I sat, my heart pounding, and listened to him tell our entire story from the arrival of Grandpa’s letter about Grandma having a stroke and my family thinking she was dead to us sitting there now. He included how sick Mom was, how Dr. Robinson had been kicked in the head and died, how Poppy had snuck me into the United States, our meeting on the MAX, my starving grandparents, the long, hard summer in the garden, Doug, the gambling, the kids, Spill’s years as a delivery boy, the Organization keeping us in Gresham, the escape, leaving my grandparents and the kids at the train station in Olympia, and finally meeting Brothers Paul and Samuel.

He explained about Randall being at the rest stop and probably on his way to the train station in Seattle and how we had to rescue my grandparents and the kids somehow. And he told them how he planned to be a cobbler once we reached Canada and leave his past far behind him. It took over an hour to tell our story, and when he finished, Elder Mathew had a few questions that Spill answered. Then he asked him to swear on the Book that our story was true.

“Your book is not
my
book,” Spill said. “But I’ll swear on it and keep my word.”

“There’s always hope that you will embrace our teachings,” Elder Mathew said. He held up a copy of the Book, and Spill laid his hand upon it and took the oath.

And then, without another word to us, Elder Mathew stood up and called to the brotherhood. “Come! Gather around!” he shouted. “Rise out of your beds and hear what I have to say. We, my dear, dear brothers, have been given a mission from God!”

41

October 7th-Compassion is the basis of all morality.

-Arthur Schopenhauer

THE “MISSION FROM GOD” BIT HAD BEEN PRETTY DRA - matic, but it was nothing compared to what happened at dawn. Sixty-five of us, dressed in the uniform of the Brothers, mounted our bicycles and rode in a streaming line, three bikes abreast, along the bike path right into downtown Seattle.

The streets were mostly empty, but the few people on the sidewalks gazed at us, surprised and even a little frightened. Maybe they thought we were taking over the city. It certainly looked that way as we fanned out, filling the empty road. I doubt if anyone noticed six Brothers pulling away from the crowd, riding towards Elliott Bay while the rest of us headed for Union Station.

We’d decided that it was too dangerous to involve Poppy’s boyfriend in our escape. On the advice of Elder Mathew, Spill had gone directly to the marina to try and secure us passage to Victoria on a boat with a captain who only cared about money and could be bribed.

Elder Mathew had shaken his head and said, “There are plenty of those men these days.”

I, for one, was glad to hear it.

“I want you to understand,” he told me. “Generally, I believe that laws are laid out to serve the public and should be followed. But sometimes, like in the case of these children that you’re trying to help by giving them a stable home with your family, you have to bend the rules.”

“We are trying to do the right thing,” I said.

“And I’m not too worried about you all having polio,” he said, “since there aren’t any confirmed cases in Washington.”

His words made me consider what we were doing more seriously than I had so far. We weren’t only trying to avoid possible quarantine by crossing illegally, but we were sneaking the kids and Spill into Canada too. There was a time when I would’ve thought that was wrong, but like Elder Mathew said, sometimes you have to bend the rules.

“Remember,” Elder Mathew told a little group of Brothers when we got to the station, “stay on all sides of Molly. Don’t let her out of your sight.”

“She’s safe with us,” they all answered.

And oddly enough, I did feel safe with them. The waiting room was crowded with people wanting to board the train when it came in, and we immediately went to work, trying to spread the Word. I had a solid wall of boys around me, though, so I never had to talk to anyone directly. I just carried the Book, still wearing my helmet and keeping my head down. Spill was positive that Randall and his partner didn’t know about the Studebaker and would be checking all the trains into Seattle just in case, and it turned out he was right.

When it finally pulled in, there was mass confusion as the people in the waiting room pushed to get out onto the platform and the debarking passengers swam upstream to get inside. Four of us jumped up onto a bench, the other three surrounding me, blocking me from view. I had two jobs. The first was to find my grandparents and the kids, and the second was to watch out for anyone I recognized from the Organization. I saw them all at once.

“They’re right behind them!” I whispered to Brother Samuel.

“What? Who?”

“Randall and his partner. They’ve spotted my grandparents, and they’re following them!”

I pointed them out and a message passed from Brother to Brother. I watched in amazement as first one Brother and then another wormed his way in between Randall and my grandparents. In less than thirty seconds, the gap between them had widened to twenty people. I saw Randall’s partner push Brother Paul out of his way, and I ducked my head and turned my back, just as Randall shoved past our bench, trying to catch up with my grandparents and the kids.

More Brothers worked their way between them, stopping other passengers and asking to talk about the Lord. By the time my grandparents got to the big front doors, the Brothers had encircled them, and Randall and his partner were being swept away, back towards the train, with the last of the passengers who wanted to board.

We jumped down off the bench and ran through the crowd after my family. By the time we got outside, I could just see the tops of my grandparents’ heads as they were being pulled away by the Brothers in trailers. I couldn’t see Brandy or Michael, but I knew they must be with them, and I said a little prayer of thanks.

The mission was a massive Victorian house on the outskirts of the downtown area. All the houses around it looked like they might collapse with the next breath of wind, but the mission stood proudly, painted white with blue trim, in a perfectly manicured front yard surrounded by a welcoming picket fence with an open gate.

It was run entirely by women, and they ushered us inside. Before I’d had time to do more than hug my grandparents and the kids, the women had us sitting down at the table to steaming bowls of oatmeal.

“Wait,” I told Brandy and Michael, reaching out and stopping them from digging in. My grandparents never said the blessing, but we always did at home, and I had a feeling that’s why the Matron was standing at the head of the table.

“Please bow your heads,” she said.

Everyone at the table did, including my grandparents, and I nodded to Michael and Brandy to follow along.

“Amen,” we said, when she had finished saying grace.

“Now you can eat,” I told the kids.

Spoons clinked against bowls all up and down the long narrow tables. About two dozen people shoveled the food into their mouths without a word. They looked rough and dirty against the spotless floors and shining windows.

I brought my grandparents up to speed in hurried whispers while we ate. “Spill told the Brothers our whole story,” I explained to my grandparents. “And they decided to help us.”

“We sure were surprised,” Grandpa said, “to get swept up by them at the train station. We were already in the trailers before we even knew what was going on.”

“I was standing on a bench,” I said. “You should’ve seen it from there. It was almost like a dance.”

Before we finished, Michael had laid his head down on the table and fallen asleep. A girl about my age, in a long black skirt and white blouse, took our bowls away. “The dormitories are usually closed during the day for cleaning,” she said, “but Elder Mathew requested that we let you all sleep. I’ll show you the way if you’re ready.”

“I want to wait for Spill,” I said.

There was a common room, also closed until the evening, but I offered to clean it in exchange for being allowed to stay in there, and the girl said I could. I took the bucket she gave me, glad to have something to do, and got to work. I had dusted the worn furniture, emptied the ashes out of the fireplace, swept and scrubbed the floor, and cleaned the mirror, and Spill still hadn’t shown up. After that, I alternated between pacing up and down the small room and staring out the front window. Finally, I saw four Brothers riding up on their bikes. I ran out to meet them.

Spill and Paul weren’t with them, though.

“Where are they?” I asked.

One of the boys handed me a note and then they all rode away.

It said:

The Brothers will take you to Elliott Bay
tonight at 10:45. We sail at 11 pm on the
Marybelle, moored about halfway down dock
J on the left side. Meet you there. S

Why hadn’t he come back to wait here? I went to the common room half mad, half worried. I was still there, pacing, when Grandpa came down later in the afternoon.

“Sit down,” he said. “Try to relax. Have a sandwich with me.”

“I can’t relax,” I said, still pacing. “I’m just so worried we’re going to end up in quarantine somewhere. We have got to get you home to take care of Mom.”

Grandpa got up and led me over to the couch. “You’re doing the best you can, Molly. You have to stop being so hard on yourself. We’ll get there. And your mom will be okay.”

“But what about the diabetes?” I demanded.

“If your dad has to,” Grandpa said, “he’ll get her to the hospital.”

“It’s a ferry ride,” I said. “And then twenty-two kilometers away! She can’t travel that far.”

“Molly . . . all you can do is have faith. That’s how I got through your grandmother’s illness.”

I hadn’t really considered how hard Grandma’s stroke must’ve been on Grandpa. “Yeah, okay.” I sighed. I knew he was right. “I’m just feeling blue.”

He put his arm around my shoulder. “We’re almost there.”

“I’m also worried about Spill. I just keep thinking that because he’s twenty-one they’re not going to give up now. The Organization wants him back, and as Randall says, ‘The house always wins.’ ”

“Ah . . . Soriano.”

“What?”

“
The House Always Wins.
It’s a famous book.”

Grandpa took a bite of his sandwich.

“It is?”

“Sure. It came out in twenty-nine or thirty. This guy, Soriano, wrote a book predicting that while the Collapse was inevitable, it wouldn’t really affect the rich because
the house always wins,
or the rich are always rich. The people who run the world, just like the people who run the casinos, always come out on top. Get it?”

“Yeah . . . ,” I said. “And he was right too, wasn’t he?”

“Well, he was right about one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“If you want to make a lot of money fast so that you’re one of the rich ones, write a book telling them how to hold on to their money. The ebook was a huge success. It was on the
New York Times
Best-Seller list for over a year.”

Something clicked into place in my brain. “And the author’s name was Soriano?”

“Yeah. I can’t remember his first name. Alfonso? Maybe . . . no, Alfonso Soriano was a baseball player. . . . Hmmm.”

Grandpa flipped through the pages of his memory, but I wasn’t listening anymore. If my hunch was right, I had all the information I needed. Soriano’s first name didn’t matter because passwords were usually just one word.