The Rise and Falling Out of Saint Leslie of Security (21 page)

She can remember clearly now the first time he fucks her, and then punishes her by throwing her in the closet, by a fist-full of hair. She can remember hearing the lock
click
in the dark and kicking the walls, digging at the crack of light along the bottom of the door. His endless lecturing through the door. “Do you know why your nigger mother left, Terry? Do you? Because she was a no-good slut, a Godless whore. Just like my mother, the woman who brought me up, I mean. She pushed me through her cunt for money; did you know that? Everyone lets you down, little girl. Don't think you're so special in that respect. And don't think for a second I don't know what you're thinking about me right now. How you want to kill me—maybe cut off your Daddy's balls and stuff them down his throat, huh? Because I've thought things a thousand times worse. My real mother fucking
cloned
me for God's sake.

"Cloned me and then threw me to the wolves when she didn't need me, and my brother was groomed to be President of the United States, while I was stuck here in fucking Vermont with nothing. Nothing! But whatever you're thinking will be forgiven by the grace of God, Terry. Because we're family, and I'm not giving up on you. We're better than my mother and my brother and my step-parents. We take care of our family, no matter how hard it is. That's what's most important, Terry. You'll see. I'll never let you go. You'll thank me in the end."

She remembers it all. Getting pregnant. He beat her head against the hardwood floor when she tried to make him stop. And when her stomach began to bulge she made herself fall down the stairs. She remembers flailing her fists into the swollen curve of belly. Ramming into railings, the kitchen counter, anything that would make it go away. She remembers getting locked up in the dark while she throbs and convulses in the throes of the miscarriage. The loss of control she feels when her belly contracts, cramps. The hot gush as she thrashes on the floor in her own fluids. The sudden explosion of cloying smells in her nostrils. And then the mortal, horrible guilt. She'd killed her baby. She'd beaten it to death. She was a monster.

She remembers her father's rages, piercing pains, sweaty terror. And she remembers her guardian angel, Tommy, who appears one day to make things a bit more bearable. But not to deliver her, no. To watch. And sometimes to touch.
Remember honey, I'm your friend, but it's a secret. I don't exist, your daddy shouldn't know. He'll punish you even more.
She remembers her father growing to suspect his presence, calling him his ‘shadow'.

Even in her dreams Leslie longs for the vertiginous assistance of the head mem. The soft sheet over slumbering memory. The steady rising tide of forgetfulness.

Consciousness returned to her in fragments. She must have awakened several times, only to descend back into a confused dull sleep. She experienced a blurred sense of blood dripping down her forehead, two men in masks and wrinkled scrubs staring down at her, outlined in blinding light.

'The organic tissue has pretty well fused in,'
one of them said,
'but I think the feed receptor hardware can be removed without too much problem.'
Then light and awareness were sponged up into darkness. She had a disjointed sense of conversation around her bed.

'She'll be fine. Just let her rest.... Yes, maybe a little dazed for a while.'

A voice she recognized dimly asked if she'd be able to remember her past.

'Hard to tell. But with the mess put inside her head it would be surprising if she could.'

Then light again, and she snapped up off her back. Everett, her father, was standing over her. She wanted to scream, but silence was like a dense pressure in the air, making it almost impossible to breathe. Then the light and everything around her went amber and grainy. Everything blurred and he was gone. She writhed on the bed, tangling in the wet sheets. Roger was sitting on the mattress beside her. He grasped her hand and she fell asleep.

When she finally woke, Roger was staring at the wall from a chair in a corner of the room. There were no windows, just one lamp on a night stand on the other side of the bed. Beyond that the door was closed. Beside the door was a small dresser on which her clothes were neatly folded. It was hot and she kicked off the sheet. She was wearing something like a hospital gown. “Where are we?"

Roger stood and approached the bed. He looked tired, his face covered with the usual stubble. “Hey there,” he said and she sat up. “We're in the Atheist cell. It's all underground, did you know that? You've been out of it for a night and a day and a night. So—good morning, I guess."

Leslie's head ached. She cautiously touched the right side of her head just behind and above the temple. A tiny patch of the hair had been shaved away and there was a gauze bandage taped in place.

"Yeah, it's gone, or rather what part of it needed to go. They said you couldn't be tracked anymore. Or programmed, or controlled for that matter."

"I don't really feel different,” she said. “I mean in my head."

Even as she said it, she realized it wasn't exactly true. She
did
feel somehow different ... more alone. There was a silence in her head. She reached for the sensation of motion she was so accustomed to, in the way a tongue probed for a missing tooth. But the essential forms of her thoughts were the same—that's what surprised her. She still knew things that had to be part of her past programming sessions. She'd been so afraid she would lose all this knowledge, all the critical faculties the mem provided. That she would go dumb like Gun, as its power waned.

"I think that's what the doctors expected.” Roger sat on the edge of the bed beside her. “I don't understand it. I mean they were talking about neural pathways that tended to remain once they'd been established.... “He trailed off. “They were worried about the seizure you had, though."

She remembered Tommy Russell's forearm arcing through the sunlight, splashing mud when it hit the path, and immediately felt a pulse of panic.

"My baby,” she said. “What did you do with it? Where's my baby?"

Roger's gaze dropped, then rose again to Leslie's. “I still have it. Don't worry. It's on ice, in my room."

"I want to see it."

"What?"

"I want to see it, Roger. Bring it to me."

"Leslie, I don't think ... do you think it's a good idea?"

"I just want to make sure it's okay. Just for a second. Please.” She realized she clutched his hairy wrist and let him go. Roger stared at the foot of the bed for a minute, started to say something, then rose and left the room.

After a few minutes he returned with a small white Styrofoam cooler. He set it on the bed. He stood there looking at it. “Leslie, this is nuts."

"I just need to...” she pushed the cover off, “...check it."

He'd cleaned up what originally must have been a mess. Now the fetus was in a plastic baggy, half submerged in crushed ice. “The ice is melting,” she said. “You need to keep fresh ice in there."

"I know, I know."

She reached in and nudged the baggy with her finger. It wasn't any bigger than the palm of her hand. The sac of its head lolled against tiny paws when she touched it. It didn't look human, really. It was ill-formed, a little monster. “What's been going on since I've been out of it?"

As she spoke, Leslie could tell Roger was upset without looking away from the fetus. She didn't care. “What's been happening?"

"Actually, a lot. They've been helping us out, Leslie. This man Everett, he's been great. He set up our whole route so far. They all want to meet with us sometime today if you're up to it."

Leslie nodded. She carefully shook the baggy into the ice.

Yes, of course. It's time to learn what the Sons of Man think I owe them for all their help.

"I could use some more rest, I think. Maybe after lunch.” She put the cover back on the cooler. Roger picked it up.

"I'll let them know,” he said. With the cooler under one arm he leaned forward and rubbed his knuckles against Leslie's shoulder. “Are you okay?” She didn't move as he tried to kiss her. It landed prickly and moist on the edge of her upper lip. Off target and out of place.

Leslie tried to stand up after Roger had left. Her legs were weak and she had cramps clenching like fists in her abdomen. Still, she vowed to herself she'd find the strength to deal with Everett.

The group in the conference room reminded Leslie of a painting of the Last Supper she'd seen in the White House lobby. Seven men sat around the table and grinned with a smug sense of their own enlightenment. With the exception of the older bald man at the head of the table, Roger beside Leslie, and Everett, who sat motionless directly across from her, all the men sported full beards. At which, they tugged and twirled, as they made idle conversation with one another. Leslie wasn't impressed.

The bald man scratched at his belly, then rapped a knuckle on the table. “All right, everybody. Let's get started.” He turned to Leslie and smiled. “It's good to finally meet you, Leslie. My name is Boris. I'm the leader of this cell. And I welcome you to the United Sons of Adam. We wanted to meet with you and Roger to tell you a little bit about ourselves, and figure out how we can further help you. But first, are you feeling all right? We know you've been through one hell of an ordeal. Is there anything I can get you?"

Leslie shook her head. “I'm all right. Just a little bit out of it still. The last few days are a blur.” She paused. “And I still can't remember my past, I mean before I came to Washington.” She forced herself not to look at Everett as she told them all the lie.

Boris did a half-decent job of pretending concern. “Yes, our doctor felt that might end up being the case. He said perhaps over time..."

"It doesn't matter,” Leslie said. “I'm used to it."

She pretended to listen as the captains around the room introduced themselves to her. She kept Everett in her peripheral vision the whole time. He only moved once during the introductions—one hand, to flatten his orange and white hair back over his scalp. She knew it was her imagination, but he seemed surrounded by a halo of ominous light, a painful glow in her peripheral vision. She forced herself to ignore it and instead concentrate on his face, his proud but relaxed posture. He was much smaller than she remembered him. Without the powerful aura her imagination hung around him, he really wasn't impressive. Thin and freckled. Hollow, weary eyes. She realized she could probably kill him without too much effort.

Boris was talking, and Leslie half listened while she thought about her predicament. She could tell Everett scrutinized her every move. She couldn't let him know she remembered him. She needed him at her mercy—vulnerable to her, the way she'd been for so many years to him.

"...so you see,” Boris was saying amiably. “We can help each other, I think, a great deal."

Leslie looked around the room. They wanted her to become a United Sons of Adam member, and in return they'd continue to keep her under their protection. It reminded her of her chat with Father Washington—that seemed so long ago now. They wanted to use her in precisely the same way he had. Washington wanted her to provide vision with a symbol of patriotism in the war against Atheism. And the Atheists wanted her as a symbol of Washington's moral decadence and ultimate failure. She signified Washington's humiliation, and these men were titillated at the prospect. Leslie glanced at Roger and was surprised at his rapt expression.

Is the great cynic buying into this?

She knew these men just wanted to use them like everyone else. Could it be any more obvious? Did Roger's feeling he was finally standing up for his beliefs make him more vulnerable to their brand of propaganda? She closed her eyes to keep from rolling them. Her head throbbed.

Everett's head tilted slightly back and he looked at her through slit eyes. Just the hint of an arrogant smile twitched the edges of his lips as the room grew quiet, everyone waiting for Leslie to answer Boris. In that moment, Leslie decided what she was going to do.

If everyone wants me so badly, can't I use that against them? Can't I form a plan to bring them all together? Tom, Washington, Everett, Security ... Let them destroy themselves. Right now I have to make sure Everett believes I'm drawn to him, that I trust him intuitively.

"Your name is Everett?” He nodded, still half smiling. “Roger tells me you've been the one helping us all this time."

The arrogant smile broke fully now, and his face cracked apart with lines around his mouth and eyes. “I have been and continue to be at your service, Saint Leslie.” She saw Boris smile, nodding.

"Thank you. If I'm going to join the United Sons of Adam I need help with something else, something personal I'm not going to discuss in a conference room full of strange men.” Leslie forced herself to meet Everett's gaze fully. “It would be good if you remain our contact. We've been able to trust you this far. You have an honest face.” A cold place inside her was pleased to see Everett's cheeks redden slightly. “If I can have help with this—Everett's help with this—then I suppose I'd be happy to join your United Sons of Man, or Adam, or whatever you call it."

There were pleased looks all around the room. Leslie felt Roger's hand slide across her thigh beneath the table. She clasped it with her own, more to stop the motion than to reciprocate. “But now, gentlemen, if you could excuse me? I'm still feeling pretty weak, and I'm getting kind of dizzy."

"Certainly, Leslie,” Boris said, and everyone stood. Leslie creased her face with a fake smile and rose, steadying herself against the table.

"I'll walk them out,” Everett said. He went to the door and held it open. “Later, gentlemen."

Leslie followed Roger out into the hall. It was hard to ignore the aura around her father, especially as she brushed by him in the doorway. She trembled, and hoped he would think it was because of the surgery.

They started down the dim hall, their steps muted by the gray carpeting. Leslie realized how weak she did feel. She leaned on Roger, who grasped her around the shoulders.