The Secret City (2 page)

I go up to the porch slowly. I can think of some excuse. I could pretend to be selling some religion or other. They’re all into religion, especially out in the country, maybe especially those of her age.

I go up the porch steps. I say, “Madam?” but I know that’s wrong for around here. I say, “Misses?” Then (oh yes), Ma’am. “Ma’am? Are you all right?”

She isn’t. I come closer. I touch her shoulder. Gentle as my touch is, she collapses all the way down. I catch her before she hits the floor. I feel her pulse. I lean to feel her breath. She’s alive.

I pick her up and carry her inside. She’s small and light, even for one of them. Hunched over from osteoporosis. It’s a wonder she didn’t break something from her fall. Lucky it was more of a sagging down slowly.

I put her on the couch. The cushion is already lying sideways with a head shaped dent as if she had been napping there not so long ago.

I start the cooler. Then I look for the kitchen so as to find a towel to wet. I also get her a glass of water. Then it occurs to me that maybe I shouldn’t wake her up just yet. I put the water beside her and the wet cloth on her head. Then I go to look around. I need men’s clothes. And a razor.

The house is much nicer inside than I expected. Not clean, but nice things. And, in the kitchen, all the latest appliances. No sign of a man, though. If a man had been here that first time she’d not have been so frightened and it would have been the man who found me. Come out with a rifle, no doubt, and shot me on the spot.

Still there might have been a husband. She may have men’s clothes. Sometimes they keep everything, though sometimes they get rid of everything in a hurry before they have a chance to think. Mother was like that. She got rid of all there was of Dad (not much) and then was sorry later. As was I.

The bedroom is small and cramped, the bed unmade. I suppose she doesn’t have much energy for cleaning anymore. There’s the picture of a man on the dresser but no men’s clothes. She must be one who threw away all her husband’s things right away. But when I check more carefully, I find a man’s workshirt in with her things. She’s probably been wearing it herself.

It’s a blue farmer’s shirt. I take off my flowery shirt and put on the farmer’s shirt. The buttons are a little stressed across my barrel chest and the sleeves are a little short but I roll them up so it doesn’t matter. It’s so old it’ll tear easily.

In the bathroom I find several pink ladies razors. I put a few in my pocket.

As I come back to check on the old lady, I see a man’s jacket hanging by the front door. Frayed corduroy, out at the elbows. I’ve hardly seen a uglier one. Has she been wearing that, too?

There’s a whole array of hats on the rifle rack next to the door. Except for one. 22 at the top, the rack holds only canes and hats. I find a floppy soft one with a brim I can pull close over my face. I’m going to stay away from baseball caps from now on. I’ll be a camper. One of those canes will be nice, too.

It’s a very small house. Even so I wonder if I can hide here a few days while the police are running around looking for me. Let the chase simmer down until they think I’m long gone.

Just as I come back to the living room, the telephone rings. I step behind the door. There’s an answering machine. It’s a woman’s voice. “Mother, I can’t come up this weekend. Mickey has an ear thing. The same as he had last time.” But then the old woman staggers up, holds on to the furniture. Says, “Oops,” as she plops into the chair by the phone. Her hello is breathless.

Now that she’s answered, I can only hear her side of the conversation. “I’m fine. I had a dizzy spell but I’m all right. I lay down on the couch and I’m much better now. I’m going to make myself a cup of tea. I’ll stay in here by the cooler. Yes, Rosemary comes on Mondays and the police are checking with me every day … ever since they found that man in the bushes.”

Doesn’t she remember seeing me? Or maybe she doesn’t want to mention it for fear of worrying her daughter.

I go to the kitchen and put the kettle on. I start back into the hallway, but she’s wobbling there, one hand on the wall. She goes to lock the front door. She mutters to herself. “She lets him eat anything he wants. He’s not getting enough vitamins. But I’ve got to keep my mouth shut. “ She goes down the hall to the back door and locks it, too. Says again,
“Got
to keep my mouth shut.”

I stand “stone still” (as we say, not the natives) beside the jacket at the front door. She doesn’t see me. I don’t think her eyes are very good.

When she comes into the kitchen and sees the kettle already boiling, she says, “I’m even more addled than I thought.” Perfect. I’ll hide here a few days. I don’t think she’ll notice and even if she did she’d think she was mistaken.

She gets out a saucer, pours in cream and puts it on the floor. I’m thinking, addled indeed, but then she calls, “Come on kitty, kitty, kitty.” It doesn’t come. I’m not sure if there is a cat or if there just used to be.

She putters around for a few minutes and I think she’s forgotten about the tea. But no, here comes the teacup. She hesitates, puts it back and picks another, puts that back, too, finally settles for the third. These people care about little things of beauty.

I’ve never lived with any of them. In fact nobody in my family wanted to get that close. Mother was afraid we’d get to be like them, and maybe not mind being here. She wanted us to yearn for the home planet as much as she did. All her life here was nothing but yearning to be some place else. I don’t know if all that yearning was worth it. She died looking out over a wheat field. She said, “What is all that gold?”

“Wheat,” I said.

“Just like the rivers of home,” she said. “Have we gone home?”

I didn’t know whether to tell the truth.

“Oh, Lorpas, tell me, are we home at last?”

“Yes, yes.”

I don’t know if she believed or not.

The old lady sits with her tea and turns on the radio. That’s nice for me. I’ve hardly ever heard their radio or seen their television. Another thing Mother didn’t want us to get to like. Before we were born and before they were stuck here, Dad said they had watched and listened to everything they could and raved about how funny and fun these people were. How funny they were especially when they acted almost just like us. But they didn’t want us children turning into them. Without home planet experiences they were worried. That was a mistake. It kept us ignorant of everybody and everything here. I had to learn everything after they were gone.

So now I stand still and listen. I hear news but nothing about me having escaped. I hear afternoon thunderstorms are predicted for the next few days. Yes, I’ll stay until the weather gets better.

She keeps muttering to herself. Mostly I can’t hear but I do hear: “For heaven’s sake,” and, “Good grief.” Then, “More rain. What else is new?” (Odd for the desert, but it’s been raining every afternoon.) She says, “They say doing the crossword puzzle keeps your brains going.” Why did she say that? She’s not doing a crossword. Then, “Well, lots more than just brains will be lost one of these days. The mountains … lost them a long time ago. Bert’s house. Barbara. I wish Mother and Dad could have seen the things we have now. They thought things were amazing back in their day. Wish everybody lived together in one village like they used to a hundred years ago. But I always think that same thought. Wonder what use it is thinking the same things over and over.” Meanwhile the news is going on and on and she’s not listening.

I know how she feels. I have that same wish, too, to be with others like me.

Somebody knocks. She wobbles to the door hanging on to the furniture and walls. She says, “Oops” several times. She left the fire on under the kettle. I don’t see how she gets along here by herself. Somebody must check on her every now and then. At least I hope so.

While she’s at the door, I step into the kitchen and turn off the stove. I listen.

It’s a policeman.

“Ma’am? You all right?”

“I’m fine.”

He doesn’t say anything about me escaping. I suppose he doesn’t want to worry her.

“We’ll check ‘round later. But don’t hesitate to call if you see anything suspicious.”

“I will.”

“You be sure now.”

“I will.”

After, she locks the door again. She mutters, “I’m so old I don’t suppose it matters one way or the other—what happens to me.” Then, “I must remember to water the trees. How long has it been? I can’t keep track of anything anymore. “

(If she forgets, I’ll do it.)

She doesn’t finish her tea. She goes back in the living room and lies down on the sofa. Gets up again and brings a fresh glass of water. Lies down. Gets up and turns on tapes for learning French. Lies down and falls asleep.

I make myself a cheese sandwich. I don’t drink any of the juice, there’s not much left. Not much of anything left.

The cat (there is one) comes out and watches me but won’t go near the cream. It’s a marmalade tabby. I say, “Hello, Red.” She won’t come close. I reach to pet her but she backs away. I wonder if she can smell that I’m alien. I’ve seen dogs go crazy when they get close to one of us—attack or cower. I’ve always had trouble with dogs. Far as I can tell, cats don’t do that.

I search the house again. I examine what must be the daughter’s room. It’s larger than the old lady’s and fancier. There’s a new bed and a white dresser. Yellow walls. I’ll spend the night in here. I like this sunny yellow.

The old lady keeps on sleeping. I wonder about her supper. There isn’t much food around. I wonder if I dare go out and get more. And would I get locked out? I’ll unlock a window. One that’s hidden in bushes so I can go in and out without being seen. Certainly nobody will expect the escapee to be shopping at the local grocery store. But I’ll have to use her money.

She has some good magazines and books. Mother didn’t want us to read their things but we managed to anyway. Mother tried to write books for us herself, but she wasn’t very good at it. She even illustrated them. Her drawings didn’t make me want to live back home though I pretended they did.

“You’ve never tasted anything like those little ground berries. You’ve never seen a real sunset. There’s moonshine every night. There’s no such thing as dark. And sometimes both moons at the same time.” She’d always say that last on a particularly beautiful moonlit night. I got tired of hearing it. If I said anything good about life here, she always said, “You’re turning out just like them. Besides, you don’t know what you’re talking about. Someday we’ll go home and then you’ll see.”

I sit in the daughter’s room and read. I leave the door slightly open. I skip around from
Discover
magazine,
National Geographic
, and a book on wild flowers of the area. I don’t hear her coming until I hear, “Whoops.” And then, “Oh, I left the door open. I must be getting curdled. Addled that is.”

She shuts the door. I drop down behind the bed with my magazines, but she opens the door again and takes a look around. Says, “The spread is all mussed. Did I leave it that way?”

In she comes to straighten it and sees me, there on the floor. And there she goes, down again. She must have heart trouble. I reach to catch her and keep her from coming down too hard.

I put her on the bed. Then I remember how she forgot me when she woke up that first time, and I carry her into the couch again. I get a cold wet cloth and glass of water again.

But this time she comes to in a few minutes. Sees me, says, “Sam?”

I help her drink. I say, “Yes.”

Then she says, “You’re not Sam.”

“No. I’m Norman. Would you like some more tea? It’ll be good for you. You rest. I’ll get it.”

I make a fresh cup and help her sit up to drink.

“Still dizzy?”

“A little.”

“Are you hungry? I’ll get you something to eat.”

“No, no. I’m fine.”

“You should eat. I’ll bring you something.”

“Who are you? Why are you here?”

“I’m here to help. Let me get you something.”

I heat up a can of chicken noodle soup. (There’s only one can of soup left.)

Though my taste is probably different, I choose the bowl as carefully as she chose her teacup. When I come back she looks to be asleep again, but I wake her. I think she should eat.

When I see how she drips all over herself, I feed her. She keeps looking at me … not suspiciously, but with curiosity.

“Norman? Who? Where’s Rosemary?”

“She’ll be here.”

I help her to the bedroom. Without me she’d have to hang on to the furniture. I help her on to the bed and take her shoes off, cover her with the small blanket at the foot. “Call me if you need me. I’ll be in your daughter’s room. I’ll keep the door open so I can hear. “

I don’t want to eat the last of the soup. I eat more cheese and a shriveled apple and go to bed.

In the morning I wake to the sound of the old lady rattling about in the kitchen. What woke me was her loud “Oops.” I wonder what she dropped or spilled. But mostly I wonder if she remembers me.

I slept well. Better than in jail with the light shining all night, but I wake hungry. I’m going shopping.

I peek into the kitchen cautiously. I don’t want her in a faint again.

“Ma’am? Good morning. Remember me? Norman?”

Thank goodness she does.

“Oh, yes. I felt so much safer all night with you here.”

“I’m glad. I need to get us more food. Lock the door behind me and let me in when I get back.”

She says, “Take the car. I don’t drive anymore,” but I think not. It’s probably known all over this little town which car is hers and that she never drives it.

I don’t tell her I left the daughter’s window open just in case. I don’t tell her I took some of her money.

I’m wearing her husband’s shirt and I put on the floppy hat that will cover my face a bit. There’s a small backpack there but it’s too distinctive. I’ll just have to carry the things home in the plastic bags.

Before I leave I check on the magazines for her name. I might need to know that. Ruth. Ruth Hill.

I
GET THREE MORE CANNED SOUPS
. I GET A COOKED chicken, eggs, strawberries, (Mother said the berries of our world were better, but I don’t believe it when it comes to homegrown strawberries), apples and a few breakfast bars for me for when I take off into the mountains.