Ancient, Ancient Page 14

  hunger whips through me like an electric shock, bringing me back to the mumbler’s table. i am the mumbler. predatory. needy. hoarder of fleshy victories. this is my table now, i own these body parts. i need what he needs: bodies, flesh; have no use for feelings. crave the tabled flesh. lift my bound hands, reach for it. hunger erases my boundaries. the room, my bruised body, it all slides away. the mumbler’s memories gush into me, become mine.

  something funky and toxic pulses deep in the viscera of my body. a multitude of tiny dried pellets, brittle-shelled capsules lodged deep in my bowels. that’s what’s left of these women after i have lain with them; fed of them, then condemned them to this ghostly pile, this monument of memory.

  i sift through limbs, searching for flesh that hasn’t soured or been sucked dry. searching for a ghost that will yield her heart. not the heart that beats blood, the heart between her legs; the heart that speaks to her in feverish rushing whispers. the heart she works hard to ignore.

  i finger ghostly bodies, reenact his methods to shut down thought, pluck away restraint, create a frenzy of need until the heart lodged in the chest is silenced by the cacophony of blood rushing between thighs.

  i conquer.

  i am aroused.

  my arousal agitates; the fleshy pile begins to writhe. emotions spray my face. shake my head, fling off sentiment, drown out tears. the mumbler whimpers. i feel his fear. suddenly i am back in the room. clipped-tone man speaks quickly and forcefully. a sharp beeping rings out; relief floods his voice.

  “They’re coming, someone’s coming now.”

  “Get…” the mumbler speaks raggedly. “Get the story.”

  pain clings to the mumbler’s voice. pain that will soon be mine. close my eyes. force myself to pretend to go Under. imagine i feel water slipping over my suit. remember the loud hush of air trapped in my headgear. solitude.

  the metal circle taps into me. sharp, icy sparks shoot down my spine. it takes the peace from the water and suffocates me with it. my throat fills with water. then as i’m gagging, the memories come, flying at me like the tail of a stingray. whap! the wiry, steel brush slams into my cheek. when it pulls away, it’s red with my blood. hiss of blade nears me, then cuts a path across my other cheek. a pounding on my back. i go down to the sound of cracking bones—my bones.

  in the nightmare again. my tormenters watch me crumble. i can feel a waiting in them, a waiting that tells me they don’t want my pain. beating me is the prelude to something else.

  inside the memory and seeing the memory at the same time. glittering crumbs of glass halo my body. wiry brush, wet with my blood, rests on the ground next to my head. acrid odor wafts from the brush. have i been poisoned? for a brief second, my consciousness splits. begs to move on from this memory to the next. there is no bio-anger here. brush’s odor grows stronger, bitterness against the NewsNet solidifies. hate what this memory has given them: raw fear, brutality, a violent attack, all the emotional material they need to send a report. what is real—what really happened—doesn’t matter. pummeling fists will become murderous seeds or heavy, violent fruit. muscular arms will become thick green vines. they record every detail: the tremble of my body, the fluid burning my eyes and leaking onto my cheeks.

  the memory does not stop. while i lay inert, burly hands flutter over my face. the hands—disembodied against the backdrop of dark, grubby clothes—hold small lumps of metal nested in palms. the metal glints as the hands dip closer. the men blot out light with their bodies. fingers, quick as fever, attach metal to my mouth. the metal lumps, spider-like, begin a many-legged prancing around my lips. spindly legs prick me rapidly, piercing the skin, pulling the saliva out of my mouth.

  skin around my mouth, blistered, stinging. the men paw through their pockets. their hands cradle round, foil-covered balls. my face feels as if it wants to split open. they pull away the foil, uncover powdery white globes. break the globes in half. lodge broken globes between teeth and cheek. slower, prancing metal legs move slower, and slower. stiff with terror, lie there. afraid to touch my mouth, afraid to move my arms.

  the hands dance over me, floating in unison. pull translucent tubes from filthy folds of clothing. i don’t exist. they see only the metal on my mouth. not a person, i am just a stretch of earth. a patch of living material, a vessel that spouts something they need. metal legs, stilled. hands attach tubes to metal lumps. don’t close my eyes. watch. they suckle the tubes, suck my saliva. breath, shallow; body, lifeless. i don’t close my eyes.

  my saliva rises through the tubes, flows into mouths of my brutalizers. cheeks shudder, they clench their mouths closed. my saliva erupts, sparking a riot in their mouths. eyes roll back. they slump, slack, onto the sidewalk. lay, close as lovers, next to my body—this body, the body they have claimed. a heavy limb falls across my lower legs. finally, i try. strain to lift my arms. can’t. try to shake the metal spiders from my mouth. can’t. no strength. not even to drag myself away. exhaustion engulfs me, wolfs down my consciousness. tumble into a deep dark sleep.

  shivering.

  something in hands. hold tight. bundle against chest.

  “Equi!”

  my name. blank. in my mind is blank. know “Equi.” my name. up. up i see dark, gray sky. something grab my shoulder. shake me. flinch. shaking stops.

  “Equi.” voice say my name. gentle voice. scared voice.

  “Are you sure she will be safe with you?”

  clipped tones. snap head left. see man, see man. down. look down. legs standing, not sitting. my legs standing too. man has brown shoes. i have slippers. shoes from Under. look up at man. don’t see eyes. i look where he looks. steps. hard stone steps. tall gray steps. steps.

  “I have to get back. Are you quite sure?”

  “I’m sure.”

  voice. i know voice. man squeezes arm. looks sad in eyes. runs away. runs up steps.

  “Equi.”

  look down. woman. small woman, strong woman. dark eyes. wet eyes.

  “Equi,” says soft, sad voice. touches my face.

  throat hurts. brain hurts.

  “ma…” whisper. sound! i talk.

  “mama.” i talk again. mama nods. smiles. my voice ugly.

  wetness grows in her eyes. “I couldn’t get to you,” she says, hand in my hair. “I couldn’t get to you before they did. I shouldn’t have let you come back.”

  wetness grows in my eyes. water. water spill out. wet cheeks. voice louder. voice stronger. yelling now. howling. howl because the wiry brush. howl because the metal spiders. howl because they stole my spit. yell at steps. yell at man. yell all the way up to NewsNet.

  mama hand moving in my hair. sad. scared. looks like she wants to “shhhhh” me, but scared. scared to break me more. no more breaking. mama hands pull my bundle, i don’t let go. mama hands wrap around me. my arms lock across chest, my yells shoot up to sky.

  “Equi,” says, soft. mama hands pull me, soft. down. down the stairs to flat wide ground. “Equi, we must go,” says a little more strong. mama hands slip around my arm. mama hands pull me.

  “Give me that.” grabs my bundle.

  grunt. grab bundle back. no more taking. no more taking hands. look down in my arms. bundle: dirty cloths; my clothes, dirty with blood and something glittery. mama pulls clothes. catch the small flat thing that falls. box. shiny box. fancy green letters. hold box to face. read, “Your Bio-Anger.” more letters. serious black letters, say, “Thank you for sharing your story.”

  “mama.”

  we stop. mama hugs me again. now i hug mama too, not just hug my chest. lean cheek on top of mama’s head.

  “Just breathe,” says. “Can’t do nothing with ugly, but breathe it out. Breathe.”

  take big deep breaths. lungs hurt. let pain out with screechy animal sounds. deep breaths. hurt wants to take me back to that room. i don’t want to go back. grip mama. i want to stay with mama. look around. look over mama’s shoulder. people. people rushing. people walking. people staring. people pre
tending not to stare. get nervous. i slip quiet. one second, quiet. two seconds, quiet. three seconds, quiet. mama grabs my arm.

  “We got to get you away from here,” says.

  rushes me past people. doesn’t look around. looks straight. drags me past huge buildings. drags me past hard buildings, brown buildings, gray buildings. finally looks around. turns.

  “there?” i ask.

  mama’s face breaks into a smile.

  “You’re talking, Equi! You’re coming back.”

  words coming back to me. memories too. memories of how it felt to see mama, hug mama, touch mama. laughter. one night of hugs and laughter. want nothing but hugs and laughter here on the Surface.

  mama points to a narrow space between two gray buildings.

  “There,” says.

  mama walks to the space. i follow. she turns sideways and squeezes in between the two buildings.

  look at the people. so much gray. people in gray clothes. no color. more color Under than here. Surface doesn’t make sense.

  “Equi!”

  mama tugs on my hand, then squeezes deeper into the space. waits for me to follow. i step between the buildings behind mama. space is tight and dark. litter crackles underfoot. reminds me of a tunnel leading to a sub-station: narrow and dark with no clue of what lies on the other side.

  on the other side, i hear voices. i can’t see what’s in front of mama, but i hear voices. when we step out from between the buildings, the first thing i see are trees. first trees i’ve seen since i been back. i go over to touch one. mama doesn’t stop me. then i look around.

  tied to the tree branches are ropes, ropes stringing dirty stretches of plastic overhead. down on the ground, i see as many tents as trees. more. more tents than trees. plastic, fabric, boards—ragtag shelters. noise. the air is full of noise. snaking noise. spiky noise. laughing noise. music noise.

  “where are we?”

  near the tents, smoke hovers over silver pots. i smell food.

  “Last park in this quarter of the country.” mama sounds like just thinking about it makes her tired. “Hungry?” squeezes my hand.

  my body feels many things. exhaustion. fear. anger. worry. pain. confusion. no hunger. i turn away from mama, lean my cheek on the tree. run my fingers along the bumpy bark. feel gashes and grooves in the bark. look closer. see words acid-etched on the bark. run my fingers over the words: names, dates, shapes. biggest words say: Squat Park.

  “Squat Park.” a sad laugh dies in mama’s throat. “That’s what they call it now. We lived here. After you left. Land loss. Relocations. That seems like so long ago.” mama turns me to face her and takes my other hand. “I saved every bit you sent, Equi. That’s the only way we were able to get out. People like us…people like us…” mama’s head droops as if her thoughts are breaking her, snapping her spine so she can’t hold her head up anymore. “People like us are supposed to squat, we’re not supposed to live in a home.”

  purse my lips, fix them to ask how long was she here and was it anything like it is now, was she safe. my eyes wander over the people. i freeze, squint my eyes. two huge men walking shoulder to shoulder. two huge men wearing loose black clothes. they push their way past people. i grab mama’s shoulders, squeeze, spin her so she can see them, point. they walk toward me. fingers shake, arm trembles, but i keep pointing. mama nods, then she turns to look at me. she is smiling. her smile drops when she sees me: shaking my head, trembling. backing away. looking around for an escape.

  mama glances back at the two men. they are moving slowly now, confusion covers their faces. grab mama’s shoulders, turn her to face me. try my voice. try to speak to mama. but no words. i have no words. all i can bring out of my mouth is one long squeak.

  mama sees fear in my eyes. clasps my hands. “Equi, you’re safe here. No one’s going to hurt you. Don’t you know who they are?”

  point again. shake my head, no words. back away. hold on to the tree. men step closer, then stop. one of them eases a sack off his shoulder, rests it on the dirt at his feet. light hits the globe sticking out of his sack, my legs go slack.

  “my… my… headg-g-g-ear,” i stammer. slide down the tree with trembling knees.

  mama squats down, looks me in the eye.

  it’s as if the metal spiders have stolen my tongue again. i croak out strange, broken sounds. my hands fly around my face, fluttering over the wounds, trying to show mama what my mouth can’t say. i see them over mama’s shoulder. they don’t move. they don’t move.

  mama shakes me softly, begs, “Equi, please, these are your children. They have been waiting for you all their lives.”

  hurt shadows their faces. my children? the question pokes at my chest, tries to pierce my panic. have my boys grown up to be so like my attackers? my skinny, scabby sons whose hunger drove me Under? mine? could these big, frightening men be mine?

  mama speaks again, all the softness gone. “Equi, don’t do this!”

  mama knows, has always known, what i’m going to do before i do it. she knew i was pregnant before the pain in my breasts sent me to the doctor. knew i was going Under before i told her i’d signed up for training. knows what my face looks like when i’m ready to run.

  “Equi!” mama’s voice reaches me, but i can’t focus on her now. grip her without seeing her. my heart beats wild against her bony chest. she doesn’t ask me to go near them, she just says my name over and over and over again.

  only for mama, i look at them again. only for mama, i try to find myself in their faces. but these are strange creatures, not children. i can’t bear to look in their eyes. i look instead at their hands. try to judge the size of their fists. wonder if their hands know the weight of metal spiders, if their cheeks know the bulge of the pasty white drug. i chance a glance at their faces—what do they know that mama doesn’t?

  fear pants just behind my ear. she doesn’t know what they do at night, fear whispers to me. she trusts them but she doesn’t know. my eyes fall on the shiny globe of my headgear. my headgear. other than mama, it is the only thing that makes sense on the Surface.

  i can feel it already, the water. i can feel its pull, its weight, its silence. i look at mama. in that half second, my eyes tell her what my mouth cannot. my eyes beg forgiveness, they weep for my wounds and flash my guilt. then i squeeze mama tight. i don’t look at her when i push her away. i don’t stop to see if she fell or if she’s panic-stricken. i am in flight. i let the urge to flee have me. scramble across the dirt, crab-like. grab my headgear from the sack without another look at the man-children. no more spiders and needles, no more metal disks and memories. no more NewsNet and mumblers. no more home.

  run. reach the space where the buildings meet. don’t look back. block out those hurt, angry faces. block out mama’s pain. scratch my skin on the stone buildings. run wildly. listen to the echo of my breath. listen to my feet pounding. run. feel the tightening in my chest. push people away. startle them. don’t stop. run. turn corners blindly. don’t ask questions. no more words. run.

  sweat.

  sweat stinging eyes. sweat dripping down neck. calves burning. gray sky. hear a squawk, loud and rough. up. look up. see the great white wings. see the orange feet. see the beak. run harder. follow the bird to water. don’t stop. shove on my headgear. let it lock into the groove in my skin. no suit, no tank. i can make it. need the hush of Under. need to hear the echo of my own breath. need the wet weight of the ocean to erase any trace of home.

  Marie

  The spring that Marie lost her baby, Soho was full of scaffolding. Whenever one stretch of scaffolding would come down, a new configuration would rise up a few feet away. It seemed to Marie, as she strolled beneath the constantly transforming metal frames, that these were ancient bones disguised by peeling paint—the skeleton of some defunct beast that could be dismantled and restructured but never completely destroyed.

  That spring was a hazy maze of missed appointments, memory lapses, and sluggishness. Despite the fact that she was
remarkably light on her feet for someone so heavy with child, there was no quickness about her. The baby growing inside her made her distracted. Her apartment was perpetually scattered with open books, the kitchen counter littered with ingredients for dishes that were never made, tools from incomplete home improvement projects were left strewn on the floor, and the corners of every room were cluttered with clothes she planned to donate.

  Her husband bore the messiness of her downward spiral with a bemused grin. The grin masked his exasperation. He began to lie to her constantly. He lied about how annoyed he was to find a half-eaten peanut butter sandwich on the edge of the bathroom sink. He lied about the inconvenience of always having crushed papers underfoot. But mostly he lied about time.

  He cushioned arrival times without revealing that he was infuriated by Marie’s hopeless lateness. At first he exaggerated by only a ten or twenty minutes, but by the end of Marie’s pregnancy he was inflating their arrival times by a few hours. The appointments they kept in those final weeks of pregnancy were due to Steven’s cunning. Marie never noticed his dishonesties; she was too gripped by the bizarre happenings inside her body—the squashed bladder and compromised lungs, the odd pains in her abdomen and hips, the heat rash and heartburn, the otherworldly sensation of a sentient being moving around inside her.

  During her third trimester, Marie spent an inordinate amount of time resenting the scaffolding. After living in Soho for four years, she had turned dodging teenagers and tourists into an art form. But the scaffolding disarmed her. It hemmed her in, turning wide, open sidewalks into narrow corridors. She couldn’t dart about, couldn’t zigzag around leisurely shoppers. Steven had heard so many complaints on the topic that he refused to listen to another word. She was left to hate the scaffolding silently, blaming it for everything from her lateness to the anxious tightening in her chest that flared whenever she had to navigate around strollers and slowpokes.