Читать книгу Kiss Me, Stranger - Ron Tanner - Страница 6

2. Garbage

It’s been impossible to keep bad news and rumors from the children. All they have to do is jack into any outlet in the house and they’re networked to the world. It’s the only thing that still works. But the information that comes to us is as wild as stories I tell them before bedtime. Some of the rumors are little more than cruel jokes. Granted, going to a landfill is stepping off the grid. But that’s not the same as saying we’ll meet up with cannibals.

The Capital has several landfills. The oldest is the Westside, near Ferris Wheel National Park. That’s our destination. It takes more work to dig things up at Westside but the stuff you dig up is worth it. The newer fills are crowded with plastics. We need hard-metal recyclables.

Our procession is painfully slow. At this pace it may take us all night. Already I’m weary from turning to check on my little troop every other minute. Miramar has fallen asleep finally, a hot weight against my wet back. When it’s time to take a water break, we find a city fountain in the middle of My Sweet Mother Gertrude Boulevard. Though a nearby street light illuminates a crescent of concrete and asphalt, it’s gloomy here. Not a single light brightens a window of the narrow townhouses towering on either side. Rich folk live here. That’s why the water’s still running. The fountain is missing its statue but water spews from the broad bronze leaf it once sat upon. The children dip their faces to the pool while I watch the street. We’d be an easy catch.

As I cup my hands for a drink I realize that Marcel and Lon—when they return—will find our house empty. They will go mad from grief! I tell myself that I can’t dwell on this. But I hate myself for having lost control today. And it worries me. If I make another mistake, what will become of us?

We smell Westside landfill well before we see it: the moldy-earthy rotted fruity stink of it mingled with the loamy woodsmoke of burning trash.

“I’m hungry!” five-year-old Blu announces.

The rest agree. I’m carrying two packets of cheese-food concentrate and a one-pound bag of lentils. “We’ll eat soon,” I promise.

The sleet has ceased and a pale blue-gray blur marks the horizon behind us, either the rising moon or sun. Westside is as big as a shopping mall parking lot—a chewed-up expanse of hillocks and holes skirting the modest neighborhoods where the migrant workers live. A scatter of plasticbag tents and car-part hovels crowd one corner of the field. I see two camp fires.

“Cannibals!” Nadia hisses.

“Stop it.” I turn to the others. “Watch your step. There are some deep holes here.”

Rumor says the entire Capital was built on landfill, which may have been what our President was referring to when he said, “We will live or die on the garbage of the past!”

“Take out your weapons,” Nadia tells her siblings.

“What weapons?” I ask.

They wave spatulas and long-handled spoons at me, the distant firelight glinting orangely from the moving metal.

“We’ll fight to the death,” Nadia says. “Won’t we, gang?”

“To the death!” several echo, though I hear Blu and Pierce and Aida whimpering.

“That won’t be necessary, dears. Really.”

“No?” says Nadia. “Then who’s this coming at us?”

A dark figure is striding over the upturned garbage, heading our way in a hurry. He carries a staff or spear.

“Ho, there,” I call, feeling stupid. I meant to say Hi, there!

“Ho,” he answers, only it’s not a he, it’s a she—a tall woman wearing a cloak of rags. In the dim light, the helmet on her head appears to be an overturned aluminum colander. She looks us over then says, “It’s a little late to be out with the family, don’t you think?”

“We’re refugees,” I explain. “And very tired.”

“Are you a cannibal?” Lori asks.

“You don’t ask that,” Nadia scolds.

“But if she’s a cannibal how are we to know?” Lori whines.

“It’s simple,” says the stranger, “you know when you get eaten.”

Blu starts bawling.

“She’s joking,” I tell him. Then I look sharply at the stranger. “Right?”

“Sorry,” she says. “Will you kiss me, stranger?”

I give her a peck on each cheek, then one on the tip of her dirty nose. It’s an old folk custom. Nobody knows when it started but apparently it’s prevented a lot of misunderstandings.

The children start kissing each other. This makes a few laugh. The stranger introduces herself as Skip. “Watch your step,” she cautions. “Last week someone disappeared out here.”

“Is that another joke?” Nadia asks.

“No, that’s for real,” Skip says. She turns to me. “I recommend life-lines.”

“Thanks,” I say bitterly. This is what I’ve brought my children to?

The campfires are the largest I’ve seen in a while—each wide enough to accommodate the full circle of my family. As I boil water for our dinner, the children are nodding off, one leaning into the other. The only other person awake beside me and Skip is an old man. They call him Oyster because that’s what his ruined eye looks like. He remembers the pre-Presidential days. He says, “Before The Man re-made the money and built the Ferris Wheels and those statues to his wife’s dogs.”

“He’s a walking archive,” Skip says.

Oyster is a small, scoliotic man with a big head and surprisingly large hands, which remind me of Marcel’s. He wears an overcoat and duct-taped boots. Pierce has fallen asleep at his elbow.

“I want to know if my husband and eldest son are alive,” I say to Oyster, startling myself with this abrupt request. I survey the children to see if any have heard. I see Nadia narrow her eyes at me disapprovingly.

“I’m not a fortune teller,” Oyster says. When the fire flares I see that his coat is blistered with bullet holes. “I’m sorry.”

“No,” I say, “I’m sorry.”

When the lentil-cheese-food soup is done, the children eat sleepily, passing the pot from one to the other for a spoonful. This is all we have. I imagine all of us perishing tomorrow, fallen through the bottomless holes of the landfill. I damn my own incompetence, then lean my shoulder into Skip’s and close my eyes for a moment and imagine that I am sleeping soundly on a summer’s night.