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//-->Inertiaby Nancy KressAt dusk the back of the bedroom falls off. One minute it's a wall, exposed studs and cracked bluedrywall, and the next it's snapped-off two-by-fours and an irregular fence as high as my waist, the edgesboth jagged and furry, as if they were covered with powder. Through the hole a sickly tree pokesupward in the narrow space between the back of our barracks and the back of a barracks in E Block. Itry to get out of bed for a closer look, but today my arthritis is too bad, which is why I'm in bed in thefirst place. Rachel rushes into the bedroom."What happened, Gram? Are you all right?"I nod and point. Rachel bends into the hole, her hair haloed by California twilight. The bedroom is hers,too; her mattress lies stored under my scarred four-poster."Termites! Damn. I didn't know we had them. You sure you're all right?""I'm fine. I was all the way across the room, honey. I'm fine.""Well—we'll have to get Mom to get somebody to fix it."I say nothing. Rachel straightens, throws me a quick glance, looks away. Still I say nothing about Mamie,but in a sudden flicker from my oil lamp I look directly at Rachel, just because she is so good to look at.Not pretty, not even here Inside, although so far the disease has affected only the left side of her face.The ridge of thickened, ropy skin, coarse as old hemp, isn't visible at all when she stands in right profile.But her nose is large, her eyebrows heavy and low, her chin a bony knob. An honest nose, expressivebrows, direct gray eyes, chin that juts forward when she tilts her head in intelligent listening—to agrandmother's eye, Rachel is good to look at. They wouldn't think so, Outside. But they would bewrong.Rachel says, "Maybe I could trade a lottery card for more drywall and nails, and patch it myself.""The termites will still be there.""Well, yes, but we have to do something." I don't contradict her. She is sixteen years old. "Feel that aircoming in—you'll freeze at night this time of year. It'll be terrible for your arthritis. Come in the kitchennow, Gram—I've built up the fire."She helps me into the kitchen, where the metal wood-burning stove throws a rosy warmth that feels goodon my joints. The stove was donated to the colony a year ago by who-knows-what charity or specialinterest group for, I suppose, whatever tax breaks still hold for that sort of thing. If any do. Rachel tellsme that we still get newspapers, and once or twice I've wrapped vegetables from our patch in some fairlynew-looking ones. She even says that the young Stevenson boy works a donated computer news net inthe Block J community hall, but I no longer follow Outside tax regulations. Nor do I ask why Mamie wasthe one to get the wood-burning stove when it wasn't a lottery month.The light from the stove is stronger than the oil flame in the bedroom; I see that beneath her concern forour dead bedroom wall, Rachel's face is flushed with excitement. Her young skin glows right fromintelligent chin to the ropy ridge of disease, which of course never changes color. I smile at her. Sixteen isso easy to excite. A new hair ribbon from the donations repository, a glance from a boy, a secret withher cousin Jennie."Gram," she says, kneeling beside my chair, her hands restless on the battered wooden arm,"Gram—there's a visitor. From Outside. Jennie saw him."I go on smiling. Rachel—nor Jennie, either—can't remember when disease colonies had lots of visitors.First bulky figures in contamination suits, then a few years later, sleeker figures in the sani-suits that tooktheir place. People were still being interred from Outside, and for years the checkpoints at the Rim hadtraffic flowing both ways. But of course Rachel doesn't remember all that; she wasn't born. Mamie wasonly twelve when we were interred here. To Rachel, a visitor might well be a great event. I put out onehand and stroke her hair."Jennie said he wants to talk to the oldest people in the colony, the ones who were brought here with thedisease. Hal Stevenson told her.""Did he, sweetheart?" Her hair is soft and silky. Mamie's hair had been the same at Rachel's age."He might want to talk to you!""Well, here I am.""But aren't you excited? What do you suppose he wants?"I'm saved from answering her because Mamie comes in, her boyfriend Peter Malone following with astring-bag of groceries from the repository.At the first sound of the doorknob turning, Rachel gets up from beside my chair and pokes at the fire.Her face goes completely blank, although I know that part is only temporary. Mamie cries, "Here weare!" in her high, doll-baby voice, cold air from the hall swirling around her like bright water. "Mamadarling—how are you feeling? And Rachel! You'll never guess—Pete had extra depository cards and hegot us some chicken! I'm going to make a stew!""The back wall fell off the bedroom," Rachel says flatly. She doesn't look at Peter with his string-crossedchicken, but I do. He grins his patient, wolfish grin. I guess that he won the depository cards at poker.His fingernails are dirty. The part of the newspaper I can see says ESIDENT CONFISCATES C.Mamie says, "What do you mean, 'fell off'?'"Rachel shrugs. "Just fell off. Termites."Mamie looks helplessly at Peter, whose grin widens. I can see how it will be: They will have a scenelater, not completely for our benefit, although it will take place in the kitchen for us to watch. Mamie willbeg prettily for Peter to fix the wall. He will demur, grinning. She will offer various smirking hints aboutbarter, each hint becoming more explicit. He will agree to fix the wall. Rachel and I, having no otherwarm room to go to, will watch the fire or the floor or our shoes until Mamie and Peter retireostentatiously to her room. It's the ostentation that embarrasses us. Mamie has always needed witnessesto her desirability.But Peter is watching Rachel, not Mamie. "The chicken isn't from Outside, Rachel. It's from thatchicken-yard in Block B. I heard you say how clean they are.""Yeah," Rachel says shortly, gracelessly.Mamie rolls her eyes. "Say 'thank you,' darling. Pete went to a lot of trouble to get this chicken.""Thanks.""Can't you say it like you mean it?" Mamie's voice goes shrill."Thanks," Rachel says. She heads towards our three-walled bedroom. Peter, still watching her closely,shifts the chicken from one hand to the other. The pressure of the string bag cuts lines across thechicken's yellowish skin."Rachel Anne Wilson—""Let her go," Peter says softly."No," Mamie says. Between the five crisscrossing lines of disease, her face sets in unlovely lines. "Shecan at least learn some manners. And I want her to hear our announcement! Rachel, you just come rightback out here this minute!"Rachel returns from the bedroom; I've never known her to disobey her mother. She pauses by the openbedroom door, waiting. Two empty candle scones, both blackened by old smoke, frame her head. It hasbeen since at least last winter that we've had candles for them. Mamie, her forehead creased in irritation,smiles brightly."This is a special dinner, all of you. Pete and I have an announcement. We're going to get married.""That's right," Peter says. "Congratulate us."Rachel, already motionless, somehow goes even stiller. Peter watches her carefully. Mamie casts downher eyes, blushing, and I feel a stab of impatient pity for my daughter, propping up mid-thirties girlishnesson such a slender reed as Peter Malone. I stare at him hard. If he ever touches Rachel . . .but I don'treally think he would. Things like that don't happen anymore. Not Inside."Congratulations," Rachel mumbles. She crosses the room and embraces her mother, who hugs her backwith theatrical fervor. In another minute, Mamie will start to cry. Over her shoulder I glimpse Rachel'sface, momentarily sorrowing and loving, and I drop my eyes."Well! This calls for a toast!" Mamie cries gaily. She winks, makes a clumsy pirouette, and pulls a bottlefrom the back shelf of the cupboard Rachel got at the last donations lottery. The cupboard looks strangein our kitchen: gleaming white lacquer, vaguely Oriental-looking, amid the wobbly chairs and scarredtable with the broken drawer no one has ever gotten around to mending. Mamie flourishes the bottle,which I didn't know was there. It's champagne.What had they been thinking, the Outsiders who donated champagne to a disease colony? Poor devils,even if they never have anything to celebrate . . .Or here's something they won't know what to do with . ..Or better them than me—as long as the sickies stay Inside . . .It doesn't really matter."I just love champagne!" Mamie cries feverishly; I think she has drunk it once. "And oh look—here'ssomeone else to help us celebrate! Come in, Jennie—come in and have some champagne!"Jennie comes in, smiling. I see the same eager excitement that animated Rachel before her mother'sannouncement. It glows on Jennie's face, which is beautiful. She has no disease on her hands or her face.She must have it somewhere, she was born Inside, but one doesn't ask that. Probably Rachel knows.The two girls are inseparable. Jennie, the daughter of Mamie's dead husband's brother, is Rachel'scousin, and technically Mamie is her guardian. But no one pays attention to such things anymore, andJennie lives with some people in a barracks in the next Block, although Rachel and I asked her to livehere. She shook her head, the beautiful hair so blonde it's almost white bouncing on her shoulders, andblushed in embarrassment, painfully not looking at Mamie."I'm getting married, Jennie," Mamie says, again casting down her eyes bashfully. I wonder what she did,and with whom, to get the champagne."Congratulations!" Jennie says warmly. "You, too, Peter.""Call me Pete," he says, as he has said before. I catch his hungry look at Jennie. She doesn't, but somesixth sense—even here, even Inside—makes her step slightly backwards. I know she will go on callinghim "Peter."Mamie says to Jennie, "Have some more champagne. Stay for dinner."With her eyes Jennie measures the amount of champagne in the bottle, the size of the chicken bleedingslightly on the table. She measures unobtrusively, and then of course she lies. "I'm sorry, I can't—we ateour meal at noon today. I just wanted to ask if I could bring someone over to see you later, Gram. Avisitor." Her voice drops to a hush, and the glow is back. "From Outside."I look at her sparkling blue eyes, at Rachel's face, and I don't have the heart to refuse. Even though I canguess, as the two girls cannot, how the visit will be. I am not Jennie's grandmother, but she has called methat since she was three. "All right.""Oh, thank you!" Jennie cries, and she and Rachel look at each other with delight. "I'm so glad you saidyes, or else we might never get to talk to a visitor up close at all!""You're welcome," I say. They are so young. Mamie looks petulant; her announcement has beenupstaged. Peter watches Jennie as she impulsively hugs Rachel. Suddenly I know that he too iswondering where Jennie's body is diseased, and how much. He catches my eye and looks at the floor,his dark eyes lidded, half-ashamed. But only half. A log cackles in the wooden stove, and for a briefmoment the fire flares.The next afternoon Jennie brings the visitor. He surprises me immediately: he isn't wearing a sani-suit, andhe isn't a sociologist.In the years following the internments, the disease colonies had a lot of visitors. Doctors still hopeful of acure for the thick gray ridges of skin that spread slowly over a human body—or didn't, nobody knewwhy. Disfiguring. Ugly. Maybe eventually fatal. And communicable. That was the biggie: communicable.So doctors in sani-suits came looking for causes or cures. Journalists in sani-suits came looking forstories with four-color photo spreads. Legislative fact-finding committees in sani-suits came looking forfacts, at least until Congress took away the power of colonies to vote, pressured by taxpayers who,increasingly pressured themselves, resented our dollar-dependent status. And the sociologists came indroves, minicams in hand, ready to record the collapse of the ill-organized and ill colonies intostreet-gang, dog-eat-dog anarchy.Later, when this did not happen, different sociologists came in later-model sani-suits to record thereasons why the colonies were not collapsing on schedule. All these groups went away dissatisfied. Therewas no cure, no cause, no story, no collapse, no reasons.The sociologists hung on longer than anybody else. Journalists have to be timely and interesting, butsociologists merely have to publish. Besides, everything in their cultural tradition told them that Insidemust sooner or later degenerate into war zones: Deprive people of electricity (power became expensive),of municipal police (who refused to go Inside), of freedom to leave, of political clout, of jobs, of freewaysand movie theaters and federal judges and state-administered elementary-school accreditation—and youget unrestrained violence to just survive. Everything in the culture said so. Bombed-out inner cities. Lordof the Flies. The Chicago projects. Western movies. Prison memoirs. The Bronx. East L.A. ThomasHobbes. The sociologists knew.Only it didn't happen.The sociologists waited. And Inside we learned to grow vegetables and raise chickens who, we learned,will eat anything. Those of us with computer knowledge worked real jobs over modems for a fewyears—maybe it was as long as a decade—before the equipment became too obsolete and unreplaced.Those who had been teachers organized classes among the children, although the curriculum, I think,must have gotten simpler every year: Rachel and Jennie don't seem to have much knowledge of history orscience. Doctors practiced with medicines donated by corporations for the tax write-offs, and after adecade or so they began to train apprentices. For a while—it might have been a long while—we listenedto radios and watched TV. Maybe some people still do, if we have any working ones donated fromOutside.Eventually the sociologists remembered older models of deprivation and discrimination and isolation fromthe larger culture: Jewish shtetls. French Huguenots. Amish farmers. Self-sufficient models, stagnant butuncollapsed. And while they were remembering, we held goods lotteries, and took on apprentices, andrationed depository food according to who needed it, and replaced our broken-down furniture with otherbroken-down furniture, and got married and bore children. We paid no taxes, fought no wars, wieldedno votes, provided no drama. After a while—a long while—the visitors stopped coming. Even thesociologists.But here stands this young man, without a sani-suit, smiling from brown eyes under thick dark hair andtaking my hand. He doesn't wince when he touches the ropes of disease. Nor does he appear to becataloguing the kitchen furniture for later recording: three chairs, one donated imitation Queen Anne andone Inside genuine Joe Kleinschmidt; the table; the wood stove; the sparkling new Oriental lacqueredcupboard; plastic sink with hand pump connected to the reservoir pipe from Outside; woodbox withdonated wood stamped "Gift of Boise-Cascade"; two eager and intelligent and loving young girls he hadbetter not try to patronize as diseased freaks. It has been a long time, but I remember."Hello, Mrs. Pratt. I'm Tom McHabe. Thank you for agreeing to talk to me."I nod. "What are we going to talk about, Mr. McHabe? Are you a journalist?""No. I'm a doctor."I didn't expect that. Nor do I expect the sudden strain that flashes across his face before it's lost inanother smile. Although it is natural enough that strain should be there: Having come Inside, of course, hecan never leave. I wonder where he picked up the disease. No other new cases have been admitted toour colony for as long as I could remember. Had they been taken, for some Outside political reason, toone of the other colonies instead?McHabe says, "I don't have the disease, Mrs. Pratt.""Then why on earth—""I'm writing a paper on the progress of the disease in long-established colony residents. I have to do thatfrom Inside, of course," he says, and immediately I know he is lying. Rachel and Jennie, of course, donot. They sit one on each side of him like eager birds, listening."And how will you get this paper out once it's written?" I said."Short-wave radio. Colleagues are expecting it," but he doesn't quite meet my eyes. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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