Gravity Box and Other Spaces (44 page)

Jen stopped at the table of weapons. A lot of them looked old, useless, but a few were new, some looked military. She went to the table and sorted through the pistols. She had never shot a gun before, was unsure she really wanted to. She almost gave up when something caught her eye. She grabbed a black object that fit her hand easily. When she pressed the stud with her thumb a black blade a bit longer than her palm extruded. Another touch and it retracted. She dropped it into her pocket.

Jerry started banging on door, yelling. Jen ran up the stairs and down the hall to the back door. Through the window, she saw a truck pull onto the pad, three men in its cab. Jen gulped air and ran the other way.

The living room was cluttered with chairs, books, more pamphlets, and a gun cabinet. Someone knocked at the back door. Jen turned away from the sound, her heart pounding. Three deadbolts barred the front door.

She fumbled with them, sure the back door would open at any moment. Finally, the last bolt turned, and she burst into the street. She took one look back at the plain white frame house, number 5151, then ran up a side street and down another, ran until her lungs burned and her legs hurt. She had no idea where she was. She slipped into an alley, eventually coming to the rear of an apartment building. She sat on the steps and stared at the streets, recovering her breath, trying to figure out what to do next. A few cars were parked nearby, but she saw no people. Night was coming on quickly.

She took the knife out of her pocket and studied it. She did not know how to use it, but for now she intended to hang onto it until it was forcefully taken from her. It was something to hold between herself and the world.

“Nasty toy.”

She jumped up, knife in hand, pointing straight out. Cantril stood leaning against the wall, just above her.

She managed not to cry while she talked to Cantril, answering his questions, explaining. When she finished telling him all that had happened and why, Cantril grunted. “Going to space. That's a new one. Do you take everything to extremes?”

There was an ugly sarcasm in his voice. Jen frowned.

Cantril shook his head. “Most of us never had a choice about where we ran to. No more than we had a choice about what we were running from. Most of us never had a chance at school, not real ones, anyway. Some of get pissed listening to bitching from people like you.”

“The union—it didn't sound like they were uneducated. I mean, you have a constitution.”

“Yeah, well, there's education and there's education. For every kid at that meeting there are twenty, thirty more that can't even say ‘constitution.'” He looked away for a few moments, then shrugged. “Some of us try to teach them, but—”

“What were you doing under my window the other day?”

“Hmm? Oh. Nothing. Coincidence, I guarantee. I was there to meet someone else. You just happened to drop by.” He smiled at his own poor joke. “As for tonight, well, I followed you. A friend of mine has a car, and I sat outside the jail till you came out, then waited at the house. I didn't know what to expect. I certainly didn't think it'd be your dad coming to pick you up. That was him, right? Anyway, we followed, so this time wasn't coincidence.”

Jen stared at him for a long, silent moment then touched his hand. Cantril closed his fingers around hers.

“What do you want to become in space when you get there?” he asked.

“You mean what do I want to be when I grow up?” She laughed. “I don't know. I'm starting to think I might do more good here, with you and the others.”

Suddenly Cantril clenched her shirt and pulled her close, facing him.

“You listen good, Jennifer Cable. You get a chance to go to space, you fucking go! Too damn many of us don't have
chances or choices. Some of us do but we don't know it till too late. Any single one of us who got the same chance you do we fucking take it and piss on everybody else!”

She twisted free and pushed him away.

“Because I want something from you,” he said. “I didn't know what then, but I do now.”

“What could you possibly want from me?” She heard the anger in her voice.

“I want a promise. I want you to swear that you'll get out of here. You're going to get out of this ghetto shit-heap and never look back.”

“Did you ever think that might be exactly the problem? People leave and don't come back?”

“Would you want to? Back here? What for?”

“To change it.”

He snorted. “You can't. I can't. People keep trying, but it's like there's some law of conservation of shit that keeps everything the same.” He shook his head. “Time for debate later. Right now, the safest place for you is back at that school of yours.”

The polyversity looked like a city in miniature with its turrets and lights. A sanctuary. Jen felt as though she had been on a long journey and now she had come home.

“Impressive-looking place,” Cantril said.

“Have you ever been inside?”

“No. Looks like a prison, in a way.”

Jen did not agree. School in no way resembled the jail she had been in, except in the procession of corridors. She said nothing, sensing that Cantril would not really understand. They continued on in silence until they reached one of the A Level entrances.

“I go in here,” Jen said.

Cantril sighed and looked skyward. After several seconds he smiled at her. “Remember your promise.”

Jen fumbled for her ID. She didn't have it. In frustration, she searched her pockets again knowing it wasn't there. Finally she just stared at the blinking display. A sudden grunt and a sound like a heavy sack hitting the ground came from behind her. Jen turned and saw Cantril sprawled on the pavement, Warren standing over him. She pounded on the door. Warren grabbed her arms and yanked her away.

Warren unlocked the apartment door, kicked it open, and hurled her onto the hallway. The door clicked shut and then there was silence. Jen stared at the pattern of grain in the dark wood floor.

Warren stepped toward her. Jen caught her breath and did not move. She closed her eyes, waiting. Warren walked by her and on down the hallway. Jen looked up and saw him heading for the kitchen.

She heard the refrigerator door, the delicate rattle of bottles in racks, the rubbery slap as the door shut. Warren popped the tab on a can of beer and reappeared in the doorway. He stared at her and took a long pull on the beer.

He walked up and squatted before her. He drank again, his face unreadable. She refused to cry, clamped down on her fear with grim determination, and said nothing.

“You filed a legal separation request,” he said. “I found out last night. That bitch from the school did it on your behalf. ‘Institutional privilege,' she said. It's not binding yet, 'cause you ain't signed anything, but she's got a police alert out lookin' for you. They say they can take you away
from me. Separation. That's cold, Jenny. Real cold.” He sighed and held up the can. “I'm drinking again. See that?”

Confused, she frowned and started to ask why he was drinking. Then she realized that he was blaming her, that his disgust was for her. Emotions competed inside her. Resentment, pity, anger. Not one of them sufficient to really define the bitter moil of feelings twisting inside her.

“All my life,” he said, “I've worked my ass off. I've been killing myself for you! What do you do? File for separation!” His mouth twisted.

She thought he was about to spit at her. Instead he lunged for her. She tried to jump out of reach, but he seized her shoulders. She screamed. He slapped her. She screamed again.

“Shut up!” He threw her against the wall. The wind left her lungs and she gasped. He dragged her down the hallway to his bedroom. Panic jellied her core. “You want a separation?” He kicked the door open. “Separate yourself from this!” He shoved her into the room.

Melissa sat up in the bed. Her eyes were open, staring straight ahead. Jen blinked, started to say something, then saw the pool of red in which her mother sat. The sheets were soaked. Jen staggered.

Her father grabbed a handful of her hair and pulled her head back.

“Don't scream,” he said in a hoarse whisper. “No point. She won't hear you.”

He let her go and walked back into the kitchen. She heard him get another can of beer.

Jen looked at the body. She felt far away, not really connected to what was happening. She tried to remember her mother alive, talking and moving, but it was a blur, an abstract of life. Her mother existed parenthetically around Warren, in partial context. Jen found it curious that what she saw now would probably be the clearest memory she
ever had of her mother. Melissa's life had been informed by the vacuity of her husband's presence. The less Warren did, the faster Melissa had hustled to make him appear the core of their family. Warren had often grown tired and angry at her constant moth-like fluttering. It appeared that he had finally pinned her to the wall, turning her into the display he had always wanted her to be.

My mother is dead
, she thought;
this is real, this has happened
. The safe distance between her mind and her world had closed. She threw up. When she straightened and wiped her mouth, though, the panic was gone. Jen went into the kitchen. Warren sat at the table, a beer in his hand, one of his beloved pamphlets open on the table.

“Why?” Jen asked.

Warren looked up at her. He shrugged. “She wanted a divorce. After everything we've been through, she wanted to leave me.” He shook his head and looked baffled. “I told her, I said that it wasn't right, wasn't natural. She wouldn't listen. Said she already had a lawyer and was filing the papers.” He drew a deep breath. “That wasn't right of you to hit Jerry on the head like that. What with everything else, I figured you'd make for that damn school.”

“You just murdered my mother.”

Warren frowned. “Till death do us part.” He raised the beer in mock toast and upended the can. He scowled at it and tossed it aside. He went to the refrigerator for another.

Jen shivered and tucked her hands in her jacket pockets. Her right hand encountered something hard and cold. She wrapped her fingers around it.

There was no thought, no hesitation. He opened the door of the refrigerator, and she pulled the blade from her pocket. He slid a can from its slot, and she opened the blade with a simple push of her thumb. He closed the door, and she took a step toward him.

He turned.

Too quickly. He bounced the can off her head and grabbed for the knife. She twisted, trying to bring the blade into his forearm, but he wrenched her sideways. She kicked blindly, connected and was rewarded with a heavy grunt from Warren. His grip loosened. She tore her arm away and lunged. Her arm jarred with the impact; she pulled back and wiped at her eyes.

Warren stood in the center of the kitchen staring down at the blood flowing from the stab wound in his left side, just below his ribs. Jen glanced down at the knife. Its black surface was covered by crimson liquid. She wanted to run, but the instant she considered it she knew she could not. This had to be finished now. She drew back the knife and rushed him.