Robyn's Egg (37 page)

Robyn nodded meekly, “Yes, please.”

Frieda and Betsy each took an arm and supported Robyn as they climbed the bank. Robyn’s arm no longer stung and the welts had gone down just as Frieda said they would, but she felt a long way from all right. On the bank, they laid her down in a nest of tall grass. Robyn stared at fluffy clouds trying to keep her head from spinning while the two women continued cutting nettles. They checked on her frequently while they worked and asked how she felt. They filled their baskets quickly. Mrs. Connors started to fill Robyn’s basket, and Robyn sat up.

“You don’t need to do that. I’m feeling better.”

Betsy gave a sideward glance. “You stay where you are. You’re still white as Brother Nastasi.” Frieda came over and helped her mother. With two sharing the work it didn’t take long to fill the last basket. Each grabbed a basket in one arm, and supported Robyn with the other.

Robyn’s eyes settled on the remaining basket resting on the ground. “I can carry that up to the house. Really, I feel much better.”

“No, that won’t be necessary. Let’s get you home and I can send Frieda after it later.”

When they arrived at the house, Betsy guided Robyn up the stairs to her room. She gently laid Robyn into bed and lifted her legs and removed her shoes. “You rest for a bit,” she said. Robyn nodded and drifted off to sleep.

When Robyn awoke, Betsy was sitting next to her on a chair she’d brought up from the dining room. Betsy peeked up from the book in her lap. Her smile was welcoming. Sun streamed through the window at an oblique angle and Robyn realized from the trajectory it was afternoon and she’d slept most of the day away. Betsy placed a hand on Robyn’s forehead. “How are you feeling, any better?”

Robyn nodded.

“Well, you’re not running a fever.” She lifted Robyn’s arms and looked them over. “The welts are down. Does your skin still sting?”

“No. It’s better now. But I still feel a bit queasy.”

Betsy’s lips tightened into a line. “Do you have pain anywhere else?”

Robyn’s forehead creased with confusion. “No, not really. My breasts hurt a little, but they did even before I was stung.”

Betsy unbuttoned Robyn’s dress. She gazed down and her brows rose in surprise. “Is your bra normally this tight?”

The heat of embarrassment spread up Robyn’s neck to her cheeks. “No. I think I’ve put on a little weight since I’ve been here. You are a very good cook.”

“When was your last period?”

Robyn tried to recall, “I don’t know.”

“Have you passed your normal time?”

“Yes.”

Betsy smiled. “You’re pregnant, Robyn.”

“What?”

“Pregnant.”

“What does that mean?”

Betsy’s grin broadened. She placed a hand on Robyn’s stomach. “Of course you wouldn’t know. It means a baby lives inside you. I’m guessing you are a couple months along and should give birth to your child next April or so.”

Robyn gawked at her belly in disbelief. She was full of questions. Betsy sat patiently and answered as many as she could. When Robyn couldn’t think of anything else, Betsy helped her out of bed and led the way to the kitchen where they started preparing dinner. As they peeled potatoes, Betsy said, “You better tell Moyer as soon as the men get back unless you want someone else to beat you to it. Secrets are hard to keep in a full house.”

By the time the men and boys returned from picking corn, shadows from the cottonwoods and maples bordering the creek stretched long across the fields to the base of the Connors’ house. Two carts mounded high with the harvest taxed the horses to their limit. The men had to push the wagons to help straining teams make the hill. Once on flatter ground, Nastasi and Armal Connors drove the horses while the others trudged wearily behind.

Inside the barn, Moyer helped Nastasi unhitch the animals and return them to their stalls. When he stepped through the side door, Robyn was waiting.

“Let’s go for a walk,” she said. What he wanted was to sit and rest, but something in Robyn’s eyes said it wasn’t just a walk and was important. “I’ll make it a short one, I promise.”

Boys and men filed into the house. The girls ran to the rail on the porch and stood silent, staring and grinning at Robyn and Moyer. Robyn led Moyer to the end of the barn and took both his hands in hers. “This is far enough.”

When she smiled, her cheeks appeared tight enough to burst. “Moyer, I’m… oh, what was that word. Pregnant! That’s it. I’m pregnant. We’re going to have a baby.”

Moyer gazed at her jubilant face and expectant eyes and didn’t know what to say. Initially unsure of what to feel, the realization that Robyn was happy was enough. A smile spread across his face. He drew Robyn close and held her. He wished he could be happier about the news, but in the back of his mind was the woman he had met at the church on his first visit to Mannington, the one who died in childbirth – Margret.

“Are you sure?” he asked.

She nodded. From the porch the girls erupted in a chant. “Robyn and Moyer sittin’ in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G, first comes love, then comes marriage, then comes baby in a baby carriage.”

Moyer’s face warmed as he broke out in a grin.

Thursday, 6 September

Nastasi pulled Moyer aside early the next morning while the Connors boys hitched horses to the wagons. He led him behind the house near the goat pen where no one would be tempted to listen in. From the crease between Nastasi’s eyes and tight set of his mouth, Moyer deduced the topic was grave.

“The elders have discussed your role and indoctrination. We have concluded that for your family to continue living here, you must become a part of our community,” Nastasi said.

“Of course.”

Nastasi’s mouth turned up slightly at the corners. “Maybe you should hear me out. Being a part of the community carries certain responsibilities and obligations. We want you to participate in a demonstration in the city tomorrow. We plan to picket a church in Labor Sector Five.”

Moyer thought of objecting, but didn’t see any point. He and his wife needed the refuge Mannington provided. Returning to the capital was no longer an option, or any city for that matter. They were wanted criminals. And on their own in the hinterlands, they wouldn’t survive a winter. Even if they knew what to do, there wasn’t enough time to amass the food stores required.

“You look concerned,” Nastasi said.

“No, I’m okay.”

Nastasi slapped him on the shoulder. “We leave from the station tonight at nine.” Nastasi turned and headed back to the barn.

Moyer considered how he would break the news to Robyn. It wasn’t as if she wouldn’t notice he wasn’t in her bed tonight, or the next. Remaining silent wasn’t an option.

She would be angry when he told her; he had no doubt of that. And who could blame her? It was an awful risk, and for what? What did the elders hope to accomplish? At least it was in Labor Housing. It was improbable Security Services would spend resources to break up a picket line in the poor section of town. Not that Robyn would care where it was.

Chapter 38

Saturday, 8 September

A
set of coveralls was waiting on Moyer’s bed when he came in from the fields for lunch. He held them up to his chest to check for size. The faded blue denim was worn around the knees and elbows, and had an Oshun Construction logo emblazoned on the chest. Though a tad baggy, they would do. And after two months working in the fields, he could probably pass for a laborer.

Robyn walked in with an armful of folded laundry fresh off the lines. “Where did those come from?”

“I think from Brother Nastasi. But I’m not sure.”

“They make you look ridiculous,” Robyn said, “like a child in his father’s clothes.”

“Really? I don’t think it’s that bad.”

Robyn shook her head and continued putting clothes into dresser drawers. “What’s it for?”

This was his invitation, his chance to explain. But his mind seemed to slip for a moment before catching equilibrium, as if he had tried to change direction on ice too quickly. In that hesitation, Robyn’s eyes turned from the dresser and fell upon him. She was on alert now and suspicious.

“Uh, Brother Nastasi wants me to — asked me to go into the city for a demonstration.”

Robyn’s face tensed with anger. “No! You tell him you won’t, Moyer. We have a child on the way. You will be taking no stupid risks.”

“You know me. At the first sign of trouble, I’ll be out of there faster than an express tube.”

“You aren’t hearing me. You are not going.”

“But —”

“But nothing. You tell him.”

“But Robyn,” he said, “being part of this community carries responsibilities and obligations. He told me I need to do this or risk being asked to leave. We can’t leave here. We have nowhere to go.”

“We can stay with my parents,” she said defiantly.

“And what, live our lives with gold caps on our heads?”

“Why not? At least my child will grow up with a father. It’s more reasonable than what they want.”

Moyer patted a spot on the mattress for Robyn to sit. “Please,” he begged. She relented, nostrils still flared, hands balled into fists on her lap. He cradled her wrists in his hands. “I hoped to never have to tell you this.”

Robyn’s eyes grew wary.

“We can’t go back. Your parents are dead. Security Services tortured them to death the night we left.”

Her face went slack with disbelief. She searched Moyer’s face for the truth. “How could you possibly know?” she demanded.

“I felt it. I felt their pain as they were tortured. I felt them weaken as their lives drained away. I’m sorry.”

“You’re wrong. You’ve been wrong before.”

Moyer shook his head. “Not this time,” he said quietly.

Robyn’s mouth quivered. “Why didn’t you tell me?” she asked, her voice trailing off into a whine. “Why?”

Moyer cast his eyes toward his feet. “I —” his guilt and shame clenched the words in his throat. “I knew you would rush back to the city if I —”

Robyn slapped him hard across the cheek. “How dare you!” She stood to leave. Moyer grabbed her arm.

“They would have killed us both.”

“Let go of me,” she barked. He loosened his grip and she tugged free and ran down the stairs. A moment later, the screen door slammed.

Sunday, 9 September

Fourteen men gathered at the station that night for the protest, all dressed in Oshun Construction coveralls and wearing knapsacks. Moyer knew them all by sight and half by name. Picket signs were stacked onto the back seat of the Mannington train. Nastasi sat with Moyer on the ride in. He handed Moyer a backpack. “Open it up.”

Moyer flipped open the top flap. Inside, it was stuffed with cloth. He pulled the garment out. It appeared black in the last vestiges of daylight. “What is this?”

Nastasi opened his own nap-sack and jerked out the contents, flipping it over his head. After a couple of quick flourishes with his arms, he was frocked in a full length robe, and the backpack was nowhere to be seen.

“Where is the knapsack?” Moyer said.

Nastasi tapped his stomach. “It’s under here.”

Moyer pulled the remaining fabric out from his pack and flipped it over his head. He struggled to find the head hole under the dark tent of fabric. Snickers rose up around him while he tussled with the cloth. Finally his head emerged and he shimmied until the fabric hung straight. He tapped his belly to confirm the nap-sack was where it should be.

“That’s good,” Nastasi said, “but that’s not the important part. It doesn’t matter how fast you can get into your robe, it matters how fast you can get out of it. If security agents are sent, you will need to blend into the crowd to get away. You have to be able to get out of your robe in less than ten seconds. Listen to what I say, and do as I do.”

Moyer nodded.

“Pull your arms inside your robe. Grab the flap of your backpack in your left hand. Raise both hands over your head while still clutching the flap of the backpack, and lift your robe as high as you can.”

Fabric draped over Moyer’s head, and he couldn’t see.

“With your hands still overhead, bow hard at the waist hurling your arms forward, and in the same motion, pull the flap in your left hand hard to your stomach.”

Moyer did as he was instructed. The robe arced forward landing in the aisle in front of him. Nastasi smiled. “That’s right. The robe should be inside out, the flap in your hand, and the backpack open. Now stuff, stuff, stuff, until the robe is in the backpack. Then put it on and move away calmly into the crowd. Now do it again, only this time more quickly.”

Moyer donned his robe again. He repeated the motions quickly and smoothly. His robe was off, and seconds later, in the backpack.

“You are a natural. Just one more thing. Before you remove your robe, find the closest person to you in the crowd, step around so they are between you and security, and use them as a screen. For now, use me.”

“But what if no one is close?”

“Someone will be. We have followers in Labor Housing who will be in the crowd. They wear backpacks the same as ours. Find them. They are there to help.”

Some of the men had fallen asleep during the trip. As the train emerged into the open space of the collector fields, Nastasi sat in the seat behind Moyer’s, his back against the window, feet in the aisle, eyes focused outside on nothing in particular. Moyer spoke. “Is this worth the risk? I mean aren’t you afraid you will lead Security Services to Mannington one day?”

Nastasi looked sidelong at Moyer. “You can’t build a following on slogans alone. There has to be a face to the movement, it needs an identity. People will not follow a ghost. The movement must grow or no one will live free. How can I ask people to take the risk of joining me if I won’t take risks myself?”

Another thought struck Moyer. “Why has the Judge been exempted from this duty?”

“The Judge has a different destiny. We can’t afford to risk him here.”

Moyer sat back and observed the uniform array of solar panels slide by while contemplating the fact that he was considered expendable.