Kiss Me, Stranger. Ron Tanner

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      Bleeding, gasping, I haul myself up. Hermes isn’t quite unconscious. He’s groaning. A crowd has gathered. They gape at me. Do I look like a madwoman? I’m pointing at Hermes. But I can’t catch my breath to speak. My hamstring howls in pain. Can I walk? I try to back away but the crowd hems me in. Maybe someone’s eager to claim a reward. As the President is fond of saying, “Reporting suspicious behavior makes heroes of us all!”

      “Him!” I gasp.

      “Who’s he?” someone asks.

      “Rapist!” I blurt.

      “Rapist?”

      “Raped my sister,” I say. I pause for breath. “Then he went—” I still hear the bells. “After me.” I gulp another. “I ran.”

      “Rapist!” someone else says in disgust.

      A few older men stoop to pull Hermes up by the collar. He looks groggy, his mouth is open as if to speak. “We’ll take care of him,” one of them says.

      “Don’t kill him,” I caution.

      Then I stumble off, feeling drunk with relief and fatigue. Only now do I realize the trouble I’ve created for myself. Where did I think I was running to?

      It is snowing fine flurries.

      Maybe I could have talked my way out of Home Base. But the RM says, “No one’s safe at Home!” We’ve all heard stories.

      My children weep when they see me, even hard-hearted Nadia. They clamor for a hug. They ask what has happened. How did I get away? I struggle to keep from collapsing in their arms. I’m suddenly so weary, I want only to sleep with them heaped around me.

      “We have to take a trip,” I announce.

      “Where?” they ask. “Now? It’s dark! And snowing!”

      They’ve lit the couch batting we found earlier today. It smolders from the sooty fireplace nearby. We’re sitting on a tarp on the floor, Miramar in my lap.

      I have no choice but to tell them that I am a fugitive, that we will have to go away until the Revolutionary Militia wins.

      “They’re gonna win?” Nadia asks skeptically.

      “Of course they’re going to win,” I say. “Then we’ll come home.”

      “They’ll burn our house down,” Del says. “Maybe the whole block.”

      “Let’s not be negative,” I advise. “We have a lot to do.”

      The children ready themselves with impressive speed, thanks to the supervision of Nadia, Del, Lori, and Simon. Each child carries a pot or metal cup, a utensil or two tucked into his or her waist- band, every garment stuffed with wads of bills and other combustibles. When we set off, the sleet is falling in a fine needly rain. The children’s garbage-bag ponchos snap and stutter in the icy wind. I’ve got Miramar strapped to my back. In a single line we sneak out the rear yard, into the alley, then down the hill. In the distance a flare brightens the horizon, followed by the pop-popping of gunfire. The streets are empty but for a dog that sprints from one shadow to the next, then disappears.

      “Look, a dog!” Rainy cries.

      “Dog!” the younger ones echo.

      People ate the cats before the dogs. Many dogs got away.

      “Shush!” Simon cautions.

      We’re only four blocks from our house and already my toes are cold and my hamstring threatens to hobble me. I’ve got to be mindful of frostbite. Miramar is whining, yanking at my hair.

      Nadia nudges me: “Where we going?”

      “To the landfill,” I whisper.

      “Oh, god, mom,” she hisses, “we’re as good as dead!”

      “What did I say about negative thinking?”

      “The cannibals are gonna eat us!” she says.

      “Where did you hear such nonsense?”

      “Cannibals?” Lori asks, joining us.

      “Nadia is letting her imagination run away with her,” I say.

      “I don’t want to be eaten by cannibals!” Lori protests.

      “There are NO frigging cannibals!” I announce.

      Pretty soon all of the children are saying it, “Cannibals!”

       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 СКАЧАТЬ