“I want to talk to the mayor,” I say in a shaky voice.
“You and what army?” says one of the toughs.
“Yeah,” says another. “If we let everyone see the mayor who came here wanting to see the mayor, we’d have a whole lot of people seeing the mayor.”
“And that wouldn’t be good,” says a third. “Because then the mayor would always be seeing someone. And besides, you’re obviously a softie with bad motives. Or some kind of like spy guy.”
Finally Garibasi shows up, wearing a threadbare blazer and carrying a surveying rod.
“Hey, hey, hey,” he shouts at the toughs. “What the hell? How’d he get all bloody and naked like that?”
“We beat him up and stripped him,” says one of the toughs.
“You ignorant pigs. No wonder you’re not the fucking mayor,” Garibasi says. “This is the guy who got Heather her wedding cake.”
Talk about an awkward silence. Talk about a bunch of strapping lads blushing and hurriedly giving me my pants back, then retreating to their tents. Garibasi apologizes profusely. I get dressed.
“So what brings you out with us disgustos?” he says. “You taking vacation?”
“No,” I say. “I quit.”
“You quit that cushy gig?” he says. “You must have a screw loose. They taking applications? Ha ha! So what do you want? A little money? Food? What?”
“Whatever you can do,” I say.
“Tell you the truth,” he says, “I can’t do much. I got to think economy of scale. I got to think: What can you do for me? Fact is, nothing anymore. You got no inside connections now. Basically you’re a nobody. No offense. The cake thing, that was great. But that’s past. We’re not rich here. We’re fucking poor. You know that. You had it good for a long time. You could look out and see us struggling. But now you’re just like us. No pot to piss in. Hand-to-mouth. Wolf-at-the-door and so on. So all’s I can give you at this point is a handshake and a good-luck kick in the ass. And a bed for a week or so. A bed in a leaky tent. A tent we were going to throw out anyway.” Then he stops and looks at my wrist.
“Whoa up though,” he says. “I don’t see no bracelet, so I’m assuming you’re Normal?”
“Well,” I say. “Not exactly.”
“Christ!” he says. “I been standing here talking to a goddamned Flawed as if he had a lick of sense. Offer withdrawn. Get your infectious ass out of here and hit the road. Now. Jesus. Disgusting.”
I’m shocked. We always got along so well. In the notes he used to throw over the wall he was always saying how much he envied and admired me, and telling me long personal anecdotes about his love for his daughter. That’s why I stole the cake. That’s why I risked my job.
“Did you hear me, shithead?” he says. “What’s your Flaw, big balls of wax in your ears? No wonder nobody respects you people. Hit the road, freak. Be thankful I’m too busy to have you rebraceleted.”
I walk through the camp. Filthy babies are sitting in the mud, swatting at passing dogs. Some entrepreneur drags in a muffler and men start pounding it into sheet metal with old shoes. On the perimeter is an immaculate tent surrounded by flowers. A shrunken old woman minds a pot on a healthy little fire.
“Hello!” she says. “I can sense a hungry youngster. Come sit down and have something to eat.”
“Garibasi said I shouldn’t loiter,” I say.
“That pup,” she says. “Look at my tent and look at his town, then tell me who’s got more sense, me or the mayor. I tell him: Just because we’re down on our luck doesn’t mean we have to live like animals. But he doesn’t listen. He’s too busy having dance parties and naming dirt streets after his mother.”
She hands me a bowl made of cardboard and duct tape. In the bowl is stew. She says she got the vegetables in exchange for sewing and the meat in exchange for a home boil remedy. We eat at a table she earned midwifing. Afterwards she offers me a handmade toothbrush, then tells me to lie down so she can relax me with a soothing dulcimer melody.
“Pardon my boldness,” she says, “but the pinkness of your wrist tells me that you’re one of our Special people.”
“You mean a Flawed,” I say in a self-pitying tone.
“Flawed my eye,” she says. “There’s not a person on this earth who’s not Flawed in one way or another.”
Suddenly Garibasi’s standing in the tent doorway.
“For example,” she says. “Look at the size of this man’s rear. If that’s not a Flaw I don’t know what is.”
“Out, pal,” Garibasi says to me. “You’ve had your meal. You’ve had your pep talk from Miss Know-It-All here. Now get going.”
“You do have a whopping big bottom, Johnny,” she says, laughing. “And you have no authority over me. Only I do.”
“I got the authority,” he says. “I got the fucking authority. Trash her tent.”
The toughs pull up her stakes and dump what’s left of her stew on the ground. Her matronly bun comes loose and her white hair falls down. They stomp on her dulcimer and shred her old photos. They splinter her hope chest and break her mosquito-repellent sticks, then stand around waiting for her to go into hysterics.
“You jokers,” she says. “Do you really think you’ve damaged anything of value? I’ll have this place looking better than any of yours again in no time. How sad. How sad that men like you exist and believe yourself strong.”
“Easy for you to say,” says one tough.
“Yeah, old bat,” says another, and blows his nose on her comforter.
She gives him a look and he slithers away.
“I’m sorry, Sara,” Garibasi says. “But you have to respect my authority.”
“When you get some,” she says, “I will.”
She digs through the wreckage for a brush and reinstates her bun. Garibasi and his crew go off, whooping and playfully goosing one another.
“Now tell me,” she says. “Where are you bound, and why?”
“New Mexico,” I say. “A family matter.”
“Good God,” she says. “You Special people must stay out of the West at all costs. Believe me, I know, from bitter experience. My husband was Special. For years before he was born, his parents had been unwittingly drawing their water from a mutagenic well. Perhaps you have a similar story. He was born with a withered leg and a hearing loss, but a sweeter man you never met. Our son got the withered-leg gene only. But it never slowed him down any. He drew cartoon characters on his Flawed bracelet, played ball, wrestled, flirted with the girls. A blessing. So self-confident. So energetic. Too much so. The day he turned eighteen he left us a note: Mother, Dad, it said, I’m off to see the world. While he was gone the Thirteenth Amendment was repealed and the Slave Edict went into effect. A year later his body showed up on our doorstep in a wooden box. He looked ninety. A slaver in Alton, Illinois, had drugged him and sold him to an Idaho rancher.”
She stops to regain her composure. I awkwardly pat her age-humped back. She regards me fiercely.
“Now what makes you think you’re any different from my Addie?” she says. “Are you smarter? Stronger? Better prepared?”
“I can hide my Flaw by always wearing shoes?” I say feebly.
“Pshaw,” she says. “It’s these people’s business to know a Flawed. They can smell a Flawed coming. They eat Flaweds for breakfast.”
“She’s my sister,” I say. “I have to go.”
“Then get out of my sight,” she says in a trembling voice. “I consider you a suicide. Goodbye, dear dead boy. Our Lord has reserved a special place in Limbo for those who put an end to themselves.”
“I’ll be okay,” I say.
“No,” she says firmly. “You won’t.”
Then she turns away and starts putting her tent back together, singing “Simple Gifts” at the top of her ancient lungs.