Well, you going to or not?
Fan leaned over and picked up the mug and slowly ate, twisting in the cot so she could take half spoons of the gruel. It was tepid and only partly reconstituted, certain flecks of oats hard-edged and dry, but it had a flavoring, if stale, of maple brown sugar, which made her mouth water and the swallowing easier. Loreen lit a hand-rolled cigarette and stood over Fan as she smoked, her arms crossed over her ample bosom. She wore loose blue jeans and a gray-colored sweatshirt that matched the long, untidy strands of her graying hair. She was heavier than she had appeared the night before, which was undoubtedly surprising to Fan, given the fact that all counties people were supposedly underfed, very thick about the hips and thighs, and with a fleshy face that made her look much younger than she was. Her eyes were a pretty marine blue and she might have been pretty generally but her nose was misshapen and pointed well off center and this lent her a skeptical aspect, as it appeared she was literally looking at you sideways. And then her harsh, threshing voice made her seem preternaturally irritated, angry.
I told him I wasn’t going to feed you. This isn’t some fancy facilities health clinic, you know. It’s not like everyone gets to stay here. I don’t know why he’s letting you.
Fan couldn’t understand what she was talking about but she kept eating anyway, glad now for the food. The nourishment stirred life in her veins and the more she ate the hungrier she got and she finished the oatmeal quickly, scraping out the last gluey streaks until Loreen took the mug from her and went to leave. Fan told her she needed to use the bathroom right away and Loreen said she’d find something Fan could use so she had better not soil the cot, unless she wanted a whipping. The door shut with a bang and was padlocked from the outside, and who could blame Fan for wanting to cry at that moment, being frightened of course by this gratuitous aggression (which is most uncommon in B-Mor) but also now longing for the comfort of her row house, where you were never alone for all the clan occupants.
For if she did not long particularly for her parents or siblings (or cousins or grandparents or aunts and uncles), she missed them in sum, for their constant and interchangeable array. They never much talked to one another at the table, or while watching their programs, or sitting in the yard on their free-days, but that didn’t matter now. Do not discount the psychic warmth of the hive. And Fan finally succumbed and cried, fiercely and silently, half ashamed at herself for doing so, half wanting to devolve into a mere cluster of cells, something simple enough that were she to disappear even she might not notice the moment of demise.
After a while, Fan realized Loreen was not returning anytime soon. She desperately had to pee and she scanned the room for any suitable container. On a shelf near the door were some partly used cans of paint and on top of these was a roller tray that she could probably reach, at least if she stood. Fan drew the blanket aside and examined her splinted leg, undoing the bandages within the structure as gingerly as she could, noting how he had wound them so she could redo them herself. Once exposed, her leg looked horrid with a multihued bruise of muddy purples and reds covering most of her left thigh, its shape very much like Australia as it curled about her limb. In school they had briefly studied the origins of the continents, and while Australia wasn’t one of them, the teacher had made a point of likening it to B-Mor, this substantial land that had detached from the rest and become a self-sustaining island, and here it was, tattooed on her leg, this sign of what might as well be a thousand miles away.
She probed the bruise with her fingers, pressing until it hurt, surprised to find that it was not as fragile or tender as she feared. When she twisted her leg, the pain was still searing but she could lift it several inches without too much discomfort. Slowly she swung her legs onto the floor and then bent her good leg and leaned forward and up and onto it, attempting to find her balance. She faltered and had to let herself down on the edge of the cot. She tried twice more before finally being able to stand on her good leg alone. When she tested the other, it was okay, until she tried a normal stance and then it hurt too much; she had to lean on one side of the splint to brace herself, hobbling across the room. She reached as high as she could on the shelf and barely grabbed the roller tray, but it hooked a can of paint, which came down with it as well, nearly landing on her foot. The top popped off and glaring yellow paint — the kind used for marking lines in roads — spewed onto the wood floor. Though it was pointless to be careful now, she crouched as much as she could with a splinted leg, holding the tray beneath her as she pulled her underwear to the side. And in a sweet whoosh she let it all go; it seemed she was relieving herself forever as she stared at the shimmering paint thrown out in the pattern of a seal’s flipper, fully extended, racing through the waters, and all at once she was crying again, in what seemed to her an equally ridiculous deluge. She couldn’t stop either flow, as hard as she tried she couldn’t, even when the padlock chocked and the door swung in to reveal Loreen holding an old green plastic beach pail, her fetching eyes shouting murder. Before Fan could take another breath, Loreen stepped forward and struck her across the cheek with the pail, sending her hard to the floor in a clatter, dismantling the splint and upending the tray and splaying Fan in her own warm, odorous water.
You little bitch! Look at what you’ve done! What a goddamned mess!
Fan, however, could not look, being momentarily blinded by the attack. And when her sight returned, all she could see were the woman’s pudgy, unpainted toes poking out from her rubber sandals, these mini-Loreens traveling pendulously to and fro before they struck, too, in the chest and shoulder and now on her arms, with which she was trying to shield her face. Fan had almost given up, not knowing anymore if she was asleep or awake or dead. But then the blows ceased, and Loreen was down on all fours beside her, and she saw Quig, looming high and wraithlike above them, a long white wand in his hand, its red tip two-pronged. He seemed to have stepped right out of a fantastical movie, like he was one of those warlocks but without a special hat.
I told you, he said softly. Be gentle.
Oh, screw you, Loreen rasped through her teeth. Screw you.
He extended the wand and touched her on the back of the neck. She bucked and stiffened, and then pitched forward, face-first, right in Fan’s puddle.
He said, with calm, Be gentle.
5
Those first few weeks Fan was gone were a quiet period in the neighborhoods of B-Mor. Naturally, as after Reg disappeared, there was the background noise of rumors and gossip, even some mad talk in certain quarters about a conspiracy to make it appear that Fan had willingly left but was actually sent away; of course, the posted video clips dispel that notion, though they say even those can be faked and made to look absolutely real. And we know why some wish to believe it was totally contrived; for it’s much easier to subscribe to various outlandish theories than confront the reality of her departure and what that might say about B-Mor and its ways.
But we will note once again: B-Mor is not perfect, nor was it ever meant to be. It was not a promise of anything to anyone. Yes, our women and children can walk about at night without any fear of assault; yes, there is always enough wholesome food to eat and clean water to drink, with our special celebrations, such as weddings and funerals, graced by lavish spreads; yes, we can count on steady employment if we are sound of mind and able-bodied, and expect a reasonable level of care if we are not; yes, we live in a kennel of our own blood, even if thoroughly mixed after numerous generations, which offers, during the fiercest storms, the most reliable shelter.