obvious, it’s our responsibility to educate them to the idea that romancing the unknown is attended by myriad possibilities, too, shepherding them through those heady periods of urge and instinct when they think they can soar, and deliver them, we hope whole, to a place where perspective begins to reign, where they know that the groggy old bear at the zoo will instantly wake the moment you step inside the cage.
But Fan, we have come to learn, was one of our number who was well aware of perils but pushed forward anyway, not rashly or arrogantly but with what might be thought of as a kind of inner faith. And as terrified as she might have been as she lay in that room, perhaps regretting herself to the core, she had already resolved not to show any fear, no matter what was in store for her. So when footfalls approached the other side of the door, Fan tried the best she could to sit up in the sagging cot, propping herself on an elbow and lifting her head so as not to look as feeble and vulnerable as she felt. A padlock was tugged at several times and the door opened and it was Loreen, holding a plastic mug with a spoon stuck in it, which she waved before Fan. Instant oatmeal.
You’re supposed to eat.
Fan nodded.
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
But Fan, we have come to learn, was one of our number who was well aware of perils but pushed forward anyway, not rashly or arrogantly but with what might be thought of as a kind of inner faith. And as terrified as she might have been as she lay in that room, perhaps regretting herself to the core, she had already resolved not to show any fear, no matter what was in store for her. So when footfalls approached the other side of the door, Fan tried the best she could to sit up in the sagging cot, propping herself on an elbow and lifting her head so as not to look as feeble and vulnerable as she felt. A padlock was tugged at several times and the door opened and it was Loreen, holding a plastic mug with a spoon stuck in it, which she waved before Fan. Instant oatmeal.
You’re supposed to eat.
Fan nodded.
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
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