Steve Erickson - Arc d'X

“Every once in a while you hear of someone put on report or taken in. No one seems to know if it’s an official Church zone or not.”

“That’s because the Church doesn’t know if it’s an official Church zone. According to the Church everything’s theoretically an official Church zone.” Etcher took the bottle back from her. “They’re of two minds. The first is that it’s easier to keep things under control if they try to control the zone, and the second is that it’s easier to keep things under control if they leave the zone alone.” He looked at the door. “I gather your husband doesn’t take it too seriously.”

“The only thing Gann takes seriously is Gann.”

“Will he be back soon?” Etcher asked, still looking at the door.

“I don’t know. He may have gone to the theater.”

“Where’s the theater?”

“In the Arboretum.”

“He took your daughter to the Arboretum?” The slush of the wine in his head was settling just enough for him to take another drink. “Is that a good idea?”

“It’s a good idea if Gann thinks it’s a good idea.” She said, “I don’t mind the searches. I don’t mind the seclusion from everything. Gann never comes in. Sometimes I bring Polly.” She smiled and held up the pink horse with the green hair.

He said, “I like the box.”

“What?”

“The box.” He reached over toward the black wooden box in the altar, then drew back.

“It’s all right,” she said, handing him the box, “you can look at it.” He held the box and opened it; it was empty. “I haven’t figured out what to put inside.”

He ran his fingers over the rose carved on top. “It’s very beautiful,” he said. It was voluptuous in its blackness. At that moment he could smell her next to him; he adjusted his glasses. “Where did you get it?”

“I don’t remember. I thought I had lost it, I thought I’d given it to someone. And then I came home one day and there it was.” She asked, “What’s it like up in the Ice?”

“I haven’t been in a long time. I had to leave.”

“Do you have family there?”

“Yes.”

“I guess you don’t want to talk about it,” she said.

“Everything’s white except for the forests, which are dark and go on forever. Everyone’s white, with white skin and white hair, except me. I always had the feeling it was because my hair was black that I couldn’t see, that all the color of my vision rushed up into my hair, which was the flag of my blindness.” He added, “I was in love.”

“I want to live in the Ice someday.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“Well.”

“What?”

“Just …” he shrugged. “Is that where Madison Hemings is?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “Actually, I assume Madison Hemings is dead.”

“Who was he?”

“That’s what I’ve been trying to find out.”

“But how do you know there was a Madison Hemings?”

“I inherited some money from him. The postman brought it, like the propaganda newsletter every month, or the tax bill. It’s all gone now.”

“The money?”

“It just came in the mail.”

“But how do you live?”

“With difficulty.”

“Does your husband make any money?”

“No.”

“But someone must be supporting your daughter.”

“I’ve been working on the jewelry. It’s hard when there’s Polly, she’s at that age where she wants attention all the time. She’s just beginning to figure out she isn’t a baby anymore, and she doesn’t like it. It’s easier being a baby. It’s easier being helpless.”

“But her father.”

“Her father loves her. I wouldn’t want to give you the impression he doesn’t. He wanted Polly the moment I told him she was inside me.”

“You can’t make the money and take care of the house and your daughter all at the same time.”

“It’s hard.”

“It’s not right,” he said furiously, feeling the wine.

“I’ve been thinking about trying to get a stall in the Market. Do you know how I do that?”

“You have to apply to the Church for a license, like getting a unit.”

“Would I have to go through the police?”

“One way or another the application winds up going through the police.” He said, “Perhaps I could help you.”

She said, “They think I killed a man.”

He was less shocked than skeptical, having read the police file. “You’d be in jail if they thought that,” he said.

“Maybe they aren’t sure,” she said.

“They don’t have to be sure. They can put you in jail because they’re as sure as they are unsure, or as sure as they want to be. They can put you in jail because they like the idea. They don’t like the idea or you’d be in jail.”

“I believe I did it.”

“What?”

“I believe I killed him.” She took a drink from the bottle of wine.

“Why do you think so?” he finally asked, not sure what else to say.

“I remember doing it. I’m sure I remember. I remember the knife. I know it was mine. I remember holding it in my sleep.”

“You remember a knife?”

“Yes.”

“You remember killing him with a knife?”

“Yes.”

“But he wasn’t killed with a knife.”

For a moment it didn’t register, then she turned to him. “What?”

“He wasn’t killed with a knife.”

“How do you know that?” she said.

“I saw the police file. It’s how I found you. He wasn’t killed with a knife. He was knocked over the head.”

She began to cry.

“Hey.” She continued crying, shaking her head. “I’m sorry,” he said, a little baffled.

She shook her head. “Why didn’t they tell me? Why did they let me go on thinking I’d done it? Didn’t they know how I felt?”

“Sure they knew how you felt.”

“They didn’t care.”

He felt curiously spent, having divulged to her a secret he didn’t know he had. “This is the Church we’re talking about.”

“It’s hateful.” She sat in betrayed silence.

He said, “I stole a book.”

“What?” she finally answered, preoccupied.

“They keep it locked away in a vault they never open. It’s a history book. But it’s … another history.” On the mattress he slumped beside her. “The history of our secrets.” He was suddenly tired; he closed his eyes. “The history inside us. And I stole it.” He closed his eyes, waiting for her to say something, and when she didn’t he slowly let himself go to the wine’s languid calm. He was only half aware that the glasses fell from his face. He kept waiting for her to say something. He had told her about the book because he didn’t want to leave her alone with her crime. His body was tense but he let go of that as well; he knew he was collapsing against her and he tried to hold himself back. For a moment he opened his eyes and then he shut them again.

He was only distantly aware that it had become dark around him. The light beyond the lids of his eyes went black, and he heard the clicking of the light above him in the altar room, the light attached to the string that he thought at first was a web brushing his face. In the rise and fall of her breath next to him he came to believe that, far away, he heard the sound of the sea against the cliffs. He knew he’d fallen asleep when he didn’t hear the all-clear siren but rather remembered it from moments or hours before. “It’s the all-clear,” he murmured so long after it happened that even he was vaguely aware his murmuring made no sense. “Doesn’t matter,” he told himself, “not in Redemption. Cops don’t come to Redemption anyway.”

“Redemption,” he finally heard her say in the dark, “is the Church name.”