William Vollmann - The Atlas

Are you going to wear a dark costume? she said slyly.

Well, now, Frieda, I guess that depends.

The necktie was ready. Priscilla came into his room as he was tying it. It was red, white and blue.

That looks really stupid, she said.

I'm trying to get votes, he explained.

I want you to watch Frieda for half an hour while I fill a prescription for her, said Priscilla. And listen for the phone. She'll try to call one of two places — either the cemetery office, or else a cab to go there.

The cemetery office!

Priscilla was turning the picture face-out again.

Do you mean where Emily is buried?

Look, I wouldn't be here if it wasn't an emergency, Priscilla said.

I could unplug the phone, the councilman offered, determined to disregard her spitefulness, there being, after all, no victory that he could gain over her anymore except the one, by definition unacknowledged, of self-restraint.

Would you be so good as to do that? Priscilla said very formally.

Even as a child she'd been both severe and pompous. Closing his eyes, he saw Emily helping the small girl into a new white dress, trying not to smile while the girl gave her a lecture on how to fasten buttons. She'd loved Priscilla, who now went into the bathroom. The councilman checked his necktie again in the hallway mirror and, sighing, stepped into Frieda's room. That sad individual was biting her nails. A traffic helicopter overflew the house, so that the windowpanes buzzed, and Frieda began to laugh, her face still in her hands.

Do you have an ashtray? she said abrupdy. I have a headache. My mind has been hurting for a long time.

How long? said the councilman very agreeably, watching the summer morning pour down the sides of buildings.

Three eons. Since before Auntie died. That's why I want to work on my writing now. On my scientific theories.

Oh, said the councilman.

They're cosmic, she said, rather defensively. They're about darkness.

The councilman went to the bathroom to comb his hair one more time and make sure that he still looked good because the chauffeur was coming. Then he thought about Emily. He did not care to think about her right now. He did not want to think about Priscilla or Frieda or the parade, either, but he had to. He closed the door.

Priscilla was knocking. He hated her. He took off his glasses, wiped his eyes, put his glasses on, checked his tie in the mirror, and opened the door.

Where's Frieda? Priscilla said.

She's not in her bed?

No.

They went into the other room and stood looking at the empty bunk. The window was open.

She must have gone down the fire escape, said the councilman. Is she suicidal?

Not at this point, I think. She was excited to come here because she remembers Auntie. But I really don't know. She's changing quite fast right now.

Has she done this before?

This is the second time. I've got to do something right now.

Me too, said the councilman coolly, seeing the chauffeur pulling up.

Ladies and gentlemen, our Citizen of the Year.

The reviewing officer waved everyone along, the four horses pulling the Wells Fargo stagecoach, teenagers on top waving to the old people in their sidewalk chairs, the dog on the leash. The Citizen of the Year didn't fall off the back of his chair.

And now, isn't that wonderful! Three lovely ladies!

The councilman looked, and did not know which ladies were meant. He was in the parade now. Were they the clown girls stabbing, winking and whistling while the girls on the sidewalk grinned in wonder; or the women in sunhats sitting together on the bumpers of cars; or the girls in baseball caps and bikinis, girls of the blue-gray sea, blue-gray mountains, girls of the palmtrees like lollipops, girls of the cars and boats? He checked his tie. Then he saw Frieda in the back of the red car, which was bright as the skin of a carbon monoxide corpse. A woman in a skeleton costume sat beside her, waving an American flag at the crowd. — That lady's out to lunch, he thought. This is the Fourth of July, not Halloween. Oh, well, what does it matter? He wanted to let Priscilla know about Frieda, but she was searching at the cemetery as far as he knew, and meanwhile the Chamber of Commerce's President named the Youths of the Year, who seemed to be a pimply couple waving between stars and American flags. He'd never seen them before. A baby stretched out her hand at the councilman and he smiled and waved at the indifferent young mother. The chauffeur drove in silence, watching the speedometer, which read three miles per hour. The councilman wanted to check his tie again, but didn't. He kept looking for Frieda but all he could find was an old man bowing from a strawberry Ford, bowing toward the sea down between the trees.

Frieda! Frieda! he heard Priscilla scream. Oh, my God!

Looking right and left, the councilman saw sea air and sailboats.

Then among the quick low buttock-sweeps of cars and all the exhaust flavors, a girl's hair was curly like ferns blooming from the back of her crash helmet. It was Frieda. She grasped the skeleton's waist with one hand, the back rail with the other. Her arms were stained with dirt. Speeding in her pink shirt, she shrank into the palm of the afternoon. The councilman saw Priscilla in an Impala, chasing her. She'd almost caught up with her. The councilman saw her white sneakers, her tanned calves as she straddled the dark wheel, leaning with her hips and behind. Then he saw someone else's hand in the window of a Volkswagen Rabbit, and on the freeway the other cars gathered about her like chesspieces. Far ahead into the smoggy hills, the red tail-light winked underneath her once more, and then the grayness of other cars drowned her.

Hours after the end of the parade, Priscilla returned alone.

Lifting up Frieda's pillow, he found a sheet of paper, which read:

If I have to suffer then you are the cause. I have just as much of a claim on Auntie as you, maybe more because Priscilla says you murdered her, not that I believe her because she is also a murdering bitch but if anyone killed Auntie it must have been you because she always loved me not you. As soon as you married her she started to die. If you'd just left her alone she would have lived forever and married me. But no you couldn't live alone you murdering sonofabitch you had to have your Emily. Well don't think I can't marry her even now. I have the science to bring her back. If you need somebody why don't you latch onto Frieda because I don't want her and her blood is poison. There's darkness all around you. I'm going to find your wife.

I'm not surprised, said Priscilla later. My sister was very fond of Auntie.

Birds and poppies outside, meadows and fences inside; and that wasn't inside yet, not after the gate security check, not inside the black double doors (opened by intercom), nor the gray and white tiled anteroom. This was the "pre-release facility" — another little sneer of optimism to enliven the Angel's report; no doubt they'd name a womb the "pre-birth facility" if they could, but what about babies who were born dead? — Because there were no bars, this jail was also called the "open facility." It was about as open as its "modesty curtains" were modest. The southeast sally port led into a long clean corridor that smelled of paint.

The basic design concept is there's a center and the cells are off the center, the officer explained. What we're trying to use is internal controls, positive reinforcement. We're trying to effect a behavior change.

Why not? laughed the Angel.

The control room was high and square, with windows all around, slanted down onto the halls and the cement floors where the women sat at picnic tables or lurked in their open cubicles. The ones in orange jumpsuits were low-level felons. The ones in yellow were awaiting sentencing. The ones in blue had received clearance to go outside. There was an odor of carrots.