Future Home of the Living God(34)
I eat alone, stuffing popcorn into my mouth, watching the fuzz on the television screen falter and clear, words burbling through, nothing intelligible. I’m just eager for any sort of information, I suppose, even unintelligible scrawls. I desperately miss my parents, both sets. And now I am terribly worried about Sera and Glen, for Eddy and Sweetie will no doubt have told them about my pregnancy, which will cause them to return to the city where I gather they are being hunted by the same sort of people of harrowing goodwill who are presently living in my childhood house. I can’t think what Glen or Sera might have done besides live the life they’ve always lived, but maybe that’s enough.
Dear Eddy and Big Mary and family,
I am doing very well and do not need for you or anyone to visit me, as I have got support and am feeling just fine. It was wonderful to hear from you, and I’ll write again soon. Just be sure you take good care of yourselves. Please tell me what my special saint is pissed about.
Love, Cedar
September 5
I work away at my desk before the screened window overlooking the back of the house. The leaves are a dense green and the hum and clicking chatter of bird sounds merges with my flow of thought. Then suddenly I look up. A young man. He is peering in the side window, fingers cupped around his head to block the glare from the glass. I can see the outline of his face, eager and flushed. His eyes roll, taking in the room. I can’t tell whether I’ve been seen or not. I slip from my chair and crouch underneath my desk, from which I can just see the kitchen and the back door. The knob of my yellow kitchen door slowly turns as this balloon-headed boy tries to enter. But the door is locked. It always is. Now a scrabble of voices rounds the side of the house and I catch sight of two young men. They are fair, fresh, neatly dressed in pale orange and coral-pink button-down-collar shirts. Their torsos are soft and round, the shirts are tugged hard to peg smoothly into belted and pressed blue jeans. There is a tap on my front door. I hold my breath. Silence. I creep along the bottom of the wall underneath the window, into the living room, where I can see my side of the front door.
“We know you’re in there,” one of the young men calls out in a light, cheerful voice. “My name is Clark! No need to hide. And this is Emeric! We’re friendly! Just out doing a little neighborhood survey. Didn’t you get our newsletter? The invitation?”
I suddenly think of the return-receipt letter, which in the agitation that accompanied receiving the letter from Eddy, I left on the table in the front hallway. I never looked at it. This must be what they are talking about—the letter, the invitation. Now a piece of paper slips gently under the door and slides onto the linoleum of the vestibule. I think that I hear them walk away, but I can’t be sure. I let the paper sit there. I watch it until the sun goes down.
Dear Neighbor,
Please come to a picnic! Housing records indicate that you have not yet registered with your new residential authority regarding change of address, and we are concerned about the title to your house—a possible extinguishment of title is distinctly possible. This is a chance to clear up any problems with your residence permit and to meet new friends. Food will be provided by Uniters. Please bring your driver’s license or other former United-States-government-issued enhanced form of identification, as well as proof of home ownership. September 8, 5:00–10:00. Under the tent in True Manna Park.
We’ll see you there!
Clark and Emeric
Uniters
When Phil comes home, rolling quietly up the lawn and around the back of the house, I show him the invitation and ask him where True Manna Park is located.
“I would guess it’s the park on the corner,” he says, giving me that under-the-eyebrows look I’ve come to know as the one he uses before he tells me some new piece of disturbing information.
“That’s Manito Park.”
“There’s new names,” he says. Then he informs me that two or three mornings ago everything had new names. All the street signs were changed overnight. It was a massive project, impressive. Even the streets with numbers got switched.
“They are now . . .” He stumbles. “Well, they’re Bible verses.”
“I don’t live on Boutwell Street anymore?”
“Well, you do according to the U.S. Postal Service. They’re still operating under a secular postmaster general. Otherwise, you live on Proverbs 10:7.”
Wait, I think I know that verse.
“The memory of the righteous is a blessing, but the name of the wicked will rot?”
“Yeah, pretty much.”
Phil and I sit down together on the couch, contemplating the fact that someone wants our names, which are probably classed as wicked, to rot. The blinds are closed. We are lost in confounded silence. He reaches out and puts my hand in his and folds his fingers around my fist. We have a few days to decide what to do and my mind is riffling through options. Go to the picnic disguised somehow? How? I’m really poking out now. Even I can’t deny that I’m obviously pregnant. Hiro knew immediately. Not go at all and wait to see what happens next? Run? Run where? But Phil has thought way ahead of me and come up with something different. The light is very low—just flickers of one of the candles from the two dozen boxes of votive lights that Phil swiped from the church. My couch is deep and wide, a hand-me-down from the Songmaker recreation room, soft with heavy down-stuffed cushions. Phil pushes me gently back into the cushions and then gazes at me, his face all shadows.