Vox(46)

“Morning, Dr. McClellan,” he says.

“Good morning,” I say.

“Aw, don’t waste your words on the likes of me, ma’am. I’ll understand.”

I hold up my wrists. “Temporary reprieve, courtesy of the president’s brother.”

“I don’t get you.”

“I’m back at work. And we’ll be needing subjects for our clinical trials.”

He processes this. “Well. That’s some fine news. Can I tell Sharon? That’s my wife.”

“Sure.”

“She’ll be so happy. My ma always treated Sharon like one of her own.” His face darkens. “I know she’ll have to wear one of those counters, but still. A hundred words a day is better than nothing, right?”

“I guess it is,” I say, unsure whether I agree. I’m trying to read the return addresses on the envelopes he’s carrying, but he’s holding them close. “Do you think your wife might want a babysitting job? I’ve got a little girl, and the people who were watching her—well—they’re unavailable.”

“I think we can work something out.” He lifts the metal flap and peers inside the locked box. “Ah. Outgoing mail today. Just a sec.” From the ring of keys on his belt loop, he takes a newish-looking silver one, with teeth in a pattern I haven’t seen before except on the set of keys Patrick carries around. The box hinges open, and he takes out a single envelope, carefully covering with his palm the area where the address would be. He locks the mailbox again and, almost as an afterthought, lets the letters in his hand slide through the metal mouth.

“You Pure, Dr. McClellan?” he asks, blinking his eyes three times before raising them to the camera trained on our front door. A reminder.

I shake my head. It isn’t much of a shake, only a slight move to the right and the left. Slow, but definite, enough to get the message across.

“Hmph,” he says. “Well, lemme call the wife and see what we can do about taking care of your girl. What’s her name?”

“Sonia.”

“Pretty name.” He speaks a few words into his watch, which beeps once when he’s finished. “Sharon, darlin’, I got that lady doctor here in AU Park who needs a little help with her baby girl. How ’bout I send her on over to the house in a while?” Another beep, and he ends the call. “Heh heh. Blink once for yes, twice for no, remember?”

I have zero idea what he’s talking about.

“Okeydokey. I best get on with my route. When you see Sharon, you tell her I said I’ll be home a little late today. Gotta take an extra shift, make a bit more jingle, keep the home fires burning and all that garbage. Know what I mean?”

“Sure,” I say, although I’m beginning to think Mr. Mailman and I speak mutually incompatible languages. “And I’ll make sure I leave my number for you so we can set up Mrs. Ray’s appointment.”

He scribbles on a scrap of glossy advertising flyer. “Hate these things. Everybody hates the Valpaks. Can’t stop ’em, though. Anyway, here’s the address. Sharon’ll be expecting you.”

I take the folded scrap from his hand. “Thanks. Be in touch soon.”

And he’s off, back down the gravel driveway, dodging puddles and whistling to himself. It’s a curious whistle, not really a song, but tuneful all the same, and there’s a touch of familiarity in it.

When I get inside, Sonia is still watching her cartoon.

“No, honey. Let’s turn this off for a while.”

“No!” she squeals.

There she is, Julia King, up on the screen in the time it takes me to locate the remote. She’s in a drab gray smock, long-sleeved and down to her ankles, even in this heat, and her hair is cut, which I don’t remember them doing to Annie of Mr. Blue Pickup Truck fame, but maybe they’ve changed something, introduced a new brand of humiliation into their ritual. Reverend Carl stands beside her, sober and sad, and begins reciting the relevant bits from the Pure’s manifesto.

“Look you not on your own self, but on others, as Christ did in taking upon himself the form of a servant, obedient unto death, even the death of the cross.”

And:

“If you suffer for righteousness’ sake, happy are you. For it is better, if the will of God be so, that you suffer. For this affliction, which endures but for a moment, is your key to eternal light and glory in the kingdom of heaven.”

Blah blah blah blah blah.

Sonia sits up, even more attentive than she was when the cartoons were on. “Julia?” she says.

I lie. “No. Just a girl who looks a little like her.” And I click the television off as Reverend Carl begins another of his rants.

“Come on—let’s get you ready. We’re going to see some new friends today.”

I do three things. First, get Sonia to brush her teeth for more than five seconds. Then I run to my own bathroom and spill toast and tea into the toilet. Then I unfold the scrap of advertising material my mailman gave me and read.

There’s an address. Also, a note.

Don’t be too surprised.





THIRTY-EIGHT




Sharon Ray’s house is more barn than actual house, a weathered wood structure that looks as if someone has beaten it with a giant ugly stick.