Then Ruby rides the elevator with Temple up to the sixteenth floor, where Temple’s room is, a little office with a mattress on the floor and a table with a lamp and an artificial plant.
The bathroom is down the hall by the elevators, Ruby says apologetically. We have to share.
Thanks, Temple says. For the soda and the nail polish and the food and everything.
You’re very welcome. I’m glad you’re here with us. We’ll take care of you, Sarah Mary.
Temple says nothing. She tries to imagine staying here, in this place, with these people, and she is surprised to find the idea is not entirely objectionable to her. She wonders if this means she is growing up.
Oh and one more thing, Ruby says. You can go pretty much anywhere here, but it might be a good idea to avoid neighborhood four. That’s where most of our men stay, our unmarried men—the ones who go out patrolling—the ones who brought you in today. They’re very nice men, most of them, very considerate and gentlemanly. But sometimes when you put them together they can get a little rough. I don’t want you to get the wrong impression about us, that’s all. We’re a nice community.
Then Ruby leaves, and Temple finds herself alone. She locates the bathrooms—there’s a communal one, but she enters the single next to it, the one meant for wheelchairs. She puts her gurkha knife on the edge of the sink and strips down to nothing and has a good wash with the cloth and towel Ruby has given her. Then she puts her head in the sink, letting her hair soak in the hot soapy water for a long time. Afterward, she combs it out and looks at herself good and hard in the mirror.
Blond hair, lean face with long eyelashes framing two bright blue eyes. She could be pretty. She tries to look more like a girl, holding herself in the way she’s seen girls do, pouting out her lips and lowering her chin and raising her eyebrows. Her little breasts aren’t much of anything, and her bottom is flat—but she has seen glamorous women in magazines with bodies like hers, so she supposes it’s all right.
She dresses again with the new underpants Ruby got for her. They are cotton with roses all over them. Ruby also got her a brassiere, but she doesn’t put that on.
Back in her room, she paints her fingers and toes cotton candy pink—but she is sloppy and doesn’t have much patience so it gets all over her skin. Then she stretches herself out to let her nails dry and looks through the window at the darkening sky. The lights of the city come on as she watches. Some of them are on automatic timers, she supposes. But a few are real people like her.
She gets right up to the window and sees her breath cloud the glass, and she says good night to the sunlit world and feels the intense gravity of sleep press down on her, so she lays down on the mattress and puts her palms together and whispers a prayer and listens to the low hum of the building until her mind goes wide and dreams take her into the vast mazy open.
THE NEXT day she walks the buildings, smiling politely at the greetings she receives from the residents. They are happy to see a new face, they are happy to have their ranks swelled by one—another brick in the bulwark against the tide crashing against them from the outside. Some of them tell her stories of where they came from, the older ones spinning yarns about the world before. She has heard many versions of this story, but mostly they involve children riding bicycles down tree-lined streets in the afternoon. Picnics in parks. Going to grocery stores and meeting friendly people. Or camping trips without a care in the world except mosquito bites.
These stories have always sounded suspect to Temple—gilt-dipped in nostalgia. In her own experience she’s learned that happiness and sadness find their own level no matter what’s biting you, mosquitoes or meatskins.
She offers to help in the kitchen, where a bunch of women are making what seems to her an elaborate meal. They tell her she can crack a bowl of eggs—they have chicken coops and gardens on the roofs—but when they see how long it takes for her to pick out all the shells from the bowl they shoo her away, telling her just to relax and get acquainted. She can help in the kitchen another time.
That night she goes to the conference room that they’ve set up as a theater, and she sits in the dark with everyone else and watches an old movie they are projecting on a big screen. It’s a movie about spaceships and planets that look like deserts, and she watches, and a girl next to her hands her a bowl of popcorn and she takes some and passes it along.
The next day, though, she gets bored and antsy. She looks out the window on the third floor and watches the patrol leave the building and wind their way down the street like a tactical serpent. She likes the way they move, those men, like one body with many parts.
She can’t sleep that night and strolls the silent corridors of the buildings feeling her insomnia like a disease.
When the silence becomes too much, she walks over the footbridge to building four, where she finds the men playing cards for pills. They are on the sixth floor, gathered in a large space that takes up two floors and amplifies in echoes all their sharp laughter and gravel voices. The lobby of some company headquarters, she supposes, some monolithic company that used to occupy multiple floors in the building.
At first the men look at her begrudgingly, as though she were an augur of their own embarrassment for themselves. The boisterous laughter dies down quickly as they, one by one, notice her. Then she says:
Go on. I can’t sleep is all. I ain’t here to gum up the works.
So the game goes on, tentatively at first, then building in volume and vulgarity as they lose their suspicion and forget her presence altogether. She likes the smell of their cigarettes and the clink of their liquor bottles and the crude language that tumbles like quarry stones from their hairy lips. New men arrive, coming in from night patrols, and she watches them go through a metal reinforced door off to the side carrying pistols and AR-15 rifles and 20 gauges and come out again with their hands empty. Then they go to a table set up like a bar where a man with an apron pours them drinks.
Louis, the patrol leader, finds her.
How do you like the game? he asks.
I’m studyin it up, she says. It’s like poker with a little pooch mixed in.
Pooch?
It’s a game I used to play when I was little.
You following it?
Like I say, I’m studyin it up. What’s in the pot?
Uppers. Sleeping pills. Some painkillers. Speed mostly.
Uh-huh. Where’s a girl get some currency like that?
You want to play?
I could go a hand or two.
Louis laughs, a big friendly laugh. Then he digs into his pocket and takes her hand and slaps three blue pills into it.
Hey, Walter, he says to one of the men at the table. Why don’t you take a break. Shorty here wants to sidle up.
The men laugh and she takes her seat, saying, I don’t know what’s so sidesplittin. Any moron can turn a card.
Oooh, they say.
She loses one of her blue pills on a bad first hand, but ten hands later they give her a Ziploc baggie to carry away her winnings. Three Nembutals, five Vicodins, twelve OxyContins, seven Dexedrines—and four Viagras she uses to repay Louis for fronting her.
What’s your name again? Louis asks.
Sarah Mary.
Well, Sarah Mary, I’m impressed. I’m impressed as hell.
All right, then how bout lettin me patrol with you all tomorrow?
He laughs again, jolly and warm.
You’re something else, he says. But why don’t you let us handle the dirty work?
From what I seen, you keep pretty clean.
Sarah Mary, let me buy you a drink.
He sits her at the bar and gets her an ice Coke, and she stays there awhile watching the game until that skinny rodent of a man, Abraham, comes in and sits down on the other side of her and begins getting his eyes all up under her clothes again. And he’s with someone big who he introduces as his brother Moses, and Moses shakes her hand and nearly breaks her knuckles in his big fist—and the two of them together look like the before and after of some kind of growth serum. Moses isn’t interested in talking. He sits at the bar and drinks and looks straight ahead like he can see through to the ugly other side of everything. He’s no man to be dallied with, she knows. She’s seen men like him before, dangerous because they’ve already come back from places these other, convivial men have never been, and the souvenirs they bring back from those places exist everywhere in them, in their wet ruddy eyes and under their fingernails and in the dark patina on their very skin.
Moses just sits and stares, but his brother Abraham wants to talk, starts telling her about this girl that one of the other men nearly choked to death because she teased him and got him into one of the storage rooms and wouldn’t let him have any. And when he says it, his tongue slithers across his lips, and she can see spittle dried white in the corners of his mouth.
So she gets up and goes to the other side of the room and sits on the edge of a marble planter and watches the game and tries to ignore Abraham’s gaze, which she can still feel wanting to bite on her.
Fifteen minutes later, one of the men at the game accuses another of pocketing pills on the ante, and a fight breaks out, the two men clawing at each other over the tabletop and others trying to hold them back, until the table is overturned and a colorful spray of pills scatters across the marble floor and a wild grab is made for whatever anyone can get.
Temple’s seen enough, and she leaves the lobby and climbs many flights of stairs—until she’s out of breath—to a dark quiet floor where she can feel a curious breeze that she recognizes as authentic night air and not just the recirculated air from the ventilation system. She follows the breeze until she finds the source—a hole in the building itself. At the back of one of the wide-open office spaces there’s one set of windows, floor to ceiling, about eight feet wide, that has been broken out entirely. There are some chairs set up in front of the hole. An observatory.
There’s no one around, so she goes to the hole and, bracing herself with both hands, looks out across the rooftops of the city. She must be twenty-five stories high, and it makes her dizzy, but she forces herself to look anyway. Down there, in the yellow pools of the streetlights that are not yet broken or burned out, she can see them moving lethargically, the dead, without direction or purpose. They move, most of them, even when there’s nothing to hunt—their legs, like their stomachs and their jaws, all instinct. She raises her gaze and her eyes blur teary in the cool wind and all the lights of the city go wild and multiple, and she wipes her eyes and sits in one of the chairs and looks out beyond the periphery of the power grid where the black rolls out like an ocean. It’s a place she knows—knows beyond the telling of it.