Four Times Blessed (18 page)

The men around me are dripping wet, and they keep breaking form to swipe the sweat from their eyes, or to pinch damp shirts away from their bodies. And they smell. Manly. Of course, the academic sector isn’t exactly known for our hygiene. I mean, when I was in school the fact that I took a bath every day caught the attention of a ridiculous amount of kids. Yup, that was me. The weird girl who took lots of baths. I didn’t mind the curious ones, but I didn’t like some of the ugly whispered reasons I’d overheard in the common room once or twice. Those stung. And the loud speeches about wasting resources were just annoying.

But after this inspection, I think everyone could use a bath. A lot of these guys won’t take one, though. That’s just how a lot of these people are. They probably don’t even smell their own stink. They’ll just wander past the closing banquet and go right back to work. 

An inspector crunches the grass at the head of my block. Even after all this time, my heart thuds faster. I think I’m dehydrated because it makes me feel lightheaded. I stare ahead and freeze, every muscle aching and burning as soon as I hit the correct pose. The sweat dribbles over my skin, clawing and itching as it goes.

I stop breathing when the inspector moves into a row a couple ahead of mine. That’s good. If he does that one for his close inspection, then he won’t come to mine. I want to close my eyes and let the relief wash through my steaming body. I don’t, but this makes a dark haze fall over me, and I do feel cooler.

“You,” the inspector says. He lifts his marker and prods a man in the chest. The man chokes and hits the dry grass on one knee. “Join the collection at the bell tower at dismissal.”

“You. You. You. You. What is wrong with you people?” He prods another man, right in the sky blue sweat spot under his arm, and the academic drops heavily onto his backside.

Glinting, he rasps, “You represent your country! You are the best of the best! People see you, and think that! And you all look like a bunch of slobbering dogs!” He whacks downward, connecting with a middle-aged lady’s shoulder. She cries out into the ripe silence, and it carries through the field, right up to the cement walls.

Then the inspector turns right around that row and marches up the next one, poking each person. The man in front of me crumples to his knees, and I feel exposed, nothing between me and the inspector. My heart thunders away as he continues.

He turns down my row. Now he’s talking to himself, and seems to be randomly winging the marker around. He gets one, then two men, but he misses most. People are ducking. Then he’s on me, and his arm is in the air.

“Hair,” I hear him say, and there is a fierce sting on my ear. It’s a reflex when I cringe and crumple, disconnecting from the bolt that felt so much thicker than the marker itself.

The pain’s gone, then, drained away, just barely swirling around the rim of the pool it made and left so quickly. My ears ring and it’s so hot, I want to throw up. I start pretending I don’t.

The inspection doesn’t go on for much longer after that. Those who have passed go to the side buildings for refreshments and closing ceremonies, while the ones who were flagged are rounded up around the base of the main tower.

I stand there as my section breaks. I’m not sure which of those groups I should be in.

In the shade, I rub the gooseflesh under my sleeves as a white haired man talks into a microphone and his voice comes from all around the courtyard. He starts announcing violation numbers and the corresponding work detail groups.

I bite my lip. Hair is a violation, yes. But it’s not a number, is it. So it’s really not my fault. I enter the main tower through the maintenance entrance in the back, ignore the men in aprons that are smoking, and dart down to my lab.

I make it to the main floor at my usual time, but it takes ten minutes for me to get out the door. There’s a traffic jam in the lobby. A repeating announcement. Workers roll in cardboard boxes and peel them open, punctuating the announcements with their long rips.

             
They’ve delivered us dinner. The packed lobby rolls forward, and I’m lucky to snatch a water bottle and a meal bar before being extruded into the courtyard.

             
“Orders are to go straight to your barracks. There was an incident in the courtyard and the area is restricted until further notice. Dismissed.”

              I have to stay in the women’s barracks that night. At least there’s an elevator. As I’m washing up, I hear what happened. I guess a young military man on a disciplinary work detail climbed over the plate glass in the belfry and he jumped. When I walked past earlier, all I saw was lots of officers standing around, and trucks parked on the grass, but I guess they had to do a whole investigation and they couldn’t disturb the body for a while.

             
It’s even mentioned on the national news half-hour, with the main anchors taking over the weather report by questioning the meteorologist, who is here somewhere. I’m glad of this because at least my zizi will know I’m ok and that I just got held up.

A lady from communications-broadcasting tries to start a conversation with me during the commercial break, but I shrug and get into bed. She turns around and goes on and on with some other woman, though, so it’s impossible for me to actually sleep until they’re done.

             
It’s with an aching elbow and a headache that I finally get off base and start the walk home the next morning. I follow the decline head on through the woods instead of rambling around in circles on the path, just wanting to get into my own bed as soon as possible.

A few minutes later, I stop. My ankle is itching something fierce. There’s a white bump in the middle of a red splotch. Spider bite, I bet. Stupid of me to go through the underbrush like this. I probably have tics all over me.

To make things even better, I come out way down the road and have to backtrack, uphill, to the meetinghouse. We call this road the old walls path, as two old rock walls slither along either side of it.

There’s also the creek path, the well path, the wetlands path, the circle on the green, the path down (of which there are about five depending on who you talk to), the one along the beach, the north side ones, and the little trail i.e. the path that goes up to the base. Those are just the names that people are in the habit of using. Of course, a lot of the time someone will come up with their own name, and then they’ll get someone else lost on some deer trail out in the woods.

              I drag myself through the middle of the green instead of going around on the circle. It’s overgrown, but I already have to check myself for ticks so a few more won’t make a difference.

             
I walk in the front doors and consider taking a nap right there.

             
“Sweet Lord, honey, go check yourself for ticks. I saw you walk right through all that grass. What were you thinking?”

             
“Nothing. I was already doing that.”

             
“I was just reminding you.”

             
“Ok.”

             
“Ok, then.”

             
I trudge across the meetinghall, “Can you not run the water, zizi? I want a bath before I go back.”

             
“Fine. You look awful, by the way. But when you do go again, take one of your cousins. I don’t want you running around the island by yourself now that you’re engaged.”

             
She’s still grumbling to herself when I finally get out of her sight at the top of the stairs. I go into the bathroom and strip all my clothes, checking each fold and crease for little black specks. Then I spend a long time with the handmirror checking my back and my underarms, the backs of my knees, between my thighs, under my breasts, my neck, all the warm places ticks love.

Then I scratch my fingers through every millimeter of scalp, shivering while I imagine them crawling all over my head. Getting so full of blood that they feel like fresh corn kernels when you do find them. Giving you lyme disease. All those little legs flailing while their faces are clamped onto you, sucking. Uck.  

              I find three of the little puppies, and I crush the living daylights out of them with one of my zizi’s decorative shells. Then, while I bathe, I give them a bath too, drowning them in a cup of water for about ten minutes, and pouring them out the window for good measure. You have to make sure they’re dead or they’ll just come back and suck on someone again.

             
I tear up while I’m waiting for the ticks to drown, keeping a close watch just incase any decide to come back to life and make a break for it. One reason is because the tepid bathwater feels so good, slurping all the itchy July heat out of my body. Also, I’m thinking about the young man that’s dead. Which is silly of me, because I didn’t even know him.

             
I decide I am so not putting this tick-infested uniform on ever again, so I dodge across the hall into my room as I am. It must be later in the morning, because there are lots of voices rising up the stairs, but maybe I’m just being paranoid because I’m naked.

             
I open my closet. And throw on a sundress. I open a dresser drawer, take out my slate, and code my attendance record to show I’m out doing fieldwork today.

I want to go out somewhere. I’ll visit Cassie, I decide, slipping on my sandals. She’s just who I want to see right now. I can tell her I’m miserable and she won’t even mind it, and then we can talk about mindless things and have some snacks and maybe play a card game.

I dart through the kitchen full of people before anyone can say anything to me. I run all the way- around- the green and down the stonewall path. We keep each other company until we remark that we can’t believe the stars are still out. She gives me a big shirt to change into, and we sprawl out over the covers on her bed. She settles in so easily. I just can’t help myself. I tell her I found five ticks on myself today.

“Aaah!”

She tumbles right off the edge.

The next day is the second Saturday of July. There’s a party today because a while back nobody’s birthday was in July, and people felt strange going so long without a birthday party, especially with the nights being so beautiful apart from the bugs, so it’s become a tradition to decide the weekend before that the next weekend we’ll all meet up for supper down at the one spot on the beach with actual sand.

It’s barely dawn when I walk in to the smell of onions and something astringent. I scrunch up my nose and find my zizi chugging around in the back.

              “What are you cooking?”

             
“Pasta salad for tonight, you want to taste?”

             
“No, it smells really disgusting,” I say without breathing.

             
“What? No it doesn’t.” She sniffs, then nods in confirmation. “Things smell bad when you’re pregnant, you know.”

             
“I’m not pregnant.”

             
“I know, I know. I’m just telling you for later. Now you know what it’ll be like.”

             
“I’ll get a gas mask before I get pregnant, if this is how it smells. Ugh, I think I’m going to throw up.”

“It’s really not that bad. If you can’t stand it then don’t stay in here.”

“I’ll still be able to smell it,” I groan, rolling my forehead on a countertop.

“You just have to take your mind off it. Go milk the cows for me. I also need someone to feed them. Then go smell some flowers or something, for your delicate little nose. Then you can…”

“Ok, ok, I’m going.” I roll my eyes as I make my way to the back door.

“I’m just trying to help you, sweetheart. I have lots more ideas for what you can do if you get bored again. Now, are you going to the barn or not? Because I need some of that milk. Oh! Take someone with you. Sal, go!”

I pretend I didn’t hear that last part and hope my cousin Sal is no more awake than he looked. Instead, I slip to the door, still barefoot and in Cassie’s shirt, hair already sticking to my pinkened neck in the thickness.