Her Smoke Rose Up Forever (S.F. MASTERWORKS) (26 page)

Left-right, left-right, her slim strong legs carry her Indian style, every bit of her feeling good now in the rain-fresh night. Not a scrap weary; she loves her tough enduring wiry body. To be a courier, surely that’s the best life of all. To be young and night-walking in the great free moonlit world. Heyo, sisters! She grins to herself, padding light-foot. Any messages, any mail?

“Of course she’s not dangerous, Officer,” the doctor says authoritatively. The doctor is a heavy, jolly-looking woman with a big Vuitton carryall parked on the desk. The haggard young man slumped in a lounger over at the side stares tiredly, says nothing.

“Jeans, green parka, knapsack, sandals. May have credit cards,” the detective repeats, writing in his notebook. “Hair?”

“Short. Just growing out, in fact; it was shaved during treatment. I realize that isn’t much to go on.”

The policeman juts his lip out noncommittally, writing. Why can’t they keep track of their patients, a big place like this? One medium-height, medium-looking girl in jeans and a parka . . .

“You see, she is quite, quite helpless,” the heavy woman says seriously, fingering her desk calendar. “The delusional system has expanded.”

“You were supposed to break that up,” the young man says suddenly, not looking up. “My wife was, I mean, when I brought her here. . . .”

His voice is stale with exhausted anger, this has all been said before. The psychiatrist sighs briefly, says nothing.

“The delusion, is it dangerous? Is she hostile?” the detective asks hopefully.

“No. I told you. It takes the form of a belief that she’s living in another world where everybody is her friend. She’s completely trusting, you’ll have no difficulty.”

“Oh.” He puts the notebook away with finality, getting up. The psychiatrist goes with him to the door. Out of earshot of the husband she says quietly, “I’ll be at my office number when you’ve checked the morgue.”

“Yeah.”

He leaves, and she walks back to the desk, where the young man is now staring unseeingly at a drift of Polaroid snaps. The one on top shows a young brown-haired woman in a yellow dress in a garden somewhere.

—Moon riding high now in the summer night, cutting through a race of little silver clouds, making shafts of light wheel over the still city. She can see where the park is ending up ahead, there’s a wreck-strewn traffic circle. She swings along strongly, feeling now just the first satisfying edge of tiredness, just enough to make her enjoy her own nimble endurance. Right-and-a-left-and-a right-and-a-left, toes-in Indian style, that trains the tendons. She can go on forever.

Now here’s the traffic circle, better watch out for metal and glass underfoot. She waits for a bright patch of moonlight and trots across to the center, hearing one faint hallucinatory screech or roar somewhere. No, no more of
that
. She grins at herself firmly, making her way around the pieces of an old statue toppled here.
That is but the owl and owlet, talking in their native language
, something
Hiawatha’s Sisters.
I’d like to talk with them in their native language, she thinks—and speaking of which, she sees to her delight there’s a human figure on the far side of the circle. What, another sister out night-walking too!

“Heyo, sister!”

“Hi,” the other replies. It’s a Midwest person, she can tell. She must live here, can tell about the old city!

Eagerly she darts between the heaps in the roadway, joyfully comes to the beautiful sister, her face so filled in light.

“Where heading? Out to ramble? I’m a courier,” she explains, taking the sister’s arm. So much joy, a world of friends. “Any messages, any mail?” she laughs.

And they stride on together, free-swinging down the median strip of the old avenue to keep away from falling stuff in the peaceful old ruins. Over to one side is a bent sign saying T
O
D
AN
R
yan
E
XPRESSWAY
, O
’HARE
A
IRPORT
. On the heading for Des Moines and points west!

“I don’t remember,” the girl, or woman, repeats hoarsely, frowning. “I really don’t remember, it was all strange. My head was really fucked up, I mean, all I wanted was to get back and sack out, the last john was a bummer. I mean, I didn’t know the area. You know? I asked her could she give me some change.”

“What did she say? Did she have money with her?” the older man asks with deadly patience. His wife is sitting on the leather sofa, her mouth trembling a little.

“I don’t remember, really. I mean, she was talking but she wasn’t listening, I could see she was behind the heavy stuff. She offered me some chocolate. Oh, shit, she was gone. Excuse me. She was really gone. I thought she was—well, she kept saying, y’know. Then she gave me all her cards.”

The man looks down at them silently, lying on the coffee table. His daughter’s married name embossed on the brown Saks plastic.

“So when I saw the paper I thought I should, well, you know.” She gets up, smoothing her white Levi’s. “It wasn’t just the reward. She . . . Thanks anyway.”

“Yes,” he says automatically. “We do thank you, Miss Jackson, was it.”

“Yes,” his wife echoes shakily.

Miss Jackson, or whatever, looks around at the woman, the man, the elegantly lived-in library; hitches her white shoulder bag.

“I tried to tell her,” she says vaguely. “She said, about going west. She wouldn’t . . . I’m sorry.”

“Yes, thank you.” He’s ushering her to the door. “I’m afraid there wasn’t anything anyone could do.”

“She wasn’t in this world.”

“No.”

When the door closes behind her, the older woman makes an uncertain noise and then says heavily, “Why?”

Her husband shakes his head, performs a non-act of straightening the credit cards, putting them on another table.

“We’ll have to call Henry, when he gets back from—”

“Why?”
the wife repeats as if angry. “
Why
did she? What did she want? Always running away. Freedom. Doesn’t she know you can’t have freedom? Why isn’t this world good enough for her? She had everything. If I can take it why can’t she?”

He has nothing to say, only moves near her and briefly touches her shoulder.

“Why didn’t Dr. Albers
do
something? All those drugs, those shocks, it just made her worse. Henry never should have taken her there, it’s all his fault—”

“I guess Henry was desperate,” her husband says in a gray tone.

“She was all right when she was with us.”

“Maria. Maria, please. She was out of her head. He had to do something. She wouldn’t even recognize her own baby.”

His wife nods, trembling harder. “My little girl, my little girl . . .”

—Glorious how bright it is now, she pads along still barefoot on the concrete median, tipping her head back to watch the moon racing above the flying clouds, imparting life and motion to the silent street, almost as if it was alive again. Now watch it, she cautions herself cheerfully—and watch the footing too, no telling what kind of sharp stuff is lying out here. No more dreaming about the old days, that was what gave her the fever-nightmares. Dreaming she was stuck back in history like a caged-up animal. An “affluent young suburban matron,” whatever that was. All those weird people, telling her. Don’t go outside, don’t do this, don’t do that, don’t open the door, don’t breathe. Danger everywhere.

How did they
live
, she wonders, seeing the concrete good and clean underfoot. Those poor old sisters, never being free, never even being able to go walking! Well, those dreams really made history live and breathe for her, that was sure. So vivid—whew! Maybe some poor old sister’s soul has touched hers, maybe something mystical like that. She frowns faintly, feeling a stab of pressure in her forehead.

Now really, watch it! She scolds herself, hoisting up the pack straps, flapping the dry parka. All secure. She breaks into a slow light-footed jog, just because she feels so good. Cities are so full of history. Time to forget all that, just appreciate being alive. Hello, moon! Hello, sky! She trots on carefully, tickled by it all, seeing a moon’s-eye view of herself: one small purposeful dot resolutely moving west. Courier to Des Moines. All alone in the big. friendly night world, greeting the occasional night-bird sisters. One traveling woman, going on through.

She notes a bad scatter of debris ahead and slows to pick her way with care through the “cars,” not wanting to put her sandals back on yet. It’s so bright—and hello! The sky really is brightening in the east behind her. Sunrise in another hour or so.

She’s been on the road about twenty hours but she isn’t really weary at all, she could go on all day if it didn’t get so hot. She peers ahead, looking for signs of the Ryan Freeway that’ll carry her west. What she’ll do is stop and have a snack in the sunrise, maybe boil up some tea. And then go on awhile until it heats up, time to find a nice cool ruin and hole up for the day. Hey, maybe she can make O’Hare! She stayed there once before, it’s neat.

She has enough rations in her pack to go at least two days easy, she figures. But she’s short on chocolate now; have to get some at the next settlement if they have it. Sweet stuff is good for calories when you’re exercising. She pads on, musing about the sister she shared her chocolate with while they walked together after the park. Such a free sweet face, all the sisters are so great but this one was especially interesting, living here studying the old days. She knew so much, all those stories, whew! Imagine when people had to sell their sex organs to the Men just to eat!

It’s too much for her, she thinks, grinning. Leave that to the students. I’m an action person, yes. A courier, a traveler, moving along looking at it all, the wonder-filled world. Sampling, enjoying, footing it over the miles. Right-and-a-left-and-a-right-and-a-left on the old roadways. A courier’s feet are tough and brown as oak.
Of all beasts she learned the language, learned their names and all their secrets. Talked with them whene’er she met them
—a great rhythm for hiking, with a fresh breeze behind her and the moon setting ahead!

The breeze is making the old buildings on both sides creak and clank too, she notices. Better stay out here in the middle, even if it’s getting narrow. The houses are really crowded in along here, all sagging and trashy. “Slums,” probably. Where the crazy people lived on top of each other. What a mess it must have been; interesting to her but rotten for them. Well, they’re gone now, she thinks, dodging around a heap of broken junk in the intersection, starting down the center strip of the next long block.

But something isn’t gone, she notices; footsteps that have been pad-padding along after her for a while are still there. An animal, one of the poor dogs, she thinks. Following her. Oh, well, they must do all right in here, with rats and such.

She whirls around a couple of times, but sees nothing. It must be scared. What’s its native language, she wonders, and forgets about it as she sees ahead, unmistakable, the misty silhouette of a freeway overpass. Hey, is that the Ryan already?

She casts a glance up at the floating-down moon, sees the sky is paling fast. And the left side of the street is passing an empty cleared place, the going looks all right there. She decides to cross over.

Yes, it’s good walking, and she settles into her easy barefoot swing, letting one last loving thought go back to the poor maddened people who once strove here, who somehow out of their anguish managed to send their genes down to her, to give her happy life: courier going west! With the dawn wind in her hair and the sun coming up to light the whole free world!

“A routine surveillance assignment,” the young policewoman, O’Hara, says carefully.

“A stakeout.” The bald reporter nods.

“Well, yes. We were assigned to surveil the subject building entrance. Officer Alioto and myself were seated in the parked car.”

“So you saw the assault.”

“No,” she says stiffly. “We did not observe anything unusual. Naturally we observed the pedestrians, I mean the female subject and the alleged—alleged assailants, they were moving west at the time.”

“You saw four punks following her.”

“Well, it could look that way.”

“You saw them going after her and you just sat there.”

“We carried out our
orders
,” she tells him. “We were assigned to surveil the building. We did not observe any alleged attack, nobody was running.”

“You see the four of them jump this girl and you don’t call that an attack?”

“We did not observe it. We were two blocks away.”

“You could have seen if you wanted to,” he says tiredly. “You could have cruised one block, you could have tapped the horn.”

“I told you we were on a covert detail. You can’t expect an officer to destroy his cover every time some little tramp runs down the street.”

“You’re a woman,” he says wonderingly. “You’d sit there and let a girl get it.”

“I’m not a nursemaid,” she protests angrily. “I don’t care if she was crazy. A spoiled brat if you ask me, all those women’slib freaks. I work. Who does she think she is, running on the street at night? She thinks the police have nothing more important to do than that?”

—Sunrise coming on sure enough, though it’s still dark down here. The magic hour. And that stupid dog or dogs are still coming on too, she notes. Pad-pad-pad, they’ve crossed over to the sidewalk behind her. Well, dogs don’t attack people, it’s just like those false wolf scares.
Learn of every beast its nature, learn their names and all their secrets.
They’re just lonesome and curious, it’s their nature to follow people. Tag along and veer off if I say boo.

She strides along, debating whether she should put her wet sandals on or whether it’s going to stay this clean. If so, she can make it barefoot up to the expressway ramp—and it is the Ryan, she can see the big sign now. Great, that’ll be the perfect place to make her breakfast, just about sunrise. Better remember to pick up a couple of dry sticks and some paper under the ramp, not much to burn on those skyways.