The Resisters Page 7

  “You hated them, too,” Ondi said.

  Eleanor stood and paced—thinking, I knew, of her years in jail. This was back when jail meant beatings and interrogations, before Aunt Nettie realized that these things left evidence that Casting Off didn’t—broken bones, in Eleanor’s case, and a ruptured spleen. She almost died and was lucky to have recovered. And it was, as she liked to say, “only three years.” But she understood that black-coding meant you were officially an enemy of the state. Any action you took would be placed in that context; any AutoJudge you faced for any reason would be set to black code. The black-coded people she had known in jail never made it out. Did Ondi realize the seriousness of what she’d done? Did she?

  “And why did you agree to come?” Eleanor went on. “Did you come just to say how angry you are? At them? At us?”

  “I came because you asked me to.” Ondi wrapped the handkerchief around her hand like a bandage.

  “And?” Eleanor glared. “Did you think we would forgive you? Mindlessly supportive people that we are. People who would knit and knit for you, people who would take any length of limits testing, even if it involved black-coding? Or is this a setup of some kind? Another favor to Aunt Nettie?”

  “I guess I came…” Ondi unwrapped the handkerchief. Then suddenly there she was—the brave and precocious girl we once knew. “I came because I knew you would understand me better than I understood myself.”

  “Because we’re a little like Aunt Nettie that way,” I said.

  “Aunt Nettie can’t tell me.”

  “You AskedAuntNettie?” said Gwen.

  Ondi flushed. “It was really stupid.”

  No one disagreed.

  “And I guess I came to see—not if you’d forgive me,” said Ondi. “But if there was a way of straightening things out. Not that I think there is.”

  “No,” said Eleanor. “There isn’t.”

  Ondi balled up the handkerchief; she looked as if she might start crying again. “I’m sorry.”

  Eleanor looked almost as drained as Ondi. “Well, it’s one thing Aunt Nettie may never get about us,” she said. “That we’re irrational and perverse. That we destroy things we love, then want to fix them. Where’s the algorithm that explains that?”

  “Homo regrettus,” said Gwen. “Isn’t that what you used to call us?”

  Eleanor gave a wan smile. “What a pleasure to realize you hear what your parents say.” And for a flickering moment it could have been the point in any of a thousand family discussions when Eleanor and I stole a quick look at each other, taking pleasure in our child.

  Ondi’s voice broke in. “My grandfather didn’t actually get up to the deck alone,” she said.

  “You helped him,” guessed Gwen.

  “He wanted to die. He really did. And those steps. It was a ladder, actually.”

  “He couldn’t have gotten up that ladder himself,” said Gwen.

  “No. He was so weak. And the blankets would’ve made it even harder.”

  “Did he take them off?”

  “He needed help with them. And that was almost the worst part. Because once I unwrapped the blankets, he was so cold. I mean, he was shaking and shaking.” Ondi shuddered. “I’ve never heard of anyone shaking to death but I honestly thought he might. That’s how bad it was. How violent.”

  “Your parents didn’t hear you?” asked Gwen—the classic teenager’s question.

  “They were asleep. Exhausted, I think. I had to warm him with my body.” Ondi smoothed the handkerchief on her knee and looked at it; beyond the fence, the geese were honking, as they often did, at a delivery drone. “He was so cold. I didn’t know a human could be so cold. He was like a fish.”

  “But you wanted him to die, too.”

  “Honestly? We all did.”

  “Because he was suffering.”

  “Yes.”

  “And because you just wanted to go back to a harbor. Which you could once you’d winnowed him.”

  “Did anyone ever tell you that you can be just like your mother?” Ondi asked—forgetting, it seemed, that Eleanor was standing right there.

  Gwen shrugged, her shoulders disappearing for a moment into the mass of her hair. “As long as you’re not talking about her aim. I mean, she’s great with a foil, but a wrecking ball has more control than she does.” Since when did Gwen know how to defuse things? I watched in amazement as she winked—knowing, too, that on another day, Eleanor would now be picking something up and throwing it, and that we would all be having a good laugh. But instead we looked at Ondi.

  “There are worse things,” I put in, “than being willing to state the cold truth.”

  And after a moment, Ondi agreed. She continued to smooth and smooth the handkerchief. “If he hadn’t jumped, I’d probably have jumped in myself.”

  “That’s how bad it was,” supplied Gwen.

  “Yes.”

  “But your parents saw it differently,” I said.

  “They thought if they could just get Grandpa back, he could maybe be saved. They said they had doctor friends from back when my dad was still a doctor himself—doctors who were the best in the world. They said they were going to call one of their famous doctor friends.”

  Gwen passed around the cookie plate. “Do they know the truth?”

  “No.” Ondi went on smoothing.

  “They must have been surprised when they woke up.”

  “They said it was a miracle he got himself up that ladder.”

  “And how could he have thrown himself off the deck? Did they wonder that?” asked Gwen.

  “Yes.” Ondi’s voice dropped, and her hands stilled, but she kept speaking. “And the truth is that he asked me to help him. It was hard to hear him above the wind, but he asked me.”

  “So you helped him.”

  “I had to. I took him to the edge, and I lifted the rope—there was kind of this rope railing. Then I guess he should have jumped, but he didn’t have to jump. The boat rocked, and he slipped. Which I almost did, too. But I caught myself.”

  “And that was that.”

  Ondi looked up from her pouf at Gwen, and nodded. “I just wish he hadn’t smashed his head against the side of the boat before he hit the water.”

  “Was there blood?” asked Gwen.

  Ondi nodded again. “The boat was rocking like crazy and hit him.”

  “It probably knocked him out.”

  “I hope.”

  “Then he wouldn’t have felt how cold the water was, right?”

  Ondi’s eyes filled with tears, which she wiped away with the handkerchief, even though it smeared her makeup and streaked the cloth. “I hope he didn’t feel that,” she said. “He was already so cold.”

  We all listened to the geese for a moment. The delivery drone was taking back off.

  “And then?” asked Eleanor, gently.

  “And then he went under. Pretty much right away. But I called, I love you! anyway. In case he could still hear anything.”

  “Even though your parents might hear you?” asked Gwen.

  Ondi shrugged. “I just really wanted him to know.”

  Gwen reached for her hand. Ondi didn’t pull away.

  “I told him when I lifted the rope up, too. Right before he went over. I said, Are you sure? And when he nodded, I squeezed his hand and said, I love you! and, Be careful!”

  “And did he say anything?”

  “He laughed. I think because I told him to be careful. It was so ridiculous. Though his hearing was so terrible, it was hard to know what he heard. Then the boat rocked and he went over. Like, he let go and right where he was standing, suddenly there was no one.” Ondi wiped her eyes some more and said again, “I wish he hadn’t hit his head.”

  “That must have been terrible,” said Gwen.

 
“Do you think he felt it?”

  “No,” said Gwen. “I’m sure it happened so fast, he didn’t feel anything.”

  “That’s good, I guess. I was going to dive in after him.” Ondi stared at the young sunflower stalk. “Like those Japanese kids—do you remember when we read about them? The ones who wouldn’t let go of their grandparents in a tsunami? But I didn’t.”

  “That was good. Because then you would have just both died. People had to train other Japanese kids to let go. Remember? They had to give them lessons. Because they couldn’t save their grandparents. They had to let go and save themselves. They had to learn. Remember?”

  Ondi nodded but then said, “That’s not why I didn’t go in.”

  “Then why?”

  “I hate to say it.”

  “You can say it.”

  Ondi wound the handkerchief around a finger. “I always hated going in after my father’s basketballs, that’s why. Like the water was just so cold.”

  “And this was going to be even colder,” said Gwen. “Is that it?”

  “I know that sounds terrible.”

  Gwen shrugged. “If you AskedAuntNettie, she’d probably say, You’re only human.”

  Ondi wound the handkerchief the other way, winding and winding. “How do sunflowers know to grow straight up?”

  Eleanor explained that, as well as how plants, it turns out, remember things. How they warn one another of drought, and more. “And now your parents still don’t know?” she asked.

  “No.”

  “But we do.”

  “Yes.”

  Finally Eleanor said, “To answer your earlier question: you came because you had something to get off your chest.”

  Ondi was crying again and wiping her eyes, but she was listening, too. It wasn’t just her face that was turned to Eleanor; her whole body was turning and lifting as if she were a child again, pretending to be a plant growing toward the sun. “I guess I just remember how you used to say there’s no direction like true north,” she said.

  “And?” said Eleanor.

  “I want you to hack me,” said Ondi. “I know it’s too late to fix things, but I want you to hack me anyway.”

  And—wishing it would change more than it would—we said okay.

  * * *

  ◆

  We had never convened a League-wide meeting before. Having organized a League playoff at the end of the second year, though, we decided to use the same location—a former college football stadium—and to employ our usual networks as well. We eschewed the word “emergency,” not wanting to alarm anyone. But we did call this an important, immediate, mandatory meeting.

  We set the time of the meeting at six a.m. And as usual, we asked that as many people swim as possible, to keep the number of boats down. Happily, for both the swimmers and the boaters, it was a calm morning. A cool morning, too, its coolness made all the sweeter for the heat that we all knew would arrive as if on robocall by noon.

  Now there was both apprehension and festivity in the air, people having brought not only breakfast foods and picnic blankets but balls and bats as well. Why not get in some practice, after all? By the time Eleanor and I arrived, the balls were flying. Never mind that you could hardly see, everywhere there was the bock of fungos hitting balls and the thud of balls being caught. Could we really have built up to twelve teams? Eleanor squeezed my hand and, with sadness, I squeezed back. A baseball league was not a person, but ahead of us did loom what our local PearlyGates would have called an EternaLoss.

  There were two long white folding tables in the middle of the field, to which everyone had contributed food to share. Mostly, though, the various teams stuck together, their blankets clustered around tarps that served as their team center. A parent having brought art supplies and stakes, above the tarps flew makeshift team flags with logos or crests or cartoons. The Lookouts, the Thistles, the Jets. The Jedis, the GoodGuys, the Rejects. The Chosen. The Alphas. The Betas. The RosyDrones. The DreadNoughts. The DingBats.

  What were they expecting? The most viral of the rumors apparently involved an illness—affecting me or Eleanor or both. Indeed, we were receiving sympathetic looks and meaningful hugs; my old assistant director, May, kept wiping her eyes with a hankie. I tried to reassure her, but as there were others as well evincing woe, Eleanor and I agreed: the sooner we commenced the better.

  We had everyone sit, brought the field to order, and, with as few preliminaries as possible, explained that someone had been playing unhacked. What’s more, we explained that while we had no proof Aunt Nettie was wise to us, we strongly suspected this to be the case, and that it was even possible we had all been black-coded.

  “We don’t know for sure,” we kept saying. “We can only surmise.”

  The barest ripple of response. But then the tops of people’s heads lit up, and as with surprising speed the sun began to pick out, first people’s eyes, and then their faces, it seemed that you could see their dawning realization. Although did they really get the seriousness of the situation? Or would you have had to have the sort of run-ins that Eleanor had had with Aunt Nettie to really understand? Well aware as most Surplus were of Aunt Nettie’s proddings, few knew her beatings; there were few signs in ordinary life of just how suddenly you could be pitched into an unremittingly brutal reality.

  A voice broke in.

  “Who was it?” This was someone from the right side of the crowd—one of the mothers, wearing what appeared to be her son’s sweatshirt. She did not shout but she spoke loudly enough for everyone to hear, and a moment later, her question was being asked from all over—echoing, even, off the walls of the stadium. Who was it? Who was it? Who? Who?

  Eleanor and I put our hands up, asking for quiet. I was bare-handed but, what with the crimson sweater Eleanor had knit for me, visible enough, I imagined. So, too, was white-haired Eleanor, in a white sweater. She wore fingerless gloves Gwen had knit for her as well, with a bright white peace symbol in their palms. Gwen, in more muted colors, stood next to us, lending moral support.

  “We agreed not to say, in return for more information,” I said.

  This was not, strictly speaking, true. In fact, Ondi had, despite her recommitment to true north, declined to be identified. As for why I nonetheless reflexively protected her, I had a mix of motives. But chief among them at that moment was a fear of the ugliness of which even a lovely group like the League was capable. For groups were that way, I believed—warm seas out of which could arise, as my mother used to warn, a hurricane. A powerful hurricane, one that can level everything you see. As for whether Eleanor was comfortable with my impromptu fib, she did not so much as look my way. Instead, she tried, as we had agreed, to focus on the consequences of Ondi’s actions rather than on Ondi herself.

  “What is most important is not who is to blame,” she said, “but what this means to each of you—how exposed you are, especially if you have ever come in for distinguished treatment by Aunt Nettie before, or have had other reason to believe you might fall afoul of black-coding.”

  She did not elaborate here—wanting to be forthright, I could see, but not wanting to scare people unduly. And, happily, if anyone had special reason for concern, he or she did not express it.

  “What matters is what you should do,” she went on. “What matters is what we should all do. Though let us say”—she looked at me as though to be sure she had license to speak for us both—“we cannot apologize more profoundly that this has happened.”

  I nodded.

  “We’re sure you’re not to blame,” said someone—we couldn’t quite see who. But there was a chorus of agreement, even as some people continued to ask, “How did this happen?” And, try as we might to steer the conversation, “Who would do such a thing?” Someone was willing to endanger us all? Someone who came and played? How could they do that? How could anyone? Who was it? Who
was it?

  Eleanor and I worked to dampen these voices but still they grew as if fed by a hidden spring. And shouldn’t this person be held accountable? Whoever it was?

  Who was it? Who was it?

  Who? Who?

  “And where were the safeguards?” May demanded, changing the tune at last. She glared at me with the same How could you have let this happen expression she had used when—how many years ago was this now?—our budget got cut. It was the same swing, too, from sympathy to accusation.

  “Someone,” I had to say then, “told this person about the League. And someone else, when assured that this person would get hacked, went ahead and signed this person up to play without checking to make sure this person really had.”

  “And so this person played unhacked?” asked May.

  “Exactly.”

  “As you had no way of knowing?”

  “Unfortunately.”

  “So then there are three people to blame,” said May. “The person who told the unhacked person about the League, the person who played the unhacked person, and the unhacked person him- or herself.”

  “As well as Eleanor and myself for not, as you say, instituting safeguards.”

  “And you know who they are,” said May. “These three other people.”

  “Two of them.”

  “And do you have non-disclosure agreements with them both, or just with the one?”

  This was beginning to feel like the sort of department meeting in which factions make a show of fact-finding when in actuality they are looking for blood. Eleanor cleared her throat.

  “I understand your need and desire to know these things,” she started to say. “But our attention is best—”

  She did not finish. Andrea had stood up and was making her way toward us, her head bent. She flashed us a quick apologetic look, then turned to the crowd.

  Not only had she taken the purple spikes out of her hair, Andrea had shaved it off altogether, and instead of an elaborately Thistle-themed outfit, she was wearing a brown men’s overcoat. Overlarge as this was and boasting all of two buttons, it seemed more to mock its pillar-of-society origins than to suggest a newly responsible self. But her manner was chastened. She spoke with her chin up and her hands in her pockets—not the fast-and-loose nineteen-year-old who had run a dangerously oblivious team but the disciplined young organizer who had launched and now operated, all by herself, a ShelterBoat.