Gray Skies (11 page)

From the distance to his dwelling, Declan could see blood running from his father’s nose. They’d already hit him. Heat flushed his cheeks, and he found some of the adrenaline from the earlier scuffle with Harold. His knee fell sideways once, and a rattle of what felt like crushed stone turned inside, causing him to stop for a moment. Biting his lips, he held back a scream, and pushed on.

When he looked up to his dwelling, he saw his father’s balding head bounce against the wall, as one of the guards pushed him. Declan thought that he’d felt the thud of his father’s body, as he picked up his legs to run faster.

“What are you doing?” he yelled at the guards. “Let him go!” His father’s body crumpled to the ground, gasping for air. Blood trickled from his nose, and now a bruise was forming around his eye.

“Declan, no!” his father wheezed. “You don’t understand.”

The guard that had held his father against the wall didn’t say a word. He didn’t offer an explanation, or a nod of his head. Instead, he pushed his gloved hand up, gripping Declan’s neck. All motion stopped as the guard squeezed his fingers. It was stronger than anything Declan had ever felt, and, at once, the air he needed was gone, cut off from the vice grip of the guard’s hand.

“Now, you should know better than to charge an executive guard,” the guard stated in a flat tone. “I remember that they used to teach courtesy and respect in class.” Pin-lights were forming in Declan’s view as the other guards rocked their heads up and down, agreeing. Two of the guards chuckled, while the third held an objection in his expression, but said nothing.

When the world became distant, the guard relaxed his grip just enough for Declan to suck in some air. A shallow breath came to him then, dimming the pin-lights, and arresting the blackness that had threatened to close his eyes. Declan sucked in the air, and steadied his step, removing the clumsiness that had settled in his legs. He watched his father get back to his feet, and saw what it was that he held close to him: his mother’s satchel, the one that had been issued to her when she was promoted to four bands. His mother had carried that satchel to and from work every day. It was a symbol; it was authority. Only the executives in their Commune were given them, and she had carried it proudly, at first. Later, Declan thought that it had become a burden to her. Each evening, she placed it carefully in the corner of their dwelling, away from everything, leaving it alone until the next day. At times, he’d caught her standing over it, staring at it, her face empty of emotion, except for maybe disdain, leaving him to wonder if she regretted working as an executive.

When his mother and sister had fallen ill with the flu, the satchel had remained in the corner, untouched until now. His father clung to the stained sheepskin leather and leaden buckles, arms wrapped around it, protecting it.

“He’s just a boy, leave him be!” his father pleaded. “He was running to me, that’s all. He wouldn’t charge an executive guard! We raised him right. He knows better!” Declan swallowed bitter disappointment when his father loosened his clutched hands on the satchel, but he was relieved, too. Not just because the guard had released his grip, but also because he knew his mother had grown to hate the satchel. Declan gasped and choked in air. Staggering forward, he reached his father’s side, and smelled the potato juice immediately.

“He’s just a boy… my boy,” his father blubbered. His words were shamelessly broken up by the effects of the potato juice. “Take the satchel. Take the damn thing!” Declan’s father thrust the satchel from his arms, and it slapped onto the floor. A sharp sound echoed across the building. Breathing again, and with the pin-lights gone, Declan fixed his weary eyes on the guard who’d held him by his throat. More senior than the others, the guard’s square jaw held a pair of lips prisoner, while he formed a cruel smile. The elder guard sneered back at Declan’s father for having thrown the satchel to the floor. With his gloved hand, he pointed down.

“Pick it up.” A younger guard, eager to please, began to kneel, but was then stopped by the elder guard. “Not you,” he chided. “One of them. Now, like I said, pick it up!”

“Not our satchel—” Declan’s father began, but then hiccupped, and gripped his mouth, as if to hide a laugh. The elder guard’s lips pressed firmly, thinning until their color disappeared.

“I can take you both to the detention floor, no need for cause. I can do it because I want to.”

“Not our bag. Doesn’t exist, far as we’re concerned,” his father belched, his words falling on breath that reeked of potato juice. Declan wanted his father to shut up, to quit trying to prove whatever it was that he was after. Holding his hands up between the elder guard and his father, Declan stepped forward, and knelt to pick up his mother’s satchel. He brushed any dusty remains from the back of the leather bag, and placed it in the hands of the elder guard. The man’s square jaw gave up another sneer.

“You’re smarter than your old man,” he said, and then leaned forward to sniff at the air. “And more sober, too. You know, I could take your father in, but I won’t, if you get him inside. And that means get him inside, now!” Declan only nodded. When his father began to speak, Declan pressed his hand against his chest, and warned him with a shake of his head.

The guards studied the satchel, turning it over to inspect the heavy, dimpled buckles. When they were satisfied with what they’d come for, they turned, and walked away without saying another word. Declan’s father was already opening the door to their dwelling by the time the guards had left them. When Declan stepped inside, the smell of potato juice hit him, turning his stomach. Empty containers riddled the floor.

His father stopped in the middle of the room, looking around, as if he was expecting to see someone. Declan half-expected to see his mother and sister at the center table, or in the nook getting food, but their dwelling today was empty and quiet; an undisturbed space that once was home to their family. Declan’s lip quivered when he saw the picture of his sister on the table. The framed drawing sat on its side amidst empty potato juice bags; some of the offensive liquid ran along the table’s edge, a steady trickle falling to the floor.

Declan recognized the drawing immediately, and then remembered what day was coming. It was his sister’s birthday. Standing and looking around their empty dwelling, his father seemed to be waiting for his wife and daughter to appear. Declan thought for a moment that maybe his father did see them. Maybe he imagined that they were there, and he was listening to them as they talked about things that only mothers and daughters talk about. Declan wished then, that he could do the same. But they were dead, and the only thing that he heard was the sound of potato juice dripping to the floor. The emptiness of their dwelling was just a reminder of who they once were. A sudden hollowness settled inside him; he missed his family.

Firsts were hard: first birthdays without them, first anniversaries without them, and first school days without his sister. Of all things celebrated with family that first year after a loved one had died, firsts were the hardest to get through. There were many who’d joined them for his sister and mother’s cleaning, and their passing to the farming floor. They’d offered sympathies and condolences, but none of them had warned them about how utterly sad, and difficult that first year would be.

Standing and waiting for what wouldn’t be there, Declan laid his hand on his father’s shoulder, and felt him trembling. In a few days, it was going to be the first birthday since his sister’s passing. It wouldn’t be celebrated, or even spoken of, but instead, remembered as they experienced the loss all over again. A month earlier, it had been his parent’s anniversary. His father had sat alone for the first time on the anniversary of that special day that his mother had chosen his father.

His father reached to take a drink, and then hesitated. Instead, he picked up the drawing. Declan rubbed his father’s back, hoping to ease the pain that was taking a little more of him every day. Without a sound, his father turned to Declan, and embraced him. The only thing Declan thought to do was hold him, too. When his father was ready, he pulled back, and offered an awkward smile as a thank you. But his smile was brief when he saw Declan’s eye. Nearly forgotten, the swelling around his eye didn’t hurt like it had earlier, but he was sure there was enough color for his father to notice.

“Did they hit you, son?” his father asked with a shaky and concerned voice. “Did I… did I cause this?” Declan shook his head, resting a hand on his father’s shoulder.

“No, I got this one on my own,” he offered with a prideful smile. Thoughts of the guards kept the smile brief, and his eyes darted back to the table. His father seemed to shrink away from him then, ashamed and embarrassed. It wasn’t the first time that Declan had come home to empty containers strewn about their dwelling. He didn’t think it would be the last time, either. Life had changed after his mother and sister died. Declan didn’t recognize his family, anymore; he didn’t recognize his father, or who he’d become. This last part saddened him, and he wondered sometimes if the awfulness of it was possibly worse than losing his mother and sister. After all, his father was standing in front of him, and Declan couldn’t do a thing to help.

“I know what you’re thinking,” his father blurted, and quickly grabbed at some of the containers, pushing them out of sight. His father stopped then, with forfeit on his face and in his eyes. “I need it, son. I just do.” Declan pressed his lips until they hurt, keeping what he wanted to say to himself.

“Why did the guards come for Mom’s satchel?” Declan asked, changing the subject for both him and his father. “Why now?” Declan’s father stepped back; the look on his face left, as he glanced around the room again. His eyes searched the ceiling, floors, and the darkest corners.

“I don’t know,” he answered, shaking his head. “I don’t understand how the guards could’ve known that I opened her satchel.” Declan’s breath stopped for a moment. His mother’s satchel was never to be touched, let alone opened.

“Why would you open it?” Declan asked, but curiosity was already pushing the next question. He waved his hands, not caring to hear his father’s reasoning. He asked what he’d been wondering since the first day that his mother had brought the satchel home. “What was inside?”

“I didn’t think that it would matter if I opened it. I really didn’t.” His father shuffled his feet with uncertainty in his step, and then he lowered his head, ashamed. “I was just looking for…”

“You were looking for vouchers, weren’t you?” Declan finished what his father was going to say, his tone sharp and unforgiving. He picked up one of the empty containers, throwing it against the wall. “Dad, how are we supposed to eat if you use all of our food vouchers?”

His father’s posture changed, then: he raised his head, and pushed his shoulders back. Suddenly, Declan was eleven again, and was about to be scolded for having reverted to writing on the wall after using all of his parchment allowance.

“Don’t you talk to me in that tone!” his father tried to yell, but his impaired voice thinned, and his shoulders slumped. “I’m trying, son. I am. And I didn’t use all of our vouchers. I wouldn’t do that.” From the front of his coveralls, his father pulled out a few vouchers, handing them to Declan. Stamped with the Commune’s seal, the resin-coated parchment carried the warmth of his father’s pocket. Declan’s stomach growled, and he realized again that he was, indeed, hungry. His father turned an eye, and chuckled.

“Get yourself something to eat. Get yourself something good for the End of Gray Skies celebration, too. Go with Sammi, and spend it with her.”

“I think Sammi’s going to choose me today,” Declan blurted, forgetting that he was angry, or at least trying to move past their discord. His father raised his eyebrows, and his lips stretched across his cheeks, curving into a broad smile. Without a word, his father pulled him into his arms, embracing him. Declan was taken by the moment, but his hands remained by his sides. When his father’s chest heaved, and Declan heard his father whisper his mother’s name, he finally lifted his hands, and returned the hug.

“How I wish your mother and sister were here to see this,” his father choked, and then pulled back to kiss Declan’s cheek. His father’s unshaven growth felt scratchy against Declan’s face, causing him to turn his head.

“Someone needs to shave,” he answered smartly. They were quiet for a moment, and then Declan solemnly admitted, “I wish they were here, too.”

His father reached into his pocket, and handed him a square parchment. What he’d been given was perfectly flat and smooth, with corners that were sharp and pointed. The smell of it was crisp and fine, and unlike any parchment he’d ever held before. While most writing parchment was soft and pulpy, this was sturdy, and didn’t look to be washable. Declan pressed his finger against the thick edge, and watched his skin crease.

“What is this?” Declan asked, pushing against the edge until he was sure that it would cut into him. “What kind of parchment do you think this is?”

“Careful with that. It’s a hard, sharp edge, but it does bend,” his father answered, and lifted Declan’s finger. He turned his face away from the smell of his father’s breath. “Your mom called it an ‘index card’, or something like that. It came from the executive floors, and I think it is what the guards were here for.”

“But why?” Declan asked, and then turned the card over. On the other side, he found rows of numbers. But the numbers weren’t scratched in place with a writing stone, or placed there by anyone’s hand. Instead, the glyphs were formed with tapered black ink, bearing strokes that were straight, and squared, like the edges of the parchment that they had been put upon. Declan moved his thumb down the card, pausing at each row. He counted five sets of numbers, separated by thin, blue lines, and the clean off-white color of the thick parchment. He gently ran his finger over the printed numbers, feeling the small indentations and pleats. The numbers on the card had been pressed into the hard fabric, and, immediately, he wanted to know how. How could it be that a machine existed to make such a thing? Their Commune had a few machines, but nothing that could make what he was holding between his fingers. And what of the numbers? What could they mean? But what concerned him most was why his mother had this card. What his father mumbled next struck him with a sick feeling in his gut, and instilled tightness in his chest.