“They can’t take us,” Art whispers to me, and his face is so sure, so certain, that I believe him. Of course they can’t take us, we have Judge Crevan sitting in our home for dinner. We are practically untouchable. This helps my fear somewhat, but then anxiety turns to the poor, unfortunate person they are targeting. This surprises me, because I’ve always believed that the Flawed are wrong, that the Whistleblowers are on my side, protecting me. But because it is happening on my street, at my front door, that changes. It makes me feel it’s us against them. This illogical, dangerous thinking makes me shudder.
The van doors slide open, and the whistles sound as four uniformed Whistleblowers leap out, wearing their signature red vests over black combat boots and shirts. They blow their whistles as they move, which has the effect of numbing my mind and stopping me from being able to form a single thought. In my head is just panic. Perhaps that’s the intention. The Whistleblowers run, and I stand frozen.
FOUR
BUT THEY DON’T run to us; they go in the opposite direction, to the Tinders’ house.
“No, no, no,” Dad says, and I can hear the surge of anger in his voice.
“Oh my God,” Juniper whispers.
I look at Art in shock, waiting for his reaction, and he stares ahead intently, his jaw working overtime. And then I notice Mom and Bosco still haven’t joined us outside.
I let go of Art’s hand and rush back to the door. “Mom, Bosco, quick! It’s the Tinders!”
As Mom races down the corridor, hair from her chignon comes loose and falls across her face. Dad acknowledges her and shares a look that means something to the two of them, his fists opening and closing by his side. There is no sign of Bosco joining us.
“I don’t understand,” I say, watching as they approach Bob Tinder. “What’s going on?”
“Shh and watch,” Juniper silences me.
Colleen Tinder is now in the front yard with her dad, Bob, and her two little brothers, Timothy and Jacob. Bob stands in front of his children, blocking them, protecting them, puffing his chest up and out against the Whistleblowers. Not his family, not his home, not tonight.
“They can’t take the babies,” Mom says, her voice sounding slow and faraway, so that I know she is right here and panicking.
“They won’t,” Dad says. “It’s him. It must be him.”
But the officers walk straight by Bob, ignoring him, ignoring the terrified children, who have started to cry, and waving a sheet of paper in his face, which he stalls to read. They enter the house. Suddenly realizing what is happening, he tosses the piece of paper in the air and chases after them. He shouts at Colleen to look after the boys, which is a hard task because they’re starting to panic now, too.
“I’ll help her,” Juniper says, making a move, but Dad grips her arm tight. “Ow!” she yelps.
“Stay here,” Dad says in a voice I’ve never heard him use before.
Suddenly there’s screaming from inside the house. It’s Angelina Tinder. Mom’s hands fly to her face. A slip in her mask.
“No! No!” Angelina wails over and over again until, finally, we see her at the door, held at both sides by a Whistleblower. She is almost ready for our dinner, wearing a black satin dress, pearls around her neck. Her hair is in curlers. She is wearing jeweled sandals. She is dragged from her home. The boys start to scream as they watch their mother being taken away. They run to her and try to reach her, but the Whistleblowers hold them back.
“Get your hands off my sons!” Bob yells, attacking them, but he’s pushed to the ground, pinned down by two large Whistleblowers as Angelina screams wildly with desperation not to be taken away from her babies. I have never heard a human cry out like that before, have never heard a sound like it before. She stumbles and the Whistleblowers catch her and she limps along, the heel of her shoe broken.
Bob shouts at them from the ground. “Let her have some dignity, goddammit.”
She’s taken inside the van. The door slides shut. The whistles stop.
I’ve never heard a man cry like Bob. The Whistleblowers holding him down speak to him in low, calm voices. He stops yelling, but his crying continues. They finally let him go and disappear into the second van. They drive away.
My heart is pounding, and I can barely breathe. I cannot believe what I’m seeing.
I wait for the outpouring of love from my neighbors. We are a tight, close-knit community; we have many community days; we support one another. I look around and wait. People watch Bob sit up in the grass, pulling his children close and crying. Nobody moves. I want to ask why no one is doing anything, but it seems stupid, because I’m not, either. I can’t bring myself to. Even though being Flawed isn’t a crime, aiding or assisting a Flawed carries the punishment of imprisonment. Bob isn’t Flawed—his wife is accused—but still, everyone is afraid to get involved. Our neighbors Mr. and Mrs. Miller turn around and head back into their house, and most of the others follow suit. My mouth falls open, shocked.
“Damn you!” Bob shouts across the road. It is quiet at first, and I think he’s saying it to himself, and then I think as he says it louder he’s saying it to the vans that have disappeared, but as he gets even louder and the anger increases, I see he’s directing it at us. What did we do?