WHERE ARE YOUR PARENTS? Sara wrote.
Pim took the board. She erased Sara’s words with her palm, then gripped the chalk awkwardly in her fist.
—DED
—WHEN?
—MOM THEN DAD LONG TIM
—WHO HURT YOU?
—MAN
—WHAT MAN?
—DONT KNW GOT AWAY
The next question pained her, but it had to be asked.
—DID HE HURT YOU ANYWHERE ELSE?
The girl hesitated, then nodded. Sara’s heart sank.
—WHERE?
Pim took the board.
—GIRLPLACE
Without taking her eyes off the girl, Sara said, “Sister, can you give us a minute?”
When Sister Peg was gone, Sara wrote, MORE THAN ONCE?
The girl nodded.
—NEED TO LOOK. WILL BE CAREFUL.
Pim’s whole body clenched. She shook her head vigorously back and forth.
—PLEASE, wrote Sara. HAVE TO MAKE SURE YOU ARE OK.
Pim took the pad and quickly scribbled, MY FALT PROMISST NOT TO TELL
—NO. NOT YOUR FAULT.
—PIM BAD
Sara didn’t know if she wanted to cry or be sick. She’d seen some things in her life—terrible things—and not just at the Homeland. You couldn’t walk the hospital halls without encountering the worst of human nature. A woman with a broken wrist and an excuse about falling down a flight of stairs, reciting how it had happened while her husband looked on, coaching her with his eyes. An old man with advanced malnutrition dumped at the door by relatives. One of Dunk’s whores, her body ravaged with disease and misuse, clutching a fistful of Austins to rid herself of the baby she was carrying so she could get back on the stool. You hardened your heart because there was no other way to get through the day, but the children were the worst. The children you couldn’t look away from. In Pim’s case, it wasn’t hard to reconstruct the story. Her parents dead, somebody had offered to take the girl in, a family member or neighbor, everyone thinking how kind and generous that person was, to assume responsibility for this poor orphan who couldn’t hear or talk, and after that nobody had bothered to check.
“No, honey, no.” Sara took Pim’s hands and looked into her eyes. There was a soul in there, tiny, terrified, discarded by the world. There wasn’t anybody more alone on the face of the earth, and Sara understood what was being asked of her, just for being human.
Not even Hollis knew the story. It wasn’t that Sara was afraid to tell him; she knew the kind of man he was. But silence was a decision she’d made long ago. At the Homeland, it was said, everybody had taken their turn, and Sara’s had come in due course. She had endured it as best she knew how, and when it was over, she imagined a box, made of steel with a strong lock. Then she took the memory and put it in the box.
She took the board and wrote:
—SOMEBODY HURT ME THERE ONCE TOO.
The girl studied the board with the same guarded expression. Perhaps ten seconds passed. She took up the chalk again.
—SECRET?
—YOU ARE THE ONLY PERSON I EVER TOLD.
The girl’s face was changing. Something was letting go.
Sara wrote: WE ARE THE SAME. SARA IS GOOD. PIM IS GOOD. NOT OUR FAULT.
A film of tears appeared in the surface of the girl’s eyes. A single drop edged over the barrier and spilled down her cheek, cutting a river in the dirt. Her lips were closed; the muscles of her neck and jaw grew taut, then began to quiver. A strange new sound entered the room. It was a kind of growl, like an animal’s. It felt like something fighting to get out.
And then it did. The girl opened her mouth and released a howl that seemed to shatter the very idea of human language, distilling it to a single sustained vowel of pain. Sara wrapped her in a tight embrace. Pim was wailing, shaking, fighting to break free, but Sara wouldn’t let her. “It’s all right,” she said. “I won’t let you go, I won’t let you go.” And she held her that way until the girl was quiet again, and for a long time after.
9
The capitol building, housed in what had once been Texas First Trust Bank—the name was still engraved in the building’s limestone fascia—was just a short walk from the school. A directory in the lobby listed the various departments: Housing Authority, Public Health, Agriculture and Commerce, Printing and Engraving. Sanchez’s office was located on the second floor. Peter ascended the stairs, which opened onto a second open area with a desk, behind which sat a Domestic Security officer in an unnaturally clean uniform. Peter felt suddenly embarrassed to be dressed in his ratty work clothes, carrying a bag full of rattling tools and nails.
“Help you?”
“I’m here to see President Sanchez. I have an appointment.”
“Name?” His eyes had returned to his desk; he was filling out some kind of form.
“Peter Jaxon.”
It was like a light going on in the man’s face. “You’re Jaxon?”
Peter dipped his head.