The Secret City Read Free Page B

She hesitates, puts it back and picks another, puts that back, too, finally settles for the third. These people care about little things of beauty.
    I’ve never lived with any of them. In fact nobody in my family wanted to get that close. Mother was afraid we’d get to be like them, and maybe not mind being here. She wanted us to yearn for the home planet as much as she did. All her life here was nothing but yearning to be some place else. I don’t know if all that yearning was worth it. She died looking out over a wheat field. She said, “What is all that gold?”
    “Wheat,” I said.
    “Just like the rivers of home,” she said. “Have we gone home?”
    I didn’t know whether to tell the truth.
    “Oh, Lorpas, tell me, are we home at last?”
    “Yes, yes.”
    I don’t know if she believed or not.
    The old lady sits with her tea and turns on the radio. That’s nice for me. I’ve hardly ever heard their radio or seen their television. Another thing Mother didn’t want us to get to like. Before we were born and before they were stuck here, Dad said they had watched and listened to everything they could and raved about how funny and fun these people were. How funny they were especially when they acted almost just like us. But they didn’t want us children turning into them. Without home planet experiences they were worried. That was a mistake. It kept us ignorant of everybody and everything here. I had to learn everything after they were gone.
    So now I stand still and listen. I hear news but nothing about me having escaped. I hear afternoon thunderstorms are predicted for the next few days. Yes, I’ll stay until the weather gets better.
    She keeps muttering to herself. Mostly I can’t hear but I do hear: “For heaven’s sake,” and, “Good grief.” Then, “More rain. What else is new?” (Odd for the desert, but it’s been raining every afternoon.) She says, “They say doing the crossword puzzle keeps your brains going.” Why did she say that? She’s not doing a crossword. Then, “Well, lots more than just brains will be lost one of these days. The mountains … lost them a long time ago. Bert’s house. Barbara. I wish Mother and Dad could have seen the things we have now. They thought things were amazing back in their day. Wish everybody lived together in one village like they used to a hundred years ago. But I always think that same thought. Wonder what use it is thinking the same things over and over.” Meanwhile the news is going on and on and she’s not listening.
    I know how she feels. I have that same wish, too, to be with others like me.
    Somebody knocks. She wobbles to the door hanging on to the furniture and walls. She says, “Oops” several times. She left the fire on under the kettle. I don’t see how she gets along here by herself. Somebody must check on her every now and then. At least I hope so.
    While she’s at the door, I step into the kitchen and turn off the stove. I listen.
    It’s a policeman.
    “Ma’am? You all right?”
    “I’m fine.”
    He doesn’t say anything about me escaping. I suppose he doesn’t want to worry her.
    “We’ll check ‘round later. But don’t hesitate to call if you see anything suspicious.”
    “I will.”
    “You be sure now.”
    “I will.”
    After, she locks the door again. She mutters, “I’m so old I don’t suppose it matters one way or the other—what happens to me.” Then, “I must remember to water the trees. How long has it been? I can’t keep track of anything anymore. “
    (If she forgets, I’ll do it.)
    She doesn’t finish her tea. She goes back in the living room and lies down on the sofa. Gets up again and brings a fresh glass of water. Lies down. Gets up and turns on tapes for learning French. Lies down and falls asleep.
    I make myself a cheese sandwich. I don’t drink any of the juice, there’s not much left. Not much of anything left.
    The cat (there is one) comes out and watches me but won’t go near the