Then they had reached the side door, her dad had unlocked it and they were out.
Joan had never been outside at night before, and she breathed deeply. The cool air felt good, strange but good, and she looked up at the sky and saw the bright fullness of the moon. She felt happy and free, and though she’d known all along that they were doing the right thing in leaving, now she was certain of it. She thought of all the stories her dad had told her about growing up Outside, and she was filled with excitement at the knowledge that now that would be her world, too. She was scared, too, of course. The Teachers had drilled a fear of Outsiders into her since she’d been able to speak, and that sort of indoctrination did not give up its hold easily. But she was more eager than scared to leave the Home as she followed her dad around the edge of the building and through a large yard filled with farming equipment and tools. They stayed close to the fence, as far away from the windows of the Home as they could, until they made their way over a dry irrigation ditch and out to the grain field.
“Over there,” her dad said, pointing. He was still whispering, though they were several yards from the nearest building and there was no one in sight.
Joan followed his finger to see a line of trees at the far end of the field, a windbreak of tall, skinny poplars filling in the spaces between massive naturally growing cottonwoods. Crouching low, keeping near the high bushes that separated the grains from the vegetable crops, they hurried across the tilled ground, careful not to trip over roots or rocks or furrowed rows. Moments later, they had reached the trees and there, where her dad had left them, were three backpacks. Joan picked hers up, unzipped the top and checked inside. Her fingers closed on the familiar softness of her bunny, and she knew at that moment that everything would be all right.
As they walked between the trees and turned north toward the road, there came a loud scream from the Home behind them. Only it was too loud to have come from inside the Home. It had to have originated outside, in the equipment yard or field through which they had just passed. Joan’s heart was pounding. She’d almost screamed herself at the sound, and it was only her mom’s hand holding tightly to her own that had anchored her and given her strength and kept her from crying out.
“They’re not after us,” her dad whispered, sensing her fear. “Someone’s being punished.”
There was another scream.
Who was being punished? And why? Did this happen all the time? Joan had never heard such a noise before, but her dad was not only not surprised; he seemed to know exactly what was going on.
Joan shivered. She thought of the personal conference she’d had with Father, the way he’d looked at her, the way he’d smiled at her, and more than ever, she was glad that they were leaving. They increased their pace, branches from the underbrush scraping against their legs through the material of their clothes. Then they reached the road, and, with her dad leading the way, the three of them ran over the hard-packed dirt to the pull-out where he’d left the truck. By the light of the moon, he opened his backpack, took out the keys to the vehicle and unlocked the passenger door. Joan threw her backpack behind the seat, crawling over the vinyl upholstery to the center. Her mom was right behind her, settling into the passenger seat.
The left door unlocked, opened, and her dad got in. Seconds later, he was starting the truck and pulling onto the road. Moments after that, they reached the paved lane that led to town.
But they did not stop in town. They kept going, gaining speed, heading west.
And they were free.
Joan followed Absalom through a series of hallways to an area of the Home that she remembered only too well. The muzzle was on, covering her mouth, nose and chin with crisscrossing leather straps, and although she could speak, it effectively restrained her head and gave the old man the ability to pull her along like a dog on a leash.
To her right was the Dining Room, and it looked exactly as she remembered: the long wooden tables and uncomfortable benches, the open window leading to the Kitchen, the high beamed ceiling, the walls bare save for the life-sized photo of Father framed at the north end. To her left was the Chapel, and, as was always the case, there were people kneeling on the hard stone floor, both Residents and Penitents, worshipping and praying. Simply looking into the Chapel brought back a flood of sense memories, and her knees could feel the pain of remaining bent on that floor for hours, her arms the strain of holding her clasped hands in perfect position the entire time, her throat, stomach, bowels and bladder the agony of not being able to drink, eat or go to the bathroom.
Absalom yanked on her strap, pulling her forward.
Joan’s heart leapt in her chest.
Ahead, the Children were lining the corridor before Father’s Room, some standing, some sitting in wheelchairs, a few lying on ambulatory devices that resembled gurneys with steering wheels. She did not want to continue on. Even under the best of circumstances, she was unnerved by the Children, and the thought of passing by them now filled her with dread. Seeing the girl who had brought her food, Joan tried to smile at her, but the child stared back, blank-eyed like the others.
These were not Children like her mom and the others who had been integrated into normal life at the Home. These were the ones who were damaged, the ones who might be entrusted with simple tasks but more often than not were simply housed here, with the vague promise that one day God or Father would reveal their purpose. It had only been five years, but there seemed to be more of them than there used to be, and each succeeding generation appeared worse off than the last, which made perfect sense to someone like her who had learned real science but was probably very confusing to a lot of the Residents, particularly the younger ones.
Joan followed Absalom up the corridor, trying not to look to either side, trying to focus on the old man’s back in front of her and the closed double doors of Father’s Room beyond. Absalom was walking more slowly here, and she was certain that was on purpose, even though there was no way he could know about her fear of the Children.
Finally, after what seemed like ten minutes but was probably only one, they neared the end of the corridor. Inadvertently, she glanced to her right. At the head of this gathering, closest to the door, was a figure she recognized, wearing a grin she’d never forgotten. It was the little man who’d been standing in the hallway on the night she and her parents had escaped. He looked the same as he had then, with his big feet and oversized head, and he grinned dumbly at her, the same way he had on that night. If the door had not opened at that moment and she had not been yanked inside, she probably would have screamed.
But suddenly she was in Father’s Room, and the door was closing behind her.
Joan reached up and began unfastening the muzzle from the back of her head where it was strapped. The room was filled with people, and she was not about to stand in front of them like an animal with this contraption over her face. She expected Absalom to try to stop her, but he obviously knew that there was no way she could escape, nowhere she could go, and he made no effort to keep her from freeing herself. Besides, he had brought her here. His job was done.
Father would take over from this point.
Joan freed herself from the muzzle, letting the leather device drop onto the floor. She remembered with perfect clarity the last time she had been in here, the only time she had been in here, and she saw instantly that nothing had changed. At the head of the room was a floor-to-ceiling bookcase filled with religious tomes, and a massive cabinet containing copies of every prayer scroll ever written. Between the two sat the doorway that led to Father’s sleeping chamber, and scattered randomly through the center of the long rectangular room, almost like the elements of an obstacle course, were various pieces of antique furniture, not all of which seemed appropriate to the room’s purpose. There was a dining table with no accompanying chairs; a Victorian fainting couch; an ornately carved armoire; a rolltop desk; a marble bust of an old man with a long white beard, presumably God; a glass-doored cabinet filled with knives and swords; and an empty baker’s rack. Along the walls were wooden benches and, above the benches, painted directly onto the stucco, poorly rendered scenes from the Bible. They were all scenes of violence, Joan noticed now: Cain killing Abel, Abraham preparing to sacrifice his son, Christ being crucified. Father must have painted them himself. He wasn’t much of an artist, she thought, and the realization gave her confidence and a strange sense of comfort.