To Jennifer’s right, a small kitchen table was piled high with dishes, some clean, most dirty. A collection of empty TV dinner packages sat on one of the chairs. The boxes had been cut with a pair of blue-handled scissors, which rested on the top box.
“Are you going to ask your questions?”
“I’m . . . I’m sorry, I just didn’t expect this. What are you doing here?”
“We live here. What do you think we’re doing here?”
“You like newspapers.” They weren’t complete papers, but sections and clippings from newspapers, she saw, categorized according to subject by placards set into the stacks. People. World. Food. Play. Religion.
Bob stepped away from where he’d cornered himself in the kitchen. “Do you like to play?” He held out an old Game Boy in his hand, a monochrome model that looked like it might play Pong with enough persuasion. “This is my computer.”
“Hush, Bobby, honey,” Balinda said. “Go to your room and read your books.”
“It’s a real computer.”
“I’m sure the lady isn’t interested. She’s not from our world. Go to your room.”
“She’s pretty, Mom.”
“She’s a dog! Do you like dog hair, Bobby? If you play with her, you’ll get dog hair all over you. Is that what you want?”
Bob’s eyes widened. “The dog is gone.”
“Yes, she will be. Now go to your room and sleep.”
The boy started to walk away.
“What do you say?” Eugene said.
Bob turned back and dipped his head at Balinda. “Thank you, Princess.” He flashed a grin, hurried off through the kitchen, and shuffled down another hall, this one stacked with books.
“I’m sorry, but you know children,” Balinda said. “Minds full of mush. They only understand certain things.”
“Do you mind if we sit?”
“Eugene, get our guest a chair.”
“Yes, Princess.” He grabbed two chairs from the table, set one beside Jennifer, and held the other for Balinda to sit. When she did, he lowered his head with the respect of an eighteenth-century butler. Jennifer stared. They had created a world out of their newspapers and all of this paraphernalia—shaped to fit their lives.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, madam,” Eugene said, dipping his head again.
It wasn’t unheard of for adults to create their own realities and then protect them—most people clung to some form of illusion, whether it be found in an extension of entertainment or in religion or simply in a self-propagated lifestyle. The lines between reality and fantasy blurred for every human at some level, but this—this was a case study to be sure.
Jennifer decided to slip into their world. When in Rome . . .
“You’ve created your own world here, haven’t you? Ingenious.” She looked around, awed. Beyond the living room stood another doorway, maybe leading to the master bedroom. A stair banister ran along one wall. The same Sunday TimesJennifer had read earlier was spread out on the coffee table. The cover story, an article on George W. Bush, had been neatly cut out. The picture of Bush was at the bottom of a discard box. A stack two feet deep sat untouched next to the Times,topped by the Miami Herald. How many papers did they receive each day?
“You cut away what you don’t like and keep the rest,” Jennifer said. “What do you do with the clippings?” She turned to Balinda.
The old woman wasn’t sure what to think of her sudden change. “What clippings?”
“The ones you don’t like.”
She knew with one look at Eugene that she’d guessed right. The man glanced nervously at his princess.
“What a brilliant idea!” Jennifer said. “You create your own world by clipping out only those stories that fit your idyllic world and then you discard the rest.”
Balinda was speechless.
“Who’s the president, Eugene?”
“Eisenhower,” the man said without hesitation.
“Of course. Eisenhower. None of the others are worthy to be president. Any news of Reagan or the Bushes or Clinton just gets cut out.”
“Don’t be silly,” Balinda said. “Everyone knows that Eisenhower is our president. We don’t go along with the pretenders.”
“And who won the World Series this year, Eugene?”
“Baseball isn’t played anymore.”
“No, of course not. Trick question. What do you do with all the baseball stories?”
“Baseball isn’t played—”
“Shut up, Eugene!” Balinda snapped. “Don’t repeat yourself like a fool in a lady’s presence! Go cut something up.”
He saluted and stood at attention. “Yes, sir!”
“Sir? What has gotten into you? You’re losing your mind just because we have a visitor? Do I look like a general to you?”
He lowered his hand. “Forgive me, my princess. Perhaps I should save us some coin by cutting some coupons. I should love to take the carriage to the shop for stores as soon as I do.”
She glared at him. He did an about-face and walked for the stack of fresh newspapers.
“Don’t mind him,” Balinda said. “He gets a bit strange when he’s excited.”
Jennifer glanced out the window. A thin ribbon of smoke drifted skyward from a barrel. The yard was black . . .
They burned them! Whatever didn’t fit neatly into the world Balinda wanted went up in smoke. Newspaper stories, books, even pictures on TV dinner boxes. She looked around for a television. An old black and white sat dusty in the living room.
Jennifer stood and walked toward it. “I have to hand it to you, Balinda; you take the cake.”
“We do what we are entitled to in the privacy of our home,” she said.
“Of course. You have every right. Frankly, it would take tremendous strength and resolve to sustain the world you’ve managed to build around yourself.”
“Thank you. We’ve given our lives to it. One has to find a way in this chaotic world.”
“I can see that.” She eased through the living room and peered over the banister. The staircase was filled in with reams of old papers. “Where does this lead?”
“The basement. We don’t use it anymore. Not for a long time.”
“How long?”
“Thirty years. Maybe longer. It frightened Bob, so we nailed it shut.”
Jennifer faced the hall Bob had disappeared down. Kevin’s room was down there somewhere, hidden behind piles of books—probably butchered—and magazines. She walked down the hall.
Balinda stood and followed. “Now wait a minute. Where—”
“I just want to see, Balinda. I just want to see how you managed it.”
“Questions, you said. You’re walking, not talking.”
“I won’t touch a thing. That’s what I said. And I won’t.”
She passed a bathroom on her right, cluttered and filthy. The hall ended at the doorways of two rooms. The door on the right was shut—presumably Bob’s room. The door on the left was open a crack. She pushed it open. A small bed sat in one corner, strewn with loose clippings from children’s books. Hundreds of books stood against one wall—half with their covers torn off, altered, or trimmed to meet Balinda’s approval. A small window with a pull-down shade looked into the backyard.
“Kevin’s old room?” she asked.
“Until he abandoned us. I told him that if he left he’d end up in trouble. I tried to warn him.”
“Do you even want to know what kind of trouble he’s in?”
Balinda turned away. “What happens out of this house is not my concern. I told him he had no business running off with the serpent. Sss, sss, sss. It’s lies, lies, all lies out there. They say we came from monkeys. You’re all fools.”
“You’re right, the world is full of fools. But I can assure you, Kevin isn’t one of them.”
Balinda’s eyes flashed. “Oh, he’s not, is he? He was always too smart for us! Bob was the dumb one and Kevin was God himself, come to enlighten the rest of us poor idiots!” She took a breath through her nostrils.