BLUE LAWS

By Robert E. Porter

            Henry leaned forward, the metal folding chair creaking under his bulk, the front legs bowing as the man's round, cratered face shined through the basement gloom. 

            He said, "You know what hindsight means?"

            "Sure -- cover your ass."

            "O'Rourke failed to do that," said Henry.  "Anywhere else, they'd have put him in stocks down by the courthouse, for what he did.  I mean, down here.  But no, he took a stand in the very heart of the movement."

            I gulped more from my can of warm brew, good stuff that I'd brown down with me from Minnesota.  "So, did they send him to one of those 'work camps' or what?"

            "He's dead," said Henry.

            "What?"

            "They stoned him," he said.

            "They what?"

            "You heard me."

            I said, "You didn't tell me that in postcard."

            "I couldn't," he said.  "They read all of the out-going mail, screening for blasphemy and 'un-American' sentiment."

            "They stoned O'Rourke--?"

            "For getting drunk on a Sabbath," said Henry.  "First they hacked off his hands, then they stoned him to death."

            "I thought that was just... just..."

            "To be honest, I'm surprised they let you in.  They try to keep a lid on everything that goes on down here.  But when the truth does get out, they have ways to make sure no one on the outside takes it seriously."

            "I can't believe they cut off his hands," I said.

            "Believe it," said Henry.  "The majority whips noticed his empty seat on Sunday, so they went out looking for him.  Didn't matter that he was sick, that he was dying.  He was supposed to be there."

            "I didn't know he was sick."

            "O'Rourke had cancer," said Henry.  "He thought it started in his colon, but it spread, eating away at him more and more.  He never said much about it, at first.  You know he wasn't one to complain.  But after a while it got to where he couldn't hide it anymore, couldn't hide how much he was hurting inside.  They don't go in for painkillers here, you know.  It's hard enough just finding someone competent and willing to set a broken bone, let alone a trained doctor.  'If you're hurting or sick,' they say, 'God knows you must have done something to deserve it.'  I helped O'Rourke make bathtub gin, and that seemed to help some. 

            "If only he was drunk when they cut off his hands!  But no, no, they couldn't do it right away.  Not on a Sunday!  They had to wait around until he was plenty sobered up.  I didn't go.  I made sure I didn't fulfill my quota at work, so the boss didn't 'Let me' go.  But I heard about it from the others, how the majority whips took turns hacking away at his wrists with a rusty old machete..."

            I finished the rest of my beer and closed my eyes, picturing O'Rourke as he once was.  I'd known him and Henry for years, long before The Movement or the so-called "bloodless" secession.  Henry played football in high school, while O'Rourke and I ran cross-country.  I was faster in a sprint, but O'Rourke had me beat on endurance, so we pushed each other... all the way to State Finals, our senior year.  When I took off to go to Minnesota State, he stayed behind and studied biology at the local university.  We lost touch.  Too wrapped up in our own lives, I guess.  But when I saw The Movement was putting up barbed wire along their border I tracked down O'Rourke's address on the Internet and wrote him a letter, inviting him to come up and stay with me for a while.  I had plenty of room for his wife and baby girl, but they had deep roots here in Oakdale.  O'Rourke kept hoping things would change, saying these peoples were going to come to their senses and kick the fundies out of office. 

            Henry went on to tell me how O'Rourke wound up selling used cars when they wouldn't let him teach anymore.

            "What about his family?" I asked.

            "That's where you come in," he said.  "We've got to get them out of here, before it's too late."

2. Sanctuary

            She saw him way down there on the stage, the preacher raising his hands, a tiny gesture writ large on wide-screen televisions placed throughout the arena.

            "God be with you," he said.

            "And also with you," said the congregation, thousands of voices joined in unison. 

            Kathryn said this too, a Pavlovian response, but her daughter said nothing.  She hoped and prayed that no one would notice, but she once heard that Movement personnel installed hidden cameras and microphones among the pews, so they watch over you and listen in.  The girl was only six years old, and that probably insulated her from the worst of their punishments, but ultimately the mother would be held responsible.  She had to make Jackie say the words, or she wasn't being a good parent.  It was her moral obligation, and a sacred one, to get Jackie to go along with the others --  to do as they did, and know right from wrong.

            What if they took Jackie away from her?  Kathryn shuddered, knowing that it would likely be the other way around; they would take her away from Jackie... like they took Ryan away from them both, the day he stayed home from church, hurting so bad that he couldn't even crawl out of bed to take a leak.

            Jackie was now tugging on her dress.

            "Mommy," said the little girl.

            It was time to go.  Kathryn took her daughter's hand and they sidestepped down the row of 3rd class seats to the aisle, joining the procession toward the nearest exit, the red light above the door like a beacon of hope in the distance.  Different preachers stood outside each door to shake hands and accept compliments.  It was always a kind of lottery to see which one you'd get.  Kathryn prayed it wouldn't be Reverend Jones.  Please, God, don't let it be Reverend Jones.  Not today -- not ever.

            He was the man who had sentenced her husband; the iron rod who could not be swayed by reason or pity, though she knelt down and begged him, in God's name, to forgive Ryan for what he had done.  She begged the man to let her husband die in peace.  But the reverend said, "Forgiveness is the Lord's, and not mine to give.  I am only a humble instrument of His will, merely the sword in His almighty hand."

            Kathryn sighed now, relieved to see Reverend Mason standing here instead.  He was a short, fat man with rosy cheeks and a broad smile.  His handshake was firm, but not crushing.

            He said, "Well?"

            "I thought the sermon was very nice," said Kathryn.

            "Nice?  You thought it was nice?"

            "Very nice," said Kathryn, not wanting to be misunderstood. 

            "My, my, isn't that interesting," said Mason.  "Do you even know what it means, to be nice?  It is derived from the Latin word, nescrire: to be ignorant."

            "I didn't--"

            "Yes, yes, I know," said Mason, dismissing her protests with a grandiose wave of his hand.  The reverend looked down his nose, reading her name through his half-moon spectacles.  You were only trying to be nice, Kathryn.  And you are!  So very, very nice."

            The man chuckled, before turning his attention to Jackie.

            "Well, little girl," he said.  "Did you think our sermon was nice, too?"

            Jackie tried to hide behind her mom's leg.

            "She's just sleepy," said Kathryn.

            "Oh," said Mason, with a knowledgeable nod.  "Did our service bore you, little girl?"

            "Jackie had trouble sleeping last night, that's all," said Kathryn, trying to keep the gut-wrenching fear out of her voice.  "She has such bad dreams, after... after -- Surely you understand."

            The reverend glared at her.

            "I sleep very well, thank you," he said.  "I always have!  My thoughts are pure, and that purity shines through in my actions, so I have no bad dreams, being a proper child of God and under His protection."

            "Will you pray for us, then?" asked Kathryn.

            "I am afraid that your salvation is already out of my hands," said Mason.  "But I'm sending you both downstairs for additional counseling.  Maybe it's not too late for the Staff and the Rod, after all.  Tut-tut!  Go on now; they'll be waiting for you."

3. Blue Laws

            "So tell me," I said.  "This is a red state.  Why do they call 'em blue laws?"

            Henry shrugged. 

            His little brother Gonzo came back from the sump-pump, cinching his belt.  He sat down across from us, holding his ascetic face in his hands.

            "Maybe they're blueprints," he said.  "Like, for a church or something.  You know -- how to build a better mousetrap."

            "That's deep," I said.

            "I always did dug -- dig?"  Gonzo puzzled over that one, for a second.  "I've been into it for quite a while now.  Philosophy, the bottomless latrine!  There's room in there for all kinds of crazy shit.  Hey, bet me another beer, will you?  I want to catch up with you guys, reach that higher plane of sense-ability.  Maybe we can all break through to the Mother side and figure this out."

            I got up and staggered over to the box.  I reached in, fell off balance and sprawled noisily among our empties.  Henry turned purple, trying desperately not to burst out laughing and scared out of his mind at the same time.  We all were.  I stayed down on the cold basement floor, listening to hear any of the boarders walking around upstairs.  That was why we'd been using the sump-pump, so we wouldn't risk disturbing anyone by going back and forth to the only working toilet in the house.

            Gonzo was wheezing.  If I'd known how bad it was down here, I'd have brought along some over-the-counter asthma medication.  No, whom am I kidding?  I'd have stayed home!  Henry's folding chair creaked again as he leaned over and let out a gasping fart, temporarily masking the stench of BO and piss.  I was almost grateful for the change.  I got up slowly and brought Gonzo his beer. 

            He popped the tab and took a sip.  "So... how we going to do this thing?"

            I turned to Henry and Henry said, "What are you looking at me for?"

            "You're supposed to be the brains of this operation," I said.

            Henry shrugged.  "What do I know?"

            I asked him, "When are they coming again?"

            "In the morning," he said.  

            "At about six o'clock?"

            "That's right," said Henry.

            I consulted my Timex.  "That's only three and a half hours from now.  What are we supposed to do with they get here?  Pack 'em up in that box over there and mail 'em express to Minneapolis?"

            "Now that's an idea..."           

            "Shut up, Gonzo."  I stared at Henry.  "So?  What's the plan, man?"

            Henry and I had a staredown, but he was first to blink. 

            I asked him again, "What's the plan, Henry?"

            He shrugged.

            "Then," said Gonzo, taking another swig.  "Looks like we oughta be doing more thinkin' and less drinkin'."

***

            "It's our only chance," I said.

            Jackie was already in the box, playing house with a tiny rag doll.  It was my idea; Henry and Gonzo were very clear about that, but they didn't contribute any useful ideas of their own. 

            Kathryn bit her lip.  "I don't know..."

            She was a slim, dark-haired woman, and even more beautiful than I remembered, but hollowed out somehow, by all that she had been through.  For some reason, she would not sit down.

            "If I could smuggle the beer in," I said, "I can smuggle you and Jackie out."

            From wanting to do this out of my old friendship for O'Rourke, I found myself now desperately wanting to fill the void that his death had left behind.  I wanted to step in and be husband to Kathryn, father to Jackie.  I wanted to help them out, to make myself complete. 
            "My plan will work," I said.

            "But if it doesn't..."

            "Come on, Kathryn," I said.  "You told us yourself, you're on their list.  They're trying to make some kind of example out of you, to keep the others in line.  Even if you survive this and manage to get into their good graces again, you can't really want to go on living in Oakdale.  You can't really want to go on having to be nice to the butchers who killed Ryan, having to smile and not, keeping up this act..."            

            Kathryn shook her head.

            "No, I don't think I can handle it anymore," she said.  "But, in this, I'd be risking Jackie's life too.  I don't think I can do that."

            "You'd be risking her life by staying here," I said.

            "Not if she... if she..."

            "Conforms?  Grows up to be one of them?" I asked, driving home my point. 

            I thought she was finally coming around, when a noise upstairs spooked us all.  Kathryn turned around with a start, and I saw the dark stains running down the back of her long gray skirt.  No wonder she wouldn't sit down with us, I thought -- those sadists had whipped her.

            Henry motioned us to be quiet and went upstairs to check it out. 

            "Nothing here but bills, bills, bills," he said, on the verge of hysteria. 

            "Just the mailman," said Gonzo. 

            Still, I worried.  What if they closed the border?  I was definitely not cut out for this, being scared of every knock on the door.  How Kathryn could be holding up so well, I had no idea.  She was an amazing woman.  I had to get her out of here, and quick.  I knew that if I had to stick around her much longer I was bound to say or do something to draw the wrong kind of attention to myself. 

            Henry came back down the stairs like a man who learned of his reprieve only by the clicks of unloaded rifles among the firing squad.  Kathryn turned around again, crossing and uncrossing her arms as she tried to make up her mind.  The woman looked at everyone and everything but me.

            "I've never been so scared in my life," she said, wringing her hands.  "I'm scared of staying here, scared of trying to... to... trying to..."

            "Escape," I said.

            Kathryn nodded, and she took a deep breath.  "Maybe... maybe if we all knelt down and prayed together, God will--"

            "You just don't get it, do you," I said.  "There's nobody up there!  Or if he is, what help was he when His representatives butchered your husband?  What help was He when they were whipping you?  We're on our own in this, Kathryn.  It's up to us, to help each other out."

            I drew the words out of my mouth like a string of pearls, knowing that I couldn't take another breath until I was done.  The mail tumbled out of Henry's hand and onto the floor.  Gonzo backed up against one of the cinder block walls and stood there, wheezing.  And Kathryn...

            She stared at me, eyes wide-open in a look of awe -- or dread.  "You don't believe?"

            It was already too late to turn back. 

            "God, no," I said.  "It was religion that got us into this mess in the first place."

            Kathryn tensed up.  She hurried over to the box and yanked Jackie out. 

            "But I want to play with--"

            "We're going home," said Kathryn, clutching the little girl to her chest. 

            As she climbed the stairs her daughter looked over her shoulder at me, smiling as if this were just another game. 

            And they left. 

            I looked over at Henry and Gonzo, then, but neither would look at me; I had let them down.  I had let everyone down, including O'Rourke, by driving Kathryn away.  I should have kept quiet about it, but I knew that I was right.  There never will be any help from that imaginary friend in the sky.  There never will be any help at all, if we don't find some way -- some reason of our own -- to help each other out.

            "You know what she's going to do next," said Henry.

            I nodded, the tears welling up in my eyes.  "She's going to show us where her true loyalty lies -- with her husband's killers, not his friends."

            "That's not true," Henry said.

            I said, "Then why did she run off?"

            "I don't know," he said.

            "What is she going to do now, wait around for the Second Coming?"

            Henry shrugged.

            I said, "Is that what you and Gonzo plan to do?"

            He shrugged again.  Gonzo studied a long tiny crack in the wall.

            I asked them, "Are you going to turn me in?"

            "We can't protect you," said Henry.

            "That's crazy," I said.

            He said, "That's just the way it is."

            "All right, then," I said, as they trudged up the stairs.  "When in Rome..."

            I opened one of the narrow basement windows, scrambled up the wall and out into the yard behind their house, knowing that I was alone now and in the red, and that no help would come.  But I'd make it out, somehow.  I'd tell the world what was going on in Oakdale.