Just One Name

“Just give us a name.”

“We only need one name.”

Melissa sat at the kitchen table with her husband Clark. Two members of the Watchful Police sat across from them and watched her with hard eyes as she brushed a strand of chestnut hair from her face. She shot a quick look to Clark. He shot her the same look in return.

“We understand how stressful this can be. Especially in these trying times. Believe me...we’re here to help,” said Herman, the ranking member of the police. Then he smiled at her and it filled her with a great emptiness.

She knew the rules. Everyone knew the rules. Since the new administration had taken over, and the Watchful Police were installed, they went to random homes to ask if you knew if anyone was guilty. Guilty of what never quite mattered- sedition, disloyalty, thought crime; so long as they could make an example. And if you named someone- they were guilty. Maybe your brother disagreed with an official party stance. Maybe an acquaintance had an old photo of something now deemed “objectionable”. Maybe your neighbor laughed at a joke you didn’t quite understand, and that laughter made you feel uncomfortable, and you knew from that discomfort that they must to be reported.

And your reward for this dutiful, loyal, and patriotic service? $20,000. Melissa hated herself, but she was doing the math in her head. With the utterance of a single name they could wipe away their debt. Make their house a home. They could start to think of having children. Maybe even buy their way into a higher status in the party itself?

They could do good things with this money. Sometimes good things can come out of bad circumstances. They could help people in need. Give half to charity. They could spend the rest of their lives atoning for this moment by working with children, or the disabled.

Or they could run. Flee like the Von Trapps in the middle of the night and never look back. Pay a professional to smuggle them over the border, and still have enough left to start some kind of new life. With the single stroke of a pen their options would become limitless.

Herman slid a little black book across the table. It stopped just inches shy of her hand. He took a pen from his breast pocket and slid it across as well.

“If you’re uncomfortable saying it aloud. Just write it. Here,” he said as he tapped the open page.

Her heart accelerated and her palms became moist. She could taste panic in the back of her throat. She couldn’t do this- could she? Wasn’t she better than this? Everyone gives a name. Was she really going to send someone off knowing that people never return from the “re-education camps”? You don’t know that for sure. How could she face her reflection in the mirror each morning? With this money it’ll be an antique looking glass. Besides, life is random. Who’s to say that whomever gets named wouldn’t be hit by a bus or struck by lightning the next day?

Trembling ever so slightly, Melissa reached out and took the pen. She wavered for a moment, and looked into Clark’s eyes; those big brown eyes that always told her everything was gonna be okay. She knew he would back her, no matter what. But his eyes weren’t comforting. They weren’t hopeful. They didn’t belie his quiet strength that so often carried her through. His eyes were scared. Scared of this moment, and what would come after. She put the pen to the paper, but then pulled back.

“I…,” she hesitated as her very cellular structure seemed to go rigid. Herman’s eyes became hard and she could see his patience waning. She looked at the other officer. He stared at her with empty eyes. Not at her- through her. He looked at her as she imagined a butcher looked at a piece of meat; working out all the different ways he could carve.

“You are party members, aren’t you?”

She shook her head “yes”.

“And you want to help the party make our communities safer, don’t you?”

Again, “yes”.

“Then give us a name.” All traces of human emotion seemed to have drained from Herman. He now had the look of some otherworldly machine man- with a mind of metal and a soul of silicon. The other officer, his willing attack dog; docile for the moment, but ready to snap as soon as the proper command was given.

She was in it now. She would have to give them someone, or else risk she and Clark being labeled as disloyal themselves. This was no longer a philosophical debate- this was simple survival. But who? Her mind raced as imaginary fingers flicked through mental index cards of friends and neighbors. The Nance’s? They have a child on the way after getting permission from the state. Fred McGowan? Just married, and after years of thinking he’d never find anyone. Then it came to her; Mr. Higginson. Late 70’s. No children. Wife passed early last year. Only steps out of his house to tend his hydrangeas. He’s lived a long life. If someone has to be named shouldn’t it be someone like him? She pressed the pen into paper and watched as the ink scrawled out H-I-G-G-I-N-S-O-N, E-V-A-N. She slid the little black book back across the table to Herman. She watched his lips purse as he lightly blew on the ink so as to prevent any smudge. He smiled and stood from the table, as he tucked the book back into his pocket. He motioned for the other officer to head for the door.

“Your account will reflect this service by the end of the day tomorrow. Your country thanks you for your patriotism.” Then Herman took a deep bow, and showed himself to the door.

10 seconds passed.

20.

Melissa held her breath as Clark slowly made his way to the window and peered through the curtains to watch the officers drive away. When he gave her the all clear signal she joined him, just to make sure. Then she looked three houses down and across the street. There he was: Mr. Higginson. Enjoying the afternoon air and dutifully tending his hydrangeas. She watched him for a moment or two, as one might watch a cloud passing on a sunny day and try to decipher what it looks like. Then she slumped into the floor and exhaled in great, heaving sobs. Clark sat down next to her and held her hand, not knowing what to say. After all, what do you say when you’ve sent someone to the gallows?

*********************************************************************

Mr. Higginson went out, and the money came in. Melissa and Clark stepped outside, as everyone was ordered to do, but they only caught a glimpse of it; this frail figure, handcuffed, with a black hood over his head. The police led him to an unmarked van which promptly sped off. They assuaged their guilty consciences by telling one another that they’d done the best they could. They didn’t have a choice- not really.

They went about the work of spending the money. They wiped away their debt and payed a party approved electrician to fix the faulty wiring in the bathroom that Clark had been struggling with for years. Then a few weeks later as they were having breakfast, a thought came to Melissa; like a thief in the night it caught her completely unawares as it swept through her mind.

“Eventually someone’s going to give our names,” she said to Clark as he slurped the last bit of Corn Flakes from the bowl. “Someone’s going to be in the same exact position. They’ll be frightened and blurt it out. Or maybe they’ll just be upset with us that week cause we forgot to waive as we drove by. But sooner or later- our names will be on that list.” Clark nodded in agreement. But she knew it was going to be okay. His eyes told her so.

They put their plan into motion almost immediately. They took the money they had left and began to transform themselves into the greatest loyalists the party had ever known. They made a sizeable donation to the party itself, sure, but their enthusiasm went far beyond this. They flew a party flag on their front lawn and ordered bumper stickers and vanity plates for their cars. They frequented party message boards and made sure their voices were the loudest and longest as they sang the praises of every party member and platform. They threw fundraisers for the party, and even went so far as to repaint their home in party colors.

They were good. They were loyal. And even though they didn’t believe any of it, they were not going to be the first to stop applauding. They were the party.

Ding Dong

Clark was interrupted as he was pouring milk over his Corn Flakes. He opened the door on that particularly uninteresting Sunday morning only to be greeted by the sight of several members of the Watchful Police. They were each one decked in full uniform and looked more as if they were ready for an urban assault than an arrest. Across the street Clark noticed there were more officers being flanked by a large black van.

“Clark Davis?”, one of the men asked.

Clark nodded.

“And your wife?”, he added.

Melissa came down the stairs and rounded the corner just in time to see Clark being cuffed and led out the door. He looked back and caught a glimpse of her before they slipped a black bag over his head. She panicked and tried to run to him. As the officers pinned her to the ground to detain her she realized the folly of what she was doing. There was no over powering them. No reasoning with them. There was nothing now. Nothing. Still, she couldn’t help herself.

“But we’re good!”, she pleaded, in a voice small and childlike. “We’re good! We love the party! Look around. Look!”

The officers cuffed her hands behind her back, and stood her on her feet. The officer in charge removed his face covering. He looked normal. Not like some monster- just a working man, He could’ve been a plumber or a foreman in different life. The officer removed a piece of paper and read it aloud.

“Clark and Melissa Davis- you have been charged with seditious speech and objectionable thoughts against the party. As such, you are deemed for removal from this neighborhood and relocation to The Newark Education Facility.” He took the charges and nailed them to the door of the house. He peeked his head out for a moment to make sure enough neighbors had come to watch the spectacle. He nodded in approval and motioned for the others to bring her out.

“But we love the party.”, she continued as she tilted at the windmill. “Our whole house is a monument to the party.”

The officer cradled his helmet in his arms as he looked at Melissa. “No one loves the party this much. And anyone that goes to these lengths must be hiding something. Don’t worry- we’ll find it.”

Melissa though the sun felt brighter than normal as she was led out. She looked at her friends and neighbors; some made eye contact or had bewildered looks on their faces. But most couldn’t look up from the ground. She held out hope that someone might say something, but why would they? Would she, if the situation were reversed? She glanced to her left, and the last thing she saw before a black bag ushered her into darkness was a row of scorched hydrangeas, withered and dying on the shrub.