Outcast Land

OUTCAST LAND

By Michael J. Kubat

Smashwords Edition

copyright 2011 Michael J. Kubat

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Oh outcast land! Oh leper land!,

Let the lone wolf-cry all express

The hate insensate of thy hand,

Thy heart’s abysmal loneliness.

The Land God Forgot

Robert W. Service

Jerry

Late August 2006, a dreary day. Outside reigns a featureless darkness: rain so thick that I see nothing beyond the windowpanes. Wind, gusting and shrieking, shakes the house. This is Ernesto, the first major event of the hurricane season. It surges over Virginia, dropping power lines, trees and on occasion houses, making life miserable for everyone. For everyone, that is, except me. Myself, I am more than pleased.

Shall I explain?

I am Jerry Wolf, grumpy recluse, refugee from humanity, content alone in this large and rambling house. This is my lighthouse and I am the lonesome keeper, grateful this day to nature for an additional barrier to keep the world at bay. Surely in this weather, neither thief nor decent man (if there are any such) would venture out of doors.

I am at my desk in my third-floor study, half mesmerized by the howling dispensation without, half by the magical music within. It is the last act of The Marriage of Figaro, and Alison Hagley has just begun Deh vieni. I lean back, eyes closed, struggling with feelings that mostly remain sequestered until, prompted by some unexpected and ever unwelcome impulse, they sunder their chains and emerge to rob me of hard-won contentment and sleep.

These days, I am comfortable with the knowledge that love might indeed be the greatest power in the universe but that it is no longer for me, never again for me. For this mortal, things had never turned out the way Mozart portrays them. I have had enough, and now only seek quietude, even if it means being a hermit for the rest of my days.

Susanna and Figaro are reconciled now, but the count is still raging. But not for long. In moments, he will be exposed as a lecher. He will drop onto his knee before his Countess, and that creature of towering character will graciously forgive him. The day will end happily for all the lovers, even for Cherubino, that improbably horny groper.

Who could sell a story line like that nowadays, without fights, drugs, explicit sex or killing, or at least maiming? Gentle humor, forgiveness and reconciliation, not to mention happiness ever after, could not possibly figure in a postmodern scenario. Thank heaven for the unearthly genius of Mozart.

I wait with bated breath for Ah tutti contenti saremo così…

Constance

I am not scared of the storm, and being crammed in the van does not bother me. Of course, there is the stinko, but what are you gonna do with a short dozen women and their luggage, shoveled into a van like sardines, in hot and humid weather? And no air conditioning, too.

Only real problem is that I’m crammed into the right corner of the rearmost seat, half the time with Melanie’s pointy elbow in my ribs. Can that ever girl squirm! ADHD, I bet. I’d like to climb over the back seat and lay myself out on the pile of luggage and outerwear, but the Professor insists that we all keep our belts on. Sensible, I guess, since the driving conditions are so horrible that we could crash any moment.

Up front, Professor Petersen’s exchanging words with her sister Renée. She sounds angry. I don’t blame her for bring angry, tired and frustrated, but Renée is so nice. I just can’t see any reason why the Professor could be so cross with her, and so often, too. But they’re sisters, so I guess it’s natural.

I close my eyes and try to doze off. No luck. I could shut out the girls’ dumb chatter, but today I’ve got too many thoughts racing around in my head.

Like, actually, who am I to call anybody else dumb? I’m not exactly one of the brightest stars of the class, although I think that this semester’s bo-o-oring classes are to blame. So much theory, so much political haranguing, so little real experience.

This field trip’s been a godsend. Up until a week ago, I’d been vacillating, thinking that a less people-intensive field might be a better fit for me. But spending a few days with those poor people in that group home really opened my eyes. I’d never met anyone so deserving of help. A few were genuinely evil, but the vast majority were unfortunates who were ready to worship anyone who showed them any kindness and consideration.

Whoa, what a skid! This time, we almost ended up in a ditch. Some of the girls squealed. Now they’re all sitting so tight you’d think they’re statues. Even Melanie the Squirm.

Yeah, kindness and consideration. That’s why the staff’s roughness with the residents was such a shocker. I asked Professor Petersen about it, and she said that it was a way for caregivers to protect their boundaries. You get too close, she told us, and it sucks the life straight out of you.

I have to admit that in each of those three days in that group home, I really did feel this relentless pull, this temptation to give and give and give, to become so involved that you lose all sense of yourself. So I can definitely see people becoming kind of blind to the misery, like surgeons to blood and gore.

But those poor darlings – nobody really wants them. A lot of them are from out of state. They’re apparently traded back and forth by state social service agencies like baseball cards. Most don’t have families. Those lucky to have somebody get visits every now and again; but we happened to witness a visiting day and it didn’t amount to much. The visitors are not at ease, and they prefer to chat with the staff instead of spending time with their disabled relations.

Take Darren and his sister Lakasha. Darren's retarded and has serious body deformities. Uh, I guess,if I'm gonna be a proper social worker, I should say that he’s differently shaped and differently abled. Ms. Lakasha waltzed in on visiting day, ordered him to get ready, then took him out to McDonald’s for lunch. She brought him back after thirty minutes, told him to go to his room and spent the next two hours exchanging Darren stories with staff. They all laughed uproariously like his life was some kind of comedy.

And the haughty Lakasha was no exception. So many of the normal people look down on their disabled relatives. Instead of seeing them as they really are and loving them just the same, they lecture them on how good they really have it and how they should be grateful.

It’s hard not to cry over the residents, especially when they themselves break down. On that day, I spent all evening with Darren, listening to him blubber about Lakasha’s snootiness. He got so distraught that he couldn’t even string a sentence together. I had to listen very carefully, and even then I couldn’t make out what he was saying. Sometimes, when he seemed to wait for a response, I couldn’t give him one, but I wasn’t going to bullshit him like his sister and the staff by saying something meaningless. I just nodded and looked at him in a way that I hope conveyed empathy.

Truth be told, most of Darren’s ranting didn’t make sense even when I did understand him. He mainly wanted to get out of the group home and move in with his sister. But Lakasha, who is unmarried, simply couldn’t take him home with her, not with three kids in the house. Taking care of Darren is very labor-intensive, his tantrums frequent (and he was pretty big and strong, too!) and his load of medications humongous and confusing. Getting him to all the appointments he had every week would have been a full-time job for anyone, even without kids.

I asked the Professor about the way Lakasha was treating Darren, but the Professor shushed me and told me that I didn’t understand the ways of powerful black women and had to learn to respect them.

Boy, do I ever have so much to learn…

Huh?

Oh, that’s Maria directly in front of me, blubbering again. Ana's calming her down. Poor Maria. I don’t know what’s going on in her life, but her stress level’s been through the roof for months. I’m scared that she might be cracking up. One night, when I was on my way to the bathroom, I found her sitting in a day room chair, hugging herself and rocking. For a while, she didn’t even hear me asking her what’s going on, and when she finally did, she just shook her head and mumbled something I didn't catch.

Now Maria, she had a tough time at the group home. She was visibly afraid of the residents who were loud and who liked to touch and grab, even when it was non-sexual. (To me, it almost always was non-sexual, but then I’m not Maria.)

Fear is such a magnet!

The residents were all so desperate for simple physical contact: hugs, holding hands, pats on the back. But they couldn’t distinguish between a little kindness and real love. You show a little kindness and they think it's true love and then you can't get rid of them. I can’t see how anyone can work with them and still maintain proper boundaries...

Well, Maria’s calm again. I close my eyes, throw my shoulder against Melanie to remind her that she doesn’t own the whole seat, and start thinking about Darren again.

Darren was right in one important sense. They were treating him shabbily, often disrespectfully, too often more like a thing. When he was calm and rational, he kind of understood that he was a broken thing: disabled, retarded, even mentally ill. (Oops, the Professor would grade me down if she knew I was thinking that!) He kind of knew he had to be in the group home. But he also knew that he was a person, a human being, an adult, and a man, too, and he bitterly resented being treated like an unreasonable three year-old. Which happened way too often, mostly because people didn’t take the time to understand what he was saying.

This hunger for respect, for equality on some level with us normal folks, was something I saw in all the residents, even the most seriously afflicted ones. I tried to show them that, in so many ways, I was no better than they were, and I hope I succeeded. A little, anyway.

But success or failure aside, the trip renewed my interest in the field, and now I can’t wait for the next practicum.

Suddenly, a commotion and another elbow in my ribs. Hey, I screech and open my eyes. Melanie's squirming like she wants to get a better view of something outside. I can’t imagine what she can see in that downpour.

Patricia’s yelling something in that loud voice of hers. I wish I could talk that loudly, but my voice is so mousy. It’s about a light. They see a light out there? Like a building, a place to hide out, maybe? That would be fantastic! She, Renée and the Professor are arguing about it. Ana and Patricia are going outside to check it out.

I sure hope it’s a nice, cozy home, with kitties and maybe a dog. Babies would be great, too.

Being all the way in the back, I don’t get too wet even when they open the doors to get out. But Courtney and Maria get totally blasted by the rain, and they howl.

Ana and Patricia. Wow, what a pair! They’re so different, like from different planets. Ana’s refined, soft-spoken, beautiful, downright noble. Everything about her seems perfect. Patricia is a red-headed half-savage: loud, big-boned and often clumsy. She’s real temperamental and always ready to say something silly or inopportune. She’s a natural target of ridicule, especially when we discovered her dirty little secret on this trip.

But as different as these two are, they were like a total hit with the residents. Both girls acted like they’d been there forever. They cracked infantile jokes that we thought were corny but the residents understood and loved! They howled with laughter together with the residents, took them for walks, cooked, helped change diapers, hugged and dispensed medications like old-timers.

Just a few minutes after our arrival, Ana showed the residents the secret of a proper side hug. She later told us that she’d learned it while volunteering in a children’s group home. And Patricia taught an important lesson to Burgie, one of the guys who always wanted to touch and who always went straight for the tits of any female within range. The moment he spotted Patricia, he got his mitts around her left knocker, grinning like an Olympic winner and obviously hoping for a horrified reaction.

But Patricia didn’t bat an eyelash. She simply disengaged his hands and told Burgie that yes, he may touch a woman, but only like a gentleman would touch a lady. She slipped his arm through hers, and that was that. Afterward, they spent a lot of time walking around, arm in arm. It was actually kind of funny: he all puffed up with importance, she with this uncharacteristically bland expression on her face; he bowing and letting her go first through doors, she gravely bowing back and going through, then waiting for him to catch up and snatch her arm again.

Funny, yes, but very effective. That kind of thing would have never occurred to me. I hope the staff keeps it up, but somehow I doubt it.

After the first day there, I had to admit that both Ana and Patricia truly had the gift. It didn't matter that they came from different worlds. And I therefore had a lot to learn from them. Ana I could see as a role model for me, but it took doing to accept the crude Patricia. But I managed, and I’m glad I did.

Wow, it is a house. With lights on! Right out here where we didn’t expect anything but dark fields and pastureland. Drenched cows huddling miserably under trees.

Melanie and Paula are scrabbling behind the seat, looking for their things. When Melanie gets me again with her bony elbow and then with her even bonier ass, I elbow her back, but then I twist, get on my knees and help them look. Best find my own things, too, while stuff is being tossed around.

Scarlett

I can’t see a damn thing. I curse under my breath.

What is it, Scarlett? Renée shouts next to me.

Nothing. It’s just that I’m pissed at the whole world, including you.

Want me to drive?

No, no.

The rain on the roof: it’s like gunfire. Damn this weather. Damn this van. Damn this whole trip. Who planned it, anyway, with a tropical storm hanging off the coast?

With this deluge coming down, the wipers are useless. I have no clue where I am, no idea where I’m going. I’m sure Detroit has the technology to make faster and better ones, but they’re so in love with planned obsolescence that it would take an act of Congress to make them change. Maybe one day, when we’ve elected enough far-seeing Democrats, those arrogant pigs will see their cash cows nationalized and then they’ll have to build good cars.

The van lurches sideways. Skirts of water shoot up from the road on both sides. Hydroplaning, even at this speed. A stuck-pig squeal from the back can only mean that Maria’s losing it again. I’m so tired of that little shit. She’s turned out to be an incredible disappointment. It’s time to ditch her, but I’ve got to make it look like it’s her fault.

Keep quiet back there, I yell. I’m trying to concentrate here.

I hear some muffled sobs, then someone shushing Maria. Ana, I bet. She’s always got it together, but what a mystery she is. Too private, much too independent to ever be fully devoted to the Profession. It is good to use her many talents to the maximum, but I mustn’t ever trust her fully.

My neck, shoulders, arms and hands are killing me. I’ve been gripping the wheel so hard that I’m going to have bruises.

Hey, is that a light over there? someone says suddenly.

A light? several of the girls repeat. A light? There is lurching movement to one side of the van, and I feel the steering wheel buck.

A light? Here? If you can’t say something helpful, shut it, I yell.

Sorry, professor, someone says.

No, really! It’s Padeen, with excitement in her voice.

Renée, what the hell is she talking about? I snap.

Renée turns around. Padeen? In a hurried glance into the rearview mirror, I see Padeen point to the left.

Renée, squinting to see better, leans back between the two front seats and looks out the side window behind me. There seems to be a lighter area in the grayness, she says. She’s got that uncertain quiver in her voice now, like I’m going to bite her head off or something. Of all people, my sister’s got to be a pussy. I can’t stand it, never could.

As always, it’s up to me to make a decision. In any case, I’m in charge of this expedition. Wouldn’t have it any other way. I ride the brake pedal until the brakes begin to respond and the van shudders to a stop. Okay, I say. Some of you go out there and see if there’s a turnoff leading to that light of Padeen’s.

You want us to go out there in this storm? Judging by the voice, that would be Ana. Unusual for her to be speaking out. The first sign of weakness in her that I’ve seen in the two years I’ve known her. An opening, maybe.

Before I can respond, Carrie snaps: Yes, that’s what she wants. Look around you. We’re looking for shelter, remember? What are you, chickenshit?

Ana’s response is to push a side door open and hop out. Sheets of rain come in, prompting a collective squeal from the back. Someone jumps out after Ana. Padeen. Not exactly my top choice for responsible exploration, but, well, Ana will look after her.

We sit awhile, and for once, there is silence. Weird for a van full of girls all of whom are beyond scared and tired. We’ve been on the road for hours, creeping along in this deluge, zigzagging from shoulder to shoulder, wondering when we’ll crash or when the van will quit. The girls had chatted up every imaginable disaster scenario: the only thing they didn’t come up with yet was that the storm is a cover for a surprise extraterrestrial landing whose purpose is to snatch them and whisk them off for sexual experimentation. Now they have nothing to talk about. What a blessing!

There is a rap on my door. I jump. I wipe the fog off the window and discover Ana’s face. I roll down the window. What did you find?

There is a turnoff… Ana has to shout to be heard over the noise of the weather.

…and a mailbox… adds Padeen. That girl can never keep it shut.

…leading toward the light. I walked down the road – a driveway – and there is a house at the end. The lights are on.

This is weird. We’ve seen lights nowhere else. Power always goes out here in redneck heaven. Does it look safe?

Ana shrugs. It’s just a house. A farm house.

We should go there, Renée puts in. Anything is better than the eleven of us being packed in this sardine can. Besides, it’ll quit on us any second. Imagine someone plowing into us in this weather.

I gnaw on my upper lip. This is a heavy responsibility, but who else’ll take charge? Okay, I decide. We’re going there. Girls, show me the way.

I’ll walk next to the van, Ana shouts. Right now, you’re pretty much in the middle of the road. Just back up straight. Patricia, shout out if you see the van heading into the ditch.

I shift into reverse and give it a little gas. Ana walks alongside, holding on to the side view mirror. I must keep the window rolled down. It doesn’t matter now: from the moment I opened it, I got as soaked as her. I have a momentary vision – not altogether unpleasant – of inadvertently running over Padeen.

Okay, Professor, stop, Ana shouts. Padeen, please go stand next to the mailbox. Professor, please turn to the left. The mailbox will be on your side. After that, it’s a straight shot.

I crank the wheel and creep ahead. Okay, okay, good, Ana keeps repeating. I know she’s nervous, but I do wish she’d shut it, too. I’m not stupid.

I catch a glimpse of Padeen’s big body, a faint shadow in the downpour. I aim past her, keeping her on my left.

Okay, Ana says, trotting next to me. We are on the driveway. Can you see the light?

I stop the van, stick my head out the driver’s door window and stare ahead. My glasses are all wet and foggy. I smear the fog and water around with my fingers and then finally see a patch of paleness. Okay, I got it, I shout. My jaw hurts, my throat hurts. From the tension, mainly.

Head straight for it, Ana says. I’ll walk alongside until we get there. Padeen, she shouts, you can get in now.

Off we go, toward an unknown fate. I am frightened to death for the girls. I am completely responsible for them. What an onerous burden! But who else at the school would have had the dedication and vision, not to mention the courage, to organize this field trip?

Maria

I am such a terrible disappointment to her. I am sure of it. I don’t know how she can still stand me, let alone feel anything for me.

But just I can’t handle the horror of this storm any more, this drive, being crammed in the van with so many others. I’m sorry I cried, but I really am finished, done. Only Ana’s arm around my shoulders is keeping me sane right now. She’s whispering in my ear that she’s going to take care of me, and not to worry.

She never said anything like that to me, but then we have a different relationship.

This whole trip’s been a nightmare. And I was looking forward to it so much, too. The clients in the group home couldn’t keep their eyes or hands off me. Every time I got pawed, it took me back home, to being felt up by those smelly sleazeballs of Mom’s.

These memories keep me on edge day and night. Most nights, I can’t sleep. If I do fall asleep, I have nightmares. I am constantly exhausted.

Scarlett says she is helping me by loving me. I know she’s right, I just know it. Whenever I am with her, I feel perfectly fine. It’s just when she’s not there physically, I’m back in the hellhole.

I understand that. She’s a wonderful, talented, powerful woman, and she’s incredibly busy. I should be grateful that she devotes any time to me at all. I wish I could repay her by being stronger and actually doing something for her. As it is, our relationship is a one-way street. She loves me, and I soak it all up and only demand more.

I’m just a sponge. I give nothing back. Waste of human flesh and blood.

Jerry

Ah, tutti contenti saremo così…

Ah, I wish. Do I ever wish…

I sigh, regaining composure. When I open my eyes, I find myself looking at a faint glow outside the window. Tonight, nothing but a fiery meteorite could make a dent in the dispensation outside; but it is surely not that. The only other option is…people.

The glow slowly grows in intensity. It can only be headlights. Someone is coming down my driveway.

Best to meet the intruder on the barricades.

I rise from my chair, lift a foot to make a step, but then freeze and survey the floor. An old habit - instinct by now. My old canine friend, as black as midnight on the abyssal plain, invariably finds the most inconvenient – and darkest – places to rest. And indeed, there she is, the creature, stretched out on her stomach, her nose neatly between her paws, invisible except for a pair of gleaming eyes. A treacherous tripping hazard for anyone not used to her ways.

I kneel next to her and lightly run my palm down her furry head and back. She monitors me, eyes shifting back and forth, eyebrows moving comically. Hi, flat dog, I whisper, then bend down to kiss her between her pointy ears. She does not budge, but just before I rise again, she lifts her head and gives my face a quick lick.

That is the love for me, the only kind I can handle now: a simple kiss, some ruffling of fur, a bit of cuddling; no strings attached, no intent to do harm. Never any intent to do harm.

Unbeliever as I am, I whisper: may G-d bless you.

Back up on my feet, then; and quickly down the stairs to the ground floor and onward to the front door. I peer through the right sidelight. There they are, those unwelcome headlights, and now a shadow moving in their glow. Then comes the sound of footsteps on the porch. Just as I extract an umbrella from the umbrella stand, the invader pounds on the door.

I briefly consider asking who it is, but in the end I simply flick on the porch light and jerk the door open. No need to surrender the initiative. The shadow emits a human enough shriek.

What can I do for you? I growl, brandishing the umbrella.

Oh thanks, I'm soaked through and through, the intruder answers, rips it from my hand and opens it. Much better. Sounds female.

No problem. I cannot think of anything more intelligent to say, then I add: you had better come inside.

But I'll drip all over your floor, she says.

Less of a problem than catching pneumonia out there.

She turns to face the wind, closes the umbrella, and backs into the house. I close the door. Let me get that coat, I say.

She turns towards me. "No, wait. I've got a van full of girls out there. We need shelter. We've waded through so many puddles that the van's barely running. If we're not wading, we're hydroplaning. The brakes aren’t really working any more and I expect the van to stall any moment.