The Home

THREE

Wendover's Blue Room turned out to be a large open dorm in the south wing of the building. Freeman supposed the name came from the sky-blue walls, a color probably chosen by some soft-skulled social scientist who'd decided that the sky promoted passivity. The room was lined with metal cots, a stained strip of gray industrial carpet running down the corridor between the two rows. The rest of the floor was of the same drab tile that had soaked up light in the hallway. If the walls had been olive or khaki, the place could have been mistaken for a boot camp barracks.

"I've got a feeling I won't have a private room," Freeman said to Starlene. Most of the two dozen cots had wooden trunks tucked beneath, and stray socks and comic books lay scattered in the shadows.

"The others are in class right now." She led him to a cot near the rear wall. "This one's yours."

Freeman pushed down on the cot. No give. Oh well, he wasn't here to catch up on his beauty sleep. And dreams were out of the question. "What happened to the kid who was here before?"

"Excuse me?" Starlene still wore that patient, saintly smile. She smelled nice, too, like bubble gum.

"I'm superstitious, okay?" He waited for her to try to tell him that this was the twenty-first century, that he was too old for such things, that Wendover didn't allow foolishness. She was a counselor, after all.

"He found a permanent placement," she said. "Might be a lucky bed."

Permanent. Freeman had noticed the word was easy for people to say who had families, homes, futures. "I could use a little luck."

"It's a new start, Freeman. I don't know what happened before, but you can put it all behind you. That's why we're here. That's why I'm here."

Freeman sat on the cot, wondering where his gym bag was. Probably that lizard-breathed Bondurant was rifling through his possessions, hoping to find some dope or booze or girlie magazines. "How many others are here?"

"Wendover houses forty-seven at the moment, counting you. We're licensed for sixty, but with this new state emphasis on reuniting children with their families-"

"Out of the frying pan and into the fire. Makes the numbers look good on paper, but does anyone ever go into the family home later to see what's happening? I mean, I've heard stories."

"A social critic, huh?" Starlene knelt beside him, not letting him look away. She had strong, straight teeth. Almost perfect. "Do you have a family?"

"Yeah. A virgin mother and a father who farts brimstone."

"Why are you angry, Freeman?"

Freeman realized his fists were clenched. She was trying to drag something out of him. They loved it when they thought they were getting inside your head and scrambling the circuitry. Life was easier when you played along, so they could feel good about themselves for "helping."

"It's not anger, it's more of an indefinite pain," he said.

"Your heart probably aches."

Actually, the pain was lower down, in the part he was sitting on. But he saw no reason to be mean to her. She couldn't have much of a life if she spent all day with screwed-up kids. He should be the one feeling sorry for her, for having people dump their personal crap on her head. All she could do was smile and take it and cash the checks. But he couldn't show any pity. He'd probably have her for group or solo therapy, so he'd need to keep her at a safe distance. His edge was wearing off, anyway. The up cycle always came on like a rocket but left like a fizzled firecracker.

"I think it's my feet," he said. "May as well take off my shoes and stay awhile."

He put his feet on the cot and removed his tennis shoes. His big toe stuck through a hole in one sock. For some reason, a stranger's seeing his naked toe embarrassed him. He tucked his foot under his leg to hide the threadbare sock.

A bell rang, the noise reverberating off the concrete walls. As the echo faded, other bells rang throughout the building in a relay.

"Class is over," Starlene said. "You'll get to meet your Wendover brothers and sisters soon."

"One big happy family, I'm sure."

"We're all part of God's family."

First Bondurant and now this woman, coming on strong with the God job. Wendover must have taken a rain check on separation of church and state. At least Starlene wasn't being a Nazi about it. Her gaze was steady, her eyes bright. They were deep blue, or maybe it was the reflection of the walls. Her eyes were the kind that he imagined Joan of Arc had, martyr's eyes, ones doomed to see too much.

Eyes like his Mom's, back before death had shut them forever.

But Starlene wasn't his mother. None of them were, not the counselor with the whiskey breath at Durham, the frantic Spanish house mother in Tryon Estate, or the Charlotte foster mother who'd made Freeman paint clay figurines to "pay his keep" even though she'd received a regular stipend from the state for that purpose.

Voices came from down the hall, the shouts of excited and bickering children.

"I'd better go," Starlene said. "Your House Supervisors are Phillip and Randy. They're good people." Starlene went back between the rows of cots, no longer intimidating now that she was leaving. The threat of continued kindness faded with her.

Freeman cased the possible escape routes. His cot was beneath the only window, a smudged pane of glass some fifteen feet up. A steel door was set off in the corner, a severe-looking lock attached to the handle. A red light blinked on an adjacent panel above the lock, as if the lock required some sort of electronic password.

Freeman looked at the door that Starlene had exited. It had the same sort of electronic lock. With fire codes, they couldn't just lock the kids in and swallow the key, could they? He hurried across the room in his stockinged feet.

The door wasn't locked, it opened with a groan of hinges. He made a mental note to swipe some oil in case he needed to do any sneaking out. The hall was empty, Starlene's shoes making a flat echo around the corner. He was about to close the door when he saw a man coming from the opposite direction.

Must be a janitor. Except even a janitor ought to dress better than this guy. He wore what looked like an ill-fitting white uniform, gray with stains. The dome of his head shone in the grim light, a few greasy strands of hair stuck to the bald spot. The eyes were blank and empty.

He looked like a drunk or a bum. Still, he was a grown-up, and Freeman had learned that, in the homes, the lowest rank of grown-up was still way above that of the kids. Freeman waved to him, but the man continued his silent approach.

"Say, sir, do you know where my bag is?" Freeman asked, not putting any defiance into his voice. Sometimes strange janitors could be turned into allies. If they weren't perverts.

In Durham, Tony Biggerstaff had bribed the weekend supervisors so that they smuggled in all the R-rated videos the kids could stomach. Freeman never knew how Tony paid them off, whether with cash, drugs, his sister, or himself. He never asked and Tony never confessed. But without Tony's sacrifice, Freeman would have never come to appreciate the Holy Trinity: Eastwood, De Niro, and Pacino. Beat the hell out of Smurfs and Japanime, and taught you a few life lessons in the bargain.

The janitor drew closer, pale lips quivering. The man's hands trembled. There was something odd about his gait. His bare feet protruded beneath the ragged hem of his trousers, making no sound on the tiled floor.

What kind of a janitor goes barefoot?

"Do you work here?" Freeman looked up the hallway to see if Starlene was coming back.

The man didn't answer. He was close enough now that Freeman could see the pores on the waxy face. Dark half-moons lurked in the shadows beneath the staring eyes. A strand of drool hung from one wrinkled corner of his mouth. The legs moved on, the arms limp at the man's side. The smell of dusty old meat wafted over Freeman.

The man passed Freeman, close enough to reach out and touch, but Freeman didn't dare. You never knew which of these home employees would snap, which one was important, which one you might need to impress at some time or another. You never knew which of them held your future in his hands. True, this dried-up geezer didn't look like a counselor, but you also never knew which little game was actually one of their staged tests. And if this guy was with the Trust, he definitely had games behind his eyes.

Freeman waited to be asked why he wasn't in class with the others, but the man shambled past, staring ahead as if Freeman didn't exist. The feet were creased with a mapwork of turgid purple veins, the bones knotted and calcified, but they rose and fell steadily. The man walked as if he had a destination just beyond the wall and didn't realize that the wall stood in the way.

Freeman had another thought. Maybe this man wasn't an employee of the home. Maybe he was somebody who'd never left, never found a permanent placement. Maybe this was what happened to unwanted people when they grew old. For a moment, Freeman imagined himself in that soiled uniform, condemned to a lifetime of directionless trudging.

Freeman thought about triptrapping him, getting into the geezer's brain, but the manic buzz of an hour ago had faded to zilch. Plus, every read came at a price, in headaches and confusion and loss of identity. For one thing, he'd learned that everybody was screwed up, everybody's thoughts and emotions were strange and twisted. One voice in his head was plenty enough, and maybe even one was too many.

The old man disappeared around the corner. Freeman stepped back into the Blue Room and let the door slip closed with a whisper of air. He felt more alone than he had in years. It was almost as bad as the closet Dad used to lock him in, where the wires and weird lights and pain first caused him to triptrap. And caused him to do bad things, think bad thoughts.

He went to his cot and sat quietly, like a death camp inmate, until the other kids arrived.