flashquake Fiction

TOKEN LIFE
by Lenora K. Rogers

I can't remember her name, if ever I heard it.

Sometimes I think she must have been someone I knew as a child, in the schoolyards of my youth. I see her standing alongside some fence — saddle oxfords, brown bangs covering her forehead — in the company of others, but never at the center of the group, always on the fringes of it or in the rear. She doesn't say much but always laughs when someone tells a joke. Knock-knock. Who's there? I feel sorry for her, though I don't know why.

But there are also times when I think I must have met her at another point in life. A girl I knew in college, perhaps. Not a student, but someone who worked in the canteen or the bookstore. She never spoke to me but sometimes bagged my purchases or handed me change. Our fingers must have occasionally touched. How could they not? Other times, I seem to recall her from some particular event. She came to a Fourth of July parade once — I saw her standing on the other side of the street. She was holding a child's hand. The child wore the dark glasses of the blind, and I wondered why she would bring a blind child to a parade. But then I heard the stirring martial music and understood.

Then she appeared, quite remarkably, in my hospital room as I was recovering from a surgery. She had come in to sweep the carpet and empty the trash container. Though still groggy, I was delighted to see her and tried to talk to her. "Do you remember when we were little girls in school?" I asked. She didn't reply but went steadily on with her work. Later, I wondered if I had only dreamed this episode, if she had actually been there at all or if I had really spoken to her.

It was years before I crossed paths with her again. I had nearly forgotten about her. But that day, I was sure that I saw her and quite sure that she saw me too. I emerged from a building with some others, unaware of the turmoil in the street. A great throng of people had gathered. Some were chanting and some carried signs or banners. "What is this?" I asked. But no one answered.

I spotted her then. No more than two arm lengths away from me. "Hello!" I cried out, smiling, certain that she recognized me. "It's been a long time, hasn't it?" That look in her eyes, that terrible grief — what was I to make of it? But I understood suddenly what the din in the street was all about: there's always a demonstration when the condemned is transported to the place of execution.

Your arm, please.

I lie here with only my thoughts for distraction. Cold, so cold ... I wish I could go back somewhere.

Relax, please.

The curtain is drawn open. I turn my head and look out.

Who are these people? I don't know any of them. Total strangers, all of them. Except the one sitting alone in the back. When she raises her head to look at me, I give her a cunning wink. "Knock-knock," I mouth to her through the gleaming plate glass.

And, incredibly, she mouths back, "Who's there?"

It's just a joke, isn't it?

Isn't it?

Copyright 2003 by Lenora K. Rogers

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