I’m thinking now that during my exchange with 0001, I flunked some sort of test and now I’m stuck on level one, never to learn the intricacies of the collective. That’s fine, I guess, as long as I’m not kicked out of the chat. If that were to happen—and I know how this sounds—I’m not sure I’d be able to survive on my own.
I haven’t been out of the house during this time. I haven’t watched the news or checked my email, and I’ve barely slept or eaten. It’s hard for me to believe these other women have accomplished much more than I—and I’m a newcomer. How long have the regulars been on the Kaya chat, starving in front of computer screens, their husbands and boyfriends and living children powerless to stop it? Has it been weeks for some of these women? Months? What’s happening to Mom? Why is she disappearing on us?
The son of the mayor of 5590’s small town was driving Daddy’s Ford Explorer when he ran down 5590’s eight-year-old son, killing him. I’m describing what might happen if the mayor’s son were to be pushed out of a speeding vehicle onto a highway packed with long-haul trucks when I hear the galloping thump of a bass and reflexively delete the comment; I’m so unused to noises.
After a second or two, I recognize the bassline as the opening of Heart’s “Barracuda.” It’s coming from my phone, the ringtone I’ve chosen for Luke. （Heart. Get it?） I always pick up for Luke, and so I do now. “Hey there,” I say, putting him on speaker so I can keep typing.
“Are you okay?” he says.
My eyes stay on the screen, on 5590 telling 2948, The mayor’s son never did any time. He was never even arrested. In my town, justice and the Law are two different things.
“In my town too,” I whisper.
2948: In my town too.
“Huh?” says Luke.
“Of course I’m okay. Why wouldn’t I be okay?”
“You were going to call me when you got home. Remember?”
I have no recollection of ever having said this. “Oh. I’m sorry.”
“No worries. I’m just glad you’re . . . you know. Alive.”
5590 says that the Law shields people like the mayor’s son from justice, and 2948 replies that if she were justice, she’d rip him limb from limb. As quietly as I can, I type, We ARE justice.
“You are alive,” Luke says. “Right?”
“I’ve . . . I’ve been caught up in a work project.”
“Oh. Sure.” He sounds odd and detached, as though he doesn’t believe me. It makes me feel the way I did in high school, when I was stoned with friends and forced, for whatever reason, to talk to my mom on the phone. I have an urge to hang up on Luke, to tell him I’m not feeling well or that I have an appointment scheduled or that there’s a call on the other line. It’s so strange, this divide between us. It’s never been there before.
Just give me a few days, Luke. A few days with my new friends, and then I’ll be back to my old self. I promise.
But what’s this?
4566: We are MORE than justice. As long as each of us does her part, we are A DEATH MACHINE.
0001: A reminder that this is a public forum.
4566: I wasn’t going to be specific. I swear. Sorry. I’ve had a few glasses of wine.
0001: Log off, please. Get some rest. You can come back when you’re sober.
Whoa . . . I open up a private message window and try to type in 4566, but the numbers don’t register on the screen. I try a few more numbers from the chat, but they don’t either. The only number I can private message is 0001.
Luke says, “Are you typing?”