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The Cutting Room
a short story
by Yvonne Navarro
"Daddy, down!"
Roger Nadab grinned at his two year old son's demanding voice and upstretched
arms. He lowered himself to a crouch and looked the boy in the eye. "Brian,"
he
said patiently, using his best teacher-to-pupil tone, "you want to go up, not
down. When I'm holding you is when you want to go down. Okay?"
The toddler smiled at him and pulled at the sleeves of Roger's shirt with
chubby
fingers. "'Kay, daddy. Down?" The gray eyes that mimicked his mother's
twinkled
and Roger had to laugh. "Up!" he cried as he swung the boy to his shoulders
and
Brian giggled delightedly. "Let's go find your mom, okay?"
"Ma!" Brian agreed. For emphasis he tugged at a handful of Roger's hair as
his
father piggy-backed him through the door and into the yard, bending his knees
to
keep the child's head from discovering the top of the door frame. Roger spied
Miriam across the yard, kneeling in the midst of a tangle of vegetable plants
with some type of clawed mini-garden tool in hand. He ambled over with the
boy
still on his shoulders and yanking at his hair like he was a horse in human
form.
"What're you doing?" he asked. "Hoeing?"
His wife looked at him and rolled her eyes. "Not hardly, Rog. A hoe is a full
sized tool with a long handle."
"Well, at least no one'll ever mistake me for a redneck," he said, raising
his
brows at the sunburned skin on the back of her neck.
Miriam laughed outright. "With those glasses-- no way!"
"Ma, up!" Brian said gleefully.
"Down," Roger corrected. He lowered the toddler to the ground and wondered if
anything was left of his scalp besides smooth skin and a missed tuft or two
of
hair. He watched Miriam for a few moments as Brian began to make a small path
of
destruction through the plants.
"It's almost time for the news," he said finally. "Are you coming in?"
"Sure," she answered. Her fingers quickly snatched the garden shears out of
Brian's range. In the late afternoon sunlight Roger could see no difference
between this woman whom he had married and created a child with and the
fresh-faced girl he had pursued in his senior year of high school. The light
stippling through the trees made the shine of her thick blonde curls more
intense, until her hair resembled the fur of some strange, albino leopard; for
a
second he felt a little breathless. She glanced up and caught his gaze, then
smiled. "And what's on your mind, mister?"
"Me?" Roger asked innocently. He offered his hand and she used it to stand.
"I
don't know what you're talking about."
"Sure," she said. She tossed her gardening gloves next to the tools and
scooped
Brian into her arms. "You get that look, you know?" Her eyes, pale gray and
 
almost washed out by the bright sun, glittered like colorless stones.
"Yeah," Roger said happily as he put an arm across her shoulders and they
went
inside. "I know."
Watching the newscast was habit for both of them, something which had been
ingrained in almost everyone, Roger was sure, from birth. Every evening at
six
o'clock he gathered his family and sat in front of the television. The
thought
that he was already carrying on the tradition by "training" Brian made him
uneasy, yet he seemed helpless to do otherwise. Most of the time Roger
thought
that he didn't really want to watch the newscast, and he was sure that most,
if
not all, of what was shown was little more than lies disguised by the
colorful
words and painstakingly correct smiles of the newspeople. Yet the thought of
actually missing the newscast, even accidentally, left him feeling
unfulfilled.
He knew that if he got up in the middle of the program, went outside and
walked
down the street, the chances were better than ninety-nine percent he wouldn't
see another human being on the sidewalk until the hour was over. It occurred
to
Roger that even Brian, with his never-ending supply of wriggles and gurgles,
sat
far more quietly than one would expect of a boy just entering his terrible
twos.
He felt slightly sick as he wondered what unseen messages were being
imprinted
on their minds as they sat before the tube like good little soldiers.
Nonetheless, he settled back, watching as the news anchor, a meticulously
made-up woman in her mid-thirties, smiled widely at her unseen audience and
began.
"In nearby Atlanta this morning, the Reverend Jerry Ackerson led a group
comprised of parents and members of his parish in what was supposed to be a
local book-burning festival in the parking lot behind his small church. While
only a small number of participants had been expected, news of the event had
apparently spread to neighboring suburbs and literally thousands of people
turned out, packing the streets and causing major traffic problems in the
area
surrounding the New Age Ecumenical Church. When questioned by reporters,
attendants who had been stranded in their cars for over an hour insisted they
didn't mind the wait, pointing out that the firefair had been organized to
destroy books on the so-called Darwinian theory of evolution, a theory
speculating that man was not created in the image of God but grew instead out
of
the inferior forms of life on the planet." The newswoman gathered her papers
and
tapped them neatly on the desk in front of her. "The festival is still in
progress at this hour and the Atlanta Police Department has indicated that
the
New Age Ecumenical Church will receive its full cooperation and support
during
the remainder of the book-burning, regardless of its duration."
"That's terrible!" Roger said. The senselessness of it made his fingers
 
twitch
in frustration. "They shouldn't burn those books-- what will happen when
they're
gone? There might be people who believe in that Darwin theory."
Miriam shifted Brian's weight and glanced at him. "You'd better be careful,
Rog.
Talk like that..." She let the thought go unfinished.
He shook his head. "But it's not right," he insisted. "There used to be
libraries where you could go to read anything you wanted, even check out
books
and take them home. People should be able to choose for themselves what they
want to believe--"
"Stop it!" Miriam snapped. Her tone of voice made Brian's eyes go wide.
"Times
change and it's too late to be radical. You have a family to think of. Me,
Brian-- we depend on you. Things happen to people who still talk about the
old
ways, Roger. Things so bad that no one speaks of them." She stared at him and
her expression was a complicated mix of fear and anger. "Don't bring that
kind
of talk into this house ever again."
Roger opened his mouth, then shut it and turned back to the television. Five
minutes ago there had been something he thought he should share with her; now
he
knew the words would most likely remain forever unspoken. He was suddenly
afraid
to look at her, afraid her love and terror would pull his secrets unwillingly
from his thoughts..
A different anchorperson was on now, another woman. She was young and black
and
her face was unlined; Roger thought she looked as if she'd never had to solve
a
problem of her own. Her practiced voice rolled out of the television in
stereo
and flowed around them almost hypnotically.
"On a local matter the City Police have discovered the makings of a small
print
shop in the basement of one of our own junior high schools. School officials
at
Folcott Intermediary School told police that a student tipped them to the
location of the press and the identity of a Folcott social studies teacher
who
has, according to the student, published an "underground" newspaper from this
basement location for several months. The student, who will remain
unidentified
due to age restrictions, even supplied the law enforcement agency with a copy
of
the publication that he said has been circulating for some time in the
school.
The dissident newspaper, which calls itself Return to Freedom, is packed with
propaganda and articles which claim that the New Age Commonwealth
continuously
withholds and/or alters information which the editor of Return to Freedom
feels
is pertinent to the people of the United States. Local officials have turned
the
matter over to the Federal Bureau of Administration, and here live to comment
on
these allegations is Virgil Thayer, Director of the FBA."
The hold the newscaster's voice had been maintaining over Roger abruptly
 
broke.
"What!" he gasped, jerking forward.
On the television the young woman turned slightly to her left and tilted her
head upwards; in the corner of the television screen a mini-box appeared
showing
a coolly groomed middle-aged man with a bland face. "Director Thayer," said
the
anchorwoman, "what kind of publication is Return to Freedom, and why has the
FBA
become involved in this matter?"
Oh my God, Roger thought frantically. He sensed Miriam looking at him
quizzically but he couldn't risk eye contact with his wife right now, not
yet.
MY GOD MY GODMYGOD--
"--involved because of the highly sensitive nature of the statements made in
this newspaper, which statements are entirely false and considered
detrimental
to the New Age Commonwealth." The mini-picture expanded to fill the screen as
Virgil Thayer stretched his lips into a small, calm smile. Roger felt a lump
grow in his throat until it threatened to cut off his air. "But you can rest
assured that the party responsible is being placed in custody at this very
moment."
Somebody was pounding on Roger's front door.
The two officers sent to arrest Roger allowed him just under three minutes,
time
only to throw on a jacket, quickly kiss Miriam and hold his son for one
terribly
brief moment. He nuzzled the top of Brian's head, breathing deeply of the
soap
and baby smell, and wondered when he would see his family again. For an
instant
he squeezed too tightly and the child squirmed within the tight circle of his
father's arms.
"Daddy," Brian said solemnly, "down."
He couldn't believe the kid had finally gotten it right.
The last thing Roger saw as they led him out the door was Miriam with Brian
in
her arms, her face twisted in shock and indecision, sinking robot-like back
onto
the couch to watch the rest of the newscast.
"What is this place?"
In spite of his fear, Roger was filled with awe at his surroundings. The two
officers had driven him to the Commonwealth Building and escorted him to a
secured elevator, then down to something called "Sublevel Six". There the
younger of the two officers had been replaced by none other than Director
Virgil
Thayer himself. Now the three men stood just inside the entrance to a dimly
lit
cavernous room, the size of which made Roger almost stutter. The place was so
big, in fact, that he could barely make out some kind of podium at the far
end
of the corridor in which they now stood. Surrounding them were seemingly
endless
shelves housing thousands upon thousands of videotapes. A closer scrutiny
 
revealed that the rows of shelves were really units placed end to end;
beneath
his feet he discovered tracks in the floor that followed a grid pattern and
disappeared into the far shadows. None of the shelves were above reaching
height, and it was at this point that the light ended, giving Roger the
disconcerting impression that there really was no ceiling in the place-- just
a
great, black void suspended a few feet above their heads. Scanning the
shelves,
he saw that nothing was labeled and he wondered how it was possible that the
Administration could find anything. For a second he had the oddest notion
that
the tapes were all the same, simple countless copies of the same topic.
He hadn't been hurt so far; no one had threatened or beaten him, there had
been
no hint at behavior modification and he was starting to think that, in terms
of
the bad things that supposedly could happen to a person, brainwashing was
nothing but one of the more vicious rumors. And beyond that, or perhaps a
prison
sentence, what could happen?
Roger looked around with nervous curiosity. His fear had finally receded
enough
so that he tried to take stock of his situation. There was nothing here,
Roger
decided warily, that could bother him, at least not immediately. The one
thing
that did strike him as a little odd was a metal door behind him slightly off
to
his right, although he didn't know why the sight of the plain black door
should
disturb him so. There was nothing to see about it beyond the opaqued glass
window across which were printed black block letters that read simply:
CUTTING ROOM
"This way, Mr Nadab," Thayer said. The older man headed toward the podium and
Roger followed obediently, the guard so close behind him that Roger thought
the
guy might even be monitoring his prisoner's heartbeat. The podium might have
been a block away or a quarter-mile; Roger couldn't tell. The rows of shelves
seemed to engulf him and distort his sense of distance. When they finally
reached their destination, he saw that it wasn't a podium at all but a small
computer console set in a black plexiglass case. He looked around again and
realized that they must be in the center of the room, because all the units
seemed to branch from this location.
"Your social security number, Mr Nadab?" Thayer waited expectantly.
His terror returned with sudden, startling force and Roger remained silent,
incapable of speech even had he wanted to try. Thayer glanced at him in
annoyance then nodded at the guard, who reached a hand into his jacket and
drew
out a notebook. This he handed to Thayer, and after quickly referring to a
page
inside, the Director was tapping the needed number into the keyboard. Roger
watched with dread as each digit of his social security number appeared on
the
screen and Thayer pressed a key labeled LOCATE. The computer made a soft
whirring sound for perhaps ten seconds, then the noise stopped and the screen
went dark.
Behind the men a chain reaction of whispering noises began and the trio
turned
and watched as case after case of videotapes shifted smoothly along the
 

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