Dinner with the Orwells

The fist hammering against our door sounds muted from where I hide in a hollowed-out wall behind my mom’s massive china cabinet. The voice that follows is harsh but muffled, so even the staccato authority of a Federal Citizen Protectorate officer is difficult to understand. What’s never hard to interpret, though, is the overt threat that even an eighth grader like me understands.

Where the FCP is involved, there’s no reasoning. No discussion. When they knock, you open the door. Or they break it down.

My dad’s voice is close to where we’re hiding, six kids between ten and sixteen years old packed like pickles behind a wall, surrounded by pitch black and the smell of sawdust and drywall. I can picture him hustling around our dining room table as our friends settle into new seats.

“One minute!” He shouts. “I’m coming!”

We have a non-standard door, one that’s full-on wood, old school oak I think, with no windows to allow the FCP or any other agency a line of sight into the home. Our door is an expensive luxury tax, and the only reason we’re allowed to keep it is because our house is on some historic registry. I’m not sure how taxes work or what makes this old house historic, but I do know a solid door provides a level of privacy no one else has. At least until the new Residential Camera Initiative is implemented.

Unless, of course, you’re a ranking member of FCP. Even kids like me understand that the higher up you are in quote-unquote Social Fairness Party, the less the rules apply. I guess that’s why I hate the world I live in and why I tend to rebel against that world in my own way.

One thing about old houses, they’re loud. I hear my dad’s footsteps pop and crackle across the hardwood floor. I know each of those spots. I also know my dad knows them. After all, he’s the one who showed me how to avoid specific boards when I sneak out of the house. Like father like son, my dad also has a rebellious streak.

Since he’s hitting every creaky part of our floor, I assume my dad’s doing it on purpose. When he opens the door, everyone, all of us in hiding included, must remain calm and quiet. If we’re found, the consequences could be serious. Like taking our house and splitting up our family serious. We’d be assessed Social Deviation Fines. My family’s Government Allocated Stipend isn’t enough to cover that kind of debt, so we’d find ourselves separated while we work it off in some shitty Deviancy Labor Program. Despite the severity of the situation, I stifle a snicker at the GAS acronym. I’m still thirteen after all.

“Good evening, officer.” My dad’s warm voice matches his personality.

“Out of the way.” In contrast, the FCP officer’s words are cold with superiority.

I hear boot-thuds as the officer, a man by the depth of his voice, barges into our house. He’s followed by two others, whose steps I track with each crack of our floor.

The first guy keeps talking as he enters our dining room. “The local FCP precinct was provided whistleblower information that Social Engagement Regulations are being ignored in this household.”

My dad tries to answer. “Sir, I can assure —”

He’s interrupted by the officer, who I mentally name Richard so I can call him Dick. “I’m not interested in your excuses, Mr. Orwell. So shut your mouth before I cite you for interference. Now, as you are aware, SER Five prohibits any gathering of greater than six people. SER Ten prohibits any gathering for the purpose of any majority-denominational holiday.”

This is bullshit, a shakedown with no foundation except someone’s gossip. I bet it’s the Morgans. They’ve tried over and over to get out home reassigned to public housing in the name of Social Fairness. And of course, they’re next up on the county’s public housing redistribution list. The thought of those jerks living in a house that’s been in my family for generations makes me want to scream.

My body’s puberty-ridden reaction to Sophie diverts my mind from one frustration to another. She’s a family friend; sixteen and perfect. She’s mashed against me the press of her chest into my back is causing all kinds of discomfort in an area I’m just now learning has a mind of its own. I’ve known Sophie my entire life, and I’ve been in love with her pretty much all of it.

My best friend, Jon, is behind Sophie. He knows exactly how I feel about Sophie because he’s in the same hormone-filled boat. Isaiah, all ten years of my little brother, fights his ADHD fidgets behind Jon. May stands behind Isaiah. Sophie’s sister is a year older than Isaiah, and she’s so scared that we had to coax her behind the cabinet. Jon’s younger brother, Eli, is squeezed in between May and the wall. He’s ten like Isaiah and is charged with keeping May calm and quiet.

The press of Sophie’s heart-shaped locket against my spine brings me back to the conversation outside as my dad responds to the officer. “We have three couples here, sir. The Dowling’s youngest son is exempt from SER Five. We do have a pine tree, but it cannot be seen from the outside and all decorations are non-denominational.”

The FCP officer sniffs. “And the older children?”

“They —”

Once again, the officer interrupts. “That’s an expensive carpet under your table. Don’t you think you should recycle it into the Public Redistribution Department so that it can be used for the greater good?”

Changing subjects is the oldest trick in the book. But my dad rolls with it. “The rug is an heirloom from my grandparents. But you make a good point, sir. This carpet could help someone less fortunate. I’ll recycle it tomorrow and bring the receipt to you personally.”

I can picture the officer’s eyes squint in frustration. FCP thugs rely on making someone angry enough to step out of line. Once that happens, you’re at their mercy. I’ve seen people tasered and clubbed for talking back. But my dad is too smart to bite at such bait.

The officer continues. “Why are there dimples in the carpet from other chairs?”

“We moved the extra chairs into the kitchen… to meet requirements in the latest SER.”

I hear the pinch in my dad’s voice. Dirty plates and half-filled cups were piled under the kitchen sink. There’s a good chance one a door was left open as we rushed through the emergency protocol we have in place for situations like this.

By situation, I mean an illegal meal to discuss potential life-changing decisions. There are thirteen of us, and the SER’s dictate only six people may gather in any household. If those plates are found, it’s game over. Those cops out there will arrest everyone and tear our house apart.

My dad tells stories of a time when warrants were required to search a home and checks and balances were in place to protect the rights of citizens. But that’s not the world I know. In my world, you’re either part of the political establishment or you’re a nobody. Being a nobody means you’re at the mercy of whatever the FCP feels the definition of Social Fairness is on any given day. I shiver, and a tear burns in my eye. Sophie’s hand finds mine and squeezes. Her touch warms my heart as much as it scrambles my brain.

Outside our hiding place, the officer keeps talking. His voice speeds up ever so slightly as his anger rises. My dad keeps his cool like he always does.

“We reviewed everyone’s Social Normality Files. So, where are your other children? Orwells, you have two sons, thirteen and ten. Hitchcocks, you also have two sons, also thirteen and ten. And Dowlings, three children - sixteen, eleven and little Sam here. He’ll be four next week, no longer able to attend such nonessential gatherings.”

“This is a special occasion, sir. Our fifteenth wedding anniversary. We all carefully follow the social requirements. We know how important they are and believe in their guidance. The kids are at their grandparents.”

It’s a technicality, but I know my dad. He can walk an exceptionally fine technicality line. If he’s the one speaking, no one else is lying to the officer. Including my mom, who’s remained uncharacteristically church mouse quiet. I wonder, though, with all the religious institutions torn down by Social Fairness Decree number six (Online-Only Worship), where do those mice live?

The officer pauses, and the silence presses in more than the complete darkness around me. Then he continues the interrogation. “I see. At the grandparents. Tell me, how much does the turkey weigh?”

It’s such an off-the-wall question. So innocent. So comical. Such menace hidden underneath it.

My dad doesn’t miss a beat. It’s one of the reasons I look up to him. His ability to stay calm on the outside and think clearly. He once told me that he tries to mimic a duck – peaceful and serene above water, but legs kicking furiously below the surface where no one can see.

He answers the cop without hesitation. “Not a turkey, sir. We couldn’t find one small enough. The chicken was purchased and registered at the grocery store. You should be able to check the weight in the file. But I understand your question. We take the Social Fairness decrees regarding food consumption seriously. No one should have too much, so that everyone can have enough. The chicken weighs seven pounds, one pound per person, including little Sam. It’s the maximum we’re allowed, but it is legal.”

Before the lead officer can continue, one of his subordinates jumps in. A woman given her voice. It’s sultry, and my teenage brain immediately thinks she’s hot. “Sir, if I may? It’s late. I say we take this up with the informants who apparently shared false information. I’d like to see justice done for lying to the authorities.”

“Fine.” The male cop bites the word off. “Mr. Orwell, my gut tells me something is amiss here, but my fellow officer is correct. However, I am writing you up with a SER infraction for having all doors and window shutters closed. I note you have paid fines for several of these citations. Let me urge you to rectify this. Enough infractions will lead to a teardown or reallocation of your house.”

“Understood, sir. I’ll look into that immediately.”

“Thank you, Mr. Orwell. Rest assured I’ll be checking on you regularly to make sure you do just that.”

The way he emphasizes the word “regularly” makes my skin crawl. This is the last dinner we’ll be able to host for a while.

Our floor again groans and pops with each footstep as the cops leave. No other words are spoken. No goodbye. No apology for intruding on an innocent dinner. Well, innocent as far as those jerks know. A good half hour after later, my dad, Mr. Hitchcock, and Mr. Dowling grunt with the effort of sliding our china cabinet just enough to allow one kid at a time out of our hiding place.

I stare at my dad in admiration. He looks back at me with the slightest of smiles. He’s pretending to be a duck, but I’ve learned to see through that. Tonight was too close.

My dad digs into his pockets. He holds a lighter in one hand and a wrinkled piece of paper in the other. He holds the note until the flames burn to his fingertips. His eyes crease in pain, but he doesn’t let go until all that remain are ashes falling like grey snow to our table.

“The message is real.” My dad’s face fills with a resolve that looks more like a lion than the duck he pretends to be. “The Underground is real…”