Drought (21 page)

She gives me a sympathetic smile. “Were you like that around Jonah?”

“No—no, not exactly,” I stammer.

“I’d seen sheep with more brains, compared to your mother around Otto.” Asa grins.

“She wasn’t stupid. She was just …” Hope shrugs.

“Aye. She was clumsy,” Asa says.

“It’s true!” Hope claps her hands together and nods. “She’d walk into furniture, stumble down hills, drop crockery.”

“I can’t imagine it,” I tell them. Mother, so sure-footed in the woods, her hands holding her cup steady after ten hours of being in the sun.

“People change when they’re in love.” Hope looks behind me, and even without looking I know that she’s finding Gabe.

And then, so simple, so certain, I know: I love Ford. It’s more than stolen kisses and the thrill of the modern world. I love him, and I can’t let him go—at least, not without one more night together.

I stand.

“Gone already?” Hope pouts.

“Only for a little bit,” I tell her.

Darwin’s back by the trucks; still, I know I shouldn’t stay by Ford for long. Darwin is obviously watching him.

So I walk around the fire, slow, arms out wide like a small girl playing a game. Slow, patient, ignoring the people around me, I make my path toward Ford.

When I reach him, I don’t even slow or change my walk.

“I’ll go on your date,” I say.

“You will? Good.” He sounds so happy.

“When?” I’m nearly past the point where I’ll be able to hear him.

“Meet me at the cisterns tomorrow night, soon as the sun is down.”

“Aye,” I answer, and then I keep walking.

It’s not until I reach Hope and Asa again that I remember: tomorrow night will be a terrible night.

And now I’ve agreed to abandon her.

I should go back and tell him no. I should tell him it will have to be another night.

But I don’t. I settle beside Hope again and smile, and laugh, and tell my own stories about my strong stubborn mother.

And I dream about what my stolen night with Ford will be like.

Chapter 30

Darwin comes to our cabin the next night, just as I knew he would. It’s the only time he comes here—once a year, when the cisterns are full, before the Visitor comes.

“You’re not welcome here.” Mother is standing at the door, chin lifted high, blocking the way inside with her body. I remember the days when I clung to her skirts and peered up at him. I couldn’t make out his face under the shadow of his hat.

But I always knew who it was. Darwin West, come to beg my mother.

“It’s my property. My land. My trees. My cabin. All of it.” His eyes wander down her body and she lifts her chin higher.

“Leave, Darwin,” she says, her voice hard and low.

“You’ll want to hear what I have to say.” He sweeps the hat off his head and tucks it under one arm. His thick blond hair glints in the sunset.

He looks as young as Ford.

Ford, whom I promised to meet tonight. Ford, who wants to take me away, just for a night.

Let this time be different than the others. Please, Otto. Help Mother.

She never looks back at me, or says anything to indicate I’m here in the cabin. I’m back by the stove, building a small fire, even though the leaves have barely turned. The nights are cold now. Soon we’ll be sharing one bed and both of our blankets.

She warned me earlier, as she always has on this day. “Darwin will be by later,” she said.

“Why does he keep trying?” I asked her.

“Why does he do anything?” Her smile was small and tired. “Stay back when he comes, Ruby. Don’t interfere. If he remembers you’re here, it’ll make things worse.”

“I can help,” I protested. For years, now, I’ve thought of the ways I could help her when things start to go wrong. I could tell him to stop. I could fight him.

“Promise me you’ll stay quiet. Promise you won’t do anything,” she urged.

She kept me safe all these years. She survived this night, every year. How could I not give her what she asked?

“I promise,” I told her. But still, I slipped out later to find a thick stick. I shaved the end to a point, just like the one Jonah gave me, and slid it under my bed. I’d be ready to use it, I swear, if I had to.

“It doesn’t have to be like this,” Darwin tells Mother. “Let me come in.”

“Tell me we’re free,” she says. “Or leave.”

How I wish I were as bold as Mother.

“You can be free,” Darwin says.

“Then send the Overseers home,” Mother tells him.

“And me? What would you have me do?” His voice is husky, and he takes a step forward. Mother’s body leans back—I can tell she doesn’t want to be a bit closer to him—but she stands her ground.

“Leave us, Darwin,” she says. “Forget we ever came here.”

“You said that two hundred years ago, and I couldn’t do it. I tried. Oh, I tried.” He grips the hat close to his heart and squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, as if in the kind of pain I’d like to exact with my stick.

Mother lets out a snort. His eyes fly open.

“Otto never came,” he says.

“He will,” she answers.

“No. He won’t.” His voice is soft now, like a lover’s, and he takes two more bold steps toward her.

With each step there’s a soft jingling sound. He brought the chain, as I knew he would.

“Leave,” Mother says again. But her voice shakes a little.

The fire is built; I strike the flint.

“I’ve come to ask you again,” Darwin says. Then he slowly, slowly drops to one knee.

He draws a small parcel out of his pocket—something wrapped in a soft handkerchief. Then he presses it to his face and breathes in deep. “It still smells like your perfume.”

“Impossible.” Mother tries to turn away, but he snakes out one fast strong arm and catches her by the wrist.

“You will listen,” he says.

She does not try to move more. But she does not turn to face him either.

“I’d still have you. I’d still be your husband.” He sets the parcel on his knee and unwraps it with his free hand, still keeping hold of Mother with the other.

A silvery thimble, carved and softly gleaming, lies in the middle of the cloth. Its brightness is so strange, so wrong, compared to the rough and mildewed wood that surrounds us.

“You accepted this, once, as a token. It was a promise,” Darwin says. “Will you remember your promise?”

Mother’s eyes flick to the thimble, and then away. She shakes her head.

“If you marry me, I’ll set them free. I’ll give them all the help they need, to find a new place. I’d do anything, if I had you,” he says.

Hearing him desperate makes me hate him even more.

“I wait for Otto, always,” she says. “He is the one I’m promised to.”

Darwin’s hand clenches into a fist around the thimble, the cloth covering its shine.

Mother turns to look at me. “Leave, Ruby,” she says, breaking her own rule for me to be hidden.

Darwin looks at me—really
looks
—for the first time tonight. He wavers on his knee, as if he’ll tip over.

I step close to her and wrap my arms around her in a hug, my lips pressed to her ear.

“I won’t have him hurt you,” I whisper.

“He can’t. Not the way he wants to,” she answers, pulling me into a tight hug.

“Sula?” Darwin asks, and there is anger in his voice. “What do you say?”

Mother’s arms drop away from me, and I step quickly away. Still, my skirts brush against Darwin’s face. His cheeks redden.

“Go to Boone’s cabin,” Mother orders. She is sending me to the safest place she can think of—at least the safest place she can name in front of Darwin. I always used to go to Ellie. But no more.

I step around Darwin, and the cabin door shuts behind me. I hear his voice, and no reply from her. I wonder when the begging will stop and the hurting will begin.

I can’t leave her. So I find a bush to huddle behind, a safe enough distance from the cabin. I listen. And then I realize—I have left my stick and all my grand plans to protect her under the bed.

She screams, and fear ripples through me.

Otto, make him stop
, I plead.
Make him go away
.

She doesn’t scream again. Perhaps Otto heard my prayer. Or perhaps this year will be different.

I let myself make a terrible wish, for a moment. I imagine Mother nodding, taking the thimble in her hand. She’d slide it over the tip of her finger, perhaps. Darwin would stand up, then. Maybe he’d even kiss her.

The thought gives me the chills. Darwin’s cruel mouth wasn’t made for kissing anybody.

But if she agreed, he’d free us. I wouldn’t just see Ford tonight. I could see him any night. I could leave this place and be a modern girl. None of us would have to scrape for water in the woods. Never would I have to heal Mother.

Or perhaps she’d need healing all the more. Being married to Darwin would be a rough business.

Shame washes over me, hot, like water in a shallow puddle that’s been in the sun all day. How could I wish for such a thing, even for a moment? Does love make you so selfish that you could sacrifice your own mother?

“No!” Mother shouts. “Never!”

Then she screams again, a long sharp scream, and I jump at the sound of it. I want to help her, but she made me promise.

“I’ll heal her,” I tell myself. “She’ll heal.”

But there’s another scream, and another, and then I can’t even count how many there have been, anymore.

Healing isn’t enough. I have to stop him, even if she told me not to.

I rush down the hill and lunge for the door. But it opens just before my fingers close around the handle.

Darwin comes out of the cabin. I stumble back.

“Hello, little Toad.” He gives me a slow, lazy smile. “Your mother refused me again.”

I don’t answer. I’m not sure I could speak even if I wanted to.

Then he whips his arm up high and takes a fast step toward me. I cringe away. He holds his trembling fist high above my head. In a blink he could smash me to the ground.

“I’m sick of this,” he says.

“Me too,” I whisper.

He lowers his arm, slowly. “You’ll want a mop,” he says.

Then he walks up the hill to his truck.

I yank open the cabin door.

“Mother? Mother!” I slip on something—something wet that sends me skidding. I drop to my knees and crawl in farther—and find the wetness, again, a puddle wider than me. I lift one hand close to my eyes and see the liquid is dark. A hint of metal drifts into my nose: blood, all over the floor.

“Mother. Mother. Mother.” I don’t mean to chant it, but it comes out, over and over, while I make my way to her. For now I see the lump by the bed.

When I put my arms around her, her body moves in wrong ways—hinging where it shouldn’t, limp where it should resist me. This is worse than any other year. I know it, even without seeing.

I won’t light the lantern. I won’t need it. I’m going to heal her completely, no careful checks of healing scars and broken bones.

I grab the bucket and slop in all the water I can. Then I cut myself, not bothering to count the drops of blood. I pour the entire bucket over her.

Again, to the Lake. Again, blood and pouring.

The Water rolls off her body and over the floor. I slip with every trip for more of it. Once I land hard, slamming my chin against the wood.

“I hate him,” I say out loud. And while I have always hated Darwin, it’s a different feeling now—deeper. I know what love is now, and I know how he has twisted it.

The Water is starting to work. Her chest rises and falls, though slow. And the terrible angles in Mother’s legs are easing; I lay them straight and run my hands down them, coaxing them into right lines again.

Will we do this again next year? And the next, and the next?

Will Otto ever end this?

I work, and work, and finally I believe I’ve done all I can. She’s too heavy and limp for me to lift into bed, so instead I cover her with my blanket. She’ll have to rest where she fell.

My bed feels too large without its blanket. I want to curl up next to Mother—drape her arm over my side and sleep like it’s winter. But I don’t want to slow her healing, or cause any more pain.

Just as my eyes start to flutter shut, there’s a knock.

I do not call out an answer. Instead I slide off my bed, doing my best to be silent, and grope under my bed. There’s nothing but dust, and dust, and then another knock on the door. Finally I find hold of my sharp stick and grip it tight.

A third knock. I creep closer to the door and hold the stick up high.

“Who’s there?” I ask, louder than a whisper, but not loud enough to wake Mother—though nothing could wake her at this moment, I think.

The only answer I get is another knock.

Wouldn’t Darwin have kicked open the door by now?

I fling open the door and keep the stick high.

It’s Ford.

Chapter 31

Cold waves of Shock flow over me, ice water from high on the hills. My fingers quiver so badly that the stick falls from my hands.

“Did you forget?” Ford asks.

“No, never,” I answer.

Ford motions to the road. His truck is there, lights off, but I hear the engine running.

“My mother—” I look behind me. She’s breathing lightly. She hasn’t moved.

“Come. Just for tonight,” he urges. The small smile on his lips makes my own curve up in response. My body tingles, just being near him.

“If they catch us—”

“They won’t. I’ll have you back before dawn. Please?” Now he takes my hand. He doesn’t even seem to notice my bloody clothes, or my hair falling ragged out of its tie. He smiles at me as if I’m beautiful.

“If Mother wakes …” I catch my breath when he runs the pad of his thumb across the soft inside part of my wrist.

“Day after tomorrow is my last day. The truck guy comes and then—
adiós.”
He shrugs, gives me a sad smile. “So this is our last chance, for real, Ruby.”

“For real.” I repeat the strange modern words.

“I’ll take you to the movies. Nobody will even see us. I have a plan.”

“What are the movies?” I ask.

“Magic. Come on. You’ll see.” He bounces on his toes, a bit, like a child.

It’s only one night. Mother won’t be awake, truly. With his truck, I’ll be back safe and sound.

This one night could sustain me for years and years—until Otto comes.

“Let me change. Wait right here,” I tell him.

I put on my spare dress, and use a soft green ribbon from Ellie to tie my hair back. She wore it when she was courting, she told me once. Then I slide her watch into my pocket, for luck.

It’s cold outside, but Ford’s truck is toasty warm. He opens the door for me and waits to get inside. “Watch the door,” he warns, and then he slams it shut.

Ford snaps a strap around me—“It’s a seat belt, for safety,” he says—and then one around himself too. The truck moves faster than any person could run, and then faster still, the trees moving past us in the dark like one big blur. We bump along the road, and I hear the gravel scattering from our tires. For once I am inside the machine making all that noise.

“I’ll drive you to near the exit,” he says. “Then you’ll have to hide in the woods—just until they’ve searched the truck for Water.”

Soon the truck stops. Ford leans over me to open the door.

“Watch,” he tells me. “Once they’ve checked the truck, I’ll get them to walk away. That’s when you hop in.”

I creep into the woods and follow the road as Darwin drives up to two men, both holding guns.

The Overseers glance in the front of Ford’s truck. Then they lift the cover in the very front of the truck and peer inside with flashlights. Finally they check the open back of the truck.

I think I see Ford’s head turn toward my hiding place.

Then I hear low voices, the men talking to Ford. One laughs. And then—both turn from the truck and walk down the road.

I do not hesitate. I pull my skirts from the grasping branches and I sprint to the truck. The door is already open, a little. I climb inside.

“Don’t slam it,” Ford warns.

I ease the door shut, but quick. The truck starts moving. I crouch low, hidden, afraid the men will see me.

“We’re almost past,” Ford says. The truck picks up speed, and then we are flying, nearly.

“Can I come up?” I ask from my hiding place.

“We’re safe,” Ford answers. He looks down for a moment to give me a big grin.

Ford stops the truck while I settle back in my seat.

“Ready to leave the compound?” he asks.

Am I ready? Truly ready? No. My heart pounds. Part of me wants to fling open this door, tear off this trap, and run back to my cabin.

“Go. Go fast.” I grip the handle that’s by my wrist, and Ford makes the truck go very, very fast.

“At first I wanted to take you to a restaurant. Give you some decent food for once, you know?” Ford glances at me while he talks, but I barely notice. I am too busy staring at all the parts of the world I’ve never seen—it feels important to memorize every tree trunk, every field, to remember the broad world of Everywhere Else. Although, so far, it doesn’t look different from my world.

“I like food,” I say.

“Oh, there’ll be food. I’m taking care of that too. Popcorn, to start. But more than that.”

I think he says more after that—I’m not certain. For the trees start to fall away, and in between them are houses. Houses grander than any cabin, grander than even the beautiful big place where the Overseers and Darwin West live.

They are set far back from the road, with glowing windows winking between trees. Even though we fly by, there’s time enough to see that they’re big. I count six, eight glowing windows in the front of many. There are two levels on a lot of them.

I wish I could see how a family fills so much space. And how many people live in one house? We’ve already passed more than the entire Congregation put together, I think.

“They all have their own bedrooms, I know it,” I say.

Ford makes a surprised sound, then lets out a short laugh.

“And a kitchen, and a bathroom, and a sink, and a shower … for starters,” he says in a teasing tone.

I hope he doesn’t see my face in the dark, amazed, shocked … and wondering what a bathroom is. Truly a room, just for a bath?

“Just a few more minutes and we’ll be there.” Ford rests his hand on my knee, lightly, for a moment. It feels impossibly warm. I reach for him, but already his hand is gone and back to the wheel he’s been gripping.

The truck is going down a very steep hill now; I feel the pull of the bottom, telling us to go even faster. There’s a blinking light ahead, suspended above the road.

“What is that?” I ask.

Ford laughs, again, but stops quickly when he senses, I think, that I am not joking. “It’s a traffic light,” he says. “It tells us to slow down—or stop—so we don’t drive into another car.”

“I wish Darwin West had one,” I say.

“Yeah. No kidding. Only for him, it should always be red.” Ford does something to make the car slow, and then stop. We have reached the light, stopped at the edge of an even bigger road. This one has many painted yellow lines on it. Cars and cars and bigger cars pass in a stream, never stopping.

There is a building too, across the stream of cars. It’s small and low, like our cabin, with festive lights burning as if they have all the fuel they could ever want—why else would they waste it when the sun is up?

The sign in front says
FRANK’S QUIK-EE-GRAB
.

“Is that someone’s house?” I ask. I can’t tear my eyes away from its lights. It’s different from the other places we’ve passed. This one wants to be noticed.

Ford doesn’t laugh this time, even though he does give me a surprised look. “It’s a gas station—where I fuel up the truck. Really good breakfast burritos too.”

“What’s that?” I ask.

“Eggs, bacon, cheese, all rolled up in a tortilla. You have to have one.”

“Now?”

“In the … morning …” Ford’s voice trails off.

“I’ll be back in the woods, come morning,” I say.

We sit, silent, both staring straight ahead at the light. It’s so quiet in the truck that I can hear it blink … blink … blink. Then Ford twists the wheel and we’re on the road, going even faster.