Drought (22 page)

Chapter 32

There aren’t any houses, now. Instead we pass bigger buildings, most of them dark. But they keep their signs lit.

NAIL SALON
, reads one.

QUICK CASH LOANS
, says another.

These words mean nothing to me. A wave of embarrassment hits me, and I work hard to push it back. Just because this isn’t my world doesn’t mean I am less than the people who live in it.

It’s hard to remember that.

Soon the lit signs give way to fields. We pass rows and rows of tall stalks. Ford slows the truck and makes another turn.

“So … movies,” Ford says. “I guess I should prepare you.”

A little fear stirs in me, but I slouch and look out the window as if I’m not afraid. I want Ford to think I’m as brave as the modern girls he knows.

“They’re like pictures—only moving. That’s what they used to call them, moving pictures,” Ford says. “And they’re big, taller than your cabin.”

My bravery has nearly vanished. I swallow and stay quiet, will away the fear rising in me. He wouldn’t take me to something that would hurt me, or scare me.

“Don’t worry.” He sets his hand on top of mine, for a moment. “It’s fun. I promise.”

“I trust you,” I tell him.

“Movies can take you a million miles away—so far away, even Darwin West can’t touch you,” he says.

“Where will we go?” I ask.

“Oh, nowhere.” He lets out a short laugh. “I just mean figuratively. We’ll sit in the truck the whole time.”

Soon a sign looms up, so brightly lit that I shade my eyes. “Hudson Drive-in,” I read out loud. “Flicks, food, and fun.”

“It’s not exactly a movie theater. We’d have to drive to Albany or Bennington for that,” Ford says, apologetic.

“It’s nice,” I tell him—because it is, far nicer than anything I’ve ever seen.

“And it’s just for us.” He drives the truck up to a small hut and presses a button that makes his window slide down. “I thought maybe—maybe a lot of people might be too much, tonight, anyway,” he says.

I look past the hut and see only rows of sticks. There’s one small building with a sign over it. A picture shows a girl opening her mouth wide to take a bit of a curly white food.

Inside the booth, a boy in a red-and-white-striped shirt waves. He’s got a small sparkling bit in one ear, and hair long enough to half cover his eyes. He needs a tie to hold it back—but maybe modern boys don’t do that.

“Who’s that?” I ask.

“That would be Chuck,” Ford says. “We used to … He’s my friend, I guess.”

“Ford, is that really you?” the boy’s voice is muffled behind the glass.

“Thanks for setting this up,” Ford tells him.

“I pulled out the reel for
Summer Gone
. There’s kissing and stuff.” The boy slides open the glass door and leans out. I think he’s trying to get a good look at me.

His staring eyes are too much. I pull back into the seat and look in the other direction.

“Glad to see you’re still alive,” the boy tells Ford. “Now pay up.”

Ford pulls something out of his pocket; I look and see a wad of green paper. He holds it out the window, close to Chuck, but pulls it back a little when Chuck goes to take it.

“Where’s my food?” he asks.

“Oh that? You still want that?” Chuck looks down toward his feet and shakes his head. “It’s probably stone cold, man.”

Ford peels away some of the paper in his hand and cocks his head at Chuck. “I ordered it hot, right?”

There’s a thread of threat in his voice, something that makes me think of Darwin.

I shiver and look around. Suddenly the wide lonely space in front of us looks dangerous. I wonder how Mother is doing, if she sleeps easily. What will she do if she wakes before I’m back?

No. I know that won’t happen. And this is just one night, one slight thing to remember when I’m crouched with spoon and cup. That’s all. He won’t hurt me. Mother won’t find out.

“Ruby? Ruby.” Ford is trying to hand me something. I become aware of the heavenly smell coming out of a tall white paper bag.

I take it and hold it up, breathe in deep. Ford is watching me.

“I never smelled anything like it,” I tell him.

First he smiles, but it doesn’t last long. Something like anger flickers on his face. “You miss a lot up there on the mountain, Ruby.”

My only answer is to open the bag more and smell deeper. My stomach lets out a tremendous growl.

Ford hands all the money to Chuck.

“That’ll do fine,” the boy says. “Enjoy the show, et cetera, et cetera.” He waves for the truck to move forward.

Ford drives past rows and rows of the short sticks, not even half the height of all the poles we installed for Darwin. “What are those?” I ask.

“Speakers, so you can hear the movie,” he says.

Ford pulls close to a tall white screen. I know the pictures will show there. But how do they get there? Who does it? How do they start and stop them?

The window next to me is going down—Ford’s pressed a button somewhere, I think. Then the truck rumbles off, and it’s silent. Silent save for the crickets all around us, and peepers too. They’re not as loud as you’d think they’d be, though. Maybe it’s been just as dry down here.

We sit quiet for a second. I breathe it in. I close my eyes. It’s almost like I’m back on the mountain, away from the constant press of the modern world.

“Last summer, we used to come out here after the midnight show, almost every night,” Ford says.

I open my eyes to look at him. He’s got a small smile on his face, staring straight ahead as if he can see something—but it’s still just the blank screen.

“Why come after the show was done?” I ask.

“Chuck gave us free popcorn. It was better than hanging at the Quik-ee-Grab.” Ford shrugs.

“What’s popcorn?”

“Dinner first.” He says it like I’m his child. It bothers me, a little. He doesn’t own me. He’s not better than me.

But then he unrolls the bag with the food inside, and all I can think of is eating.

He hands me a white fork, the same flimsy kind that Darwin gives us. Then a big white container that squeaks a little when he moves his fingers on it. I squeeze it, a little too hard; the side cracks.

“Careful, there. You’re supposed to eat what’s inside,” Ford teases.

Inside there’s long white thin strands curled in a red sauce. There’s something yellow melted on top.

Ford has one just like it. He sticks his fork in the middle of the strands and turns it in the circle.

“Can’t beat Leo’s spaghetti,” he says.

Spaghetti. I wonder if that’s the white part, the red part, or the yellow part—or all of it. But I’m too hungry to ask any more questions. I do like he does, twirling and pushing the food into my mouth.

But it falls off my fork before it touches my lips.

Ford laughs, but gently. “Takes practice.”

He uses a paper napkin to grab the pile of food from my lap, tosses it back into the bag. A waste. I could put it in my pocket, save it, eat tomorrow night when Ford is gone.

But I want to be like a modern girl, so I load my fork with fresh spaghetti and try again.

The flavor explodes in my mouth. I close my eyes and pay attention only to the food, the flavor, the fact that there’s a pile more of it waiting for me.

“You like it?” Ford asks.

I swallow and nod while I put more on my fork. “But it’s not food, Ford,” I tell him.

“I promise you it is …”

“No. It has to have another name. Food’s not this good.” I put another forkful in my mouth, and another, and as I fill my belly I realize that pictures are flickering on the screen in front of us now.

“Movie’s starting,” Ford says. He reaches out his window and does something to the pole next to the truck.

Sound rolls into the car, so loud that I drop my fork and the little bit of food that’s left skitters out of my container.

“Is it kind of loud? I should have warned you.” Ford slides his hands over my ears and smiles. I rest my hands on top of his, for a moment, and smile back. The music is muffled, not like modern people hear it, I warrant. I want to be a modern girl at the movies, so I pull his hands away, even though the sound seems loud enough to make my teeth rattle.

“I’ll turn it down,” Ford says.

Now I can barely hear the music and the talking, but I like it that way. Just looking is more than enough. The people are so big on the screen, and nearly transparent, somehow. I never pictured them flat either.

It’s beautiful, so beautiful, in colors brighter than real life. The girl on the screen wears a trim green dress with a skirt so tight and short, I don’t know how she sits down. She strides confidently on shoes made of only a few strips of leather. I want to be her, so joyful and carefree.

“I’ve seen this movie, like, four times,” Ford says. “You’ll like it. You can see all the fancy stuff you’ve been missing. The people in it are über, über rich.”

“Like Darwin West,” I say.

Ford laughs. “If Darwin has money like these people, he’s not spending it like them.”

I think of his cabin with blazing lights and water that runs inside it, and how his shoes are always fine and new. I think of the thick gold watch on his wrist that glints when he pulls the chain back over his head.

Could there be any richer?

“You’ll see.” He shifts in his seat and suddenly, somehow, he is much closer to me. I feel the heat coming off his body, and the movie feels less consuming now.

The girl on the screen is driving a tiny, sleek thing that is nothing like the bulky trucks the Overseers drive.

“That’s a sports car,” Ford says. “I bet it goes from zero to eighty in, like, two seconds.”

“Sports car,” I say, testing it in my mouth. If I lived in the modern world, could I drive one?

Would I want to? She’s missing so much flashing past her while she hurries to the next empty thing.

The girl eats, and flirts with boys, and breaks their hearts. But she doesn’t do anything that matters. She’s not kind. And she doesn’t help a single person.

Is this modern life? I don’t know if I like it. But I like watching it. I try to remember every little thing. I’ll remember them again, and again, when Ford is gone.

I watch the movie, but I feel Ford’s eyes on me, not the screen. I shift a little closer to him too—but I use the softer end of my fork to poke his side gently.

“You don’t have to buy tickets to look at me,” I tease.

“I just like to watch you,” Ford says. “It reminds me of how to be happy.”

He slides one arm around my shoulder, and I know what to do. I leave my fork in the empty container and rest my head on his shoulder. It’s hard, but not bony—a strong place that will barely even feel the weight of me on it.

“You just watch the movie,” I tell him.

The boy from the ticket booth sticks his head in Ford’s window and grins at us. “Ah, romance.”

I sit up straight; my cheeks flame.

“Table for two, Chuck,” Ford growls.

“Popcorn delivery, Mr. Touchy.” The boy puts an enormous white paper bucket in Ford’s lap; it’s spilling white fluffy bits on the floor.

“Thank you,” I tell him.

“Nice girl you got there,” Chuck says.

“Chuck,” Ford says, none too quiet.

But Chuck doesn’t seem to notice or care that Ford’s annoyed. He snakes his arm in the window and grabs a giant handful of popcorn. “That guy is such a sucker,” he tells the screen. “Chasing after her. She’ll never end up with the nice guy.”

“Don’t you have to clean up or something?” Ford asks him.

“Maybe.” The boy tilts his head sideways and looks in at me. “Unless you want company.”

I know Ford wants to be alone—I suspect he wants to do more than watch the movie. I feel it in his fast breathing, in how he’s pressing the side of his body into mine.

Maybe that’s too much for me. But I don’t mind finding out for myself.

“We’re fine,” I tell Chuck. My voice shakes a little, but neither boy seems to notice.

“Maybe next time,” Ford says.

“Yeah, right. This girl’s way too smart for there to be a next time.” Chuck gives me a wink. Then he tosses one of the popcorn pieces at Ford and strolls away. I don’t watch him for too long. The movie is taking us inside a gorgeous, tall house with white pillars like trees. I gasp at the beauty, and Ford gives my hand a squeeze.

The people in the movie seem more real than us, their lives more important, the colors of the world brighter than what I see every day.

“Try some popcorn,” Ford says.

I put one piece on my tongue and close my mouth over it; the salt and fat melt slowly. It is heavenly. More flavor than I’ve ever had, except for the spaghetti.

“Told you it was good.” Ford puts the bucket in my lap and pulls me close with his arm again. I wriggle my hips until I’m right next to him. Again I rest my head on his shoulder, still putting popcorn in my mouth, piece by piece.

His hand gently squeezes my shoulder, his fingers draped down over my arm. I wonder what it would feel like to wear the smallest of clothes like the girl on screen. I would feel Ford’s skin all over me, right now.

It might be too much to bear.

My stomach feels too full. I set the popcorn bucket on the floor of the truck and lean back against Ford.

He puts his hand against my cheek, pressing—not hard, but not easy to ignore either.

I turn my head, like he wants me to. Then I kiss him, like I want to.

It feels different than when we are under the cisterns. There’s no limit out here in this wide space, far from the eyes of Darwin West. Ford’s hands travel over my shoulders, across my bodice, find the ties and buttons that he never dared to touch before.

I’m greedy too—I tug at his shirt, up, up, until he realizes what I want and he pulls it off. I pull back from his kisses for a moment, look at the inked designs crisscrossing his chest. They outline the muscles and hardness. I trace my fingers over them, and Ford pulls me tight for another kiss.

More of our skin is touching now. And still all I want is more, more, more.

But his hands slide there—and there—and suddenly it’s too much. There’s not enough air to breathe. I pull back, gasping. Ford eases back too.