by Penn Gates
Nix drops to her knees the last few feet, sliding toward Doug like he’s home plate. On the white morning frost in front of him is a small patch of bright red. She grabs Doug around the chest and says urgently, “Margaret, I've got him. Make sure his airway is clear.”
As she strains to keep Doug upright to help him breathe easier, Nix is distantly aware of excited voices shouting orders or suggestions, but it's not until Cash comes that she refocuses on the reality of what's happening.
“Let go now, Nix,” he says gently, putting his hands on her shoulders. “They gotta carry him into the house.”
She releases her grip and feels the boy taken from her arms. Nix stands slowly and her head spins. Cash holds on to her elbow. “Give yourself a second.”
They have Doug on a makeshift stretcher. He's quiet now and deathly white, his lips tinged a delicate, unearthly blue. She's seen it before. This is what humans look like when their oxygen is cut off. This is what they look like when they're dying. She holds her own breath for a moment to cut off a sob, then nods to Cash.
“I'm fine,” she says. “Really.”
◆◆◆
Nix decided when she was very young that if you don't hold on to something, you can't lose it. Except for her career, she's been true to that philosophy, especially when it comes to relationships—don’t have any. Now she's broken her own rule, and even though Cash is standing next to her, she's scared. It's frighteningly easy to imagine her own pain if she lost Cash, and she realizes the fear of that loss is always with her, just below the surface.
Without George, there's no one to give a formal eulogy or perform a ritual over the deceased. In twos and threes, they approach the rough coffin Michael's hammered together and say their goodbyes, mostly in silence. These are kids who until recently were unacquainted with death, with the exception of a few ancient relatives.
Clutching Cash's hand, Nix approaches Doug's body unwillingly, the memory of her own words mocking her grief—You can choose the easy death. I'll shoot you myself. Doug doesn't look like the painted, powdered corpses to whom she's paid her respects in the past. They were laid out in satin-lined coffins more elegant than the average American's living room furniture. It had always seemed grotesque to Nix—a travesty, a denial of the reality. This, in front of her, is reality. Doug is dead. And he looks dead, shrunken and papery, as if he's already becoming the ash they say we return to. No one could possibly believe he's just sleeping.
How ironic that I was about to visit the cemetery when Doug collapsed, Nix thinks, as they walk through the orchard for the burial. Just a small interruption and here I am again, almost there. How many times does this make in the past year?
The sky has been heavily overcast, but the clouds break apart just enough for a beam of sunshine to break through. Nix remembers the stained glass window in church—a ray of light shining from heaven. What was it supposed to mean? Did it mean anything?
When they're all assembled and the coffin has been lowered into the hole, Cash clears his throat. “I'm no preacher, but I guess somebody’s got to speak a few words.”
He stands looking down into the grave. “Doug had a rough row to hoe,” he says. “Drugs are a hard thing to beat, but he had the guts to fight against 'em and win. He didn't live long—he just turned eighteen—but he found himself a home, friends, and the girl he loved in the short time he had—which is more than a lot of folks can say in eighty years.”
Cash picks up a clod of dirt and ceremoniously hands it to Margaret. It's only fitting that she is first. If not for another's decision, Margaret would be Doug's wife. She takes a deep breath and drops the dirt on the coffin.
◆◆◆
Nix sits glumly staring into the flames of the small wood stove. She's been hiding from pretty much everybody since they'd put Doug in the ground. Even Cash. She can't really hide from him the way she'd like to. They live in the same space and sleep in the same bed after all, but she's given it her best shot. She closes her eyes and tries to go back to a time when the only death she really worried about came at the hands of bad guys, and she'd had a gun to even the odds.
“So what's goin' on, Nix?” Cash asks.
The only sign that he's startled her is an involuntary twitch. “I must be slipping. I didn't even hear you come in,” she mumbles, ignoring his question. She keeps her eyes tightly closed.
He leans against the wall and stares down at her. “You been off your game for awhile,” he says bluntly. “I'll ask again—what’s goin' on?”
“Don't know what you're talking about,” Nix answers in a monotone. “It's almost winter and I'm going into hibernation—or trying to.” She opens her eyes and goes back to gazing into the fire.
Cash moves between her and the stove. “I'm pretty sure you and I had a deal,” he says. “Whatever comes up, we face it together.”
“Sure,” she mutters, “Until one of us buys the farm—so to speak.”
He walks over to the chair and unceremoniously pulls her to her feet. “Is that what this is all about?”
Nix pulls away from him. “I don't need a nanny so quit hovering,” she says coldly. “In fact, that's who you remind me of—the fucking St Bernard in Peter Pan, watching over me with doglike devotion. But you can't really solve my problems, can you?”
Cash drops the hand reaching out for her. The two of them stand frozen in the moment, then Cash jams his hands into the pockets of his jeans.
“You always been a real pain in the ass,” he says slowly. “But I never doubted there was a human bein’ under that bullshit bad cop act. I mighta been wrong about that—you really don't connect to other people, do you?" He looks at her dispassionately, as if he's evaluating a piece of machinery. “Congratulations. Now it's unanimous—everybody thinks you're a cold-hearted bitch.”
He starts stuffing things into his backpack. “You can have the place all to yourself. Nobody really wants to be around you—unless they need an enforcer.”
The door slams hard enough to rattle the windows, and Nix goes back to staring into the fire. This is nothing she hasn't been expecting. This is what she gets for giving into temptation and playing around with a kid.
◆◆◆
The sun is low on the horizon. Soon one of them will be bringing a basket of food and a jug of water down from the house. So far nobody has tried to talk to her, and for that she's grateful. The same kids she's tried to keep safe now take turns watching over her—it stirs vague feelings of shame, but she shakes it off.
As if summoned by her thoughts, there's a knock on the door. She opens it to find Michael standing there, a basket slung on one arm, his rifle cradled in the other.
“Move,” he says. “It's cold out here.”
She backs into the room and watches him set down the food, but he doesn't let go of his rifle. I bet he sleeps with it, she thinks. But then again, why not? Married couples sleep together, don’t they?
“Jesus—what?” she says finally as Michael stands watching her silently.
“I think you need to know,” he says. “Jason paid us a visit.”
“For a hand out?” Nix guesses. “I'm surprised it took him this long.”
“Yeah, he was asking for food,” Michael says. “But that's not the news. Frank is dead.”
“Finally,” Nix says. “Someone I don't have to mourn.”
“Wasn't he a friend of yours at one time?”
“Don't be a smart ass,” Nix snaps. “You were there—you heard what he said that day.”
“Jason told us he drank himself to death,” Michael says, shrugging off her reminder of Frank's insults.
“Jason looked like a guy coming off a real bender himself last time I saw him,” Nix responds, although she doesn't want to. “Probably been keeping Coach company while he committed the slowest kind of suicide there is. Maybe Frank even promised Jason he'd be boss after he died.”
“I don’t think so,” Michael says. “Just 'cause Wise-acre wants to believe it doesn't make it so. Some of the guys
with him look—dangerous. I never noticed Jason was that tough when he lived here.”
Nix wonders what Cash thinks about all of this, but she doesn’t ask. For all she knows, he left two weeks ago. Her self-inflicted solitary confinement is both protection and punishment, and she can't seem to relinquish either.
She wanders over to the table and looks into the basket. “Well, let me know when all hell breaks loose,” she says and pulls out a chunk of cheese.
Michael turns without another word and has the door open before Nix says, “Wait. This isn't some bullshit story to wind me up, is it?”
“Speak English, Nix!” Michael says impatiently. “The kind I can understand.”
“What you just told me—is it true? Swear to God?”
“Swear,” he says briefly. “On George's Bible." And then he's gone into the cold blue of the twilight.
Nix can't fit the bits of information into a coherent pattern, any more than could the woman who cobbled together odd scraps of fabric into the quilt she's huddled beneath. Jason and these guys from who knows where came sniffing around the farm. Did they just want food or were they probing for a weakness? What did they see? Who did they talk to? How much does this increase the threat level? Nix punches the pillow and sits up. I'd know the answers to all those questions if I hadn't exiled myself and become a hermit. Would Michael have even bothered to tell me what was going on if Cash was still around?
She's not at all sure what she's going to do, but in the morning she washes in cold water and puts on clean clothes—something she hasn't bothered to do in quite a few days. Before she's downed her first cup of coffee, there's another knock.
“Crap,” she says under her breath and yanks open the door.
Brittany smiles brightly and pushes her way in. “Too cold to dawdle,” she says. “But the sky's clear so we should have some sunshine. It might get a little warmer.”
“Make yourself at home—please,” Nix says.
Brittany looks around the room. “Not likely. This place is a disaster.”
“I'd forgotten—you can't recognize sarcasm when it smacks you in the face,” Nix says.
“Oh shut up, Nix. I'm not here to break up the monotony for you. I have something to say.”
“You always do. And I never want to hear it.”
Brittany takes off the mittens Margaret knitted for her last Christmas and holds her hands to the fire. “Nobody blames you for taking a time out. The past year has been apocalyptic, and you held it together for all of us." She turns and looks Nix in the eye. “But enough is enough. It's time to rejoin the human race—at least the part that's still alive.”
“Go away,” Nix says flatly, forgetting for the moment that she herself had been preparing to walk out the door.
“No,” Brittany says. “I'm not finished." She lifts the lid off the coffee pot. “Oh good. I really need a cup. You want some?”
Nix stares at her in amazement. “You think you can traipse in here and take over, princess? Really?”
“That's what you always called me, isn't it?” Brittany glances around. “Do you have any sugar? I can't stand coffee unless it's sweet." Before Nix can get a word out, she laughs. “Gotcha! I was just reminding you of the old me—the one you loved to hate.”
She hands Nix a cup. “Drink up. Looks like it's your first of the day. Here's hoping it puts you in a better mood.”
“Get the hell out!” Nix snaps. “I'll be damned if you can push in here and talk to me like that!”
“Make me,” Brittany says calmly. “But you'd never use violence unless somebody threatened you physically, would you? And all I want to do is have a talk with you.”
“You're invading my privacy and inflicting your presence on me when I clearly want to be alone,” Nix says stiffly.
“Listen Nix, I care about you." The words hang in the air between them.
“Bullshit,” Nix mutters.
“It's not. If it wasn't for you, everyone would despise me and I wouldn't have the slightest idea why. I'd be miserable, and feel sorry for myself, and I'd be alone.”
Nix knows a trap when she hears one, and she doesn't respond.
“Your silence doesn't change the facts. You know that description fits you, too.”
“Really? So everyone despises me now that they're sleeping in my house and I'm living in a shed?”
“Wow!” Brittany says admiringly. “You have deflector shields worthy of the Starship Enterprise.”
“I am a fortress,” Nix says sarcastically. “So just stop all this nonsense and tell me something useful. What's the story on Jason this time? Do you think food is all he's after?”
Brittany waves the idea away impatiently and returns to her lecture. “The difference between you and me is that I really had no idea how obnoxious I was. You, on the other hand, know exactly what you're doing.” She plops down on the only comfortable chair in the room and crosses her legs. “I wondered why you'd do that—for about two minutes.” she smirks. “Afraid of losing the people you care about? Make them leave you. That way you're in control of the situation.”
Nix doesn’t speak, but if looks could kill, Brittany would be lying dead on the floor.
Suddenly the pieces fit together. “They're using Jason to get close and scope the place out,” Nix says. “Fuck!”
She starts digging around in a pile of dirty clothes. “Where the hell are my boots?”
She's jamming her feet into the second one before she asks, “Have they beefed up security?”
“Doubled the watch at night,” Brittany answers, suddenly economical with her words.
“Is that all?”
“They strung barbed wire low to the ground at the edge of the woods so they can maximize the guards around the house and outbuildings.”
And without having to ask, Nix knows Cash is still here. For a second her pulse races, and then she gets a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. The farm is in danger and she needs to help defend it. But can she face Cash now that he hates her?
◆◆◆
The last time Nix felt this awkward was the day she'd walked into the squad room as a newly minted detective. She remembers the smirks, the whispered comments. Running still another gauntlet is no walk in the park. She squares her shoulders and steps into the kitchen.
Margaret is sitting at the kitchen table with her head bowed. Nix thinks she might be praying and stops dead in her tracks, but Margaret has heard her.
“Nix, you are back! I have been very worried for you!" She hurries to Nix and kisses her cheek.
Nix flushes. This is so wrong, she thinks. It's me that should be saying that to her.
“Are you hungry?” Margaret asks. “I have some rolls from breakfast.”
“Maybe just a cup of coffee.”
When Margaret brings the coffee she also sets down a cinnamon roll. “Eat. You have grown very thin.”
Nix dutifully takes a bite of the roll, then another. It hasn't occurred to her until now little she's eaten in the past two weeks. No wonder her clothes feel baggy.
“Margaret,” Nix says. “I’m—” She starts again. “I've been very selfish. I haven't been here for you while you grieve. I've only thought of myself. I’m truly sorry.”
The girl reaches out and takes Nix's hand. “You have been mourning, too—for your grandfather, for the poor girls who died. For Douglas." Her eyes seem darker, filled with sorrow. “The whole world you knew has been lost also, and you have never had time to grieve. You needed to—go into the wilderness, as the prophets of old did.”
“I'm no prophet,” Nix says bitterly. “If I was, I'd have done a better job of predicting what was coming.”
“You are a leader, though,” Margaret says. “But you are never realizing how much all of us here respect and trust you.”
“Not everybody,” Nix mumbles. “Some people think I'm a cold-hearted bitch." She looks up. “Sorry, I was just quoting.”
“What you have accomplished here is not the w
ork of a heartless person. You care very much —but for some reason you are always thinking you must hide your feelings. Do you know why you do this?”
“Why?”
“I do not know,” Margaret says, looking confused. “I am asking if you know why?”
Nix laughs for the first time in weeks. This is what she loves about Margaret and her culture. They still ask questions and don't presume to know the answer.
Nix squeezes Margaret's hand. “I love you, Margaret. I really do.”
“You are a sister to me,” Margaret responds.
“I’m old enough to be your mother.”
“You are nothing like my mother,” Margaret says and smiles to take any sting out of her words. “She would never touch a gun.”
The outside door slams and Terry steps into the kitchen. “Hey Nix! Good to see you. Feeling better?”
“I wasn't sick,” Nix retorts, then adds, “Just a little crazy—but I think I'm over it." She smiles to show she's kidding. Sort of. “How are things going with you?”
“Not bad,” Terry says. “But if you've got a few minutes, I'd like to talk to you.”
“I'm not booked real solid at the moment.” She turns to Margaret. “Anyone using the office right now?”
“Who would be using your office?” Margaret is genuinely puzzled.
“Let's do it,” Nix says to Terry and leads the way across the hall.
“I just want to get you up to speed on the security around here,” Terry says. He looks vaguely apologetic.
Nix knows, as sure as Terry is standing there in front of her, that Cash has sent him to tell her what she needs to know—so he doesn't have to talk to her himself.
“Shoot,” she says, trying not to sound angry. After all, the kid is caught in the middle. She gestures to a chair. “Take a load off.”
“I'm pretty sure every person you've talked to this morning has given you some version of Jason's visit—but one more won't hurt, will it?”
“I've heard a couple,” Nix agrees, “But you can't get too many perspectives on a situation.”
“I really never knew Jason at all. He took off the day we got here, if you remember.”
