by Zoje Stage
Judging by their reticence, Imogen sensed they were so deep in their own thoughts that they’d already forgotten he’d spoken. Gale seemed concerned about that possibility too.
“Well?” he said loudly.
More and more, Imogen felt the need to take charge. Not only was Beck in rough shape, but Imogen had been right since the beginning. So many times she’d thought of herself as useless, but her paranoia had been valid. Paranoia could be an early-warning system, like a siren that blares for an approaching storm, or a reminder of a lesson from the past. She took a step sideways, trying to draw Tilda’s attention and lure her out of whatever miserable reverie she was lost in. “Seen any good movies lately?”
“Nah,” Gale said, either oblivious to the direction of the question or more eager to talk than he’d admitted. “Was binging some TV shows. Could never keep up with everything on account a spending so much time locked up.”
Imogen was about to ask him what shows he liked, certain he was a fan of Alone, but Tilda came back to life and joined the conversation.
“You haven’t missed much in the way of movies,” she said, sounding authoritative. “Mostly comic book adaptations. It’s like all of Hollywood has given in to some superhero fetish. Jalal and I have been trying to see more independent and foreign films, so the market won’t totally die, but we don’t go out that much.”
“Jalal? That yer boyfriend?”
“Yes.”
“What kinda name is that? He an Arab?”
Tilda stopped and swiveled, giving Gale a short, hard look. “He’s from Portland. His family’s from Iraq.”
“He one a those Muslims?”
“Don’t bother,” Imogen said quietly. She gave Tilda a little push to set her going forward again.
“I’m just asking. I don’t have nothing against Arabs or Mexicans or anyone, I just like to know who’s who because contrary to popular belief, we ain’t all the same. And that doesn’t mean some are less and some are more—think I like being considered white trash?”
“Jalal is an atheist. A lawyer, for a group that provides pro bono services to nonprofits and families, mostly immigrants.” She kept her eyes straight ahead, but spoke with a raised, defiant voice. “He enjoys cooking—especially Indian food. He has the worst taste in comedies, but he laughs so hard I end up laughing with him. He’s three years younger than I am and we’ve been seriously talking about getting married. A small wedding. With purple bridesmaid dresses. Or Beck can wear a tux with a purple tie, if she likes that better. And we’re thinking about having a baby. Or adopting. Because we’re concerned about the climate crisis and what kind of world our child will inherit and who are we to just keep populating the earth when we haven’t figured out how to coexist with the other living things on the planet. Or maybe we’ll buy a house together first, and see how that goes.” She stopped again, turned. If Tilda had possessed superpowers, her glare would have obliterated Gale.
He probably missed everything she was actually saying, but Imogen heard it loud and clear: I have a life, with wonderful people, and dreams and hopes, and fuck you for jeopardizing everything. And then Imogen wondered if she’d be invited to the wedding. Tilda had been talking about purple bridesmaids’ dresses since high school, back when Imogen had no doubt she’d be there to accompany her best friend to the altar.
“Can we have some water?” Beck asked, taking advantage of the mule train’s pause.
“All right.” Gale sounded a tad grumpy, but he took a canteen out of the side pocket of Imogen’s pack and handed it to her. “Pass it round.”
“Thanks,” she said. Imogen took a drink and handed it to Tilda, who did the same and handed it to Beck.
It was unlikely Beck was dying of thirst (unless it was from lack of coffee), but she was smart to put a halt to their conversation. There was nothing they could chat about that wouldn’t make someone mad or sad. Knowing her sister, Beck might never share the news of Afiya’s pregnancy with Gale, not if she couldn’t hold herself together while talking about it. It was a tricky balance to keep your reasons to live present in your mind while not letting them become a distraction, or a source of destruction; Beck understood she couldn’t fall apart.
After a quick sip for himself, Gale put the canteen away and they resumed heading west.
36
Imogen wasn’t sure if she should hope they were almost there or hope they weren’t. Walking in the sun had helped dry her wet-cotton brain and her thoughts weren’t leaking away as much. But she wanted breakfast. A part of her was growing more resolute, and she needed to feed it. She needed sustenance. There was a tension snapping, vibrating amid them, as if the trio were tethered by rubber bands, and she suspected Beck and Tilda were readying themselves, too: there was going to be a showdown. They weren’t going to casually walk to the middle of nowhere only to lie down and die.
In spite of the physical and psychic discomfort, the rhythm of their mule train was meditative. Sometimes when Imogen listened to music with an intense emotional buildup she felt it inside her, lifting her, magnifying her strength. That was how it was now—with the glorious scenery, hiking in a row, breathing in unison.
But Gale couldn’t leave well enough alone.
“Wanna play a little game?”
“Like a word game?” Imogen asked. She and Beck used to play them as kids while dying of boredom in the car, or as adults before falling asleep while camping. They’d usually start with a few rounds of Twenty Questions, but their minds synced into telepathy so quickly that they’d soon find themselves guessing the secret person without having to ask a single question. Maybe they could use that now, if she could think of a movie hero or a book heroine with a good solution for a kidnapping. “We could try Twenty Questions—that’s easy and fun.”
“Nah. I’m trying to figure something out, and maybe y’all could help me.”
“Okay?” Imogen was intrigued. They’d offered to brainstorm with him before, but he’d wanted to do everything his way. This could be progress.
“So,” Gale said, a bit singsong, “if I were to let one a you go, or even two a you, who should it be?”
All three halted and spun to face him. He’d called it a game, but he looked perfectly serious.
“You’d do that?” Beck asked.
“Dunno. Maybe.”
“Why not all of us?”
“Might need one, fer collateral.”
Tilda and Imogen looked at each other, hope bursting to life on their faces.
Beck nodded, considering his question. Then she started firing off her own: “How would we explain it? If we’re not supposed to say anything, but two—or one—of us don’t make it back with the others?”
“I know, that’s a problem. But I was trying…wanted to at least entertain a scenario, as they say, where I don’t have all a you on my conscience.” He flicked a glance at Imogen on conscience. “We almost there?”
“Probably another mile or so,” said Beck. “Let’s think about this.”
Heads bowed, they continued walking, now with the accompaniment of a new sound: the clicking of cogs, spinning faster as they pondered his words. At least that was what Imogen heard. A tick-ticking, but not from the counting down of a clock. A solution needed to tumble into place, the combination that would open the door.
Could one (or two) of them guarantee their safety if they conjured a good enough excuse for the missing member(s) of their party? Would one (or two) of them be willing to leave someone behind? Imogen wasn’t sure she could do that. She could never walk away from her sister. But if necessity demanded, she might be able to walk away from Tilda.
Oh my God. She regretted the thought the instant it occurred to her. Was this a game, after all? Was Gale just trying to divide them? Then again, he already knew that her loyalty was to Beck—would he let the two of them leave, or want the two of them to stay? Or, if he was feeling especially cruel, he could divide them up. Imogen imagined volunteering to stay behind. So Beck and
Tilda could get home and start their families. At least that thought somewhat redeemed her for the earlier one, though Beck and Tilda were probably evaluating their priorities too. Fucking Gale.
“I was thinking ’bout it on my own,” he said a few minutes later, “who I’d keep, if I just kept one. I could keep the Mexi—Tilda—but my reasons…they’re shitty reasons. Nice legs. But yer personality ain’t so hot. Doc’s got the most practical skills, but yer my least favorite, no offense. Or the little one, yer kind of a mix. Some skills and, I don’t know, you might be okay company.”
What a fucked-up contest they were vying to not win.
“So I thought maybe you girls could figure it out, by yer own terms.”
“We’re not going to do that,” Beck asserted, marching a little faster.
“Why not?” said Tilda. “We don’t all have to—” Instead of saying die she speared Gale with another hateful look.
“Because it’s not going to happen,” Beck said. “He’s not going to do it, so don’t get your hopes up.”
“And we couldn’t choose anyway,” Imogen added. “We couldn’t choose someone to leave behind.” The ethical turmoil of it aside, she would never stop thinking that together they stood a chance; the numbers were still in their favor. Even with injuries, three could potentially overpower him—if he fumbled the gun, or lost his footing. The likelihood diminished if there were only two, and all but vanished if it became one-on-one.
“Speak for yourself,” said Tilda.
“Excuse me?” Imogen’s rancor flared.
“If you couldn’t make the decision, I could.”
Gale chuckled. “Knew that one wouldn’t be shy about saving her own ass.”
“Some of us have a lot to live for,” Tilda growled.
“Wait a second…” Was Tilda really implying what Imogen thought she was? Could Tilda, even in such a terrible moment, weigh the value of their lives—and find them unequal? “Are you saying I don’t have as much to—”
“Guys, stop it,” Beck said. “This is the game. We’re not playing.”
“No, we should talk about it,” Tilda insisted. “If we’d been able to talk more we would’ve entertained this exact possibility: what we would do if one person had the chance to get away. He’s giving us the chance to talk about it openly, so we should.”
“No, he’s giving you the chance to sow bad feelings.”
“Beck’s right,” said Imogen.
Tilda whirled around so fast that Imogen almost barreled into her. “You always think that! Even when you argue you still agree—you’re always on each other’s side! I’m alone out here. No one has my back!”
“That’s not true,” Imogen protested, even as a part of her acknowledged the sliver of truth.
“You can’t just write me off, make me the sacrificial—”
“We’re not!” Beck said, joining the fray (much to Gale’s amusement).
“I have a lot of promising things happening in my life, and maybe it’s not as goo-goo gaa-gaa special as Beck having a baby but I have a fuckuva lot to live for!”
Tilda’s fury reverberated in the air. For a moment it was incomprehensible to Imogen that this quartet of people should be standing elbow to elbow in the middle of a desert. As they sweated under the Arizona sun, Imogen realized none of them had washed for days and they smelled skunkish and feral. While the trio cast silent, judging glances at each other, Gale looked only at Beck.
“Yer pregnant?” Behind his shock was a whisper of something else. Guilt? Regret?
“Her wife,” said Tilda, and Imogen had the urge to snatch Gale’s spear and stab her oldest friend. Because she discerned the spite that had driven Tilda to clarify: if Gale believed Beck was pregnant, he really might let her go.
“You can be a real cunt,” Imogen said with quiet savagery.
“Whoa! Language, Jesus!” Gale gaped at Imogen. “Mighta underestimated you a little bit, didn’t know you had that kinda fight in you.”
It was the nicest thing anyone had ever said to her.
“Tilda, Imogen…I was serious,” Beck said. “Don’t fall for this. This is the opposite of helpful.”
She resumed walking, clearly hoping they would fall into line. Silently fuming, Tilda and Imogen resumed trudging along behind her.
“Congrats on the baby,” Gale said from his post at the rear. “Not exactly up on how that works, with two ladies, but…babies are full a promise.”
Here was her chance, but Beck opted out of elaborating, or even replying. Imogen thought of Crystal, his daughter, and wondered if she’d given birth yet. What kind of person was Crystal—her father’s daughter, or someone very different?
“I just meant…before.” Though apprehensive, Tilda also sounded determined to make her point. “That if there’s a chance—any chance—that some of us, or one of us, can make it home…don’t you want that?”
“Of course,” said Imogen. Remorse crept in. How often did she misconstrue Tilda’s words and their significance? And what did it say about Imogen that it was so easy for her to think the worst?
“I thought that’s what Gale…I thought one of us might get to go.” With her vitality deflated, Tilda seemed sad and lost once again.
“It’s pretty clear now that you girls can’t be in charge a deciding that. But you get it now don’tcha? How when it comes to yer own life the rules change? How yer own life is more important than anything—or anyone—else? And y’all proved why girls can’t be in charge a things ’cause they get too emotional and can’t make—”
While Imogen wanted to stuff a sock in his mouth, it was Tilda who shut him up: out of nowhere, she started belting out a song.
“We’re going down—don’t call it a crash!
We’re changing around, we’re evolving fast!”
Imogen actually laughed—and Beck looked back, a misshapen grin on her battered face. It was from Eighty-Seven Seconds. Sometimes the songs popped into Imogen’s head, but it still surprised her that both Beck and Tilda had such good recall. Surely Tilda’s throat was as dry as her own, but she sang with real power.
“We’ve got minutes left—what are you gonna do?
We’re evolving fast, I’m almost someone new!”
“You’ve got some chops,” Gale said. But he didn’t know the chorus was coming up; Beck and Imogen joined in, full throttle and out of tune—but the trio sang it together.
“Boom boom we are going down!
Boom boom here comes the ground!
Boom boom we are going high!
Boom boom now watch me fly!”
Only Tilda could hold the last note. For a song about an imminent plane crash, the melody was ridiculously upbeat and catchy—like an old-fashioned Broadway number where tap dancers emerged from the wings, swinging empty suitcases around.
“I love that stupid song,” Imogen said, in a brighter mood than she’d been in in days. The singing made her head wobbly again, but for that moment she didn’t care.
“Me too,” said Beck.
“I actually sing it all the time,” Tilda said, “every time I’m having a bad day. I’d considered recording it for the intro to my videos—there’s no thinking more positive than turning a plane crash into a chance for personal growth! But I was afraid no one else would get it—it’s a little cheesy.”
Imogen laughed so hard she thought she might cry.
“I don’t get you girls. At all. At each other’s throats one minute, singing the next.”
Maybe it was his grouchiness, maybe it was the infectious nature of laughter, but Beck and Tilda started laughing too. Imogen’s face cramped and, sure enough, tears spilled down her cheeks.
“Emotionally unpredictable.”
Everything Gale said made it worse. They were in hysterics. Just glancing at each other brought on a new volley.
Short of breath and light-headed, Imogen reached out to stabilize herself on Tilda’s backpack. “I’m gonna pee my pants,” she squeaked.
&nb
sp; “Please don’t,” Gale said, getting sulky, left out of the joke. “Crazy fuckin’ girls,” he muttered.
You have no idea.
The trio had learned important things about collaboration during their high school theater days. No other deadline could compare with the vulnerability brought on by the curtain rising on a live show. Except for this. Now they were at their most vulnerable. Counting down their days with Gale. And despite the rocky dress rehearsal, the impending show’s success was critical. Their very lives depended on it.
37
It was the easiest camping area Imogen had ever entered. No scrambling ascents or descents, they just walked right in and were greeted by a rushing creek. And an amazing view. They stood there for a moment and took it in; the world’s beauty hadn’t faded simply because they’d been dragged away from their ordinary lives. Out in the open as they were, the Canyon’s distant monuments were on display—peaks and formations, layers of Kaibab and Toroweap limestone, Coconino sandstone, Hermit shale, the Redwall. All the vibrant colors of a divine palette.
“That’s the North Rim,” Beck said, pointing both her index fingers toward the other side of the Canyon. Imogen had always wanted to go to the less-visited, more remote North Rim; it was only open five months of the year. But more remote didn’t hold the attraction it once had, and the words maybe someday didn’t exist anymore. She found herself incapable of projecting herself into any sort of future.
“Time to eat, yeah?” Gale said, gazing around. “What’s a good spot? Look like all good spots here.” He took a few more steps, found a relatively smooth area beside a cluster of small boulders, and unbuckled his backpack. He took it off and leaned it against a rock.
“Time to pee,” said Tilda.
“Coffee.” Beck made the word a prayer.
Gale untied Imogen and watched her take off her pack; she left it there, on the hip-high rock she’d chosen to ease the weight. He let her do the work of untying Tilda, slipping off her pack, retying her hands—“Front again I guess, ’cause we’re gonna eat”—while he stood a few feet away, leaning on his spear. Imogen wondered—maybe stupidly, and always aware of the heavy weight in his hip pocket—if a handgun was anything like a bottle of champagne: Did it suffer any consequences from bouncing around all day? Would it explode if rattled too hard?
