by Pam Bachorz
Still no Ford. There’s no more time to wait. I climb up the ladder to the cistern—nearly full, I think, from all the harvesting we’ve done at night—and make the quick cut to my arm. It barely hurts. I murmur my prayer and count.
One. Two. Three. Finished.
Finding time to get out to the cisterns has been hard. Darwin gives us a few hours to rest after the sun sets, but that is all. Far before the sun is up—when the sky is still only stars and moon—the trucks are driving around the Lake again, blasting their wake-up warnings.
On the second night, Mother was strong enough to come with us. When Darwin announced our quota—three cups, as he’s seen how easily we find two—her lips pressed together so hard, they turned white.
But she said nothing. And we meet our quotas, every night. The work is crushing. But there are no beatings and we get food, sometimes. Nearly all of Mother’s cuts and scars are faded.
When I climb back down the ladder, something feels different. The air is warmer, somehow. I’m not alone. I should be afraid. But instead, joy jumps in my heart—too much. I can’t forget what I’m here to tell Ford.
“I’m over here,” his voice says softly from below.
Ford is standing beside the other end of my cistern. When I come close, he gives it a knock. The sound is solid. “It’s full,” he says.
“And the others nearly. The Visitor will come to collect soon,” I tell him.
“Maybe things will be easier for you then.” He touches a cut on his face, lightly, like a habit.
“I’m sorry,” I tell him. “It’s my fault you were hurt.”
He lifts his chin for a second and stares up at the sky. Then he meets my eyes. “I chose it.”
“I wanted to stop him … but I couldn’t,” I say.
“Yeah. Know how that feels.” He gives me a small, tight smile.
“Where were you?” I ask.
“My mother, she’s … sicker.” He swallows and looks down at his boots.
“I’m sorry.”
Ford draws in a hissing breath and presses his hand to his cheek. “Crap, that hurts.”
“What?” I ask. I feel so helpless.
“He … My teeth … Never mind. It’ll heal.”
“What did Darwin do?” I breathe.
“Forget I said that.”
My own teeth and cheeks ache, imagining it.
Ford lets out a low, bitter laugh. “He’s only keeping me so he can watch me.”
“I … I have to say something. I’ve been waiting all these nights to say it. I came here every night but … you weren’t here.”
Ford stares over my shoulder at something, or nothing, far behind me. “You stayed away for a long time too. You didn’t have anything to say then.”
“I wanted to be here,” I tell him.
He takes one, two, three steps forward. And we’re only inches from each other. It feels as if the air between us is like a tender waterdrop; one more move and it will burst.
“Are you still afraid of me?” I ask.
He answers with his arms, and his lips. My hands are hungry, traveling down his back, tugging at his clothes like they’re something good to eat. He touches me too, gentler touches, but daring enough to make my breath stop.
But then I touch something tender—a bruise or a cut—and he jerks away with a pained gasp. It’s only for a second—he reaches for me again—but it’s like the slap of a chain across my back. I step back from him.
“Why? Why did you do it, Ruby? Because you wanted that guy instead?” Both his hands clench, his fists hanging low against his hips.
“I never wanted Jonah.”
“You tried to leave with him,” Ford says.
“It was for the Congregation. Not Jonah.”
“All you had to do was ask me to help,” he says. “I would’ve gotten you out of here. Both of you, if that’s what you really wanted.”
“It was wrong of me to leave without—” I start.
“Without me?” he asks, not meeting my eyes.
“Without …” I swallow. The truth will hurt him.
“Who?” he asks through gritted teeth.
“Without everyone.” I look over my shoulder.
“Don’t you just want to be happy?” Ford asks. “Do you need all of them for that?” His hands aren’t in fists anymore. He lifts one to trace a path down my arm, gently.
“I want to do what’s right,” I tell him.
He shakes his head and looks away from me. “You’re a better person than me.”
“No, you’re wrong.”
“I wouldn’t love me, if I were you. I’m an Overseer, and you’re … a prisoner,” he says.
It gives me the chance to say what I’ve been trying to tell him since he came. “We never should have …” I stop.
“I’m not sorry,” Ford says.
“Me either,” I admit, and his soft smile makes my stomach plummet. “But we can never be together, Ford.”
“Not here—but out there—”
“It doesn’t do any good to dream of out there,” I tell him. “It only makes things harder, knowing there’s something else.”
“So come with me and get something else.”
“No. I’m here until Otto comes. My family needs me.”
“I need you,” he says, his voice cracking. He takes both my hands in his. I don’t pull back, but I don’t return the soft squeeze he gives my fingers.
“They need me more,” I say.
He drops my hands. “So you’re picking them,” he says in a flat voice.
“It’s what I’m meant—”
“God wants you to be happy. But not Otto, huh?” He turns away from me and slams the cistern with an open hand.
“It’s Darwin who doesn’t want us to be happy,” I tell him.
“Then fight him,” Ford says.
“Fight?” I ask. “I can’t. And you … you could get hurt.”
“I don’t care. Fight him. Don’t worry about me.” Ford falls to his knees and pulls me with him.
He puts one tender hand on my cheek, and I match him with mine.
“One last kiss,” I whisper.
Our lips touch gently, sweetly. Then we slide closer, closer, and our kisses are full of need. Ford slides his fingers through my hair and tugs away the pins that hold my curls in place. A flush travels over my body. The weight of my hair hanging down my back makes me feel nearly naked in front of him.
“Beautiful,” he whispers. Tenderly, he wraps one strand around his finger and gives it a tug. I slide my hands behind his neck and up the back of his head, loving the soft bristle beneath the fingers. Ford shivers under my touch.
Then the sun explodes against my eyelids in a harsh second.
“The lights,” Ford says, his mouth still against mine.
I scramble to my feet. Ford follows.
“I’ll come back tomorrow,” he says.
“No. No. You can’t ever come back,” I tell him.
“I’ll come back every night.”
“And I’ll ignore you every night,” I tell him.
A squawk sounds from the end of the Lake by the Overseers’ cabin.
“The bullhorn,” Ford says. “They’ll be driving around any second.”
He slides his arms around me and gives me a last hard hug. I mold my body against his, try to memorize how the print of his body feels against mine.
“Good-bye, Ford,” I say into his shoulder.
“For now,” he says, his voice thick.
The first loud words come from the road, not too far from us. “Wakey, wakey!”
“You’ll change your mind,” Ford says.
I won’t. But there’s no use arguing with him. I hear the rumble of truck tires on gravel. Ford must too; he looks over his shoulder again.
“Run, Ruby!” he says.
And so I run, with no shadows to hide in, hoping that my feet can outpace the slow trucks.
Chapter 27
Today is
Sunday—Communion day. It’s been five days since I told Ford to stop coming to the cisterns.
He listened. That hurts more than anything.
Mother is quiet as we walk to the Common House. It’s still dark out, but sunrise is coming soon—the sky is already a lighter blue toward the horizon.
We both crept into our beds two, perhaps three, hours ago. Sleep is even more delicious when Darwin denies it of us. I crave sleep now, the way I used to crave food.
Our breath is on the air this morning. Cold creeps out of the ground to remind us that summer will draw to a close, and soon. But the sun will still be fierce by noon.
“When you were small, you tried to chase your breath,” Mother says, breaking the silence.
She smiles and points at the puff of white coming out of my mouth.
“I don’t remember,” I tell her.
“I do. I remember everything about you, from the day you were born.” When she looks at me, her face crumples a bit.
“Are you crying?” I ask her.
“No, certainly not.” She sniffs once, deeply, then clears her throat.
Something’s bothering her, but I’m not sure what. I take her hand in mine, like I did when I was smaller, and she squeezes my fingers. We walk the rest of the way to the Common House like that. It feels nice, being linked to Mother, no arguments, no trying to persuade her.
We reach the Common House, and Mother pulls away first. My hand feels cold where her fingers lay atop the skin. She hurries ahead without looking back.
I take a seat in the back, where I used to sit with Ellie. By rights I should be near the front, to take my assigned place in the Communion line when the time comes. But I don’t want so many pairs of Congregant eyes fastened on my back.
They’ve been none too friendly, still. But I accept it. In time they’ll forget, or at least forgive, our attempt to leave. They’ll see I am steadfast and loyal. They’ll accept me as their Leader.
“Good morning!” Hope slides into the chair next to me and pulls my hand into hers. “Did you sleep well?”
“For hours and hours, upon silk sheets and plump pillows,” I tell her, and she grins.
“Remember that game we’d play? It’s been forever,” Hope says.
“I always loved it,” I tell her, and she squeezes my hand.
We’d pretend to be women of leisure and wealth, surrounded by luxury—just like the stories Ellie would tell us about princesses. Each tree was our servant, each rock another gemstone to pick up and treasure.
“Why did we stop?” I ask Hope.
She looks at Gabe, who’s sitting next to her, then shrugs. “I suppose we both grew up, Ruby.”
Yes—and she with her love, and me without mine. But Ford isn’t mine, was never meant to be mine. Still, I can’t help stealing looks as he stands at the front of the room.
“There’s time for a sermon today,” Hope says.
“Are we all here?” I ask, looking around. About the right number of chairs are full, but something feels off.
“Earl spent all night in the woods,” Hope says.
“Why?” I ask.
“He filled Asa’s cup,” Hope says. “Truly, Ruby. I couldn’t believe it.”
I can’t believe it either—but I should. The Pellings have good in them too.
Mother calls from the front of the room. “Congregants, rise!”
As we stand, Hope slides her arm through mine.
One short reading from the Bible, another prayer, and then Mother speaks, but briefly, before it’s time to line up for Communion.
“These have been tiring days—and nights,” she says. “But we are strong, and we will stay strong.”
Fear makes my fingertips tingle. Why must she provoke Darwin?
But he only smiles, then nods at the Overseers as if they’ve all done something wonderful.
“Otto keeps us strong. Praise Otto,” Mother says.
“Praise Otto,” the Congregation answers in somber tones.
“We will take our Communion, and we will keep working. And we will pray that the day Otto comes is soon.” Mother spreads her arms wide and looks up to the sky. For one moment I imagine Otto is about to burst through the roof of the Common House and land beside Mother.
Then she leads us in our prayer; I stumble through it, surprised to hear it come so soon.
“Ruby.” Mother’s voice, sharp because she can see the daydreams wandering in my eyes, I think. My mind wandered far, thinking about my father.
“Please come up front,” she says.
Mother gestures for me to hurry. As I walk to the front, she calls out, “Make your line for Communion, please.”
Behind me I hear chairs scraping and feet shuffling to make a line.
“She doesn’t get to go first,” Darwin says when I reach the front.
“Today Ruby is giving Communion.” Mother says it to Darwin, but she looks at me.
At first I don’t understand what she’s saying—because it’s too impossible. How could I give Communion? That’s what Mother does, and it’s always been only Mother.
“Me? Why?” I look back at the line of Congregants who are waiting for their Water. I’ve never given Communion. I don’t think I’ve even ever touched the bottle, or the dropper. It feels entirely wrong.
Mother holds out the dropper and the glass bottle with a warm, certain smile. “It’s your turn, daughter.”
“I never give Communion.”
“You’re grown, Ruby,” Mother says.
“You’ve always done it,” I tell her in a low voice. I don’t want anyone to hear me doubting her, not right now, not about this.
Mother sighs. “There’s no time to hesitate,” she says.
I take the bottle and dropper from her. They’re so light.
“Squeeze it gently,” Mother says, “so there’s enough for everyone. Just one drop.”
“I know,” I say. Then I motion to her. “Mother? Open your mouth.”
She shakes her head. “Everyone else first, Ruby. Always.”
I suppose she’s right. I can give her all the Water she needs, whenever she needs it. But it feels wrong to leave her standing here, waiting, while everyone else gets a turn.
“Hurry,” Mother says.
Zeke Pelling is first in line—the strongest, by the Overseers’ judgment. His eyes meet mine, and I brace myself for anger. But instead he bows his head, slightly, as if acknowledging me. Then he tips his chin up and opens his mouth.
It makes me feel powerful. I lift the dropper and hold it over his tongue. I am so slow and careful that he squints at me for a moment as I gently, gently shake the drop onto his tongue.
“In the name of Otto,” I say.
“Amen,” he answers, stepping to the side quickly.
Next is Thomas—taking the place of Jonah, who always used to go second. He gives me a small smile before opening his mouth.
“Hurry up,” Darwin warns.
Darwin slams his gun on the floor. Thomas swallows, whirls, and hurries back to his seat.
“Don’t go sneaking extra to your favorites,” Darwin says. The drop that lands on Thomas’s tongue must have been too big.
“I’m not, I swear it.” I hate that my voice shakes.
“Look at me,” Darwin orders. I drop the Water on the next waiting tongue, then swing my eyes to him.
“You going to take beatings like your Mother too? How grown up are you?” The intensity of his stare makes me look away fast.
There’s a loud clatter behind me; I look and see that Ford has dropped his gun. As he bends to pick it up, his eyes bore an angry hole into Darwin’s back.
“Leave Ruby alone,” Mother says. I’d forgotten she was there, standing a bit behind me, watching my every move—and Darwin’s.
“You’ve got five minutes,” Darwin says. “Or less.”
“Hurry,” Mother tells me.
The faces come quicker now—all of the familiar faces that have smiled, frowned, stared a
t me for hundreds of years.
There’s Meg Newman, one of the few brave enough to take her own lashes. She nods her head, once, before she opens her mouth.
And Joan, sweet Joan who made Ellie’s pillows. She is beaming the entire time she stands in line. I wish I could give her an extra drop.
I would I could give them all more.
Every Congregant says Amen to my small prayer; nobody refuses Water or even gives me a suspicious look. Nobody turns me away, not even the people who have given me the most sour looks since we tried to escape.
I wonder why Mother really did this. Did she want the Congregation to remember who I am—to stop punishing me for what I had done?
Or did she want me to remember who I am?
They accept me here, each one, and it makes me feel even more ashamed that I thought to leave them behind—even for a short while.
“One more minute, Little Toad,” Darwin says, and there is delight in his voice.
I count six more in line, Boone’s aunt Mary and her brother John among them. Mary slips her hand under John’s elbow to support him as he opens his mouth.
Then the last one is Earl.
He has come straight from the woods, I think. He is breathing heavy, as if he’s run a long way, and sweat stains his sides.
Just after I drop the Water on his tongue, he smiles at me, with none of the anger I’ve seen on his face since Jonah died.
“You are a fine Reverend,” he says.
“Pack up and head out!” Darwin shouts. But he doesn’t reach for what I am holding. He just picks up his gun. His hands are too busy to stop me.
There’s only a drop or two left in the stopper, with none in the bottle. I let the drop hover over Mother’s tongue, and then let it go.
I say to her what she always said to me, every single Sunday. It feels holy. It feels bigger than us, bigger than this building, to say those words to her.
“In the name of Otto,” I say.
“Amen,” she answers.
Chapter 28
The line to the cisterns is moving slowly tonight. I am near the back, Hope and Gabe in front of me.
Hope lifts her hand and caresses Gabe’s cheek. He smiles back at her.
