by Tosca Lee
“Wynter,” she said, sounding relieved. She took me over to a smaller desk across from hers set up with a computer and piled high with papers.
“These are from last week’s inventory,” she said, pointing to one stack. “And these are last quarter’s seed yields.” She reached across me to grab the computer mouse. The monitor flashed to life.
“I don’t understand,” I said, wondering why she was telling me this as I stared at the grid on the screen. I hadn’t seen a computer in nearly fifteen years; they weren’t used in our warehouse or school where I taught math, as there would be no power on the Final Day or need for it in the New Earth to come. So I was more than a little shocked—even scandalized—to see not one but two of them here.
“You’re assigned here in the afternoons from now on,” she said, handing me a copy of Excel for Dummies.
The rules were simple: I was to work only on what I was assigned. I was not to touch the files. I was not to answer the phone. I was not to talk about what I did here with anyone or share any information that crossed my desk.
It took me three days to get my bearings with the computer spreadsheet—all while trying to work the mouse without the cursor jumping spastically across the screen. Elders Omni and Canon welcomed me with passing nods, Shae’s dad not at all. Magnus’s door was always closed, though I could hear his muffled answer any time one of the Elders knocked on it. The only time I ever saw him was the day he abruptly strode from his office right past me, phone held to his ear. He was out the door before I could drop the papers in my hand to press my palms together in greeting.
I loved the work, and the three hours I was there each afternoon flew by too quickly before I had to report for dinner prep. My fourth day there, Magnolia informed me I’d been relieved of second kitchen shift so I could work later in the office—a thing I did gladly. So gladly, in fact, that I stayed past the start of dinner.
Meanwhile, a strange shift had happened in the dynamics of those around me in just the last two days. My dormitory warden, Iris, who had treated me with a certain level of contempt since my broken engagement, became nervous and strangely agreeable when I returned to the barrow at night. The fresh clothing I regularly dug out from the bottom of the fresh laundry bin—rumpled after everyone else had helped themselves—began to appear neatly folded on my bed. And Arabella, the children’s warden, who had mostly tolerated my regular visits to Truly if only because I helped with the other children as well, extended an invitation to come say prayers with the children that night.
Although working in such proximity to the Elders and Magnus himself had always afforded Magnolia a level of deference inside the Enclave, I was stupefied to find that it now extended to me—the same girl who had lived the last five years with sidelong glances after her questionable conduct at the farmers’ market.
Which is why I suspected Rosella wouldn’t mind my coming to the kitchen for a snack if I missed the meal tonight.
Just after six thirty, as I finished entering the latest yields, Magnus’s door started to open. I got quickly to my feet, but before I could press my palms together, his phone sounded.
I heard him murmur to himself as it rang again and then again. His voice, by the time he finally answered, sounded tired.
“Yes?”
A floorboard in his office creaked over the background noise of the phone’s speaker.
“Hello?” he said again.
A jostle on the other end, and then “Hey, man, long time!”
“Who’s this?” Magnus said, sounding irritated.
“Whoa, it hasn’t been that long, has it?”
A brief silence. And then:
“Blaine.” Magnus gave a short, strained laugh. “Sorry, friend. It’s been a long day. How are you?”
“Oh, you know. Good as ever. How’s the religion business?”
“How many times do I have to tell you—”
“I know, I know. It’s not a business. Okay, whatever. Hey, listen. I have something.” Blaine, whoever he was, sounded distracted. Nervous.
Meanwhile, I was nervous, too. Did Magnus know I was still here? Everyone else had left for the day. No, he couldn’t know, or surely he wouldn’t have answered on speakerphone. I glanced around, not sure what to do.
“I’m really—thank you for thinking of me. But I’m not interested.”
“No, seriously, you are. You will be. Trust me.”
Magnus blew out a sigh. “You doing all right? I heard you did another stint in rehab a few years back.”
“That’s old news. I’m doing great.” But his laugh was shallow.
“You still working in Kansas City?”
“Still in KC, but I’m in between. Guess our partnership was a hard act to follow. I was actually thinking of coming up to Iowa. Hell, maybe I’ll join your cult.”
When Magnus didn’t respond, raspy laughter sounded on the other end. “I’m just kidding! Hey, listen. Any chance we could meet?” His words muffled as though he were rubbing his face.
“I don’t think—”
“Listen, I’m telling you, this is worth something. As in, offer it to the Russians or Chinese for a hundred—a thousand—times more than what I’m asking for it. I’d offer it to them myself, if my name still meant anything. But as you know, it doesn’t.”
“Look, if you need money . . .”
“I’m telling you this is worth something! A lot to the right person,” Blaine said. When Magnus didn’t respond, he said, “Still there? Still with m—”
“Yeah. Yeah, I’m here,” he said, and I realized he must have picked up the phone. “So what is it?”
I eyed the front door in the ensuing silence, but there was no way I could open it without it creaking on its hinges.
“Where?” Magnus said. And then: “What am I supposed to do with that? And no, it’s not good—it’s all derelicts and outcasts. We haven’t had anyone with real assets in years and my last investor fell through. So I don’t know what you think I have to offer. We’re not exactly flush right now. No . . . that was a rumor. Of course not. That’d be illegal. Well, times have changed.”
He sighed. “Look. I’ve got to go. I’ll call you back tomorrow. But, Blaine? One word of this call to anyone, and I’ll do more than deny it. I’ll tell them you’re a sad cautionary tale hitting up anyone you know for cash. I’m sure your parole officer would be really interested in our last conversation. Good. We understand each other then.”
Now I was certain I wasn’t supposed to have heard what I had. Sliding from my desk chair, I crawled into the leg well of my desk beneath my keyboard tray. Floorboards creaked as Magnus crossed to the door.
And then I realized that unlike Magnolia’s screen, mine was still on, shining like a beacon above me. I darted forward, lunging for the power strip near the wall, fumbled for the switch at the end, and pressed it.
I recoiled beneath the desk as his door swung open. Held my breath as he strode out to the main office. Closed my eyes as he passed by my desk, catching a waft of his cologne. He was the only one at the Enclave who wore it.
A second later he turned off the light, opened the front door Magnolia had set to lock earlier, and left.
Sliding out from beneath my desk, I crawled to the window to peer over the sill, gaze following his figure toward the Banquet Table. The minute he disappeared behind Percepta Hall, I flipped the switch on the power strip back on. With a last glance out the window, I hurried to the door and slipped out.
I didn’t dare show up in the kitchen after him now and so headed directly for the Factory, skipping dinner altogether.
That night after returning from the girls’ barrow, I lay in bed wondering who Blaine was.
Derelicts and outcasts, he had called us. How could he say that about the chosen Select?
And what could someone—a drug addict, no less—have to offer the Interpreter of God?
I dreaded returning to the office the next day. I slipped into my desk chair without a word, relie
ved that Magnolia was too engrossed in whatever she was doing to even say hello.
I glanced back just once at Magnus’s door, but the office beyond it was silent.
A short time later, Magnolia exclaimed, “How am I supposed to know what kind of nails we need when nobody specifies?”
I glanced up as she held up a request form where someone had written only “Nails.”
I offered to take it to the farm, see if I could get an answer.
“No. I need to have a talk with them anyway,” she said, getting up and marching out the door, slamming it shut behind her.
She was gone only two or three minutes before the phone on her desk began to ring. I ignored it until Elder Decaro poked his head out of his office.
“Is someone going to answer that?” he snapped.
I hesitated and then moved over to Magnolia’s desk. After all, she couldn’t gainsay an Elder. His door slammed behind me as I picked up the receiver.
“New Earth International,” I said, as I’d heard Magnolia answer dozens of times this past week.
“Hi,” a male voice said on the other end. “I’m calling from the Ames Tribune. Is Magnus Theisen available?”
“No. I’m sorry. Can I, uh, have someone call you back?”
I looked around for a scrap of paper to write down his name as he said something about wanting to do an interview. Told him I wasn’t sure when he asked if we had a press release. That’s when I noticed the open projects at the bottom of Magnolia’s screen:
INBOX. ACCOUNTS PAYABLE. SERMON ORDERS. PRESS RELEASE.
I jotted down the man’s number with a promise someone would call him back and carefully returned the phone to its cradle. Glancing back at the closed office doors behind me, I grabbed her mouse, hovered the cursor over “Press Release.” Clicked it.
It was some kind of announcement about a seed New Earth had acquired. Some ancient lentil over four thousand years old purchased for $100,000.
One hundred thousand dollars. How was that possible? I had a fairly good idea by then what we sold in orders each month, and it wasn’t nearly enough to cover that kind of a price.
Was that what “Blaine” had called Magnus about?
But no, it couldn’t be. It was dated a week ago.
My eye ran down the page, scanning quickly.
“. . . legume to be offered by New Earth International as early as next year, ancient Seed Hunter and religious leader Magnus Theisen claims . . .”
I ran the cursor over several other documents, accidentally clicking one. A news article sprang to life beneath my mouse: “Saving the World One Seed at a Time.” There was a picture of Magnus holding a tray of seeds in what I assumed to be the vault.
The front door opened and I let go of the mouse and grabbed the slip of paper, ready to explain what I was doing sitting at her desk.
But it wasn’t Magnolia.
It was Magnus.
I rose out of my chair, the phone message trapped in my fingers as I belatedly lifted my hands before my mouth.
“Why, Magnolia, have you done something different with your hair?” Magnus said with a chuckle.
I gave a small, nervous laugh. “I had to take a message. Someone called. They wanted to talk to you—” I stopped. I didn’t know if I was supposed to know about the interviews. The news articles.
Including the one open on the screen in front of me.
He came over to the desk, gently took the slip of paper from me. His shirtsleeves, as ever, were rolled to the elbow, as though he were ready to weed in the garden or lug a crate of seeds. “Thank you,” he said, not even glancing at it.
I was just grateful I wouldn’t have to explain the call to Magnolia.
“Did you just start here?” he asked, leaning against the desk as though having forgotten whatever it was he had come here to do. As though there were something that fascinated him behind my eyes, though I had no idea what that might be.
Then I remembered his phone call last night.
“Just a few hours here and there,” I said, stepping away, hoping to distract him from the open article.
But his eyes had already gone to the screen.
“Did you read that?” he asked, nodding toward it.
I bit my lips together for a second. But I didn’t dare lie to his face. “Yes.”
To my surprise, he smiled. “I’m flattered.”
“I wasn’t planning on it. It was just—”
“You look so much like your mother,” he said, shaking his head faintly. “She was beautiful, too.”
And then he walked to his office and shut the door.
I swiftly closed the article before Magnolia could return.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
* * *
I’m nervous as I open the email, though I’m not sure why. But the moment I begin to read, her sweet voice returns, the angelic smile of memory.
Wynter!
I’m so relieved you’re out. How did you leave? Is your sister with you?
Obviously, I’m not dead. I assume you know enough now to realize Magnus deceived you about so many things. Which means I hope you’re not questioning yourself, wondering if you’re crazy. I thought I was for a long time. Hang in there.
Let me know how you are.
Kestral
My gaze floats back up to that first paragraph. Is your sister with you?
She doesn’t know. But of course not—how can she?
I slowly tap out a response.
Kestral,
I was cast out. I’m living with friends in Illinois. I’m doing better, though went through a hard time.
W.
Her response arrives an hour later.
Wynter,
I’m so very sorry. What you need to know is that whatever your so-called (or real) infraction, you are not damned. Do you hear me? I’m shouting it all the way from Nebraska. Can you hear me?
I hope one day you will be able to forgive me for my part in this. I sold you a false bill of goods. I’m so sorry. I adored you all from the minute you arrived and thought I was sharing something right and good.
For now, you need to know there is life and love in the world. I’ve seen it. God is far bigger than the Enclave.
Is Jaclyn still inside? I worry for her.
K.
Kestral,
I don’t know how to tell you this . . . Jaclyn married Magnus. She didn’t know. None of us did. They have a daughter. I’m afraid for them both.
W.
The next morning I still haven’t heard back and wonder if I ever will. Maybe I shouldn’t have told her, but I felt like a liar keeping it from her.
• • •
THE DINNER TALK that night is all about Ken leaving with an emergency team for Washington State and Lauren failing precalculus now that the friend she used to cheat off of has been kept home in the face of the “catching crazy.” It doesn’t help that her favorite teacher has been put on leave after someone noticed his Oregon vacation pictures from fall break online.
“I could tutor her,” I offer.
“How do you know precalc? I thought you were homeschooled,” Lauren says.
“I was.” I don’t say that growing up in the Enclave, school was the most fun part of my day.
“Ken, don’t go,” Julie says. “You started Zandt Research to get out of the field. Just because you miss the excitement is no reason to put yourself in danger.”
“Bishop specifically requested me. How am I supposed to say no? I’ll be fine,” Ken says.
“Is it Bishop you don’t want to say no to or the CDC?” Julie asks, giving him a level look.
“I’ll be fine.”
“ ‘Fine’? Five cities in Washington and Oregon just declared states of emergency! London and Tokyo aren’t even accepting flights from Seattle and Portland. There’s nothing fine about that!”
“We’re taking a charter plane,” Ken says calmly.
“Someone shot up a grocery store just yesterday in Seattle
,” Lauren says. Julie gestures toward her as though she’s just proven her point.
Ken quirks a smile. “Lucky for me, we’re not going grocery shopping. I’ll be safe and sound at a hospital across the lake in Bellevue.”
“Because ground zero is so much better,” Julie says.
“I saw Canada’s refusing entry to US motorists traveling north to Vancouver,” I say with an apologetic look. I don’t want him to go, either.
“Why can’t you video conference in?” Julie says.
“Because I can’t run tests through a video feed.” Ken sets down his fork with a sigh. “Guys, this could be really helpful to a lot of people.”
“Just promise not to need an emergency appendectomy while you’re there,” Julie says.
“I promise,” Ken says. “That doesn’t appear to be how the majority of cases are being spread, anyway. Patients describe getting sick one to two weeks before their first episodes of confusion and erratic behavior. The main pattern of spread looks viral.”
“You be extra careful,” Julie says. “Wear your mask the entire time. Better yet, a whole hazmat suit!”
“Hey. Who’s the doctor here? Hello, anyone remember those big framed paper things on my wall—the ones that say ‘MD’ and ‘PhD’?” Ken asks. No one looks impressed.
“Can I be homeschooled?” Lauren asks.
“We’ll talk about it,” Julie says.
“Can I get my nose pierced?”
“No,” Ken and Julie say in unison.
• • •
LATE THAT NIGHT, my phone chimes with a new email.
Wynter,
Jaclyn’s daughter, I’m sure, is safe for now. But I’m afraid for Jaclyn.
K.
K,
Me, too.
W.
• • •
KEN LEAVES THE next morning. Thirty minutes after Ken’s plane takes off, Lauren’s school shuts down after a boy slashes one of Lauren’s friends, claiming she’s the Antichrist. We drive together to the school where Lauren’s waiting in the office.
