All three of us started picking them until the two pockets of my shirt were stuffed. I could just barely tell that Will kept me between himself and Lucy, and I don't think she noticed. I appreciated his subtlety.
"Come on," Will said, beckoning us farther into the field. "There's a river over here."
There were some trees there as well. Lucy and I sat under one. Will jumped from rock to rock to cross the water and started gathering sticks and grass. "Guys, I'm really thirsty, but I need to boil the water before I drink it or it might make me sick. So I'll need to make a fire."
Lucy nudged me and I realized we should help. We made a little pile of kindling on our bank, but neither of us was nimble enough to jump across the water like Will. He saw us and laughed. "Go ahead and take your shoes off and step in the water. I mean, I guess you all don't get hot like regular people, but it might feel nice. Go ahead, if you want." He had a nice laugh, I thought.
I looked to Lucy, and we sat down under the tree. With her grace and dexterity, she untied her shoes quickly, almost as fast as I slipped off the ones I was wearing, which didn't have laces. Then we sat back down on the bank and let our feet touch the water. At first it felt too cold, like it would hurt us, but in just a second, it was delightful. Lucy gave the braying kind of hiccup that I knew was her laugh. To be honest, it was not the prettiest sound she made, but I accepted it the way she accepted my wrong-looking smile, for the emotion it contained, rather than its appearance. We sat there as Will gathered up all the grass and sticks into one pile, a little upstream from where we were. He sat next to it and raked a large knife across a dark piece of stone. Sparks flew out, and these startled me, but when the grass and tinder caught fire into a bright, orange blaze, I felt the heat and smelled the smoke, and I remembered how much flames frightened me. Lucy gave a little shriek and grabbed my arm.
Will put his hands out in front of himself, in a calming gesture. "Hey, hey, you two. It's okay. It's way over here, and I won't let it get any bigger. Just sit still and enjoy the water." Lucy and I both calmed down and nodded.
Will got out a large metal cup from a pocket of his jacket and dipped it into the river, then placed it at the edge of the fire. With a bigger stick he piled some embers around the base of the cup. As he waited for the water to boil enough, he took his boots off and put his feet in the stream. I moved my feet to splash Lucy with some water. She gave her odd laugh, and Will laughed some more, too.
Using a piece of cloth as a pot-holder, he took the cup from the fire and blew on it till it was cool enough, then he drank the water. It took him a couple minutes, sipping it like tea. Then he dipped the cup back in the stream. He walked in the water towards us and offered me the cup. "I guess I've never seen you all drink, but would you like to try?"
I took the cup. It felt nice in my hands-cold and smooth, calm and reassuring. It was a big measuring cup with a bent band of metal as a handle. The gradations were marked on the side with little indentations in the metal, and I ran my fingers over those, feeling them like Braille. I raised it and poured some water into my mouth. It didn't feel like when I'd tried to eat that horrible thing before, not at all. It felt like a part of me was a little bit more alive right then, like it had been deficient or wounded before, and now it was healed. I wanted the feeling to spread through me, but it didn't. I couldn't even master swallowing the water; most of it spilled out on my chin.
"Try again," Will said with surprising patience. I had been afraid he'd laugh. "This time close your mouth when you try to swallow it."
I did as he suggested, and managed to get some down. The sensation was not as intense as it had been in my mouth, but it definitely felt like something was more complete, less broken in me than it had been before, though the feeling was faint and it passed quickly. I handed the cup to Lucy. With her better control and coordination, she was much more successful than I had been. She looked surprised and elated, and she smiled at Will as she handed the cup back.
We sat there a little longer, before Will stamped the fire out and we put our shoes back on. We slowly made our way back home.
"I hope you two had fun," he said as we shuffled through our gate (Will had already led the other people to the opposite side of the enclosure). He looked happier than he had before, like he thought the outing quite enjoyable. I was glad.
He locked up the gate. "You two seem all right, like real people. Better than some real people, even."
I was always confused when he referred to us this way, but I was getting used to it.
"I got something for you." He pulled out a glossy, colorful brochure and pushed it through a tiny gap in the fence. I took it and read the cover: "Stony Ridge College-Where Learning and Character Grow Together." I lowered my eyebrows a little, for the motto wasn't quite what I expected, even as high-minded as it seemed. I certainly hoped I had lived up to it when I had worked there, but it sounded so grand I wasn't sure if it were humanly possible to do such things for people, at least not at school.
I looked back to Will.
"I don't know if you can read, Truman, but it's your old college. I went out there the other day to check it out." He glanced at the other people as they moaned and approached. "Some of the buildings are falling apart, but I found one office where they had these brochures and they were all boxed up, so they were still readable. It's quite a ways, but we can go there next time if you want."
As the first of the others began to push and jostle me out of the way, I nodded, touched by his thoughtfulness. Will nodded too as he stepped away from the fence.
I moved back through the crowd, so I could get away from them. Lucy came with me, and we retreated to our little cubicle, where we sat together on our sofa. I opened the brochure to examine it. Inside there were pictures of ivy-covered, brick buildings and smiling, pretty young people of every race. None of them were bloody or missing parts, I noticed. None of them even had a deformity as minor as crooked teeth or scraggly hair.
Looking at such perfect people, I wondered if any of their learning and character had grown because of me. I also wondered where they all were now, and if any of them still remembered anything I'd taught them-again, even assuming that I'd been a teacher there. I thought of all the other people in the storage area with us, who couldn't speak or read, who didn't seem to remember much of anything, and I wondered what difference I had ever made. I was grateful for how thoughtful Will had been, but I almost wished he hadn't brought the brochure.
Lucy touched my arm and leaned over to look at what I was reading. She tilted her head up at me, and I pointed to the brochure, then at myself. She furrowed her brow and shook her head. I pointed to my pile of books near the sofa, then to a picture of books in the brochure, than back to myself. This time she nodded. She put her finger on my chest, then turned the finger back to touch her breast. I put down the brochure and took her hand; with one finger of my other hand, I touched her breast and then my own chest. She nodded and leaned her head against me.
After a while, Lucy sat up and took up her violin. As she began to play, I thought of how some teacher must have taught her, probably many years ago. As I leaned back and again enjoyed the overwhelming beauty of Lucy's serenade, I knew that teacher's work had at least made my meager life more tolerable, even joyful, whatever else it might have accomplished. Perhaps some of my students were somewhere, doing something similarly beautiful or good. It was only a hope, I suppose, but that summer night it was enough that I felt good about the day's events and I could sit beside Lucy as happy and content as I had been on the previous nights.
Chapter 11
Only a few more days of school remained after I took my vows. The littler kids were already done, and the bigger kids like me were taking exams. During the final exam in Mr. Caine's class, a little girl came into the classroom and ran up to Mr. Caine. They whispered, and then Mr. Caine called me to the front of the class.
"Zoey," he whispered, "leave your exam on your desk. I'll pick it up and keep it for you f
or later. You have to help your mother with a delivery. Go and meet her at the street corner. Good luck."
I nodded and left the school building. I went to the street corner, and Mom came running.
"Who is it?" I asked her as we started to walk, almost at a jog. "Who's in labor?"
"It's Rachel," Mom said. "Ms. Dresden."
That's what I had thought. I knew it was almost her time.
"Zoey, remember what I've said. Rachel has had a hard time. We're not here to judge. She needs our help."
"I know, Mom."
I had always found Ms. Dresden a fascinating, if somewhat troubled, presence in our community. She was a young woman, only nineteen or twenty. She was extremely pretty, I had always thought-short, a little stout, but muscular and well-built, with full hips and breasts, perfect teeth and skin, a sprinkling of freckles across the tops of her cheeks, and remarkably red hair the color of some fall leaves-vibrant, undulating, and free. She kept her hair longer than most women, just down to her shoulders, but not as long as my mom did hers. She smiled and laughed often, though she seemed more impish and sardonic than cheerful, I thought later. Her parents had both been killed in the initial onslaught of the dead, twelve years ago. Rachel had managed to hide until she saw the people in the museum; she had scrambled over the wall to safety with them.
As with many people her age, she'd had difficulty adjusting to our way of life, more difficulty than most people who were either older or younger. When I was little, she was the wild girl parents warned their children about-smoking cornsilk cigarettes (or even marijuana, I had heard people accuse), wearing suggestive clothing and garish makeup, staying out late with boys her own age or older. Hanging around boys and men all the time, she'd learned to operate heavy machinery-loaders, forklifts, excavators-and she spent much of her time going past the fence to haul lumber or other supplies back to our city. Of course, hanging around men all the time inevitably led to the situation my mom and I had to help with this day.
Even though my parents encouraged me to be more circumspect in my own behavior, they kept the blame and ostracism of Rachel to a minimum; they said she was so hurt and alone by what had happened that she compensated by taking risks and behaving in unacceptable ways. The important thing, they always insisted, was that she never hurt or lied to anyone, and therefore her behavior was not immoral in any substantive, important way. I of all people knew about ostracism, so I did not want to ridicule or criticize her.
My mom told me Rachel had not-or, the gossips confidently asserted, could not-name her baby's father, but this made no difference to us that day. She was alone and in pain, and all we needed to think about was how to help her.
Ms. Dresden's house wasn't far from the school. We went right in. There were old rock posters on the walls, dead flowers in a vase, and lace and bead curtains in each window and doorway. A large pistol sat on the end table next to the couch, and leaning on the wall between the end table and couch there was a shotgun. She'd stuck a big, plastic flower in the barrel of that. On the mantle she had a rifle, a box of ammo, and a bunch of partly burnt candles, all under a picture of Jimi Hendrix superimposed on a marijuana leaf. I thought it was the most delightfully scandalous room I had ever seen.
We followed her grunts to her bedroom. Ms. Dresden was on her bed, panting and sweating, her belly impossibly huge. She didn't greet us, just sort of nodded as she breathed, puffing her cheeks out with air. She threw her head back, grimaced, and let out a howl of animal agony.
Mom took a towel out of her bag and unrolled it on a chest at the foot of the bed, revealing a row of medical instruments. She pulled on her rubber gloves, then handed me a pair; I put them on.
"Easy, Rachel," Mom said as she pushed the woman's knees up and back, then pushed the big gown or t-shirt up around Rachel's waist. The sheets under her were wet; her water had broken. Rachel gave another howl. The contractions were really close together. This would be done pretty soon.
"Thanks for coming so fast, Sarah," Rachel managed to pant in response, before another contraction wracked her body. "I appreciate it."
"Of course. You knew I would." Mom kept her eyes on Rachel's as she reached inside. "You're not dilated enough, so try not to push. I know it's hard."
Rachel went through another contraction, this time with her mouth open but silent, trying to work the uncooperative muscles and fight the urge to push. All the drugs used to induce or inhibit labor had long since expired. So had the ones for pain. Sometimes the woman would bite something, like a strap or a rolled up towel. Mom would usually run the generator to power an ultrasound machine twice during a pregnancy, but other than that, births took their course with little interference from technology. Mom just had to keep encouraging her and checking how dilated she was.
Ms. Dresden let out a string of expletives with most of the contractions, cursing the world and herself, but it was pretty normal by birthing standards. This went on for a while, but not nearly as long as some of the more difficult births I'd been to. In less than an hour, Rachel was fully dilated and could push. Mom guided the baby and coached Rachel, and I got ready to catch it with a clean towel. But after it had crowned, I could see there was a problem. Its shoulder caught a little, and the baby was a pale blue. Mom kept working, but she looked to me. A stillbirth was an extremely traumatic and dangerous procedure and I'd never been with Mom during one-until then.
"What's going on?" Ms. Dresden demanded, picking up on the change in our demeanor. "What's wrong?"
Mom was working to maneuver the tiny corpse out of her. "Your baby's not alive, Rachel. I'm so sorry. But we have to work quickly. You know that. Keep pushing. Zoey, get ready to cut the cord."
I grabbed a pair of shears from the tools Mom had brought. Gleaming, stainless steel-I never liked handling medical instruments. I found the oily, black sheen of guns far preferable; they seemed more human somehow, while such shiny, pristine utensils as these looked alien and otherworldly, taken from out of science fiction and dropped down onto our simple, dirty, broken planet.
Ms. Dresden let out another howl as she pushed, and this one was followed by two small sobs. The tiny body finally slipped out of her. Mom held up the cord for me. I cut through it, surprised again at how tough and gristly the flesh seemed, like a chicken neck. Mom handed the body to me and I wrapped it in the towel, trying to keep my back to Ms. Dresden so she couldn't see it. I made the wrapping as tight as I could, covering its face, and set it on the floor where I thought Ms. Dresden wouldn't be able to see it. I turned back to Mom, who was working to get the afterbirth out. "Keep pushing, Rachel." Mom was sniffling too, I could see, and she bent her head down to wipe her eye on her sleeve. "We've got to get everything out. We don't want infection. And you know we have to do it quickly now."
Ms. Dresden's sobs crescendoed to the most perfect, keenest wail that cut down from my head to my abdomen and resonated there, making my diaphragm spasm into choked, restrained sobs. She took a wheezing gasp and then cried, "Who the hell cares? Just leave me alone!" She let out another string of expletives, then started thrashing her legs, kicking at us. I grabbed her right leg and held it as best I could so Mom could finish.
After she had done everything she could, Mom balled up a towel with all the fluids and tissue and shoved it to the side. "Okay, Rachel, okay, we're done." She looked down at the bundle I had put on the floor. She nudged it with her foot. It slid just a little, then started to move on its own, the towel pushing out in one spot, then another. Mom scooped up the bundle and her bag. "Zoey, stay with Rachel. I need to take care of this."
Ms. Dresden sat up as Mom hurried from the room. I tried to sit next to her, to comfort her, but she was already thrashing and pushing me away. I got her around the shoulders, but she was strong.
"Get off of me, you bald, little freak!"
She wrenched her body away and tried to follow my mom. I thrust my left arm over her shoulder and across her chest, then snaked my right arm under and around hers to press my
hand on the back of her head-a half nelson, my dad had called it. It was a better hold, as I didn't think she could shake me off as easily, but I didn't have as much purchase with my legs. I could feel her well-muscled back and shoulders; with the adrenaline pushing her, she could probably stand up with me still clinging to her. I braced my right foot on the floor and twisted my body to keep her from standing.
"I said get off me, you little, zombie, freak girl!" She elbowed the side of my head, but I held on. I was crying because I was fighting this poor woman, not because of the pain.
"Sarah, you bring my baby back in here!" she bellowed as she got one foot on the floor and started to turn. "You got no right to do anything with it!"
"I have to take care of it, Rachel!" Mom shouted from the other room. "You know that!" I could hear a small moaning-plaintive and angry-and then repeated tearing sounds.
I leaned back as hard as I could, but Ms. Dresden was getting her other foot around to stand.
"You leave my baby alone! And you and your little freak girl leave me alone, too! You always think you're so high and mighty, Sarah, 'cause you're married to the big, boss man of this little shit hole! Screw you!"
Now she had both feet on the floor. I grabbed the headboard of the bed with my left hand as I twisted and wrapped my right leg around her waist. She slid a little and lost her balance and we were wrestling on the bed again as she screamed more at my mom. "Yeah, the big man! Piss off, Sarah! Maybe it was him that knocked my ass up! Maybe hubby's been screwing me 'cause you're such a cold, heartless bitch, and now you want to take it out on my poor baby! Is that it, Sarah, you sick cunt?"
"Rachel, stop it," Mom said in loud but measured tones. "I know you're devastated, but stop it. Zoey doesn't need to hear that." There was a thud from the other room, and Ms. Dresden went slack and slumped back on me.
Life Sentence Page 10
