“You won’t make it worse,” she said softly. “But you can help me make it better.”
Chapter 33
IT WAS ANOTHER thirty-four miles to the next big town, where there was a huge shopping mall that was rumored to be sheltering close to a hundred citizens.
At least, that was true a couple of months ago. Jay and Terrence and the other raiders hadn’t traveled this far since before the new year. They didn’t want to waste the gas, since everything raidable this far north was the domain of the mall shelter, by dint of the common law that had evolved as shelters consolidated. Bigger groups tended to be more successful, since they could post round-the-clock sentries and assign specialized tasks, and send only their strongest and fastest out to harvest and raid.
The last anyone knew, the mall shelter—nicknamed Macy’s, after its onetime anchor store—was holding its own. Dor himself had sent a guard there earlier in the fall, to spread the word about the Box and find out what the Macy’s people could tell him about the Rebuilders’ progress.
This was the only reason Cass could figure that the new leadership invited Dor to participate in the early-morning discussion. She wasn’t spying on them, exactly; they were sitting in a loose circle on the front driveway, using the abandoned furniture, and breakfast was being served under the house’s broad front porch. Rain threatened, the air heavy with stinging moisture, thick gray clouds low in the sky. Cass had taken Ruthie around the back for their turn at the “bathroom” and on the way back, she stopped to tie Ruthie’s shoe.
It was an old ruse. Cass didn’t care. The feeling she got from Mayhew—that he was hiding something, that he had an unspoken agenda—had only grown stronger. She’d slept well after her talk with her father the night before, but when she woke up the Easterners were conferring quietly inside the house. So this was their second meeting of the day, and Cass couldn’t help wondering if there were things that had been said earlier that were being left out now that Edenites were listening.
But no one else seemed to care.
Once they got moving, everyone stayed in more or less the same configurations as before, though Smoke joined those at the front, keeping up despite his limp. Cass walked with her father and Zihna, though the other moms had invited her to join them in the car. It seemed like their relationship was warming, and Suzanne thanked her for letting Twyla stay with Ruthie, alternating between walking and the trailer as they had the day before.
Throughout the morning, the group had a bit of a festival air. There was food for at least a week, including all the cans they’d been hoarding in the pantry, and they’d had a good breakfast. The rain held off, the clouds rolling and gusting. No one spoke of those who’d been lost, though the bitter count lay just below the surface of everyone’s minds. A week ago New Eden had been home to seventy citizens; after the battles on the water and on land, the people dragged away and shot and blown up in the community center, they were down to fifty-one, plus the four Easterners.
Cass was walking by herself along the abandoned two-lane highway, pushing Ruthie in the stroller, taking a break from the company of the others to think about her father. She had replayed the conversation from the night before a dozen times, and every time she felt the thrill of relief when she realized she’d never harmed anyone while she was feverish. Relief was not a big enough word to contain the feeling—it was joy mixed with disbelief, a sense of good fortune so unexpected that she was afraid it was illusory, that it could disappear the same way it came to her.
But it had come to her via her father. Her dad. Cass smiled, saying the word in her mind, a word she’d never expected to use again. She knew she needed to be cautious, to prepare herself for the inevitable disappointments that would surely follow. To remind herself that her father had hurt her grievously and that leopards don’t change their spots, to use an old saying of Mim’s; that the more she trusted him the more she risked.
But she was just so damn tired of protecting herself all the time. Didn’t she deserve—just a little, just for now—to see where this went? To maybe enjoy it a little?
A glimpse of orange caught her eye, off on the side of the road where the asphalt was broken and kaysev had taken root. There—growing practically sideways under the gray chunks and clods—was a California poppy. Its wiry stalk and fringy leaves strained to poke through to the air, and it held one tightly rolled bud and one fragile bloom, a tiny spot of brilliant tangerine that wavered and trembled in the breeze.
No one else seemed to take note. Cass pushed the stroller, fast, murmuring, “Oh, Ruthie, Babygirl, you’re not going to believe—do you remember—”
But Ruthie was dozing, lulled by the afternoon sun and the rhythm of the big rubber wheels on the pavement, and it was Cass alone who stroked the tender petals, caught a breath to see that there were others, small and stunted seedlings close to this first one. She thought about calling to someone— Zihna, Sammi, her dad—but they were hidden in the depths of the ragtag group making its slow and stolid way along the road, and her moment of ebullience would not withstand their indifference. Better this way, keeping the bloom to herself, remarking on the poppy’s return with the joy of one who’d loved them, Before.
The poppy was a challenge to cultivate. Seeds often failed, even under the best of conditions. Transplanted seedlings nearly always died. But wherever the native plant rooted on its own, it was tough and wily. It could grow in the smallest crack, the meanest soil; it was not daunted by weeds or sought by predators. Up close, it was indelicate, even coarsely figured, its leaves stubby and its stem workmanlike. But from a distance there was nothing like that glorious shot of pure color.
Cass smiled, wondering what it was about this particular spot, this homely stretch of road in the midst of dead fields, that inspired the poppy to grow here. It was not for her to know—but perhaps it was no mistake that she was the one who noticed it.
She didn’t pick the flower. Let it go to seed; let the seed scatter and find its way across the healing land. For now it would remain her secret.
By late afternoon, the rain began. People were tired from walking, tempers were thin and fears had resurfaced, and they spent a cold and uncomfortable night at a stable, sleeping on the malodorous straw in the stalls. The next day dawned clear and brilliant, water sparkling on the kaysev leaves, and spirits were restored. Near evening they disturbed a clump of Beaters sunbathing on the turf of a mini golf course in front of an RV campground. The things rushed out, hollering, but John and Glynnis, riding sentry with Nathan in the hybrid at the front of the crowd, picked them off easily.
The campground would have made decent shelter, with its large bathhouse, but everyone was too skittish from the Beaters—and who knew if there weren’t more Beaters that belonged to this particular nest—so they went a couple more miles and sheltered in a trucker rest stop.
Smoke continued to keep his distance. He was polite to Cass, solicitous of Ruthie, but he was dividing his energy between pushing his body to catch up from its forced inactivity, and conferring with the new council.
Each night he slept elsewhere, bunking down with those closest to the doors, the guards and the raiders.
“Zihna, is he crazy?” Cass asked, as they walked along in a steady drizzle on the fourth day. Everyone was miserable, their clothes soaked. People were beginning to sniffle and cough, and it seemed like a spring cold was starting to spread through the group. Sun-hi was riding with Jasmine, who had started her labor that morning. It looked like her baby was going to be born in a moving car.
Zihna narrowed her eyes thoughtfully. She was taking her turn, at her insistence, pulling the trailer. Ruthie and Twyla were playing with a bowl full of pebbles that they had collected from a landscaping bed at the rest stop, protected from the rain by a pop-up play tent that Ingrid had brought, chattering and laughing.
“I don’t think he’s crazy,” she sai
d. “I think he hasn’t been entirely truthful.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, you know I’m not a doctor, but these last few weeks I couldn’t figure out why he was gaining his strength back so quickly, and now it makes sense, he was awake. He was pretending during the day. It makes me want to kick myself, ’course, since I could have saved him a lot of trouble by just talking to him. And you know I’ve talked to plenty of patients that didn’t talk back. Only with Smoke, it had been so long, and it was like…well, nobody was coming around to see him anymore.”
“I know. It’s my fault.”
“It’s no one’s fault. I’m just saying he started to seem like, I don’t know. We were always so busy, and we had Omar’s burns, Crystal with the staph infection, Charles…we all just started treating him like an object. A…houseplant. And the whole time he was, you know, coming back to life. Well, look at the man, I’ve never seen that kind of determination.”
Smoke walked a dozen yards ahead. He’d set his cane aside today; it was resting on the trailer, a long tree branch trimmed and sanded for him by Steve the first day of the journey.
“That’s Smoke—determined,” Cass said softly. She could give a thousand examples of her own: how he’d scavenged lumber in the Box until he could build her a bed frame, how he’d stayed up with Ruthie two nights straight when she had strep throat, how he’d killed a man who’d just saved his life but been bitten in a Beater attack.
How he’d gone hunting the Rebuilders, alone, outnumbered, outmatched, hungry for justice and willing to sacrifice everything he cared about to get it.
“How quickly do you think he could get back—I mean, I know he’ll never be exactly like he was before, but, you know, back to himself?”
“Hard to say. When he really was unconscious, his body was focused entirely on mending. First order of business was to fight off the infection he had when he got here. Rebreaking his arm set him back, but Sun-hi was right, it was the right thing to do. The limp, he’s gonna have that for a while. Maybe forever. Everything else—well, he’s doing exactly what we’d tell him to do. Work on those muscles, rebuild. Kaysev’s probably perfect fuel for him. He’s doing everything right, darlin’.”
“He just seems so…spent, at the end of the day.”
“Well, you would be too, with a regimen like that. Bet every muscle in his body is screaming.” She smiled slyly. “Or are you really asking me something else? Like…how soon he can expect to be sexually active?”
“Zihna!” Cass reddened. In fact, that hadn’t been what she was asking—and then she wondered why not, why she hadn’t been stirred by him the way she used to be, in the Box.
“Because let me tell you I’ve seen every inch of that man, and I didn’t see any evidence of injuries that would prevent a full recovery. Heck, probably be good for him.”
“Stop it, I didn’t—”
“Oh, come on, it’s just us. And it’s perfectly natural. Where do you think me and your dad get our robust good health?”
“Oh, Zihna, you do not need to be telling me that. I’m barely used to the idea that he’s my dad—I don’t think I want to know anything about his…about his…eww.”
Zihna turned serious. “Honey, I know what you’re saying, it’s different when someone’s your parent. But you might want to keep that in mind when you’re dealing with Sammi.”
“Sammi—what does she—”
“Just, your relationship with her is important—she needs other adult women in her life, not just me. And the quality of that relationship is going to be dependent on how you and her dad are getting along. Or, to be more specific, the state of things between you two…romantically.”
“Zihna…” Cass said softly. “Do you, um, I would hate it if you thought, I mean, things have been so weird with everything and I’ve done things I shouldn’t, I know—”
“I don’t think badly of you,” Zihna said cheerfully, squeezing Cass’s hand. “If that’s one of your worries. You make your own choices and as your friend my only hope is that you learn from the wrong ones and enjoy the right ones. And while we’re talking like this, I am very glad you’re going to quit drinking. I hope you don’t mind that your dad and I talked about it.”
Cass blanched, and for a moment she did mind, she minded a lot. And then the anger subsided and Cass saw it for what it was—the desperation of the addiction trying to maintain its hold on her.
She’d been here before. And she knew what she had to do. Fake it till you make it. That was the program’s answer, and—annoyingly, frustratingly—it worked. So she would pretend she didn’t mind, and pretend some more, until one day it was a little bit true, and the next day it was a little more true.
“I’m glad you and he talk,” she said as evenly as she could.
“I wouldn’t be here without him. I would have given up.”
They walked in companionable silence for a while.
“Where did he get the name Red?” Cass asked. She could see him up ahead walking with Earl and Old Mike, talking. She recognized his gestures, now that she knew it was him; perhaps she’d noticed them all along, somewhere deep down. There it was—the way he rubbed the back of his neck when he was considering something, the way he stabbed the air with a finger when he was making a point.
“I was the one who gave him that name,” Zihna said. “Actually, we named each other. Once we decided to make a go of it, and we were on the road, on the way to New Eden though we didn’t know it at the time, we had plenty of time to talk. And it turns out neither one of us much liked the names we’d been saddled with.”
“What was yours?”
Zihna grimaced. “Mary Chastity.”
“Oh, no.” Cass laughed and then Zihna was laughing too.
“Your dad said that didn’t fit me at all. And then he told me that Zihna means ‘spinning’ in Hopi. And, well, I thought it was pretty.”
“And what about Dad? Was he still going by Silver Dollar?”
“Yeah, he was. Showed me this old band flyer he used to carry around—‘Hammerdown, featuring Silver Dollar Haverford.’”
“You know…I took his name when I turned eighteen. Cass Dollar, it’s legal and everything. Mostly I think I just did it to piss off my mom.”
“Well, how about that.” Zihna grinned. “Save that up, maybe tell your dad the story one day when he needs a lift. I think he’d get a kick out of it.”
“So…how did you come up with Red?”
“Well, I asked him if I should just call him Tom, but your dad said it brought back memories he’d rather forget, that he wasn’t proud of being that man and he’d just as soon start over with something brand-new. And I said, anything I want? and he said, yes, anything, and I was going to tease him and maybe call him Skeeter or something but he was so…serious.”
Her voice went soft and dreamy and Cass felt like she was intruding on a private moment.
“Your dad can be a very serious man, for someone who makes me laugh every damn day,” Zihna said, smiling, but Cass didn’t miss the way she wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “Anyway, when I was a little girl, my grandfather used to listen to this old comedian named Red Skelton. We kids thought that was such a funny name. It made me think of a red skeleton, you know, the bones…anyway, your dad has this amazing thick hair for a guy his age, and when the sun hits it just right, I swear there’s these glints of red.”
Cass laughed. “I think you’re just a little dazzled. He’s pretty much gray all over.”
But secretly she was having a hard time keeping her emotions reined in. It shouldn’t matter to her, what her father did, who he was, after all this time.
But then again, why not let it matter?
“But that’s just it. Everyone has their own reality, right? I mean
, we see the same things, but the thoughts in our head and the experiences we’ve had, all of that changes things, so the pictures we carry around with us are all different. Like, look up there…lot of folks would say that’s a ruin, a junk heap.”
Cass had been walking and thinking, not focusing on the horizon, but up ahead the torn flags and hulking wings of the mall stood out against the steely, damp clouds.
“But for a lot of folks, that’s home now. I imagine it’s got a certain kind of beauty when you think about how it couldn’t be much more secure, how it’s probably got a pretty good stockpile of necessaries, plenty of room to spread out.”
Cass tried to see what Zihna saw, but instead she got a deep foreboding, a tightening in her gut that could not be entirely explained by the bad architecture and gloomy weather.
“We shouldn’t go to the mall,” she breathed.
“What’s that, honey?”
“I have a bad feeling about the mall.”
“Well, let’s just send these East Coast yokels in, then.” Zihna laughed. “I don’t much care for them, they’re kind of uppity.”
Cass forced herself to brush the feeling off. It was true that they all needed a rest and a chance to dry out, as well as to restock their supplies, if possible. There was the unspoken but very real hope there might be room for at least some of them to live in the mall too, at least for a while. But the idea of all that concrete, so few windows… She wished she’d appreciated the freedom of the island more, the ability to step outside her home without worrying about Beaters, to walk in her garden without looking over her shoulder every second.
So many days and nights on the island, she worked so hard to forget that she failed to take notice of the good things—the beauty of the moon reflected in the river, the wind riffling the reeds that grew along the bank, the laughter of the children playing in the yard. The only time she let go of the tension lodged inside her was when she was with Dor. It was no wonder they came together with a passion that was almost violent: they both had so much loss to obliterate. And that’s what it had been, wasn’t it—tearing holes in their dreary and painful reality and letting in sensation, longing, even joy, if only until the tears skimmed over and their lives were shut tight again.
Horizon Page 24
