The Book of the Unnamed Midwife

by Meg Elison

  He was excited to observe Jodi’s checkups and delighted in feeling the baby move and kick.

  Their joy in anticipation was amplified when they came together, and Dusty couldn’t imagine trying to tell them not to get their hopes up.

  She started to think of reasons why their baby might make it. The Huntsville ward had been isolated from the disease, and maybe Jodi had never really been exposed. Maybe the constant cold made it difficult for the virus to multiply or move. Maybe the two of them were both naturally immune and could pass on that immunity. She felt like a medieval doctor working without germ theory or any understanding of immunity. She was reasoning about this disease with hardly any understanding of its virulence or nature. Hope was with her; it would not go away.

  They did the same for themselves and each other, but their frame of reference was not epidemiology.

  “But if the original covenant was damaged, and we’re married in the restored covenant, then the baby should be fine.”

  “That is what the prophet said. But none of the sisters in Huntsville showed any sign while I was there.” Jodi’s thin, fine eyebrows rushed together.

  Honus couldn’t stop smiling. “I know. But they’re older, and they might not have been . . . very intimate all the time.”

  Jodi blushed.

  Kill me.

  “Anyway, we did everything right. We waited until we were married, we were joined together by the bishop, our baby will be born in covenant. We’re not sinless, but we’re faithful and obedient. This can’t go on forever. Healthy adults can have healthy babies. We might be among the first, but we won’t be the last.” He nodded to himself, satisfied. Sure.

  They wove this narrative of surety to themselves every time either one of them felt doubt. They returned to it over and over. Their faith was the touchstone, and they checked again and again to ensure that their gold was the real thing. Dusty was always quiet during this exchange, never sure what to say. Their jargon was thick.

  Dusty was grateful to have someone new to talk to. It felt terrible to admit it, but she was tired of Jodi. Honus was smarter than his wife. He was funny and even quick sometimes, and could see the solution to a problem steps ahead of Jodi and only a few behind Dusty. He was terribly interested in how Dusty had come to Utah, and she told the story again, but kept a few things back.

  When she came to the end of it, she asked, “So what happened in Colorado?”

  Honus looked down at his straight razor where it lay against the strop in his lap. “I don’t . . . I’m not sure I can tell you.”

  “Why not?”

  “I . . . we saw some terrible things. And I lost my companion. I came back without him. I just . . . I don’t know what would be gained by telling it. It would only upset Jodi.”

  Jodi was napping in her bedroom.

  “So just tell me. I won’t repeat it to her. I’m very curious, though. I know conditions are rough out there. You know what I went through—”

  “It wasn’t like that!” His cheeks colored, and she could see his pulse throbbing in his long, thin neck. “It was like . . . Heart of Darkness. It was like being on another planet. I can’t even describe it.”

  “Do you keep a diary?”

  He looked up at her. “Why would you ask me that?”

  She shrugged. “I do. I always have, but lately it’s felt even more important. I’m processing all this, the changes in the world, everything. It’s like a mental-health exercise.”

  Honus sighed. “Did you know missionaries are required to keep a diary?”

  “No, I didn’t. So did you keep one?”

  “I did. It’s in the saddlebags on the snowmobile. I don’t ever want my son to read it. Every night, I think of burning it.”

  Quick, without a thought. “Give it to me.”

  “What?”

  She was thinking fast, knowing she had to bring him over to the idea before he had a chance to think twice. “It’s the story of a missionary working in a field that no one has ever faced. It should be kept for . . . for whoever is left to read it.”

  I’m greedy for it. I want the intimacy of someone’s whole thoughts. I want to get past his gatekeeper.

  He didn’t speak for a second. “I can’t. I just can’t. I’m too ashamed of it. I’m sorry.” He picked up the blade and the strop. He walked back into his room and shut the door.

  She sat motionless for a long time. When she thought it had been long enough, she crept to the door.

  Turning the latch with agonizing slowness, she opened the door as silently as she could. Cold wind blasted her in the face. She put one of Honus’s shoes in front of the door to hold it open and keep it from swinging against the wall if the wind suddenly gusted.

  Glancing back over her shoulder, she picked her way down to the snowmobile. The wind cut through her clothes; she hadn’t stopped to bundle up. With freezing hands, she pulled open Honus’s saddlebags. She pawed through pairs of jeans and a stack of juice boxes. Tucked against the side of the leather, she found one slim linen-covered journal. It was tied shut with a ribbon.

  Hastily, she closed the bag and dashed back toward the warm yellow glow of the open door.

  Closing the door as slowly and quietly as she had opened it, she held her prize at her thigh, ready to hide it if necessary. Sitting down with it, she pulled at the knot in the ribbon. It yielded softly, and the deed was done. She held Honus’s diary in her hands, and she could not have stopped herself if she tried.

  The Book of Honus Obermeyer

  As Scribed by the Unnamed Midwife

  Middle of the night, middle of the winter

  Shouldn’t be doing this, but I have to know. Skipped most of the early travel. They walked and rode bikes for a long time through Utah. They didn’t see anybody. What I wanted to get down was this story. Starts about a month in.

  Day 34

  Elder Langdon and I arrived in Grand Junction late last night. As we were advised, we are trying to find the temple in Denver, but I doubt if we will ever reach that place. The desolation of the road that brought us here is very discouraging. We try to keep fear at bay, to derive strength from the Lord, but our hearts are heavy.

  We have seen no live persons. The dead lay in every building, in parked cars, just everywhere.

  Some of them killed themselves or each other, wasting the gift of life given to them by the Heavenly Father. Even in times of such trial, it’s still a gift. I’ve stopped crying. But I am troubled. I fervently hope that Colorado holds more promise than we found in Utah outside of Huntsville. I pray that we find people to bring home with us to enrich our ward.

  Day 35

  We found the stake center here in Grand Junction, but it’s utterly deserted. We fed ourselves from the storehouse and spent the night in the chapel. It is bitterly cold here, especially at night.

  We studied scriptures by candlelight, and Elder Langdon led us in a song. He hasn’t spoken to me much in the last few days, and this is turning into a very lonely mission. He woke in the middle of the night crying. I hadn’t fallen asleep. When I asked him what was wrong, he said he missed his mother.

  I miss mine, too.

  Day 37

  Staying in a ruined Walmart tonight, somewhere along the highway. We saw the sign, and Elder Langdon just headed for it without even a word. I knew it would be emptied inside, and I was right. It must have been the first place people looked.

  It was like a war zone inside. What hadn’t been looted was destroyed. Some sections were cleaned out. There were no bikes, no camping equipment, and no knives. Only the most impractical shoes were left. The grocery section smelled like rot, and we had to content ourselves with cookies and crackers. Elder Langdon did not want to read scriptures or talk at all tonight.

  He slept on a pallet of dog food. When I knew he was asleep, I prayed for him.

  Day 40

  I don’t know how to talk to Elder Langdon about his indiscretion. I’m embarrassed to bring it up. It’s not like I’ve
never done it. It’s much harder now that I’m married and I know what the blessings of the covenant are like. I’m tempted every day, but it’s for her sake that I keep myself pure. I guess he doesn’t have anyone to feel that way about, and he’s still a virgin. I feel pity for him. Maybe if I can approach it in sympathy rather than in judgment, he’ll understand.

  Day 41

  I guess all our conversation did was convince him to go away when he does it. At least he’ll stop waking me up.

  Day 42

  I’m certain that we’re lost. We left the main highway when we ran into an accident that blocked up the road, but now we can’t find it. We’re using his AAA map, and I see where it should be, but I can’t seem to get us back there. Heavenly Father, I feel like a failure. Please send us someone to talk to, someone to minister to. Please give our days and our work meaning. Please help Elder Langdon to make his heart contrite and seek you again. He feels very far away from me today.

  Day 43

  I miss Jodi so much. I remember the first day I met her. She was so pretty in her Halloween costume. I think she was a princess. We danced together, and Sister Eggers said to leave room between us for a quad. We laughed, but we did it. I can’t stop thinking of her smile, her soft skin. I was married to her for only a week before Heavenly Father and the bishop sent me away. I don’t want to be bitter toward Him or my missionary work, but I feel cheated. I should be with her now. I asked Elder Langdon if he had ever been in love. He looked at me and burst out laughing. I laughed, too, but then he started sobbing. I guess it was the wrong thing to ask.

  Probably he was, with some girl who died. I apologized, but that didn’t fix it. Of course.

  Day 47

  We are both sure someone is following us.

  We keep hearing weird noises in the middle of the night. We’re somewhere near Glenwood Springs, and we saw smoke from fires coming down the hill. We got excited that there might be people here, but we didn’t see anyone. We walked all day, trying to listen for the sounds of life anywhere, or smell smoke. After that first sign, we saw nothing. But then, at night, I heard the sound of someone playing the guitar. I’m sure of it. It worked its way into my dream, and I was dreaming about that fireside I went to when Brice Stewart was playing for us. But then I remembered that Brice was dead, and I woke up, but whoever it was kept playing. I got up, but Langdon was still asleep. I went outside and heard it clearer. The guitar was far away, playing the intro to a Led Zeppelin song I can’t remember the name of. I called out into the darkness, and the playing stopped. I called out again, but nobody answered. I waited, and I’m sure I heard it.

  I’m sure. I stood there for a minute, not believing.

  It was a girl. She was laughing.

  I went back inside and woke up Elder Langdon. He was cranky and told me it was just a dream.

  It wasn’t. I laid back down and listened hard, but I didn’t hear anything else.

  I was pretty sore in the morning, and I didn’t want to talk about it if he didn’t believe me. He barely said anything. We read scriptures in silence and ate canned beans and Spam. At night, he conked right out, but I stayed up. A few hours after nightfall, it started.

  “Yoo-hoo!”

  I watched Langdon’s eyes snap wide open. He heard it that time.

  “Yoooo-hoooo! Boys! Pretty boys! Come out and play!”

  I started to get up, but Langdon grabbed my arm to hold me back. “What if it’s a trap?” he asked me.

  “It’s a girl,” I told him. “Can’t you tell it’s a girl?”

  “Maybe it’s just someone pretending.”

  That high voice came again from outside, floating in the still, cold air. “I wish I had some pretty boys to keep me company. I wish I could see those pretty booooys.”

  There was something about the way she called us that was like a bully taunting. Or like a farmer calling pigs. The hair on my arms stood up, and I know it was a prompting of the spirit to keep away, but I couldn’t help it.

  I went back outside and yelled back. “Is someone there?”

  More laughter. “Nope, nobody is here.”

  I tried calling out again, but she was gone. I think her voice was coming from above us somehow, but I don’t know how that’s possible. In the morning we looked for tracks or signs. We didn’t find anything.

  At least Langdon believed me now. The next day we hatched a plan to make it look like we had gone to bed, but actually we were going to be up on the roof, under covers, and figure out who was out there. I was freaked out, but Langdon was excited.

  “Why wouldn’t she just come talk to us?”

  He shrugged. “She doesn’t know us. Maybe she’s all alone and afraid.”

  “Then why wouldn’t she just hide?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe she’s lonely and she really does want to meet us, but she’s making sure we’re not crazy first.”

  I couldn’t make sense of it. But we are going to try hiding out on the roof. Maybe that will work.

  Day 48

  Didn’t hear anything last night. Maybe tonight she’ll be back. Langdon said he thought it was because it was cloudy last night, so maybe she stayed in, in case of rain. I think

  Cuts off here. Nothing until two pages past. Getting tired, going to stop here. Creepy. Also don’t want to get caught. Or I do. I want to talk to him about this.

  No, don’t get caught.

  CHAPTER 8

  The story of Duke and Roxanne was never written. The night the midwife started reading Honus’s missionary diary, Duke and Roxanne were riding fast down an open expanse of I-5 just north of Los Angeles. They had climbed the pass and were enjoying the easy feel of the long glide downhill. Roxanne had let her hair grow out and had tied a red bandana in a kerchief to keep it out of her eyes. Duke wore a balaclava to keep his beard from whipping his face, but he never knew his hair hit Roxanne as she rode behind. She never brought it up.

  They had taken their time moving down the inland of California. The abandoned farms on either side of the road supplied fruits and nuts. They stopped and raided the small roadside outfits. They slept in their tent until it started to get cold, then switched to a series of motel rooms along the highway. They talked long into the night, almost every night. Duke told the kinds of stories gathered from a life on the road. Roxanne told stories from a life in casinos. They could make each other laugh. They were a match of convenience, but a good match still.

  They talked each other through the plague again and again. Roxanne suggested they hunt for newspapers while they raided, but they never found any. They started fires with gossip and fashion magazines. Roxanne looked at the faces of the women in the flames and wondered if any of them made it.

  Duke, for his part, tried to play the hero. He was a good hunter and a good shot. He told Roxanne over and over that he would kill, that he would do anything to protect her. She knew that he was telling the truth; his conviction was all over him. She also knew that there might be nothing he could do, and she accepted that.

  He taught her to use the Magnum. It was too big for her, and she was never ready for the kick. But she could aim it, and she could shoot it. When they rode, she wore it. When they walked, he did.

  The radio on the bike worked. When they were in hills and canyons, they lost track of the broadcast about Costa Rica. Sometimes the broadcast quit for days. The loop changed. The Spanish version disappeared, and the voice of the announcer was different. One day the voice had said Nicaragua instead of Costa Rica. Duke and Roxanne weren’t sure what it meant, but they hadn’t seen anyone in a long time. They moved toward any sign of humanity they could find.

  All around them lay the ruins of the Central Valley. The farming basin of California had depended upon water from other states brought in by electric power. When the power shut off, the valley had dried up quickly, precipitously. More than a few people had died when the bottled water ran out. They had climbed into cars and onto bikes, and they had given in and drank roadside farm ru
noff water, soaked in pesticides and fertilizer. In some cities, people died of mayhem and mishap. People who could not live without constant care ran out of medicine, ran out of luck, ran out of time. Public works failed, and disaster followed, but no disaster is faster, more assured, or crueler than a lack of water. Of the fraction that were left, thousands died of thirst.

  The night that Honus’s diary lost its privacy, Duke and Roxanne had stayed up late in order to make it into LA. They thought that on the outskirts of the city, their odds of foraging would be better and their accommodations might be nicer.

  Roxanne had to shout into Duke’s ear for him to hear as they rode, but she talked to him sometimes anyway.

  “I hope we can find an empty room. That last place looked like the plague had hit during a convention or something.”

  He nodded and slowed down to take the first exit on the north end of Los Angeles. As he expected, the exit and the roads around it were choked with cars. He putted slowly through, the sound of the motorcycle chopping the night. He pulled into a gas station and began the tiresome process of hunting for and prying open the hatch. He was kneeling on the ground with his tubing and gas can out when the shot went off.

  Roxanne was surprised, but sprang from where she leaned against the bike and drew her gun.

  Duke looked up but did not move.

  They seemed to come from everywhere. All of them were men. Some wore uniforms or pieces of uniforms that had once identified them as National Guard, LAPD, and FEMA. The rest were in street clothes, but almost all had the opaque and rigid bearing of military men. The one who had fired wore military garb. He pulled back his pistol and holstered it again. He stepped forward and addressed Duke.