That, he realized, was a reason to prevent Mama’s resurrection. Aside from how she wouldn’t want to come back; if she did, she would require that he stay at the farm and work. Without her around, a world of possibilities opened up to him.
“But Thomas,” David said, “the benefits of marriage are far greater than even I’d ever thought.”
“If you say so.”
“I do. And so does every other of our friends.”
Thomas shook his head and kicked at a rock. It skittered away across the road. Since David had hit puberty, he’d only had one thing on his mind: getting girls into haylofts. He never succeeded—not to the extent he bragged he did; the girls in Hurricane were simply too chaste to let him so much as unbutton a dress. But he always talked about it, to the point that he’d stopped being fun to be around by about age fifteen. He no longer liked to hike or ride horses or just goof off. He only wanted to talk about girls, girls, girls, and their seemingly magical body parts.
Thomas had interest in that, too, but didn’t see why it should consume both men and boys, take all of their energy and attention. Eventually, it had captivated all of his friends. At first, it was like a curiosity. Then an irresistible draw that turned into an addiction. And marriage was how they gave into the draw and fed that addiction.
“I don’t know about that,” Thomas said. “Seems like there’s a high price to pay for that particular pleasure.”
David still grinned. “You only say that because you’ve never experienced it. It’s pure ecstasy.”
Thomas shrugged. David could very well be right, but Thomas was just fine not finding out. At least for now.
David laughed, snapped the reigns. His horses lurched forward.
“I’ll pass back by later. With Wendy. She’s about ready to petition for the culinary blessing—isn’t a much better blessing a man could hope for in a wife. Maybe we’ll stop to say hello.”
Thomas rolled his eyes. “I might not be here if you do.”
He watched the wagon pull away for a moment before remembering something. He called out for David to stop, and David pulled up on the reins.
“There’s zombie raisers in Sanctuary,” Thomas said.
David turned in his seat. “What?”
Thomas walked up to him, his face turned up. “We had zombie raisers at our house this morning.” He stopped, not knowing how he would explain it, what he could say about Miss Sadie.
“That’s crazy talk,” David said.
“They were here. Believe me.”
David frowned and furrowed his brow. “You serious?”
“Two of them. A man and a boy.”
“How do you know they were zombie raisers?”
Thomas gestured back up at the house. “Mr. Milne is here. He recognized one of them as a Mr. Brady. From Brady’s Watch.”
David frowned and stared up the hill at the house. “Then I reckon I’d better hurry and get Wendy, so I can get back to my farm.”
Thomas could tell that David didn’t believe him, but he felt a distinct worry for David’s wife and infant son.
“I’d go back to the house right now, if I were you.”
David shrugged and smiled. “They’ll be fine. I’ll be back this afternoon. You watch for us.”
* * *
Not liking David’s dismissal of the threat, Thomas returned to his solitary work, and for a time forgot his Mama and family—although images of Miss Sadie and David’s words about ecstasy crept back into his mind from time to time. He found he'd already lost the feel of her neck against his face.
He ignored activity over at the house. Stanley came and went, and by judge of the sun, almost an hour had passed when he heard women's voices inside the barn.
Holding a shovel loaded with the loam, he stepped to the barn and leaned in close to a crack between two boards that had warped away from each other. Rays of sunlight filtered in through similar cracks all around him, touching various parts of the barn: the workbench and its tools; the cow in her stall, chewing her cud and lowing; the rake on the floor; the hayloft above; the mules sleeping in their stalls.
Near the closed door, Clara May and Miss Sadie stood with their heads close. Their voices carried to him, but were indistinct through the dust specks floating in and out of the bars of light.
As much as he would have liked to observe Miss Sadie, Thomas stepped back to the push cart. He'd heard his fair share of secrets by eavesdropping. Plenty of things he'd never wanted to hear. Like how his Mama planned to let Charlie work at another farm two summers before. Or how Mama was pregnant with Franky.
No, listening in on private conversations never did nobody no good. So he returned to his work. After he'd finished filling the cart and headed out toward the field, the women emerged from the barn. Clara May went to the back of the house. Frowning, Miss Sadie watched Clara May until she disappeared, and went to the front of the house.
About twenty minutes later, as Thomas spread loam near the southeast corner of the field, Mr. Milne, Miss Sadie, and Charles mounted their horses. They said a few words to Papa, who sat in his rocking chair, then turned down the lane. As they neared the eastern side of the field where Thomas worked, Mr. Milne and Miss Sadie veered toward him. Charles kept going.
Thomas thought of the beating he’d gotten that morning, and spread a pile of loam in front of him. Mr. Milne and Miss Sadie stopped a dozen feet away.
"Thomas," he said. "I know you aren't happy with what we have to do. But it's necessary."
Thomas continued working his arms and shoulders. With each push or pull of dirt, the smell of the potent loam puffed up into his face.
"Don't do anything foolish while we're gone," Mr. Milne said.
Thomas paused, and squinted at Mr. Milne. "Like breaking the most important law of the land?"
"The mayor and council will grant permission."
"If you say so."
"We'll be back tomorrow morning."
Mr. Milne turned his horse away, and Miss Sadie stayed for just a few more seconds. Thomas couldn't bring himself to look at her. Women were a trap. They were.
Soon, she turned her horse away. They rode on, following the road that David had taken. Before they'd gotten out of sight, Clara May stepped out of the house and down the steps, swinging her two baskets full of eggs like schoolbooks. She waved goodbye to Thomas, as she'd done for years.
"I'm delivering my eggs!" she said. "First stop: Eli Miller's."
Thomas frowned at her, wondering about Eli Miller. She was always talking about him. And always with a twinkle in her voice. After watching her for a moment, he pushed the cart back to the pile by the barn, pointed it toward the field, and took the spade into his hands. The first time the blade bit into the ever-shrinking mound, inspiration came to him.
He knew how to keep Mama dead.
In their new territories, the blessing seekers built cities, sought blessings, and divided into splinter groups that viewed the raising of the dead with different perspectives. Most considered the unnatural restoration of life an abomination, but one group made it a practice to raise their dead as zombies, and sought to rule over the others by force. They lived in a land called Moab.
Chapter 8: Helping Mama
Thomas paused with his back bent, the shovel blade in the pile of loam, and looked up at the house. All three windows and the door stood open, but with the sun raised a little, not shining directly into the front of the house, the windows and door sat in darkness, just rectangular holes of black against the rotten wood of the house. Papa sat in his rocker. The sun had raised enough that the awning over the porch shaded his torso but not his feet. No one stood in the field in front of the house, or in the portion of the field Thomas could see behind the house. From his angle, he couldn’t see the chicken coops or the wash basin.
The only movement across the entire property was Papa rocking back and forth. Even that paused for a moment as Papa experienced a fit of laziness.
It had been a mistake
for Mr. Milne and Charles to leave Mama unprotected; Papa didn't count as protection. Thomas only had to make sure she disappeared before Charles or Mr. Milne got back, and they couldn't resurrect her.
He went back to work, letting the idea turn in his head. The sun still hadn’t moved enough that the barn shaded him as he loaded the cart. He hardly noticed the sound of his work, the smell of the dirt.
He had several options. He could just carry Mama off. He could gag her and tie her up and put her in a sack if necessary. Or he could just try to lead her away. Although what if someone saw him doing that? And what if she resisted and made noise?
It would have just been easier if she'd already died. Then he could carry her away and bury her without feeling bad about it. Carrying someone off and hiding her until she died made things a whole lot harder. What if she lasted for days?
He could kill her.
No, not an option. Simply not. He knew she didn't want to come back to life, but that didn't make him a murderer. And he wouldn't become one. He rather valued his eternal salvation. Plus, she was his Mama. He couldn’t ever raise a hand against her.
Where had she even gone?
He leaned on the shovel and looked back up toward the house. Mama had appeared. She stood in the doorway, hands on her hips, an indistinct yet unmistakable shape within the rectangle of the doorway. He'd seen her stand like that a million times, looking out at him as he worked, as if trying to decide whether or not to join him.
He stood there, watching her watching him. Waiting for her to yell out for him to get going, again.
But instead she came across the porch, down the steps, and along the path toward him, moving so slowly that he never actually saw her legs move. He watched for nearly five full minutes, turning things around in his head, and she only came halfway down the path. He tried to see her feet move, like the time he was a kid in church, watching the clock on the wall to see the movement of the hour hand. She moved so slow. Like a dead person.
Here he had a chance. Maybe he could take her somewhere. Maybe if she meant to help him, she would follow him away.
Curious to see what she would do, he finished loading the dirt into the cart, and pushed it out of the shade toward the house. He passed her on the path, pushed the cart up along the porch, and turned down the lane toward the road. About halfway down, he veered into the field, to the next spot that needed dirt.
She turned and started toward him.
Was she getting better? Recovering from her condition? If she’d been well, she would have been helping him. He would be filling the cart and emptying it in the field, and while she spread it out, he would return to the pile for another load. Without her help, the work went much slower.
Was she getting better? Was she coming to help him? Or would her help end up being like the washing of the shirt—without water or soap.
Papa still sat up on the porch, doing nothing, Thomas dumped the cart out and finished spreading it before she'd come within seventy-five yards. He headed back up the lane and past the house—where Papa rested still, eyes closed—and along the path to the side of the barn. Again, she turned toward him.
What would she do if he led her behind the house?
He threw a few shovels of dirt into the cart, decided better of completely filling it, and pushed the cart up the lane, past her, veering toward the back of the house. As near as he could tell, Papa still slept. He stopped on the side of the house and looked back at her. Sure enough, she turned to him.
How far would she follow? To up by the reservoir?
He pushed the cart around to the back of the house. There, Franky sat on the stool near the chicken coops, chin in his hands, elbows on his knees, staring at his fish. It lay in the sunlight, mouth agape and dead eyes as wide as when they'd lived. A film of dust coated its scaly shine. Stanley sat nearby, trying but failing to appear disinterested in the potential meal.
"What you doing?" Thomas said.
He pushed the cart aside and stood at the back corner of the house, watching Mama. She had thirty feet to come. It would take her several minutes to reach him.
"Just waiting for Mama," Franky said.
"I don't know if you should wait for her," Thomas said. "It might be a long time before she can get to that fish."
"Then what should I do?"
"Gut it yourself."
"Really? You think I should gut it myself?"
"If it's going to be gutted, I think you're going to have to do it."
"Mama never let me gut a fish before." He stood, his eyes glinting with excitement. "Says I'd ruin it."
"You've seen her do it a hundred times, right? You can do it, don't you think?"
"I reckon I could do a fine job."
"Good, then. Take it out onto the front porch by Papa. He'll walk you through it."
"Why can't I do it right here?"
Mama had come about ten feet closer. Though she'd turned her movement and face toward Thomas, her eyes still seemed to look through him. He could see in her vacant expression that she didn't pursue him so much as she went toward the place she felt she should be at that moment, and right then she felt like she should be with Thomas. How long could it last? Maybe once she'd gotten behind the house, he could help her along a little faster.
But what would Franky do if he saw?
"Will you just do it out front?" Thomas said.
Franky frowned and stared at the dog. "You stay away from my fish. Understand? I've gotta get a knife."
Stanley huffed but didn't move. He wasn’t stupid. He knew when someone didn't want him doing something. In fact, he’d lasted far longer than any of the family’s other dogs. Thomas couldn’t keep track of how many dogs they’d had through the years. Twenty or more. Often several at a time. The latest besides Stanley had disappeared the year before. That was how it always went. They just didn’t show up one day.
All except for Stanley.
Once, when Stanley was a pup, and Thomas just twelve years old and given to falling in love with animals, he’d sat on the front porch, playing with Stanley. Mama had appeared in the doorway, hands on her hips.
“You like that dog?”
“I sure do!” Stanley had yapped and bit playfully at Thomas’s hands. “And he likes me.”
She paused for a long time, watching them play. Before turning to go back inside, she’d said, “I bet that’s a dog that won’t run away. Won’t disappear. Not ever. Not that dog. He’s too smart.”
And she’d been right. Well, about him not running away. Thomas doubted the dog had much in the way of brains. Didn’t stop him from loving the dog, though.
Franky gave Stanley another serious look. “Don’t touch that fish.”
Stanley wuffed again.
Franky went into the house through the back door, and emerged before Mama had moved even five feet.
Thomas wanted to grab her, throw her over his shoulder, and run off with her. There was a spot up where the creek fed into the reservoir. He didn't know what she did there, but he'd seen her there among the scrub oak, in a tiny glade surrounded by the thick trees. Maybe just being alone. Getting away from the family. Everyone needed their alone place. Except maybe Papa, since in solitude he couldn't complain to no one.
"You can't do that out front?" Thomas said.
Franky had squatted on the ground next to the fish. The knife glinted in the sun as he held it over the fish as if trying to decide exactly where to insert the blade.
"Where do I cut it, first?"
"You got to scale it first. You seen Mama scale fish, right?"
"I forgot about that."
Thomas didn't look back as he heard the sound of Franky's knife grate up the scales. Mama still came toward him. Her legs hung out the bottom of her dress like clappers to a bell, and her brown shoes slid across the dirt like snails. She still stood as straight as ever, head high. Her face bore no expression, like how the face of a dead person lying in a coffin didn't smile or frown or anything. It just—was
. Her face looked just like that.
No, she wasn't getting better.
The scraping behind Thomas continued. He'd never liked cleaning animals. It felt primitive. Eating them didn't bother him, but preparing them for the skillet made him feel like an animal. Hearing it was bad enough. The scrape, scrape of the knife as it peeled the scales off of the fish.
Mama still slid toward him. Her feet didn't even lift off of the ground. She'd left a trail behind her, like two fat tires to a push cart.
Scrape, scrape.
In another thirty seconds, Thomas couldn't wait for her anymore. She'd come far enough toward the side of the house that Papa probably couldn't see her.
He went to her, stepping fast enough that it startled Stanley behind him. The dog barked and joined him in front of Mama. She looked straight ahead, as if at something on the other side of Thomas's chest.
He hadn't stood so close to her since the day before. A faint stink lifted from her body—a foul smell like a three-day corpse. It made him stop with one hand raised toward her.
How to proceed? Pick her up? Take her wrist and pull? She stood a foot shorter than him. She had a frail body. He could carry her. Easily.
"Now what?" Franky said.
Thomas didn't look back. "Are the scales off?"
"I guess so."
Mama had stopped moving.
"Then cut it from the vent up to the head."
He reached out and grabbed Mama's upper arm. Through her sleeve, she felt cold. He stepped aside and pulled her forward. At least, that was what he'd meant to do. Any normal person would have taken a step.
Mama's feet, however, didn't move. Instead, she toppled. He tried to tighten his grasp, but her fall caught him by surprise and his grip slipped. She fell face-first to the ground with a thump, like a board stood on end and pushed over—except she didn't bounce. Just hit the ground, and a puff of dust rose up around her.
Keep Mama Dead Page 6
