by Pam Bachorz
“Mother. Mother. Mother.” I don’t mean to chant it, but it comes out, over and over, while I make my way to her. For now I see the lump by the bed.
When I put my arms around her, her body moves in wrong ways—hinging where it shouldn’t, limp where it should resist me. This is worse than any other year. I know it, even without seeing.
I won’t light the lantern. I won’t need it. I’m going to heal her completely, no careful checks of healing scars and broken bones.
I grab the bucket and slop in all the water I can. Then I cut myself, not bothering to count the drops of blood. I pour the entire bucket over her.
Again, to the Lake. Again, blood and pouring.
The Water rolls off her body and over the floor. I slip with every trip for more of it. Once I land hard, slamming my chin against the wood.
“I hate him,” I say out loud. And while I have always hated Darwin, it’s a different feeling now—deeper. I know what love is now, and I know how he has twisted it.
The Water is starting to work. Her chest rises and falls, though slow. And the terrible angles in Mother’s legs are easing; I lay them straight and run my hands down them, coaxing them into right lines again.
Will we do this again next year? And the next, and the next?
Will Otto ever end this?
I work, and work, and finally I believe I’ve done all I can. She’s too heavy and limp for me to lift into bed, so instead I cover her with my blanket. She’ll have to rest where she fell.
My bed feels too large without its blanket. I want to curl up next to Mother—drape her arm over my side and sleep like it’s winter. But I don’t want to slow her healing, or cause any more pain.
Just as my eyes start to flutter shut, there’s a knock.
I do not call out an answer. Instead I slide off my bed, doing my best to be silent, and grope under my bed. There’s nothing but dust, and dust, and then another knock on the door. Finally I find hold of my sharp stick and grip it tight.
A third knock. I creep closer to the door and hold the stick up high.
“Who’s there?” I ask, louder than a whisper, but not loud enough to wake Mother—though nothing could wake her at this moment, I think.
The only answer I get is another knock.
Wouldn’t Darwin have kicked open the door by now?
I fling open the door and keep the stick high.
It’s Ford.
Chapter 31
Cold waves of Shock flow over me, ice water from high on the hills. My fingers quiver so badly that the stick falls from my hands.
“Did you forget?” Ford asks.
“No, never,” I answer.
Ford motions to the road. His truck is there, lights off, but I hear the engine running.
“My mother—” I look behind me. She’s breathing lightly. She hasn’t moved.
“Come. Just for tonight,” he urges. The small smile on his lips makes my own curve up in response. My body tingles, just being near him.
“If they catch us—”
“They won’t. I’ll have you back before dawn. Please?” Now he takes my hand. He doesn’t even seem to notice my bloody clothes, or my hair falling ragged out of its tie. He smiles at me as if I’m beautiful.
“If Mother wakes …” I catch my breath when he runs the pad of his thumb across the soft inside part of my wrist.
“Day after tomorrow is my last day. The truck guy comes and then—adiós.” He shrugs, gives me a sad smile. “So this is our last chance, for real, Ruby.”
“For real.” I repeat the strange modern words.
“I’ll take you to the movies. Nobody will even see us. I have a plan.”
“What are the movies?” I ask.
“Magic. Come on. You’ll see.” He bounces on his toes, a bit, like a child.
It’s only one night. Mother won’t be awake, truly. With his truck, I’ll be back safe and sound.
This one night could sustain me for years and years—until Otto comes.
“Let me change. Wait right here,” I tell him.
I put on my spare dress, and use a soft green ribbon from Ellie to tie my hair back. She wore it when she was courting, she told me once. Then I slide her watch into my pocket, for luck.
It’s cold outside, but Ford’s truck is toasty warm. He opens the door for me and waits to get inside. “Watch the door,” he warns, and then he slams it shut.
Ford snaps a strap around me—“It’s a seat belt, for safety,” he says—and then one around himself too. The truck moves faster than any person could run, and then faster still, the trees moving past us in the dark like one big blur. We bump along the road, and I hear the gravel scattering from our tires. For once I am inside the machine making all that noise.
“I’ll drive you to near the exit,” he says. “Then you’ll have to hide in the woods—just until they’ve searched the truck for Water.”
Soon the truck stops. Ford leans over me to open the door.
“Watch,” he tells me. “Once they’ve checked the truck, I’ll get them to walk away. That’s when you hop in.”
I creep into the woods and follow the road as Darwin drives up to two men, both holding guns.
The Overseers glance in the front of Ford’s truck. Then they lift the cover in the very front of the truck and peer inside with flashlights. Finally they check the open back of the truck.
I think I see Ford’s head turn toward my hiding place.
Then I hear low voices, the men talking to Ford. One laughs. And then—both turn from the truck and walk down the road.
I do not hesitate. I pull my skirts from the grasping branches and I sprint to the truck. The door is already open, a little. I climb inside.
“Don’t slam it,” Ford warns.
I ease the door shut, but quick. The truck starts moving. I crouch low, hidden, afraid the men will see me.
“We’re almost past,” Ford says. The truck picks up speed, and then we are flying, nearly.
“Can I come up?” I ask from my hiding place.
“We’re safe,” Ford answers. He looks down for a moment to give me a big grin.
Ford stops the truck while I settle back in my seat.
“Ready to leave the compound?” he asks.
Am I ready? Truly ready? No. My heart pounds. Part of me wants to fling open this door, tear off this trap, and run back to my cabin.
“Go. Go fast.” I grip the handle that’s by my wrist, and Ford makes the truck go very, very fast.
“At first I wanted to take you to a restaurant. Give you some decent food for once, you know?” Ford glances at me while he talks, but I barely notice. I am too busy staring at all the parts of the world I’ve never seen—it feels important to memorize every tree trunk, every field, to remember the broad world of Everywhere Else. Although, so far, it doesn’t look different from my world.
“I like food,” I say.
“Oh, there’ll be food. I’m taking care of that too. Popcorn, to start. But more than that.”
I think he says more after that—I’m not certain. For the trees start to fall away, and in between them are houses. Houses grander than any cabin, grander than even the beautiful big place where the Overseers and Darwin West live.
They are set far back from the road, with glowing windows winking between trees. Even though we fly by, there’s time enough to see that they’re big. I count six, eight glowing windows in the front of many. There are two levels on a lot of them.
I wish I could see how a family fills so much space. And how many people live in one house? We’ve already passed more than the entire Congregation put together, I think.
“They all have their own bedrooms, I know it,” I say.
Ford makes a surprised sound, then lets out a short laugh.
“And a kitchen, and a bathroom, and a sink, and a shower … for starters,” he says in a teasing tone.
I hope he doesn’t see my face in the dark, amazed, shocked … and wondering what a bathr
oom is. Truly a room, just for a bath?
“Just a few more minutes and we’ll be there.” Ford rests his hand on my knee, lightly, for a moment. It feels impossibly warm. I reach for him, but already his hand is gone and back to the wheel he’s been gripping.
The truck is going down a very steep hill now; I feel the pull of the bottom, telling us to go even faster. There’s a blinking light ahead, suspended above the road.
“What is that?” I ask.
Ford laughs, again, but stops quickly when he senses, I think, that I am not joking. “It’s a traffic light,” he says. “It tells us to slow down—or stop—so we don’t drive into another car.”
“I wish Darwin West had one,” I say.
“Yeah. No kidding. Only for him, it should always be red.” Ford does something to make the car slow, and then stop. We have reached the light, stopped at the edge of an even bigger road. This one has many painted yellow lines on it. Cars and cars and bigger cars pass in a stream, never stopping.
There is a building too, across the stream of cars. It’s small and low, like our cabin, with festive lights burning as if they have all the fuel they could ever want—why else would they waste it when the sun is up?
The sign in front says FRANK’S QUIK-EE-GRAB.
“Is that someone’s house?” I ask. I can’t tear my eyes away from its lights. It’s different from the other places we’ve passed. This one wants to be noticed.
Ford doesn’t laugh this time, even though he does give me a surprised look. “It’s a gas station—where I fuel up the truck. Really good breakfast burritos too.”
“What’s that?” I ask.
“Eggs, bacon, cheese, all rolled up in a tortilla. You have to have one.”
“Now?”
“In the … morning …” Ford’s voice trails off.
“I’ll be back in the woods, come morning,” I say.
We sit, silent, both staring straight ahead at the light. It’s so quiet in the truck that I can hear it blink … blink … blink. Then Ford twists the wheel and we’re on the road, going even faster.
Chapter 32
There aren’t any houses, now. Instead we pass bigger buildings, most of them dark. But they keep their signs lit.
NAIL SALON, reads one.
QUICK CASH LOANS, says another.
These words mean nothing to me. A wave of embarrassment hits me, and I work hard to push it back. Just because this isn’t my world doesn’t mean I am less than the people who live in it.
It’s hard to remember that.
Soon the lit signs give way to fields. We pass rows and rows of tall stalks. Ford slows the truck and makes another turn.
“So … movies,” Ford says. “I guess I should prepare you.”
A little fear stirs in me, but I slouch and look out the window as if I’m not afraid. I want Ford to think I’m as brave as the modern girls he knows.
“They’re like pictures—only moving. That’s what they used to call them, moving pictures,” Ford says. “And they’re big, taller than your cabin.”
My bravery has nearly vanished. I swallow and stay quiet, will away the fear rising in me. He wouldn’t take me to something that would hurt me, or scare me.
“Don’t worry.” He sets his hand on top of mine, for a moment. “It’s fun. I promise.”
“I trust you,” I tell him.
“Movies can take you a million miles away—so far away, even Darwin West can’t touch you,” he says.
“Where will we go?” I ask.
“Oh, nowhere.” He lets out a short laugh. “I just mean figuratively. We’ll sit in the truck the whole time.”
Soon a sign looms up, so brightly lit that I shade my eyes. “Hudson Drive-in,” I read out loud. “Flicks, food, and fun.”
“It’s not exactly a movie theater. We’d have to drive to Albany or Bennington for that,” Ford says, apologetic.
“It’s nice,” I tell him—because it is, far nicer than anything I’ve ever seen.
“And it’s just for us.” He drives the truck up to a small hut and presses a button that makes his window slide down. “I thought maybe—maybe a lot of people might be too much, tonight, anyway,” he says.
I look past the hut and see only rows of sticks. There’s one small building with a sign over it. A picture shows a girl opening her mouth wide to take a bit of a curly white food.
Inside the booth, a boy in a red-and-white-striped shirt waves. He’s got a small sparkling bit in one ear, and hair long enough to half cover his eyes. He needs a tie to hold it back—but maybe modern boys don’t do that.
“Who’s that?” I ask.
“That would be Chuck,” Ford says. “We used to … He’s my friend, I guess.”
“Ford, is that really you?” the boy’s voice is muffled behind the glass.
“Thanks for setting this up,” Ford tells him.
“I pulled out the reel for Summer Gone. There’s kissing and stuff.” The boy slides open the glass door and leans out. I think he’s trying to get a good look at me.
His staring eyes are too much. I pull back into the seat and look in the other direction.
“Glad to see you’re still alive,” the boy tells Ford. “Now pay up.”
Ford pulls something out of his pocket; I look and see a wad of green paper. He holds it out the window, close to Chuck, but pulls it back a little when Chuck goes to take it.
“Where’s my food?” he asks.
“Oh that? You still want that?” Chuck looks down toward his feet and shakes his head. “It’s probably stone cold, man.”
Ford peels away some of the paper in his hand and cocks his head at Chuck. “I ordered it hot, right?”
There’s a thread of threat in his voice, something that makes me think of Darwin.
I shiver and look around. Suddenly the wide lonely space in front of us looks dangerous. I wonder how Mother is doing, if she sleeps easily. What will she do if she wakes before I’m back?
No. I know that won’t happen. And this is just one night, one slight thing to remember when I’m crouched with spoon and cup. That’s all. He won’t hurt me. Mother won’t find out.
“Ruby? Ruby.” Ford is trying to hand me something. I become aware of the heavenly smell coming out of a tall white paper bag.
I take it and hold it up, breathe in deep. Ford is watching me.
“I never smelled anything like it,” I tell him.
First he smiles, but it doesn’t last long. Something like anger flickers on his face. “You miss a lot up there on the mountain, Ruby.”
My only answer is to open the bag more and smell deeper. My stomach lets out a tremendous growl.
Ford hands all the money to Chuck.
“That’ll do fine,” the boy says. “Enjoy the show, et cetera, et cetera.” He waves for the truck to move forward.
Ford drives past rows and rows of the short sticks, not even half the height of all the poles we installed for Darwin. “What are those?” I ask.
“Speakers, so you can hear the movie,” he says.
Ford pulls close to a tall white screen. I know the pictures will show there. But how do they get there? Who does it? How do they start and stop them?
The window next to me is going down—Ford’s pressed a button somewhere, I think. Then the truck rumbles off, and it’s silent. Silent save for the crickets all around us, and peepers too. They’re not as loud as you’d think they’d be, though. Maybe it’s been just as dry down here.
We sit quiet for a second. I breathe it in. I close my eyes. It’s almost like I’m back on the mountain, away from the constant press of the modern world.
“Last summer, we used to come out here after the midnight show, almost every night,” Ford says.
I open my eyes to look at him. He’s got a small smile on his face, staring straight ahead as if he can see something—but it’s still just the blank screen.
“Why come after the show was done?” I ask.
“Chuck gave
us free popcorn. It was better than hanging at the Quik-ee-Grab.” Ford shrugs.
“What’s popcorn?”
“Dinner first.” He says it like I’m his child. It bothers me, a little. He doesn’t own me. He’s not better than me.
But then he unrolls the bag with the food inside, and all I can think of is eating.
He hands me a white fork, the same flimsy kind that Darwin gives us. Then a big white container that squeaks a little when he moves his fingers on it. I squeeze it, a little too hard; the side cracks.
“Careful, there. You’re supposed to eat what’s inside,” Ford teases.
Inside there’s long white thin strands curled in a red sauce. There’s something yellow melted on top.
Ford has one just like it. He sticks his fork in the middle of the strands and turns it in the circle.
“Can’t beat Leo’s spaghetti,” he says.
Spaghetti. I wonder if that’s the white part, the red part, or the yellow part—or all of it. But I’m too hungry to ask any more questions. I do like he does, twirling and pushing the food into my mouth.
But it falls off my fork before it touches my lips.
Ford laughs, but gently. “Takes practice.”
He uses a paper napkin to grab the pile of food from my lap, tosses it back into the bag. A waste. I could put it in my pocket, save it, eat tomorrow night when Ford is gone.
But I want to be like a modern girl, so I load my fork with fresh spaghetti and try again.
The flavor explodes in my mouth. I close my eyes and pay attention only to the food, the flavor, the fact that there’s a pile more of it waiting for me.
“You like it?” Ford asks.
I swallow and nod while I put more on my fork. “But it’s not food, Ford,” I tell him.
“I promise you it is …”
“No. It has to have another name. Food’s not this good.” I put another forkful in my mouth, and another, and as I fill my belly I realize that pictures are flickering on the screen in front of us now.
“Movie’s starting,” Ford says. He reaches out his window and does something to the pole next to the truck.
Sound rolls into the car, so loud that I drop my fork and the little bit of food that’s left skitters out of my container.