“Good morning, everyone,” he says.
“Morning,” comes the muted reply.
“Everyone still excited?”
An odd sort of quiet ensues until finally Julie volunteers, “Sure.” Heads start bobbing and a couple of them say, “Yes,” and someone adds, “Of course,” and that’s it. About as shy on enthusiasm as you can get.
Sara flashes Peter a fierce glance, then just as quickly looks away, as if refusing to acknowledge him. She’s going to be angry with him for a while, he figures—probably for as long as they remain on this side of the portal. She’ll get over it though, when they get to Atlantis. Tethys says all the petty concerns of life on this side get stripped away there, which is just as well since he has a few petty concerns of his own to strip away. Like the one about Tethys trusting Sara more.
‘‘I’m going to check on Marty and Tim,” he announces.
No one responds. Everyone glances at Sara, figuring he’s speaking to her,
which in effect he is.
“Fine,” she replies, still not looking up.
“Julie,” he says. “don’t forget you and Alexis have the next watch. Would you please remind her?”
“Uh-huh,” Julie grunts. “Sara already asked me.”
Peter fishes a key from his pocket, unlocks the deadbolt on the front door and, once outside, locks the door behind him. Sara’s rule. He doesn’t think it’s necessary, any more than the gun in the glove box or the locks they’ve installed on all the windows in the house. but Sara is adamant—she doesn’t want anyone getting cold feet and slipping away.
* * *
Pink. The house needs some pink.
Selena pokes around inside the box that Peter gave her. The bottom is strewn with crayons, but they are all the wrong color—yellows and greens and blues, which she already has or doesn’t want anyway. The only color missing is pink, and pink is the color of her house, and her house is what she wants to draw.
Her house. She studies the lines she has already sketched in—a box topped by a sharp peak, square windows, a door. It looks like her house, she thinks. Her fingers trace the lines until they stop at the front porch. This is where she wanted to draw her mother, smiling, happy, the way she looked sometimes when she would come outside to wait for Selena to return from school or a visit with her father.
For a moment Selena can see her face, but then the image fades. Pink. She doesn’t have pink. Pink would make it real, but without pink it’s just this, a bunch of worthless lines on a piece of paper.
Frustrated, she crumples up the half-formed drawing and throws it on the floor. What is her mother doing, she wonders, to find her?
Her eyes grow moist, and she squints hard, pushing back the tears. Crying only makes it worse. She needs to stop thinking about her mother, about home.
The television isn’t much help. A boy cartoon has come on now, one of those silly teenagers-in-robots-that-turn-Into-monsters programs. Why do boys like this stuff anyway? It’s all just a bunch of pointless fighting against monsters that don’t exist.
No one ever tells you about real monsters when you’re a kid.
She climbs up on a chair and takes the remote from the top of the television, where Peter left it. If she’s going to watch TV, she’s certainly not going to watch any dumb boy show. There must be something better on, there just must be.
* * *
A thin rope of packed earth marks a path into the patch of woods that separates the house from the road. Peter follows it downhill until he comes to a thicket about twenty yards up from the two-lane county highway that is the only approach to this property. From inside the thicket, the faded ribbon of asphalt is visible for about a mile in both directions.
“Friend approaching,” Peter says.
“We heard you when you left the house,” Marty replies with a laugh.
He and Tim, dressed to match the scrub, are ensconced in the thicket’s hollowed-out core. Both men have binoculars slung around their necks and semi-automatic rifles by their sides. Their bodies are in constant motion: hands flapping, feet shuffling—small movements to keep warm.
“Everything okay out here?” Peter asks.
“If you like cold,” Tim answers.
“What about in there?” Marty asks, gesturing toward the house. “Everyone up yet?”
Peter nods. These two were on watch, so of course they don’t know yet about his altercation with Sara. “They’re a bit more down than I would like. Just tired, I think. They ‘ll be fine.”
Tim nods grimly and slaps his rifle. “Well, whatever. We’re ready.”
Peter stares at the other man. “What do you mean?”
The two lookouts exchange a troubled glance. “You know, in case someone decides to quit.”
“What?”
“Just a precaution,” Marty says. “Sara doesn’t want anything going wrong, and neither do we. That’s right, isn’t it?”
“Sure, fine,” Peter answers, too dumbfounded to argue. Unbelievable. Sara has ordered the lookouts, who are supposed to be watching the road for signs of unusual activity, to watch the house as well. They aren’t protectors—they’re captors. Furious, he backs out of the thicket and storms back up the hill.
As he’s approaching the front door, Sara emerges. “I hope you’re happy,” she says.
“Did you order Marty and Tim to kill anyone who tries to leave?” Peter demands.
Sara is unfazed. “If they have to. Surely you knew that?”
“Why would I know? That’s not how this is supposed to be, Sara. We’re all here because we want to be.”
“Jesus, don’t be so naïve. Of course we are. But people panic and change their minds sometimes, and you and I both know that’s something we can’t afford. it’s why we secured the house the way we did. It’s why we have two people pulling watch at the same time, so they can keep an eye on each other. No one gets out unless you and I say they get out. You understood that going in, and as far as I remember, you never argued with it.”
“But shooting them!”
“Only as a last resort. Damn it, Peter, what’s the matter with you? You’re falling apart and everyone senses it but you. What you did to me upstairs, that was wrong and you know it. These people are depending on us to lead them. They need us to be strong and together. Instead you challenge me in front of them, and over that girl, for God’s sake. That girl—who is she to us? And what do you think that did to them? You saw them in there just now—how do you think they feel?”
“They’re just tired.”
“Bullshit!” she explodes. “They’re confused. Confused and lost and scared shitless because you and I are supposed to be the rocks, the ones they can lean on, remember? But you ripped that right out from under them. You violated their trust, and now you don’t even see how much you’ve hurt them. But it did hurt them, and somehow, we have to repair the damage, fast. Otherwise, someone really will get disillusioned and try to leave. Because of you, Peter, because of your selfishness and whatever it is that’s gotten into your head over this girl. Where is she, anyway?”
Peter backs away. There’s a sinking feeling in his stomach. Could she be right? He never meant to upset everyone, never intended to frighten them. But what if he did? What sort of leader would that make him? Leaders are supposed to think of these things, about the people they’re leading, and the truth is, when he confronted Sara so publicly, all he was thinking about was himself and his need to assert himself, to be seen as much the boss as Sara is.
“Downstairs.” he says. “I found some crayons for her, and she’s coloring and watching cartoons.”
Sara freezes. A look of disbelief fills her face. “You let her watch TV?”
Instantly he understands her concern. “Just the cartoon channel,” he offers, stunned by the absurdity of this as a defense.
He wonders how he could have been so stupid. Any child can change the channel on a television set. What if Selena got bored and decided to find something else
to watch, and along the way happened across the news about her father? Or worse yet, photographs?
Good God, what has he done?
They both spring for the front door at the same time, but Sara pushes inside first and stampedes ahead of him through the front hall and down the steep steps into the basement. Neither notices that behind them, the front door hangs open, still creaking on its hinges, an accidental invitation to the unenthusiastic light filtering through trees and sky.
* * *
The girl is sitting in front of the television, her back to the stairs, her arms wrapped around her knees. On the screen is a commercial for some kind of sports car, a sleek black model hugging a road that weaves through a forest of multicolored leaves. Sara feels a flash of relief, but it vanishes: since when do they advertise cars like this on a kids’ channel? That’s when she notices the rocking, the way Selena’s body moves steadily back and forth, pivoting on her rear end.
“Selena!” Peter calls, pushing past.
Slowly, she turns to face the two adults, and they know immediately. The tears are what Sara notices, tracks of glistening wetness arcing down over her cheeks from her pale pink eyes. Peter moves to pick up the girl but, in a flash, she leaps to her feet and steps back, holding him at bay with her outstretched palms.
“No!”
“Selena, honey, what happened?” Peter asks, as if he doesn’t know. The guilty never want to accept the obvious.
“They’re dead.” Her face is a portrait of grief and accusation.
“Who?” Peter asks.
“My father, Tethys, all of them. I saw it on the news. They showed the van, and the lake where it went in. There was water coming out of it. It was dark and gross, and the man said they were all dead and they drowned and he showed some photos and they were all there, including daddy, and he said they were dead.”
“Selena,” Peter pleads, kneeling in front of her, “none of what you saw was true.”
“I saw it!”
“But it wasn’t real,” he says.
“Liar!”
“What?”
“You said no one died, they’re all okay. You said that, but it wasn’t true, it was a lie.”
“Don’t talk to him like that!” Sara snaps.
She has heard more than enough. She’s angrier with Peter than she is with the girl, but still this breakdown in discipline must be put to a quick end. Selena is borderline hysterical, and if she starts screaming again, who knows how the others might be affected?
“I didn’t lie,” Peter says, his voice quivering. “That’s not them they found. Those are just their bodies, just their shells. Your father and the others didn’t need them anymore. The news people don’t understand that, that’s all. But your father’s safe, I promise.”
The girl gives Sara a blank look and then turns back to Peter. “You said she wouldn’t come down here. You said you would take me home. it’s all just a lie.”
“Selena –”
He reaches out to embrace her but she steps back again and then darts forward, ducking under his outstretched arms and dodging between the two adults. Sobbing, she tears up the stairs before they even think to react. “I hate you!” she yells from the top of the staircase. “I hate you and I want to go home.” Then she disappears through the doorway.
“Great,” Sara says with disgust, “just great.”
“Oh God,” Peter groans, his eyes widening. “The door.”
He’s halfway up the stairs before Sara understands the mistake that they, in their rush to get down here, made. The girl will try to flee, and they have given her the means. Sara takes the stairs two at a time, and she reaches the upstairs hallway just in time to see Peter run outside. ‘‘I’ll get her.” he yells, and she realizes with a jolt that he’s not telling her but the men in the woods.
And then the air explodes, two cracks. surprisingly sharp, like whips hitting their mark. First one, and then another, in rapid succession.
Two shots.
Her men, doing the job she told them to do.
* * *
Inside, in among the shadows and the dim light, the barn reeks of diesel fuel and cut grass rotting on the blade. It’s a strong odor, pungent and full, much harsher than the sweet decay of apples, but that’s what Natalie smells as she pads cautiously along the cold concrete floor.
Apples.
The place is full of ghosts and the traces they leave. A pile of crates stacked high enough to resemble, in the dark, a looming creature, perhaps even a dinosaur, transports her back, and as she circles around it, her breath trapped in her throat, she sees her sister pop out at her, her whole face a smile as she springs her harmless trap. And Natalie sees herself, how startled she is, and for that one explosive moment, how angry. She pleads with herself to react differently this time, not to yell at Stephanie, just to laugh and scoop her up and never let her go.
But this long-ago version of herself doesn’t listen, can’t hear. She doesn’t know yet what this one moment will mean, how final it will become, how inconceivably long it will resonate. And there’s no bridge between the two of them for Natalie to reach across and tap gently on her own younger soul. She simply snaps at Stephanie and Stephanie cries and slowly the vision fades.
The cold from the floor seeps into Natalie’s feet, numbing them, so she begins to move again, down a narrow passageway between the crates and a wall of tools dangling from a series of pegboard sheets. She should be paying attention, she knows, but her mind wanders again, and she imagines a group of children marching dejectedly down a hallway for their afternoon nap. One of them is limping, and the oldest, a girl, is absent. She’s upstairs, in the kitchen, fetching some ice and being thrown around a bit by one of the adults.
Who says you can’t go home again?
Something sharp slices across her face. A liquid warmth drips down her cheek, and when she presses her palm against the wound, it comes away bathed in red. There is a circular saw sitting on a shelf mounted on the pegboard, and Natalie has managed to walk into its blade. Stupid place to leave something like that she thinks. But then, she’s trespassing here, so what is she going to do, sue? The gash stings but doesn’t feel deep, so she just presses a wad of tissue against it and continues on.
The passageway spills into an open area behind the tractor, where a host of heavy machinery—plows, tillers, stuff she can’t name—sits at the ready. It’s like a little army of farm equipment ready to rend from the earth its due.
Near as she can tell, this is the place she has come to see, this little patch of open concrete in a building that wasn’t even here when her life ended. No matter. She can see the room as it was then, the children crying, Father narrating, her mother blowing a kiss. She can see the gun and the barrel of the gun and the strangeness in Father’s eyes. She reaches out to stop herself from leaping to her feet but of course she can’t and the gun erupts and Stephanie crumples in her arms and the world explodes.
Natalie, watching this, blinking back tears, drops slowly to her knees. “Stephanie?” she sobs.
No answer.
“What am I supposed to do?”
It’s then she realizes that Aunt Katie, the vile intruder inside her head, was at least partially right: Natalie has come here, if not to seek permission, at least to ask for guidance. Which means she is at least entertaining the thought, doesn’t it? The thought of abandoning her own sister yet again.
“It might save her,” she whispers miserably, meaning Selena.
A moment later, she adds, “And then again, it might not.”
After all, what guarantees does she have, what leverage? How can she even be thinking this?
“Stephanie?”
Nothing.
The cold reaches up at her through the floor, curling tightly around her legs. Her whole lower torso is heavy and numb, but she doesn’t care. It doesn’t matter to her whether she ever stands up again. That was her mistake once, there’s no need for her to make it a second time.
&n
bsp; This is a perfect place for ghosts, this barn, and she has seen many—everyone who was there that day. She can invoke them again now, if she wants, flick them on like a light switch, watch them all laugh and cry, argue and die, one more time around the dance floor. But they won’t be switched off so easily.
They are the wrong kinds of ghosts in any case. These are echoes, reverberations in memory, like the animatronic beasts in amusement parks—robots consigned to replaying their roles a thousand times over, and each time the same, even here, where it all happened. These are not spirits you can talk to, ghosts who have the power to do something new, to answer a question, give a sign. These are instant replays caught in an endless loop, and they’ll go on playing inside Natalie’s head as long as she lives, forever rebuking her for the passage of time, the years she has stolen from fate.
“Stephanie?” she calls out again in a plaintive whisper.
But Stephanie doesn’t live here anymore, does she? There is only this shed, and these memories. There is only this choice, this terrible, unthinkable choice, and only Natalie to make it.
And she can’t. She cannot do this, it’s too much to ask of her, too much to ask of anyone.
Her fingers rise to her face and gently trace the length of the laceration on her cheek. Yes, she thinks. There is always that.
A detached sort of calm comes over her. There has always been that and she has always resisted. For the life of her now, she can’t figure out why. Why has she bothered? Why would she resist now?
She stands, wincing at the pain in her knees, and traces her steps back to where the blade that cut her glimmers faintly on its shelf. With the respect a surgeon might show for a scalpel he is about to use on himself, she lifts the heavy saw, carries it back into the open area and sets it down next to her on the floor. Kneeling again, she shifts the weight of her body off her legs and lies down, curling up with the dirt and the dead grass and the insect carcasses that litter the rough concrete. Yes, she sighs, hugging the saw close. She can stay here.
Ring of Years Page 17