"We didn't expect you to be up so soon," Sharif said. "Since you are, would you like to help me today?" Sharif had glistening brown eyes that reminded Eric of root beer candy. He had a long, handsome face, and a slender nose.
"Sure," Eric said. He glanced nervously to the ceiling.
"Your friends will be okay," Sharif said. "We're letting all of you rest as long as you'd like. You can go back to bed if you want."
"No, that's okay," Eric said. "I'd like to help."
"Good," he said, and, standing up, Sharif led Eric out over the wet lawn. The sun was coming up bright, burning yesterday's dampness. The land of the Valley was wide and low, with forested, emerald hills all around them, gentle as sheep. There was not a city in sight. Eric breathed in the fresh morning air.
When they got to the barn, Sharif handed him a pair of gloves and a pitchfork. With the cows out to pasture, they could clean the stalls. Eric pitchforked the manure into a wheelbarrow and then rolled it to the compost pile. Sharif said they would use the manure on the fields for next year's crop. The smell was strong but comforting. He found he liked it. Soon Eric worked up a comfortable sweat. When they were finished, they sat outside in the warm sun. Sharif brought a canteen of water and they shared it.
"How long have you been here?" asked Eric.
"A long time," he answered. "I worked here before the worm. That's true of almost everyone here. When it all collapsed, we decided to stay and start a new, better way of life. We started this, the Slow Society."
"Slow Society?"
"Do you ever think why the Vaca Beber worm hit us?" Sharif asked.
"Isn't it from Brazil?"
"Yes," Sharif said. "But I'm talking about why it happened, Eric. If those cattle ranchers hadn't been cutting into the Amazon, the worm would have been harmless in the forest the way it had been for millions of years. So why were those ranchers cutting down the forest?"
"For land," Eric said.
"Yes, ranch land. They cut it down for cows, for beef, so that a lot of people up here in the north could eat cheap hamburgers. The whole country was more interested in eating quickly on their way to the office than seeing the world around them. They just wanted more and more." Sharif nodded toward the forested hills. "All of this beauty meant nothing to them. They had no connection with the world. They just lived fast, expecting everything to be done for them. They didn't pick their own vegetables. They had migrant workers do that. They didn't take care of animals. They had others do that for them. They didn't even make their own food. They had other people do that and put them in neat plastic packages that could be put in the microwave. It would be done in seconds. That civilization was only about accumulating more and more. Desire is an ugly thing, Eric. It has no end and no goal. They just kept needing more. Meanwhile, the Amazon shrunk year by year. One year they found the Vaca B. That was the choices they made. To live a fast, easy life of consumption and profit. And it destroyed them."
Eric had never thought about this before. He remembered cooking many meals in the microwave. It was true. He'd never grown anything in his life.
"We don't want that again," Sharif said. "The Slow Society believes that food is the very foundation of our existence, Eric. It is our connection to the land, our connection to the planet, our connection to life itself. Without growing the food we eat, without producing what we put in our bodies, we lose that connection."
Eric thought about it. Sharif continued:
"We strive for a world in which the central relationship is to the land and to each other. We live slowly, in the cycles of life, the cycles of seasons, the cycles of rain and snow. We try to be within these cycles, a part of them. We believe that if we stick to these principles, our species will thrive. We will have a better, healthier, more fulfilling life."
Eric thought about the Society, living here on this farm for years and years, surrounded by the hills. "We're going to Maine," he said. "We're going to live on an island, where the Zombies can't go. We're going to have to grow our own food too."
"You're welcome to stay here for as long as you want, all of you."
Eric looked at him. "Thank you," he said. "I don't know what we're going to do. I'll have to talk with the others."
"Of course," said Sharif. "I just wanted to let you know you can stay."
"Okay," Eric said. He followed Sharif back to the barn. He looked back at the house and thought about what Sharif had said. He tried to think of the farmhouse as home, imagined Birdie running on the lawn and laughing. But the island was strong in his mind. He kept seeing the waters of the lake shimmering in the sun, hearing the gentle lap of water on the shore. He could see it if he shut his eyes, the pine trees, the water, and the paths of the wind upon the surface of the lake. He could see his father reclined in the boat with a beer in his hand. His own fishing line pointing to the water. The tinny sound of the water striking the aluminum boat.
It was just perfect.
_
Since the Slow Society had a drilled artesian well, they still had running water. Every morning, before breakfast, Mark or Cecile built a fire under the hot water boiler with wood harvested from the nearby forest. An hour later, steaming hot water came from the pipes. Slipping into the bath for the first time, his body dark with filth, Eric sighed, even through the pain. The hot water stung his feet so badly, he had to rest them dry on the lip of the tub. Red and cratered with blisters, Eric tried not to look at them.
He washed himself and thought of the days he had spent in the forest. The cold of the evenings, the pain in his feet, the constant scrambling, the pain all over his body: the bath seemed to wash that all away.
When he finally got out, the water was dark and frothy around the edges, like hot chocolate.
_
One night, as the four of them gathered in Eric's room before bed, Brad was more talkative than usual.
"What did you do before the worm?" Brad asked him. But he didn't wait for a reply. "I watched movies."
"Really?" Eric encouraged. "I did too."
"I went to the movies as often as I could. Sometimes like five times a week. Man, I saw everything! I've seen Die Hard and Bloodsport and Rainman like a hundred times, I bet. I used to sneak in with." Brad stopped and bit his lower lip. Then he smiled and continued. "I used to sneak in and see everything. I'd pay for one movie and stay there all fucking day. All fucking day!" He clapped his knee and laughed. "One day I saw four movies! I saw this cool Italian film called Cinema Paradiso, and then they played this Japanese cartoon called Grave of the Fireflies. That was some fucked up shit. In the afternoon, they played that movie A Fish Called Wanda. We laughed so fucking hard! Then, late that night, I remember, they played Mississippi Burning. That was a great day. I won't ever forget that day." Brad laughed again, but then a look so dark, so painful dropped on his face, that, for a moment, Eric was afraid. A dreadful, hopeless feeling leapt upon the surface of Eric's skin, diving and rising like some dark fish along his back and arms and the scalp of his head. But the moment passed. The darkness left Brad's face, replaced by a wide smile. "Yeah, I loved movies, man." His voice was quiet. "Guess they won't be making any more, will they?" He laughed about that. "Least there won't be a Rambo four."
They all laughed about that.
They laughed a long time about that, but it wasn't really funny.
_
During the day, Sarah helped in the garden. For the rest of the day, she worked in the kitchen with Katie, an older woman with long dark hair, streaked with gray. Katie was tall and angular and so thin, her bones stuck out at her elbows. Eric had thought she was going to be mean and spiteful, but she had sparkling eyes that matched her sense of humor. Sarah and Katie became inseparable quickly. Both had a passion for food and they spoke about it often, sharing recipes, ideas, techniques. Sarah seemed radiantly happy, and, watching her, Eric doubted that she would ever leave the Slow Society to go to Maine.
Brad had found a friend too. Mark, a short, round man with a grizzly
beard who wore overalls and more often than not, toted a heavy, red toolbox with him. Mark was the handyman and spent all his time fixing the myriad things that broke on the farm. When he wasn't occupied with leaks and the maintenance of various machinery on the farm, he was on the roof of the barn, working on a set of solar panels he had scrounged. He always smoked a cigar, even while he was working. He also swore with a passion while he worked. Perhaps this was what drew Brad to him. In just a few days, Brad followed Mark around the farm, carrying the red toolbox for him, looking serious and severe.
Birdie had all the attention she wanted. Except she didn't seem to want much. She spoke little and insisted on following Eric. In the evening, she lay by the fire and drew pictures which both Mary and Cecile praised in loud voices. Birdie, however, seemed immune to their attention. From time to time, she allowed one of them to brush her hair or run the bath for her. But she did so with a patient look on her face, as if she did it only to placate them. Then she would go sit next to Eric.
Eric was both disturbed by Birdie's behavior and flattered by it. He didn't know what Birdie had been through before he met her, and, in truth, he didn't really want to know. He answered Mary and Cecile's questions, but he resented them because they seemed to think he was not a proper figure for Birdie's devotion. They tried to hide it, but Eric could tell. They thought Birdie needed a mother. What she really needed, Eric thought, was about a year of feeling safe.
As for himself, Eric spent much of his time with Sharif, working wherever it was needed during the day, trailing Birdie with him. Eric remembered there had been a time when he was talkative and joked and laughed, at least with his friends. He didn't want to talk so much anymore.
One night, after supper, while the rest of them were by the fire, talking, and Birdie was allowing her thick, curly hair to be brushed, Eric went up to his room. He sat on his bed and took out his dirty backpack. He still hadn't unpacked it. Reaching in, he brought out his calendar. He looked at the wrinkled pages, and then took out the pen and began crossing out days. It was May 30. He put the calendar back and then found his map. It was filthy and worn. He found Athens, Ohio, and then tried to estimate how far he'd come. 150 miles? 200? He traced his finger from Cuyahoga, up the Interstate 80 to Pymatuning State Park, up to Lake Erie, then over to the Alleghany National Forest. He looked at Maine and the lake with its island in the middle. There was still nearly a thousand miles to go.
He folded up the map and stuck it carefully back in its plastic bag and then replaced it in his pack. When he heard a familiar rattling, he smiled and took out a leather bag, and dumped his dice on the end table. He picked out three six-sided dice and rolled them. He loved the sound of them on the wood.
14. 12. 8.
For a moment, he thought about Jessica, the feel of her soft hand in his. Then he thought of her body in the gutter, her eye shot out. He thought of his mother, stiff in her bed, her hands clawed and bloody from scratching herself. He saw the flames of their house burning.
He put the dice away.
_
Eric gave Birdie a glass of water. "Thank you," she said. Birdie always said please and thank you. It was the most of what she said. "You're welcome," said Eric and poured his own. They had been in the barn with Sharif and had come back for some water. When they walked back to the barn, they heard raised voices. The both of them stopped still. It was Sharif and Sharon, a young woman with corn silk hair and expressive round eyes. Eric was embarrassed around her because she was so pretty. Right now, she sounded furious.
"You can't act like this!" she exclaimed.
"Act like what, Sharon, a human being?"
"Don't you do that to me!" Sharon said. Eric wanted to leave or to announce his presence, but they were approaching, and he didn't want them to think he had been listening. He was still deciding how to handle the uncomfortable situation when Sharon spoke again: "You can't just invite them to stay as if you're the king of this place! This is not what we're about, and you're not king!"
Now Eric and Birdie ducked into a stall to listen. This was about them.
"I talked with everyone, Sharon," Sharif said. "Everyone thought they should stay."
"Not everyone," she said. "Not me. Not Mark. And Van wasn't sure either. That's nearly half of us. We should've talked about this more."
"They're children," Sharif said. "We need children."
"There's plenty of children at the Hollow," Sharon spat. "But you didn't want them here, did you?"
"That's different," Sharif answered. "They still have their mothers and fathers. I didn't think splitting up families was wise."
"We wouldn't be splitting up anyone!" Sharon said. "It would have been a revolving system. Everyone should share in the upbringing of children."
"We don't have the right to take children from their parents, Sharon."
"Are you kidding me? David is a drunk and Francine isn't even sure he's the father!"
"We still can't take those kids," Sharif said a little angrily. "We've gone over this before. We don't have the right!"
"Those kids need me!"
"Sharon, stop it! You're not getting those kids!"
There was a pause, and then the sound of Sharon, crying.
"You could've stayed," Sharif said, more quietly. "I would've understood."
"I love you," Sharon said and then sobbed. "I can't leave you."
"Sharon, I'm sorry, I--"
"Don't even touch me," Sharon spat suddenly. "I hate you!" She sobbed again. "I don't see how you can be so cruel. You accept these strangers, but those kids, those kids were mine!"
"Honey," said Sharif. "They aren't your children."
"They were mine!" Sharon insisted. "Not in blood, but everything but, everything in me says it's true! Their so-called parents were gone for months! You don't understand, you don't understand what it really feels like. You have more feeling for these strangers than you do for me!" Her voice had risen to a shout again. "I won't stand for it, Sharif, and neither will Mark. They have to go! We're not going to have a fat kid and some little nigger girl eating all our food!"
"Chrissakes, Sharon, get a hold of yourself!"
"We all work for that food! Not just you! All of us!"
Then there was a flash as Sharon left the barn in a storm. Birdie clung to Eric's leg. They waited for another five minutes before they emerged from hiding.
Eric walked to Sharif. He turned around, and when he saw them, smiled warmly. He handed Eric a pitchfork.
"How's it going?" Eric asked.
"Fine," Sharif said, and smiled again.
Eric could read nothing in that smile.
_
Eric woke to screaming. He stumbled out of bed, dazed, and, his heart beating wildly, he fumbled for his gun that he hid under his bed. The screaming continued, somewhere nearby, a wrenching, horrible sound. Trembling, Eric gave up looking for the gun and ran outside his room in the darkness. He felt Birdie suddenly grasp his legs. The hallway began to fill with people carrying flashlights and candles. They gathered around an open door.
Inside, on the bed, Sarah grasped a pale, tortured Brad. His mouth was hung open and the scream still seemed to echo from him. Brad's face was wet with sweat. Red hair clung to his forehead. His eyes were dark and hollow. Sarah rocked him in his arms.
"Oh god, oh god," Brad gasped.
"It's okay, it's all right," Sarah said, holding his head tight in his arms.
"No, it's not, no, no," Brad sobbed. He saw them watching, but he didn't seem to care.
"Shh, quiet, it's all right," Sarah said.
"No, no, it's not," Brad sobbed.
Sarah embraced him tightly and looked at them meaningfully. They began to disperse. Eric took one last look at Sarah holding Brad and whispering in his ear before he left, taking Birdie with him. Without having to ask, Birdie crawled into bed with him.
"It's because of his family, isn't it?" she asked when it was quiet.
"I don't know, Birdie," Eric said.
"It's because of his family," she stated.
Eric didn't answer. When he closed his eyes to sleep, his mother came to him again, in her bed, sweating from the Vaca Beber. Her eyes seemed so large, so red. Blood trickled from them. "Eric," she said to him. "Eric!"
"Momma," he said from the door frame. He was scared of her. Scared of dying how she was dying. Scared of the worm. Scared of what she might say to him.
"Eric, come here."
He hesitated, but he did, finally.
But she didn't say anything. She just held his hand and cried until her pillow was red with blood.
_
They were fishing when they saw the Land Rover. Sarah saw it first. She grabbed Eric's shoulder and pointed. Van, a middle-aged man with short brown hair and a long, wedge-shaped nose that made his face look like a hatchet, stood up straight to watch the Rover. His face went dark. They all dropped their fishing poles. Eric grabbed Birdie and they ran back to the farm.
By the time they got there, out of breath, Carl Doyle was already there, talking to Sharif and Mark. Brad was behind Mark, glaring at Doyle.
"I only want what is mine," Doyle said. "These children stole from me."
"Do you have anything of his?" Sharif asked, looking to them all. Eric, too out of breath to answer, just shook his head.
"We didn't take shit from this guy!" Brad exclaimed.
Doyle shook his head. "They stole my father's medal for service in World War Two," he said. "He won that in the Pacific, he was a hero. I want that medal back."
The World Without Crows Page 6