He’d forgotten how good it had felt, all those years ago, to spill his soul. She set him free, in a way, by listening.
When she’d finally walked up the path of the house carrying that big bag of laundry, he knew he’d confess everything Bo had told him. He wouldn’t regret it, either, no matter where they were headed and what might befall them once they arrived.
They were officially in unfamiliar territory now; they had passed the bathtub filled with stinking rainwater a while back. “There it is,” she’d called to Cal when its white porcelain side came into view, so smooth and stark against the trees.
Cal reached down to pick up a sock.
“What’s this doing here?” he asked.
“I told you, I was doing laundry.”
He waited; clearly, Frida hadn’t told him the whole story.
“Just forget about it,” she said.
“Where did you pee?”
She pointed her toe at the spot. “Voilà!”
Cal wanted to laugh, but he couldn’t help but picture his wife out here, all by herself. An animal could’ve come upon her. She could have been hurt.
“If anyone tries to hurt you out there”—he swung his head in the direction they were headed—“I’ll shoot them.”
“I know you will.”
“Are you feeling okay?”
“I’m great, why?”
“I mean, do you feel different?”
She paused, thinking. “I know everything will be fine, if that makes sense.” She grabbed her breasts. “And my boobs, they’re really sore.”
“They are?” He put his hands on her chest. “They feel the same to me.”
“I must be mistaken then,” she said. “What do I know?”
“It was stupid to lie to you.”
“We all have our secrets,” she said.
They kept walking into the dense forest, where a few of the dogwoods were starting to change color. Frida allowed Cal to lead her, though he imagined she felt vaguely embarrassed to be following him blindly, as if he were her camp counselor. Bo had said only that the Spikes were due east, and already Cal and Frida’s way had been obstructed by fallen trees and a wide river neither of them could have imagined and that they had to wade across, and the sound of animals was close enough to make Cal stop and reach for his pistol, one arm across Frida as though they were in the car and he’d stopped short at a red light.
They eventually rediscovered the tracks of August’s carriage. Cal had been certain that would happen. From then on, they traveled more easily along his path. Cal thought August probably took a variety of routes; this one wasn’t well trampled enough to have been used more than a couple of times.
“You don’t trust August,” Frida said from behind him.
“He doesn’t trust us,” he said. “Have you ever seen his eyes?”
“No. Have you?” He heard her fake gasp. “Are they made of glass or something? Or robot parts?”
Cal turned back for a moment. “Could be. I’ve never seen them either. That guy is always hiding something from us.”
If they had still been new to the wilderness, the woods that surrounded them would strike him as identical to the ones they’d settled in. But Cal could see all the differences, however subtle: the space between trees, the light, the smells. It was incredible, to think this world had grown readable, as familiar to him as the street he’d grown up on. He couldn’t fathom how strange it would feel to come upon these Spikes. Would he be too afraid to continue?
He began counting under his breath, One-two-three-four, again and again, a step for each number. He counted a little louder. These numbers would announce their presence.
Sometimes, as a safety precaution to scare away animals, he sang while they hiked; his father had loved Sinatra, and Cal could do a passable rendition of “I Get a Kick Out of You.” Frida said she liked to imagine the bears swaying to his croon.
But this counting, it was different than singing. Something about the repetition, the way he could break the distance into these manageable parts, bolstered him.
He felt heat on his neck—a breath, a presence—and spun around. There was Frida, at his back, keeping close to him again.
“Hi, darling,” she whispered, and like that, they kept walking.
7