“I—” he began, in a mumbly, muffled sort of way, and then he reached into his mouth and plucked out a white stone. His audience responded with a rumble of adoring laughter.
Someone—it sounded like Don Lewiston—shouted, “Hey, Fadder, is that what’s for dinner? Christ, the food in this joint is bad.”
Norma Heald glowered in the direction of whoever had been yelling, then called out, “No snacking before meals, Father.”
Father Storey smiled and said, “I thought this being the day of Thanksgiving, I should say something before we dig in. You can put your hands together if you want, or hold hands with whoever is next to you, or tune me out and listen to the wind, as it suits you.”
Throats cleared and chair legs thumped. Ben Patchett took Harper’s hand in his, his palm moist and doughy. Renée gave Harper a sidelong glance that was full of sardonic sympathy—Look who has a boyfriend! Lucky you!—and took the other hand.
“All of us together are a chorus of praise, saved by song and light,” Father Storey began. “We are grateful to have this chance to come together in harmony, saved by our love for each other. We have so much to be thankful for. I know I am thankful for biscuits and white gravy. It smells great. We all sing our thanks for Norma Heald, who busted her butt making this amazing Thanksgiving dinner with very limited supplies. We sing our thanks for the girls who sweated puddles assisting her in the kitchen. We sing for Renée Gilmonton, who helped the kids with their Pilgrim hats and taught them how to be an ace waitstaff. We sing for John Rookwood, who isn’t here tonight, but who miraculously provided us with the cocoa and marshmallows I’m not supposed to mention, because we don’t want the kids to get excited.”
A shriek of happiness went up around the room, followed by an indulgent murmur of adult laughter. Father Storey smiled, then shut his eyes. His brow furrowed in thought.
“When we sing together, we sing for all the people who loved us but who aren’t here tonight. We sing in memory of every minute we got to have with them. I lost a daughter—a beautiful, smart, funny, combative, difficult, inspiring daughter— and I couldn’t miss her any more than I do. I know other people here feel just the same about the ones they lost. I sing for what I had with my Sarah. And when we raise our voices in harmony, I feel her still. I find her spirit in the Bright. I hear her singing for me, as I sing for her.”
The wind shrilled beneath the eaves. Someone took a choked breath. Harper could feel the silence in her nerve endings, a sweet, painful throb.
Father Storey opened his wet eyes and swept a grateful, affectionate look across the room. “The rest of us, we’re still here, and it feels pretty good. One more night on Earth, with a little music and some fresh biscuits and some good conversation. That’s about all I ever wanted. I don’t know about anyone else. And now I think everyone would just about sing with joy if I’d shut up so we can get to eating.”
A cheer went up, a loud yell of pleasure, followed by applause. Don Lewiston stood. Then others were standing with him, pushing back their benches and chairs, so they could clap for the old man, who told them it was all right to still sometimes be happy, even now. As Father Storey came down out of his chair, they rose from theirs, whistling and clapping, and Harper whistled and clapped with them, glad for him. For one moment, anyway, she was not sick at heart about waking up to the smell of smoke.
They ate: greasy cubes of Spam, half drowned in gravy, on top of floury, buttery biscuits. Harper didn’t have any appetite at all and ate mechanically, and she was surprised when it was all gone and she was scraping the plate for the last of the gravy. She might not be hungry, but the baby was always in the mood for a little something. She looked at the half biscuit on Renée’s plate a moment too long, and the older woman smiled and used a plastic fork to shove it onto Harper’s dish.
“No,” Harper said, “Don’t. I don’t want it.”
“That would be more convincing if I didn’t see you picking crumbs off the tablecloth and eating them.”
“Oh, God,” Harper said. “I’m such a pig. It must be like sitting next to a fucking swine at the trough.”
Ben twitched and looked away. Harper was not a big one for swearing, but around him she couldn’t help herself. Ben avoided profanity like a cat avoided getting wet, said heck for hell, crap for shit, and frick for fuck, a habit Harper found unpleasantly prissy. When she herself swore, it never failed to make him flinch. Sometimes, Harper thought he was more of an old lady than Norma Heald.
She supposed she had been looking to pay him back ever since he decided to play Daddy and make her drink her cranberry juice. No sooner had she done it, though, than she felt guilty. It was a lousy thing to do, set out to offend a guy who had never been anything but decent to her.
He put his fork down and stood up. Harper felt a flash of horror, wondered if she had so offended him he was about to flee. But no; he was making his own announcement, climbing up onto the bench, putting two fingers in his mouth, and blowing an earsplitting whistle.
“I don’t have a rock in my mouth,” Ben said, “but by the time I’m done talking, some of you will probably wish I did.” He smiled at this, but no one was quite sure whether to laugh or not, and the room remained silent except for a low, uneasy rustle of back-chatter. “The snow may be pretty, but it’s going to make our lives a whole lot harder. Up until now we’ve had the freedom to go about camp as we like and the kids have had plenty of room to run and play. I am sorry, but now all that has to change. Tonight the Lookouts will be setting out planks to create walkways between buildings. When you’re passing between buildings, you must stay on the planks. If a Quarantine Patrol comes through here, and they find the snow all churned up with footprints, they are going to know people are hiding here. I want the Lookouts to meet me in Monument Park after tonight’s chapel. We need to practice getting the boards up and out of sight. I want to be able to make them disappear inside of two minutes. We can do this, but it isn’t going to come easy, so expect to be out there for a while, and dress accordingly.”
This was met by groans, but Harper thought they were less than entirely heartfelt. The teenagers who had signed up to be Lookouts loved hustling in the cold, pretending they were marines on a black op. Most of them had been preparing for postapocalyptic stealth missions since they were old enough to pick up an Xbox controller.
“Father Storey mentioned that Norma Heald just about killed herself pulling together today’s meal. It wasn’t easy, given what she has to work with. Which brings me to some unfortunate news. Norma and Carol and myself spent six hours in the kitchen yesterday, going over our supplies. I won’t kid you. We’re in a corner and we’ve had to make some tough decisions. So starting on Monday next week, everyone between the ages of thirteen and sixty, who isn’t infirm or pregnant”—Ben glanced down at Harper and winked—“will draw a ticket out of a hat, just before lunch. If your ticket has an X on it we’ll ask you to skip that meal. On an average night, probably thirty people will miss out on their lunch. If you happen to lose in the hunger games—” He paused, smiling, expecting laughter. When he didn’t get any, his face darkened, and he hurried on. “You can skip drawing a ticket at the next lunch. I’m sorry. It’s simple math. This camp was outfitted with enough dry and canned goods to keep a couple hundred kids fed for a few months. We’ve had over a hundred people here since July, and more turning up every week. The barrels are low and there isn’t going to be any more anytime soon.”