How many times did she question her duty as a mother as she trained the children into becoming listening machines? For Malorie, watching them develop was sometimes horrific. Like she was left to care for two mutant children. Small monsters. Creatures in their own right capable of learning how to hear a smile. Able to tell her if she was scared before she knew it herself.
The shoulder wound is bad. And for years now Malorie has feared sustaining an injury of this magnitude. There were other instances. Close calls. Falling down the cellar stairs when the children were two. Tripping while carrying a bucket back from the well, banging her head on a rock. She thought she broke her wrist once. A chipped tooth. It’s difficult to remember what her legs once looked like without bruises. And now the flesh of her shoulder feels peeled from her body. She wants to stop the boat. She wants to find a hospital. Run through the streets, screaming, I need a doctor, I need a doctor, I NEED A DOCTOR OR I’M GOING TO DIE AND THE CHILDREN WILL DIE WITHOUT ME!!
“Mommy,” the Girl says.
“What is it?”
“We’re facing the wrong way.”
“What?”
As she’s grown more exhausted, she’s overused her stronger arm. Now she rows against the current and didn’t even know it.
Suddenly, the Boy’s hand is upon hers. Malorie recoils at first, then understands. His fingers over hers, he moves, with her, as if turning the crank of the well.
In all this cold, painful world, the Boy, hearing her struggle, is helping her row.
twenty-five
The husky is licking Tom’s hand. Jules snores to his left on the carpeted floor of the home’s family room. Behind him, a giant silent television rests on an oak stand. Boxes of records are set against the wall. Lamps. A plaid couch. A stone fireplace. A big painting of a beach fills the space above the mantel. Tom thinks it’s of northern Michigan. Above him, a dusty ceiling fan rests.
The dog is licking his hand because he and Jules feasted the night before on stale potato chips.
This house proved to be a little more fruitful than the last. The men packed a few canned goods, paper, two pairs of children’s boots, two small jackets, and a sturdy plastic bucket before falling asleep. Still, no phone book. In the modern age, with cell phones in everybody’s pocket, the phone book, it seems, has passed on.
There is evidence of the original homeowners deliberately leaving town. Directions to a small city in Texas at the Mexican border. A crisis survivor manual marked up in pen. Long lists of supplies that include gasoline and car parts. Receipts told Tom they’d purchased ten flashlights, three fishing poles, six knives, boxed water, propane, canned nuts, three sleeping bags, a generator, a crossbow, cooking oil, gasoline, and firewood. As the dog licks his hand, Tom thinks of Texas.
“Bad dreams,” Jules says.
Tom looks over to see his friend is awake.
“Dreamed we never found our way back to the house,” Jules continues. “I never saw Victor again.”
“Remember the stake we stuck in the lawn,” Tom says.
“I haven’t forgotten it,” Jules says. “Dreamed somebody took it.”
Jules gets up and the men eat a breakfast of nuts. The husky gets a can of tuna.
“Let’s cross the street,” Tom says.
Jules agrees. The men pack up. Soon, they leave.
Outside, the grass gives way to concrete. They are in the street again. The sun is hot. The fresh air feels good. Tom is about to say as much, but Jules suddenly calls out.
“What is this?”
Tom, blind, turns.
“What?”
“It’s a post, Tom. Like . . . I think this is a tent.”
“In the middle of the street?”
“Yes. In the middle of our street.”
Tom approaches Jules. The bristles of his broomstick connect with something that sounds like it’s made of metal. Cautiously, he reaches into the darkness and touches what Jules found.
“I don’t understand,” Tom says.
Setting the broomstick down, Tom uses both hands to feel above his head, along the base of the canvas tarp. It reminds him of a street fair he once took his daughter to. The roads were blocked off by orange cones. Hundreds of artists sold paintings, sculptures, drawings. They were set up side by side, too many to count. Each of them sold their goods under a floppy canvas tent.
Tom steps under it. He uses his broom to sweep a wide arc in the air above him. There is nothing here but the four poles that support the tarp.