Bird Box (13 page)

“
Don!
” Malorie snaps.

“You have a
baby
coming, Malorie. Don’t you hope to survive?”

“Don, I could kill you,” Cheryl says.

Don gets up from the piano bench. His face is red with anger.

“Tom and Jules aren’t coming back, Cheryl. Accept it. And when you live an extra week because you were able to eat
their
share of the food and then you were able to eat Victor, too,
then
maybe you’ll understand that there’s no such thing anymore as hope.”

Cheryl steps toward him. Her hands are in fists. Her face is inches from Don’s.

Victor barks from the living room.

Felix gets between Don and Cheryl. Don shoves him away. As Malorie steps toward them, Felix’s hand is raised.

He is going to strike Don.

He brings his fist back.

There is a knock at the front door.

twenty-one

M
alorie is thinking of Don specifically.

“Mommy,” the Boy says, “the blindfold is hurting me.”

“Scoop some water out of the river, carefully,” Malorie says, “and rub it where it hurts. Do
not
take off your fold.”

Once, after the housemates had finished dinner, Malorie sat alone with Olympia at the dining room table. They were talking about Olympia’s husband. What he was like. His desire to have a child. Don entered the room alone. He didn’t care what Olympia was saying.

“You oughta blind those babies,” he said. “The second they come out.”

It was as if he’d been thinking about it for a long time, then decided to tell them his decision.

He sat down with them at the table and explained himself. As he did, Olympia grew more withdrawn. She thought it was insane. And worse, she thought it was
cruel
.

But Malorie didn’t think so. A deep part of her understood what Don was saying. Every moment of her pending motherhood would be centered on protecting the eyes of her child. How much more could be done if this worry were taken away? The seriousness Don wore when he said it conveyed more than cruelty to Malorie. It opened the door to a realm of harrowing possibilities, things that might need to be done, actions she might have to take that nobody from the old world could ever be fully prepared to endure. And the suggestion, dark as it was, never entirely vanished from her mind’s eye.

“It’s better, Mommy,” the Boy says.

“Shhh,” Malorie says. “
Listen
.”

When the children were six months old, she already had them sleeping in their chicken wire cribs. It was night. The world outside the windows and walls was quiet. The house was dark.

In the early days with the babies, Malorie would often listen to them breathe as they slept. What may have been a touching observation for some mothers was a study for Malorie. Did they sound healthy? Were they getting enough nutrients from well water and the breast milk of a mother who hadn’t had a decent meal in a year? Always, their health was on her mind. Their diet. Their hygiene. And their eyes.

You oughta blind those babies the second they come out
.

Sitting at the kitchen table in the dark, Malorie understood clearly that the idea did not pose a moral dilemma as much as it presented her with something she wasn’t sure she was physically capable of doing. Looking toward the hall, listening to their tiny exhales, she believed Don’s idea wasn’t a bad one.

Every waking moment is spent protecting them from looking outside. You check the blankets. You check their cribs. They won’t remember these days when they’re older. They won’t remember sight
.

The children, she knew, would not be robbed of anything in the new world if they weren’t able to see it to begin with.

Rising, she stepped to the cellar door. Downstairs, on the cellar’s dirt floor, was a can of paint thinner. Long ago she’d read the side label and knew the danger the substance posed if it made contact with the eyes. A person could go blind, it said, if they didn’t wash it out in thirty seconds.

Malorie went to it. She took its handle and brought it upstairs.

Do it quick. And do not rinse
.

They were just babies. Could they possibly remember this? Would they forever fear her, or would it one day be buried beneath a mountain of blind memories?

Malorie crossed the kitchen and entered the dark hall leading to their bedroom.

She could hear them breathing within.

At their door, she paused and looked into the blackness in which they slept.

In this moment, she believed she could do it.

Quietly, Malorie entered the bedroom. She set the can on the floor and removed the cloth lids covering their protected cribs. Neither child stirred. Both continued to breathe steadily, as if experiencing pleasant dreams, far away as possible from the nightmares coming to them.

Quickly, Malorie unhooked the wire lid to the Girl’s crib. She bent and lifted the can.

The Girl breathed, steadily.

Malorie reached into the crib and lifted the baby’s head. She removed the Girl’s blindfold. The Girl started to cry.

Her eyes are open
, Malorie thought.
Pour it
.

She forced the Girl’s head closer to the crib’s edge and then brought the open can of paint thinner inches from her reddening, crying face. The Boy woke behind her and began crying, too.

“Stop it!” Malorie said, fending off tears of her own. “You don’t want to see this world.”

She tilted the can a little farther and felt the contents slide over her hand before splashing on the floor at her feet.

Feeling it on her skin made it real.

She couldn’t do it.

She let go of the baby’s head and the Girl continued to cry.

Setting the can on the ground, Malorie slowly backed out of the bedroom. The children wailed in the darkness.

In the hall, Malorie pressed herself against the wall for support and brought a hand to her mouth. Then she threw up.

“Mommy,” the Boy says now, on the river, “it worked!”

“
What worked?
” Malorie says, torn from her memories.

“The blindfold doesn’t hurt anymore.”

“Boy,” she says. “No more talking. Unless you hear something.”

Malorie breathes deep and feels something akin to shame. The pain in her shoulder is worse. She is dizzy with fatigue. A deeper sense of disorientation sets in. It feels like something is very wrong within her. Yet, she can hear the children: the Boy breathing in front of her, the Girl fingering puzzle pieces in the back of the rowboat. They are not blind beneath their folds. And today could end with the possibility of an ever newer world, one in which the children would see things they’ve never seen before.

If she can get them there.

twenty-two

M
alorie hears something moving on the other side of the door. She hears panting, too. Something is scratching the wood. She and the others are in the foyer. Felix just called out, asked who it was. In the moment between his asking and getting a response, it sounds like the scratching could be made by anything.

Creatures
, she thinks.

But it is not creatures at the door. It is Tom and Jules.

“Felix! It’s Tom!”

“Tom!”

“We’re still wearing our helmets. But we’re not alone. We found dogs.”

Felix, sweating, exhales in a big way. For Malorie, the relief is so rich it hurts.

Victor is barking. His tail is wagging. Jules calls to him.

“Victor, buddy! I’m back!”

“All right,” Felix says to the housemates inside. “Close your eyes.”

“Wait,” Don says.

“For what?” Felix says.

“How do we know they’re alone? How do we know they’re not being followed? Who knows
what
could follow them in?”

Felix pauses. Then he calls to Tom.

“Tom! Are you two alone? Just you two and the dogs?”

“Yes.”

“It doesn’t mean it’s true,” Don says.

“Don,” Malorie says impatiently, “if someone wanted to break in to this house, they could at any time.”

“I’m trying to be safe, Malorie.”

“I know.”

“I live here, too.”

“I know. But Tom and Jules are on the other side of the door. They made it back. We have to let them in now.”

Don holds her gaze. Then he looks to the foyer floor.

“You guys are going to get us killed one day,” he says.

“Don,” Malorie says, seeing that he is, at last, relenting, “we’re going to open the door now.”

“Yes. I know. No matter what I fucking say.”

Don closes his eyes.

Malorie does the same.

“Are you ready, Tom?” Felix calls.

“Yes.”

Malorie hears the front door open. The sounds of paws on the foyer tile make it sound like many people have entered at once.

The front door closes quickly.

“Hand me a broomstick,” Felix says.

Malorie hears the bristles against the walls, the floor, and the ceiling.

“All right,” Felix says. “We’re ready.”

The moment between deciding to open your eyes and then actually doing it is as scary a thing as there is in the new world.

Malorie opens her eyes.

The foyer erupts into color. Two huskies move quickly, smelling the floor, checking out the new people, checking out Victor.

The excitement Malorie feels at seeing Tom’s face is all-encompassing. Yet, he doesn’t look good. He looks exhausted. Dirty. And like he’s been through something Malorie can only imagine.

He holds something in his hand. It’s white. A box. Big enough to carry a small TV. Sounds come from within it. Clucking.

Olympia lunges forward and hugs Tom, who laughs as he’s trying to remove his helmet. Jules has his off and kneels to embrace Victor. Cheryl is crying.

Don’s expression is a mixture of astonishment and shame.

We almost came to blows
, Malorie thinks.
Tom was gone a day and a half and we almost came to blows
.

“Well, oh my
God
,” Felix says, looking wide-eyed at the new animals. “It worked!”

Tom and Malorie’s eyes meet. He doesn’t have the sparkle he left with.

What did they experience out there?

“These are the huskies,” Jules says, fanning a hand toward the dogs. “They’re friendly. But they take a minute to warm up.”

Then Jules suddenly howls with relief.

Like war veterans coming home
, Malorie thinks.
From a trip around the block
.

“What’s in the box?” Cheryl asks.

Tom raises it higher. His eyes are glassy. Distant.

“In the
box
, Cheryl,” he says, holding it out with one hand and lifting the lid a little with the other, “are birds.”

The housemates gather around the box in a circle.

“What kind are they?” Olympia asks.

Tom slowly shakes his head.

“We don’t know. Found them in a hunter’s garage. We have no idea how they survived. We think the owners left them a lot of feed. As you can tell, they’re loud. But only when we’re near. We tested it. Whenever we got close to the box, they got louder.”

“So that’s dinner?” Felix asks.

Tom smiles a tired smile.

“An alarm system.”

“Alarm system?” Felix asks.

Jules says, “We’re going to hang the box outside. By the front door. We’ll be able to hear them in here.”

Only a box of birds
, Malorie thinks. Yet, it
does
feel like progress.

Tom closes the lid slowly.

“You’ve got to tell us everything that happened,” Cheryl says.

“We will,” Tom says. “But let’s go in the dining room. The two of us would love to sit down for a minute.”

The housemates smile.

Except Don.

Don who declared them dead. Don who was already counting their rations as his own.

In the hall, Tom sets the box of birds on the floor, against the wall. Then the housemates gather in the dining room. Felix gets some water for Tom and Jules. Once they have their glasses in front of them, they tell the story of what they experienced out there.

twenty-three

T
he moment the door closes behind them, Tom is more afraid than he thought he’d be.

Out here, the creatures are closer.

When we get to the street
, Tom thinks,
far enough from the house, will they attack us?

He imagines cold hands closing over his own. His throat slit. His neck broken. His mind destroyed.

But Tom is very aware that no report described a man being attacked.

This
is the way to think, he decides, still standing on the front porch. Forcing this philosophy deeper into his mind, searching for the soil of its roots, he allows himself to breathe, slowly. As he does, other feelings emerge.

For one, there is the unbridled, slightly reckless, sense of freedom.

Tom
has
been outside since arriving at the house. He’s retrieved water from the well as often as anyone. He’s carried shit and piss to the trenches. But this time it’s different. The
air
feels different. Just before he and Jules agree to start walking, a breeze passes over them. It moves across his neck. His elbows. His lips. It’s one of the strangest feelings he’s ever known. It calms him. As the creatures lurk behind every tree and street sign in his piqued imagination, the clean, open air brings him giddiness.

If only for a moment.

“Are you ready, Jules?” he says.

“Yes.”

Like truly blind men, they tap the ground before them with broomsticks. They step from the porch. Within three feet, Tom senses he’s no longer walking on concrete. With the lawn beneath him, it’s as if the house has vanished. He is
out to sea
. Vulnerable. For a second, he’s not sure he can do this.

So he thinks of his daughter.

Robin
.
I’m just going to get us some dogs
.

This is good. This helps him.

The broomstick passes over what must be the curb and Tom steps onto the concrete of the street. Here he stops and kneels. On his knees, he searches for a corner of the front lawn. He finds it. Then he removes a small wood stake from his duffel bag and jams it into the earth.