Drought (9 page)

The truck spits gravel and dirt as it moves away from me, but I stay standing, even as a piece of gravel stings my cheek.

“Otto will carry you home,” I say.

They’ve nearly reached the curve of the road; I see red lights and reach out, as if I could stop them, wrap my fingers around that truck and pull Ellie back to me.

“Otto will never abandon you,” I say.

And then the truck is gone. Even the sound is swallowed into the night.

I remember the bottle of Ford’s medicine in my pocket. I pull it out and fling it into the space the truck left behind. It makes a rattle and a cracking sound when it hits the road. And then that noise is gone too.

All that’s left is the sound of my sobs.

Chapter 11

I stumble home to Mother.

“Wake up,” I sob. “Ellie’s dead.”

I shake her, none too gently, and call her name loudly. But she doesn’t stir. She only breathes, and breathes, and heals. Why did Darwin have to beat her tonight? I need her more than ever.

I can’t stay here all night, as good as alone, thinking of that white bundle that was once Ellie being carried away. I can’t stay here wondering where she is, and what I could have done to keep her living.

I can’t keep this secret from the rest of the Congregation. She is theirs too. And they were all her children—nary a skirt or blanket remains in the Congregation that doesn’t have some small mend or patch from Ellie.

Until now, it was Ellie I would creep to for comfort—Ellie’s cabin I’d go to, at night, when I needed refuge from Mother, or just wanted company as she healed. Ellie always knew when to talk, and when to be quiet. Sometimes I’d come to her cabin and sit, no words in me. She’d braid my hair, or take my boots and brush them clean. We would embrace, and I would return to my own bed, ready for sleep.

But no more. Ellie is gone. There isn’t any time left for visiting with her. How could I have had nothing to say, then? I have a million things to say now—and no Ellie to hear them.

Hope used to come to Ellie’s cabin too, sometimes. She lived in her own small place, not so far away from ours, but it was lonely, she said. Once she married Gabe, though, I never saw her make a special visit at night.

I’ll go to Hope. It is the easiest place to start, to tell the awful truth: Ellie is gone.

The quickest way is along the road, but I’m afraid the truck will come back. Ford might be in it, but tonight he’s just another Overseer. He’s one of the men who took Ellie away.

Instead I slide along the dried-up Lake shoreline, fitting my feet carefully around the stumps and rocks that usually sit at the very edge of the Lake. Not this summer: now the waters glisten, dark and sullen, about ten paces from my path. It smells like dead fish, and earth.

Even water needs more water to thrive.

Hope left her small cabin when she married Gabe. I pause by it, looking up the hill at the house—small, even for our homes. There are still traces of the gay red paint she coated it in one year, back in a time when Darwin was feeling indulgent.

Ellie loved that red paint. Once she brought a pot of red paintbrush flowers so Hope would have red inside and out. Hope kept them alive until winter. Then she put them by the stove—but it was still too cold for a wildflower to survive.

I have to tell someone Ellie’s gone. The secret bulges inside of me, makes it hard to swallow, hard to breathe.

Gabe’s cabin is just a few past Hope’s old one—though I suppose it’s Gabe
and
Hope’s cabin, now. There aren’t any tall trees around the back of the cabin, on the side by the Lake; over the years Gabe has rooted out any sapling that’s tried to take hold.

The cabins between Hope’s old one and Gabe’s are dark, and so is theirs. For the first time, I worry that I’ll be waking them, or worse, disturbing something private.

But a voice calls out to me before I even walk up the hill to their cabin.

“Ruby! Come for a visit?” Hope’s voice, light and joyful, comes from behind the cabin.

Instead of answering, I walk up the hill as if in a dream, my feet far too light and my head far too heavy. I stare at the ground, hot tears running down my nose and dropping on the earth below.

Hope is standing behind the cabin. Gabe’s greatest secret from Darwin West winds up the wall that she stands near: vines, full of vegetables—or at least they would be, in a good year. Before he came here, Gabe was a farmer.

She doesn’t look as I approach; instead she’s got her back turned to me, hands lightly traveling over the vines. “I was just trying to find some peas,” she says. “To tempt Ellie into eating.”

I want to tell her Ellie is dead. I want to tell her I can’t stop dreaming of an Overseer. I’m afraid of what I’ll say, so I stay silent. I stop a few paces from Hope and wait for her to turn.

“There. Six! Six whole pods. Remember how we had buckets of them last summer …” Her voice trails off as she sees my face.

Then, without even knowing, without hearing what I have to tell her, her face crumples into tears too. She’s the one who closes the space between us; she’s the one who throws her arms around me.

“Ellie’s gone, isn’t she?” Hope asks, her head pressed close against mine.

I nod; she must feel the movement and understand, for her hug grows even tighter.

“But I picked peas,” she sobs. The peas fall from her hand and land on the ground. Even in the dark, their green is so bright they almost seem to glow. Nobody grows things like Gabe.

All I want is to cry, to be held. But I know I’ve got to tell her all of it—or at least all of it, except Ford.

Gently, I pull away. Ellie keeps her arms around me, loosely; we stand like a couple waiting for their wedding waltz to begin.

“I went to see her,” I say, “but there was an Overseer’s truck there.”

There. I started. I swallow and remind myself: tonight, Ford doesn’t exist. I can’t say a thing about him.

Slowly, carefully, I tell her how they carried her body out and put it in the truck. I don’t tell her how they wrinkled their noses at the smell of her, or how they shoved her beside discarded food wrappers and cups. Losing Ellie hurts bad enough. The rest of it can be my burden.

“Did they take her things too?” Hope asks. “Filthy Overseers.”

Ford’s not filthy. I know he would never take any of Ellie’s few belongings—or let anyone else do it. “Of course they didn’t,” I say. It’s the wrong answer, I know immediately.

“They’re
Overseers
. Why wouldn’t they?” she asks.

“They were in a hurry,” I answer, and it seems to be enough for her.

Hope guides me to a set of low, weathered stumps set beside the wall. We both sit. Her shoulders slump, and they seem to pull the rest of her body down too.

I reach out and take her hand, lacing my fingers between hers.

“We … We can’t bury her?” Hope asks.

“They wouldn’t tell me where they were taking her.”

“Ellie was the one who said I should run away with the Congregation,” Hope says. Then she looks back over her shoulder, as if making sure nobody else is listening.

“She loved you,” I say.

“She protected all the women in Hoosick Falls—meals for the sick ones whose family couldn’t work a kettle or stove; shelter for ones whose husbands were too … rough.” Hope reaches up with a free hand to wipe a tear away. “That’s why she said I should come with her. Life with John would have been a short, hard one.”

Instead she’s got a long, hard one. I give Hope’s hand a squeeze with mine, still linked to her. “Are you sorry?” I ask.

“Sorry?” Again Hope looks behind her, but this time her look lingers on the plants that climb the wall behind us—and she smiles a little. “No. I’m glad I came here.”

“Too bad Darwin West came too,” I say.

Hope surprises me with her high, silvery laugh. “That was the fly in the ointment, wasn’t it?” Her face falls back into a frown.

Then she slides her hand away from mine and bends to pick up the peas. She holds them out. “Ellie would want you to have them.”

“I’m not hungry,” I say, even though the pea pods look so beautiful.

“We’re always hungry,” Hope says. “We just forget what it feels like, after a while. Eat them.”

I think of how Ellie always pushed me to take the extra apples, to eat the bit of food left on her plate. She wouldn’t want me to refuse this either, so I pop one pod into my mouth. It’s limp and not very juicy, but it’s very delicious.

“You eat half,” I say.

Hope puts one in her mouth and smiles again, her eyes half shut.

“Will Gabe be angry?” I ask.

“Gabe says what’s his is mine. He wouldn’t care,” Hope says. But she looks down at the ground when she says it. I don’t think she would have picked those peas for anybody except Ellie … or Gabe. They’re family, each other’s protector.

Jealousy swirls in me. She can be with somebody, somebody she wants and loves. The only person who’s sparked anything in me is an Overseer. How could I choose so badly?

“You’re lucky … and he’s lucky,” I say. “Having each other.”

Hope bites another pea. “Gabe takes care of me.”

I think of Ford offering me the food in the woods, pouring his water over the leaves—and I think of Jonah’s promises to provide. But neither boy is the right choice for me.

“Are you lonely?” Hope shifts her legs so our knees meet, and she’s looking straight into my face.

“I have Mother—and you, and Asa, and Boone,” I answer.

“But you don’t have … this.” A shy smile curves the bit of plumpness in her cheeks, and she tilts her head toward the cabin.

“Maybe I never will,” I say.

“But you want it.” She lets out a small sigh.

There’s so much I want to tell Hope about Ford: about how he cared about Ellie too, and how he tried to help in some small way.

“Jonah asked me to marry him,” I confess.

“Oh … really?” Hope ducks her head.

“Is it such a surprise?” I ask.

“No, I just didn’t know Jonah had set his cap for you,” she says. “But I don’t talk to him much anymore.”

“I said no,” I tell her.

Even in the dark, I can tell Hope is still smiling. “I wouldn’t expect you to say yes.”

“What do you like about Gabe?” I ask.

“He’s patient and he sees good things in people,” Hope answers. “And he’s strong.”

I wonder what he loves best about Hope. She’s easy to love—easier than me, I think. Hope doesn’t have prickles or doubts anywhere in her.

“What do you want—who would you love?” Hope asks.

I hide my face so she can’t see the secrets in it. “Somebody brave, but gentle,” I say. “Somebody worth taking risks for.”

“Sounds dashing,” Hope says.

“He is,” I say.

“Is?” She giggles, and only then do I understand what I’ve said. “Who’s your secret suitor, Ruby Prosser? Are you stringing along
two
men?”

“There’s nobody. Nobody!” I stand up quickly and pretend to study the vines on the wall. “I think I see some more peas. You could pick some for Gabe.”

“Shall I guess?” Hope teases.

“There’s nobody,” I say—firmly enough that she doesn’t say anything more, but I don’t think she believes me.

“You’ll find love, I promise,” she says softly.

I can’t bear to talk about love anymore—and I can’t afford to let my secret slip out again. So I bring up Ellie, even though it’s far more painful to talk about. “We’ll have to tell people about Ellie tomorrow morning,” I say.

“Ellie wouldn’t want any fuss,” Hope says.

She wouldn’t have minded a few prayers over her body, I know. She wouldn’t have minded if we all gathered to say good-bye.

But the Overseers took that from us. Hate flares in me, strong enough to burn away any sentimental thoughts of Ford—for now, at least.

“We’ll each tell one person and ask them to tell another,” I say.

“And to say a prayer to Otto,” Hope adds.

I should have thought of that—a Leader thinks of things like that. “She’d like that. So would Otto,” I say—then feel foolish, for pretending I know what Otto would really like.

Hope stands and folds me into a hug. Her body feels warm, and softer than Mother’s angles and edges. I rest my head on Hope’s shoulder for a moment.

“You can always come here to talk to me,” she says.

I step out of the hug. “And you to us,” I add.

Hope turns to inspect the vines. “You were right. We have a few more peas.” Then she reaches deep into the leaves and plucks.

“Save it for Gabe,” I say.

“Gabe has plenty.” She holds it out. “Take it.”

“Thank you.” I slip it into my pocket and resolve to save it for Mother, for the morning. I’ll be sure she eats it before I tell her about tonight.

I’ll give her that tiny happiness before she knows Ellie is gone.

Chapter 12

Mother didn’t cry when I told her that Ellie was dead. She only bowed her head and murmured a prayer to Otto. “Rest in peace,” she said. “Rest with Otto.”

I’d sat up half the night crying and slept in fits the other half.

“Your eyes are swollen,” Mother said. “Ellie wouldn’t want that.”

It was all we said about her.

But when we reach the clearing the next morning, everything feels different. The Congregants whisper to one another, many with bowed heads. A number stop to give Mother and me a nod; some reach out to squeeze our shoulders, or our hands.

It’s all the funeral she will get.

My grief makes me heavy, slow. I don’t notice that something else is different until Mother takes my hand and squeezes it—not in sympathy, but to wake me from my stupor, I think.

“Where’s Darwin?” Mother says quietly.

Darwin West never misses a morning in the clearing. The Congregants are still whispering, but not about Ellie anymore. They’ve noticed too.

It seems like the same number of Overseers as ever. They’ve got their guns and the bulge of chains in their pockets. I see the man who took Ellie away with Ford. But Ford is missing.

Disappointment slides over me.

The sun is nearly up. A few stragglers reach the clearing, eyes big with fear, breathless from running. But the Overseers don’t lift a hand to them.

“Otto deliver us,” Mother whispers to Asa, who is standing near us. He nods and whispers it to the next person, and the next, until the whispers change to prayerful murmurs.

Just as the sky above the trees lightens, one of the Overseers takes the chain out of his pocket and snaps it against the group. It bites at the dirt like an angry snake.

“That all of you?” he shouts. This man is one of the most brutal ones; last week he drove his rifle butt into Gen’s head when she stumbled in the midday heat.

Mother steps forward and even the prayers go silent. “It is,” she answers.

“Then get your Toad butts in the House,” he says, motioning with his arm. The chain follows it, sliding on the ground.

It’s not Sunday. And it’s never breakfast time anymore. Why do they want us in the Common House?

Nobody argues or asks why. It won’t change anything. Mother leads the Congregants to the entrance of the sagging building. She looks back at the Overseer for a moment, and then opens the door.

A heavenly smell rolls out into the heavy morning air. There’s food inside.

The crowd hurries, and soon we are all in the room. Overseers are posted in all four corners of the room—one of them Ford, standing farthest from the exit, near Mother’s altar.

But this morning I barely notice Ford, for there’s something else in the room: breakfast.

Breakfast, a hot one, smelling and looking like our lives before the drought came. Three big pots of steaming oatmeal sit on the long table by the kitchen, with plenty of bowls and spoons. Baskets of apples wait at either end of the table.

My mouth waters so much, I have to swallow. I can’t take my eyes off the food. I sense the other Congregants around us looking at one another and hear their whispering, but I imagine only how the oatmeal will feel in my mouth.

If Ellie had lasted only one more day, she could have feasted. I feel guilty for my hunger. But I can’t help it.

“Is it for us?” Mother wonders.

Darwin emerges from the kitchen. He is wearing a dark-smeared apron and a smile that makes me nervous. But still, all I can think about is that food.

“Eat up,” he calls out.

That’s all the encouragement we need. The Congregants press forward, forming a ragged line—of course the Pellings are in front. Jonah catches my eye and gestures, but I look away. Mother steps aside and motions for the others to go first. I stay beside her.

“Jonah has his eye on you,” she says, so quietly that only I can hear.

“He … He asked me to marry him.”

Her eyes grow wide. “What did you say?” she asks.

“No—of course I said no.”

For a moment she studies my face. Then she turns her head to stare at Jonah. “You’ve become a woman without me seeing it,” she says, still watching him with narrow eyes.

“He only wants me because I’m the Leader,” I tell her.

“A man would have many reasons to want you.” Mother slides one arm around me and squeezes tight. “But Ruby, there’s no room for romance—”

“I know.” I tell her quickly.

She gives me another squeeze, and guilt floods me.

Jonah heaps so much oatmeal in his bowl that it threatens to overflow the sides. Will there be any left for us?

Mother is watching Darwin now. He’s left the kitchen and is moving toward the doors. Then he’s speaking to the Overseers who brought us inside the Common House.

Boone edges to the back of the line and stands next to Mother.

I glance over at Ford. His face lights with the briefest smile, but then it falls back into the somber watch of an Overseer.

“It’s almost our turn,” I tell Mother, tugging her sleeve. She moves reluctantly, still watching Darwin. Boone slides behind us.

There’s a rumble outside.

“Do you hear that?” I ask Mother.

“It sounds like a truck,” she answers, squinting as she peers past Darwin. “A very big truck.”

Darwin slips outside and the Overseers slam the doors shut. After a moment, one tugs on the doors, as if to test them.

The doors don’t open.

“They’ve locked us in here,” Boone says.

Mother frowns. “The cisterns are nowhere near full …” Mother’s voice trails off. But then, finally, it is our turn. Even Mother can’t ignore food. She picks up a bowl and heaps oatmeal into it. Up close it smells even better.

The apples look worse up close, though. They are shriveled, with black pockmarks on many of them. Still, I take two—and for a moment, I think I’ll give one to Ellie. Then I remember.

I put the extra one in my pocket. I can imagine Ellie telling me to be sure to eat every last bit of it. It’s almost as if she’s living in my mind now.

“Take another.” Boone sets an apple on top of my oatmeal. “Before the Pellings eat a whole orchard’s worth.”

Jonah and his family are sitting next to the food, nearly done with their breakfast already. They’re eyeing the table and I know the moment we’re gone, they’ll lead the charge for second helpings.

We follow Mother to empty seats and fall on our breakfast in silence. Nobody is talking: only staring at their food, spooning it into their mouths as fast as they can.

The oatmeal scorches my tongue, and it’s so gummy that it threatens to stay on the roof of my mouth instead of disappearing down my throat. But I don’t wait for it to cool. I eat more, and more, until my stomach feels ready to pop.

I can see the locked door from my seat. Both Overseers stand with their backs to it, arms crossed, as if a lock isn’t enough to keep us inside.

All they had to do was give us the oatmeal, to keep us in here.

Nobody else seems to notice—or perhaps care—that we are trapped. But my skin crawls with the knowledge of it. The air feels thicker, pressing on me, when I know I can’t run out the door. Is this how one of Mother’s quarries feel when locked into one of her traps?

Mother takes a savage bite of her apple. Brown spots dot the yellow flesh, but she eats those, eats all of it except the stem.

I should eat one of my apples too—maybe all of them. But the oatmeal has stretched my stomach to near bursting. I close my eyes for a moment and pray to Otto for strength.

There’s a steady loud beeping sound outside, and the grind of something that I think is a big truck. It’s the same noise that the Visitor’s truck makes when he starts the drive back down the hill.

“What are they doing out there?” Boone wonders.

Mother takes another bite of her apple. She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, and then licks the juice off her skin.

Boone taps the side of my bowl with his spoon. “Go get more, Ruby, before it’s gone.”

Then comes a loud crash, so loud that our seats shake from the sound of it. That makes some of the other Congregants, finally, look up and stare at the door.

“That can’t be the cisterns,” I say. They never make a noise like that, not even when the full cistern lands on the truck.

“You got your fair share already!” someone shouts from the food table. It’s Asa, and he’s standing all too close to Jonah Pelling, chest to chest nearly.

Mother and Boone both scramble to their feet. I follow them to the table, but I don’t hurry. Most of the other Congregants stay in their seats.

“I’ll take as much as my family needs, old man!” Jonah shouts back.

A few of the Overseers are rushing to the table too. One of them is Ford. I get a little closer.

“Break it up.” An Overseer pokes Asa in the back with the long part of his gun. He doesn’t even seem to feel it.

“Take a seat, Pelling,” Asa growls. His face is mottled red and his chest heaves with breathing.

“Step aside,” Jonah answers. The other Pellings are standing now too, seven against Asa’s bear bulk—and the Overseers.

It’s grown silent; all I hear is Asa’s breathing.

The same Overseer talks, this time his voice even louder. “I
said
, break it up.”

Jonah shakes his head, a small movement, but enough for the Overseer to kick him in the back of the knees. He stumbles forward, but I reach out to steady him.

He stands but doesn’t let go of my hand. I flick a fast look at Ford. He stares, lips pressed together.

Hastily, I take Asa’s hand too. “We can’t fight. We’re all Congregants,” I say. “Otto doesn’t want this. Do you?”

Jonah turns so our faces are just inches apart. “I provide for my family. Always, Ruby. You can trust that.” His voice is husky.

I look away, embarrassed, knowing he’s asking me again.

“We’re all hungry,” Asa says. “Nothing special about your folk.”

“Others haven’t eaten as much,” I tell Jonah.

He frowns, looks back at his family. But then he shrugs. His hand slides away from mine.

I let go of Asa. “Go get your food,” I tell him.

Then I raise my voice. “If anyone wants more, take it now!”

Nearly half the people stand. I turn to Jonah. “Take your family to the back of the line. If there’s any left, they can have it.”

Jonah nods and motions to the other Pellings. “You’re a pretty good Leader, Ruby,” he says.

For the first time, I feel that way too.

But then Jonah has to go and spoil things, like he always does. “You’d be a pretty good wife too,” he says.

I look up and meet Ford’s eyes while I give Jonah my answer. “I’m not marrying you,” I say.

“Not yet,” Jonah answers.

Asa takes my arm and guides me in front of him. “She goes first. She needs it the most.”

“I left my bowl—” I start.

“Take another.” Ford stands behind the table, scooping oatmeal into the bowls. The other Overseers don’t help. They take a step back and level their guns at us, as if we’re liable to transform our breakfast into weapons at any second.

Ford holds out a heaping bowl; bodies press behind me, wanting more, more, and so I take it quickly.

A piece of paper crinkles beneath the bowl. Then I see another flash of a smile from him before he turns back to filling the bowls.

I start from the surprise, but I think I hide it well. While I walk away from the line, I press the paper into a tiny ball beneath the bowl, keeping it sheltered from any glance. Then I slip it into my pocket just before I sit down.

A smart girl would throw away the paper, whatever it is. Overseers shouldn’t give secret notes to Congregants. Nothing good will come of it.

But this is a better treasure than oatmeal, in truth. I gulp down my food and pray for the doors to open.