Last Rites (33 page)

Will held out a tin cup to Truman. “You asked me before if I had one of these you could keep,” he said.

Truman took it. “Oh, thank you, Will. You taught Lucy and me to drink water back when we first met. That was so kind of you. I’ll let the cup fill when it rains, so I can drink from it and remember you.” He moved his hand to Rachel’s chin. “And I’ll always remember you, Rachel.”

She embraced him. Exactly like Lucy, she was unbelievably strong for a woman her size. And it still shocked Truman, how living people were so warm and soft. It was like you were sinking into them when they touched you, as though they’d swallow you up, absorb and crush you into their burning flesh, and you’d be lost in their too-vital selves. It was frightening even as it was exhilarating, but Truman enjoyed it nonetheless and thought the touch of another person was something else he’d deeply miss: and unlike the infinite variety of female beauty, each human embrace was exactly the same in some way, with the same sense of urgency and longing as every other one, from one end of the world to the other, from one age to the next.

Truman leaned back against the tree and watched the rowboat glide across the water, returning Will and Rachel to their ship, and whatever lay in store for them. Truman rested his hand on the bag of books—all those words by men even deader than he, but their ideas sharper and more alive than his dull, clouded mind. And beneath and all around him, her spirit—her driving, consuming spirit of love, surrender, destruction, and rebirth—deliriously throbbed.

Yes, this was where he belonged now. Truman closed his eyes, overcome by the idea that if the mass of dead were always increasing, and if the only thing that survived death were desire, then the total amount of desire in the universe would always continue to grow, whether to infinity or to some unknown upper limit the mind could never reach. Truman would make that another object of contemplation. It was a calculus both terrifying and thrilling to him, and one he felt sure would sustain forever those it did not crush with its threat and promise.

Will looked back at Rachel, sitting at the stern of the sailboat. He considered her a moment, then followed her gaze across the water to where they’d left Truman. Will couldn’t figure either of them out, really, for the last couple days. Well, maybe Truman, a little. He could imagine being so distraught you just sat down and didn’t want to deal with anything anymore. He couldn’t imagine doing it for very long, though—he was just too anxious, needed activity and distraction too much. Better to throw yourself into some purpose, some job, than just sit there.

And Rachel? First she wanted to stay in the city, then she wanted to go, then she got so upset about leaving Truman behind. She’d always liked and trusted him, but what was it with her and Lucy, before that? She’d knelt over the body so long—first on the ship, then when they laid it on the ground on the island. It wasn’t like those two were ever close—quite the opposite. Will was sad about Lucy, too, but it was over, finished, and it didn’t make any sense to dwell on it. It wasn’t anybody’s fault, what happened to her. It was brave of her to do what she did, and they should just accept that and be grateful. So why did Truman want to spend the rest of his days sitting on a little spit of land with no one around and nothing to do? How long would that be, anyway? Years? Maybe even decades, or longer? Sounded pretty hellish to Will. And why was Rachel acting like it was the end of the world? People were weird.

“I’m sorry, Rach,” he tried to begin. “I don’t know why he wanted to stay there.”

“It’s okay,” she said softly. “He knew what he wanted. But I’ll miss him. I was so mean to him.”

“No—you just wanted to be happy. It’s not your fault.”

She turned toward him and raised her voice. “No!” She glared at him. “Stop saying that. It is my fault. I was cruel to two people who were good to me, kind to me, tried to help me. It doesn’t matter that they don’t still have a pulse—I owed them everything, and instead I hurt them. That city was wrong, it was evil, and I got caught up in it, but it’s still my fault.”

Rachel got up and walked over to him. She slipped her small, solid frame next to his, her arm around his waist. “It’s good we got out of there, if we’re going to have kids,” she said, then paused a second. “If you still want to.”

Will was taken aback by the comment, but didn’t hesitate at all. “Of course,” he said. What was she so upset about? He still didn’t quite get it.

Rachel leaned her head down. “Good. I think I’m pregnant.”

Now Will was completely overcome by her words, torn between surprise, joy, and apprehension, and still confused at how she was acting. He grasped her chin to tilt her head up and look in her wet, sparkling eyes. To him, her plaintiveness was as captivating as her anger or cunning, just in a different way. He was shocked she didn’t look happy, though. If anything, her expression was a mixture of sorrow and longing.

“That’s great,” Will said. “What’s wrong? You look so sad.”

She looked at him very intently, lowering her brows. “I am,” she said softly. “This doesn’t change that, even if I’m happy at the same time. Being pregnant is just something I have to do, something I’m supposed to do. I’ve been thinking about it a lot, since she died, and as I got more sure I was pregnant. We owe it to them. It’s the only way we’re superior to them. But that just makes it another thing we don’t deserve. So that’s what I’m feeling right now—sad at all the joy I don’t deserve. Does that make sense?”

She was acting and talking so weird, though that wasn’t quite the right word. Mysterious, was more like it, and it didn’t frustrate Will as much as before. He closed his eyes as he leaned down to her. The scent of the soap they’d had in the city—an unnatural smell that was at once too sweet and too acerbic—was nearly gone. Rachel had been pressing her face into Lucy’s shroud so long she had that musty odor in her hair, along with some sand from the island—all of it combining into something weedy, salty, and bitter, something frail and irresistible at the same time. Will tilted his head a little to nuzzle her, pressing his forehead instead of his nose into her hair.

“I love you,” he whispered. Just as he said it, he was overcome with the thought that the exact spot where Lucy had kissed him was now pressed against Rachel. The thought so overwhelmed him that he didn’t actually hear her response, though everything about the moment—her body, her smell, her voice, all the strange things she’d said, the memory of Lucy’s unexpected, fated kiss—all of this filled him with a euphoria that he longed to hold on to forever, as well as the strength, he felt sure, to do so.

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