Everything Under The Sun, page 28
I pulled the long black strings from inside his boots, loosened them eyelet by eyelet until his boots slid from his large feet easily. Atticus never stirred, not when I peeled the bloody socks from his blisters, or when I fitted my arms underneath his heavy body and moved him so he lay horizontal across the sofa. I balled his jacket up behind his head, and raised his wounded feet level with his body on the end of the sofa. I wanted to take his clothes off so I could wash them, but I thought that might surely wake him and I didn’t want to take the chance.
I went into the bedroom where I found a box of clothes in the closet. Taking each piece out one by one, I judged them before folding them neatly into a pile beside me on the floor. This shirt is too small even for me. This one will fit Atticus, I’m sure of it. This dress is pretty; I think it might fit me. These pants might fit Atticus, but they’re probably a little too short—he can still wear them. Oh! A pair of hiking boots! My excitement faltered when I pulled back the tongue and saw the size. Too small for Atticus, but maybe he could cut out the toes? Another too-small shirt, and a too-small pair of jeans and a too-small pair of underwear—some of these things must’ve belonged to a young boy. Another dress—this one I’m sure will fit me! Long-sleeve flannel shirts. Short-sleeve T-shirts, plain white and gray and black and navy, cut into a V at the necks—these must’ve belonged to a man. I thought of the skeleton in the rocking chair on the front porch and realization set in and my heart fell as heavy as my breath. Where was the young boy who wore these too-small clothes? Where was the young woman who once wore these pretty dresses?
I found them outside, buried on the south side of the cabin. Two crosses made of jagged, uneven pieces of wood marked their graves. Mary. Corey. Wildflowers, little purple ones and yellow ones with mahogany-red centers grew atop the graves in a strange wavy pattern. A ribbon hung from Mary, deep purple at one time, but had turned black. A small toy car hung from a piece of string around Corey, two of its tiny wheels were missing. I thought it sad. Why couldn’t the little boy be buried with all four wheels? Why did he have to be buried with a broken toy after living such a broken life? I didn’t think it was all that sad that the boy had died; I thought him lucky that he’d never have to be hungry or thirsty or afraid ever again. But that broken toy car, it left me feeling resentful of irony.
I walked to the pond on the east side of the cabin where I drew water into the glass coffee pot I took from the kitchen. I started a small fire close to the back porch, built rocks up around it and took the spacer shelf from the microwave and placed it on top of the flames. I boiled the water in the coffee pot there.
Cutting one of the boy’s T-shirts into strips of fabric, I took them, hung over my arm, with the sterilized water into the living room where Atticus slept soundly, and I sat down in the rocking chair I’d brought in from the back porch, next to Atticus’ feet. Carefully, I cleaned away the dirt and debris from his broken blisters and cuts. Atticus stirred some when I touched the wet fabric to his wounds, but he never woke. His feet were much worse than mine ever were, even when the raiders dragged me into Lexington City. I cleaned every wound, every blister, wiped away every trickle of blood, and the whole time with such a heavy heart I nearly cried. How could he have walked on these feet for so long? How did he manage to keep the severity of such pain from me? I felt guilty. And angry with him just the same.
I spent the next hour bringing up dry wood from the surrounding forest, stacking it into a neat pile against the house so the rain couldn’t touch it. I went down to the pond and bathed in it; nothing to wash with but dirty water, yet I still felt clean afterward. And I slipped on one of the dresses that Mary used to wear, and it fell past my knees; thin cotton fabric with a flower print that matched the wildflowers covering the graves. The clothes I’d been wearing for days, and Atticus’ only pair of socks, hung on a laundry line I’d made using paracord.
By early evening, Atticus still had not as much as moved even to adjust his position in his sleep, and I made more good use of my time alone by emptying our bags on the living room floor and taking another inventory of the contents.
I rearranged things and knocked the dirt out of things and opened a squished pack of cigarettes and placed them all on the floor so they could dry, even though neither of us smoked. Cigarettes, like alcohol and drugs, were good for bartering.
As I started to put everything back inside the bags I stopped, my hand hovered over the large backpack. I looked around the room, at the emptiness of it save for me and Atticus and the long sofa that held his even longer sleeping body. I thought of the man on the front porch. The mother and son—I decided they had been that kind of family once—lying peacefully in their graves. I thought of the pond and the firewood and the clothesline and the mattress on the floor in the only bedroom.
And then, in reverse, I removed everything from the backpack again.
A small frying pan I set on the kitchen counter beside the microwave. Four miniature bottles of Crown Royal and two bottles of pills I hid underneath the sink where I planned to put the cigarettes after they dried. A hand-sized garden shovel and a plastic box of fishing gear, and snare wire and a military sewing repair kit and Zip-Lock bags and dingy coffee filters, I set it all neatly inside the kitchen cabinets. My bag of toiletries—which contained a tiny bottle of shampoo I remembered only after I’d already bathed—I put on the little medicine cabinet shelf behind the mirror in the bathroom. When I opened the closet in the bathroom, I found a bed sheet on the top shelf. I took it down with me, opening it wide and snapping it to get the dust out. Then I went into the bedroom and slipped it over the mattress; I made two pillows by rolling T-shirts together.
I sucked on a piece of caramel hard candy as I hummed a song. Hallelujah…Hallelujah… And I went back outside in my flowered dress and took the fishing gear in the plastic case with me where I sat down on a rock next to the pond’s bank and constructed a line. I left the line out, floating on a plastic soda bottle, and went back to the cabin.
Atticus still slept soundly on the sofa, but he had moved his position and lay on his side. I tended to his feet again, but still, Atticus did not stir.
Night fell and I went out to check the fishing line, but there was nothing on it. Not even the bait. So, I searched around the cabin, underneath rocks, and re-baited the hook with a cricket and then went back inside.
Atticus had moved again.
He slept on his other side, facing the back of the couch, his knees pressed together, his arms crossed against his chest. I wanted to sleep next to him, like I had done every night since we left the farmhouse, but I wouldn't risk waking him. So, after I locked the doors and windows and said good-night to the man on the front porch, I stood over Atticus, and I reached out and brushed my fingers through the top of his hair and whispered with tears in my throat, “Thank you…”
And then I crawled onto the mattress in the bedroom, alone, wishing I wasn’t alone, and I fell asleep minutes after my head hit the makeshift pillow.
35
THAIS
The sun was bright the next morning, reflecting off the surface of the pond. Every tree, every bush, every tuft of grass looked like it had been dipped in glitter before I crawled out of bed early to get a start on the day.
I set out while Atticus slept. I thought he might sleep all day, and if so it would do him good. But I would have something for him to eat when he woke.
I slipped past the house, past the graves, and went into the woods in search of food where I picked wild lettuce and dandelions, and found a sprawling wild blackberry bush. Just a few, I told myself as I plucked them from the brambles. Maybe five for each of us so we’ll have more for the next several days. Just a few. Oh, maybe eight for each of us. Yes, eight is a reasonable number considering the size of this bush. I made it an even ten.
I wasn’t out long when I heard a voice on the air, smiled in anticipation of seeing Atticus awake again, and I hurried back to the cabin.
ATTICUS
“THAIS!” I flew off the back porch, my gun in my hand. When I saw her walking up from the woods, I cut across the backyard in just a few short strides.
“Where did you go?” I shouted. “Why did you leave the cabin?” I reached out and grabbed her upper arm and shook her; a bowl of blackberries and dandelions and wild lettuce fell from her hands but I barely noticed.
“You never leave like that!” I told her, still shaking her. “Do you hear me? You never leave like that alone!”
Thais lowered her eyes, her mouth pinched with frustration.
“I’m sorry…I just wanted to find you breakfast.”
I released her arm. As the reality of what I’d done finally caught up to me, I just stood there looking down at her in her pretty dress as she bent to pick up the food and placed it back into the bowl.
“Thais, I’m sorry.” I stooped in front of her and helped. “Definitely didn’t mean to treat you like a child, but you scared the shit out of me.” I dropped a handful of blackberries into the bowl.
“It’s okay,” she said. “I didn’t go far. I kept the cabin in sight. I just wanted to find you something to eat.” Then she smiled brightly and added, “I found a blackberry bush.”
I looked at the bowl, and suddenly everything became obvious. She went out into the woods to find me food? Then I looked at her, and my heart sank; my breath came out in a long sigh.
I helped Thais to her feet.
“Promise me you won’t do that again.”
She nodded.
I noticed the dress she wore, how clean she looked since I’d seen her yesterday, the softness of her long hair as it lay against her back, the smooth, young skin of her face no longer streaked with dirt. Did she comb out her hair with her fingers? Where did she bathe? I looked beyond her at the water glistening off the surface of the pond, and though the thought of her going there alone also filled me with anxiety, I pushed it down.
“How are your feet?” she asked.
I looked down at my feet. The dirt was gone; the legs of my pants had been rolled up a few inches so they didn’t touch the open blisters and cuts and bleeding sores. But the wounds also had been cleaned and I wasn’t sure how to feel about that. I yelled at her for leaving the house alone while I left her alone, while I slept for no telling how fucking long. She had time to bathe, clean my feet, and go into the woods to find breakfast for me while I slept? I gritted my teeth.
“How long have I been asleep?”
The last thing I remembered was standing on the front porch looking at the skeleton slumped in the rocking chair. Fuck! I left the skeleton in the rocking chair!
“Atticus, you needed the sleep; don’t beat yourself up. I can take care of myself.”
Thais went toward the cabin, clutching the bowl underneath an arm. “You seem to forget,” she said as we walked together, “that I practically grew up living off what the land gave us. I’m not a child. I can go into the woods by myself.”
I stopped.
“You just told me you wouldn’t do it again,” I pointed out.
She nodded. “I know. And I won’t go out alone if it worries you that much, but you should know I’d be fine if I did.”
We walked again; the back porch slowly came into view.
“Even my father trusted me to go to the lake to fish, to go into the woods and forage”—she glanced over at me—“and I was careful. I listened to everything around me, watched for anything out of place.”
“It’s not you that I don’t trust, Thais.”
“That’s exactly what my father said.” She shook her head. “But eventually he agreed to let me go. Atticus, I can’t stay cooped up inside forever. But if you want me to stay, I will. I don’t want you to get upset like that.”
I stopped again, just feet from the back porch, and turned her around to face me.
“Is that the only reason?” I asked with worry, my eyes slanted with severity. “Because you’re afraid I’ll—”
“I told you I’m not afraid of you, Atticus.”
She reached out a hand and touched the side of my face. “You should get a bath,” she said. “There are clean clothes in the bedroom. I’ll wash the ones you’re wearing afterward and hang them to dry.”
I wanted to kiss her, oh how badly I ached to kiss her, but I was still fighting with myself over whether it was okay to touch her in that way—in any way. While sleeping in the forest it had been Thais who instigated such affections, Thais who curled up so close to me in the night that come morning I ached with sexual frustration. She wanted me to touch her, I knew this like any man would know, but something about her gave me restraint. She seemed conflicted and unsure of what she wanted, and to take her, no matter how softly so as not to break her, felt…wrong.
I snapped out of it and looked at the porch, for the first time noticing the intricately placed pile of sticks and branches set against the side of the house. I took stock of the fire pit she’d constructed, the microwave shelf sitting atop the rocks placed around it, its thin silver bars already blackened in the center from a fire she’d burned last night.
“Thais,” I began, taking it all in, “what all did you do while I was…sleeping?” I hated myself that she did anything while I slept.
Thais waved her hand at the wood on the porch and the fire pit as if it was nothing. “Not too much”—she waved a hand toward the pond—“I set out a fishing line last night, but haven’t caught anything yet. Haven’t checked it this morning though; thought I’d forage first, give the morning fish time to bite.”
I was still stuck a few words back.
“You. Set. Out. A. Fishing line?” I sighed. While I slept?
Thais smiled so bright that her teeth showed.
“Yeah, my father taught me. Fisherwoman, remember?” She grinned.
I lowered my head, formed a tight O with my lips and let my breath out.
“Are you mad?” Her smile faded.
I shook my head.
“No…I’m not mad.” Not with you. I got a good whiff of myself then. “Where did you say the clean clothes were?”
Thais’ bright smile returned, and she practically danced up the back-porch steps and went into the house. I followed.
She set the bowl of soon-to-be-salad on the kitchen counter.
“I’ll show you,” she said, grabbed my hand tight and pulled me along.
On the way to the bedroom I noticed the other things she had done while I slept, but I couldn’t be negative about it anymore. I wondered how I could be so lucky in such an unlucky world to have Thais, who was as resourceful and independent as she was soft and nurturing.
Thais unfolded the clothes set against the wall and held them up to me to test the fit.
“Yes, I thought these might be too short—you’re so tall!” she said. “But you can wear them until I wash your camos.”
After three T-shirts, Thais decided she liked the plain white one on me best. And because she liked it best, so did I.
She gave me the grand tour after the fitting, telling me about the sheet she’d found in the bathroom closet, and on the way back to the living room she waved her hand about the floor where the cigarettes lay, and she told me about how they were good for bartering. I already knew this but didn’t say a word. I just smiled, privately in awe of her.
She took me into the kitchen where she cheerfully flung open the cabinets to show me where everything was stored. Though it wasn’t much, and the emptiness of the cabinets dwarfed the items, everything was set in a neat row as if on display in a grocery store. And then she opened the cabinet underneath the sink, climbed her little body halfway in—I glimpsed the soft flesh of her round butt through the fabric of her dress—oh dear God, I’m gonna fall over dead if I don’t do something—so she could get to the hidden stash of pills and bottles of Crown Royal.
Finally, when she shuffled me out the back door with my clothes and the frustration between my legs, I couldn’t get to the pond fast enough—and bathing was the last thing on my mind when I got there.
By the time I made it back to the cabin, I felt somewhat better, but to see Thais flit around the kitchen in that sheer flowered dress that hung to her knees, I realized I had a serious problem. Of course, she could’ve been flitting around in a thick wool nightgown buttoned up to her throat and that serious problem would be the same.
“Did you check the line while you were out there?” she asked, setting a bowl of freshly picked salad on the counter in front of me.
“No, but I will in a few minutes. And I’m going to take the snare wire and set out a couple traps, and then after that I’ll probably gather some more wood, and then—.” I stopped and held up a finger. “No, before I do anything I’m getting rid of the bones on the porch.”
Thais frowned.
“I think you should leave him,” she said; she brought her fingers together in front of her, coiling them.
“Leave him? Why?” I looked at her, puzzled.
Thais shrugged her small shoulders.
“I found his wife and son buried beside the house,” she said. “I don’t know…I just, well I just think that if he wanted to be buried, or if he wanted to be dead beside them then maybe he would’ve killed himself beside them.”
I licked the dryness from my lips and ran a hand over the top of my damp hair.
“Thais,” I said after a moment, “I’m going to bury him. You don’t need a reminder outside, just a hair away from a window.”
Thais sighed. “I’m asking you to leave him.”
She came toward me, reached up and touched my face. “He wanted to see the woods,” she said. “Maybe he used to sit there every day, watching his wife and son playing in the small patch of grass in the front yard. Maybe that spot in that rocking chair was the place that never failed to give him peace, and if you take him from it and put his body in the cold ground, shutting out the sun that once warmed his face, you’ll take away the only peace he made sure to take with him when he left this world.” Her fingers grazed the side of my neck. “Please, leave him. For me.”
