Autumn
is setting in; the nights are getting cold, and Sara makes
it a point to pile more blankets on the bed. Grissom takes the goats
out to the lake, tethering them there while he fishes. One of the
nannies is rounding out now, and Sara gives her a few stale granola
bars extra each night.
The sunshine is thinner,
and there’s a morning fog most days. Both of them begin to
wear sweaters inside the cabin.
Grissom
realizes his hair is now to his shoulders, and debates letting Sara cut
it. They have scissors, but they’re dull. She tells him
matter-of-factly that the mountain man look works for her, and if he
wants to wear it in a ponytail, she can live with that.
It feels odd at first,
but after a few weeks, Grissom doesn’t even notice it curling
down his back.
Neither
one of them have ever seen a goat give birth before; it’s
messy and
although everything seems to be okay, Sara is nauseous for most of the
day. Watching the nanny eat the placenta didn’t help, nor did
the smell
of blood.
Grissom moves mama and
baby to another stall and dumps
buckets of water in the stable dirt, diluting the dark stains. He
worries about predators, but says nothing to Sara.
Sara
stares at the calendar, realizing there’s something about the
end of
November that she has forgotten. As she stands at the desk, looking at
the pages neatly laid out in Grissom’s block printing, an
acorn falls
from a hole in the ceiling and hits the page.
She remembers. Acorns
and pumpkins and corn. Sara wonders if this year, she can find any damn
thing to be thankful about.
More
fishing. Sara watches the goats, including the kid. She’s
named it
Fred, Son of Bucky and Regina. This whimsy Grissom accepts with a
straight face—or as much of one as he can manage.
He’s not one to talk,
not with a tarantula in his past and a dog in his present.
It’s
a sunny day; warm for autumn, and Sara lies back on the blanket,
watching the clouds. She wonders if she can distract Grissom from
fishing, and unbuttons her blouse. The sun feels good, and even though
her eyes are closed, she grins when she hears the fishing pole drop;
feels a shadow loom over her.
They don’t
catch any fish, but
afterwards, Sara remembers that day often: the feel of Grissom on her;
in her, breathing her name into her ear, his voice aching with passion.
Grissom
turns over the engine, and plugs the battery charger into the lighter
socket. Rechargeable batteries that go in to their walkie
talkies—right
now the truck is running, but he knows he needs to start it up at least
once a week to keep it going. Already Grissom’s brought back
gas for
the tank, siphoning what he can find from the cars in the surrounding
cabins. He’s taken a few of their batteries too.
He reaches
deep into his pocket and pulls out his wallet. It’s odd,
Grissom
thinks, that he still carries it, even though there’s no
reason to now.
Maybe it’s because of what’s hidden deep in it. The
thing he hasn’t
mentioned to Sara because it was supposed to symbolize their future,
which has been fucked over now by H5N1.
They
fight. This isn’t new; they’ve bickered over
everything from how much
coffee to dole out to whose turn it is to muck out the goat stalls.
Most of the time, it’s a matter of venting a little
frustration before
compromising.
Not this time.
Grissom is yelling, his
words a roar that echoes through the cabin. Sara is yelling back, and
slamming doors go off like gunshots in the quiet. She storms off,
leaving him on the porch calling to her to stop acting like an idiot
and come back.
After a couple of hours,
he looks for her. Not in
the stable. Not in the storage shed. Not down by the lake.
She’s got
Bruno with her, so he’s not worried precisely; just . . .
concerned.
She
fucking hates
him right now. Just because he’s the only
other person
on the planet right now does NOT mean the Word of Grissom is law, and
Sara fumes as she heads down the road. It feels good; hell GREAT to
give into some seriously pissy wrath right now.
It’s her
body for God’s sake, and she knows more about it than he
does! Yes,
occasionally she’s tempted, but Sara has faith that if she
actually
needs something, she’ll know it. There’s no point
in changing her diet
until after she’s pregnant anyway, winter or no winter.
After all,
he’s already part of the reason she doesn’t eat the
stuff.
The
sun is going down, and he’s pacing the porch. Grissom has a
lantern
hanging there, a Coleman from the Seven-Eleven. He can’t sit
and he
can’t eat, can’t do anything but walk back and
forth.
Grissom
can’t even think. Nothing logical is coming into his mind,
and the one
frantic stream that circles around in his brain is an ongoing plea,
wordless and painful: Come
home, come home, I’ll do anything you want, just come home to
me, Sara.
He remembers when he
first had this thought, years ago.
Before H5N1. Before
Natalie.
Come home.
In
desperation, Grissom loads up the shotgun and takes it outside.
Carefully, he points it up, into the hazy purple sky and fires, letting
the unearthly ‘boom’ of it rattle roosting birds
out of the trees and
make all four goats in the barn bleat indignantly.
He fires the
second shell and sets the gun down, listening to the rustle through the
trees, turning towards the road. If he doesn’t hear anything
in a few
minutes, he’s getting the truck.
Sara runs,
feeling a stitch in her side. Bruno is charging ahead of her, catching
wind of her anxiety. She pumps a little harder, making it up the slope
of the hill and when did it get so damned dark anyway? She stumbles,
cracks her knee hard on the asphalt, gets up and limps on.
The shotgun blast keeps
echoing in her ears.
He
hears the dog first, and relief makes him dizzy. Bruno bounds up,
barking, and dancing around him, a sleek and muscled fur torpedo.
Grissom pushes him down, thinks better of it and spares a few quick
pats as he lumbers down the dirt driveway.
They nearly crash
into each other, and then Grissom grabs Sara in a hug that drives all
the air out of her lungs. He’s got his face buried in the
warm hollow
along the side of her neck, and in shock Sara feels how wet his cheeks
are.
The next day Grissom
tells her she can eat any damn thing she wants. Forever.
And that
they’re getting married.
Sara
wakes up the next day and finds out he’s dead serious.
Grissom’s been
up since dawn and the cabin is spotless. She finds him baking up a
package mix of cake, humming to himself. She wants to know if she
should dress for the occasion, and he nods.
She laughs. It feels
good. Sara gets it now--that some things will always have to be bigger
than anger. Humming herself, she goes looking through her closet for
something to wear.
Grissom leads her down
by the
lake. He won’t tell her what’s in his backpack, and
Sara is burning
with curiosity but keeps her impatience in check a little.
The
blue velveteen sundress is a little loose, but it looks good with her
tan, even under the bulky sweater. Grissom doesn’t look too
bad either,
in a green flannel shirt and the only clean khakis he has.
Once
they reach the grassy little hillside, Grissom opens the backpack and
pulls out a few silk roses for her. He also pulls out something so
commonplace that she blinks a little. It’s dolled up in satin
ribbon
though, and Sara stares at it when he sets it on the ground.
Grissom
takes her hands and looks into her face, and Sara wants to laugh and
cry at the same time. Her stomach is quivering, but when she looks into
his eyes, she can drown in that blue. Sara nods, tightens her grip in
his, and together, they jump the hearth broom.
Grissom
pulls out his wallet and digs the little diamond band out, telling her
its history in a few short sentences. Sara slips it on; it’s
too big,
so she puts it on her middle finger instead, and cries.
They eat cake in bed,
off of each other.
Sara’s
surprise is bubbling up, and she cups it in her hands lovingly. Grissom
stares at the grey blob, waiting for her to say something. It looks
hideous, like a brain in a jar, and smells worse.
She asks him in a sultry
voice, if he likes sourdough. Grissom’s eyes widen in
pleasure.
Here
is how Sara’s days go: Rising, putting on water to boil; tea
most days,
coffee on Saturday and Sunday. Look over the daily list: Monday wash,
Tuesday forage, Wednesday bake, Thursday muck and garden compost,
Friday plan meals and stock up water, Saturday and Sunday optional to
read or anything else that didn’t get done in the week.
Bedding down an
hour after sunset.
The routine is
comfortable.
Here is
how Grissom’s days go: Rising, making breakfast, Monday
laundry and
sewing, Tuesday forage, Wednesday move the goats to pasture, Thursday
garden and household repair, Friday turn over engines and walk the
perimeter. Saturday and Sunday, bath and books. Bedding down with Sara
each night.
It works for him.
It all
comes back in a moment, all those skills. The two of them study the
body of the deer lying in the ravine on the other side of the creek.
From the development of the maggots, Grissom figures it’s
been dead
three days. Sara spots the bullet hole deep in the flank and digs out
the slug with her knife; a nine millimeter. Grissom looks back for a
blood trail and evidence of a direction.
The best estimation
they can make is that the deer came from the southeast. Probably ran
between three and five miles before dropping here.
Both of them pass the
bullet back and forth, not saying anything.
They
have a system now, with whistles. One blast: come here; Two: stay away.
It’s not perfect, but both Sara and Grissom know
they’re going to run
into other people sooner or later.
And some of those other
people won’t be nice.
Grissom
worries. He has a hell of a lot to lose, and despite the state of his
knees and the white in his hair, he’s not going to give any
of it up
without a serious fight.
Sara worries. Everything
that’s
precious to her right now is within arm’s reach, and
she’s not giving
any of it up without a serious fight.
Grissom
piles rocks around the well. It’s a got a hand pump and a
heavy wooden
cover, but he knows once the water starts freezing, they’ll
have to
crack the ice to draw anything up. A dropped rock will get the job
done, he hopes.
He checks the woodpile.
Tomorrow he and Sara will take the truck and move wood from the piles
at the other cabins.
Winter is coming; he can
feel it.
end of part two
