39
THAIS & (ATTICUS)
In the following days, Atticus and I really did forget about the outside world; we forgot about the devastation that went on all around us while we lived peacefully in a speck of forest amid an encompassing mass of violence that was the rest of the country. We and our tranquil place of residence was a pinhole of light in an endless sky of blackness.
“I think we should stay here,” I told him one afternoon as we brought back fish from the pond. “At least for a little while longer. A couple months.”
Atticus set the fishing poles against the side of the house, and the bucket of fish down on the ground.
“I don’t know,” he said, shaking his head. “It’s not a good idea to stay in one place for too long, especially if it’s only the two of us. Strength in numbers, remember?” He plucked his big knife from his boot and set it down on the porch railing.
“I know,” I said, “but I’m still not ready to leave.”
“We’ll see.”
I smiled and went inside to prepare our salads while Atticus cleaned the fish.
Fish and salads and rabbit and the occasional snake and squirrel kept the hunger pangs away. And frogs. Atticus mentioned once more about shooting a deer, but thought better of it seeing as how it was a lot of meat and we had no way of preserving it. He said he wanted to build an outdoor dehydrator, but didn’t have everything he needed to make it work properly.
“I could take the screens from the windows and try to dry the meat out on the roof,” he’d explained. “But it’s risky. There’s too much humidity in the air; the meat is more likely to spoil than dry. Not to mention the flies. Two soldiers in Lexington City died because of meat that wasn’t preserved properly. I’m not taking that kind of chance with you.”
Why does he always say “me”? He never says “us”. I didn’t want him to get sick from bad meat, either. I didn’t want him to starve to death or get dehydrated. I didn’t want him to get leprosy from eating an armadillo. You, you, you, Atticus—that’s what I have to say about it.
“I think we’re doing fine with what we’ve been eating,” I told him. “We’re not starving. We don’t need anything bigger.”
“No,” Atticus said, “but there may come a time when the fish stop biting and the animals stop walking into my snares.”
“Or when the winter comes,” I said. “We’ll need a stock of food then for sure.”
(I don’t plan on us being here come the winter, Thais. I kept it to myself.)
“But for now, we have greens,” I added. “And blackberries and dandelions.”
“Yes, we do,” he said. “And you know a lot more about edible plants than I do. I think you should teach me.”
My face lit up.
I started that very day, grabbed his hand and practically dragged him into the forest. I told him about mushrooms first.
“Wild mushrooms scare the shit out of me.” Atticus shook his head, not happy about the idea of eating the one I held out to him. “Eating plants in the wild I’ve always been leery enough of that I’d almost rather starve to death than take the risk. But mushrooms”—he shook his head again, looking at the one in my hand as I urged him to take it—“I would rather starve to death.”
“Atticus,” I encouraged, “I would never tell you to eat anything I wasn’t one hundred percent sure was safe.”
(I still wasn’t having it. Nope. Not gonna eat that fucking mushroom no matter how cute and believable she is.)
I popped the little mushroom into my own mouth and chewed.
(My heart sank into my feet like a brick dropped into a river, and I reached out both arms and grabbed her swiftly.)
“What the hell, Thais!”
I gagged as he pried my mouth open and stuck two fingers down my throat. His eyes were wild, savage. I wanted to laugh at his unnecessary panic, but I vomited instead.
“Spit it out!” he demanded, his voice a roar in my ears, stirring the birds in the tree above us. “Goddammit, spit it out!”
My gag reflex was stronger than my will, and I continued to vomit, a little at a time, retching in his arms as he held me from behind. I doubled over, braced my hands on my knees, and spit out what was left in my mouth. I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand.
“What the hell was that?!” He turned me around, grabbed my upper arms and shook me.
“It’s not poisonous,” I said smiling, my eyes watering from the vomiting episode.
“What if these mushrooms are all we have one day?” I went on. I stepped back, wiped the back of my hand on my yellow dress. “You have to trust me,” I said peering into his tortured face. “I’ve spent the past six years learning these things from my father, reading about it in books—I’ve tested it.”
“You tested it?” he asked, incredulously.
I shook my head and sighed. “I was pretty sure everything I tested was safe. But it had to be done. We had to eat.”
“Pretty sure?” Atticus seemed beside himself; he threw his hands up in the air.
“No,” I said. “My father always did that, but I thought it wasn’t fair of him. It wasn’t right.”
“Oh, Thais,” Atticus said, dragging his hands over his face and the top of his ever-growing hair. “Jesus, what the hell am I gonna do with you?”
I stepped up to him, pushed up on my toes to kiss him, but he was so tall he had to bend the rest of the way to meet my lips.
ATTICUS
And when her lips touched mine I felt my panic subside and my anger dwindle. Maybe it was the mushroom, I thought. The kiss. The poison was probably still on her lips, now making me feel shit I shouldn’t. But it wasn’t the mushroom. It was just Thais. She alone had the power to make me think I was losing my damn mind.
Thais taught me about purslane and honeysuckle and wood-sorrel. “Wood-sorrel only in moderation though,” she warned. “Too much of it will inhibit calcium absorption.” And she told me about pineapple-weed and field garlic and peppermint, and we found a few pecan trees. Back at the cabin, Thais made strange, bitter soup with some ingredients. And another salad.
“Did you read about E. coli in those books of yours?” I asked her when she brought me a bowl. “When I die, I’d prefer it never to involve bloody diarrhea.” I didn’t think twice about digging right into the food she gave me.
“Yes, Atticus, I always wash the food.”
She scrubbed our clothes in the pond and brought more firewood onto the back porch and fished and foraged and told me stories since we had no books to read or television to watch. And it was nice. I used to miss those things, but now that it was the two of us, I’d never miss it again.
“I’d rather hear you tell me stories,” I told her after the first time, “than to read them in books, or watch television, anyway.” I was kicked back on the sofa.
“You should write it down,” I added.
Thais shook her head.
“There’s never anything to write them down with, or on. And even if there was, it would just get wet like that map of yours.”
My map had gotten wet when we were caught in the storm and slept underneath the hood of the truck; the red ink that circled the fallout zones had bled across the paper; the ink that once named the little towns and rivers and cities became unreadable in places. Parts of Memphis were stuck to the Atlantic Ocean and some words disappeared altogether, but I still found the map useful and would never get rid of it. I kept it because I knew we wouldn’t be staying in the cabin forever. Strength in numbers. I’d kill anyone to protect Thais, but I alone couldn’t kill everyone. Whether it was to Shreveport, or in a town with good people we found along the way, I had to get her someplace secure, stable, permanent. And as much as I enjoyed being with her in the cabin, watching her hang our wet clothes from the laundry line with her big, infectious smile, listened to her laughter and her kindness, I couldn’t keep her here forever.
Just a little longer, I told myself. Just a few more days. And then I’ll tell her it’s time to go.
But a few more days came and went and I didn’t have the heart to break the news to her. To imagine taking her back out into the world, on the run, with only our heavy backpacks and ill-fitting shoes, exposed to the elements, feeling like fish in a bucket when we moved through open fields, sleeping in abandoned barns that were not so abandoned, after all.
Just a little longer…just a few more days.