The brief feeling of coziness vanished. In its place desperation and a particularly pungent diaper of Benjamin 's, which she had changed an hour before, gave an acrid scent to the air. The earthen floor that had reminded Faith of what was just outside and freedom now called forth only thoughts of entombment.
Benjamin suddenly and emphatically decided he was tired of this game and wanted to go home. Faith tried in vain to stop his cries. It seemed as though each wail used up half the remaining air. Finally he cried himself to sleep. She had some idea that there would be more oxygen at the top of the room and cleared a shelf for him to sleep on, barricaded by the jars, but now she didn 't want to move him. In any case, what was the point? He might live a little longer than they would, but what good would it do him ?
Jenny was nodding. Faith made her a pillow of the diaper bag and held the girl close until she felt her limbs relax in slumber. The sweet escape. Then she slipped Benjamin from under the receiving blanket and lowered him into the Snugli, strapping him onto her chest. They were both warmer that way and thank goodness he didn't wake up. She put the tiny blanket on Jenny. The minutes began to crawl.
She went back to the door and tried desperately to chip away at the concrete with her awl. It snapped off and she tried with one of the knife blades. Finally she leaned up against it and sobbed.
She could hear the two children's regular breathing and felt complete despair.
They were all going to die.
A few feet away, Scott Phelan stood in Eleanor Whipple's backyard looking up at the sky. It was a clear night and the stars shone brightly. He could see other beams, flashlights, darting through the trees of Belfry Hill behind him. They had all started together at the top and systematically were searching their way to the bottom. It was very quiet. The flickering lights were moving steadily. No one was stopping for a closer look. No one was calling for the others to come.
Nothing. No sign of them. Not a button off a coat or a bent branch to show some struggle.
He decided to go back to the church, where they had set up a command post, to check in and find out if there was any news. There had to be. Three people couldn 't just disappear. He looked to the moon for a clue.
Where the hell could they be ?
10
Faith sat up with a start. She had fallen asleep. Her heart was racing madly and a scream rose in her throat. She knew where she was.
She covered her mouth with her hand and bit her palm. It hurt. So she must be alive.
The children were still asleep. She could hear them and dug into her pocket for the light to shine on their faces. There wasn 't much point in trying to save the battery anymore. Then she looked at her watch. It was six o'clock. Morning.
The tears began to stream down her face. Dawn was breaking. But not for them.
There was still some zwieback left and she took one, savoring each crumb. The darkness began to look a little less dark and the top of her head was feeling lighter. She knew that it must be the beginning of the effects of the lack of oxygen, but for the moment it felt good. Just float. Eat and float. Food. That was something she knew about. Something she had accomplished. She must be hungry. The zwieback had gone straight to her stomach and was saying, "Send more. Send better.”
All those meals she had cooked. Even the failures weren 't bad. Like Mrs. Haveabite 's quiche. She knew her mind was wandering. There wasn 't anything else to do except follow.
It was in the business's early days and Faith had been thrilled to get Mrs. H. as a customer. She was a wealthy parishioner of Faith's father and one of those ladies who lunched—and gave lunches. Soon Faith was catering all of them and the nickname arose out of the lady in question 's irritating habit of hovering over a perfectly arranged platter, asking as she picked up the choicest morsel, "Oh, Faith, this looks delicious! May I just have a bite?”
The woman's other habit was worse. In those days Faith had charged by the job and not by the person. It was Mrs. Haveabite who changed her policy. A select luncheon for ten dear friends usually meant twelve and Faith would use up all the reserves she had brought. Then came the day when the ten turned into fourteen and no matter how she sliced it, the main course, tarte à l'oignon, was not going to stretch. Mrs. H. had thoughtfully told her about the additional guests when she arrived, so there was time to make another tarte, and that 's what she did, using Mrs. Haveabite 's own frugal supplies—margarine crust and yogurt instead of heavy cream. She made sure the hostess got a hefty slice of the emergency dish. She followed up the lunch with a polite note explaining the change in billing. She wasn 't askedback until Mrs. H. realized she had lost the hottest caterer in town and by then Faith seldom had an opening.
There had been other times as well. Like going into the wilds of Connecticut with her staff and after unpacking the van discovering that three perfect charlottes aux poires reposed in the refrigerator in New York, leaving them with absolutely nothing for dessert. She had dashed out to the 7-Eleven for inspiration and come back with vanilla ice cream, baking chocolate, heavy cream—all the ingredients for old-fashioned hot fudge sundaes, complete with nuts and maraschino cherries (horrid, but authentic) in bowls for those who wanted them. And everybody wanted them. After that the sundaes became a specialty. A big success. Some evocation of childhood? Forbidden calories? She never could figure it out.
She was dreaming, though not asleep.
And all the triumphs. That dinner at the U.N. with not one or two, but six exquisitely authentic cuisines.
She began to smell mushrooms—big, juicy porcini mushrooms, gently simmering in butter. Succulent mushrooms. Sexy mushrooms.
Someone was screaming.
It was Jenny.
“No No ! No ! No ! I don't want to die ! I don't want to die ! I don 't want to die ! I don't ... " Faith turned the dimming beam of the penlite on the whirlwind that was Jenny. Jenny sweeping jars from the shelves heedless of the wreckage. A stench of rotten vegetables and overripe fruit. She grabbed the girl's flailing arms.
It took all the strength she had left to pull Jenny down to the floor again, where she collapsed sobbing on Faith, and on Benjamin, who was awake and wailing himself.
“Oh, Jenny, darling, please, please try to stop. We have got to try not to give up. We can't ! Come pray with me. Just say the words with me, `Our Father who art in Heaven ...' “
Jenny stopped and after a moment repeated the words with Faith. Repeated them over and over. The three of them clung to each other and after a while the storm had passed.
“Faith," said Jenny, "Do you think we have a chance ? "
“I don 't know," Faith said slowly, "but I think we have to believe there is one. We have to try to stay alive."
“All right." Faith heard her take a deep breath and let it out. "In that case I'm going to eat some of this stuff and figure out a way to pee into one of the jars. I'll put the lid on and maybe Cousin Eleanor will think it's honey." She started to laugh a little wildly.
“Jenny, hush now. It's a good idea. I think the applesauce is the best bet. You take the light and find us some. I'm going to nurse Benjamin and change his diaper and clothes." For the last time, she added mentally.
While Benjamin ate, heedless of his peril, and Jenny consumed what was probably the worst applesauce ever made in New England, Faith sat and thought of Tom or rather sat and said " Tom" over and over to herself. Tom, Tom, where are you ?
Tom was at the altar rail. He had left the parish hall, which looked like a kind of campaign headquarters with people streaming in and out with information, food, comfort, and offers of help. The phone rang constantly. His parents were there. Faith's were on the way. He looked at the simple cross in front of him.