The couple was relaxed and cheerful, not at all as if they had just been in an accident in which they might have been badly hurt. This seemed to unsettle Loreen, who couldn’t quite suppress a slightly scowling expression, as though the faintest funny smell hung about them. Quig mostly listened to the chatty couple and spoke calmly and evenly in reply to their queries. Their surname was Nickelman. Meanwhile the children plus the very old man crowded around Fan; they appeared related enough, their features mostly elfin and birdlike, golden haired to the last except for the old man, whose long bristly hair poking out from beneath his hat was silvery white.
Because of her looks, they wondered if Fan was from one of the facilities, and when they found out she was, they asked her all about what it was like there, though by custom not inquiring about how she had come to be in the counties with Quig and Loreen, as that was nobody’s business and, besides, wholly moot. The old man said he remembered visiting a B-Mor — like settlement as a child on a school field trip, their group touring the production facility where they made specialty sweet baked goods, things like egg custards and tea cakes meant to be shipped back to New China, and how they got to put on gloves and hairnets and were even allowed to take a fresh warm almond cookie as it came off the line.
You told us that story like a billion times already, Pappy! one of the little girls cried. Now just let her talk!
The others chimed in the same. Fan patiently answered every one of their questions about her work and her household and her favorite things to eat and do with friends, leaving out, of course, certain details about Reg or anything else that might reveal her true age. They were genuinely excited to hear about whatever she described, their eyes ready and bright, and their mouths of typically awful open counties teeth all yellowed and crooked or plain missing now agape with the yearning wonder of children. They would have queried her for hours had not the adults begun trying to start the car again. But it wouldn’t turn over, and after some discussion, it was decided that they would tow the car back up onto the road and then to where the Nickelmans lived, which was apparently about five kilometers away. The Nickelmans invited them to stay the night, if they wished, which you would think was not something offered casually out in the counties but which was, in fact, pretty much customary, an odd instance of expected etiquette. Of course, you could always decline, but the offer had to come, maybe because in the complete darkness of the nighttime roads (no streetlights or working streetlights), it was easy to blow out a tire in a deep pothole or, worse, run into a large fallen rock or downed tree, which would leave you vulnerable to opportunistic parties. It was different at the Smokes because that was a business operation and there was no expectation of any quarter. Quig said thanks but no, thanks, that they had camping gear for the night and anyway should drive some more.
They hitched the Nickelmans’ wagon to theirs with a length of thick nylon rope and all the Nickelmans quickly crammed back inside except for the very old man and one of the boys, who rode with Quig to show the way. They hadn’t seen any houses back in that direction as they’d passed and they didn’t see any now, just the dense, weedy brush and knotty vines that were a pox upon the beleaguered trees with the ever-lengthening season of high heat. At an otherwise nondescript bend in the road the old man told Quig to stop and stepped out. He removed some large fern fronds and pine branches from the weeds, revealing the start of some rutted tracks through the undergrowth. He motioned for them to take them, which they did, and once the Nickelmans’ wagon trailed past the entrance, he replaced the camouflage and then ran up in front to guide them in, going maybe another fifty meters through the vegetation until the tracks opened onto a very large clearing, where there was an extensive vegetable garden and a mini-grove of fruit trees and a wire pen containing several goats and a chicken coop with chickens loitering inside and out. A stout black and brown rottweiler wandered out to greet them, wagging its tail. The dog followed closely alongside Mr. Nickelman, and Fan noticed the man had a very small brass whistle on a lanyard around his neck. In the clearing there was a pickup truck set on concrete blocks and a washing machine and what looked to be the head of a working water well, all of it looking rustic but still quite orderly and neat. There was also a tiny guard post — like outhouse at the far end of the clearing, from which, when the breeze was right, issued an odor so vigorous it seemed alive. But there was no house.
The Nickelmans streamed out of their wagon, and without instruction, the old man and the teenage boys unhitched the vehicles and rolled theirs beside the pickup truck. They propped the hood to start working on it, while Mr. Nickelman ushered Quig and Loreen and Fan to one of the picnic tables to have a drink and snack before going on their way. Soon enough the engine was running again and everyone cheered. He nodded to his wife, and she and a few of the older girls walked to the edge of the clearing and then disappeared through an arched passage in the dense, weedy bower of the forest. Loreen asked Mr. Nickelman where they went and he said to prepare a small supper, which didn’t quite answer the question. Loreen then asked what they did for trade and he said they were entertainers; in fact, they were returning from an overnight gig up near Niagara Falls where they put on shows at a big regional fair. They — now really just the kids, each of whom they had trained from the time they were walking — were acrobats, doing a cheer routine with synchronized dance moves and power lifts, throws, and flips. They ended their performances with a medley of old-fashioned country songs. Counties people all over loved their show, and they were paid well, considering, though in the winter there were hardly any fairs and festivals, and they made just enough to get them by until spring, when the bookings started coming in again. They were flush now, he said, not with pride but a wistful relief, the disclosure itself a clear endorsement of the trustworthy character of his guests.
Fan wouldn’t have understood this, of course, but she did notice that Quig and particularly Loreen visibly relaxed, and when Mrs. Nickelman and one of her older daughters brought out trays of drinks and food, they all partook with gusto, the old man and children sitting in the grass with their plates. For it was wonderful food, maybe miraculous, for being served out here, the sort of vibrant, wholesome fare you only saw on the evening programs when Charter characters dined and argued with one another amid a fully laden table. None of it was anything elaborate but that was its simple, delectable beauty: thick chunks of ripened tomato with little knobs of homemade goat cheese curds; scrambled eggs and summer squash sprinkled with herbs; fried corncakes; sliced fresh peaches in cream; and a cool sarsaparilla and mint tea to wash it all down. Of course, at the Smokes they ate food mostly out of cans and pouches, or dried items such as instant noodles and meat jerkies, everything to be warmed up and rarely ever fresh, as that’s what people can easily bring in trade. The Nickelmans were cooks, and also vegetarians, which seemed a crazy way to live when you couldn’t depend on regular supplies of anything. They were disciplined, one of the children proudly told Fan, for even when they were down to just a few mouthfuls of beans each this past winter, they still never thought about touching their goats or chickens, which would go against their beliefs.
Fan didn’t ask what those beliefs were, as she would have no real idea what the cost of transgressing any specific doctrine would be, religious or philosophical, as we in B-Mor pretty much practice none; other than an undying habit of pragmatic attention and action, there is no overarching system we subscribe to anymore, no devotion to a deity or origin story, no antique Eastern or Western assertions of goodness and badness to guide us. We abide by directorate regulations, yes, but are mostly ruled by one another as to what is optimal, which is debatable but in fact no more so in B-Mor than anywhere else, even as amoral as we may be considered by others. At least we are not wholly ruled by the pursuit of wealth like Charters, or by the specter of ill chance like open counties people, which endows us, we will say, with a certain equable stance that does not tip us either too far forward or back.