There were boots everywhere. Shiny and black boots on some, scuffed with wear on others. Those who had fought before and those just learning.
Rodny appeared above Mission, his eyes wide with worry. He told him to hang in there. Mission wanted to say he’d try, but the pain in his stomach was too great. He couldn’t speak. They told him to stay awake, but all he’d ever wanted was to sleep. To not be. To not be a burden to anyone.
“Damn you!” Allie screamed, and it was at him, at Mission, not at Rodny. She blubbered that she loved him, and Mission tried to say he knew. He wanted to tell her that she was right all along. He imagined for a moment the kids they would have, the plot of soil if they combined their holdings, the long uninterrupted rows of corn like lives that stretched out for generations. Generations of people staying close to home, there for each other, doing what they knew best, enjoying being a burden to each other.
He wanted to say all these things and more. Much more. But as Allie bent close and he struggled to form the words, all that came out, a whisper amid the din of boots and shouts, was that today was his birthday.
57
Mission changed out of his work overalls while Allie readied dinner. He washed his hands, scrubbed the dirt from beneath his fingernails, and watched the mud slide down the drain. The ring on his finger was getting more and more difficult to remove, his knuckles sore and stiff from the hoeing of planting season.
He soaped his hands and finally managed to work the ring off. Remembering the last time he’d lost it down the drain, he set it aside carefully. Allie whistled in the kitchen while she tended the stove. When she cracked the oven, he smelled the pork roast inside. He’d have to say something. They couldn’t go buying roasts on no occasion.
His overalls went into the wash. There were lighted candles on the table when he got back to the kitchen. They were for emergencies, for the times when the fools below switched generators and worked on the busted main. Allie knew this. But before he could say anything about the roast or the candles, or tell her that the bean crop wouldn’t be what he’d hoped come harvest, he saw the way she was beaming at him. There was only one thing to be that happy about—but it was impossible.
“No,” he said. He couldn’t allow himself to believe it.
Allie nodded. There were tears in her eyes. By the time he got to her, they were coursing down her cheeks.
“But our ticket is up,” he whispered, holding her against him. She smelled like sweet peppers and sage. He could feel her trembling.
Allie sobbed. Her voice broke from being overfull of joy. “Doc says it happened last month. It was in our window, Mish. We’re gonna have a baby.”
A surge of relief filled Mission to the brim. Relief, not excitement. Relief that everything was legal. He kissed his wife’s cheek, salt to go with the pepper and sage. “I love you,” he whispered.
“The roast.” She pulled away and hurried to the stove. “I was gonna tell you after dinner.”
Mission laughed. “You were gonna tell me now or have to explain the candles.”
He poured two glasses of water, hands trembling, and set them out while she fixed the plates. The smell of cooked meat made his mouth water. He could anticipate the way the roast would taste. A taste of the future, of what was to come.
“Don’t let it get cold,” Allie said, setting the plates.
They sat and held hands. Mission cursed himself for not putting his ring back on.
“Bless this food and those who fed its roots,” Allie said.
“Amen,” said Mission. His wife squeezed his hands before letting go and grabbing her utensils.
“You know,” she said, cutting into the roast, “if it’s a girl, we’ll have to name her Allison. Every woman in my family as far back as we can remember has been an Allison.”
Mission wondered how far back her family could remember. It’d be unusual if they could remember very far. He chewed and thought on the name. “Allison it is,” he said. And he thought that eventually they would call her Allie too. “But if it’s a boy, can we go with Cam?”
“Sure.” Allie lifted her glass. “That wasn’t your grandfather’s name, was it?”
“No. I don’t know any Cams. I just like the way it sounds.”
He picked up his glass of water, studied it awhile. Or did he know a Cam? Where did he know that name from? There were bits of his past shrouded and hidden from him. There were things like the mark on his neck and the scar on his stomach that he couldn’t remember coming to be. Everyone had their share of these things, parts of their bygone days they couldn’t recall, but Mission more than most. Like his birthday. It drove him crazy that he couldn’t remember when his birthday was. What was so hard about that?
Third Shift
Pact
58
“Sir?”
There was a clatter of bones beneath his feet. Donald stumbled through the dark, the winged dogs scattering at the sound of voices.
“Can you hear me?”
The haze parted, an eyelid cracking just like the seal of his pod. A bean. Donald was curled inside that pod like a bean.
“Sir? Are you with me?”
Skin so cold. Donald was sitting up, steam rising from his bare legs. He didn’t remember going to sleep. He remembered the doctor, remembered being in his office. They were talking. Now he was being woken up.
“Drink this, sir.”
Donald remembered this. He remembered waking over and over, but he didn’t remember going to sleep. Just the waking. He took a sip, had to concentrate to make his throat work, had to fight to swallow. A pill. There was supposed to be a pill, but it wasn’t offered.
“Sir, we had instructions to wake you.”
Instructions. Rules. Protocol. Donald was in trouble again. Troy. Maybe it was that Troy fellow. Who was he? Donald drank as much as he could.
“Very good, sir. We’re going to lift you out.”
He was in trouble. They only woke him when there was trouble. A catheter was removed, a needle from his arm.
“What did I—”
He coughed into his fist. His voice was a sheet of tissue paper, thin and fragile. Invisible.
“What is it?” he asked, shouting to form a whisper.
Two men lifted him up and set him into a wheelchair. A third man held it still. There was a soft blanket instead of a paper gown. There was no rustling this time, no itching on his skin.
“We lost one,” someone said.
A silo. A silo was gone. It would be Donald’s fault again. “Eighteen,” he whispered, remembering his last shift.
Two of the men glanced at each other, mouths open.
“Yes,” one of them said, awe in his voice. “From Silo Eighteen, sir. We lost her over the hill. We lost contact.”
Donald tried to focus on the man. He remembered losing someone over a hill. Helen. His wife. They were still looking for her. There was still hope.