I kicked the fence so hard sparks flew from my boot where it struck a nail.
And I knew I was angry because I’d gotten Ben into this. He should be at home writing stories for the newspaper while listening to his Jimi Hendrix albums.
“Are you planning on knocking every fence down, or do you intend to stop when you reach Wyoming?”
I looked up to see Zak watching me. He wore a pistol pushed into the belt of his pants.
“Valdiva, it’s not a good idea to go off by yourself without a gun.”
“It’s not a good idea to shove the gun into your pants like that. You might blow your dick off.”
“It hasn’t happened yet.”
“Yet.”
He watched me, his hairless head looking as shiny as a pool ball in the sun. “You must be angrier at us than we thought.”
“I’m not angry. I’m collecting more firewood.”
“What are you going to do? Roast a cow?”
“Might as well get a good supply.”
“Rule number one: prioritize. Don’t do work that isn’t absolutely necessary.”
“Don’t worry, I’m learning fast.”
His unwavering stare fixed on me. “Valdiva, you’ve got plenty to learn. This world out here’s completely different from that island. This world is never safe. There’s never enough food. There are no certainties.” He shrugged. “With the exception of hunger and death. If we see one hornet there’s sure to be more of them. So we move on.”
“It looks quiet enough ’round here.”
“Take my word for it, they’ll come. It’s like they can smell us.”
I began gathering the wood into a neat pile I could carry. “You should find yourself an island. There are plenty in the lakes ’round here.”
“But they don’t have big stores of food. We’ve got to keep moving from place to place to find supplies.”
“Nomads, eh?”
“We’re not nomads for fun, you know? We’re dog-tired, but we’ve got to keep moving. Finding food. Finding fuel. Looking for fresh water. Running from the crazy guys.” He smiled. “So there’s no wonder we’re grouchy. It must feel like you’re walking on eggshells when you’re with us.”
I didn’t answer but collected the wood, then used the skeleton’s stripy PJ pants to tie the wood into a bundle. Zak watched me for a while, then said, “We might look like a bunch of misfits, but we’re close. Probably closer than most families get in a whole life-time. So if one of us is hurt we all feel hurt. Boy’s endured tough stuff. We get protective over him. We really care about each other, but that might seem dopey to you. But to risk repeating myself, I’m closer to these people than my own family. And as a family we Samuels were pretty close. Even if I did give my mother and father a hard time. My father ran a health insurance business in Canada, so we lived in Toronto most of the year. Thing is, my parents wanted me so much to become a rabbi, so they sent me to Hebrew school in New York. From the age of eleven I was flying back and forth on my own. I did well academically, but I wanted to be a stand-up comic. That’s what I loved doing. I loved to make people laugh. When I was sixteen I’d sneak off to a little comedy bar just off Broadway where you could put your name down for a five-minute spot on stage. They called it the Kamikaze because you had to be suicidal to stand there in front of a bunch of New Yorkers and try to make them laugh. Boy, they could give you heat if you sucked. So what I’d do is this.” He bunched his fist, then put it into his pocket. “I’d say, ‘Ladies and gentlemen, I have very funny jokes for you tonight. You must laugh because I have a cute little puppy in my coat pocket. If you don’t laugh I will squeeze its throat with my hand. Right, this is joke number one. Yesterday, I went to see my doctor. I told him I keep thinking I’m a moth. The doctor said, So why did you come to see me, then? I replied, I couldn’t help myself. I saw your light in the window.’ Then I’d glare at the audience with a real look of irritation. ‘I don’t hear you laughing,’ I’d say. ‘Listen, I warned you, didn’t I?’ Then I’d pretend to squeeze the imaginary puppy in my pocket and make these crying puppy sounds, you know like a ventriloquist? Without moving my lips? Well, the puppy in the pocket routine worked like a charm. I got loads of laughs and bookings, but then it all went bad. Some construction workers came in for a beer but left their sense of humor back home. They got really angry and started yelling that I shouldn’t be hurting the puppy in my pocket. That’s when I got cute and told them that if they didn’t stop heckling me I’d squeeze the goddam puppy until its eyes popped.”
I found myself smiling. “What then?”
“They ran up on the stage to free the puppy… my beautiful, fluffy, imaginary puppy. ‘It’s not real, it’s not real,’ I screamed at them. Really screamed, because they were big guys, with stronger muscles in their eye-lids than I’d got in my entire body. And they’re yelling, ‘You’ve got a puppy in your coat because we hear it yelping in pain.’ I decided it was a good time to leave. As they grabbed me by the coat I slipped out of it and ran as hard as I could. It was a month before I went back. I never used the puppy routine again.” He grinned. “No, sir. I used an imaginary kitten instead.”
I found myself laughing. Zak joined in with the kind of chuckle that makes you want to laugh even more.
Then, wiping his eyes, he said, “Let me give you a hand with that firewood. The food should be ready anyway and I’m starving. So, Greg? Are you going to come quietly?” He bunched his fist in his pocket. “Or do I have to torture this cute little puppy?” Without moving his lips he made pained, whiney sounds in the back of his throat.
I couldn’t keep the grin from my face. “OK, OK, I’m coming.”
Chatting easily now, we carried the firewood down to the barn. Things had lightened up down there. Tony had lit a fire. The sun shone in a perfect sky. Michaela and Boy threw a Frisbee to one another, and I saw Michaela call to Ben to join in. He caught the Frisbee and spun it back to Boy. When Boy easily plucked it out of the air his laughter carried across the field.
Michaela must have worked her magic to cheer up the kid. That image of a few carefree moments stayed with me. It wasn’t always going to be like that. You know as well as I do, when life starts to look nice and easy that’s the time you really should start to worry.
Twenty-four
“Watch and learn, Valdiva… I’m going to show you how to make bread. Our kind of bread, that is, so it won’t come in a fancy wrapper.” Tony called across to Ben, “You best watch, too. You’ll be on bread duty in a day or so.”
Ben joined us at the fire that burned just outside the doorway of the barn. Sitting in the fire was an oven that looked to be made out of a steel toolbox. Soot encrusted the thing to hell and back-pretty it wasn’t. I’d seen Tony unloading the contraption from the bike trailer earlier. The others in the group were busy with their own chores: checking bikes, pumping tires, cleaning spark plugs, oiling firearms. Some sat in the shade fixing worn or torn clothes with needle and thread. A fifteen-year-old with bleached dreadlocks hammered tiny nails into the heel of his boot where it flapped loose. Only Zak took it easy. He’d climbed up onto the bales of hay where he’d fallen into a corpselike sleep with the black Stetson over his face. We could hear his snores from here.
Tony used a box lid to fan the flames until the embers burned white beneath the makeshift oven. “Stand the oven on stones or bricks or whatever’s at hand so there’s a gap between the bottom of it and the ground. The heat needs to be drawn through there to get it good and hot. You see? OK. Now you scoop a jug full of this flour from the red tub into the mixing bowl. Then replace the tub lid straightaway, because someone always winds up putting their foot in it and knocking it over. And flour is like gold dust these days.” He picked up a tin mug. “Now use this to add two mugs of water. Add a good pinch of salt. Mix the flour, water and salt together. When it’s the consistency of mud start kneading it with your hands.”