“They’re much better than pancakes.” He wrote: Not everyone eats at the same time.
“What day is tomorrow?” Joan asked. “I’ve kind of lost track of time.”
Mark sensed where she was going. “Thursday,” he replied. He wrote: Most people will be in the Dining Room for breakfast before Fifth Day services. Only some will be out.”
Rebekah was still shaking her head no.
Joan took the pencil from him. How many is some?
I don’t know.
Can we get past them?
Maybe, he wrote.
They were out of paper, and Joan turned it over. Try to find a way, she wrote. Aloud, she said, “You’re going to have to make a lot of eggs. Breakfast is a big meal. I bet a lot of women are working in the Kitchen.”
Rebekah took the pencil from her. Too many. She underlined the words for emphasis.
We cut the mushrooms ahead of time, Joan wrote after taking the pencil back, smuggle them in and sneak them into the food when no one’s looking. Scrambled eggs are perfect.
“No!” Rebekah said aloud.
They both looked at her.
“Yes,” Mark said softly. He wrote: We can do it!
Joan nodded encouragingly. “I’m a pretty good cook,” she said again. “I think I’ll be a lot of help to you in the Kitchen.”
Rebekah picked up the paper, turned it over, read everything on it, then looked from Joan to Mark and back again.
“Okay,” she said finally.
Twenty-two
Joan awoke before dawn, feeling anxious.
She had gone with Mark and Rebekah to the Dining Room for supper last night, eating with the Residents for the first time since she’d been brought back, and though she’d been grateful to see no sign of either Father or Kara, the Teachers’ table was full, and Absalom and his comrades fixed her with disapproving glances through the entire repast. She’d forgotten how much she disliked these communal meals, with the prayers between each course and the exaggerated politesse, and the fact that everyone around her was overly solicitous and acting sickeningly sweet put her on edge. She was grateful when an end to supper was called and they were all allowed to leave.
Afterward, back at their living quarters, Mark had chosen mushrooms that he assured her, in one of the written notes that had become their only honest means of communication, were of the right type and were strong enough to knock out every man, woman and child in the Home. The three of them had then spent the next several hours chopping the mushrooms so fine that by the finish they were practically powder. From somewhere, Mark had come up with cloth gloves and face masks that each of them wore to minimize contact with the hallucinogen, and he also supplied a small bag into which they scooped the minced mushrooms. Rebekah would carry the bag with her tomorrow and drop its contents into the eggs whenever she got the chance.
“I need some tonight myself,” she said. “To relax.”
“We will,” Mark promised her.
Joan did not know what had gone on behind the closed door of their bedroom after they’d retired, but she had stayed completely sober. This might be her only chance for a long, long time, and she could not afford for anything to go wrong. She needed to stay alert and on top of things at all times.
Now she was on pins and needles.
Either Mark or Rebekah had gone out and brought back muffins, and they were both sitting at the coffee table in silence, eating. A muffin had been brought back for her as well, and it sat there untouched atop a cloth napkin. Had either of them slept last night? Joan wondered; examining their tired faces, she didn’t think they had. That worried her, but she couldn’t afford to let them see any doubt. They were shaky enough as it was, particularly Rebekah, and at this point Joan needed to show them strength.
Forcing herself to smile, Joan knelt down on the floor next to the coffee table. “Good morning,” she said. She picked up her muffin and took a bite. It was rough and dry, tasteless. She grimaced, swallowing hard. “I hope you didn’t make this,” she joked.
Mark pushed over a piece of paper on which a message had already been written: We don’t want to do this. It is too dangerous.
Joan was prepared. She’d thought they might get cold feet and had come up with a response. She gestured for the pencil, and Mark handed it to her. I will take all responsibility , she wrote. I will put the mushrooms in the food. If I get caught, I’ll say you know nothing. It was all me. They will all believe it. Even Father. As she pushed the paper toward Mark, she wondered what had happened to the pieces of paper they’d been writing on yesterday. If they had not been completely destroyed and disposed of properly, they could be pretty damning evidence. The three of them had to make sure that no trace of their messages could ever be found.
Mark read her words, nodded to show he understood, then wrote something himself, pushing it across the table: What if they torture you?
The words hung there. Even her parents had never spoken so bluntly, though it was a truth known by everyone in the Home, and Joan felt cold reading the question.
Rebekah reached over, grabbed the paper and tore it in half. She tore those pieces in half, then in half again, continuing to rip the paper until the scraps were so small that they could never be put together again and it was impossible to tell that anything had been written on them. Joan understood her fear—she felt some of it herself—and she nodded her approval of Rebekah’s action in order to acknowledge that, but she smiled confidently. “When do we start cooking?” she asked.
Joan was not sure she’d ever been in the Kitchen. She had definitely never worked in here, and she was surprised both by the size of the prep area and by the number of women involved. One woman’s sole job was to start the fire in the wood-burning stove and keep it lit, and Joan was afraid she would be assigned such a focused and specific duty as well, so she was grateful when Rebekah announced to everyone present that Joan was to be her helper and that she would be teaching Joan the ropes.
Rebekah apparently had high seniority in the kitchen, and no one questioned or even commented upon the assignment. That was good. She was in charge of actually cooking the eggs, of blending together the ingredients prepared by the others, and that gave them a much better opportunity for sneaking the mushrooms into the food than they would have had at a different station.
Food preparation in the Home’s kitchen was like a well-oiled machine. It had been done the same way, using the same recipes, for decades, and ordinarily any deviation from protocol would have been instantly noticed. But Joan and Rebekah had worked out a plan ahead of time and had practiced it in the living room: just before the scrambled eggs were done, the older woman would move into position, blocking her from view, and Joan would sprinkle the finely diced mushrooms into the food. The only question was whether heating the mushrooms would diminish their efficacy, and they would have to wait for the meal to be consumed before they learned the answer.
Mark would be in the Dining Room with the others and, like them, he would not eat anything.
If all went well, the Residents would be knocked out quickly and at approximately the same time, allowing the three of them to make their escape. Or try. After they left the Dining Room, she had no idea what would happen. They might be stopped before they got anywhere near the outside. There were doors that could be locked, Residents who could be patrolling the hallways or guarding the exits, and other variables that could not possibly be predicted.