In a Handful of Dust Page 12

  “Because that’s not like you. You’ve always been fond of the difficult.”

  “True enough. I like you, after all.”

  Lynn gave her a halfhearted kick and they settled against the tree together, sipping water and watching the birds fly overhead.

  Days later, Lucy pulled Spatter up beside Black Horse, no longer content with riding in silence. “How close are we?”

  “To Nebraska? Close. But we’ll be crossing another river to get there, the Missouri.”

  “Is it big, like the last one?”

  “No”—Lynn shook her head—“doesn’t look to be nearly as big. I think the horses could swim it. The closest bridge to our route goes into a city, and I don’t like the look of it. What you said earlier is right, there’s nobody out here, so where’d they all go?”

  “You think everyone is in the cities? But why would they do that, when there’s plenty of streams out here?”

  “I don’t know, but the more I think on it, the more it worries me. We’ve had no problem finding water, which isn’t surprising. But nobody’s giving us any trouble about taking it, either, and that’s downright weird.”

  Lucy thought of Entargo, and the rotted emptiness of its streets. “What if there was an illness like back home and there isn’t anybody left in the whole state?”

  “Then I’m not anxious to hang around and get sick.”

  Lucy fiddled with Spatter’s mane, her fingers burning off the nervousness that rippled through her body. “This river, you think it’ll have a strong current?”

  “Doubt it, there’s not been much rain.” Lynn glanced over at Lucy and her busy hands. “It’s not as big, kiddo. It won’t make you feel so small.”

  Lucy looked at her fine-boned fingers, as she picked a knot from Spatter’s mane. “Doesn’t take much,” she said.

  Black Horse picked up his pace, and Spatter jogged to keep up, making her drop his mane for the reins. “The horses smell it.”

  They rode on, until the Missouri was spread before them like a silver ribbon coursing through the land. It was not nearly the size of the Mississippi, and Lucy’s breath left her in a wave of relief. They let the horses drink first and rest in the shade of the trees growing by the bank. The women filled their bottles as well, dousing their hair and drenching their shoulders before refilling for the road.

  “C’mere, Mister,” Lynn said gruffly, pulling on Black Horse’s reins.

  “Mister?” Lucy teased. “Your great affection for him is showing.”

  Lynn surprised her by rubbing him between the ears after swinging up into the saddle. “He’s not a bad animal,” she said brusquely, and urged him out into the water.

  Spatter followed, and the cold water filled Lucy’s boots, sliding wet fingers up through her pants and soaking her legs in seconds. Her teeth chattered, despite the heat. When Spatter’s legs left the river bottom her stomach churned, lurching along with the current that pulled him southward. She closed her eyes and clenched one fist around the pommel, the other tightly woven in Spatter’s mane. The water flowed over her, much colder than the pond at home.

  She didn’t open her eyes until his forelegs hit dry ground. Lynn was astride the newly christened Mister, her pride in him overflowing into a neck rub.

  “Welcome to Nebraska, little one.”

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  Sixteen

  What Lucy would remember most about Nebraska was the graveyards. Some had stood before the Shortage, others were newer. The grass had succumbed to the heat and lack of rain, falling over on brittle stalks and leaving tombstones visible across the flat plains for miles. The few houses they saw Lynn did not trust, and they sought out graveyards for rest, the hulking stones offering more cover from roving eyes than the solitary trees that stood alone on the plains.

  Lynn did not rest easy, and although Lucy watched her fastidiously to be sure she was eating and drinking, there was no way to force her to sleep. They kept their guns at the ready, not daring to use them to hunt, as there was nothing to stop the crack of their rifles from rolling across the empty land, into the ears of whoever might be out there.

  The emptiness pulled at Lucy, as it had in Iowa. The dark fear that they were the only two people left on earth niggled at her brain, teasing her with the idea that when they reached California it would be no different; the desal plants they were so desperate to find would stand empty, Lucy and Lynn clueless as to their operation.

  Halfway through Nebraska she woke from one such nightmare, an image of the ocean stretching into eternity and the empty beach beside it still imprinted on her eyes. Sweat dripped from her forehead, even though the nights had been tolerably cool. She sat up, pulling her drenched shirt away from her body and resting her head against the white marble stone she’d set her pack beside before lying down.

  “You all right?” Lynn asked, her voice floating in the pitch black of the moonless night.

  “Yeah. Bad dream.”

  There was a rustling noise, and Lynn appeared beside her, out of the darkness. “Seems like you’ve been having a lot of those lately.”

  “Depends,” Lucy said. “Not sure sleeping in graveyards helps much.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Well, because . . .” Lucy searched for an answer that would make sense to practical Lynn. “We’re sleeping on top of dead people.”

  “I don’t think they mind.”

  Lucy sighed. “It doesn’t bother you at all?”

  “Not really. For all you know we’ve slept on top of unmarked graves many nights and never felt the different for it.”

  The idea of a body lost in the dirt, not even recognized by a stone above its head, sent Lucy’s mind down paths she didn’t want to explore. “Never mind,” she said. “I’m going back to sleep.”

  She closed her eyes, barely able to tell the difference from the pitch black of the night. Sleep was fraying the edges of her consciousness when Lynn spoke again.

  “It helps if you look at the stones,” she said so quietly Lucy wasn’t sure she was supposed to hear. “This graveyard is an old one. Some of the stones are smooth as river rocks.”

  “What do you mean it helps?” Lucy rolled over, toward the sound of Lynn’s voice.

  “I was looking at ’em, earlier. You’d already drifted off, so I walked among the stones for a bit. There’s a section that’s older than the others. Most of the stones are fallen down or worn away, but you can still read some. Those people, they lived a long time ago, but their lives weren’t so different from what you and I are living right now.”

  “Poor bastards,” Lucy said, and Lynn snorted.

  “It made me think though, about what you said in Iowa—the emptiness of it all. You’re right, there aren’t many people. I was looking at those old stones, and there was this one woman, buried with her children. By the dates, she wasn’t much older than me, but it seems she lost five little ones before she died herself.”

  “Five?”

  “Yeah. Made me think, there’s probably people like that now too. Going through the hell of delivering five babies just to lose them all and die.”

  “Not sure how looking at the most depressing stones you could find is helpful.”

  “Reminds me of how important it is to keep going, that you’re what’s mine to protect and keep safe.”

  A lump formed in Lucy’s throat, making her voice thick when she spoke. “You never wanted any of your own?”

  “No,” Lynn said. “I’d think about it, but then poor Myrtle would go and get pregnant again and I’d see her so big and awkward she couldn’t even get her own firewood. I need my body to do the things I ask it to, and not struggle to do it. And besides, I’m not made for it.”

  “What do you mean, not made for it? You’re a great mom to me.”

  “Sure, and when I got you, you were half-raised alread
y, determined to do everything on your own and not ask for help. You weren’t hard to mother ’til you got older and didn’t listen anymore.”

  “I listen,” Lucy said indignantly.

  “If you agree with what I’m saying. Mother used to tell me I should be careful, ’cause I’d get a kid same as me someday and pull my own hair out over it. I’m sure you’ll get yours one day.”

  Lucy thought of what Carter had said to her about naming a baby after him, and the lump came back in her throat. “I guess maybe I will.”

  “You will,” Lynn said, with conviction. “You had it about you, even when you were a little one yourself. Red Dog had more mothering than he could stand, and you brought me any injured animal you found, determined to save it.”

  A smile fought against the lump for control of her voice as Lucy spoke. “Remember the baby skunks?”

  Lucy didn’t need to see in the dark to know Lynn had rolled her eyes. “Do I ever.” They giggled together in the night, the high sounds echoing off the stones around them.

  “Anyway,” Lynn went on, “what I’m saying is, I don’t mind sleeping in the cemeteries ’cause it’s a reminder of the generations before, without which we wouldn’t be here.”

  “And without us, there wouldn’t be anyone to look back a hundred years from now,” Lucy finished.

  “Without you,” Lynn corrected. “You’re the one of us that’s going to have babies. You’ve got the temperament for it, and you’ve not killed.”

  “What’s that got to with it?”

  A long silence stretched out over the tombstones. When Lynn finally spoke, Lucy could hear the tightness of her throat echoed in her voice. “Once you’ve done that, taken a life someone worked hard to bring about, it sticks with you. Stays close in a dark place you can’t quite shake. It’s in my blood, and it’s not something I want to pass on.”

  “So it’s on me to keep the human race going,” Lucy said lightly. “Could you do me a favor and not announce this to every boy we meet?” Beside her, she felt Lynn’s silent laugh and the tension that slipped out of her with it. “What’s your responsibility then?”

  “To protect you, always.”

  They found each other’s hands in the dark, and an angel with chipped marble wings watched over them as they slept.

  They found a house on the western edge of Nebraska, just as the gray haze of the mountains made their presence known on the horizon. Lucy had been watching the approaching smear for days, thinking a storm had not quite reached them yet, before Lynn corrected her. The thought of something so massive it could be seen a state away left Lucy quiet and concerned.

  The house was a relief, so close to Lynn’s yearnings spoken in Iowa it seemed it might have grown from the ground on account of her wishes and waited for them to reach it.

  It was small, untouched, and close to freshwater. They circled it twice on horseback from a distance, guns drawn and eyes searching for flashes of movement. Lynn and Lucy shared a silent look and moved closer warily, but their caution was unnecessary. It was empty, and the dust they found on the countertop was deep.

  Lucy stood on the porch where the horses were tethered, her eyes drawn to the distant mountains, the gnawing worry they caused in her belly distracting her from the happiness she should have felt at the promise of rest. She heard cupboard doors opening, and Lynn joined her outside, a can of corn in her hand.

  “The kitchen is even full,” she said. “I can’t hardly believe it.”

  “Careful what you say,” Lucy answered. “You might wish it away.”

  “It kinda seems that way, doesn’t it? Like what I wanted happened to fall into our path?” Lynn tossed the can from hand to hand.

  Lucy deftly caught it in between tosses. “You should have specified creamed corn, and I’d like the creek to move a little closer to the house.”

  “Yeah, I’d like that too,” Lynn said, looking to the north, where the strip of trees announcing the creek’s presence was barely visible on the horizon.

  A hot wind blew in their faces, bringing with it a smattering of dirt that settled on Lucy’s skin. “You didn’t happen to wish up a bit of shampoo in that bathroom, did you?”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised if I did,” Lynn said. “I doubt anybody came through here and took the shampoo but left the corn.”

  There was shampoo, and soap, and even washcloths so soft when Lucy pressed them to her cheek, a memory from childhood flashed so brightly she had to sit down to shake it off. She saw Neva, her long-dead mother, smiling and plastering a wet washcloth to Lucy’s pudgy toddler belly, tickling her through the softness. Lucy gasped for breath, still clutching the washcloth to her face and waiting for more.

  But none came.

  That night they were clean and full of a hot meal for the first time in a long while, and Lucy felt a happiness that even the rising mountains in the west couldn’t overshadow. Lynn sat with her on the porch and they watched the stars come out, like pinpricks in the black fabric of the sky. The horses grazed in the yard, their calm mutterings carried to the women on the breeze.

  “How far back do your memories go?” Lucy asked suddenly.

  “What’s that?” Lynn lifted her head from against the post she’d been resting against.

  “What’s the earliest memories you have, from when you were a kid?”

  “I’d have to think about it. It’s hard to know sometimes what’s real and what’s my mind filling in blanks with stories I’ve been told.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well,” Lynn said slowly, “Mother was the only person I knew for a good long while. We had to work hard to get things done, and what little time there was together she was pushing me for something else. Like during the winters we’d be in the basement for hours, her teaching me to read when I was little, then memorizing poetry as I got older. Stebbs told me a few stories from before the Shortage, about how Mother looked or acted that is a nicer version of her, with less worries. Some of those memories I can’t help but wonder if my mind is changing things so I remember good things that didn’t actually happen.”

  “So how do you know what’s real and what’s something you made up?”

  Lynn shrugged. “I guess you don’t. In the end I know Mother did what she thought was best when it came to raising me. If what I remember fits into that idea of Mother, it’s probably true. Why you asking me this?”

  “No reason,” Lucy said, picking up a stone and flinging it into the night.

  “Liar,” Lynn said. “Out with it now.”

  “I don’t want you to think . . .”

  “If it’s something you remembered about your mom, you go ahead and say. It won’t hurt my feelings. I’m good at pretending I don’t have those, anyway.”

  “Okay,” Lucy took a deep breath. “Certain things will cause a memory to come rushing at me, and I don’t know if it’s because I need to know she loved me and I’m making it up, or if it really happened.”

  “I can’t tell you whether your memories are true or not, but your mother loved you, very much.”

  “But she left me,” Lucy said, her voice catching in her throat and barely clearing her teeth. “She knew she wouldn’t ever see me again when she shot herself.”

  Lynn was quiet for a long time, long enough for more stars to blaze up and make themselves known. “That was a dark day.”

  “I know it,” Lucy said, trying to ignore the tears creeping down her face. “Grandma told me about how I was sick, and the men from the south traded her for my mom, and my mom went with them because she thought I would die without Grandma to doctor me.”

  “And you would have, little one. There was nothing I knew to do for you, and your uncle and Stebbs were lost thinking you would be taken from them. Vera saved you, like none of us could have.”

  “But she didn’t have to kill herself!” Lucy cried out, giving vent for the first time to the anger she hadn’t known was inside her. “You could have gotten her back from those men.”


  “Maybe,” Lynn admitted. “But maybe by the time I did, the things that had been visited upon her would’ve changed her for good and forever, and she’d have been no kind of mother to you.”

  “She could’ve tried harder,” Lucy said. “Held on a little longer.”

  “Sure. And if Stebbs had shot a little sooner at the man holding a gun on your uncle, I’d have my own babies. But that’s life, little one—lots of little maybes and what ifs all lined up in a row. And if you put your mind to following some of them that never came about, you’ll get lost and not find your way back to the way it really is.”

  “The way it really is sucks.”

  “It can, from time to time,” Lynn agreed. “But there’s good things too. Your mom dying means I got to have you, and your uncle dying means you’ve got me all to yourself.”

  Lucy scooted across the porch to lean against Lynn, resting her head on the older woman’s shoulder and smelling the clean smell of her hair. “And me losing everybody makes me scared of losing you.”

  Lynn slipped an arm around her, the strength of it buoying Lucy’s spirits. “That goes for both of us, little one.”

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  Seventeen

  It really would have been nice to have the creek a little closer, in Lucy’s opinion, but she wasn’t being picky after the long, dry stretches they’d seen the end of. Perhaps for good. It hadn’t escaped her how comfortable Lynn had become with the little house in the week they’d been there. More than once, small comments had trickled out of the older woman that seemed to be her way of feeling out Lucy’s opinion without asking for it.

  Lynn had always been difficult to read, and more so now that their survival depended on her choices. Continuing to California meant the mountains, and the looming threat of the desert beyond. Staying meant trusting the little creek would never run dry, the winters never cold enough to require more than burning scrub brush to keep them from freezing.