Rebirth (25 page)

Is this me in this same bed in the morning? Did I really not drink last night? The sheer wonder of that realization is enough to get you through the strange and terrifying morning, when you do not stir whiskey into your coffee, when you do not pretend you left your purse in the car so you can have a quick nip.

And that evening. And the next night. And so on until it’s not new anymore, until sobriety isn’t a surprise but an obligation, a dreary habit. Until you don’t so much congratulate yourself as wonder if this is really any better.

So it must have been for the new Rebuilder recruits. Power. Light, heat. Not like Before, of course—those times had faded like a distant dream—but more or less predictably, and more or less on demand. A thrill, a luxury—safety! Yes, it must feel like safety, that first day.

And the next day, it’s barely diminished. The day after that, if you are a believer, perhaps you are still thanking your god…but maybe the next day you reach for the switch and bathe the room in light and you forget to be quite as grateful. And before long it’s just another habit of your new life. Switch, the light comes on…switch, it goes off. You grow complacent.

But for tonight, at least, Cass let herself feel grateful. The temperature was still chilly enough that Ruthie’s nose was ice-cold when Cass bent to kiss it, though she was warm under the stack of blankets, sleeping deeply. Cass accepted the maroon parka Kaufman offered her from a stash in a closet, and she would have drawn her chair near the space heater in the center of the room, under the single light fixture, if Kaufman hadn’t gotten there first, settling into a folding chair with an old Vince Flynn thriller. Cass didn’t feel like making conversation, so she sat on the edge of Ruthie’s bed, absently rubbing her back through all the blankets. Malena hadn’t left her son’s side. It appeared that he would spend the night in the chair, rather than one of the beds; Cass could hear her murmuring to him softly from time to time.

Dor seemed restless, pacing the room, picking up objects and putting them down, looking out the windows into the darkness. When Lester returned, he was in the kitchen alcove, drinking a glass of water that he poured from a large plastic pitcher. He set down the glass and Cass watched him tense. Without a weapon, he seemed at a loss. His hand went to his hip where he carried his gun and, finding it missing, he made a fist and thumped it lightly against the counter.

“Back so soon,” Kaufman said in a playful falsetto, putting down his book. “How was your evening, darling?”

“Ah, fuck you, dear,” Lester retorted. Both of them seemed to be making an effort at cheer. Lester closed and locked the door carefully behind him, and then stood for a moment blinking in the pool of light and scanning the room. “Everybody accounted for?”

“Yeah, we’re all happy campers here. Got the hatches battened down and so forth. Fact I was just trying to decide between the Macallan 12 and the 15,” Kaufman added sarcastically.

“Yeah? I’d take the 12 any day. Anyone pays more for three more years in the cask’s just throwing money away, you ask me.”

“Hey,” Kaufman said, “you think they’re still making that shit over there? I mean that’s some pretty primitive work, you know? Burning peat and all? I seen this picture of this scotch factory or distillery or whatever they call it, they got like these scythe things? Old dudes wearing waders and tromping around the countryside. Hell, it’s a perfect industry for Aftertime. Got nothing but time to let that shit ferment over a peat fire. Nothing but time, Aftertime. What do they make it out of, anyway? Do you know, MacAlister?”

Dor pushed himself off the counter and wandered closer to the other men. Lester helped himself to a chair, his posture ramrod straight and his eyes roving restlessly over the floor. Kaufman looked worried. Cass guessed he was trying to take his friend’s mind off the things he’d just seen and done. The execution…the rifles, no one knowing which carried bullets and which blanks. The body slumping forward in death.

The unlucky ones who had to haul it away, a bag over its head to guard against exposure to any post-mortem fluids. Would there be graves here in Colima? Trenches? Pyres? Some other method?

“Barley, I think,” Dor said.

“You Scottish? Ain’t that your people make that stuff?”

“My mother was Afghani. My dad was Irish. Came here in ’88. Only drink my mom knew how to make was Nestlé Quik, and my Dad was a Bud man.”

That got an appreciative chuckle from Kaufman, but Lester barely reacted.

“Well,” Kaufman said, stretching out in his chair with his hands clasped behind his head. “I got first shift. Lester, you might as well see if you can catch a little sleep, since you actually worked tonight. Nothing much happens around here, folks, and the morning alarm comes early, so you might want to go ahead and get some rest yourselves. Besides, they turn the lights off at ten.”

Dor cast a questioning look Cass’s way. It was the moment she had been dreading. They were pretending to be a couple. Dor had laid their things at the foot of one of the double beds next to Ruthie. And now he slipped an arm around her waist. Cass stiffened at his touch, but there was nothing to do but yield to the pressure of his hand at her waist and let him lead her to the bed. When he sat on the mattress and removed his shoes, she hesitated only a moment and then did the same.

He pulled the sheets and blankets back for her, an elaborate show of courtesy that reminded her of this 1940s movie, this comedy with Barbara Stanwyck in Connecticut. All that was missing were a pair of pinstriped pajamas for him and a sheer peignoir for her, a thought so ludicrous that it almost made Cass smile. Dor, with his black eyes and corded muscle and twining tattoos, would look absurd in Brooks Brothers; he was at home in his ancient jeans frayed at the seams.

After she clambered awkwardly under the covers, he followed with exaggerated care, staying on his side. For a large man he was remarkably deliberate in his movements, and she could sense him making himself compact, crossing his arms across his chest and his legs at the ankles. In moments his breathing grew regular and deep. She doubted he was sleeping, but she wouldn’t be surprised if he had gone to some disciplined corner of his mind, practicing breathing exercises maybe, a ritual emptying of the mind. Maybe something he’d learned from Faye or Three-High—or, just as likely, from Joe, who was rumored to have spent five years in maximum security at the Santa Rita jail.

Cass’s own breath was shallow and jagged, reflecting the turmoil barely below the surface. Cass had never been good at containing her emotions, her wild bursts of fear and despair and fury and loneliness. As a child she had no means to displace the hot emotion that coursed through her, that controlled her mind and body. Alcohol had taken care of that, for a while, with its gift of numbness, of release.

Now, she had a few skills and a lot of practice under her belt. She had all the A.A. sayings and practices and slogans, a secret cache of tricks that had gotten her through many despairing nights. She tried them now, remembering the soothing words with her face turned away from Dor.

It wasn’t enough. Cass lay awake, eyes as unblinking and wide as though they’d been propped open with toothpicks, heart racing and fears dancing in the corners of her mind, waiting for her vigilance to flag. The fears meant to rule her, to own her.

But Ruthie’s soft sleep sounds were a comfort, an anchor. Ruthie shifted and sighed, and Cass reached between the beds and touched her daughter’s downy hair and her soft cheek and that gave her the strength to beat the fears back a while longer.

Before long the lights blinked out, and not long after that Kaufman left his post in the dark at the table and Cass could hear him settling himself on one of the beds near the door, not far from Lester, who was snoring gently. After a while she heard snuffling coming from that side of the room. It took her a few moments to understand that what she was hearing were muffled sobs, the sound of a grown man crying into his pillow, hating his tears but unable to hold them back. When the sobs turned to soft, regular grunting a little later, when the man found release in a whispered throat-catching moan, Cass was even more certain it was Lester. That was the last release left, in the end, wasn’t it? A way to know that you were still human, that you still had a heart, the release that bathed your pain in beautiful colors, if only for a moment, before bringing you gently back to yourself, emptied and ready to rest.

She blessed the poor man and wished him peace, even though she didn’t know the words herself.

After that, though, she was able to doze in fits and starts, her mind slipping back and forth between reality and the shadowed landscape of dreams. Deep in the night, she woke to a murmuring voice; it took her a moment to realize it was Malena, crooning to her boy. Even though the darkness was complete Cass knew that the woman would be holding her son close, cradling his failing body like an infant in her arms, that she was singing the songs she’d sung him when he was a baby and was offering her soul for a moment’s comfort for him, the only gift she had left to give. Cass squeezed her eyes shut against the sound. It was too much for her to bear, another woman’s anguish.

Let Ruthie live,
she prayed, and then she felt her face go hot with mortification because she knew she’d trade the boy’s life twice over—a dozen times, a thousand times, countless lives she would trade, children loved by mothers just like her—she would trade all of that if Ruthie could live.

God, please don’t hate me.

Or hate me, if You must, but let her live.

Cass knew that God understood her well, because He had crafted the crevices in her soul that picked up stain and edges as it fell. He knew the terrible thoughts she had and He knew she deserved nothing, that she was the unworthiest of souls. And yet He had brought her this far. She had traveled to the edge over and over again, and each time He had picked her up and carried her back.

Deep in the night, Cass felt both the greatest clarity and the greatest confusion about God. During the day she doubted His existence. Aftertime was inhospitable to faith, with its mixed signals of decay and renewal, its cruel hardships and paltry rewards.

But alone, at night, Cass caught glimpses of Him. She felt sure He existed and He made all this, everything and everyone. Only His purpose remained unknowable. Did He let Cass live because He hated her? Or because He loved her?

23

CASS EVENTUALLY DRIFTED INTO SLEEP AGAIN with this question on her mind and dreamed of a tree with no leaves that bore bitter hard-shelled nuts. The nuts fell to the ground and broke open, revealing withered and blackened meats. In the dream Cass fed them to Ruthie, one after another, growing more and more frantic as her daughter weakened and starved.

Dor’s hand was on her hip when she woke from this dream, sweating and anguished. “Hush,” he whispered, but he did not take his hand away.

“Was I…?”

“Crying. I didn’t want you to wake the others.”

She waited for him to say something comforting, that it would
be all right,
that she could
go back to sleep now.
He didn’t. His hand covered the roundest part of her hip, his thumb resting lightly on the hip bone. He was no longer at the edge of the bed. He was too close. Inches away. She could feel his heat. She could smell his smell.

After what felt like a long while it occurred to Cass that she could move his hand. She’d just been too disoriented from the dream, that was all, but now she pushed his hand away, only he held it there, his fingers digging into her soft flesh, thumb deep in the hollow below the bone. He had a strong grip on her, and as she struggled against him he pushed back. He would leave bruises, if he wasn’t careful.

“Let go of me.”

“No.”

Their words were whispered, greedily consumed by the silence of the night. Cass sensed the others’ sleep was at its deepest; it must be the hours before dawn, when the soul repaired itself and the unconscious mind decided whether it would fight another day. It was the hour when the innocent dreamed elaborate, fantastical stories and the ravaged slipped gratefully to their deaths—perhaps Malena’s son was dying now in his mother’s arms. There was little risk of waking anyone, but Cass felt a stirring of something like fear.

“I said let go.”

Dor hooked a leg across her and then he was on top of her, pinning her. He rested his weight on his elbows, he wasn’t hurting her—but she could feel his arousal and it made her catch her breath.

“You had no right,” he whispered softly, his breath soft on her face. “Everything you do, everything you’ve ever done, it was someone else who paid your way. You take things, Cass. You came in the Box, you came in
my
home and you started taking. Smoke paid for you then and he kept paying.”

No,
Cass wanted to say,
you’re wrong,
but his weight on her chest kept her silent. He didn’t sound angry. But he was wrong. She wasn’t like that. What about all the years when things were taken from
her?
What about the things she gave away, over and over and over again? Her body, her hopes, her pride?

“Maybe this is the perfect place for you,” Dor continued. His voice was soft, controlled, emotionless. “Rebuilders are big on taking what’s not theirs. Just like they took Sammi. They took my daughter and they’ll regret it, I’ll make sure of that. But you, you’ll fit right in here, Cass.”

She struggled under him, pushing at his chest with the flat of her hand. But he just seized her hands and pinned them to the mattress above her head. She pushed against his calves with her feet, grunting with effort, and he hushed her again.

“You want me off of you?”

“Yes.”

“Right now?”

“Ye—”

But he lowered himself against her, very lightly, his physical control exquisite. He brushed against her and her legs opened automatically, treacherously, and Cass realized she didn’t want him gone at all. She—her body, her willful unrestrainable body—wanted him pressed against her, smothering her, taking the breath from her. Entering, stroking, seizing, pummeling, pounding, crushing, drilling, defiling, befouling her. She wanted him and he knew it.