“Stop that!” she admonished him. “Let them rest. It’s not like we can do anything about it.”
The truth in her words pulled him down like gravity. When his heartbeat slowed, he could hear the sounds of sleep around him, breath moving in and out like waves in a cove. He felt a curious satisfaction, as though he were watching over fellow knights exhausted by a quest. As though he were responsible for their brief, trustful peace.
5
They awoke to dampness, the carpet smelling like a dog caught in rain. Everyone could see that the water was rising. And although it was happening very slowly, there was something about the slurping sound the carpet made as they stepped on it that caused panic to swirl in their stomachs. The phones were still dead. No one had tried to rescue them yet, which probably meant that the earthquake had done a huge amount of damage and the authorities were overwhelmed. The time had come to open the door. Cameron felt as though his lungs were filling with ice. He was not a praying man, but he closed his eyes and took a shallow breath (that’s all he could manage) and tried to feel his center, as the holy man had taught him. Then he told them.
When he heard the African American’s announcement, which was an admission that he had been right all this time, Tariq’s heart leaped in vindication. But he conducted himself with admirable restraint, giving only a small, righteous sniff before he pushed past the others and laid a proprietary hand on the doorknob. He had scoured the entire area and found no other avenue of escape, but now they would get out, he was sure of it. He beckoned to Mr. Pritchett and Mangalam to hurry up and join him. They took turns pulling at the door, then tried it together. But the door was stuck fast. Tariq kicked at it-which, Mr. Pritchett pointed out, did not improve matters. The two men glowered at each other.
Cameron walked to the back with Mangalam to see if he could unearth any tools. He knew he should hurry, but a strange lethargy had taken him over. The squelch of his shoes on the wet carpet reminded him of a summer he’d spent with cousins out on a farm in East Texas, where his aunt had sent him to get him away from bad influences. That part hadn’t worked. He’d found trouble there, too. He was a trouble magnet, as his aunt liked to say. Today, though, he didn’t recall the problems. What he remembered was the rain coming down in silver sheets on the barn roof, the oaks draped in gray-green moss, the red mud in which you could sink up to your ankles if you weren’t careful, the expanse of endless washed sky from the porch that made a strange hurt in your chest. He would stand on the porch for hours at a time. His cousins laughed at him, called him that daft city boy. He didn’t care. It was the first time in his life that he was aware of nature as a seductive force.
But he couldn’t afford the luxury of reminiscing. He wrenched his mind back to the task at hand, rummaging around on the shelves while Mangalam held the flashlight. Mangalam reeked of mouthwash. It was as though the man hadn’t just swirled it around in his mouth but had splashed some on, like cologne. Oh well. People responded to stress in strange ways. More significant was the fact that they hadn’t found a single strong tool, only another butter knife and a cake server.
What he wouldn’t give for a crowbar, Cameron thought as he walked back. And as though the thought had split him in two, a voice inside his head said, Would you give up Seva?
He was familiar with the tricks of this voice, which had started speaking to him when he was in the war.
No, he said to it.
Not even if you were going to die? the voice persisted. Not even if you knew everyone was going to die because of your decision?
The second question gave him more pause than the first. No, he said finally. And then, I’m not going to answer any more questions.
How about your life? The voice continued, undeterred. Would you give up your life for the lives of all these people?
“Do you think it would help if we removed the doorknob?” Cameron asked Mangalam. He knew he was speaking too loudly. “We could take the screws out with the butter knife. Maybe we’d get a better grip if the hole is opened up-”
The voice grinned. Later, it said, before submerging itself.
Mangalam looked startled at having his opinion solicited, but after a moment he said, “I don’t think that would help.” Hesitantly, he added, “But maybe if everyone who wasn’t hurt held on to one another, and we all pulled together, like when you play tug-of-war-”
That’s what they did. Everyone except Jiang, Lily’s grandmother, and Uma formed a line behind Tariq, who clasped the knob with both hands. Mrs. Pritchett tried to help, but Mr. Pritchett told her, curtly, to please sit down. Each person held the waist of the person in front. When Cameron gave the signal, they pulled as hard as they could. On the third pull, the doorknob broke off, so Cameron took off the screws with the butter knife and Tariq grasped with both hands the edges of the hole that was opened up. On the next pull, the door came unstuck all of a sudden; some people fell down and others fell on top of them. But a cautious cheer went up as soon as they had regained their breath, because the L-shaped bit of corridor that could be seen from the doorway was clear. Tariq gave a triumphant shout and ran out into the passage.
“Wait,” Cameron cried, making a grab for the younger man, but Tariq had already sprinted up the dark corridor. Others tried to follow, but Cameron blocked the doorway with outstretched arms.
“Folks! We’ve got to wait a few minutes to make sure the door wasn’t holding up anything major, something that’s shifting right now and might collapse on us,” he said. They pushed against him. Mangalam was at the front of the crowd with the flashlight. The beam blinded Cameron. He could hear mutinous whispers, someone panting, impatience building like steam inside a cooker. There was a strong possibility that at any moment they would rebel against his cautiousness and trample him in order to follow Tariq. He braced himself for it.
Then they heard the rumble from down the corridor, and Tariq’s cut-off cry.
IT WAS CLEAR TO EVERYONE, EVEN TO HER GRANDMOTHER, WHO was absolutely against it and clutched her tightly to make sure that everyone knew how she felt, that Lily was the only possible choice. She was the smallest and lightest; she might be able to crawl onto the pile of rubble that was now blocking the width of the corridor without starting a landslide and bringing down more of the ceiling. She could peer through the gap of about a foot and a half on top of the rubble and see what lay beyond. Cameron was hoping she would be able to glimpse Tariq, who he suspected was buried under the portion of the ceiling that had collapsed farther down the passage. He wasn’t certain, though, because when he had cautiously called the young man’s name, there had been no answer except for a warning drizzle of plaster from the hole above. Lily gently pried her grandmother’s fingers from her shoulder and gave her a kiss, and nudged her back into the visa office, where Cameron wanted every one to wait in case of further problems. She was surprised at the feel of her grandmother’s cheek, so much more wrinkly than she remembered it, possibly because she hadn’t kissed it in a while. She noticed with a thrum of worry that her grandmother’s hurt arm felt hot. She would have to tell Cameron about it after she returned. She took the pencil flashlight from Cameron, who gripped her elbow.
“Climb only as far as you need to in order to look over the pile,” he whispered. He had explained that out in the passage they must speak very quietly, if at all. Loud sounds could multiply through echoes and cause an avalanche. “If you don’t see him, come back right away. Are you sure you want to try?”