Eric had never thought about this before. He remembered cooking many meals in the microwave. It was true. He’d never grown anything in his life.
“We don’t want that again,” Sharif said. “The Slow Society believes that food is the very foundation of our existence, Eric. It is our connection to the land, our connection to the planet, our connection to life itself. Without growing the food we eat, without producing what we put in our bodies, we lose that connection.”
Eric thought about it. Sharif continued:
“We strive for a world in which the central relationship is to the land and to each other. We live slowly, in the cycles of life, the cycles of seasons, the cycles of rain and snow. We try to be within these cycles, a part of them. We believe that if we stick to these principles, our species will thrive. We will have a better, healthier, more fulfilling life.”
Eric thought about the Society, living here on this farm for years and years, surrounded by the hills. “We’re going to Maine,” he said. “We’re going to live on an island, where the Zombies can’t go. We’re going to have to grow our own food too.”
“You’re welcome to stay here for as long as you want, all of you.”
Eric looked at him. “Thank you,” he said. “I don’t know what we’re going to do. I’ll have to talk with the others.”
“Of course,” said Sharif. “I just wanted to let you know you can stay.”
“Okay,” Eric said. He followed Sharif back to the barn. He looked back at the house and thought about what Sharif had said. He tried to think of the farmhouse as home, imagined Birdie running on the lawn and laughing. But the island was strong in his mind. He kept seeing the waters of the lake shimmering in the sun, hearing the gentle lap of water on the shore. He could see it if he shut his eyes, the pine trees, the water, and the paths of the wind upon the surface of the lake. He could see his father reclined in the boat with a beer in his hand. His own fishing line pointing to the water. The tinny sound of the water striking the aluminum boat.
It was just perfect.
Since the Slow Society had a drilled artesian well, they still had running water. Every morning, before breakfast, Mark or Cecile built a fire under the hot water boiler with wood harvested from the nearby forest. An hour later, steaming hot water came from the pipes. Slipping into the bath for the first time, his body dark with filth, Eric sighed, even through the pain. The hot water stung his feet so badly, he had to rest them dry on the lip of the tub. Red and cratered with blisters, Eric tried not to look at them.
He washed himself and thought of the days he had spent in the forest. The cold of the evenings, the pain in his feet, the constant scrambling, the pain all over his body: the bath seemed to wash that all away.
When he finally got out, the water was dark and frothy around the edges, like hot chocolate.
One night, as the four of them gathered in Eric’s room before bed, Brad was more talkative than usual.
“What did you do before the worm?” Brad asked him. But he didn’t wait for a reply. “I watched movies.”
“Really?” Eric encouraged. “I did too.”
“I went to the movies as often as I could. Sometimes like five times a week. Man, I saw everything! I’ve seen Die Hard and Bloodsport and Rainman like a hundred times, I bet. I used to sneak in with.” Brad stopped and bit his lower lip. Then he smiled and continued. “I used to sneak in and see everything. I’d pay for one movie and stay there all fucking day. All fucking day!” He clapped his knee and laughed. “One day I saw four movies! I saw this cool Italian film called Cinema Paradiso, and then they played this Japanese cartoon called Grave of the Fireflies. That was some fucked up shit. In the afternoon, they played that movie A Fish Called Wanda. We laughed so fucking hard! Then, late that night, I remember, they played Mississippi Burning. That was a great day. I won’t ever forget that day.” Brad laughed again, but then a look so dark, so painful dropped on his face, that, for a moment, Eric was afraid. A dreadful, hopeless feeling leapt upon the surface of Eric’s skin, diving and rising like some dark fish along his back and arms and the scalp of his head. But the moment passed. The darkness left Brad’s face, replaced by a wide smile. “Yeah, I loved movies, man.” His voice was quiet. “Guess they won’t be making any more, will they?” He laughed about that. “Least there won’t be a Rambo four.”
They all laughed about that.
They laughed a long time about that, but it wasn’t really funny.
During the day, Sarah helped in the garden. For the rest of the day, she worked in the kitchen with Katie, an older woman with long dark hair, streaked with gray. Katie was tall and angular and so thin, her bones stuck out at her elbows. Eric had thought she was going to be mean and spiteful, but she had sparkling eyes that matched her sense of humor. Sarah and Katie became inseparable quickly. Both had a passion for food and they spoke about it often, sharing recipes, ideas, techniques. Sarah seemed radiantly happy, and, watching her, Eric doubted that she would ever leave the Slow Society to go to Maine.
Brad had found a friend too. Mark, a short, round man with a grizzly beard who wore overalls and more often than not, toted a heavy, red toolbox with him. Mark was the handyman and spent all his time fixing the myriad things that broke on the farm. When he wasn’t occupied with leaks and the maintenance of various machinery on the farm, he was on the roof of the barn, working on a set of solar panels he had scrounged. He always smoked a cigar, even while he was working. He also swore with a passion while he worked. Perhaps this was what drew Brad to him. In just a few days, Brad followed Mark around the farm, carrying the red toolbox for him, looking serious and severe.
Birdie had all the attention she wanted. Except she didn’t seem to want much. She spoke little and insisted on following Eric. In the evening, she lay by the fire and drew pictures which both Mary and Cecile praised in loud voices. Birdie, however, seemed immune to their attention. From time to time, she allowed one of them to brush her hair or run the bath for her. But she did so with a patient look on her face, as if she did it only to placate them. Then she would go sit next to Eric.
Eric was both disturbed by Birdie’s behavior and flattered by it. He didn’t know what Birdie had been through before he met her, and, in truth, he didn’t really want to know. He answered Mary and Cecile’s questions, but he resented them because they seemed to think he was not a proper figure for Birdie’s devotion. They tried to hide it, but Eric could tell. They thought Birdie needed a mother. What she really needed, Eric thought, was about a year of feeling safe.
As for himself, Eric spent much of his time with Sharif, working wherever it was needed during the day, trailing Birdie with him. Eric remembered there had been a time when he was talkative and joked and laughed, at least with his friends. He didn’t want to talk so much anymore.
One night, after supper, while the rest of them were by the fire, talking, and Birdie was allowing her thick, curly hair to be brushed, Eric went up to his room. He sat on his bed and took out his dirty backpack. He still hadn’t unpacked it. Reaching in, he brought out his calendar. He looked at the wrinkled pages, and then took out the pen and began crossing out days. It was May 30. He put the calendar back and then found his map. It was filthy and worn. He found Athens, Ohio, and then tried to estimate how far he’d come. 150 miles? 200? He traced his finger from Cuyahoga, up the Interstate 80 to Pymatuning State Park, up to Lake Erie, then over to the Alleghany National Forest. He looked at Maine and the lake with its island in the middle. There was still nearly a thousand miles to go.