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be-ne-ath the skylight. It didn't mat-ter that the-re was no suns-hi-ne
pe-eking thro-ugh the clo-uds. I still wan-ted to try it. May-be it was
ho-pe-less or per-haps I just wan-ted to bre-ak the mo-no-tony. May-be I
tho-ught so-me ult-ra-vi-olet rays wo-uld cre-ep thro-ugh and
pho-tosynt-he-sis wo-uld ma-gi-cal-ly hap-pen. I was al-so just fuc-king
ti-red of eating fish, se-abirds, and kelp, along with the oc-ca-si-onal
sca-ven-ged bag of po-ta-to chips or a can of corn from an aban-do-ned
bu-il-ding.
Jimmy and a few of the ot-hers had hel-ped me bring so-me po-ol tab-les up
from the six-te-enth flo-or. They we-re the he-avy, sla-te-bot-tom type, and
it had be-en a full day's work. We'd pla-ced them be-ne-ath the skylight, and
then used plywo-od to sho-re up the-ir si-des. I fil-led them with what
lit-tle dirt we co-uld find at the ti-me and ad-ded to it when I fo-und mo-re.
Now the-re was a fo-ot of so-il la-ye-red evenly on top of the tab-les. We
used fish bo-nes, bird fe-at-hers, and ot-her or-ga-nic was-te from our
catc-hes for fer-ti-li-zer. The smell was bad, but I'd grown used to it. At
one po-int, Lee sug-ges-ted we use our own exc-re-ment for fer-ti-li-zer, but
I'd bal-ked. I still had to sle-ep the-re and wasn't thril-led at the idea of
smel-ling and til-ling thro-ugh my fel-low cas-ta-ways' shit.
So far, not-hing was gro-wing, ex-cept for so-me po-ta-to-es and a few
baby pi-ne tre-es and spi-der plants that Jim-my and I had sca-ven-ged from
ot-her bu-il-dings.
Anna and Sa-rah used the po-ta-to-es spa-ringly, ca-re-ful not to
dep-le-te them all un-til we we-re su-re they'd con-ti-nue gro-wing. On the
ra-re oc-ca-si-ons when they did co-ok with them, they ma-de a won-der-ful
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ad-di-ti-on to our se-afo-od di-et. Des-pe-ra-te for so-me gre-ens, we'd even
de-ba-ted eating the pi-ne tre-es and spi-der plants, but de-ci-ded we
co-uldn't. Not yet, at le-ast.
I pul-led out the ho-usep-lant, the bag of pot-ting so-il, and the se-ed
pac-kets that I'd fo-und ear-li-er that day, and then I unw-rap-ped Jim-my's
he-ad. For a mo-ment, I saw him stan-ding the-re, not so long ago.
He had sto-oped over a baby pi-ne tree, in-ha-ling the fresh scent.
"Damn, that smells go-od, du-de! I for-got how pi-ne tre-es smel-led."
"Yeah." I sip-ped ins-tant cof-fee, bre-wed with salt-wa-ter to avo-id
dep-le-ting the fresh wa-ter sup-pli-es. It tas-ted li-ke shit, but it was
still bet-ter than eating the ins-tant cof-fee with a spo-on. "I'd gi-ve my
left nut to be stan-ding in a pi-ne fo-rest right now, fe-eling the ne-ed-le
car-pet be-ne-ath my fe-et and bre-at-hing that in."
"Hell," Jim-my had la-ug-hed, "whi-le we're at it, I'd gi-ve both nuts to
be in bed with Hil-lary Duff and Brit-ney Spe-ars, and ha-ve a ni-ce, ra-re
sir-lo-in ste-ak to go with them. One that's cold and red in the mid-dle.
And may-be a ba-ked po-ta-to, too, with but-ter and so-ur cre-am, and an
ice-cold be-er. God damn, that wo-uld hit the spot, wo-uldn't it?"
"Fucking aye, brot-her," I'd ag-re-ed.
"Fucking aye."
How long ago had that be-en? It was hard to tell the-se days. Ca-len-dars
and ho-li-days se-em to ha-ve be-en was-hed away with the rest of
ci-vi-li-za-ti-on. No one even lo-oks at the-ir watc-hes any-mo-re. At le-ast,
I don't. What do-es it mat-ter what ti-me it is?
I held up Jim-my's he-ad and lo-oked him in the eyes.
"Well bro," I sa-id, "I co-uldn't get you the girls or the ste-ak or the
be-er, but you li-ked the pi-ne tree, so I gu-ess this will ha-ve to do.
Sorry, man."
I dug a ho-le ne-ar one of the baby pi-ne tre-es and then pla-ced Jim-my's
he-ad in it, co-ve-ring him up with the pot-ting so-il. When I was do-ne, I
plan-ted the se-eds and mo-ved the ho-usep-lant from its tiny pot in-to the
gar-den. I pla-ced it di-rectly over his he-ad, so that it co-uld fe-ed as it
grew.
While I did this, I tho-ught abo-ut when we we-re kids.
I tri-ed re-al-ly hard to cry, but it didn't hap-pen.
Across the ro-om, Jim-my's bed sat empty, the she-ets still rump-led from
the night be-fo-re. His things sat ne-arby, odds and ends he'd gat-he-red
du-ring va-ri-o-us sca-ven-ger trips: auto-mo-bi-le and nu-die ma-ga-zi-nes,
ci-ga-ret-tes, a bo-om-box and a half-do-zen com-pact discs, to-ilet-ri-es, a
half bot-tle of Jim Be-am, and a Ro-lex that had ta-ken a lic-king but was no
lon-ger tic-king.
The ro-om se-emed qu-i-et wit-ho-ut him. I ma-de su-re the-re we-re
bat-te-ri-es in the bo-om box and then put in a disc by Pan-te-ra. I pla-yed
"Ce-me-tery Ga-tes," which had al-ways be-en Jim-my's fa-vo-ri-te song.
I sa-id go-od-bye to my fri-end.
When it was over, I to-ok out Pan-te-ra and pla-yed so-me Le-wis and
Wal-ker.
The aco-us-tic gu-itar me-lo-di-es was-hed over me and I clo-sed my eyes,
thin-king abo-ut li-fe be-fo-re the ra-ins ca-me. It se-emed li-ke it had all
hap-pe-ned a long ti-me ago, and to so-me-one el-se, as if I'd se-en it in a
mo-vie or re-ad it in a bo-ok.
I co-uldn't re-mem-ber be-ing dry. Or warm. Or sa-fe.
Later in the night, Lo-ri slip-ped in-to my ro-om. I he-ard the do-or
cre-ak open, and when I rol-led over in bed, she sto-od be-si-de me, we-aring
a flimsy nylon night-gown. She smi-led, and I smi-led back. I ope-ned my
mo-uth to spe-ak, but she put a fin-ger to my lips, lo-oking at me with tho-se
sad brown eyes in the soft glow of the lan-tern. She held out her arms and we
mel-ted to-get-her. Si-lently, we und-res-sed each ot-her and then, wit-ho-ut
a word, we ma-de lo-ve. Even our or-gasms we-re qu-i-et, des-pi-te the-ir
in-ten-sity. When it was over, I tremb-led in her arms, but still, I did not
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cry.
After the tre-mors sub-si-ded, I snuf-fed out the lan-tern and we lay
the-re in the dark, in a ro-om smel-ling fa-intly of rot-ting fish and pi-ne
tre-es, un-til the ra-in lul-led us both to sle-ep.
For the first ti-me sin-ce the ra-ins star-ted, I didn't ha-ve any
night-ma-res.
My dre-ams we-re as dry as my eyes.
Chapter Eight
Lori was still sle-eping be-si-de me when I wo-ke up. Her ho-ney-brown
ha-ir spil-led ac-ross her fa-ce, and I don't re-mem-ber ever se-e-ing
anyt-hing qu-ite so be-a-uti-ful in my li-fe. She lo-oked so pe-ace-ful-but
tro-ub-led at the sa-me ti-me. Her brow was fur-ro-wed, and her eyes dar-ted
be-ne-ath the lids.
I won-de-red what she was dre-aming abo-ut. The who-le thing se-emed
un-re-al.
I'd for-got-ten how go-od it felt to be with so-me-one. Not just the sex,
but to ac-tu-al-ly ha-ve so-me-one the-re with you, to he-ar them bre-at-he,
fe-el them mo-ve, watch them sle-ep. I snug-gled clo-se to her, shut my eyes,
and snif-fed her scent. Our musk from the pre-vi-o-us night still clung to the
bed and I sa-vo-red it.
So this was lo-ve. Or the start of it, at le-ast.
I li-ked it.
She felt warm-and dry. Dryness had ne-ver be-en ero-tic be-fo-re the
ra-ins ca-me, but now I co-uldn't think of anyt-hing mo-re ple-asu-rab-le.
I wasn't su-re what wo-uld hap-pen with us next. I'd be-en lo-nely. Sa-rah
was off li-mits, Mindy had ho-oked up with Mi-ke, and An-na was out of my age
ran-ge. I'd be-en in-te-res-ted in Lo-ri all this ti-me, but so had Jim-my.
Be-ca-use of that, I'd ne-ver ma-de a mo-ve. Now, Jim-my wasn't even
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