The Last One (29 page)

At least I didn’t quit. They scared me, but that’s all.

I see Brennan jogging back toward me and I force down the anger I still feel, thinking about their coyote.

“Mae,” he calls, “there’s a supermarket ahead.” He pads to a stop a few feet away. “It’s all locked up, but I found a window.”

The supermarket is less than half a mile ahead, a slightly raggedy-looking building at the far end of an empty parking lot. The front doors and windows are gray, I assume shuttered by pull-down metal. There’s a splotch of color on one, graffiti, unintelligible from here. I think of the rewards card dangling from my keychain, which I left hanging on a coat hook at home. Above the mail, next to the collage. “I wonder what’s on special,” I say. Brennan laughs, and as we cross the parking lot he sprints ahead. He’s acting so young today, like a real kid. Like he’s happy. I used to act like that, but not so much as a kid. It was only after I found happiness as an adult that I was able to relax—to the point that a year into my marriage I was making near-daily fart jokes. I even had a bit where I pretended to be a skunk, cocking my hip and hissing, “tssssss.”

There’s something I’m still not willing to do in front of a camera.

Brennan pauses at the far front corner of the supermarket and waves for me to follow. I wave back and he disappears around the building’s edge. Soon I’m walking along the front of the building, and I see the graffiti is a drippy sketch of a mushroom cloud. I round the corner. Brennan is about twenty feet away, balancing on an overturned shopping cart and looking into a high, small window.

“It’s an office,” he says.

“Can you fit through?” I ask.

“Think so. Hand me something to break it?”

There’s a dumpster nearby, open and fetid. More trash is piled against its side, including a length of rusty pipe. I hand the pipe to Brennan and my hand comes away orange. I wipe the residue on my pants as he smashes the window.

“Clear away the shards,” I tell him.

“I know.” He plucks the teeth from the frame, then crawls inside. “Come on, Mae!”

I climb onto the shopping cart, bringing my shoulders to the same height as the broken window. Inside, Brennan stands in a cramped office. He reaches his hand out, but both the window and the room are small. Trying to help, he only gets in the way. Finally I tell him, “Move,” and lower myself down.

The office door unlocks from our side and opens into a hallway, which is lined with offices and culminates in wide swinging doors. Once as a kid I pushed through a set just like these in search of a restroom and stood aghast at the barren concrete walls that greeted me, then a door to the side opened and a gush of cold air followed a young woman out. She was carrying a case of ice cream, and she ushered me back into the store’s retail area kindly. Despite her kindness, I remember being upset that she didn’t give me any of the ice cream. I felt as though I’d earned it, finding that secret place.

Brennan kicks open one of the double doors, then scrambles to block its backswing. A ridiculous expenditure of energy. I follow him out the door, emerging into the meat department. To our left I see open shelving that should be refrigerated but isn’t. The signs I cannot read but anyone who’s ever done the shopping for a household, even a small one, knows: beef, pork, chicken, kosher. A smattering of festering packages, plastic wrap bulging with the gasses of rot. And though I’ve smelled far worse than this, I pull my shirt over my nose. Perpendicular to the rotting meat is aisle upon aisle of nonperishables, far from fully stocked, but still ample. “What do you think, canned soups?” I ask.

“What?” replies Brennan.

I repeat myself, articulating carefully through my shirt.

“No,” he says. “I want Lucky Charms.”

Beneath the fabric, I allow myself a smile as I follow him to the cereal aisle. The supermarket is dim, but not as dark as I’d expected. Light creeps in from ceiling vents and skylights in the produce section’s vaulted ceiling. The floor is dusty, and I can see shiny trails winding through the matte covering. The trails are dotted with tiny, dark pellets. At the end of the nearest aisle there are stacks of Rice-A-Roni, ten for ten dollars. Several of the boxes have been chewed through, their contents spilled onto the floor to mingle with more rodent feces.

I hear Brennan stop, then a sliding sound as he extracts a box of what I assume are his coveted Lucky Charms. The sound of cardboard tearing, then plastic. I leave the endcap display and catch up to him. He’s munching on handfuls of oats and marshmallow, a blissful smile laid atop his chewing mouth.

“I bet we can find some powdered milk if you want an actual bowl,” I tell him. His eyes go wide with possibility and he nods, cheeks bulging. “But first let’s see what I want,” I say. Though several shelves are empty, the aisle still contains a slew of brands. I’m surprised sponsors have allowed this cohabitation upon the shelves. But I suppose they can easily blur whatever brands they want to blur. Lucky Charms is made by General Mills, so I run my eyes along the Kellogg’s brands, just because. And then I change my mind—do they have Kashi? A moment later, I find the shelf I want, the brand, and then the product. Two boxes left. I grab one and then we head off in search of powdered milk.

I’m about to dump the milk into my little cooking pot, when I think,
Screw it.
We might as well use what’s here. I lead Brennan to the paper-goods aisle and grab a pack of plastic bowls, followed by some spoons. We take our supplies to a display of plastic outdoor furniture surrounded by empty coolers, netted beach toys, and excited signage—
SALE SALE SALE!
I light a couple candles and we dine seated under an entirely unnecessary umbrella. The cereal I chose is sweeter than I remember.

After Brennan finishes his third bowl of Lucky Charms, he wipes his face and asks, “This is a good place to spend the night, isn’t it?”

He’s clearly seeking my approval. “Sure is,” I say. And then—why? I don’t know, it just comes out—“Smells pretty bad and I’m concerned about all the mouse feces, but other than that it’s good.”
Bitch,
I think, as I watch Brennan’s face fall. I want to apologize, but for what? He’s a cameraman, not my friend, and he’s not as young as he looks. I can’t apologize. Not directly. Instead I say, “Let’s explore some more. Figure out what we want to take with us for the final push.”

“Final push?” he asks.

“Yeah, we’re not far. Two or three days.” Miles, I think. So little distance separates us now.

“And when we get there, what happens?”

He probably knows that better than I do. My mood sours. For all my imagining, I know there must be a final Challenge waiting, something more intense than covering distance. Something the audience, the cameras, will find irresistible. At the thought I take out my lens and scan the ceiling. The cameras are easy to find, but I can’t tell if they’re normal security cameras or if the show has put up more sophisticated ones. Of the two I can see, one is pointed at us and the other toward the inactive cash registers. Because something is going to happen over there or for atmosphere? I’ll ready myself for the former. This is the perfect place for a Challenge, after all, because it feels secure.

Brennan and I comb the aisles. At first I don’t even consider searching the produce section, because it’s all gone to mulch, but then a display of potatoes catches my eye. Root vegetables—they last for ages. With a kind of shy hopefulness, I approach the potatoes. Getting close, it’s hard to tell. I almost draw my lens from my pocket, but then reach out a hand instead, preparing myself for rot.

There’s no way they’ll allow me this.

My fingers meet firm brown skin. The sensation is so unexpected I don’t trust it. I squeeze, lightly, then harder, and still the potato doesn’t give.

It’s not rotten.

I must have done something right, something incredible, to earn such a prize. The banner, I think. This is my reward for climbing the downed tree, for bypassing the motel. For being both brave and prudent.

I jog to the front of the store and grab a handbasket. I hear Brennan call after me, but I don’t answer. Within moments I’m picking through the potatoes, finding the “best” by some standard I can’t name. Really, I just want to touch them all. Then I move to the adjacent stand. Onions. Garlic. Ginger. For all the fabricated decay around me, all I smell is spice. Flavor. The next half hour is a manic blur as I scour the aisles and collect ingredients: lentils, quinoa, cans of sliced carrots and green beans, peas. Olive oil. Diced, stewed tomatoes. I attack the spice aisle—ground black pepper, thyme, rosemary, cumin, turmeric, dried parsley, red pepper flakes. The flavors don’t go together, I know that, and yet I want them all.

There are plastic-wrapped packages of firewood at the front of the store, five logs per pack. I clear a space on the floor near where we ate our cereal, then start a fire inside a dinky charcoal grill. “Isn’t that going to set off the sprinklers?” asks Brennan.

“There’s no power,” I tell him. I have no idea if sprinkler systems need electricity to work, but they’ve disabled everything else in this forsaken world. I’ll keep the fire small, just in case. I arrange the grill’s metal grate atop the flames, then set a pot of lentils to boil.

Next, I place a potato on a cutting board. I pause and lift my knife. I breathe out and slice through the spotty skin. The two halves fall aside, revealing a sheen of moisture on the interior flesh. I sit on a plastic chair, staring at the halved potato on its plastic cutting board beneath this plastic umbrella and feel a stirring like joy. Which is ludicrous; it’s just a potato. But there’s something about its organic realness amid all the plastic and preservatives that strikes me as extraordinarily beautiful.

It’s nice to feel this way—even over a potato—but it also makes me nervous. I’m like a turtle pushing her head into the light while predators still peck at her shell. It’s a stupid move, I’m putting myself in danger, and yet—I need to feel this. I need to know that I’m still capable of joy. I brush the halved potato with my hand, and I give in.

First I grin, then I whistle. It’s a nothing tune, full of halting trills and looping, lifting patterns. Not a song, an outpouring. I’m not musical; it’s the best I can do. I dice the potato, and another, and am about to toss them into the boiling water with the lentils when I think—No, home fries. I hurry back to the cooking-gear aisle and grab a frying pan. I dice an onion, mince four large garlic cloves, green sprouts and all. Digging my hand into an oven mitt, I hold the pan over the grill, heating a swirl of olive oil. Once it’s hot, I dump the potatoes, the onion, the garlic all inside the pan at once. The sizzle, the smell; I laugh. I sprinkle a hearty covering of black pepper and a few red pepper flakes, toss it all with a flick of my wrist, then cover the pan and leave the home fries to cook. I chop more onions and garlic, peel some ginger just to smell it, then into the lentil pot it all goes, followed by the canned carrots, beans, and peas once I drain them. The tomatoes I dump in juice and all. At least a tablespoon of dried thyme, more pepper, both red and black, then at first just a dash of rosemary, then another. And—why not?—a single broad bay leaf. I uncover the home fries, give them a stir with a plastic spatula.

Suddenly Brennan is at my side and I’m happy to see him. “That smells great,” he says.

“Why don’t you see if you can find some canned chicken to toss in?”

“On it!” He hurries off.

It’s dark in the store now. My cooking area is well lit from the fire, but only a hint of moon and starlight enters from the vents above. I have no concept of how much time has passed since we entered. It simultaneously feels like only a few minutes and many hours.

Brennan returns and dumps half a dozen cans of cooked chicken breast on the table. I peel off the tops of two and scoop the contents into the lentil stew, which is thick now, bubbling and topped with white foam. I give the lentils another few minutes to cook, then pour in half a bag of quinoa. “It’ll be ready in fifteen or twenty minutes,” I say.

“What about those?” Brennan asks, nodding toward the home fries. I give them a stir and poke one with a plastic fork.

“Almost done.” I leave the cover off so they can brown.

“I was thinking,” he says. “What if we collect all the kitchen towels and stuff, use them to pad the chairs for sleeping?”

An hour or two ago I probably would have dismissed the idea as unnecessary, but now it tickles me. I agree, and Brennan begins hefting armfuls of tiny towels over from their aisle. He tears off the packaging and dumps them onto a pair of beach lounge chairs.

“There might be beach towels somewhere,” I say. “We can look after we eat.”

He nods, then sits across from me. I scoop a hefty portion of potatoes onto a paper plate and hand it to him. Remarkably, he waits until I’ve served myself before eating. Then he’s like a vacuum, steadily inhaling. I hesitate, though, relishing the smell.

“How are they?” I ask.

His answer is mangled by his refusal to stop shoveling food into his mouth, but I think he says, “Awesome.”

I pierce a piece of potato and onion with my plastic fork. I lift the fork and take my first bite, allowing the food to sit between my tongue and the roof of my mouth for a moment. The give of the potato’s flesh, the resistance of its browned skin, the tang of lightly charred garlic, the sweetness of caramelized onion. I’ve tasted this same dish countless times since childhood, and yet I’ve never appreciated it like this. It’s ambrosial. All it needs is—I put down my fork. “One second,” I say, and I jog off into the darkened store. I can’t read the aisle signs, but spot an endcap with pancake mix and turn in. A moment later I have it, a small jug of “real Vermont maple syrup.” I haven’t put maple syrup on home fries since I was a kid; that was how my dad always made them, and as an adult I decided to cut out that extra sweetness.

When I get back to the table, Brennan has finished his potatoes and is eyeing those left in the pan. “Go ahead,” I say as I crack open the maple syrup’s cap. Just a drizzle, that’s all I want. The thinnest dribble atop my portion, maybe a teaspoon’s worth. I clunk the bottle onto the table and stir my potatoes with my fork. The next bite I take is pure comfort, a composite of every positive moment of my childhood. My parents are reservoirs of love, my life is made of toys, sunshine, and maple. It’s a sensation of memory rather than memory itself. I know my childhood was never that easy, but for a moment I allow myself to feel like it was.