The Safety of Nowhere (13 page)

“Are they gone?” Her croaky whisper sounded wrong. She cleared her throat and wiped her eyes. When she could focus again, she looked around her at her house.

Her home. The place she’d lived for seven years. Her best memories were here. The only future she enjoyed imagining was tied to this place too. Her gaze traveled from Cy’s chest to her kitchen, pausing at the wall in front of her. The holes were still there from Cy’s ugly mounted fish. He gave in to her plenty, but there’d been no way she could talk him into taking that thing off the wall. The week after he’d died, she’d made a point of putting it out in the shed and told herself it was the merry side of widowhood. Right. That night she’d grieved the empty wall along with her dead husband.

Dinah slid down to the floor and sat with her head pressed into her knees. This was it now. This part of her life was over. No rape, no shotgun marriage to some toothless fool. There were corpses littering her garden. Fouling everything. The end of Eden. Banished by the smooth seduction of a snake.

Malcolm held his hand to her. She blinked at it and didn’t move.

“I have to go outside,” he said. “If I don’t come back in a few minutes, you can assume there’s something’s wrong. If anyone but me comes near you, shoot to kill.” She stared at him, heart speeding up again.

“They’re gone for now. They’ll need time to regroup but keep your guard up. We don’t know who these men are.”

“I know who they are,” said Dinah. “They’re idiots. They’re Rocco, different shapes and sizes. Oh God.” She pulled herself into a ball. Had they just murdered Gordon’s father? That poor kid.
Come back, Joanne. Come back and take him someplace better. A life up north with teachers, other kids.
There was that chance at least.

Malcolm took a step toward the door.

“Wait.” Dinah got to her feet. “Where are you going? If there’s someone out there, why give them something to shoot at?”

“I don’t want to stay here any longer than we have to. If they’re gone, we’re going too. Now. Grab some things. Important papers, pictures, enough clothes for a few days. Some food and water. Whatever you think you’ll need.” She stood up, and he kissed her on the forehead. She let him touch her face and pull her into him, but she could feel her spirit rising out of her and disappearing in the air like smoke.

He turned away.

She watched his body fade into the night.

Chapter Twelve

They’d taken someone’s truck. An ancient black monstrosity with torn upholstery that reeked of mayonnaise and sweat. Whose it was, she couldn’t say. A dead man. That much she did know.

Dinah had insisted she would drive. The whole way she was rigid, sick, the muscles in her neck drawn tight as bricks. Staring down the asphalt kept her dry-eyed, which was the one thing she was clinging to.

The old interstate stretched dully between rocky hillsides. Malcolm spotted remnants of burned-out cars, but otherwise no sign of any danger lingering from Earth First’s supposed coup. They stopped once—coffee and bathroom. That was all. No words. No sound. No memorable event. Just one long journey, leading away from Dinah’s ruined life toward a future she could not bear thinking of.

Twenty miles south of Jackson City, the landscape gradually began to change. More cars, more lights, more everything. Malcolm used that hated black square drawn from his pants’ pocket to guide her to the exit. They made their way down a wide street and stopped in front of an enormous block of buildings, square and white like teeth.

Dinah stepped out of the car and looked around. The place was
landscaped
—she was pretty sure that’s what they called it. Tiny, walled-in areas of rock and wood chips housed waxy ferns and palm fronds strewn with lights. At some point they passed by a waterfall, some sort of pond, all of it fake and clean and ugly.

Malcolm forged ahead, seemingly invigorated by it all. This was what he liked, what he was used to. She let the distance grow between them.

I can’t.
The thought was spiraling inside her like a siren. An alarm. This wasn’t a good place for her to be

They went inside a sort of lobby, vast and empty with high ceilings. A large bouquet sat in the center of a frigid entryway, sterile in its scentless beauty. Ugly.

Malcolm touched her lower back, and she looked up to see two people coming toward them. Dinah recognized the man. She’d seen his picture on the infoscreen the day that she’d first seen the stories of the bombing at the Body House and decided she would volunteer.

“This is Amin and Solange Clay,” Malcolm said.

“Hi,” said Dinah. It was not a very robust salutation. Solange smiled graciously, then pulled Malcolm into her arms. When she released him, she was smiling with such delight that Dinah wanted suddenly to slap her. Amin placed himself between his merry wife and Dinah’s rigid body as she waited blankly through the conversation. “Settle in and rest,” he finally said, eyeing her carefully. “Tomorrow there’ll be time to talk.”

She let herself be led by Malcolm up some stairs, then down two different hallways. The thick patterned carpet muffled the sound of their footsteps. Her inner siren, on the other hand, was getting louder. More persistent.

I can’t do this. I can’t stay here.

He made her use her thumb to open the door. Pointless progress, airless sterile space. She stepped inside. There was a sitting room, a bedroom, and a bath. All of it extremely elegant and extremely wrong.

“I asked for green.” Malcolm came and stood behind her, speaking in her ear.

“Thanks.” She took in the lush furnishings inside the ornate cube.

It was awful. All of it completely awful. After a night’s sleep she would go home again. She’d walk there if she had to. She’d go back and live there until somebody killed her. Better that than a bland beige season living in a decorative slab. Dinah’s stomach flipped. Her eyes were swimming. Her throat was rasping with the manufactured air.
Too much. I won’t get through this.

Malcolm touched her back again.

“You have to go,” she said, turning reluctantly to face him.

He faltered slightly when he met her gaze. His body tensed. He didn’t say a word.

“Good-bye.”

“Good-bye?” He looked bewildered by the word. Later she would certainly regret this moment and wish they’d had the tender separation they deserved. Right now, however, there were so many emotions swimming through her that she couldn’t hope to piece apart which one was sorrow, which one horror, which one love.

Malcolm looked from her face to the four walls around him, at a loss. “This is only for a day or two,” he told her carefully. ”When there’s time, we’ll find a better place.”

“I’m sorry, Malcolm. I’m sure I sound awful and ungrateful.”

“Do you think I want your gratitude?”

“What do you want?” She stopped him from speaking, her hand on his lips. “Don’t bother telling me, because I know that I don’t have it. Whatever it is, I can’t oblige. There’s no point in your staying here, and anyway, I want to be alone.” She heard how graceless she was being; she knew it, and she knew it would only get worse, which was why she needed to get him away from her. Too much meant darkness, solitude, or some horrible scene. She wouldn’t risk bad memories of him beyond what they’d already been through. The good days she held in her heart were too precious to endanger.

“You have to go.”

Malcolm took a step backward and glanced toward the door. His face was very pale. “I’ll come back later.”

“Don’t come back,” she said.
I won’t be here.
Awful. She was being awful, and she couldn’t even look at him. She stepped out of her shoes and made quick work of taking off the rest. When she was naked, Dinah opened her small suitcase, fished out her robe, slipped it on.

“I’m not myself,” she said. “I actually don’t think I’m anyone. Who knows when I’ll be somebody again? It hurts to be with someone when you’re no one. That means you have to go.” She brushed one tear away and then another.

He was so straight. Why did he always get straighter when something was hurting him? And did his eyes have extra splinters in them, or did it only look that way because she’d started crying?

“There’s a place downstairs where you can send for me.”

“A place downstairs,” she echoed dully. She was not going to any place downstairs. She was going home. Home. She needed to be home. Even if she had to turn back time to get there.

He stood before her, hurt and worried. Dinah felt the hurt and suffered with him, but that didn’t mean it could be helped.

“Tell me what I should have done.”

That again. She took a slow, shuddering breath. “For the last time, Malcolm, this has nothing to do with you. How could it? When the Outlands happened you were on another planet. When Cy died you were sex-doctoring in some big fancy brothel or whatever. What happened to me started long before you were dragged into it. You didn’t start it. You couldn’t fix it. You just had the lousy luck to have to see it. I wouldn’t even say you made it worse, despite the men you murdered on my lawn. Even if you ruined everything, I wouldn’t blame you.” God. How could she blame him? She put her arms around him, pressed her face into his chest.

When she felt his body shudder with relief, Dinah instantly regretted what she’d done. He held her tight, hands traveling slowly over her like he could mold the broken parts of her together. “I love you, Malcolm,” she said in a crumbling voice. “I love you, but I lost so much. I lost my house.” At least that’s what she’d tried to say. All that came out was a garbled, high-pitched wail. “My life is gone,” she said, calming herself, “and I feel like I’m going too. Please leave. I need to be alone.”

She walked him to the door. He grabbed the handle and stood very still. Her face was wet, her soul was sick, but she managed to look at him. This time there was disappointment added to the rest. The poor man had imagined she was better than she was.

“I don’t care how many times you’ve said it, Dinah. You’re wrong in thinking this has nothing to do with me. No matter when your troubles started, where I was and where you were, what happens to you happens to me too. I am involved. I am concerned.”

She nodded, sighed. It didn’t change a thing.

He took a small step forward.

“You seem to think you can tell me how to feel about you. How much I should care for you and when and for what reasons. You’re wrong again. What I feel is not for you to say. I am separate and in love with you. My intention is to be here, caring for you, speaking to you. Send for me when you think you can listen.”

Chapter Thirteen

He stood outside the door, a witness to her wordless grief. The mournful
ahs
and
ohs
seemed to slice through his flesh down to the bone.
“Oh God,”
she said. Or else,
“What have I done?”
The hollow keening brought despair so deep she choked and gasped and couldn’t seem to catch her breath. Malcolm waited in those moments with his face pressed to the door, his hand gripping the handle, willing her to calm herself.

In time, the pain eased into sighs. Momentary silences lengthened into longer intervals of peace. When he’d heard nothing for more than an hour, Malcolm let himself believe she was asleep at last. He tore himself away from Dinah’s room and made his way downstairs.

It was three o’clock in the morning when he arrived at Amin’s home. Could he expect to be let in? He didn’t know. He didn’t care how long he had to wait. The Body House was gone, which meant there was one person who could truly help him, and he’d never needed help more badly in his life.

Amin looked remarkably awake. Solange, on the other hand made no attempt to hide the fact that she’d been fast asleep. She’d thrown something over her head, black velvet with gold trim. It looked to be an evening gown, evidently the first thing she’d found.

They offered him a chair, which he refused.

“I have to find a garden,” he said, coming to the point.

No one answered anything to that. After a prolonged silence Malcolm made himself stop pacing and went to stand before Solange. “Forgive the intrusion. Forgive my tone. Please help me.”

“I don’t mind your tone.” She pressed her palms to her eyes and yawned. “Or the intrusion really. I’m just sleepy, that’s all. Amin, do we own a garden?”

“Land,” Malcolm clarified. “Just a nice-sized piece of land that’s relatively safe.”

“Nice-sized,” Amin said with just a hint of sarcasm. His clothes had obviously been thrown on too: a shirt and slacks, no belt or shoes. He looked, as always, just a little less forgiving than Solange, and still he pressed his hand over a metal scanner and his workstation buzzed into full activity. “House and garden,” he commanded, falling heavily into the chair. Malcolm made himself wait where he stood, knowing better than to hover.

“You don’t look well.” Solange pulled at his hand until he sat beside her on a sofa. “It will be all right.”

He nodded, looked around him at the reassuring mess. Amid the shawls and pillows he could see a hodgepodge of worn books spread out along the coffee table. “May I?” He bent and picked one up. The book was covered in fraying red silk. Malcolm traced the pattern of a dragon with one finger. He flipped through pages written in a looping script. “What year is this one?”

“1970.” Solange peered over his shoulder. “The girl who wrote it was in college. In love, then not in love. Then finally in love again.”

“What do you do with all of these?” he asked, setting the journal down.

“Didn’t I show you?”

Solange got to her feet and looked around the room liked she’d misplaced something. “Here it is.” She pulled her electronic library from a small table by the door and scanned through several pages until she found the one she wanted.
The Sentimental History of Women
by Solange Clay.

He tapped his finger on the title, saw there were other volumes, and showed her with his eyes that he was quite impressed.

“You see,” she said. “Not just a pretty face.”

Something in the declaration made his eyes sting. Malcolm couldn’t have said why. He set the library aside and sat back quickly, drawing a slow breath.