The Smaller Evil (12 page)

THERE WAS ONE THING ARMAN
needed to do before heading down to the kitchen to see the cook: hide his money. Leaving it in the cabin seemed unwise with the way things were disappearing around the compound. But dragging his whole bag around with him everywhere also felt like a bad idea. Someone might ask what was in it. Worse, they might take the bag from him and look inside.

So Arman scooped the newspaper-wrapped bills from his bag, tucked the entire bulky bundle under his shirt, and left the cabin. After looking around to make sure no one was following him, he ducked into the woods, traveling as far west as he could on soft feet, quiet as a prey animal.

He skidded down a steep hill into a narrow ravine, following the path of a dry creek bed until he came upon a small hollow that was completely shaded and covered in ferns. Falling to his knees, Arman dug at the soft dirt beneath the plants until the hole was big enough. Then he dropped the money in, covered it up, and placed two flat stones over the top, followed by a handful of pine needles.

Arman stood. Wiped the dirt from his hands and sweat from his forehead. He didn't look back as he walked away from the fern hollow, toward the ring of cabins. He felt better now. Unburdened. No one had seen him come out here. He was sure of it. And he wouldn't forget this spot. When the time finally came for him to leave this place for good, once he'd found Beau and figured out what the hell had happened to him, Arman would remember right where this was.

He had no doubt about it.

• • •

I need something good this summer, Arman.

Something I care about.

Shoulders brushing aside thick sunflower stalks and tall ears of summer corn, Arman made his way through the kitchen's lush garden with the words Beau had spoken to him here, just yesterday, playing and replaying in his head. He passed the berry bushes, all heavy with fruit, and the feathery chicken coop, and he remembered Beau's pride. His eagerness to get
started
and the solemn way he'd wanted Arman to know that they were alike. That they saw the world the same way because of how they'd grown up. Although that couldn't be true, Arman realized now, because he didn't believe in suicide. In part, because it was a dramatic gesture he didn't think he deserved, but also because suicide was something selfish people did. People who couldn't be bothered to care about others.

Wasn't it?

Arman also couldn't help but think of last night. What he'd been urged to do with that knife. The dot of blood he'd drawn before stopping.

Had Beau
meant
for him to kill him?

Was that what he wanted?

Overhead, the sun sank from the sky in its arrogant, look-at-me way, but Arman kept his head down. He couldn't stomach seeing the light or pondering questions that might make him sick to answer. He focused on keeping his feet moving, and as he reached the kitchen's garden entrance at last, he found the sliding glass door open. Like an invitation.

Like she knew he was coming.

Arman began to walk faster, pulled in by a tide of anticipation. A wave of heat swept from his belly to his groin, stiffening him and heightening his senses almost to the point of actual pain.

Breathe
, he told himself as he stepped into a kitchen that buzzed with energy. Then he stopped. And stared. Because everything was different. Unlike yesterday, when the cook had been the only one here, the room was now filled with workers, at least half a dozen of them, who were preparing for dinner service: roasting vegetables; taking trays of meat out of the oven; pouring carafes of ice water and wine; and yelling to each other about issues like place settings and the number of chairs and who was going to light the incense. Arman licked his lips. Where had all these people come from?

And where had they been yesterday?

The cook, however, wasn't among the workers. She wasn't anywhere. Arman looked all around before leaving the kitchen in confusion. He started to walk back across the garden. He planned to make his way around to the front of the building to the dining hall entrance, where he hoped to find her. He also hoped to tame some of his neediness in the meantime, to gain some semblance of control over the fire that raged between his legs. He really was in the worst sort of way.

Then he saw her.

She was in the vegetable beds, crouched by a standing trellis in the fading light. The lattice of the trellis was twined with what looked like snap peas, which the cook was picking, collecting them in a clear plastic bowl. She also held a set of shears stuck between her teeth, very gently, the way a Labrador might hold its duck. And maybe it was the intensity of her focus or the intensity of the day, but looking at her not only failed to diminish his sense of desire, it swelled and grew. It threatened to swallow him whole.

Arman walked over. Cleared his throat.

The cook jumped. She squinted up at him. Removed the shears from her mouth.

“Hey.” He gave a small wave.

“What are you doing here?” she asked sharply.

“I came to see you.”

“Me? Why?”

“I wanted to talk.”

“Talk?”

He shrugged. “Yeah.”

Her gaze darted behind him. “Well, did anyone see you?”

“See what?”

“Did anyone see you come over here? Did Mari see you? She was out here before. Checking on me.”

Arman faltered. “Mari? No. I don't think so. Why?”

The cook gripped the bowl of snap peas to her chest. “You can't be here, you know. We can't be seen together.”

“Why not?”

“It's against the rules.”

“Whose rules?”

She glanced over her shoulder. “Look, I can't afford to get in
trouble. And you can't either. Not everyone here likes you.”

“They don't?”

She shook her head. “Beau wasn't supposed to bring you. Or your friends.”

“My friends?”

“Those people you came with.”

“They're not my friends.”

“Sure seems like they are.”

“But you were able to be with me yesterday.”

The cook made a clucking sound, like Arman was a boy who'd done something wrong but who was still, at heart, mostly innocent. “This isn't yesterday. And you told me you were leaving.”

“I did leave. Then I came back.”

“I heard you were sick, by the way. I brought you soup while you were sleeping.”

“I know you did. Thank you. But who said that? I'm not sick. I hit my head. I had to get stitches. That's why I—”

There was a loud sound then—a massive crack-boom that shook the earth, startling them both. The scent of gunpowder filled the air. A flock of swallows burst from the brush in a flutter of wings.

“What was
that
?” Arman breathed.

The cook's face went pale. She scrambled to her feet, dropping her bowl in the process. Peas scattered on the ground.

“That was the cannon,” she said.

“There's a cannon?”

She nodded. “It means Inoculation's over. You have to go now. I do, too.”

“But I need to talk.” Arman took a step toward her. “Things have been happening to me. Things I don't understand.”

The cook backed away. She held up her hands so that the kitchen
shears were between them, glinting in the twilight. “Don't come any closer, Arman. I mean it. You
can't
.”

“
What?
”

“Look, we'll talk later. I promise. Just not now, okay?”

“But—”

“Just go,” she whispered urgently, her eyes darting once again to somewhere behind him. “For
me.
”

ARMAN TURNED AND LEFT. He
managed to hold down the sting of bile rising in his throat as he walked away from her. But just barely.

Not everyone here likes you
.

Beau wasn't supposed to bring you.

Shoulders heavy, he retreated through the garden along the same route he'd come in on. His desire wasn't just dampened now; it'd been washed away. Swamped. Every trace of it gone.

All around him, evening settled. The crickets sang, the world went sooty, and there was something in the earthly gloom and the vastness of the sky that made Arman feel both skittish and weak. And more than a little sad.

It was loneliness, he decided, stuffing his hands into his pockets. That was the source of his sadness. At the moment he felt more alone than ever, because he'd actually dared to let himself need something. Or, more accurately,
someone.

Arman shivered. He was trying hard not to feel sorry for himself, since from what he could figure, self-pity was the only thing worse
than self-loathing. Veering left at the trailhead fork, he headed in the direction of the domed meeting hall. At least he could sit in there, he thought. At least he wouldn't be alone.

The building soon came into view. The wood doors were open and warm light spilled out. People, too. They were leaving, and Arman hurried forward. He was eager to join the group's journey, no matter where it might lead. And that was a feeling that was new to him, he realized, all new—seeking solace in the presence of others.

• • •

Arman slipped in with the migrating crowd. There was nothing to it. No one noticed his presence or asked where he'd been. And in a twist of irony, it turned out the whole group was heading right back toward the dining hall he'd just come from. Although they were walking to the front entrance, of course. Not the kitchen.

Entering the hall, with its dim light and heady atmosphere, Arman trailed near the back of the line with one hand over his stomach. He smelled the food coming from the kitchen, rich and savory, but he wasn't hungry. His sick feeling had grown exponentially since leaving the garden.

He collapsed in the first open chair he came to. The room had started to spin, and staying on his feet seemed risky. Maybe if he put his throbbing head down and closed his eyes, he'd wake up feeling better. More stable. Or better yet, maybe the world would be a different place. And he'd be a different person.

One with a life that made sense.

Four people were already seated at the table he'd chosen. Arman had no idea who they were, only that they were loud and in the middle of a heated debate. So much for sleeping. Their cynical tones and righteous indignation soured Arman's stomach more than it already was. Dinner-table tension never sat well with him.

“But it's the
principle
that matters,” an owlish man with red flyaway hair and wire-rimmed glasses was saying, jabbing the air with his fork for emphasis. “Nothing else. We don't need to change what we're doing. We just need to be
right.
The Evolution will come about naturally. It will be a moral imperative.”

“The principle is never what matters.” A thin woman on his left corrected him. “Morality isn't how change happens. Humans define morality based on their actions. Not the other way around. We always reason to our advantage and we give ourselves all sorts of outs. Look at the doctrine of double effect. That's the very
essence
of what Haidt is talking about.”

“Moral dumbfounding,” agreed another woman. “Gary says it's the reason the younger generations are so dangerous right now. They believe their every urge is valid. They're not going to willingly give that up.”

“Ridiculous,” the first man huffed. “Moral relativism is a myth. Gary and Haidt can both say what they want, but at the end of the day it's like trying to compare the Bible with carbon dating or quantum physics. It doesn't hold up.”

“So you're not in favor of Containment?” the first woman asked.

“I'm saying that from an epistemological perspective, we can't afford solipsism. Containment is a means to an end. Forget the double effect. Immunity's about the herd as much as the self.”

And so it went.

Arman unfolded a napkin. Placed it in his lap. He had no clue what Containment was, or this double effect, but seeing as he was younger and all, did that mean these people actually thought
he
was dangerous? It would've been amusing if he didn't feel so awful. But the whole conversation was weird, and Arman suspected the already-near-empty wine carafe in the center of the table had a lot to do with it.

The food came soon after. Not the fragrant broth the cook had left for Arman back in the cabin. No, this meal was richer. Heavier. Far more decadent. There was brown-sugar-crusted pork loin stuffed with plums and bourbon-soaked figs. There were roasted turnips seasoned with herbs. Bright wraps of rainbow chard filled with goat cheese. Blackberry salsa. Small pots of butter.

When the cook stopped by his table, Arman knew better than to talk to her. It was against the rules. She'd told him that. But knowing didn't stop him. It never did.

“When can we meet?” he blurted as she set a loaf of warm bread in front of him. “I really need to talk to you.”

The cook shot him a cool look in return, one that made him shut his mouth fast. Jesus. He shrank in his chair. But Arman's shame melted like snow in summer when she leaned forward, reached beneath the table, and briefly squeezed his leg before turning and leaving without saying a word.

When she was gone, he looked down. She'd dropped a scrap of paper in his lap. On it was written:

Midnight. My place. Come to the window.

He shoved the paper into his pocket while everyone around him began passing food. Pouring more wine.

“Not hungry?” the old man next to Arman asked, and other than Kira, he was the only black person Arman had seen so far at the compound. That seemed strange, although Arman couldn't have said why. The guy was also really old. As in shaky hands, shriveled skin, and bones that appeared to have gotten lost inside of him. Arman was surprised he'd survived the van ride out here, much less any of the more grueling activities.

“I don't feel very good,” Arman told him.

“Food'll help. It always helps.”

“It won't help if I throw up.”

The old man chuckled.

“Is that funny?” Arman asked.

“It's that girl, isn't it?”

“What girl?”

“The one who brought the food,” the old man said. “I saw you looking at her. You know, I was the same way when I was your age.”

“What way is that?”

“Feeling sick around the pretty ones. That was how I knew I liked them. Love-shy, they call it.”

“Love-shy?”

“Scared of girls. Or whoever it is you like.”

“Oh.”

“I got over it, though.”

“You did?”

“Yup.”

“How?”

“You gotta spend time with them. That's the secret. The sick feeling goes away once you get to know the person. Or maybe it doesn't go away so much as your brain starts to figure out that caring about someone is a good feeling instead of a bad one. Brains are smart like that, you know. They'll find the truth.”

“Mmm,” Arman said, although he wasn't sure this information applied to him. His concussion was the main reason he felt sick at the moment. Besides, he wasn't just love-shy. He was shy-shy. All the time. Around everything. And so far his dumb brain hadn't figured out how to do anything smart about it at all.

Arman took a sip of ice water. Saw the old man was still staring at him.

“How's the, uh, food?” he asked.

“You know, I think I recognize you,” the old man said.

“You do?”

“Definitely.”

“Well, I've been here since yesterday,” Arman said. “So I guess that makes sense.”

“No, that's not it. I know you from somewhere else.”

“I don't know what to tell you.”

The old man scrunched up his face. “Or maybe you just look like someone.”

“Maybe I do.”

“Where are you from anyway?”

“I thought you weren't supposed to ask me that.”

“I just want to figure out where I know you from, kid. I don't need your autobiography.”

“I'm from Santa Cruz,” Arman said quickly. “You?”

“Oakland. Sat on the bench as a superior court judge there for twenty-five years.”

“That's a long time.”

“It is. It's actually how I first met Beauregard.”

“You met him at the courthouse?”

“Yup.”

“So he was a judge?”

“Definitely not.
I
wasn't even a judge back then. But when I met him, he was only eighteen.”

“Oh.”

“You know, I'm
sure
I recognize you.”

Arman squirmed under the weight of the old man's gaze. He tried
changing the subject by tipping his head toward the group on the other side of the table. Their discussion had grown even more heated, the debate having moved on from moral relativism to group dynamics and someone or something called a Bion.

“So what's that all about?” Arman asked.

“Bunch of idiots,” muttered the old man.

“Yeah?”

“Absolutely. They should know better. Goddamn waste of time, arguing over all that philosophical crap. There's no point debating the nature of existence in a place like this. None.”

“There's not?”

“Oh no. It's a sign of stagnation. That's what Wilfred Bion really said. Most people don't want to change. No matter what they say or the more they say it. I taught Beau that a long time ago. That if you aren't moving forward, you're falling toward irrelevancy. And talking's not moving, you know.”

“But Beau wants to move forward?”

“Indeed. He gets pushback, though, from people like these fools, people who don't have his vision. They fear irrelevancy, but they want to be comfortable, so they tell themselves they're doing something important by doing nothing. Pure arrogance. Frighteningly so.”

“Frightening?”

The old man nodded. Leaned closer. “Mark my words, son, when arrogance and fear are used to cover self-deception, that's the most dangerous sort of lie there is.”

• • •

Dr. Gary walked over to Arman as the meal ended. Dishes were being cleared and people were starting to leave.

“Didn't think I'd see you here,” he said, putting his hands on the back of Arman's chair. The old man beside Arman gave the doctor a startled look, then got up. Left without saying a word.

Arman stared after him. Wished he could leave, too. Dr. Gary reminded Arman of teachers he'd had back in elementary school, the ones who demanded nothing of him in terms of education or learning; only that he listen to their boring personal stories and not ask questions they didn't want to answer. Not to mention, Arman hated the way it felt to have someone looming over him. Like he was a mouse stuck between a cat's paws.

“I didn't want to miss anything,” he said finally.

“Can I take that to mean you're still interested in us?” Dr. Gary asked. “In the things we have to teach?”

“I've always been interested. That's why I came here in the first place.”

“But you also said you tried to leave this morning.”

Arman twisted his neck to look up at him. “So you believe me now? About what happened?”

Dr. Gary squeezed his shoulder, then came around to sit in the chair the old man had vacated. “I only believe in what I have evidence of, Arman. That's the reason my faith points inward these days, much to the disappointment of my Baptist mother. But it's also why I believe you when you say you
wanted
to leave.”

Um, was that sentiment meant to be reassuring? Arman thought it was about the most patronizing thing he'd heard in a while. Like telling a kid you believed he
wanted
to win a race when he'd come in dead last. Like he didn't already know he was a loser.

“I was scared,” he said after a moment. “That's why I left. I wanted to be here, but I didn't think I deserved to be.”

“And now?”

Arman racked his brain for the most noncommittal answer. “Now I want to try. I want to get better.”

The doctor smiled. “I'm glad to hear it. Tell me, did you sleep? Your brain can't heal without it.”

“A little bit.”

“How do you feel now?”

“I still have a headache. And my stomach kind of hurts. I can't eat.”

“Your stomach?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, here.” Dr. Gary produced a bottle of pills from a leather bag he carried. “Take two more of these painkillers, and I'll go get you some ginger tea and plain toast from the kitchen. That'll help your stomach, okay?”

“Okay.” Arman fumbled with the lid for a moment, shook the pills out, then went to hand the bottle back.

“Keep it,” Dr. Gary said. “That way you can take them as needed.”

Arman shrugged and slid the bottle into his shirt pocket. He pointed at the dwindling crowd as they trickled from the dining room to go who knew where. “Tonight's not another long hike in the dark is it?”

“Long? No. Tonight's Vespers.”

“What's Vespers?”

“Oh, I think you'll like it.”

“Do I have to go?”

“You said you didn't want to miss anything.”

That felt less like an answer and more like a threat.

“When's Containment?” he asked impulsively.

Dr. Gary cocked his head. “Where did you hear about Containment? Did Virgil say something?”

Arman hedged. “I think someone mentioned it at dinner.”

“I bet they did. Well, focus on tonight. You understand? When you're done with your tea, just walk up to the meadow. You'll find us. We start in ten minutes.”