Z for Zachariah (13 page)

"I was… away." His voice was a little stronger. "I heard you playing… So faint. I tried to listen…" He had lost his breath and he stopped. "It faded… but I tried, and it came back…"

I said: "You're too weak to talk. Don't try. But I'm glad you heard it." Poor Mr Loomis. I think he was saying that my playing had helped him. I wondered if he had heard my reading, too.

He had. The next day he seemed twice as strong. His temperature was only a hundred and one, and I had not even done the alcohol rub. He could move a little, though not enough to feed himself. But he kept his eyes open longer, and looked at things in the room. When he spoke again he was not so vague and breathless; but he was still remembering back to the bad days, as before.

"I thought I was a long way from—from everything. Somewhere cold. Floating away. It was hard to breathe. But I heard you talking, and then the floating stopped as long as I listened. And the same with the music."

"You're much better now."

"I know. Not so cold any more."

I fed him more of the custard and the soup, about every two hours, and he seemed to be hungrier each time. In fact his appetite became very good, and on the third day I switched to solid food. He was making up, of course, for all the days he had eaten nothing. I would guess he had lost fifteen pounds or more.

On the fourth day, another milestone. I went in with his lunch, prepared to feed it to him as before. He was on his side, propped up on one elbow, and I noticed that the colour in his face was much better: up from blue to white to almost normal skin tone. He said:

"If you'll help me up, I think I can do it myself."

"Do what?"

"Eat."

I hesitated and he said, quite urgently: "Let me try, at least."

So I got some more pillows and put an arm under his shoulders to help him up. He sat with the lunch in his lap and fed himself; he was rather shaky but obviously determined to do it, and satisfied with himself when he could. I suppose he had felt like a baby being spoon-fed. Fortunately the lunch was stew, and easy to eat; just the same, he had turned a shade paler before he was finished, and seemed glad to lie down again. But he ate it all himself.

My worry over him grew less each day, and as always with worries (mine at least) when a big one fades away the smaller ones start creeping in. I went out to the garden I had been neglecting—I had scarcely looked at it for two weeks—and the field I had ploughed but never planted. They are, as I said, smaller worries, but real ones. We can live through next winter on what is in the store, and so can the cows and chickens. But there is a danger point beyond that, because the seeds I wanted to plant were already two years old, and next year they would be three, and each year fewer of them would germinate. So I really needed to get some in the ground, if only to harvest the new seeds.

I regarded this worry as entirely my own, and of course did not intend to say anything to Mr Loomis about it, sick as he still was. In any case it was not as bad as it might have been. I walked through the rows of the garden and saw that everything had come up; the earth had grown somewhat too hard and caked, but that had done no damage yet. I could fix it quickly with a hoe and a hand cultivator—both were leaning against the fence near the gate where I had left them two weeks ago. Everything was a month late, which meant the peas would not do much if it turned hot—not many to eat, but surely enough for seeds next spring. We would have lettuce, radishes and mustard greens starting in two more weeks. Even the potatoes had small but healthy looking green vines coming.

I walked down to the field. It still lay in furrows, looking rather desolate, and a few weeds had come up. I had not yet harrowed it, however, and that would take care of these if I did it carefully. The important thing was to get the corn planted; it, at least, would do all right this late, though it would not ripen until late September or October—and then all at once instead of staggered the way my father used to grow it. That would not matter to the cows and chickens, however; it only meant less corn on the cob for us. Still I could cut some off and can it, and also grind corn meal. Mainly I would have plenty of new seed for next year.

I am not too sure about the soy beans. I have never grown them and cannot remember when my father used to plant them. I think they should have been sown earlier. Still I will try—again, I should get at least a seed crop.

All of these were important problems, serious, but I could solve them if I got to work quickly. So I had not intended even to mention them to Mr Loomis, more than just to say I had planting to do. But on the fifth day he did two surprising things, one connected with the ploughing and planting, the other not.

The first one I could almost call a scolding. When I brought him his breakfast tray, he said:

"Is the tractor still running?"

"Well," I said, "it is, though I haven't used it much."

"How is the planting? Has the garden come up? And the corn?"

His tone was nervous, almost suspicious. I thought I had heard it before—then I remembered—when he had first come, how nervous he had been. I confessed.

"The garden is all right. It needs hoeing. But the corn…"

"Yes?" Very impatiently.

"I haven't planted it yet. Nor the beans."

At that he acted very disturbed. He raised himself on his elbow—in fact he almost sat up. He was much stronger.

"Not planted it? Why not?"

"You were so sick," I said. "I was too worried—"

He interrupted. "What has that to do with planting?"

"When your fever was high and you were delirious, I didn't dare leave. I didn't want—"

"You mean you never left the house?"

"Not at first. Except a few minutes to milk the cow."

Then I made a mistake.

I said: "In the end, I did go to the church."

"To
church
?" He sounded as if he could not believe it. "To
churchl"
He lay back in the bed. "How long did that take?"

I said: "I'm not sure. I went three times." I realized that

I should not have mentioned it at all. It seemed to irritate him so.

"Three times to church, and the field not planted."

I wanted to explain how I had felt, how important it had seemed when I thought he was dying, but I realized it would only make him more upset.

So instead I said: "It's not really so bad. We often planted corn this late—even in July. It does very well."

"When does the frost begin?" He sounded sceptical.

"Never until November. And the corn will be ready in October—maybe September."

"If you plant it now?"

I said: "I was planning to start today. I went yesterday and looked at the field. I have to run the harrow over it first."

"How long does that take?"

"Half a day. I can plant some this afternoon. Maybe all of it."

He seemed mollified. In a way, he even tried to explain. "I worry about food. I even dream about it."

Yet I was startled. He had sounded annoyed and did not understand why I had gone to church and how much I had wanted him to live. I might still try to explain, but later. After the planting was done, it would not be such a sore subject.

But there was more to it than that, when I got to thinking about it. I had been regarding the field, the tractor—the
valley
—and the planting and garden, all as things of mine, to do or to worry about. But he had begun thinking about them as his, too. I thought I could figure out why. It was because, all of the time until now, he had been sick. It had been his sickness that first made me let him know I was here. And now, for the first time, that was over. He was not completely recovered yet, but he had realized that he was going to be, that he was going to live. That was the change. And now he considered the valley as much his as mine. I would have to get used to the idea.

The other thing he did was not so serious. In fact, it would have seemed funny except that it was rather pathetic.

I spent the morning running the harrow, a job I have always enjoyed. Even though the soil had set for two weeks—which it is not supposed to do—it broke up easily, and I watched the ugly corkscrew hummocks of the plough change into smooth, narrow ridges, looking the way a field ought to look. Faro bounded around the tractor, his feet stirring up small sprays of dirt with each bound. He knows not to go near the wheels.

In the afternoon I planted, getting the corn about three-fourths done before it was time to go in and start the supper. As I planted I began thinking about the fact that my birthday was coming in two days.

That made the stove even more of a joy than it had been, because as I got the fire going I realized that I could have a real birthday cake, layers and all. I was just starting to cook when I heard a loud
thud
from Mr Loomis's bedroom, and then a series of smaller thumping noises. It sounded like a struggle going on.

And so it was—a solitary one. I ran to his door and saw him: he was on the floor, sprawled in an awkward heap, holding to the bed and trying to get up.

I ran to him. "Did you fall?"

He said: "Not exactly. I was stupid. I tried to get up." He raised himself to his knees and then, with a really painful effort, tried to get back on the bed. He almost succeeded but at the very end he rested his weight on his legs and his knees buckled in a rubbery way, just like a comedian I once saw trying to act drunk. He fell to the floor again.

I said: "Let me help you up."

"No," he said, quite fiercely. "I can do it. Just don't stand and watch." He felt foolish—I could understand that, so I went and stood outside the door. In a minute I heard him try again, and this time I heard the bed creak as he pulled himself back on to it. I went back to the kitchen and cooked the dinner. When I took him his tray he seemed cheerful enough. He did not mention the incident at all, but asked me if I could bring him the following things: some pencils, plain white paper, a ruler, a protractor, and a drawing compass.

As it happened, I had them all in my desk upstairs, left over from geometry. I brought them to him after dinner, and then began planning my birthday cake.

Chapter Fifteen

June 22nd

During the week since my birthday he has learned to walk again. But only very weakly, while holding on to something.

The first three days he tried and failed, as he had before. He was secretive about it. I do not know exactly why. Probably because he felt foolish when I saw him after he fell. Or maybe he wanted to surprise me. But I heard him from the kitchen: the thud as his feet reached the floor (but more cautiously now), and the creak of the bed as he pulled himself back. He may also have done this other times when I was outside working; I think what he was actually doing was exercising his legs—putting as much weight on them as he could, a bit more each time.

And on the fourth day he succeeded—again, entirely in private. In the kitchen (getting lunch) I heard the same thud as before, but then, quite unmistakably, the sound of a footstep, then another and a third, very slow and cautious. I felt like running in and applauding! But I thought that if he wanted that he would have called me. He feels that it is his problem and he is going to solve it himself.

However, I did feel like an eavesdropper—apparently he did not realize the sound could be heard in the kitchen—and not wanting to feel sneaky I thought I should let him know. Since he got better I had settled into the custom of eating my meals (except breakfast) on the card table by his bed. So when I brought the tray in I took my own food off, gave him his, and said:

"I thought I heard you walking."

He was by this time back in the bed, but sitting up and studying a diagram he had drawn on one of his pieces of paper. He had been working on them steadily during the past week: he was designing the water powered generator.

He looked up without expression and said: "It's something I have to do."

He did not even seem interested, but looked back at his diagram and added: "I wish I had a book. These magazines don't explain enough." He had the copies of
The Farm Mechanic
beside him on the bed.

"What kind of book?"

"Engineering. Physics. Electricity. I suppose it would be several books. Also a good encyclopaedia. You don't have one?"

"No. But I know where there is one. In the library in Ogdentown."

"Ogdentown?"

"You must have passed through it when you came here. The library is the grey stone building on Court Street—"

"I passed through many towns. Hundreds."

"Well, Ogdentown must have been the last one."

"How far from here?"

To my joy it sounded as if he was going to suggest what I had been thinking about suggesting.

"Not far," I said. "Only over the second ridge."

"How many
miles
?"

"Well, about twenty. A little over twenty." (Actually it is closer to twenty-five.)

There was a pause. He ate several bites of his lunch and did not say any more.

So I asked: "If we brought books from there—brought them here—would they be dangerous? Radioactive?"

"Yes."

"For how long? Permanently?"

"No. They'd cool off eventually. Maybe six months, maybe more—maybe less. It depends partly on size."

I said: "So long?"

"That wouldn't matter too much. I could wear the suit, and copy out what I needed—gear ratios, things like that."

"But I was hoping to read them. Still, I suppose I could wait six months."

"You wouldn't enjoy reading technical books."

"They have other books in the library. They have whole sets of Shakespeare, Dickens, Hardy. And poetry."

As I suspected, he was not too interested in that. He ate some more, and then said: "It doesn't matter anyhow—right now at least. I can't walk that far. When I can———"

And then, because I had been thinking about it so hard, I said the wrong thing again.

"But I can. If you'd lend me the suit, I could go."

I could hardly believe how annoyed that made him. I should have known, I suppose, having heard him dreaming when he was sick, and the way he talked to Edward.