I wish I could say things go back to normal. In fairness, did Sid and I ever get a chance to establish a normal? First, I shot him, then we were unwilling housemates, then we got married. I swear there was a step somewhere in between where we became friends, but we never got to relax in that stage.
So I avoid him. And he avoids me. It’s easy to do. Now that Sid has been accepted as a candidate for the next election, he spends more time in town, working on his campaign. The only time I have to see him is at dinner. Even then, it’s easy enough to sit on the other side of the kitchen and keep my eyes on my own meal. I can pretend he isn’t there. The illusion is only interrupted in the moments when one of the boys asks him a question and my ears prick, straining for the deep, rich notes of his voice.
One night, as he jokes with Silas and James about an old acquaintance of theirs, I’m angry all over again. There are no lurking secrets threatening to undo their trio. They’re relaxed and happy in each other’s company. Do they have any idea how lucky they are?
I try to tell myself that this is fine. April has a ready supply of medication, and no one is about to starve. In all material ways, my life has improved since coming to Salt Spring. True, it’s dull as a wooden knife most days, but occasionally, I get a reprieve.
Twice a week, Carlos doesn’t have to attend regularclasses due to his agriculture program. Instead, he stays home and helps Silas. Now that harvest is over, they’re planning for the next season. They’re considering investing in irrigation hose, though that’s expensive, seeing as rubber needs to be scavenged from the ruins beyond Salt Spring. I know this largely because whenever Carlos is around, I eavesdrop like a fiend, eager for the moment when Silas turns to me, sighs, and says, “I guess you can have him now.”
And what a time it is when I get him! We start with sauces, which he describes as “the key to covering up if the rest of your cooking is shit.” So far, I seem to have the opposite problem. I’m good at making sure something doesn’t burn, thanks to years of cooking with nothing but a campfire. But I can’t get the lumps out of my first attempt at a roux. Dominick winces when we pass around the resulting pasta. Clearly, he remembers the “weed salad” debacle, because he has the sense not to say anything out loud.
On the day our monthly ration delivery arrives, everyone abandons their chores to go through the boxes. Most of it is late season staple crops: dried beans, flint corn, squashes, and oats. The other foods are more precious—a bundle of spinach; a pound of salt; little pouches of dried herbs; a few pounds of carrots and onions; and the last of the summer tomatoes.
One zucchini is so large, Carlos gives it a dirty look. “There’s no way that’s gonna be any good.”
“Really?”
“They get tougher the bigger they get, and that thing’s amonster.”
“Oh, come on. You’ve got all the courgettes you could want.” James hefts the giant vegetable over his head. “Whereasthisis a proper marrow.”
“Oh! Isthatwhat a marrow is?” The great Belgiandetective Poirot was growing zucchini! I’m going to have to tell April.
“Yeah, aright proper marrow, mate,” says Wendell, parroting James’s accent.
James swings his arms, perilously close to smacking Wendell on the head with the zucchini, and Carlos hollers, “No horsing around with the food!”
James sets it down so he can tear after Wendell unencumbered. Wendell runs for his life and I laugh so hard my ribs ache.
It takes Silas joining the fray, barking orders, before anyone gets around to carrying the produce inside the kitchen. The boys quickly fall in line. James, however, picks up the zucchini and attempts to swing it like a baseball bat, only to drop it. It hits the ground hard, resulting in a massive crack.
“James!” Silas yells.
He only shrugs. “Carlos already said it wouldn’t be any good. I’ll feed it to the chickens.”
As James trots off with the ruined zucchini, Silas throws a bag of beans over his shoulder. “That asshole goofs off more than the boys do.”
“And you know that’s why they love him,” I say.
“Then there’ll be lots of mourners at his funeral when I kill him.”
I laugh at this, only to realize how strange that is a second later. Silas has been out working in the fields today, sewing a cover crop of clover to protect the beds until spring. His long hair is tied back in the same bandana he was wearing on the day when I met him. A day when he—not Sid—aimed a gun at me.
Everyone knows that April and I have found out about TNS. Since talking things out with Sid, all the other guys have addressed it in their own ways. I’ve put up withdozens of apologies from Carlos, who feels responsible for my messy breakdown. Young Tom asked if I wanted a hug, which I refused. Wendell thought I would find it comforting if he told me that he’s a terrible shot. The DomBert brothers regaled me with a long story about their initial sanctuary host family. James gave me a high-five and said, “Isn’t it cozy, knowing TNS shat on both of us?”
Except with Silas, there’s been silence. And I don’t care. He had more to do with TNS than James or any of the younger boys, but I don’t want him to explain himself. That conversation would be so awkward. Why should either of us relive our worst memories when we could just get on with life? I’m not afraid of him; even when he jokes about murdering James, I don’t take him seriously.
So why am I holding Sid to such a different standard?
“You can put the onions over here,” says Silas, and I realize that I’ve frozen in the kitchen, consumed by my thoughts. I quickly place the bag, then head out to grab more rations.
When Sid gets home that night, I find myself staring at him over dinner. I take in the bend of his nose and the scar along his jaw. Did TNS give him that one, too? It’s overwhelming, studying his face, which bears so many reminders of everything he’s gone through. So I fixate on his neck, instead.
Carlos and I didn’t have time to make anything fancy, too busy organizing the new food into a meal plan, so it’s nothing but scrambled eggs and beans for dinner tonight. Whenever Sid takes a bite, I watch his Adam’s apple slide up and down his throat with each swallow. I desperately want to reach out and touch it, as if that would help anything.
A heavy weight fills my stomach as I admit the obvious to myself—I miss him. Maybe we weren’t friends for long, but our relationship clearly meant something to me. That’swhy his history with TNS hurt so much more than anyone else’s, but also why avoiding him is making me miserable.
The ache I feel is so similar to the one that comes when I think of my parents or Curtis. Only one thing separates the experience, which is how needless this is. He isn’t dead yet. If I walked up to him and asked him to give me a hug, he would probably do it.
