Z for Zachariah

So in a way it also depends on knowing what Mr Loomis was like—is like. And it is true that I really do not know that, not yet.

I keep wondering. If he lives and becomes conscious again—should I ask him about it? He obviously did not want to tell what happened, since in his own story of the laboratory and the suit, and his trip to Chicago, he never mentioned Edward at all. And yet it would be hard, with only two of us, for me to know this secret and try to hide it.

I will have to decide.

June 6th

This morning I went to church again. I had just about given up hope. He had lain absolutely motionless, with no flicker of life except the faintest of breathing, for more than thirty-two hours. I began to feel as if I were alone again after all. It was hard to think of him as a person; the belief that he could talk and think began to slip away. Yet I did not want to give up; I felt that if I did, he would too. That is why I went to church.

The day was cloudy, with a fresh, wet smell in the air. It had rained a little during the night, and would rain again. When Faro and I reached the church Faro ran and sniffed around in the grass where I had left the bird, but it was gone. I am sure the parents got it back into the nest.

This time I remembered to take the Bible with me, and also to say a prayer.

On the way back I picked some flowers, some wild roses that grow beside the road, and at home I put them in a vase and took them to his room. The apple blossoms had wilted and fallen off. He cannot see them, of course. Again, for my benefit.

Then I sat by his bed and counted his respiration as well as I could. I did it over three times, and as far as I could tell it had fallen from fifty to about thirty. It seemed also a little deeper.

I am not sure whether that is a good sign or not, but it may be.

I played the piano for half an hour, hoping it would penetrate to wherever he was.

Chapter Thirteen

June 7th

He is definitely better.

He still does not wake up, but his respiration is down to eighteen per minute, almost normal, and his colour has changed from blue to white. And he looks better. I have not yet taken his temperature but I can tell, from touching his forehead and then my own, that it is still high but not as high as it was.

Taking advantage of this improvement (which may, I know, be only temporary) I changed his sheets, blankets, pillowcase and pyjamas. To get the old sheets off and the clean ones on I had to roll him from one side of the bed to the other (this was one thing they had taught in the hygiene course), and I did that very cautiously; it did not seem to harm him, however, nor affect his breathing.

Altogether it was quite a messy job. I have a big wash to do, and I know now that I was not cut out to be a nurse. I did consider it at one time; from a distance it seemed like a good profession, since your whole occupation is helping people who need help, and if you are trained you get paid for doing it. But I had decided on teaching instead; it is also a job of helping people, though perhaps not as much as nursing.

It is still hard for me to realize, even after all this time, that I am not going to be anything, not ever have a job or go anywhere or do anything except what I do here. I had chosen teaching because I liked specifically the idea of teaching English. I like books and reading more than anything else, not just poetry but any good writing. My plan was, as I taught, also to study, to take graduate courses in English literature and possibly writing. You can do that quite easily and cheaply if you are a teacher.

That whole idea is over now, there being no more schools and no one to teach. I know that; yet I keep thinking about it. Another part of my plan was to live at home, save money, and spend my entire first year’s salary on books. I have so few that I have read them all twenty times or more.

Thinking about that set me to wondering. A lot of the books I would like to buy—would have liked to buy—are in the Ogdentown Public Library. There is also a gift shop in Ogdentown which has a small bookstore in it. For that matter, there are some pretty big houses there that probably have book-shelves in them, with books that nobody else is ever going to read. What I wonder is, what would happen if I could bring some of them here?

I am thinking of the safe-suit of course. Having travelled all this way, Mr Loomis could easily—I should think —make a trip to Ogdentown to get some books.

But would they be dangerous to bring in to the valley? Or would it be possible to set them out somewhere— up the hillside, with a cover over them to keep the rain off”—until they lost their radioactivity? I think we could test them (like the creek) once a week with the Geiger counter. I don’t know enough about that, but Mr Loomis would. Though he might not be too interested, being, apparently, not much of a reader.

Thinking about that I got really excited. I thought: if it could be done, if the books would become safe to handle, and Mr Loomis did not want to go, I could go. That is, if he would lend me the safe-suit.

And that brought me back to Edward with a jolt.

June 8th

He opened his eyes this morning, but they were blank and unfocused, the eyes of a new-born animal. He was not seeing anything at all.

He also seemed to be trying to speak, or make a noise, but all that came out was a croak. I guessed he was asking for water. I got some, and fed it to him with a spoon. He wanted it all right; I gave him half a glass and then stopped, afraid he would get sick if he drank too much too quickly. The best thing was that he could swallow it quite well, though some did run out the corners of his mouth and down his chin.

I knew he was not really conscious. But it was progress and I felt better. A little later I also took his temperature. I had to sit and hold both the thermometer and his chin (which has grown whiskery), but it worked. He has a hundred and three—much better.

But he is skin and bones. Now that he could swallow, at least liquids, that was the next thing to work on. I thought about the most nourishing liquids I could concoct. Soup, of course. But even better, I decided, boiled custard. I made some—milk, egg-yolks, sugar, salt. While I waited for the milk to boil I wished again for the stove.

And I thought—well, why not. I had the tractor now.

When I dismantled the stove I had planned to haul it, piece by piece, on the small and rather rickety old hand cart. I had not even thought about it since I—we—got the tractor running. With the tractor cart I could move the whole thing in a matter of minutes. And it would not take long to reassemble it in the kitchen; I knew exactly where I wanted it to stand.

So, while I waited for the custard to cool I ran to the barn, backed the tractor and the cart to the loading platform and lowered the tailgate. The cart and the platform are almost exactly the same height—not by accident; my father built a sort of earth-ramp leading up to the barn just for that purpose.

I had already put the firebox, the heaviest part, on its masonite sled and dragged it near the door. So with a little bit more tugging I had it aboard the cart. The other parts I could carry in.

Unloading at the back porch of the house was equally easy. It was about six inches lower than the cart, so I unchained the tailgate and used it as a gangplank. Getting the firebox over the doorsill was a small problem, but I remembered a trick of my mother’s: I rubbed the sill with very soapy water, and the masonite slid over quite easily.

Reassembling it was harder than I thought. Some of the bolts did not want to slip through their holes; also I put the grate on backwards the first time and had to take it off again. I worked on it all afternoon, occasionally