Z for Zachariah

“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.”