He nods, then says, “True. And if we have to, we’ll fight for our home. For right now, maybe some of us can start making smaller trips. A few things at a time. It means more trips and a tighter watch coming back, but we could do it.”
Willa knows he’s making it sound easier than it is, but then again, it might be the best option. Really, the best option is to find a new place, a new land to hide in where they can grow more food, a place not so cold in the winter. It’s hard to say it even in the privacy of her own mind, but their truly best option would be to live in the open and know they’re safe. That’s not a real option, not anymore.
Maybe in a few decades, after the world has begun to empty as men die off, that will be a possibility, but not now. Not in her lifetime. For her, hiding will always be Willa’s only option.
Miranda
She can think of only one thing as the woman climbs out of the back of the van and walks the short distance to the door. Miranda is thinking of a book, one in which women wear red or blue and are nothing more than property, their wombs or the power of their husbands the deciding factors on their value.
This woman is wearing slightly faded jeans and a barn coat in rough corduroy. She has boots on her feet and a hat squished over her head. There’s no billowing gown or anything. Perhaps it’s the wide brimmed hat that makes her think of the caps the women in the book wore.
Before the woman lifts her head so that Miranda can see her face under the brim of the hat, she understands where the association came from. It’s her posture, the way she walks with her head down and her hands clasped in front of her. Contained. Controlled.
Tom is watching her, so she smiles and offers her hand to the woman as soon as she enters the house. It’s past sunset, so there’s no worry about the sun. Even so, Miranda stays well inside the threshold.
“Hi,” Miranda says, finally seeing the woman’s face. She’s about the same age as Miranda, perhaps her mid-thirties, but no more than forty. It’s hard to guess ages now. It’s not like she, or anyone else, can buy makeup and anti-aging creams. Like Miranda, the woman is clean-faced and natural.
“Hello, I’m Priscilla,” the woman says quietly, her hand surprisingly soft and warm in Miranda’s before they drop the shake.
For a moment, they simply stand and look at each other, forgetting the two men standing to the side of the foyer watching them. Tom clears his throat and breaks the spell. The two men smile, but they look like nervous primate grins to Miranda. She doesn’t like it, but she does her best not to make a face that would give her thoughts away.
Tom motions toward the man standing next to him. He’s older and she knows who he is before he’s introduced. Tom speaks of him too often for her not know him. This is the leader of their little fellowship, the one who speaks of shepherds and lambs.
“This is Pastor George,” Tom says. Then to the man, he says, “And this is Miranda.” He looks anxious, perhaps worried that Miranda won’t make a good impression. Also, the way he emphasized the words made it sound like she’s a prized cow or something.
Miranda nods politely, glad that they’re on opposite sides of the grand foyer and too far away to require a handshake unless he crosses the room. She supposes manners might require her to do that, but she settles for the nod and a slight smile.
The man crosses the foyer instead, holding out his hand and smiling broadly. “Just call me George,” he says. The smile seems real enough, but his eyes are avid on her. Greedy somehow. Miranda knows she should be more gracious. Given how rare a female face is, it’s natural for him to look at her like that, she supposes.
“It’s nice to meet you,” Miranda lies, but she thinks she’s doing it well enough.
He drops the shake quickly, as if conscious that he must not take liberties or be too much in her face. “Cilla here has been going on about your pickles and salsa. We both appreciate you offering to show her how. I did go pick up the books Tom recommended, but…”
“It’s not at all the same,” Priscilla breaks in, finishing the answer. Her lips quirk up in a sedate sort of good humor. “My salsa looked more like tomato mush.”
Miranda laughs, which surprises her and seems to surprise Tom too. She’s not done that in a while and it feels odd. Good, but odd.
“It’s all in making sure you undercook everything before it goes in the jars. It goes against the grain to do that, so it’s easy to mess up. I’ll show you. It’s not at all difficult once you see it done.”
Priscilla nods almost eagerly. “I’d really like that. We’ve got a wonderful garden in summer, but so much of it went to waste. One can’t dehydrate everything. And you have a winter garden? I’d like to see how that’s done as well.”
Miranda glances at Tom. They’d prepared for the visit, thinking there would be a need for socializing. Both of them had scrubbed the big kitchen they use for everything except sleeping until it gleamed. There’s coffee on—a rare treat—and a delicious pound cake fresh from the oven this morning. Neither of them had expected for their visitors to want to jump right in.
Tom understands her glance and says, “What about
