Chapter 26

26

The girl peeked outside and could see the trees swaying in the wind, sweeping the gold and red and yellow leaves from branches. They scuttled across the grass, racing each other until they rested in piles in front of the window.

The room was chilly and the girl was restless. There was nothing on television and she was tired of drawing pictures. She eyed the box of books that sat in the corner next to the bed. She hadn't touched them since the day her father had brought them. She was still angry that he hadn't brought a dog like he promised. But now she was bored, and even a box of old books was better than just looking out her sliver of a window.

Once again, a moldy smell rose from inside the box when she opened it. Though she didn't want to admit it, a flutter of excitement danced in her stomach. The girl liked books. Liked escaping into stories and pictures, and here was an entire box filled with books she'd never seen before. A bit of the iciness she felt toward her father melted.

"We're almost out of food," came her mother's voice from across the room.

The girl continued to sort through the box. There were picture books. One with the illustration of a man holding an umbrella to cover his head while food fell from the sky and one with two hippos named George and Martha.

"This is it," her mother said. "This is all that's left. This and a little bit of peanut butter."

The girl looked up from a book that showed a naughty little boy holding a purple crayon. Her mother held up a can of soup and a sleeve of crackers.

"He'll come soon with more," the little girl said. She wasn't worried. Her father always came with groceries. She didn't always like what he brought home, but they always had something to eat.

For supper they had the soup. Her mother let her open the can using the opener and pour it into the glass bowl and add the water. She even let her press the buttons on the small microwave to heat it up. "We'll save the crackers for later," her mother said.

They ate. The girl went back to the box of books.

The next morning, for breakfast, they each had three crackers. At lunchtime they each ate two with peanut butter. Still, the girl's father didn't come.

"Maybe he's not coming back," the girl said and took another drink of water. Her mother said it would help fill her stomach.

"He'll come back," her mother said but the girl could hear the worry in her voice. "He has to."

For supper the girl ate two crackers with peanut butter and her mother had one. The jar of peanut butter was empty. They drank more water. That night the girl had trouble sleeping. Her stomach rumbled and she kept thinking about the remaining two crackers. What would they do when there was nothing left? What if her father didn't come back? They would starve to death.

She crawled from the bed, careful not to wake her mother, and checked to see if the crackers were still there. They were. The girl wanted to snatch them from their plastic wrapper and eat them, but that wouldn't be fair. She went back to bed and tried to sleep.

The next morning, her mother gave her both the crackers. "I'm not hungry," she said. The girl didn't believe her but still ate the crackers in small mouselike nibbles, trying to make them last as long as possible. Lunchtime passed, and so did dinner. Her father didn't come.

The girl grew cranky. Water sloshed around in her empty stomach making her feel sick. "I'm hungry," she complained. "When is Dad coming?" she asked.

"There is no food," her mother finally snapped. "It's all gone. There is nothing left."

"Then you should go out there and get some," the girl shot back. Her mother grew very quiet.

Out There . That's what they called it. Don't go Out There , her mother would say, your father will get mad, it's not safe.

Her father would say, "There are bad people Out There . They will take you away from us, and you'll never see your mother again."

So they never left. They stayed in the basement with its concrete floors and cement walls.

But to her surprise, the girl's mother walked up the stairs and stood at the closed door. She tentatively reached out and gave the doorknob a twist. The door was locked. Her mother came back down the steps and stood in the center of the room.

"What are you doing?" the girl asked, but her mother waved her away.

She stood there for a long time and then told the girl to find her a pen. "A pen?" the girl asked in confusion.

"Get me a pen," her mother ordered sharply. The girl hurried to her art box, found what she was looking for, and then handed it to her mother. To her surprise, her mother twisted the pen until the outer plastic covering came loose. She tossed this to the table and examined what remained—the pen's sharp tip and the tube filled with ink. Back up the steps her mother went. The girl followed. Her mother crouched down in front of the door and began to press the tip of the pen into the knob.

"What are you doing?" the girl asked, but her mother hushed her and continued to poke at the doorknob. This went on for what felt like an eternity, but suddenly there was a soft click and the door swung open. It happened that quickly, that easily.

Her mother told her to stay put, but the girl didn't listen. Together they both stepped right into the Out There.

The girl marveled at the sight. The kitchen had a large refrigerator, a stove, a microwave, and there was a dishwasher like she had seen on television. There was a round wooden table with four chairs to match and a long row of cupboards above a shiny countertop.

The girl looked to her mother for an explanation. Why did they have to stay in the basement where they ate from a small plastic table and there was no stove and only a small refrigerator that was smaller than she was?

Her mother wasn't looking around the kitchen, though. She started walking, trancelike, through the kitchen and the dining room where there was another table and more chairs. She moved to yet another room. This one had not just one, but two sofas and a chair to match, a television and a tall, slender clock that nearly went to the ceiling. All the windows in this room were covered with heavy shades.

Her mother wasn't looking at all these wonders either. Her focus was on a large door with three square windows near the top. Bright sunshine streamed through the glass, and the two stood in the sunbeam for a moment, feeling the warmth seep into their skin.

Her mother reached for the knob, but the door refused to open. She fingered the brass lock below the knob, then twisted it to the right. She tried the knob again, the door squeaked open.

It was like looking into a picture book. There were so many colors and scents and sights that the little girl had never seen before that she was momentarily stunned. Without thinking, she moved from the house onto the concrete front steps. The air was cool but warmer than the basement. The sky was blue, and the sun was warm and the color of honey. The trees were covered in jewel-colored leaves and all around them were golden fields for as far as she could see. And there was a lane that led from the front of the house all the way up to the road that went somewhere. To the mountains, to the ocean, to the desert—somewhere far from here.

The world outside was quieter than she imagined. There was the soft rustle of the corn stalks as a breeze swept across the fields, the muffled buzz of green grasshoppers, and the whir and warble song from barn swallows. She bent down to pick a pretty yellow flower when she was jerked back by her arm.

She was pulled back into the house and her mother shut the door and twisted the lock. "We can't go out there," her mother said. She looked scared and her breath was fast and shallow.

Holding hands, they moved back through the living room and the dining room and into the kitchen. "I'm really hungry," the girl said, itching to snatch a banana from the countertop. Her mother opened a cupboard filled with cans of soup and beans and corn. She opened another that held boxes of cereal and crackers and cookies.

"We can't take too much," her mother said, scanning the choices. "If he notices anything missing, he'll know that we were up here." She hesitated but settled on two cans of soup and an orange and an apple from the refrigerator.

"Let's go," her mother said. "He could come home at any time." The girl reached for the knob on the basement door but her mother didn't follow. She stopped at the telephone affixed to the kitchen wall. The girl watched as, with trembling hands, her mother lifted the receiver, placed it to her ear, and began to press numbers.

The girl wanted to ask who she was calling. They didn't have a phone downstairs, she had seen one only on television, but her mother seemed to know what she was doing. A soft trill came from the phone and then a woman's voice. "Hello?" she said. "Hello?"

A deep sadness settled onto her mother's face and she quietly hung up the phone. Carrying their small stash of food, they moved through the basement door, her mother pausing to engage the lock. They walked downward, and at the bottom, her mother sat on the bottom step and began to cry. The girl sat at her feet.

When her mother finally stopped weeping, she wiped at her eyes and said, "Don't tell your dad about this, okay? It will be our little secret."

The girl liked the idea of having a secret with her mother, so she nodded, and they pinky promised. But two questions remained on her tongue, unasked. Why hadn't they ever gone outside before? And what was stopping them from doing it again?