Page 87 of Homestead

Despite their large living room, there are simply too many people gathered for it to be comfortable when the weather is warm. So instead of being hot and crowded inside, we spread out in their backyard, settling at picnic tables or small chair groupings or spreading out blankets on the grass, depending on the weather and each individual’s physical condition.

Tonight the main course is smoked pork ribs and baked potatoes, but there are always a lot of side dishes depending on what others bring.

I’m not hungry at all, but I nibble at a couple of ribs and otherwise stick to bread.

No one appears to notice or care. Jimmy isn’t even sitting beside me. He’s sitting on an overturned crate near the big table.

Amelia’s not even here today. Her mom tells me she has bad period cramps. I’m disappointed on her account because I know she likes Mack, and I’m disappointed for myself too—if she were here, I’d have someone easy and secure to hang out with.

As it is, I end up gravitating toward Paula, who is always happy to talk to me. Unfortunately, Laura comes over to eat with us too, so I have to put up with a lot of underhanded, fake-sweet comments.

I tune them out. Try not to stare at Jimmy soulfully. Attempt to keep up the pretense of eating so no one will wonder whether I’m sick.

At one point, Paula asks if I’m feeling okay, but otherwise my mood goes unnoticed.

After all the food has been eaten, I help with the cleanup and dishwashing. Greta asks Laura to dump the compost, but Laura is predictably ready with an excuse about an ankle she twisted the other day.

Without a word, I reach for the kitchen compost pail and take it out myself.

I’ve done it before. Many times. The pail is large and heavy because it’s filled up to the rim right now. It’s also round with no handles, so the only way I can carry the weight is to hug it with both arms.

It’s disgusting. The effort and the smell nauseate me again.

I’m halfway there when strong hands take the pail out of my grip. I didn’t see a man come after me, and normally I would have assumed it was Jimmy. But I know it’s not.

It doesn’t smell like him. Or feel like him.

The man I see when I turn is Mack. He grins down at me. “This thing is almost as big as you are. Why’re they making you haul it?”

“I volunteered. I was doing okay.” I return his smile because he seems so genuine. Not remotely condescending, and neither flirtatious nor predatory.

Simply warm. Genuinely warm.

“You were doing great. You can have it back if you want.”

I huff. “No, thank you. I appreciate the help.”

Since he’s assisting in my chore, I walk with him the rest of the way to the compost heap—which is kept at a distance in a side yard so the smell won’t waft over into the house.

“Did you talk to the Hurleys about the cows?” I ask him.

“Yeah. They knew I’d be back this year, so they’ve already picked some out for us. They needed some time to breed more, and we needed time to get enough together to trade. Y’all are so self-sufficient here that our normal trades wouldn’t be of much interest to you.”

“So what did you end up offering?” The topic is distracting me from both my mournful mood and the return of my queasiness.

“Well, we’ve got an underground bunker in our community that was able to hold on to technology that the rest of us lost after Impact. So we were able to use solar batteries to build a few mechanized butter churns and flour mills. Good-sized ones that can handle a lot.”

I suck in a breath. “Wow! That could be life-changing. It takes so much manual labor to make this community work, and that could take a little of the load off.”

“That’s what we were thinking. Thought it might be a fair deal for the cows. We’ve done pretty good for ourselves, but all the farms around us lost their cows and we could never find any more. We’ve gone all this time without milk or butter or cheese or beef. Nothing but goats’ milk and goat cheese. Which just isn’t the same.”

“No. It’s not. I’m glad you’ll be able to get some, and hopefully eventually you’ll be able to breed a supply large enough for your whole community.”

“That’s what we’re hoping. Got to start somewhere.”

“Well, good luck to you. How long are you staying?”

“At least a few days. So I might see you around.”

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