Page 57 of Our Last Resort

“I’ll put on some running shorts,” I say.

20The Only Town We Knew, Hudson Valley, And Outside-Outside

Eighteen Years Ago

Gabriel and I expanded our perimeter. We explored outside-outside.

One scorching August afternoon, we walked around, parched, in search of water. We’d had a dehydrating lunch: One of the mothers had accidentally knocked a saltshaker into the stew.

“I’m so thirsty,” Gabriel complained for the third time since we’d arrived on Main Street.

We turned a corner and stood outside a place we didn’t have a word for yet—asports bar.To our eyes, a place of impossible wonder. The glow of TV screens through the windows, the secret dances of sports we didn’t play.

“Let’s just ask here,” I said, and pulled Gabriel by the wrist before he could protest.

The bar was cool and dark, with tall wooden tables and barstools. Mostly empty, except for a woman behind a counter.

“Hi-i?”

What had begun as a greeting ended in a question. What did she see? Two scrawny kids in weird, handwoven beige clothing. Dirt on our knees. Eternity behind our eyes, the arrogance of faith straightening our spines.

“H…hi,” I said.

I tried to swallow, but I had no saliva left.

“Would it be possible…” I cleared my throat. “To have some water?”

The woman tilted her head. I waited for her to quiz us like Max had.You two aren’t from that…cult, are you?

She shrugged.

“Sure.”

I walked up to the counter. Gabriel followed me. Behind the bar, the woman filled two glasses.

“Here.”

The glasses waited on the counter, beads of condensation rolling like sweat onto the varnished wood. Something held us back.

The transaction with Max at the pharmacy had been just that, a transaction. This was kindness. It was asking for help and receiving it. From someone who wasn’t Émile.

The woman raised her eyebrows.

“Go ahead,” she said.

I took one of the glasses. Gabriel shadowed me. We drank without catching our breaths, then returned our empty glasses to the counter.

“Joan,” the woman said.

We told her our names.

“You two are welcome anytime,” she said. “We’re open every day. I’m usually around, but if I’m not, I’ll tell my friend Scott to take care of you.”

Years later, it occurred to me that, from the moment she’d first seen us, Joan had known where we’d come from. People around town knew about us, the people from the cult. They knew about the mothers in dresses, the children in dirty clothing, the handmade bracelets hanging off our wrists. Some had had their own encounters with Émile and his posse.

People who stood in Émile’s way exposed themselves to years of harassment. Émile and his people started rumors, sent cease-and-desist letters, filed frivolous lawsuits. They buriedtheir enemies under mountains of paperwork. Several locals had already gone bankrupt trying to cover their legal fees alone.

But Joan didn’t confront us. She never made it our responsibility to explain.

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