Page 171 of Everything Under the Sun

My hand fell away from my heart.

He paused and then skipped forward. “We survived through the worst part of it. For a long time, I thought I was the one saving them. But when we met up with a group of men, I realized—too late—that I wasn’t saving them at all. I led them straight to their deaths.” He lowered his head. “I had a bad feeling about those men from the start. I had a bad feeling and I didn’t listen to it.”

I glanced over; I saw the stiffening of his jaw, the outline of his hardened expression, one that contained so much guilt I could feel it, too.

“We were running out of ammo,” he went on, “and food and everything else. Mom worried mostly about Josie and Tara: they were scared, hungry, thirsty, but mostly scared. For a long time, we slept in abandoned houses and buildings, just like you and I have; sometimes in cars. For a week, we slept underneath a bridge because we’d walked so far down the highway and realized there wasn’t anything—no abandoned hotels or restaurants or gas stations—for miles and miles. Even that exit bridge we slept under led to nothing. We had been traveling for so long, and so far, and we had no idea where we were going, where we could go. I just knew that I had to get them somewhere safe, that we couldn’t walk the streets forever, and that we…” He hesitated, and it was enough to make me look over at him again. “…That we couldn’t survive by ourselves, and that I needed to get my family somewhere where there were many other people—strength in numbers.”

Feeling intense guilt of my own now, I looked at the ground. All this time Atticus had been telling me we needed to move on, that we couldn’t stay on the farm, or in the cabin, that we needed to get to Shreveport. But I, like a wide-eyed child, naïve and juvenile, had continued to persist in my desire to stay, fueled by delusions of safety. In this moment, I felt exceptionally foolish, so damned guilty, knowing in my heart all along that Atticus had been right.

Slowly, I looked back out at the pond wreathed by black trees. And I listened with a heavy heart.

“It was in Jackson, Ohio, we met up with a small group of eight men. Like I said, I…I didn’t trust them from the start. It wasn’t anything they did or said in particular—they were friendly and helpful—I just had a bad feeling. But my mother and my sisters saw the men…differently.”

He took a deep breath before he could go on.

“They—my mother mostly—were glad to see these men; they had become her new hope. The men wanted to take us with them, to help me protect my family. They fed us from their backpacks and gave us fresh water and all of us sat around a fire that night, on the street underneath the bridge in case it rained, and they told us about their families. We shared our tragic stories about those we’d lost, the things we’d seen; they were even respectful enough of my baby sisters to wait until they’d fallen asleep before talking about anything that might’ve given Josie and Tara nightmares. And not once did I see any of them look at my mother or my sisters in a way I didn’t like. I watched them, I waited for the slightest interest: a glance or a covert little smile, but not one of them showed it.” He lowered his head.

Finally, Atticus looked over, long and hard at me, wanting to seize my gaze, needing to see my eyes. I turned my head slowly, feeling the pull of his stare, and gave him what he needed as much as it pained me to.

“The first night, after weeks of refusing to leave my family’s side, the first night I decided to trust those men with my mother’s and sisters’ lives, they raped and murdered them while I was out on a supply run.”

I looked away, felt the tears rushing to the edges of my eyes. Absently, I reached up and wiped a few away with my fingertips. No…no…

Atticus, suddenly quiet, I got the feeling he did not see me anymore, though he was staring right at me, unblinking.

“Did you find them when you returned?” I asked in a soft, sad voice. I already knew that he had.

“Yes,” he answered absently, choking back the emotion; he swallowed. “Twelve and fourteen years old—raped, stabbed, and left to die on the floor of the house we’d been sharing with the men.” He looked away, gritted his teeth, balled his hands into fists.

“And your mother?”

Without looking at me, he answered, “She was still alive when I got there…”

ATTICUS

My mother used what strength she had left to raise her bloodied hand when I entered the kitchen. I stood motionless underneath the arched entrance; the blood of my sisters had soaked into the long sleeves of my shirt, and for a long time I could only stand there, staring across the room at my mother bleeding to death on the floor.

Her hand fell, her red fingers curled.

“Son…Please…”

I walked slowly over to my mother, forcing every step, forcing myself to face and accept the truth: there was nothing I could do for her; there was too much blood; there were no doctors to save her life. Nine stab wounds; the dark red spots had stained through the ripped fabric of her blouse; her gray sweat pants had been pulled to her knees. I looked only at her face. I had my mother’s eyes. And the golden brown of her hair. And her high, chiseled cheekbones. But not her strength—I could never be as strong as my mother.

“Atticus…” She tried to lift her head. “I’m not afraid…I know that…I…Son, I’m not afraid to die.”

But I don’t want you to die…

I knelt on the floor beside her, took her hand into mine and cradled it. Blood soaked into the jean fabric on my knees; anguish flooded the fabric of my soul.

My mother smiled—smiled!—at me, wanting to ease my pain—my pain!

I released her hand quickly, setting it back onto the floor, and sniffled back the tears that threatened to reduce me to a blubbering little boy. I wanted to pull her pants back over her hips to cover her nakedness, but I couldn’t will myself to touch her.

“Son,” I heard her say and I lifted my eyes to hers. “I…need you…to do something…for me.” She tried to catch her breath but her chest rattled beneath the buttons of her blouse and she panted. She coughed once, and blood trickled from one corner of her mouth.

I was a little boy again…huddled in the corner of my room, my little boy skin welted from my father’s leather belt…tears blinding me, snot clogging my nostrils…crying for my mother.

I tried to look away from her, but I couldn’t this time; there was something in her eyes that terrified me, made me instantly want to back away from her into the corner behind me. I didn’t know what it was, but my heart knew. My heart knew what she would ask of me, but my mind didn’t want to believe it. I refused to accept it.

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