“Thanks.”
“If it makes you feel any better, no one here gives a rat’s ass about Tom. He was our case worker too and—”
“Your case worker? Like, for immigration?” I repeat. “You’re not from the island?”
Sid cocks his head to the side. “What made you think we were?”
“I…” I haven’t given it much thought. Looking back, it should have been obvious. There’s a practiced niceness about most people here, masking their real intentions. The doctor, Pat, even Tom—they all coat their words in a layer of politeness Sid doesn’t bother with. “But you know how everything works here. I assumed that meant…”
He shrugs. “You don’t really have to question a place if it’s all you’ve ever known. C’mon. Soup’s on.”
Before I can ask him anything else, he strides ahead, leading us to the back of the house where a collection of bricks and flat stones have been cobbled together to make a ramshackle patio. There are old plastic patio chairs, a carved lounger, and a collection of logs nailed together into rough benches. A fire pit has been dug in the centre of the configuration, but it isn’t lit right now.
The smell of something herby and warm emanates from the indoor kitchen. My stomach turns over in eager anticipation. April and I actually did cook good meals most of the time in the woods. We had dozens of foraging spots we rotated between throughout the year, eating everything from morels to wild salmon, and even tended plenty of self-seeding patches of domesticated vegetables, like lettuces, onions, and runner beans.
The trick was never to stay too long. Before TNS could notice us building anything, we would be off to our next hotspot, ready to gather another harvest. We’re only in such rough shape now because April got sick. The forced hike meant surviving on nothing but dried rations and that’s…
That’s why this soup smellssodamn good. What must it be like, having a permanent garden to tend to all year round?
April and I take seats on one of the benches. Across from us are the two men who helped Sid bring us to the island. Silas acknowledges us with nothing but a nod, his dark, shoulder-length hair all but obscuring his thin face. The other lounges in one of the plastic chairs, head leaning back so that I can see the shape of his Adam’s apple puckering against his throat. He looks more like the cover of the cheap paperback romance novels April and I used to dig out of people’s attics than he does an actual human man. The moment he notices me staring, he flashes a perfect grin.
“I don’t think I ever properly introduced myself. James DeLuca,” he says, without further prompting. “Glad to see you found your way to our door again.”
“Thanks.” I go back to staring at the garden beds, which do me the courtesy of not talking back.
“Of course, you’ve met our Silas. He’s not one for chitchat.” He gestures to the lanky man. There’s something strange about the way James talks that I can’t place my finger on, like he’s skipping over the letter “r” in some of his words. Is that an…accent? Do accents still exist? And if so, where did his come from?
“Unless you’ve got questions about plants,” James adds, holding the “a” in plants for too long.Plaaahnts. “If you like, he can give you a tour of the gardens tomorrow.”Gaaahdens.
“Shut up, James,” Silas says, still staring at the pit. “Anyone want a fire?”
“Sure. It’s cold enough.” Sid leans forward and at his word, Silas heads for a woodpile a few feet away.
I’m trying to piece together the dynamic here. Plenty of cues have suggested that Sid is in charge, as he was at the border, but I sense a further pecking order. Most of the group is inside, getting the meal ready, but these three, gathered together, share something else besides a desire to shaft someone else with the cooking duties.
The younger ones seem to fall in a range—Carlos is at the bottom, another has the beginnings of a beard—but the gap between them and these three is more pronounced. The five inside are boys. Sid, Silas, and James are men. There’s some history here that I don’t know enough about to intuit the details. Sid even said it himself; Tom was their immigration officer. Not just his.Theirs. Did they all come here together?
Eventually, Carlos comes out with the soup and someone else passes out wooden bowls. There’s a clamour of hands and ladles, punctuated by gruff calls from Sid to not horse around and spill anything. Guilt pinches at my stomach as I realize this is what I walked out on yesterday when I refused dinner. This group of boys and their… fathers? Brothers? When one of the younger boys starts needling Silas with his spoon and he has to swat the kid away, I realize who they remind me of: me and April. A few years later. A few more people. But the dynamic is startlingly similar.
I bury my nose in my bowl. The potato chowder has been blended with sage, oregano, and a smoky animal fat to give the soup body. I’ve already wolfed down half my bowl when I notice April hasn’t touched her food. I’m about to tell her to hurry up and eat while there’s still leftovers when I notice that she’s diligently taking something out of her paper bag. A jar of insulin. A needle. She lines up a shot on her leg and stabs herself without a single complaint. I look away, blinking furiously.
“Is the soup too hot?” Carlos asks, his voice anxious.
“No, just smoke in my eyes.” I shift to another angle on the bench, trying to make my explanation convincing. “The soup is great.”
Unfortunately, my new position has put me in Sid’s direct line of sight. I see him making the calculation, eyes roving between April, packing her used needle into a separate bag, and me, too weak to watch her do it.
“So I was saying to the guys,” Sid says, in that flat, direct way of his. “While you’re here, the upstairs washhouse should be just for you two.”
“What?” I like the idea of privacy but hate the thought of owing him more than I already do. “You don’t need to do that.”
“No, I think it’s a good idea,” says Sid. “This place is supposed to house eight families, anyway. We’re under capacity. It will be good practice, in case anyone else moves in.”
At that, James snorts. Silas smacks him across the back of the head, but it doesn’t stop the other boys from breaking out in snickers. Just what I need. More attention being drawn to our obvious gender discrepancy.
“Sid, that’s very…gallant, but not necessary. We’ll be fine.”
“Speak for yourself.Iwant a washhouse.” April finds the craziest times to regain her confidence, I swear.
