Weasel said that Gwen followed the power, but this loyalty to Tommy Boy and his family had nothing to do with strength. They were in a bad way with no place to go, a death sentence hanging over their head even though they didn’t realize it. “Why?”
Gwen stared at her in confusion. “Why what?”
“Why help them? Were they your friends in the Gatos? Did you and Emerita hang out? Is Tommy Boy an old boyfriend?”
They stared at one another for long moments. Loomis’s doubts faded the longer she bathed in those sea-green eyes. How could anyone with so clear a gaze be such an accused deceiver?
“They’re my family, Marissa.” Gwen’s voice was barely loud enough for her to hear, though they stood inches apart. “I can’t let them go.”
Loomis studied her, knowing the words for truth. With a bracing breath, she squeezed Gwen’s hand. “Let’s go talk to them.”
Tommy Boy paced back and forth in a tight circle. Emerita sat on the ground, keeping Franklin entertained with a brightly colored plastic ball.
“Where’d you get the gear?”
He glared at her. “One family, one house, each year, dawg. We left those bastards a week ago and needed supplies. We got just as much right as you do to take what we need to live. And we followed your fucking rules, too.”
Loomis nodded. “I agree.” Tommy Boy’s frowned deepened as he stared at her. “Here’s my offer. You and your family come home with me tomorrow. We don’t have much room, but you’re welcome to the couch and loveseat. We’ll teach you how to garden, start you off with some stock, and find you a decent place to live.”
“What’s in it for you?”
“An extra pair of hands are always helpful. We’ve got eleven and one on the way. Three more ain’t going to make that much of a difference in the short term. You feel me?”
“That didn’t answer my question.”
Loomis was at a loss. His distrust was the result of years of running on the streets. Chances were good he’d been in gangs before Orphan Maker. What was there to say to get him to understand she really didn’t want anything but for him and his family to flourish?
Gwen saved her. “She gets me off her back. Don’t worry. The Loomises are pure, dawg. They ain’t scrubs.”
Franklin giggled, distracting his father. Tommy Boy examined his girlfriend and son, mulling over Loomis’s offer as Emerita watched with hopeful eyes. “We ain’t staying a minute longer than we have to,” he warned Loomis. “Y’all living in hippie communes and shit ain’t our style.”
“I understand. It’ll only be long enough for us to find a place you can set up for yourself, and get you the skills you need to eat.”
“A’ight. Deal.” He brought his left fist up to his chest, his fingers twisted into some sign as he shook her hand with his right.
Not certain what that was all about, Loomis didn’t even try to copy his movements. It’d look ridiculous coming from her and she knew it.
“Thank you, Loomis.” Gwen released her hand to give her an elated hug. “You won’t regret it, I swear.”
Loomis blushed at the intimacy. “I know I won’t.” She cleared her throat. “You got a tent in there?”
Emerita nodded, the worry lines on her forehead fading, and a small smile crinkling the corner of her eyes. “
Sí
. We’ve got blankets and extra clothes too.”
“Good.” Loomis looked at Gwen. “Why don’t you show them where we’re camped, get them settled in and introduced.”
“Okay.”
Loomis sighed as Gwen stepped away, already missing her closeness. “Tell Cara I’ll be there in a little while.”
“A’ight, but I think she’ll be more worried about impressing James than where you are.”
Grinning, Loomis watched as Tommy Boy shouldered his pack again. Gwen picked up Emerita’s, letting the Hispanic woman deal with her son, and the four of them walked toward the Loomis campsite.
As they melted into the afternoon crowd, Loomis’s smile faded. She returned to the wall and her alcohol. Three more mouths to feed, at least for a few weeks. The growing season was still young enough that they could get a respectable crop in for Tommy Boy’s family. Waiting a few weeks before they found a place for them, though, would mess up the timing. It’d be best to start their summer garden in the greenhouse. A few eggs should be left to hatch to give them chickens; some does allowed to have litters for rabbits. Would they want to get into shepherding? There were already two other flocks in town; could the barter economy handle another? Maybe at the town meeting she could suggest donations of food from those households that had a surplus. It’d be nice to have a wider choice of livestock to offer.
Through all Loomis’s planning, her mind never strayed far from the look in Gwen’s eyes, the sound of her voice as she asked Loomis to help her family. Either Weasel was right and Gwen was a master manipulator, or she truly felt something for the people she had lived with—at least as much as Loomis felt for the inhabitants of Lindsay Crossing.
Gwen patted her stomach in satisfaction. The number of dishes she’d sampled from the potlatch dinner amazed her. In the city if it didn’t come from a can or jar, it didn’t get eaten. Occasionally the Gatos would come across a garden run wild, but only the more obvious vegetables were recognizable. Here every garden had herbs as well as vegetables, and the various homestead chefs used their resources in some delectable ways.
Night had fallen while Lindsay Crossing feasted. As the supper clutter was cleared away, the town separated into three distinct camps. Those with musical instruments in tow wandered toward the open gymnasium. Torches had been placed in makeshift brackets inside, and the upper windows opened to allow the smoke to clear. Golden light bathed the musicians as they ducked inside. Another group gathered by the pile of wood that had been erected on the playground tarmac. The population here was predominantly Gatos, though several young men from town had joined in the bonfire building. Gwen smiled as she saw several of the Gatos with drums. Some had been carried for a hundred miles to their new home while some were empty buckets drafted for the duration. It looked like Lindsay Crossing was going to get a dose of party, Gato style.
Other people returned to their campsites, preparing for the festivities. Gwen joined the Loomis clan, walking with Tommy Boy and Emerita. Dealing with Tommy Boy and his family had been a welcome distraction from Weasel. Even more pleasant was the need to spend time with Loomis over the matter. Gwen was in good spirits despite Weasel’s doom and gloom, having spent several minutes holding Loomis’s hand.
You got it bad, dawg.
After cleaning and putting away her “feast gear”—a dinner plate, a cup and silverware—Gwen followed the sounds of drums toward the flickering light of the bonfire. Lucky and Emerita walked with her, bringing their children along to enjoy the festivities. Tommy Boy had elected to remain at the campsite, still too irritated at the state of things to be decent company. Gwen assumed that the others had gone to the gym for the dance.
It was good to be back among the Gatos. Gwen felt a loosening of something deep inside as she entered the circle of firelight. Regardless of Tommy Boy’s derisive comment to Loomis about living in “hippie communes,” that was how the Gatos had lived. They’d find a good-sized building, remove the dead, and settle in for the season. Tommy Boy and a handful of others were natural loners; their cribs were as far away from the main community as possible. Gwen figured there’d be at least two or three others who would follow T’s lead, vying for homesteads of their own. That was a good thing. It would make the townies take the Gatos seriously, not just as beggars looking for handouts.
The adolescents gathered around the bonfire were mainly townies. Gwen laughed as Terry began his version of an Indian dance, keeping time with the drums as he shuffled around the fire. Not wanting his new brother to be the object of ridicule, Kevin whooped and jumped into the dance as well, though his moves were more unstructured. That was the catalyst for several of the others to dive into the fun, joined by older Gatos as they celebrated life. The older townies watched, not quite courageous enough to let go. The drums were hypnotic, the rhythm constant and fluent as one drummer took a break, another drummer returned, or a third changed the beat. Eight of them sat on or around a cart on one side of the fire, watching the dance and joking with one another as they applied their own tempo to the mix. Gwen closed her eyes and swayed, arms weaving over her head, letting the sounds and feelings wash over her. She didn’t know how long she stayed there. She didn’t care. The cadence flowed like water over her spirit, soothing away the raw places in her soul. Gone were the concerns of Weasel’s warnings, the doubts about the consolidation of the two groups of kids, the puzzle that was Marissa Loomis. She simply existed, and breathed, and felt, and became one with the drums.
Sweaty and panting, Gwen opened her eyes some time later, dancing near the flames with several others. She was thirsty. Still moving with the tempo, she eased out of the crowd, grinning at Lucky who danced past with Oscar. Gwen was pleased to notice that a fair number of townies had gotten over their uncertainties and had entered the circle of flames. There was even a townie sitting on the drummers’ cart, wailing on a snare drum with the best of them. Away from the firelight, the evening coolness caressed Gwen’s heated skin. She stood for a moment, still gently moving with the beat, allowing her eyes to adjust to the dark. Over near the cart, she saw Walker and two of his people. His arms were crossed though he smiled and laughed with his friends. Gwen thought he was there more to put on a show of acceptance than because he was interested in the dancing. She scanned the crowd near him, finding Weasel and three of his lieutenants. He stared in her direction, though she knew he couldn’t see her in the darkness. His attention souring her good mood, she turned away from the bonfire in search of Loomis.
Weasel’s presence called up his words, and Gwen wondered if Rick had killed somebody for looking at his sister. Perhaps he was the one who killed Megan’s father. He really didn’t seem the type. Some people were haters and renegades; they got off on shit like killing people. Gwen’s judge of character might be bent out of shape, but she couldn’t imagine Rick letting go in the heat of anger. She’d pissed him off when asking about Megan’s father, and he’d kept control no matter how hard she pushed. Could he really be that cold-blooded? Was he the one that Loomis tried to protect in her nightmares? Or was she protecting someone from him? Tommy Boy’s arrival would be an interesting distraction. There was no way T would be interested in Loomis—he had a family and wasn’t a cheater. His anger had already set Rick on edge when they’d met. If Rick were the kind of person Weasel alluded to, he wouldn’t last long in T’s presence.
Glowing warm and inviting, the gymnasium beckoned, and Gwen let go of her negative thoughts. She drifted closer, wishing to see Loomis. As the drums faded to a dull roar behind her, she heard lively music coming from inside and quickened her pace. A handful of people hung outside to get fresh air, male and female, Gato and townie. She greeted those she knew, but didn’t stop to talk. At first glance the gym looked like any other in the world. One set of bleachers had been pulled from the wall, and clusters of people gossiped there. The floor still held faded paint indicating the free throw lines underneath ragged basketball hoops. It looked like the gymnasium doubled as a theater. On the far side was a raised stage where the musicians gathered. The torches weren’t something seen at any high school dance. A couple of contraptions on either end of the stage had fires going in them to help the illumination. A wide assortment of candelabras also dispelled the gloom.
One of the Gato drummers sat on the stage, keeping time with a flute, two guitars, a cello and a fiddle. From the assortment of instruments scattered about the musicians, it was anybody’s guess what they’d play next. Some little kids sat up there with tambourines and maracas, having a grand time. On the floor, a dozen couples danced to the music. Gwen saw Cara with James Kipfer on the sidelines, holding hands. It looked like he was trying to coax her onto the floor. Several others, mostly girls, had crowded onto the floor to dance alone or in groups while their male counterparts loitered on the outskirts in indecision. Gwen searched for auburn hair, locating Loomis in the bleachers. With a smile, she weaved through the crowd.
Loomis sat on the topmost bleacher. On one side, Delia had curled up and fallen asleep; on the other was a jar of clear liquid. In her arms, she held a sleeping Megan, gently rocking in time with the music. Her feet were propped on the empty seat before her, and she gave Gwen a welcoming smile. “Hey there.”
“Hey.” Gwen sat next to Loomis’s feet, turning slightly in order to face her. “How’re you doing?”
“Not bad. The girls are tuckered out.”
Wondering how much she could get away with, Gwen draped her arm over Loomis’s knee and propped her chin on it. She grinned at the slow flush crawling up her friend’s face. “They played pretty hard today.”
Loomis swallowed and cleared her throat. “Yeah, they did.”
“So you guys do this every month?”
“Yeah. Even in winter, unless it’s really bad weather.” Loomis’s blush faded as she became accustomed to Gwen’s touch. “Of course, during winter we hole up in here or at other folks’ houses. This is the first campout of the year.”
Gwen nodded, then rested her cheek on Loomis’s knee as she surveyed the dance floor. “Looks like James might get Cara out there yet.” She relished the warm chuckle she received.
“We’ll see. He’s been trying for six months and hasn’t succeeded yet.”
“Six months!” Gwen raised her head to stare at Loomis. “What’s she waiting for?”
Loomis shrugged, still grinning. “I have no idea.”
Gwen snorted. “I never would have figured Cara for shy.”
“I don’t think James did, either.” Loomis kept hold of her daughter with one arm to retrieve the glass jar.
Remembering she was thirsty, Gwen eyed the jar. Loomis had been drinking out of it all afternoon and evening, though only a sip at a time. It was hardly half empty. “What’s that?”