American War(53)

Dana turned once more to her sister. “So when are we gonna tell Mama?” she said.

“Tell Mama what?”

“You know what. About you and me going away. About Atlanta.”

Sarat sighed. When she had first told her sister her ambition to one day travel to the Southern capital and work with the government of the Free Southern State, Dana had chuckled at the thought. What use do you think they have down there for a refugee girl from Louisiana? she’d said; you gonna run for president too? But as the months passed and the camp continued to fill well beyond its capacity, its occupants subjected daily to new and varied indignities, the idea of running to the city began to appeal more and more to Dana. She started boasting to her friends about it, until Sarat regretted ever having told her anything about Atlanta.

“We’re not just leaving our mother here and running away,” Sarat said. “Who’s gonna take care of her?”

“Simon’s been taking care of her just fine,” Dana said, pointing at the box under Sarat’s bed.

“Simon doesn’t spend more than one night a month in this tent—you know that.”

“So, what, we’re just gonna live the rest of our lives in this place? Wait for another storm to come and wipe the whole place away, or the Birds to come by and bomb it to hell? I thought you had all these plans about working for the government, letting the world know what the North’s been doing to us, all that stuff. You keep talking about how you’re gonna change things. You can’t change a damn thing living in Patience.”

“We’re gonna go, Dana, I promise. But we gotta think about our people too.”

Dana snorted. “Our people? In this camp, are you kidding me? You think if it weren’t for everyone knowing Simon was with the rebels and you now being Albert Gaines’s pet, they wouldn’t have come through here and stolen every damn thing we got? Ain’t nobody in this camp our people. Only thing we got in common is we all on the losing side of the same war.”

“We’re not losing the war,” Sarat said. “And I’m not Gaines’s pet.”

“C’mon, girl. You spend every damn night with him, he’s got you reading all those books and running all those errands. You know well as I do he’s just an errand boy for all them rebel groups. Comes to places like this looking for anyone dumb enough to strap on a farmer’s suit and blow themselves up outside some Northern checkpoint. Won’t be long before he tries to put a farmer’s suit on you too.”

“He’s a teacher,” Sarat said. “Nothing more.”

Sarat stood up. She lifted her messenger bag off a hook on the wall and slung it over her shoulder.

“I’m gonna go look for Simon out by the creek,” she said. “It’s getting ’round sundown—they should be coming in. Don’t tell Mama nothing about Atlanta, and don’t take any of those pills.”



THE AIR SMELLED of mildew. Everywhere there were signs of damage from the storm, but also signs of recovery. With nowhere else to turn to, the refugees began to rally around the rain-damaged tents like antibodies to an infection.

On her way to the northeastern end of Alabama, Sarat passed countless lines of clothes and sheets and flags and blankets, all drying in the wind; tablets and radios and phones planted like seeds in bags of rice. The sky was a matte purple. Another warm, dry evening was coming over the Mag. The puddles began to dry.

She walked through the northern tents, where there were some signs of damage but no signs of life. She passed the tent in which her pet turtle lived and reminded herself to check on the animal later.

When she approached the remains of Highway 25, she saw a man and a boy, both hunchbacked with heavy baggage, walking north toward the ruined bridge and the gate to the Blue country. She approached and saw that it was Marcus Exum and his father.

The two carried overstuffed packs on their backs and grocery bags in their hands, and the father wore around his neck a pair of birding binoculars. Sarat watched them for a minute as they approached the place where the road once crossed low over the creek.

Before the war, the road ran straight into Tennessee, but now the only things visible above the waterline were two slim concrete barriers that once marked the edges of the highway. They peered just above the surface like stone tightropes. In the distance, beyond a series of large red signs prohibiting passage, the razor-wired fences and tree-camouflaged snipers’ towers marked the beginning of the Blue country.

Sarat approached Marcus and his father. When the man saw her he turned hurriedly to see if there were others watching, and when he saw none he motioned for the girl to leave.

“What are you doing?” Sarat asked.

“It doesn’t matter to you what we’re doing,” he said. “Go on now, this doesn’t concern you.”

“It’s all right, Dad,” Marcus said, setting his grocery bags down. “Let me just say goodbye.”

“No time,” his father said. “They’ll be back at the gates soon.”

“Just one minute, promise.”

Marcus eased his backpack from his shoulders. He’d grown a little in the last year, but still stood only as high as Sarat’s chest. He put his hand on her arm. “We’re leaving, Sarat,” he said. “We’re going to the North tonight. We’re not coming back.”