Devils Unto Dust(79)

“Did Sam send you in here to deal with me?”

“Now why would he do that, I wonder?”

I glare at him, but it has no effect. Curtis watches me calmly, his arm in a sling folded across his chest. The silence stretches long and heavy between us, and I start to fidget under his even gaze. I’m too restless to play this game, I have too much pent-up energy and nowhere to direct it. I break first, like he knows I will.

“What do you want, Curtis?”

“Thought you might want some company.”

“What I want is real food. I want to sleep through the night, and I want to get out of this bed and I want to get home. If you can’t get me that, then I want you to leave me the hell alone.” My voice rises, until I’m almost shouting at him.

Curtis shrugs his shoulders at me, unmoved by my outburst. “I know you’re mourning, young’un, but yelling at people ain’t gonna make it better.”

I press my lips tight together and refuse to look at him.

“You’re gonna have to talk about him sooner or later.”

“I won’t.”

“Why not?”

“Go away, Curtis.”

“No.”

“Go. Away.”

“Talk to me, Willie.”

“If you won’t leave, then I will,” I tell him, throwing my blankets off me. I swing my legs over the side of the cot, and even that small effort leaves me winded. After three steps I’m drenched in sweat and after four I’m falling; I clutch at the fabric of the tent to keep myself upright. Curtis just watches as I falter, making no move to help. Ashamed of myself, I let go of the tent and slowly slide down to the ground.

“I want to go home.”

“I know.”

“And I don’t want to talk about him, Curtis.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s my fault!” I scream at him. The truth echoes painfully in my ears. “It’s my fault,” I repeat, quietly.

I thought it was grief, the pinch in my chest, but it’s not. Grief I’ve felt before, great and gray and lonely, but this is different. When Ma died, I thought the sadness would be too much to bear, but I now I find the grief is nothing compared to the guilt. It gnaws at the center of me, drags at my skin and sets my teeth aching.

It’s my fault Micah’s dead. He was following me, he always follows me. Followed. The past tense hurts, and I let it hurt.

I wanted a way out of my life. I wanted out of Glory, wanted to leave behind the sickness and the fences and the empty plates. I wanted Pa to come back and save me from all that, and it turned out he wanted the same thing I did: freedom. And now he’s gone, and so is Micah. And I hate my brother for that, I think. For getting out when I couldn’t. I hate him for leaving me alone.

I finally start to cry. And once I start, it’s hard to stop. To his credit, Curtis stays until I’m done, until it feels like I’ve cried myself inside out. Then we just sit in silence.

“He was following me,” I say finally, my voice thick.

“You didn’t ask him to,” Curtis says. “It weren’t your fault.”

“He wouldn’t leave me. I told him to go, and he wouldn’t leave me.”

“What would you have done, if it were him falling behind?”

I look down at my hands. “The same,” I whisper.

Curtis nods slowly. “You remember that. You didn’t kill him, a shake did. And for that I’m sorry, Willie. I’m sorry we failed you.”

“No. This trip was cursed from the beginning. Anything that could go wrong, did. I think sometimes there’s something rotten in me, something unlucky. First Ma, then Pa, and now Micah. If I was you, I’d stay away from me.”

Curtis gives me a lopsided smile. “Willie, you’re the first person to ever catch the sickness and live to tell about it. That’s the kind of unlucky I’ll take.”

That’s part of my curse, though. I’m still standing, when all the people I love are dying, one by one. Is there anything worse than being alone in the world? If this keeps up, I’ll be left with only the shakes for company.





63.


I fall asleep early, exhausted from crying, and then wake up halfway through the night with a stiff shoulder and a jaw sore from grinding. I don’t remember my dreams, a small mercy. I spend hours alternatingly sweating and shivering, and finally fall back asleep sometime around dawn.

A hand on my shoulder jerks me awake, dragging me unwillingly into consciousness. I blink heavy eyes and look around, confused when I see morning light and Sam bending over me. He always lets me sleep as late as I can, going on and on about how I need to rest to heal.

“Willie,” Sam says urgently. “Willie, you have to wake up.”

“Mm?” My mouth feels mushy and has trouble forming words.

“Wake up.”

I grunt some kind of agreement but my eyes close in protest. Water splashes my face, cold as a slap, and I sit up sputtering.

“Sam, what the hell,” I say, glaring at him. I’m wide awake now, wet and angry.

“Get your stuff,” Sam says, still holding a soaking rag. “We’re leaving.”

“What?” I focus on his face and see he looks grim. “What’s going on?”