My mind gutters back to the last time Finch was here alone, when I came home to an unlocked door and her sitting on the porch with Scotland. But also to the more recent discovery of footprints by our hunting blind. The idea of someone in our woods, close. “She’ll ride along.”
“Risky, the two of you out together.”
“We’ll be all right.”
“Well,” he says, moving toward the door, “I’ll keep an eye out.”
“I’m sure you will.”
SEVEN
I’ve never minded it before, the onset of winter, because Finch and me make the most of it, the cold nights and short days. We play long rounds of Rummikub and checkers, we read and memorize poems and cook our more elaborate meals. There’s a part of me that sort of enjoys it, a slower time of year after we’ve spent the rest of it toiling hard. I like the safety of it, too: knowing that for the majority of time, the forest roads are closed and we don’t need to worry about trespassers.
But of course this year is different. After breakfast I open the cupboards and take everything out. Chicken noodle soup, baked beans. A very small amount of sugar, maybe a quarter cup. I lift the door to the root cellar and climb down the steps, the wood creaking beneath my feet. There, I count up what’s left of our fall crops. Apples. Three butternut squash, fourteen carrots, seven potatoes. After eight years, I’ve learned to do a good job of rationing our supplies so that we’re just running short in November. It takes some planning, and we have to be careful, but we eat well, Finch and me, balanced, wholesome meals. As I divvy up the remaining food into portions, it becomes clear: we will be out of food by Christmas.
Me, I can make do. I’m a grown man and if I don’t eat great for a few months, no big deal, I’ll survive. But Finch. All this time I’ve taken care of her, made sure she had protein and grains and vegetables and even fruit. I’ve given her the best life I could, and I’ve been able to justify keeping us both out here, because she has never been in need or want. She’s always had clothes that fit and a warm place to sleep. She has never gone hungry, not once, thanks to Jake. But yesterday, I caught her stuffing an apple in her pocket, stealthy-like, and trying to slip out the door before I could see. I didn’t say anything about it. I couldn’t. The thought of her feeling like she had to steal and sneak.
I will not let her starve.
One trip. There’s the Walmart Scotland referred to, fifty miles away, and a gas station about twelve miles out the road, and I’ll go to Walmart and then stop and get fuel on the way home. A simple excursion, the kind most people do every day of their lives, groceries and gas, only I will be buying everything in bulk.
The list.
Produce: oranges, lemons, bananas.
Dried items: Prunes, raisins, cherries, apricots. Various types of beans. Oatmeal, rice. Nuts.
Canned goods: peas, mushrooms, corn, green beans, peaches, pears, soups.
Candles. We are down to the last one, the wax nearly gone. Matches. Batteries.
Flour, salt, baking soda, vinegar, sugar, coffee, powdered milk, cooking oil.
Toothbrushes, toothpaste, fluoride rinse, toilet paper.
New pants, shirts, socks, and underwear for Finch. A winter jacket, snow pants, gloves, boots. She has outgrown these things and I won’t have her hunt and help outside without proper attire.
Luxury items. Paper and pens. Hot chocolate mix. Milk, butter, and five big slabs of sharp cheese. Now that winter’s here, we can keep things cold in the icebox out back.
Birdseed. Cat food, litter.
I organize it into categories, based on how I remember things being set up in the store, and I figure with time for travel, plus my shopping, plus the stop at the gas station, if everything goes perfect, we can be back in four hours. Two hundred forty minutes of risk for a whole year of security and sustenance, and I figure it’s worth it.
Well, not like we have a choice.
Here are the risks, and there are so many that I hate to even think of them, but if there’s one thing the military taught me it’s that a person must be prepared for what he might encounter.
First, traffic or any other unforeseen holdup along the route. Second, nosy or suspicious people at the store. Little old ladies who have nothing better to do than poke around in someone’s business and ask questions. What are you gearing up for, the apocalypse? Going somewhere? Why so much stuff?
Third, the truck breaks down and we have to ask for help. Fourth, we’re in an accident. Fifth, on the way home the gas spills all over the supplies, leaks down into the wrong place and we blow ourselves up.