Бентли Литтл - The Disappearance

Excitedly, Joan pushed herself out of bed and stumbled through the darkness to the door. She pulled it open. The hallway was dark, too, but there was light coming from the living room, and she followed it.

Mark was sitting on the small couch in front of the coffee table, reading a Bible, while Rebekah was unpacking a box of cooking utensils that had obviously just been delivered. “Hey, you’re up!” Mark said in an overly familial manner, and Joan wondered if they had been discussing her while she’d been asleep and decided to go back to Father’s script.

“We’re making spicy scrambled eggs for breakfast tomorrow,” Rebekah said cheerily, and Joan’s heart sank.

She moved next to the prayer cabinet, equidistant between the two of them. “You work in the Kitchen,” she said to Rebekah. “You help cook meals for the Home. And Father wants me to help you.”

There was a slight hesitation. “Yes.”

“And you work on the Farm,” she said, turning to Mark.

“But I can’t get you out.” Mark seemed to know where she was heading. He sounded worried.

“But you know how to get outside,” Joan emphasized.

“Why are you asking this?” He was worried.

“You know why.”

Rebekah had stopped unpacking the box and stood next to her husband.

“I know how we can escape.”

They looked at each other. “We don’t want to—” Rebekah began.

“Yes, you do. If you were happy here, you wouldn’t be growing—”

“We are happy here.” Mark quickly cut her off. There was a pleading look in his eyes, and she suddenly understood. He was afraid they were under surveillance. Or he knew they were under surveillance.

She shut up. Glancing around, she searched for something with which to write. Finding neither pen nor paper, she held out her flattened left palm, then squeezed together her right thumb and forefinger and pretended to scribble. Neither of them understood her pantomime, and Joan walked around the smallish room until she finally discovered, in the drawer of a bureau, a stubby pencil next to a piece of paper containing a list of names. She tore the paper in half, took it out and placed it on the coffee table in front of them.

“I’m looking forward to helping you in the Kitchen,” she said aloud in the Language. “I’m actually a pretty good cook.” On the paper she wrote: We put mushrooms in the food .

Rebekah was shaking her head violently, but Mark looked thoughtful.

“Scrambled eggs sound good,” Joan said. She wrote: The same kind they used on me. Everyone gets knocked out and we escape .

“I like eggs, too.” Mark took the pencil from her.

“They’re much better than pancakes.” He wrote: Not everyone eats at the same time .

“What day is tomorrow?” Joan asked. “I’ve kind of lost track of time.”

Mark sensed where she was going. “Thursday,” he replied. He wrote: Most people will be in the Dining Room for breakfast before Fifth Day services. Only some will be out. ”

Rebekah was still shaking her head no.

Joan took the pencil from him. How many is some?

I don’t know.

Can we get past them?

Maybe , he wrote.

They were out of paper, and Joan turned it over. Try to find a way , she wrote. Aloud, she said, “You’re going to have to make a lot of eggs. Breakfast is a big meal. I bet a lot of women are working in the Kitchen.”

Rebekah took the pencil from her. Too many . She underlined the words for emphasis.

We cut the mushrooms ahead of tim e, Joan wrote after taking the pencil back, smuggle them in and sneak them into the food when no one’s looking. Scrambled eggs are perfect.

“No!” Rebekah said aloud.

They both looked at her.

“Yes,” Mark said softly. He wrote: We can do it!

Joan nodded encouragingly. “I’m a pretty good cook,” she said again. “I think I’ll be a lot of help to you in the Kitchen.”

Rebekah picked up the paper, turned it over, read everything on it, then looked from Joan to Mark and back again.

“Okay,” she said finally.

Joan awoke before dawn, feeling anxious.

She had gone with Mark and Rebekah to the Dining Room for supper last night, eating with the Residents for the first time since she’d been brought back, and though she’d been grateful to see no sign of either Father or Kara, the Teachers’ table was full, and Absalom and his comrades fixed her with disapproving glances through the entire repast. She’d forgotten how much she disliked these communal meals, with the prayers between each course and the exaggerated politesse, and the fact that everyone around her was overly solicitous and acting sickeningly sweet put her on edge. She was grateful when an end to supper was called and they were all allowed to leave.

Afterward, back at their living quarters, Mark had chosen mushrooms that he assured her, in one of the written notes that had become their only honest means of communication, were of the right type and were strong enough to knock out every man, woman and child in the Home. The three of them had then spent the next several hours chopping the mushrooms so fine that by the finish they were practically powder. From somewhere, Mark had come up with cloth gloves and face masks that each of them wore to minimize contact with the hallucinogen, and he also supplied a small bag into which they scooped the minced mushrooms. Rebekah would carry the bag with her tomorrow and drop its contents into the eggs whenever she got the chance.

“I need some tonight myself,” she said. “To relax.”

“We will,” Mark promised her.

Joan did not know what had gone on behind the closed door of their bedroom after they’d retired, but she had stayed completely sober. This might be her only chance for a long, long time, and she could not afford for anything to go wrong. She needed to stay alert and on top of things at all times.

Now she was on pins and needles.

Either Mark or Rebekah had gone out and brought back muffins, and they were both sitting at the coffee table in silence, eating. A muffin had been brought back for her as well, and it sat there untouched atop a cloth napkin. Had either of them slept last night? Joan wondered; examining their tired faces, she didn’t think they had. That worried her, but she couldn’t afford to let them see any doubt. They were shaky enough as it was, particularly Rebekah, and at this point Joan needed to show them strength.

Forcing herself to smile, Joan knelt down on the floor next to the coffee table. “Good morning,” she said. She picked up her muffin and took a bite. It was rough and dry, tasteless. She grimaced, swallowing hard. “I hope you didn’t make this,” she joked.

Mark pushed over a piece of paper on which a message had already been written: We don’t want to do this. It is too dangerous.

Joan was prepared. She’d thought they might get cold feet and had come up with a response. She gestured for the pencil, and Mark handed it to her. I will take all responsibility , she wrote. I will put the mushrooms in the food. If I get caught, I’ll say you know nothing. It was all me. They will all believe it. Even Father. As she pushed the paper toward Mark, she wondered what had happened to the pieces of paper they’d been writing on yesterday. If they had not been completely destroyed and disposed of properly, they could be pretty damning evidence. The three of them had to make sure that no trace of their messages could ever be found.

Mark read her words, nodded to show he understood, then wrote something himself, pushing it across the table: What if they torture you?