The Infinite Sea(110)

            “So what now?” he asks.

            “Rest up a few days—or as long as we can.”

            “Then?”

            “South.”

            “South. That’s the plan? South. A little elaborate, isn’t it?”

            “We have to get back to Ohio.”

            He stops as if he’d run into an invisible wall. I trudge on for a few steps, then turn. Razor is shaking his head at me.

            “Ringer, do you have any idea where you are?”

            I nod. “About twenty miles north of one of the Great Lakes. I’m guessing Erie.”

            “What are you— How are we— You do realize Ohio is over a hundred miles from here,” he sputters.

            “Where we’re going, more like two hundred. As the crow flies.”

            “‘As the . . .’ Well, too fucking bad, we aren’t crows! What’s in Ohio?”

            “My friends.”

            I continue walking, following the imprint of his boots in the snow.

            “Ringer, I don’t want to burst your bubble, but—”

            “You don’t want to burst my bubble butt?”

            “That sounded suspiciously like a joke.”

            “I know they’re probably dead. And I know I’ll probably die long before I reach them, even if they’re not. But I made a promise, Razor. I didn’t think it was a promise at the time. I told myself it wasn’t. Told him it wasn’t. But there’re the things we tell ourselves about the truth, and there’re the things the truth tells about us.”

            “What you just said makes no sense. You know that, right? Must be the head injury. You usually make a lot.”

            “Head injuries?”

            “Now, that definitely was a joke!” He frowns. “Made a promise to who?”

            “A naïve, thick-headed, stereotypical jock who thinks he’s God’s gift to the world when he isn’t thinking the world is God’s gift to him.”

            “Oh. Okay.” He doesn’t say anything for a few shuffling steps, then: “So how long has Mr. Naïve Thick-headed Stereotypical Jock been your boyfriend?”

            I stop. I turn. I grab his face with both hands and kiss him hard on the mouth. His eyes are wide and filled with something that closely resembles fear.

            “What was that for?”

            I kiss him again. Our bodies pressed close. His cold face cradled in my colder hands. I can smell the bubble gum on his breath. The Earth is my charge. We are two pillars rising from an undulating sea of dazzling white. Limitless. Without borders, without boundaries.

            He brought me from the tomb. He raised me from the dead. He risked his life so I might have mine. Easier to turn aside. Easier to let me go. Easier to believe the beautiful lie than the hideous truth. After my father died, I built a fortress safe and strong to last a thousand years. A mighty stronghold that crumbles with a kiss.

            “Now we’re even,” I whisper.

            “Not exactly,” he says hoarsely. “I only kissed you once.”





77

            AS WE APPROACH, the complex seems to rise from the snow like a leviathan from the deep. Silos, conveyors, bins, mixers, storage and office buildings, an enormous warehouse twice the size of an airplane hangar, all surrounded by a rusty chain-link fence. It seems creepily symbolic, fitting somehow, for this to end at a concrete plant. Concrete is the omnipresent human signature, our principal artistic medium on the world’s blank canvas: Wherever we went, the Earth slowly disappeared beneath it.