The Smaller Evil Read online

  You’re awake now. It was just a dream.

  But his despair failed to dissipate. Dreaming had done nothing to change reality. It hadn’t made him less of a coward or lightened the weight of his guilt.

  Oh Beau.

  A strange scent wafted across the cabin then. Fragrant and earthy, it caught Arman’s attention. Paused his guilt spiral. It was a good smell, too, with just a hint of richness. Like the most comforting of food. The scent floated across the cabin, filling his nostrils, teasing his mind like magic, and conjuring up the distant dance of memories he’d kept long buried: warm meals around the dinner table in the time before his parents’ divorce, back when his father was still around and still doing his best to stay honest. Or at least give the impression of honesty.

  Giving impressions, after all, was sort of his thing.

  With bleary eyes, Arman searched for the source of the smell. It came from a wicker picnic basket that had been set on the table in the center of the room. That was strange, he thought. The basket hadn’t been there earlier, when he was talking to Dale. He would’ve noticed it. And he had talked to Dale earlier, hadn’t he?

  It was hard to remember.

  Arman got up, wincing as he stood. Not only were his feet sore, but moving brought back the ache in his head, deep enough to hitch his breath. He fingered his stitches gratefully. Despite the pain, the presence of his blisters and the head wound offered an earthly sort of reassurance; both were a testament to the past that was getting harder and harder to hold on to.

  He walked to the table. Opened the basket. Nested atop a bed of timothy grass and lavender sat a smooth ceramic bowl filled with broth and covered with plastic wrap. Two vent holes let the soup’s steam and scent escape into the ether. Beside the bowl was a plate with a corn biscuit and a pat of butter, also covered in plastic wrap. Next to that sat a mug and a pot of hot tea that smelled of mint and honey.

  Arman’s stomach felt too jumpy to eat, but he knew who’d brought the food for him and it was knowledge that made him feel good. Cared for. He glanced out the cabin’s window. The day’s shadows had grown long. Everyone must still be down in the meeting hall. Dr. Gary had said they’d be there until dinner, which, if yesterday was anything to go by, wouldn’t happen until well after dark.

  That meant now might be a good time to visit the cook. For him to try to talk to her. Arman’s body quivered at the thought, unable to resist indulging in the memory of her perfect touch, her open mouth, the sweet-soft way her breasts rubbed beneath that flimsy dress she wore, just barely a secret. It all had power to fill him with the most dizzying sort of agony. There could be nothing more earthly than that. Besides, she would listen to what he had to say. She would believe him. And she would know what to do.

  Wouldn’t she?

  20

  THERE WAS ONE THING ARMAN needed to do before heading down to the kitchen to see the cook: hide his money. Leaving it in the cabin seemed unwise with the way things were disappearing around the compound. But dragging his whole bag around with him everywhere also felt like a bad idea. Someone might ask what was in it. Worse, they might take the bag from him and look inside.

  So Arman scooped the newspaper-wrapped bills from his bag, tucked the entire bulky bundle under his shirt, and left the cabin. After looking around to make sure no one was following him, he ducked into the woods, traveling as far west as he could on soft feet, quiet as a prey animal.

  He skidded down a steep hill into a narrow ravine, following the path of a dry creek bed until he came upon a small hollow that was completely shaded and covered in ferns. Falling to his knees, Arman dug at the soft dirt beneath the plants until the hole was big enough. Then he dropped the money in, covered it up, and placed two flat stones over the top, followed by a handful of pine needles.

  Arman stood. Wiped the dirt from his hands and sweat from his forehead. He didn’t look back as he walked away from the fern hollow, toward the ring of cabins. He felt better now. Unburdened. No one had seen him come out here. He was sure of it. And he wouldn’t forget this spot. When the time finally came for him to leave this place for good, once he’d found Beau and figured out what the hell had happened to him, Arman would remember right where this was.

  He had no doubt about it.

  • • •

  I need something good this summer, Arman.

  Something I care about.

  Shoulders brushing aside thick sunflower stalks and tall ears of summer corn, Arman made his way through the kitchen’s lush garden with the words Beau had spoken to him here, just yesterday, playing and replaying in his head. He passed the berry bushes, all heavy with fruit, and the feathery chicken coop, and he remembered Beau’s pride. His eagerness to get started and the solemn way he’d wanted Arman to know that they were alike. That they saw the world the same way because of how they’d grown up. Although that couldn’t be true, Arman realized now, because he didn’t believe in suicide. In part, because it was a dramatic gesture he didn’t think he deserved, but also because suicide was something selfish people did. People who couldn’t be bothered to care about others.

  Wasn’t it?

  Arman also couldn’t help but think of last night. What he’d been urged to do with that knife. The dot of blood he’d drawn before stopping.

  Had Beau meant for him to kill him?

  Was that what he wanted?

  Overhead, the sun sank from the sky in its arrogant, look-at-me way, but Arman kept his head down. He couldn’t stomach seeing the light or pondering questions that might make him sick to answer. He focused on keeping his feet moving, and as he reached the kitchen’s garden entrance at last, he found the sliding glass door open. Like an invitation.

  Like she knew he was coming.

  Arman began to walk faster, pulled in by a tide of anticipation. A wave of heat swept from his belly to his groin, stiffening him and heightening his senses almost to the point of actual pain.

  Breathe, he told himself as he stepped into a kitchen that buzzed with energy. Then he stopped. And stared. Because everything was different. Unlike yesterday, when the cook had been the only one here, the room was now filled with workers, at least half a dozen of them, who were preparing for dinner service: roasting vegetables; taking trays of meat out of the oven; pouring carafes of ice water and wine; and yelling to each other about issues like place settings and the number of chairs and who was going to light the incense. Arman licked his lips. Where had all these people come from?

  And where had they been yesterday?

  The cook, however, wasn’t among the workers. She wasn’t anywhere. Arman looked all around before leaving the kitchen in confusion. He started to walk back across the garden. He planned to make his way around to the front of the building to the dining hall entrance, where he hoped to find her. He also hoped to tame some of his neediness in the meantime, to gain some semblance of control over the fire that raged between his legs. He really was in the worst sort of way.

  Then he saw her.

  She was in the vegetable beds, crouched by a standing trellis in the fading light. The lattice of the trellis was twined with what looked like snap peas, which the cook was picking, collecting them in a clear plastic bowl. She also held a set of shears stuck between her teeth, very gently, the way a Labrador might hold its duck. And maybe it was the intensity of her focus or the intensity of the day, but looking at her not only failed to diminish his sense of desire, it swelled and grew. It threatened to swallow him whole.

  Arman walked over. Cleared his throat.

  The cook jumped. She squinted up at him. Removed the shears from her mouth.

  “Hey.” He gave a small wave.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked sharply.

  “I came to see you.”

  “Me? Why?”

  “I wanted to talk.”

  “Talk?”

  He shrugge
d. “Yeah.”

  Her gaze darted behind him. “Well, did anyone see you?”

  “See what?”

  “Did anyone see you come over here? Did Mari see you? She was out here before. Checking on me.”

  Arman faltered. “Mari? No. I don’t think so. Why?”

  The cook gripped the bowl of snap peas to her chest. “You can’t be here, you know. We can’t be seen together.”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s against the rules.”

  “Whose rules?”

  She glanced over her shoulder. “Look, I can’t afford to get in trouble. And you can’t either. Not everyone here likes you.”

  “They don’t?”

  She shook her head. “Beau wasn’t supposed to bring you. Or your friends.”

  “My friends?”

  “Those people you came with.”

  “They’re not my friends.”

  “Sure seems like they are.”

  “But you were able to be with me yesterday.”

  The cook made a clucking sound, like Arman was a boy who’d done something wrong but who was still, at heart, mostly innocent. “This isn’t yesterday. And you told me you were leaving.”

  “I did leave. Then I came back.”

  “I heard you were sick, by the way. I brought you soup while you were sleeping.”

  “I know you did. Thank you. But who said that? I’m not sick. I hit my head. I had to get stitches. That’s why I—”

  There was a loud sound then—a massive crack-boom that shook the earth, startling them both. The scent of gunpowder filled the air. A flock of swallows burst from the brush in a flutter of wings.

  “What was that?” Arman breathed.

  The cook’s face went pale. She scrambled to her feet, dropping her bowl in the process. Peas scattered on the ground.

  “That was the cannon,” she said.

  “There’s a cannon?”

  She nodded. “It means Inoculation’s over. You have to go now. I do, too.”

  “But I need to talk.” Arman took a step toward her. “Things have been happening to me. Things I don’t understand.”

  The cook backed away. She held up her hands so that the kitchen shears were between them, glinting in the twilight. “Don’t come any closer, Arman. I mean it. You can’t.”

  “What?”

  “Look, we’ll talk later. I promise. Just not now, okay?”

  “But—”

  “Just go,” she whispered urgently, her eyes darting once again to somewhere behind him. “For me.”

  21

  ARMAN TURNED AND LEFT. He managed to hold down the sting of bile rising in his throat as he walked away from her. But just barely.

  Not everyone here likes you.

  Beau wasn’t supposed to bring you.

  Shoulders heavy, he retreated through the garden along the same route he’d come in on. His desire wasn’t just dampened now; it’d been washed away. Swamped. Every trace of it gone.

  All around him, evening settled. The crickets sang, the world went sooty, and there was something in the earthly gloom and the vastness of the sky that made Arman feel both skittish and weak. And more than a little sad.

  It was loneliness, he decided, stuffing his hands into his pockets. That was the source of his sadness. At the moment he felt more alone than ever, because he’d actually dared to let himself need something. Or, more accurately, someone.

  Arman shivered. He was trying hard not to feel sorry for himself, since from what he could figure, self-pity was the only thing worse than self-loathing. Veering left at the trailhead fork, he headed in the direction of the domed meeting hall. At least he could sit in there, he thought. At least he wouldn’t be alone.

  The building soon came into view. The wood doors were open and warm light spilled out. People, too. They were leaving, and Arman hurried forward. He was eager to join the group’s journey, no matter where it might lead. And that was a feeling that was new to him, he realized, all new—seeking solace in the presence of others.

  • • •

  Arman slipped in with the migrating crowd. There was nothing to it. No one noticed his presence or asked where he’d been. And in a twist of irony, it turned out the whole group was heading right back toward the dining hall he’d just come from. Although they were walking to the front entrance, of course. Not the kitchen.

  Entering the hall, with its dim light and heady atmosphere, Arman trailed near the back of the line with one hand over his stomach. He smelled the food coming from the kitchen, rich and savory, but he wasn’t hungry. His sick feeling had grown exponentially since leaving the garden.

  He collapsed in the first open chair he came to. The room had started to spin, and staying on his feet seemed risky. Maybe if he put his throbbing head down and closed his eyes, he’d wake up feeling better. More stable. Or better yet, maybe the world would be a different place. And he’d be a different person.

  One with a life that made sense.

  Four people were already seated at the table he’d chosen. Arman had no idea who they were, only that they were loud and in the middle of a heated debate. So much for sleeping. Their cynical tones and righteous indignation soured Arman’s stomach more than it already was. Dinner-table tension never sat well with him.

  “But it’s the principle that matters,” an owlish man with red flyaway hair and wire-rimmed glasses was saying, jabbing the air with his fork for emphasis. “Nothing else. We don’t need to change what we’re doing. We just need to be right. The Evolution will come about naturally. It will be a moral imperative.”

  “The principle is never what matters.” A thin woman on his left corrected him. “Morality isn’t how change happens. Humans define morality based on their actions. Not the other way around. We always reason to our advantage and we give ourselves all sorts of outs. Look at the doctrine of double effect. That’s the very essence of what Haidt is talking about.”

  “Moral dumbfounding,” agreed another woman. “Gary says it’s the reason the younger generations are so dangerous right now. They believe their every urge is valid. They’re not going to willingly give that up.”

  “Ridiculous,” the first man huffed. “Moral relativism is a myth. Gary and Haidt can both say what they want, but at the end of the day it’s like trying to compare the Bible with carbon dating or quantum physics. It doesn’t hold up.”

  “So you’re not in favor of Containment?” the first woman asked.

  “I’m saying that from an epistemological perspective, we can’t afford solipsism. Containment is a means to an end. Forget the double effect. Immunity’s about the herd as much as the self.”

  And so it went.

  Arman unfolded a napkin. Placed it in his lap. He had no clue what Containment was, or this double effect, but seeing as he was younger and all, did that mean these people actually thought he was dangerous? It would’ve been amusing if he didn’t feel so awful. But the whole conversation was weird, and Arman suspected the already-near-empty wine carafe in the center of the table had a lot to do with it.

  The food came soon after. Not the fragrant broth the cook had left for Arman back in the cabin. No, this meal was richer. Heavier. Far more decadent. There was brown-sugar-crusted pork loin stuffed with plums and bourbon-soaked figs. There were roasted turnips seasoned with herbs. Bright wraps of rainbow chard filled with goat cheese. Blackberry salsa. Small pots of butter.

  When the cook stopped by his table, Arman knew better than to talk to her. It was against the rules. She’d told him that. But knowing didn’t stop him. It never did.

  “When can we meet?” he blurted as she set a loaf of warm bread in front of him. “I really need to talk to you.”

  The cook shot him a cool look in return, one that made him shut his mouth fast. Jesus. He shrank in his chair. But Arman’s shame me
lted like snow in summer when she leaned forward, reached beneath the table, and briefly squeezed his leg before turning and leaving without saying a word.

  When she was gone, he looked down. She’d dropped a scrap of paper in his lap. On it was written:

  Midnight. My place. Come to the window.

  He shoved the paper into his pocket while everyone around him began passing food. Pouring more wine.

  “Not hungry?” the old man next to Arman asked, and other than Kira, he was the only black person Arman had seen so far at the compound. That seemed strange, although Arman couldn’t have said why. The guy was also really old. As in shaky hands, shriveled skin, and bones that appeared to have gotten lost inside of him. Arman was surprised he’d survived the van ride out here, much less any of the more grueling activities.

  “I don’t feel very good,” Arman told him.

  “Food’ll help. It always helps.”

  “It won’t help if I throw up.”

  The old man chuckled.

  “Is that funny?” Arman asked.

  “It’s that girl, isn’t it?”

  “What girl?”

  “The one who brought the food,” the old man said. “I saw you looking at her. You know, I was the same way when I was your age.”

  “What way is that?”

  “Feeling sick around the pretty ones. That was how I knew I liked them. Love-shy, they call it.”

  “Love-shy?”

  “Scared of girls. Or whoever it is you like.”

  “Oh.”

  “I got over it, though.”

  “You did?”

  “Yup.”

  “How?”

  “You gotta spend time with them. That’s the secret. The sick feeling goes away once you get to know the person. Or maybe it doesn’t go away so much as your brain starts to figure out that caring about someone is a good feeling instead of a bad one. Brains are smart like that, you know. They’ll find the truth.”

  “Mmm,” Arman said, although he wasn’t sure this information applied to him. His concussion was the main reason he felt sick at the moment. Besides, he wasn’t just love-shy. He was shy-shy. All the time. Around everything. And so far his dumb brain hadn’t figured out how to do anything smart about it at all.