Rhythm in my life had become a sacred thing. I realized almost a week ago when the power went out, that I had fallen into the habit of taking my rhythm for granted. Get up, bake bread, make dough, distribute the goods. Go to sleep, do it all again the next day. For a long time the rhythm had kept me grounded. Kept me focused and finding a place again in the world. I was really part of something again that was trying to climb it's way out of the broken heap that the world had become since the infection broke out. I'd made my own way to Jackson a few years ago, almost crawling out of the woods with my hands above my head and disbelief in my hear that such a thing could exist. They'd taken me in, helped me find a place to belong, and in the time since I'd not only come to believe in the small town nestled in the mountains, but to actually feel like it was home.
Life in Jackson wasn't without it's challenges, and especially in my job baking bread and other goods for the residents, we had become really dependent on the power from the hydroelectric plant up the river. I'd grown tired of cooking stacks of flatbreads over beds of coals out back, trying to keep everyone fueled along with the other food that we had. It was an improvised solution while crews worked almost around the clock to bring the plant back to life. So when the power had come back on and stayed on that afternoon, I'd breathed a sigh of relief. I could finally get back to work.
I was just finishing mixing dough for the next day's loaves when Tommy Miller came in. I didn't think much of it to be honest, Tommy often visited the bakery at the end of the day to see how I was doing with supplies and how folks were. He knew that any point of food distribution was often a place where he could keep a finger on the pulse of the community without having to actually nose into people's business. So it didn't bother me to find him leaning against the counter when I poked my head around the doorframe after the sound of the bell over the door.
"Be just a minute," I told him and busied myself sliding the big mixer back into its corner for the night. The thing was a veritable workhorse and one of my prized possessions as it made my work so much easier. It would have been a bear of a task to hand mix everything if the appliance ever broke down for good. Tommy joked it was akin to my baby, and I felt just fine by that comparison. Sometimes it needed to be babied.
Tommy has a way of being patient that most folks don't appreciate. He can wait without having to pace or make small talk, and that quiet ease helps bring the energy down in a room that can be broiling, otherwise. When I step out of the bakery kitchen, wiping my hands on a towel that I then drape over my shoulder, Tommy is still leaning against the counter. Even humming himself a little song.
"Evening," he says, "how's the day been?"
"Oh, same as always. Everyone showed up for pickups today, no complaints or news to speak of." I say, offering up the small talk I know that he's looking for. "What brings you down here?"
"I got a question, and maybe a bit of a favor to ask of you," he says, casting his eyes downwards and picking at a spot on the counter top.
"What is it?"
"Do you still have that spare bedroom?" Tommy shifts a little back and forth and I am taken aback at how visibly nervous he is to ask me these things.
"Yeah," I answered. "Tommy, you helped build that apartment. You know I still have the room." I try to meet his eyes but he's still picking at that damn spot.
"Tommy, whatever it is, can you please just spit it out. I don't have the energy to try and pry it out of you."
He smiles then, and finally has the decency to look up at me. There's uneasiness in his eyes and I can feel it swirl inside of me while I wait for what he has to say.
"There's a couple folks who need a place to sleep for the night," he says, his voice low and gentle. "A man and a teenage girl. They'll be no trouble, and it'll be just one night. They're leaving in the morning."
"And there's nobody else who can take them?"
"Let's just say that they're a little sensitive to people, for the time being," Tommy says. "That, and Maria's dad is stayin' with us for another week while we finish his new roof."
"And you want to put them with me? What does Maria think about this? How do you know you can trust these people?"
A long silence stretches out between the two of us, presumably while Tommy figures out what the hell he's going to say to me.
"I can vouch for them."
"How?" I insist. That's when Tommy closes his eyes and lets out a long sigh, like he's trying to release years of built up tension that extend all the way down into his soul.
"Because it's my brother," he finally answers. "I know we can trust them because it's my brother."
Surprised is an understatement, because in the years that I have known Tommy Miller, never once has he mentioned that he had any family. I had assumed all along that he'd been an only child, childless himself, the only family he had now was his wife Maria. At least, that seemed like the safest assumption to make about someone in this world, since there was always the most likely scenario that everyone he'd ever loved was either dead or shuffling around with fungus sprouting out of their skull. Not something you wanted to spend ample time dwelling on.
"When the hell did you get a brother?" I say, failing at hiding my surprise. Tommy laughs though and shakes his head.
"Will you at least have dinner with all of us?" he asks, still trying to close the deal on my cooperation. "If you don't feel comfortable then we'll shoehorn them in someplace else."
My curiosity gets the better of me as I wonder what kind of brother Tommy has, why he would keep him a secret for so long, and I can hear the words coming out of my mouth before I have a chance to think better of them.
"Fine. But just dinner. And you owe me."
"'Course," Tommy says and looks relieved that I've at least opened the door to agreeing to his initial request. "I'll be back in a bit. Maria thinned out some stew she's been simmering all day and if you've got any leftovers from special orders this week we'd sure appreciate the addition."
"You're gonna owe me more than just one favor at the rate you're going," I warn him as he heads out the front door and I'm left to lock up. I have just enough time upstairs to wash my face and smooth my hair after a day of work before my brain is turning over and over with doubts about this. I can't stop coming back to wondering why Tommy would have kept this secret from all of us. And why did he show up now? Why stay for one night and then be gone again just as quickly as you came? Even as all the questions are blurring together into a hum in my brain, I know deep down that I'm unlikely to get any real answers out of anyone this evening. Might as well just get it over with.
I'm just finishing laying out some blankets on the extra bed in the spare room when footsteps resonate up the stairs and towards my door. The stairs leading up to the apartment above the bakery give me the distinct advantage of a warning that someone is approaching my door. I brush my hands down the front of my sweater and take a couple deep breaths when they knock. I know it's Tommy, but my heart is still racing and I can't calm my nerves. Before I reach out for the knob, I close my eyes and tell myself that I'm safe. That whatever waits for me beyond the door isn't a threat.
Tommy and Maria are standing on the landing of the stairs and shuffle in when I open the door to them, Maria moving quickly past me with the dutch oven of dinner still clutched in her hands. Tommy eases inside and motions for the two other people still on the stairs to follow him in. The first, a red-haired skinny girl with skittish eyes and a nervous laugh, holds her hand out to me and moves to let the man behind her come into the apartment so Tommy can close the door.
"Hi, my name's Ellie," the girl says and I take her hand. She gives me a hearty shake and I wonder if Tommy coached them on the necessity of making a good impression. Ellie seems like she's trying, even though she's still glancing around the place to make sure every corner is safe. I understand the impulse, even if I haven't felt it myself in a long time. When she seems satisfied she's setting down her worn backpack against the wall and nodding back over her shoulder at her silent companion.
"And that's Joel," she says. Tommy follows quickly with his own addition.
"My brother, Joel Miller," Tommy says and I hold out my hand to Joel who takes it and gives me a firm handshake. His face is damn near unreadable and he tips his chin down slightly in that same Texas way of greeting that I've seen Tommy do so many times. Joel looks enough like Tommy, except with hazel eyes, darker hair and a beard that is patched with grey. But there is enough in common in their faces that I can tell they are related and for a moment my questions and doubts fade into the background. I linger with my hand still in Joel's, a simple point of contact between the two of us and there's something deep and reassuring in the way he takes up space, broad and steady and completely connected to me by our palms and fingers.
"Thank you," he says, and the low timbre of his voice ripples through the small space. "I appreciate you lettin' us stay here tonight. I promise we won't be a bother."
I shake myself out of the reverie and let go of his hand, trying to cover my tracks of getting lost in his polite gesture. That's all it was, certainly, nothing more.
Dinner was relatively quiet, with Maria and Tommy leading the conversation between all of us. We spread out over the furniture in the kitchen and living area, with Joel and I ending up across from each other at the dining room table. He doesn't participate in the conversation, but I can tell he's paying attention to everything that is said, all while casually looking around the room and taking mental notes about his surroundings. I remember living that way, always scanning a room, watching the doors, keeping your ears tuned to the background noise. It was an exhausting way of life. But that explained the bags under Joel's eyes.
"You got a question, or are you just having a look?" Joel's quiet voice cuts through my haze and I realize I've been studying him while stupidly thinking he wouldn't notice. My cheeks burn from embarrassment and I look down at my cleaned bowl.
"I'm sorry," I mutter. "I didn't mean to be rude."
He shrugs one shoulder and looks up at me from his dinner. "Probably not many new folks crossing your path. How long have you been in Jackson?"
"Four years and eight months," I say without hesitation. I'd thought initially that I would forget the exact amount of time, that the details would fade but they were as strong as ever.
"That's a long time to be anywhere these days."
"Yes and no. It's good to be settled. To have work to do and people to help take care of. That's how it all works. Everyone has a purpose again instead of just surviving to the next day."
"You sound like my brother," he smirks. "Very optimistic."
"Well, maybe he's on to something." I try to give Joel a small smile but he just shrugs me off and furrows his brow, digging into his stew again for another bite. We don't say much again after that, but I do take note of the way he seems to take small bites of the bread, like he's trying to make each piece last as long as he can. I wonder how long it's really been since Joel Miller had real bread. Real food. A regular schedule of responsibilities. All the things that made life in Jackson better than outside the walls. Even if he didn't want to admit it.
The day fades and I busy my hands washing the dishes while the others talk. It's turned more serious now, with Joel and Tommy speaking in lowered tones and Ellie and Maria still chatting about town. The girl has an endless supply of questions about life here and I wonder what intentions are. I'm humming a little and enjoying the warm soapy water, when someone sidles up next to me and extends a hand out for the plate I'm scrubbing.
"Here," Joel says, indicating his offered hand. "Let me help before we turn in."
"Oh, yeah, sure," I stammer a bit and point at the towel on the counter and hand him a plate. He takes long sweeps on it with the towel. The moves are slow and deliberate, making sure that the plate is really dry before he sets it down on the counter and holds his hand out for another. I've been watching him again, my hands still in the sink but this time he doesn't say anything about it. He seems content to wait while I take care to clean off a plate and then hand it to him. Joel and I settle into a rhythm and I like having him there at the counter. It feels like a normal thing we are doing, despite the unusual circumstances.
"Ellie can sleep in the small bedroom," I tell him, taking a turn to dry my hands on the towel after we've finished the dishes. "She should be comfortable. You can sleep in my bed."
Joel catches my eyes and smirks again before the realization of what I've said crashes on my shoulders. The whole room goes quiet and I realize that everyone heard it. That everyone is staring at me.
"Alone," I try to cover quickly. "I mean, I'll sleep on the couch. You can sleep alone in my bed and-"
Joel holds up a hand and I shut my mouth before I said something else stupid.
"It's okay," he says gently. "I'll sleep on the couch. I'm fine."
I nod and Ellie tries to cut the tension by asking if she could use the shower, and I give her some silent thanks for setting me a task to do with getting her and Joel extra towels in case he wants one as well. Tommy and Maria take their leave and I shut myself in my room after quick goodnights, wishing a hole would open up in the floor and just swallow me. Who knew that you could still be so embarrassed even in the apocalypse?