Gale remained composed and relaxed through breakfast. Old Imogen would have seen it as a sign that he was changing, becoming more introspective as he neared his moment of enlightenment. New Imogen didn’t give a shit.
She studied him: scrawny, in spite of the big meals he’d been eating; skin patchy with the discoloration of sunburn, scars, jailhouse tattoos. The dirty bandage was still on his arm where Beck had sewn him up. He was strong, but fallible, and not immune to pain. Eyes, throat. Those were always good places to jab a man. Balls, of course. You could kill someone with the heel of your hand, rammed upward to force the nose bone into the brain. But it looked like someone had already tried that on Gale, and failed.
Once there’d been a seventeen-year-old Imogen who kept still, waiting for it to end, afraid to lash out, to make it worse. And once there’d been an Imogen who hid behind a bush at the synagogue, because she was no match for a weapon of war. Now, here, the thing she’d repressed for so long was ready to emerge. One way or another there would be an endgame, a fight to the death. And this time she would not be still, she would not hide.
Gale yawned. Stretched. “Wanna bring me the dishes? In prison we’d kill for those spoons, make fine shivs.”
Imogen stacked their bowls and carried them over. Could she shove a spoon, even unsharpened, up his nostril? The spear lay across his lap and she’d have to bend over it to reach his face. Hmm, not yet. The picture of obedience, she set the dishes down beside him and returned to her spot.
It would have been easy enough for Gale to pour the leftover boiled water onto the dirty dishes. The stoves were off, the meal done, but he didn’t bother washing anything.
Was this their last meal?
Her heart rumbled, a roll of thunder that smashed away the tranquil sounds of creek and wind. Fuck him. They couldn’t all die here. Gale didn’t get to play God, wipe away their lives because he’d fucked up one time too many. If he was resigned to his fate, so be it. She couldn’t fault him for not wanting to be executed. She could fault him for thinking a few hours of his life were worth more than the collective decades Beck, Tilda, and Imogen had coming to them.
Selfish.
For a minute his placid gaze wandered over each of them in turn. They sat as still as the rocks, hyperaware: it was coming.
“D’you think I’m going to hell?” He scratched at his unshaven face.
No one responded right away, but Imogen was pretty sure it wasn’t a rhetorical question. She was also pretty sure that Beck and Tilda didn’t believe in the literal realms of heaven and hell—though they might be rethinking that since meeting Gale, a creature from the underworld.
“In Judaism—” Imogen stopped short. Though he’d been quick to label them, Gale didn’t seem to hold repugnant beliefs about their differences. But now she feared the limits of his tolerance; the world was becoming more anti-Semitic by the day. He appeared to be waiting for her to continue, so she did. “In Judaism, it’s about what you do with this life, the one you’re living. This is the only life that counts.”
His fingers turned a pebble over and over and he gazed at it and nodded. “You Jewish then?”
“Yes.”
“Figures. You too?” he asked Beck.
“Only in the most superficial way.”
“Still. What happens when you cross paths with a Mexican, a lesbian, and a Jew—sounds like the start of a joke.”
“It’s the reality of living in a world full of people,” Tilda said, with a hearty dose of snark. “Can’t all be white men pretending to be Christian.”
“S’pose. Can’t help but think it’s some karmic justice.”
“You believe in that?” Beck said.
“Maybe. More ’n’ more.” He flipped his pebble around and around and they waited. “So here’s the thing…” And they waited some more. “I accept—I know what I done was wrong. Know I can’t undo it. Can probly only keep making it worse. So I’ve been thinking. And I’ve about made up my mind.” He looked at them. The three captives exchanged glances, on edge, both ready and not ready to hear the pronouncement of their fate. “I’ll let you all go—letcha go tell the world. It’ll take ya what? Two days to hike out?”
“Yes,” Beck immediately replied.
Imogen’s eyes widened, shocked by the direction the conversation had taken.
Gale went on, “So you do that, take yer two days. Tell whatever ya want to whoever—I won’t grudge you that. I’ll keep going, probly off trail—this place, if I wanted to hunker down and disappear…they ain’t gonna poke around in every nook and cranny. Even if you tell them where ya last saw me, I’ll be long gone, you understand? I can live out my time here. Maybe it’s a week, maybe it’s a month, a year…I’m thinking now this was meant to be the plan all along—I started down this path, no way I was gonna stay outta prison fer good. God’s telling me ‘You fucked this to hell, here’s yer minute a heaven. Enjoy it.’”
Just when Imogen had abandoned all hope for his enlightenment.
“Okay.” There was a question in Beck’s voice, a What’s the catch? It was too soon to celebrate, the captives all knew there was a catch. Imogen fought the urge to jump up and kick him in the teeth—before Gale could wreck their hope. Again.
“Yeah, so…What I want in return…Some men want a last meal, but I don’t care if I starve. It’s a better way to go than the needle. I want…I feel awkward ’bout asking, but yer all there is.”
He hesitated. The silence stretched. And Imogen knew—the thing he wanted and couldn’t voice. The thing all men wanted when language failed them. She almost laughed. After all his shameless behavior, he got sheepish about asking for this? What untrustworthy devil had designed men with insatiable urges and no easy way to satisfy them? But then again, at least he was asking, not taking. It showed a remarkable amount of restraint and civility—or so the old Imogen would’ve thought.
The new Imogen started the process of armoring herself, a steel plate for each precious organ, a muzzle for the soft voice of her conscience. This was why fate had brought them together. Her moment was almost here.
“You know before,” Gale said, finding his words. “I said my first choice was Tilda. Most attracted to you.” He looked at Beck next. “I guess yer pretty much outta the question, swinging the wrong way ’n’ such. But, you know, I want you all to have a say—contrary to things I’ve been accused of I ain’t a rapist. And I’m guessing none a you really want to, but then there’s are you willing to fer the sake of our agreement and then I’ll letcha all go after—”
“Wait. You want one of us to have sex with you?” Tilda’s expression mingled astonishment with revulsion. Imogen’s only shock now was that it had taken her friend so long to grasp the situation.
“As an arrangement, I think that’s pretty fair,” he said.
Imogen stood up. “I’ll do it.”
She wasn’t sure which was the chicken and which the egg when it came to redemption and revenge. But whatever he really intended, only she had the real-world experience to summon the necessary rage.
Beck’s and Tilda’s jaws dropped. But Gale only sighed in relief. “Good. Was hoping one a you would see the value of what I was offering, even if I ain’t yer type. But that’s the one thing I want before I say goodbye to everything and walk away. I’m a lover at heart. My whole life has been stops and starts and that’s the most selfish thing I regret when I fuck up again, ’cause I was never a bitch fer anyone. I waited, and when I got out I got my ladies fair and square and never raped no one. And you girls, well, you might not believe in this sorta thing, but I really think, karma and God and all, that this was meant to happen.”
“God brought us all here so you could have one of us? As your last wish on earth?” Tilda was full-on disgust now.
But Imogen agreed with him: this was meant to happen. God had brought them together, and she wasn’t going to waste this gift. This time, she was going into it with her eyes wide open—not caught by surprise.
“Figures it’s you,” Gale said to her, ignoring Tilda. He got up, slapping the dirt from his hands, ready.
“Imogen don’t, you don’t have to.” Beck held herself in a tight ball.
“Imogen.” Tilda staggered to her feet. She went to Imogen, faced her, gazed in her eyes. Quietly but firmly she said, “I’ll do it.”
“No.”
“I’m sorry. It emphatically wasn’t your fault.” Tilda spoke the identical words Imogen had expressed to her. “I believe you, believed you, it was never about you. I owe you. Let me do—”
“No.” Imogen gripped Tilda’s fingers, hoping her friend would feel how strong she was, how prepared. The apology meant a lot, and the offer meant everything, but this was Imogen’s journey.
“Girls fighting over me, this is better than I coulda hoped!” Gale cackled.
Tilda and Imogen reeled, nuking him with hard blasts of hatred, and he had the common sense to swallow his mirth. Imogen turned back to Tilda, starting to panic with the crush of time: she couldn’t explain—didn’t want to explain—
Gale’s spear appeared between them, forcing them to take a step back. “Don’t need to talk so close.”
“Tilda. Thank you. Thank you. I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
“I’m going to do this.” They were more than a foot apart, but Imogen only now released Tilda’s fingers. “And then we’re all going home.”
A tear trailed down Tilda’s cheek. She nodded. Imogen didn’t want to see her sister’s face and whatever anguish it held. She stepped closer to Gale as Tilda lowered her head and sank to the ground.