⚈⚈Nature Will Provide⚈⚈

by Justine Gardner

An earlier version of this story was published in the anthology Telephone Me Now by Regulus Press.

 ⚈⚈

Abigail stares at the old-fashioned phone, the numbers on its rotary dial blanked out with dust, its thick cord frayed and mouse-chewed. Still, it works. There is a tone when she holds the heavy receiver to her ear; there is the clickety-click-click as she dials his number, one slow spin at a time.

            He doesn’t answer. An automated voice tells her to leave a message. Did he used to have a greeting? She can’t remember.

            So she leaves a message, the one they’d agreed upon in advance: that she is where she is supposed to be. That she is safe.

            And then she waits.

            In this tiny cabin.

            Alone.

            Whose idea was this again?

            She shifts in the wooden chair, and it creaks beneath her. The ancient black telephone is on the low table at her knees. Next to the phone is a water-stained pad, an old pencil, and a laminated square of yellowed oaktag. It says:

      Welcome to Camp Shady Woods! We hope you enjoy your stay!

      If you need assistance, please call the management office.

      And remember, always extinguish all fires, both indoors & out.

Smokey thanks you!

            Beneath the last line someone has drawn a fair representation of a bear in a ranger’s hat.

            She wonders where the other cabins are, the management office. On the drive in she hadn’t seen a single structure, or person. Just miles and miles of woods on either side of the slim dirt road. Her shoulders still ache from clenching the wheel as the little rental hit stump, stone, and hole, over and over.

            Seriously, whose idea was this?

            She turns from the telephone table and stands up, stretching her arms above her head. The ceiling is so low she can nearly skim it with her fingertips. She drops her arms and fluffs the hair at her neck, letting some cool air on her skin.

            It is clear the one-room cabin has not been used in recent years. He had told her as much when they’d made the plans. Essentially abandoned. Useful to hunters, the occasional hiker on the trail.

            Don’t worry, he’d said. No one’s going to come yell at us. Especially if everything—

            She walks into the kitchen nook, noticing the dust feathering the skillet, the single pot. There is no refrigerator. Only a large, steel-belted cooler, rusted at the edges. She studies it; wonders what might be inside, the smells. She turns away. No stove, either; just a two-burner hot plate. No sink; instead, a hand pump. And no bathroom.

            She’s been avoiding thinking about it, but now that she’s here, finally, she knows she needs to make some accommodations. He’d told her about the outhouse. She can see it out the window at the end of a weed-choked path.

            An outhouse. Whose idea now?

            She steps through the narrow side door and onto a small wooden porch. It feels surprisingly sturdy under the heels of her boots. There’s a rocking chair in the corner, faded and sun-bleached. It looks like one strong breeze would blow it to twigs.

            A rattling comes from above. She looks up. Tucked in the rafters is a nest. Inside, something peeps and scrambles.

⚈⚈

She sits in the car, engine idling, charging her phone. She wasn’t supposed to keep it with her, according to the plan, but in the rush to leave she guesses she forgot. She guesses, but she knows she didn’t, not really.

            But there is no signal, as she knew there wouldn’t be. He’d warned her, but still she figures it won’t hurt to check once in a while. Now and then. Until the car is out of gas, anyway.

            The phone turns on; searches, searches, searches. Nothing.

            She is off the grid.

            She is alone.

            Whose idea was this?

⚈⚈

She sits in the rocking chair, slowly tilting back and forth, watching a line of ants move down the porch railing. She counts them: one, two, three…

            It’s been a week. One week and he hasn’t called. Hasn’t fucking called.

            One week and she hasn’t seen anyone. Heard anyone.

            She rocks and thinks. So far, there is enough food. That, at least, has gone according to plan. Nothing exciting, but she could do worse than canned beans, tomato soup. She’ll be all right for another few weeks, even without skimping.

            And the well water is cold, pure, and sweet. She’s not sure she ever tasted water like that back home in the city.

She’ll live. For a time.

            She’s managed the outhouse. There is even a small supply of toilet paper. This, she thinks, will be the first thing to go. A leaf blows past her foot, brushing against the column of ants, and she smiles.

Yes, well, nature will provide. She laughs, loud.

            Still, it’s August. Fall is creeping in at night. She can feel it now, even though the afternoon sun is high and bright. There, at the breeze’s edge: autumn.

            After that it’s winter. What then?

            She thinks of the gun. It was the first thing she looked for, that second day, after a restless, dreamless night on the musty cot. She knew there’d be one; they planned for it, but she’d wanted to be sure. If he was going to take a long time coming, she needed to know where it was. And how to use it.

⚈⚈

She has rabbit stew for dinner. There are still a couple weeks of canned goods on the shelves, but when she saw the fat rabbit from the window, she figured she might as well try. Turns out, she is a good shot.

⚈⚈

Every morning, now, after she awakes and stretches, heats water for her tea (an endless reserve of bags, it seems), she sits by the black phone and marks the day on the faded memo pad. Like a prisoner in the hole, she scratches one new line. And then counts the total. It’s been, by her record, thirty-four days. It’s mid-September or thereabouts. The nights come cooler and quicker now; her supply of firewood is alarmingly low. There is an ax, there are trees. She supposes, like the rifle, she will learn to make do.

            After this daily accounting of lines on paper, she picks up the heavy receiver and dials his number. Clickety-click-click. She listens to the computer voice tell her to leave a message. Sometimes she does; usually she does not.

            And then she drinks her tea.

⚈⚈

The snow falls in wide, fat flakes, like the ashes of burnt paper. She stands at the window, watching. She thinks it might be Christmas. She isn’t sure precisely, but it is near enough. She lowers her head and gives prayers of thanks to the infant Jesus.

⚈⚈

Two things: One, the phone is dead. Not her phone, his. When she calls this morning there is no automated answer, just a click and static. It’s the first change aside from the seasons.

            Two, she has run out of matches. The fire, always banked or roaring depending on the time of day, must never be allowed to go cold.

            She looks at the pad: it is nearing March, spring. When the snow clears, she is going to drive the car back down the road until the gas runs out. And then she will walk. She will walk and walk and walk until she finds something. Anything. She cannot stay here.

⚈⚈

June, or close to it. The skies are blue, the sun burning hot on bare shoulders. She sleeps outside most nights now. She wears few clothes. Why bother? There is no one. There is nothing. This is her world and she is free.

⚈⚈

The phone rings. At first the sound is so loud, so discordant, she thinks she is imagining again; like when she thought she heard the frogs talking about her, when in reality they were talking to her.

            Brinnnnnnnnng. Brinnnnnnnng. Brinnnnnnnnng.

            It causes the tiny table to tremble with the force of its bell. She stares at it, mesmerized. Her heart knocks hard against her ribs.

            She realizes what she is supposed to do—Answer it Answer it Answer it—in a distant part of her brain that is cut off, removed.

            Answer it Answer it Answer it Answer it

            She steps closer to the vibrating machine.

            Brinnnnnnnnng. Brinnnnnnnng. Brinnnnnnnnng.

            She reaches a hand toward the receiver—

            AnsweritAnsweritAnsweritAnswerit

            She flies out the back door and runs and runs and runs.

⚈⚈

She is naked. Her hair, wild and thick, like a mountain lamb, unshorn. Around her head she wears a garland of wildflowers and thorns, bones of rabbits, birds. It rattles as she walks through the woods, rifle on her shoulder.

            The phone has not rung again. It is in pieces in the stream, smashed against the stones, left to assimilate back into the real world.

⚈⚈

She walks. She has mapped these woods in her mind; she can circle around and back without getting lost, always returning to the cabin, her porch, her rocking chair.

            She finds one other house, half caved in, a tree growing up its middle. Inside, through one of the black window holes, she sees the dark outline of a telephone.

⚈⚈

It is growing cooler again. She can smell the seasonal shift in the air as she sits on the porch, gun across her lap. Another autumn on its way.

            And then, a droning. A hum.

            From down the road. Is it? What is—

            She stands. Readies the gun at her shoulder.

            A car rolls into view. It is moving slowly, purposefully. It stops in front of her cabin. The door opens, and a man falls from it, onto his knees. He is thin, his face is hollowed, gutted.

            “Abigail?” he cries, arms out.

            She cocks the gun. Fires.

⚈⚈

The ants continue to march down the porch railing. She watches them, rocks in her chair, and counts.     

            One, two, three… A leaf blows across the porch, then another. Abigail smiles.