The Well

3

I had been playing cards with Tim and Jackie at their dining room table, two days ago. They'd poured out what was left of their bucket—their full drinking water allocation—into a small pitcher on the corner table. Bored with our game, Austin started running back and forth across the room, making airplane noises.

He ran into the corner table.

The pitcher clattered to the ground, shattering, water mixing with glass on the dusty hardwood beneath us.

"I'm sorry!" Austin gasped, waving his arms uselessly toward the mess. "I didn't mean to do that."

I pulled him into my chest, stroking his hair. "Shut up," I whispered to him.

Never waste drinking water. It was the cardinal rule. Even Austin knew that. I watched his face scrunch itself up as he held back tears. He nodded stiffly and allowed himself to relax in my arms.

Jackie and Tim's faces shattered along with the glass; they both showed too many expressions to count or define. In an instant, they were out of their seats and palming the floor, licking up what they could salvage. Jackie's palm split open after she sliced it on an errant shard. She didn't care. She smeared her bleeding palm across the ground, lifting and discarding glass shards, cupping small mouthfuls of water to her face. They had no space, no interest in us. Their focus was on the water pooling on the floor.

"We should get a cloth, try to soak what up what we can," Tim suggested, lifting his head from the ground. "We'll try and squeeze it out into the water bucket."

Jackie nodded her assent. She stood up and made her way toward the living room at a jog.

"I'm sorry," Austin repeated.

The sound of Austin's voice seemed to remind Tim of our presence. He looked up toward us, and a dark liquid boiled beneath his face. A trail of blood curved around his lips,  landing on his chin. He made as if to stand.

"He's just a kid," I said, cutting him off before he could speak and maneuvering myself so that Austin was shielded from his gaze. I felt Austin trembling behind me. "He's just a kid, okay? We're leaving, anyway."

The heat from Tim's gaze was unwavering. It lasered through me, focused on the exact spot where Austin's head would be. I met Tim's eyes evenly, emanating answering cold. If he was going to go after Austin, he would need to go through me. 

"Here, let's try this."

Jackie was back, carrying a rag and the bucket. I was glad for the distraction. Tim forgot us again, was solely focused on the lost water. Jackie moved quickly, slurping up as much water as she could with the rag. Jackie and Tim were still bent over the floor as I dragged Austin out the door.

We didn't have anything to spare in return, that was the problem. No one ever had anything to spare. But especially not us, with Mother's cough, with Austin's incessant adventures outside-- the ones Mother and I watched from different perches, the ones we could never bear to interrupt. I couldn't bear the thought of telling Austin, so full of energy, always in motion, to do as Mother and I did and conserve his water, lay down in bed in the shadow of the house and forget the outside. 

Tim and Jackie knew this, of course, and knew better than to ask.

So they had gone a day and a half without any water, and the uncaring heat had blazed on. I pictured them, that night, simmering in their house, wanting—needing—something to calm the rough patches in their throats.

I wasn't sure what to expect as I made my way up their porch steps. I didn't know if they were still angry with Austin—or with me, for bringing him in the first place. No matter. I would try and make amends, try to apologize, try to salvage what I could with them.

I couldn't survive without our quiet evenings playing cards. Tim and Jackie were my only friends and closest neighbours. When I tired of the creaking of Mother's chair and her dry quarter-smiles, when I had been watching Austin run around in the sun for too long, I came here, and it was like emerging from a lurid dream into the washed-out tones of reality.

Jackie would greet me at the door with a smile that wouldn't quite reach her eyes. But this was nothing personal—nothing, not even Tim, brought a full smile to her face anymore. Tim would crack an obscene joke and slap me on the back just hard enough to draw out a wince.

They understood how I felt about the well. We had talked about it, the first time I'd come over, in hushed tones, exchanging cards. They had been there, when I had found out. It had been Jackie, who never fully smiled, who always gave her touch like it belonged to the person who received it—it had been Jackie who had been the one to wrap me up in her arms, and invite me here, invite me in. It had been Tim, crooked-mouthed as he was, who had found the right words to make me laugh again. Each time I entered their shadowy, sparsely-light home, I could forget. 

I knocked.

Their curtains were closed except for a small crack where light escaped. I saw movement, back and forth, darkening the crack. Someone was shuffling around. I couldn't tell whether it was Jackie or Tim. Not like it would have made a difference.

No one came to the door.

I knocked again, louder this time.

The movement inside stilled.

No one came to the door.

I waited three full minutes before I turned on my heel and went back home.