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Cocos aren’t out raping and pillaging. They’re trying to rebuild a collapsed economy, so we can have a good life.”
“Don’t you think you’re a little biased, Dee? You’re sleeping with the oppressor,” Mel retorted. “Collaborator.”
“Maybe I’m sleeping with him because I believe in him,” I hissed at Mel. “Maybe I was in on this whole food taxation scheme from the beginning, because I thought we needed it. Maybe I created Amenac to support them in the first place.”
“Paddy paws, gang,” Dave cut in calmly. “Mel, I was there. Dee’s telling the truth. Dee, we do live under martial law. The Rescos like Emmett, and the Cocos under him, dictate our lives. He’s a benign dictator, and doing a bang-up job of it. But Mel has a point. Emmett’s still a military dictator.” He paused and added more softly, compassionately, “It can’t be much fun for you. Working like this all day, every day, for nothing but enough food to eat and a little protection.”
I stood up to ease my aching back and stretch my neck. Mel’s intellectual criticism was easy to reject. Dave’s compassion was not. He’d caught a chink in my resolve, and I swallowed uneasily. “It’s not easy,” I allowed. “It’s not fun.”
I usually refused to look at it, but I didn’t love life as a subsistence farmer. I used to love gardening. I needed security. I feared survivalists and looters. I thought I loved Emmett. But this life was a grind.
But I didn’t have to look at it that way. I had goals, things I was working toward. I was presenting Amenac to a regional summit meeting in just over a week. I had good weather and good apples, a gorgeous day. Kids were safe and playing and laughing in the next row. “It’s good enough,” I breathed.
In sudden decision, I yanked up my picking bag. “You people aren’t much fun. See you back at the car.”
I switched over a row and walked up-hill along the Macoun trees until the guys were out of sight and earshot, if not out of mind. I picked through windfall apples alone. It took me a quarter hour to realize it wasn’t the Amenoids I kept arguing with in my head, it was myself. I didn’t win that argument either. But I picked up a lot of apples to feed people who couldn’t. Eventually the monotony of the job and the beauty of the setting allowed me to just give it a rest and enjoy the day. The glory days of Indian summer were nearly gone. I wanted to savor this one.
“Heya, darlin’,” Emmett said. I startled, and coming up, knocked my head on an apple bough. “Watch your head,” he commented. He flopped down in the tall grass between the rows, after kicking a few rotten windfalls out of his way. I crouched my way out of the tree, to flop down beside him.
He gazed at my stormy face, and thoughtfully chewed on the end of a sprig of grass he had sticking out of his teeth. “Wanna talk about it?” he offered.
“No.”
He scratched his jaw. “Dave seemed to think they pissed you off.”
“They did.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I think I lost it when they called you a benign dictator.”
The grass seed-head bobbed. “Uh-huh.”
That wasn’t honest. “I really lost it when Dave said I was doing hard work without end, for nothing.”
“Uh-huh.”
I sighed. I’d long suspected that ‘uh-huh’ meant Emmett heard me, but didn’t buy it. He said it a lot – to everyone, not just me, though especially to me. He waited me out. I hugged my knees and put my face down on them, looking at him, watching the seed head bob.
“You’re done?” he inquired. At my nod, he continued, “The difference between heaven and hell is the company we keep here, darlin’. These are hard times. It’s a lot of work. I sure do like the company I’m keeping, though.” He smiled and laid a hand on the small of my back, just where I liked it.
“Lots of work,” I breathed.
He nodded, and took a deep breath. “I’m just a convenient target, Dee. The real problem is productivity. We need to farm more