Once We Had a Country Read Free

feels the seat’s ripped vinyl digging into her back.
    “The man inside told me it could have been worse,” says Fletcher. “He said sometimes when they do inspections they take apart the engine too.”
    She decides not to ask him who’ll pay for the seats to be repaired. They drive on in silence. Then, a few miles downthe road, he says, “When we get to the farm, don’t tell Brid what happened, all right?”
    Maggie frowns. “Why not?”
    “It was a hard sell getting her to come up here. You know how she feels about cops. I don’t want her taking against the place.”
    “But she’ll see what they did to the seats.”
    “Oh. I guess that’s right.”
    She dislikes seeming to correct him. His face always gains such a downhearted expression when she does. It happened one time after he pronounced “peony” the wrong way and she mentioned it didn’t rhyme with “macaroni.” In March, after he told his father about dropping out of law school, he wore the same chastened expression for a month. Now she studies the shape of his eyes, his mouth, willing him not to take things personally. He holds still, apparently aware of her gaze, until finally he starts to squirm and laugh as if her eyes are tickling him.
    On a whim, she slides her fingers into his lap.
    “Why hello there,” he murmurs. But she can tell he isn’t into it.
    “You okay?” she says, drawing back her hand.
    “Sure. Still a bit wound up, I guess.” He reaches over to squeeze her leg. “It’s only a few more miles. If Brid and Pauline aren’t there yet …” He flashes her a grin.
    “Oh, really,” she says, brightening. “Tell me more.”
    “Maggie, I’m a gentleman,” he says, feigning indignation.
    “Then tell me what it will be like on the farm,” she says. She doesn’t want him stewing over what happened at the border.
    “Aw, we’ve talked about things plenty, haven’t we?”
    “I want to hear it again.”
    He takes a breath and smiles. “Well, it’s going to be amazing. Up here, there won’t be any war or election, and we’ll get to make the rules ourselves. At first, we’ll help Brid and Wale look after Pauline—it’ll be four parents for one kid. Then, after Dimitri and Rhea turn up with their boys—” He breaks off. “You know all this. You really want to hear it?”
    She nods, but she has a thought. “Wait a second. Let me get the movie camera and the tape recorder.”
    He looks surprised. “Now? We aren’t even there yet.”
    She’s thinking that the border wasn’t the right way to start, but maybe with the camera they can have a second chance.
    “Pull over,” she says. “It won’t take more than a minute.”
    “The turnoff’s only a mile away.”
    “Yeah, but I want to get started right now.”
    The first shot follows the camper van down a country road as its tires swim through the heat haze. Next, the camera gazes out from the passenger-side window, capturing clusters of bungalows, rows of grapevines and peach trees with the sun strobing between them. The scene is tranquil but the camera shaky. There’s the low thrum of the vehicle’s engine and, from outside the frame, the sound of Fletcher’s voice.
    “America’s too far gone to save,” he says. “The land’s polluted and the politicians are corrupt. They send thearmy to slaughter kids halfway around the world, then order up the National Guard when people protest. In this country we’ll do things differently. We’ll live peacefully and fairly. We’ll get people from all over, people who want to escape the city, who are sick of the crime, the rat race, who want their children to breathe clean air. The farm will let us provide for ourselves. We’ll grow our own food and sell what we don’t eat. Eventually we’ll make enough money to buy the place. It’ll be a life we could never have in Boston. We’ll be a model for everyone.”
    The camera pans away from the landscape and across the dashboard before settling on his face. When he