In a Handful of Dust

“Very,” Lucy said, her voice lost in the faded opulence that surrounded her. The lobby stretched for what seemed like miles, far past the daylight streaming through the sand-grimed windows behind her. The rounded arcs of light cast by the windows were quickly eaten by the depth of a darkness so complete Lucy could only guess at the height of the ceiling, or where the walls ended on the far side. The heat from the outside had tapped the last of her rebuilt strength, and her lungs struggled to pass the weighty, warm air in and out of her body. Her foot throbbed so deeply she could feel a pulse in her knee.

“I need to sit,” she said weakly, seconds before falling to the floor, the impact softened by a rug so deep her fingers sank into the fibers, and she wondered if it would close over her head like the sands outside, and the raging waters of the river.

Ben walked into the shadows and she heard the scraping of furniture, followed shortly by the reemergence of his face, puffy with exertion, as he pushed a padded chair to her. “Have a seat,” he said grandly, then dropped to the floor next to her, falling back onto the carpet and staring into the emptiness of the far-reaching ceiling.

Lucy could almost forgive his attitude when she saw how much it had cost him to bring her the chair. She lifted herself into it, studying his pasty, pale face while he had his eyes closed for a moment. “Thank you for the chair,” she said.

“Dad says I need to make sure I’m polite. He says a boy built like me won’t get a girl who wants protection. So I’ve got to aim for one who wants someone to be nice to her.”

“So you’re nice on purpose, not because you want to be, is what you’re saying?”

“Is ‘nice’ a naturally occurring trait?”

Lucy didn’t answer, since she doubted failure to thrive was a naturally occurring trait either. Ben sat up and pulled himself to his feet using her chair. “C’mon. Dad’s in the gardens. He’ll be wanting to see you.”

She followed him through the cavernous lobby, their footsteps echoing out and above them, bouncing off the unseen walls and ceiling. They emerged from the darkness into a garden so bright Lucy’s eyes ached from the contraction of her pupils. The garden stood in stark contrast to the hollowness of the lobby, every inch covered with light and green growth. Lucy’s words did not echo endlessly there, instead absorbed by the life around her, drinking in her voice instead of throwing it back at her in defiance.

The loamy smell of good, wet dirt filled her nose and made her soul ache for home, and lengths of green fields drenched with rain. The sudden whiff of life was so direct and strong Lucy felt woozy again, and she settled onto the cold marble floor with a soft sigh as her skin drank in the moisture around her, her body answering the life in the room with a response of its own as she felt every pore in her skin opening up to drink air cleaned by green leaves.

“I think she likes it,” said a deep voice, and Lucy startled from her reverie to see a man among the vegetation, his smile a glaring white against the backdrop of green.

“Dad, she can do it,” Ben said by way of introduction.

The smile slipped for a second as he shot an irritated look at his son, and then returned when he glanced at Lucy. “Hello, little one,” he said. The endearment sounded so natural in his deep voice that she felt comforted.

“Hi,” she said shyly, suddenly aware that Ben’s father had a handsome face to match his voice. “I’m Lucy.”

“Lucy, welcome.”

She ducked her head in response but could think of nothing to say. Ben backed away as his father came toward them, emerging from the garden like a god of life. He was a massive man, the biggest Lucy had ever seen; he would dwarf Lynn, and Lucy herself only rose to his elbow. Feeling more childlike than ever, she reached up to shake his hand.

“I’m Lucy.”

“You already said that.” He winked at her, and her hand was immediately lost inside his, which was coated with the rich blackness of the soil.

“I’m Lander,” he said, releasing her hand and clasping her shoulder, turning her away from Ben. “Impressive, isn’t it?”

Lucy’s eyes were still riveted on Lander’s bicep, so she didn’t realize he meant the garden until Ben sighed heavily. “Yes,” she said, redirecting her gaze. “It’s… is that a tomato?”

The inviting flash of red among the waves of green brought Lucy out from under Lander’s protective arm, her mouth watering at the sight of a favorite food so long denied her. “You grew a tomato?”

“More than one, actually,” Lander said. “That’s the first ripe one of this crop.”

Nearer the plants, Lucy could see the bunches of green tomatoes, swelling with life and drinking in the sun from the glass ceiling above, the moisture from the thick air around it. The one that had caught her eye had just turned, the skin a deep orange that would turn to overripe redness in a day or two.

“It’s yours, if you want it.” Lander’s voice was at her elbow.