Chapter 6: The White Army
The sun was setting as Sammy led Naomi out of the shack. Naomi picked one of Mr. Fitzpatrick’s horse carvings up off the counter as she passed the booth. It looked like the horse on the market’s flag but was much more detailed. The horse had thick-muscled rear legs and long slender front ones. A shock of hair jutted from its neck as though flowing in the wind. Naomi ran her finger along the nose and felt the nostrils under her fingertip. If this truly is a horse, she thought, then they are as beautiful as I imagined.
“Take it.” It was Mr. Fitzpatrick. “Hope it brings good luck.” He took the knife from his pocket and gestured toward Sammy. “Get going,” he said, “before it gets too dark.”
The market was empty in the purple light of the setting sun. Here and there Naomi saw people among the booths or sitting on chairs in the pathway, but mostly the courtyard was deserted. The shacks were lit by electric lights and the smell of wood smoke filled the air. As she and Sammy passed underneath the enormous flag she felt a pang of homesickness. She thought about what it meant that her mother had given her this gift. She lifted the shirt to her face and felt its velvety softness on her cheek.
Sammy stopped at the edge of the courtyard. Wooden doors rose up in the wall before them, barred closed by a huge log.
“This isn’t where we came in,” said Naomi.
“No,” said Sammy, “It goes out to Main Street.”
Sammy grabbed the log. He pushed on it, but it would not budge.
“Here,” Naomi said. She tucked the T-shirt back into her belt and put her hands next to his. “Let me help.”
“I don’t need no girl’s help,” he said.
“Sure you don’t,” she said, and pushed with all her might.
The log crept out of its anchors. She pushed harder, feeling the blood rise in her face. Finally, the log fell to the ground with a melodic thunk. Sammy pulled the door open and the two of them stepped into town.
Nobody was around. All the buildings were dark. “Where is everybody?” Naomi asked. She had never been in town at night before.
“What do you mean?” said Sammy.
“I mean,” said Naomi, “where are all the people? Why is everything closed?”
Sammy let out a little snort. “Nobody comes here at night,” he said.
“But this is the town,” Naomi said. “There should be stuff happening.”
“The only reason people go to town is for the Pastery. When it shuts, so does the town,” Sammy said.
Like the rest of the town, the Pastery, which looked like a huge grocery store, was dark. Steel grates covered the glass doors and windows like giant flyswatters.
“What are we doing here anyway?” Naomi said.
“Ma told us to come here,” Sammy said. “So we’re here.”
Naomi felt like she was pointing out the obvious. “But it’s closed.”
“Come on round back,” Sammy said. “I know a way in.”
Sammy’s “way in” was a tiny window covered by a metal grate bolted to the glass with a padlock the size of his fist.
“That window’s locked,” Naomi said.
“Sure it is,” said Sammy. “You’re supposed to think that.”
He crouched by the window. He reached underneath his shirt and produced a length of thread from around his neck. A rusty key hung on the thread, which he held up for her to see. Just the head of the key was rusted. The part of the key that went into the lock was shiny and smooth with wear.
“You go in there a lot,” Naomi said.
Sammy grabbed the lock and jammed the key into it.
“Got to,” said Sammy. “How else we going to eat?” It was not a question that was meant to be answered.
“You steal!” she said.
Sammy turned, his eyes sheepish and his forehead furrowed. He let go of the now-open lock and it clattered against the ground.
“If I don’t go in and take paste, we starve,” he said. “We got no choice. There ain’t nothing we can grow no more.”
“Well can’t you do something else to make money?” she said.
“What else is there is to do? My brothers joined the army to make money, and now one of them is dead. What does your folks do?”
“My mom is an accountant for the Pastery,” Naomi said.
“She works for the paste factory,” Sammy said.
“No,” said Naomi. “She works for the Pastery.”
“Ain’t that the same thing though?” asked Sammy.
“So,” said Naomi, her voice filled with doubt, “the paste factory owns the Pastery?”
“They own everything,” said Sammy. Lifting up the grate, he pushed the window open. He spun around and slithered backward, disappearing into the darkness behind the window. After a moment, his face shined from the dark spot like the moon.
“You comin’ or what?”
Naomi slid through the window, feet first. She hung against a damp wall, her legs searching for something solid.
Sammy whispered, “Hold on.” Naomi felt his hands beneath her shoulders. When Sammy whispered, “okay,” she let go of the ledge and he lowered her to the floor. She looked but only saw a vague outline of him standing in the dark. Her eyes traveled from Sammy’s silhouette to the outlines of the things around her.
“I can’t see anything,” she whispered.
“I know where I’m going,” he said. She felt his hand grab on to her own, clammy and rough.
“Okay,” she said. Sammy pulled her away from the pale light of the window.
As they moved through the basement, Naomi began to make out the shapes of the things around her. She could see the aisle ahead of her was flanked by tall shelves.
“Is this all paste?” she asked. She’d been to the Pastery before, but she’d never seen the basement.
“Shhhh.” Sammy stopped. He looked back at Naomi. “They store it here.”
They continued through what felt like miles of shelves. There must have been thousands of tubs as big as tree trunks. Sammy would have to be very strong if he were stealing one of these.
The shelves dropped away and they found themselves standing in a wide-open space filled with barrels. Naomi heard a grumbling sound. Sammy stopped again and Naomi bumped into him.
“Be careful,” Sammy said.
“What is that?” she asked.
Before he could answer, a garage door flew open at the other end of the room. Two bright bulbs lit up like angry eyeballs.
“Quick,” Sammy whispered, and yanked Naomi behind the barrels.
The rumbling sound grew louder and louder until it sounded like there was a thunderstorm in the huge warehouse. The lights were coming right for the place they were hiding. Naomi squeezed Sammy’s hand so hard that her own hand felt cold.
Then the grumbling faded to a purr and drifted away.
It was dark again.
“What’s happening?” she whispered.
“Look.”
She followed Sammy’s finger. He pointed to a line of white delivery trucks. The first truck stood right in front of the barrel they were hiding behind. The garage door rattled closed.
“Let’s get out of here,” said Sammy. They threaded through barrels until they came to a stairway. As they ascended the stairs, Naomi heard the truck doors opening. There was an electric crack like a switch being turned on, and the basement flooded with light from overhead bulbs the size of fishbowls. People in white uniforms stepped out of the trucks. Naomi lost sight of the action below as Sammy pulled her up the stairs. Just as they reached the top, she heard a chorus of truck doors slamming shut.