Woman For Sale - Cheap

Chapter 1

She had always wanted a tattoo. If she could find one that made the statement, 'I am a housewife only barely on the young side of thirty with far too many recipes involving ground sirloin but none of that means I am not still youthful and hip and relevant,' she would have gotten one immediately. Delicate little butterflies don't make statements though – unless it is perhaps that of trying too hard – and, really, she was getting a bit old for things like a tattoo. So she moved tattoos from the 'possible' file to the 'one of many, many, many things I never got around to' file and forgot about it.
That was part of what made being in this situation so surreal. She gritted her teeth as a bald man hunched over her wrist, his needle gun buzzing merrily, and thought back to having wanted a tattoo. He paused to wipe away the blood and she swallowed hastily. Somehow, she hadn't envisioned this moment involving nausea. Alcohol, probably, but never nausea.
"All done," he grunted. She took back her hand, flexed it and thanked him. Much to do today. The appointment with her case manager was in twenty minutes and she had heard they were a temperamental bunch.
A gal behind the tattoo shop's counter stared at her, though she really thought the staring ought to be going in the other direction. Bubble-gum pink hair, how did they ever manage that? The shop girl gave a small awed wave as she stepped outside, a bell tinkling overhead, and met her driver out front. A shiny armor-plated car and suited driver, all for little ol' her. Surreal didn't even begin to cover it.

The driver pulled the car up to a squat concrete-block building. The sign proclaimed it to be Lincoln Elementary, home of the Bulldogs, but the sign lied. It was the new Redistribution and Population Efficiency Center for Women. For schools, you see, one needed teachers and unfortunately most teachers were - had been - women. Any man, with the proper government job from Before, could be a case manager and there were plenty of those yet, so Lincoln Elementary was now the county RPEC and children stayed home. It was safer that way anyhow.
She ignored the small sign demanding that all visitors present themselves to the office and register for a guest badge, and instead hunted up Rm. 26 (Mrs. Fekete's third grade class, sign up now for the canned food drive!) where a truly sour-faced man indicated with his chin that she should wait in one of the little plastic chairs that lined one wall. Wait. For what? She was the only woman here, quite likely the only woman to have an appointment that day. Never mind that now; dealing with bureaucrats was like meeting strange isolated natives from a tropical land. Observe their illogical and convoluted cultural bylaws and perhaps they will let you return to your homeland in peace, uneaten. So she sat, arranged her feet and hands comfortably while seated in the tiny plastic chair and waited with a pleasant expression on her face.

"Naomi Owens," rang out in the empty room, and she immediately surmised that here was a former employee of the Department of Motor Vehicles. The way his dulcet tones carried, exactly as if he was trying to make himself heard over thirty cranky, fat, tired drivers and assorted bored children, precisely in the same tone as one would call out 'number ninety-three'. She momentarily gave serious thought to ignoring him and then asking if he meant Naomi Elisabeth Owens, or some other Naomi Owens entirely. He glanced up then, as if he could smell possible shenanigans the way predators smell fear, and the look he gave her quite plainly retorted that he had been at his cramped desk for hours, doing pointless and boring paperwork, and he would leave her there for at least another hour if he had to. Without any magazines.
"Yes, I am," she said brightly. She traded her little plastic chair against the wall for another little plastic chair across from his desk when he indicated she ought to do so, and tucked her purse under her chair where there was scarcely room for it.

"Age?" How rude.
"Twenty-nine last month."
"Status?"
"Of what, please?"
"Married, single, divorced, widowed-"
"Oh, that status. Married."
"Children?"
"One daughter. She'll be four in August."
"And her father is...?" Cheeky little bugger He had her file right in front of him, the pencil-necked, liver-gnawing petty little man.
"My husband, of course."
"What is the status of your daughter's health?"

Naomi retrieved her purse from under her chair and pulled out a thin envelope. "She was completely lacking in symptoms for the entire duration, as was I. Here is the certificate from her pediatrician."
He took this and seemed to chirk up. Perhaps envelopes had special meaning within the odd workings of bureaucratic cultures. "Good, good, you're right on top of this. Having a living daughter, especially an asymptomatic daughter, does quite a lot for your value, you know. In that vein, what is the health status of your female relatives, starting with the closest blood relation?"
"I have one sister in New Jersey and, as far as I know, she is completely healthy last I heard. My mother wrote to me just last week and she is in perfect health, and reports that my grandma's thyroid is giving her trouble but she is otherwise fine, as well. I have several female cousins but I wouldn't begin to know how they are, you know how it is these days - no phones most of the time and all. I'd be happy to give you their names and I'm sure you have a database of some sort you can check."
"We do, and we will. The names, please?"
She rattled them off and he took notes. Without warning the room dimmed as the lights went off in one of their frequent blackouts. He sighed the heavy sigh of one who was much put-upon, and the questions came quicker. They would both want to get out of here before the sunny room became unbearable without air conditioning.
"Husband's health?"
"Fine, and his certificate is in the envelope with our daughter's."
"The health status of his female blood relatives, closest first?"
"Two sisters, both alive and kicking, a mother who is very much the same, his grandmother died years ago of a stroke. One cousin is fine. Another caught it but survived."

It. Had they ever gotten around to naming it? Things needed names, without them they were strange and unknowable concepts. Names gave things handles, made them graspable and conquerable. Otherwise it was a faceless and nameless evil that swooped down and slaughtered nearly a full half of the population before they'd even had time to give it a name, and didn't that sound pathetic.
He frowned slightly. "Pity. Otherwise you have a perfect file. You are on birth control?"
"As required by law." Liar! She'd forgotten her pill last Friday. Maybe they would drug test her and find out, and she would get an awesome nickname like one of those Old West outlaws.

"And I see you have your tattoo, excellent. Remember, if your household requires any goods you will need to merely show them your tattoo and your ID card, and you'll get anything you need. Immediate household only, please."
He made a small note in her file and put it away on one side of his desk. From a large filing cabinet, he deliberated over and selected a thick stack of similar files and handed them to her. "You've been graded F1 and your daughter is temporarily an F2. Your husband's female cousin's file has been cross-referenced to yours and if she or any direct female descendants show cause, your daughter will be upgraded accordingly. Here," he selected a pair of pamphlets from his desktop, "are descriptions on the grading systems and how to be upgraded, you might want that for your daughter. And here is one on the rights and responsibilities of a female citizen with an F1 classification. Congratulations, Mrs. Owens. With that grade, you might as well be royalty these days. Don't forget to have your tattoo updated."

She took her purse, her new ID card and the stack of files and nodded her head in thanks as she left. The driver was still waiting for her, and this time he tipped his hat as he saw the thick stack of tan files she was carrying. Naomi ducked into the car and sank back with relief for the long ride home, because, frankly, this entire affair was unsettling and nerve-wracking and she'd really just like to go home and fix herself a very large scotch and water. The files sat heavily on her lap, and she revised that thought to perhaps just a scotch. Or, on third thought, just a water. There probably wasn’t scotch to be had for a three-county radius.
The driver picked up an escort at the highway on-ramp and she waved at these boys. They waved back and honked the horn, giving her flashbacks to the days when her father was packing them across country in another military move and she and her sister and brother would wave at truckers and laugh delightedly when they would sound their big horns. Good times, man. There were no truckers on the road today, only military vehicles instilling law and order and offering secure escort to official vehicles. One could never be too careful these days. What a depressing thought.

Her driver and escort exited the highway and headed straight for the razor wire fences and concrete-pillared gates of the Norfolk naval base. She hadn’t lived on post in years, and found the experience nostalgic. She’d always found the atmosphere of military bases exhilarating anyhow, with their scads of uniformed personnel and the general sense of busyness and purpose. Those things were all doubled now, what with the situation on hand: more personnel, more to do and the president pounding on his podium that the very fate of the human race depended on how well good citizens and the military executed his policies. Blowhard.

The driver skimmed the buildings standing sentinel to the waterfront and pulled into what used to be a PT field, now dotted with dozens of hastily constructed cottages. Naomi had to pass through yet another razor wire topped fence, just as hastily constructed as the cottages, to get to the field. As her father was fond of saying, this was the new Navy and even in the military there were those you couldn’t trust. The two things sailors love above all others are alcohol and women, and it wasn’t alcohol that was scarce. In addition to the fence, heavily armed guards patrolled the encampment border dusk til dark.

She nodded to the sentry and stopped just inside the gate, experiencing the same disorientation one gets in a parking lot. Two back, three over; it always took her a moment to remember that. The little homes were temporary and looked it; identical two-room constructions with a screened porch to offer relief from the summer sun. They were pleasant for the most part now, in May, but come July they would be furnaces without any sort of shade trees.

She stopped one shy of her own and knocked on the lintel. A burst of activity came from inside the house and children boiled out to greet her, followed by their mother. She had agreed to watch Amy so that Naomi could get her errands done in town alone.

"She was fine," the other woman said, handing Amy over, "once she got used to the kids. So, how did it go?"

Naomi indicated the files in her arms and told her of the F1 classification. Leah looked at the files with frank envy. Her own classification was being held up by her youngest girl; during the outbreak, little Sara had spiked a fever. Sure, there had been none of the other typical symptoms and, yes, there were any number of reasons a tot of two might run a temperature, nonetheless her pediatrician refused to sign a certificate. Leah had one and her older girl had one, which helped greatly, as did having already borne five hale and sturdy children - clearly this was a woman who was not only fertile but accomplished at it - yet her classification was awaiting a committee meeting to decide whether baby Sara had been infected or not. With an otherwise clear family history, it meant the difference between a lofty F1 or something much lower.

"The tattoo is sore, though. Have you heard anything back about Sara’s certificate?"
"Not yet,” Leah said. "They said the deliberation might take a couple of days. I hear that most of the panel wants to pass her but one old doctor is taking the better safe than sorry route and wants to hardline all certificates."
Naomi fumbled through the files in her arms, looking for the pamphlets the case manager had given her, and Leah invited her to sit on the porch. She unloaded the hefty paperwork and fished out the glossy brochure, flipping through it. "How do they define the classifications again? What will you get if this old bat doesn’t give Sara her certificate?"

"F3," Leah said promptly. "F1 is a healthy mother of childbearing age with no symptomatic children or relatives. F2 is a healthy female who has either borne no children, yet also has no symptomatic relatives, or a healthy mother with an infected relative within five generations. It’s possible that an F2 might not be able to have children because of natural reasons not dealing with the outbreak, or she might be carrying bad family genes. An F3 is a healthy mother who had at least one infected child, proving that she passes along the susceptible genes. F4 is a healthy mother whose female children were all infected or died. I5 is the lowest, an infected woman with asymptomatic daughters under 16."
Leah recited as though the words had the import of scripture, and indeed they did. Getting that F1 tattooed on your hand meant prosperity, security and an education for her children. Every fertile female left would be provided for but the higher your classification, the higher you were on the priority lists for scarce supplies. Your classification meant everything, having a classification meant everything, for the unclassified females were the infected survivors. They had been rendered sterile and were of no further use to the population. They were on their own.

Naomi excused herself, thanked Leah for minding Amy and went next door to her own cottage. She whiled away the afternoon by skimming a few of the files, allowing Amy’s internal clock to let her know when it was time to prepare supper. Children always knew when it had been more than five hours since they were last fed. The power was still out but these temporary camps hadn’t been rigged for power anyhow; they were built with an eye for impermanent security, not comfort. The families and single women housed here were only stopping in long enough for RPEC to assign them to more permanent quarters.

Her kitchen was nothing more than an area reserved in the cottage’s larger room for cooking and washing purposes. Naomi poked a couple of sticks of wood into the potbellied stove meant for heating and cooking and rummaged through the little cupboard next to it. A few cans of pork and beans, a little dry milk powder, oatmeal, cornmeal, a small packet of brown sugar and some salt. With a thrill, she recalled that she could go to the warehouse now and get more than the basic allotment with her new classification. Maybe even meat. Oh, but that was too much to dare hope for. Still, the thought of a meaty stew, a crispy bit of fried chicken or even an entire roast, brown and drowning in gravy, made her stomach rumble achingly. She yanked herself back to reality land and set a pot on top of her little stove. This was the best diet she’d been on in her life, she hadn’t ever been skinnier. See, there was always a bright side, even if it didn’t involve scotch.

"Mmm, Amy, we’ll have some beans and cornmeal mush. Doesn’t that sound yummy?" It was always beans. Oatmeal for breakfast, leftovers at midday and beans and cornmeal mush for supper. You are what you eat, and Naomi was a really big bean.

After supper, such as it was, she filled a washtub and added hot water from the kettle to wash the dishes. Washed, rinsed, dried and put away, the kitchen was clean in minutes. Amy played on the floor with her blocks and Naomi cozied up to the files and pamphlets again on her sofa.

The rights and responsibilities of a female F1 citizen, she read off the front of a pamphlet. This ought to be interesting.

Congratulations on achieving the rare classification of F1. As you know, virtually every family was touched in some way by the catastrophic global pandemic. Health professionals estimate that the female death toll was as high as 80%, with a further perhaps ten percent of female infected survivors robbed of their ability to have children and roughly 4% of men affected. Even those lucky few citizens not directly damaged by this epochal disease have felt its after-effects. Hundreds of millions have died; workers, homemakers, teachers, nurses, politicians, military personnel and policewomen. These are sad days, days of rationing and supply challenges, crime and wars and threats of war. Resources have never been more important and, you - yes, you! - are this country’s most valuable resource.

Just think! Women provide a unique and irreplaceable gift to even the most modern society: the gift of children. Populations world-wide have plummeted to shocking levels, and will only continue to drop as sterile women and excess men age and die without having created more children to replace themselves. No matter how wealthy, how progressive, how mighty their military and ancient their culture, every civilization today will wither and die without the most important citizen of all, the fertile female.

As such a citizen, the United States of America pledges to stand behind you with the full might and power of this great nation. No one shall infringe your rights, which are -

- Top-quality healthcare for your family, provided by the government at no cost to you.

- The best provisions and goods America has to offer - merely go to your nearest food distribution warehouse and tell them what you need!

- A quality education for your children. Their parents have offered them the best genetic start in life, their government can do no less than prepare them for it!

- Complete security at all times. Drivers, personal guards and secure housing will be provided at all times. Remember, the safety of our most vital citizens is our number-one priority.

- The highest standard of living in the country. Due to severe worker shortage we regret that we cannot promise pre-epidemic quality of life, but this transition will be eased by ensuring you have comfortable means by which to cook, heat your home, move around in the city in which you reside and have access to whatever levels of technology and entertainment your local community offers.

- An RPEC case manager who is there for YOU.

- Full retirement package. As your menopausal years catch up to you, rest easy in the knowledge that your country will never forget the noble sacrifices you made for the greater good. Within ten years we anticipate being able to offer a retired life that will be unchanged from your days of child-bearing. Rest, relax - you’ve earned it!

In return, your country requires your assistance in preserving our nation and our way of life. The process will be kept as simple as possible and will only become easier as we all make the necessary adjustments. We assure you that the following policies have been carefully researched and set against the impeccable standard of our Constitution. What we ask of you -

- Every F1 female citizen shall bear no fewer than six living children by no fewer than three men of sufficient quality. If only one of these children are female, medical procedure will be followed until a seventh child and second female is attained.

- Every F1 female citizen shall not procreate with any man not quality-checked and approved by RPEC, to ensure the strongest genetic pool for future American generations. Exceptions will be made for husbands already present so long as birth control is stringently employed.

- Every F1 female shall assist RPEC to instill the importance of abstinence in her female children under 16 years of age, and shall encourage and support her female children in the selection process once they reach the age of 16.

If you have any questions or require assistance, please contact your RPEC case manager.

I could really use a hand with this chapter. The edit is not going as well as hoped. I know exactly what I want to accomplish here; I'm world-building, establishing that in this story's reality something is of high importance by focusing on it in great detail. I usually like to keep the dialogue down to no more than 40% of the chapter and reserve it for relationship dynamics, but the warehouse manager and Naomi Owens don't have any relationship dynamics. This feels like WAY too much dialogue but bugger if I can think of a better way to do it.

Also, something feels off about Naomi. I was editing a Kate-centric chapter of Endurance and I think Kate was still in my head, and I wound up writing Naomi as 15% Kate/85% Naomi. Not sure, I just get the feeling that Naomi is slightly out of character and can't think of a better reason where I went wrong. I also can't peg down exactly where I'm writing her out of character. I've stared at the chapter forever and I'm not making any more progress, so maybe if I post it y'all can see what I'm missing.


Chapter 2

Leah was happy to watch Amy again the next morning. Watching the woman contentedly washing the breakfast dishes with the ‘help’ of the little girls - said ‘help’ involving enough splashing as to constitute a de facto bath - and the boys wrestling on the floor like tigers, Naomi began to see the point behind Leah’s motto: Once you had a houseful, one more didn’t matter.

“Don’t worry about Amy, you go have a nice day,” Leah said, raising her voice slightly to be heard over the boys. “Tell me all about the warehouse when you get back.”

“I’ll pay you, I promise,” Naomi said.

Leah laughed. “With what? Go on, run your errands. I’ll take it out in trade when my appointment comes.”

Naomi gritted her way through the visit to the tattoo parlor and then politely directed her driver to the food distribution warehouse. She found herself leaning forward in anticipation as they neared it, the closest thing to shopping she’d seen in ages. He stopped at the edge of the parking lot and she nearly whined with disappointment.
“I’m sorry, ma’am, but that crowd is something else. I thought we’d be good this early in the day. I’ll have to call for back-up.”

Oh, criminy. She had to draw the only driver who wasn’t a would-be John Wayne. Go on, Grandma, call for help while we just sit here and twiddle our thumbs.

On the other hand, when two armored cars came tearing into the parking lot, flanked them to the door and the men piled out to form a human barrier between her and the rough crowd outside the warehouse doors, it all felt very presidential. She held her head high - not saying much, she wasn’t all that tall - and tried not to boggle as the crowd stilled and tried to get a glimpse of her as she passed by. Wow. This sort of thing could go to a gal’s head.

A burly man in jeans and checked shirt, looking for all the world like a lumberjack, came over and greeted them.

“How can I help you folks? You requisitioning for the base?”
“No, sir.” The senior chief in charge parted the men to reveal Naomi deep in their midst. “We’re just escorting Mrs. Owens here. She’d like to do a little shopping.”
Timidly, feeling a little stupid, Naomi held out her hand to display her tattoo. The man’s eyes widened and he stepped closer to examine it. “I’ll be... You’re only the second I’ve ever seen. One second, ma’am, let me get my blacklight. I’ll have to check the ink for authenticity. You understand, I’m sure.”

He trotted back shortly and waved a blue, not black, light over the little ‘F1' tattooed on her hand. It lit up like a Christmas tree. “Special ink,” he explained. “They can’t watermark you like they would a dollar bill, but this ink reacts under UV light. It’s government-made and used in the tattoos to prevent fraud.” It would have been nice to have been told beforehand. Probably radioactive and caused cancer. It would be just like the government.

“What can I help you with, Mrs. Owens? Sugar, canned goods, cooking oil; I got it all.”
“Well, I... uh, that is to say...”
He grinned. “Never done this before, huh.” She shook her head. “Oh, we’re gonna have some fun. I love this bit best. Hey boys ”
He waved over a couple of boys and told them to fetch some carts. Taking her by the elbow gently, he led her toward the first aisle. “First, let’s just walk around and let you get a good idea of the stock, because, ma’am, it’s all yours for the asking. Nothing too good, I’ll tell you that. Over here, we got all the canned goods. It starts with the basics right by the doors for easy access - beans, corn, cabbage, soups and broths and such - and goes over to the next aisle where you get some more exotic stuff, like cherries and pie fillings and evaporated milk. Right here in the middle we got the canned meats. You’ll excuse the poor selection at the moment, we’re at the end of a six-week resupply rotation, but we’ve still got tuna, Spam and a little canned chicken. Better still, I’ve got a firm commitment from a shrimp cannery. We’ll get our first shipment in three weeks. That’s something else, eh?”

“And down here,” he said, turning a corner, “on aisle three we got your baking goods. I’ve got flour - all-purpose, whole wheat, bread and cake. I’ve got cornmeal, white and yellow. I’ve got yeast, baking soda, baking powder, baking cocoa, powdered eggs, dry milk and enough oil and salt to choke a cow. No lard yet, it’ll be another five months before I can get my hands on a ready supply of lard, and I tell you I nearly have to sell my soul to get some real chocolate, but you give me time. I’ll have anything you could ever want by the end of the year, and I’ll even tell them military guys to keep their mitts off my best inventory if you’re the one that asked for it. This end right here is nothing but sugar and spices, coffee and tea. Got it stacked to the ceiling. You’ll never run out of coffee with Bill Pickham running your warehouse, and that’s saying something.”

“These three aisles here would be the bagged goods. Mostly dry stuff; rice, beans, soup peas, dehydrated onions and carrots and potatoes, dried peppers, all sorts of dried fruits. This last aisle here is for the big #10 cans of dehydrated stuff. Some of it’s unusual and on the specialty side but I’m sure you’ll find it all dead useful. Like this here tomato powder. Real tomatoes that have been thoroughly dehydrated and then ground to a nice powder, a little spoonful really packs a lot of flavor. I’ve tried it myself, I highly recommend it. Oh, and these two always go over well: dried refried bean powder and a dehydrated cream of potato soup. Just mix with a bit of hot water. It’s like astronaut food, I love it.”

At the end of the last aisle stood a door, and this he showed her with a grand flourish. “The back room. I keep the hardest to find items back in here, strictly expensive luxury goods. Hey, you Senior chief Mrs. Owens needs to see the back room, you gonna get over here and escort her or just let her wander around alone with some guy? Call yourselves a security detail...” The chief and his men trotted over and stood obediently behind her as the warehouse manager opened the door as if revealing the lost treasures of Arabia. Naomi stepped inside and shivered.

“I cut a deal with the light company; they make sure I got enough power at all times for this room in exchange for extra acquisitions. That’s the air conditioning you feel, it’s good for the products. We’ll start right here. Here, pick this up and tell me what you think that is.”

Naomi hefted a heavy disc coated with a smooth red wax. It smelled of nothing but the wax and there was no writing or label or any indication of what lay beneath the protecting coating. Bill Pickham’s eyes twinkled at her from behind thick eyebrows. “It’s cheese ” he roared, slapping a thigh with one meaty hand. “By gum if I didn’t find a supplier for cheese. I done told you, Mrs. Owens, I’ll make you proud to visit the best-run warehouse in all of Virginia. That right there is a nice cheddar, aged about four months. It’s a bit mild yet but in a couple of months it’ll perk your taste buds right up. Gets sharper as it ages, you know. I’ve also got three good wedges of something that passes for decent parmesan. They’re still working the recipe out on that one, I imagine by this time next year it’ll be perfect. No mozzerella yet; the stuff doesn’t keep at all and my cheese makers are too far to guarantee shipment before the whole batch spoils. We’ll figure it out though.”

He went on to proudly show her five cheesecloth-wrapped lumps hanging from hooks, which he identified as four cured hams and a cured smoked joint of beef. There were coils of Italian summer sausages, salami and pepperoni and something he said he “didn’t know what it was but some admiral on the base sure ate the hell out of it”. For the piece de resistence he pointed to a dairy case and a freezer along the back wall.

“You got kids, ma’am? Yeah? Then here’s your first item.” He reached into the dairy case and brought out a chilled glass bottle of milk, one quart in size. “That’s a big bottle when we ain’t got refrigeration most times but I bet you folks will have it gone by tonight. Been a while, eh? Look on the top there, see that heavier milk that rose up? That’s cream, ‘cause this is the real deal. Just make sure the bottle gets back to me and next time I’ll send you with a liter at a time. Soon as you get settled into your home and have a nice cool place to store perishables, I’ll set you up with delivery and you’ll have all you want, fresh butter, cream, milk, real eggs, all right to your door. You’ll eat like a queen.”

He closed the refrigerated unit and laid one big hand on what was clearly a freezer. “I’ve been saving something, something real good, for a special occasion. I think this is exactly that moment.” Reaching into the freezer, he hoisted up a frosty, rock-hard chunk. “That’s prime, right there. Three whole pounds of the freshest grass-fed beef, flash-frozen on site and waiting for the perfect customer.” He looked her over critically, taking in the corners and angles that were once plump arms and sleek legs, and the shock at seeing real meat. “If you don’t mind my saying so, ma’am, you need better food. I’ll make sure you’re as healthy as healthy can be. Just as soon as we’re done with the shopping, I’ll get this and the milk wrapped up good so it stays cold for the drive back and we’ll add it with the rest. Nothing but the best for you, from here on out. You’ve got Bill Pickham’s word on that.”

Naomi was overwhelmed. To say the very least They had made do with so little for so long; first the quarantine, then the uncontrolled epidemic with Ben refusing to let Amy or her out of the house because it wasn’t safe. He had protected them, found what they needed by hook or by crook, until after it was all over. Then came his trip up north - there had been nothing else for work, nothing - and he had taken her and Amy to the base to keep them safe. Her certificate opened many doors, but never to one that held three whole pounds of beef and a warehouse stuffed to the rafters with more food than she’d ever thought she’d see again in her lifetime. It was breath-taking.

Mr. Pickham looked her over with the expert eye of one accustomed to judging goods and had a man take her up front, offer her a comfortable chair and a cup of coffee. He instructed her to rest for a while, take her time making her choices and left her with her security guard to screen her from view as he turned once more to filling the ration cards of the folks outside. Naomi thought her selections over carefully as she sipped the hot coffee, well sweetened. Not too much food, she wouldn’t want to open herself up to theft. Nor too little, gas was precious and it was wasteful to make a trip weekly to the warehouse.

Economy finally settled her decision. Her little cottage didn’t have room for all the things she might take with her. She settled on a sack each of sugar and rice, bags of dried potatoes, soup peas, carrots and beans, a bag of dried apples and a smaller one of raisins, dry milk, a little flour, some cornmeal and oatmeal and a selection of canned goods. The manager seemed disappointed, and pressed on her a can of the dehydrated potato soup and a ten pound bag of fresh potatoes. When he thought she wasn’t looking, he slipped an extra package wrapped in brown paper into the back of her car. She waved as they drove off before unwrapping it, and found a cold lump of butter and a bit of his cheddar. She settled back in her seat to enjoy the ride home, surrounded by food and having never had such a thrilling morning.

It wasn’t over yet, either. The gate sentry at the encampment’s fence grinned at her shyly and announced that he and some of the guys had heard the good news on her classification and wanted to give her a surprise. He whistled and a pack of young men climbed down from the sentry tower and jogged over. One of them handed over a parcel, reddening around the ears.

“Go on, open it,” one of the boys, bolder than his shipmates, urged. She tore at the wrappings obligingly.

“Oh A new dress, and it’s so pretty ” It was too, a lovely cool cotton dress with a long, swishy skirt, perfect for summer, in a pale green dotted with tiny white rosebuds.

“Pearson here picked it out,” the bold boy offered. “Said it would go good with your red hair.”
“But we all paid for it,” Pearson added, a bit defensively.
“It’s perfect.” She smiled at each of them. “I can’t thank you enough, this was so thoughtful. I’m touched.”
They grinned and tipped their hats to her before scooting back to the tower. Cuddling her new dress to herself, she went to her cottage with the driver following behind with her packages. He unloaded them at the door, touched his hat and was gone. She unwrapped her packages and put everything away, marveling that she should have so much food that it wouldn’t all fit in her little kitchen cupboard. The excess was placed under her bed and the butter was put on a little dish, covered with a cloth to keep bugs away and set in a relatively cool spot in the bedroom, away from the heat of the stove. The beef presented a problem; first she set it on the table and then thought that was just asking for it to be stolen, then she set it on the stove to thaw but worried it might scorch while she was at Leah’s picking Amy up. She finally emptied a corner of the chest in her room and set it gently in there.

Leah was setting the children up to the table for lunch as Naomi came in to fetch Amy. She sniffed the air. “Is that bread I smell?”
Leah gave a guilty little start. “Please don’t tell, I got it fair and square,” she begged. “There’s a first class petty officer in supply on one of the ships here, he’s a great friend of my husband’s and he promised Ron that he’d look after us when the Navy sent Ron’s ship out.”
“You lucky little ration outlaw, you Cross my heart, your secret’s safe with me. Wish Ben had a best friend in supply.”
The matronly little woman relaxed and pulled up a chair. “Join us, it’s not great but it’s only the midday meal.”
“‘Enough is as good as a feast’ my grandma always said. And I’ve brought a little surprise, which always helps.”

There was a loaf of bread, a small pot of beans and Naomi set the glass bottle of still-cold milk on the table to squeals from the children. Their mother stammered that it was too much to give but Naomi made a zipping gesture over her mouth. It still wasn’t much when one knew this was to feed eight people, but Leah was an expert at this sort of management. She sliced thick pieces of bread and laid them on the plates, then ladled a bit of beans over the top of the bread. Thinner slices were passed around after the main course was demolished, to sop up the last of the bean juice and it was all washed down with an enormous glass of milk at every plate, the richer top milk being split between baby Sara and Amy as the youngest children.

“Excellent,” Naomi pronounced. “I can’t even tell you how long it’s been since I’ve had bread.”
Leah handed the washing up to the older children and ordered the younger ones to amuse themselves on the porch out of the way. “So,” she said, leaning in eagerly, “what was the warehouse like? Milk, they really had fresh milk?”
“It was unbelievable And I swear the manager looks like Paul Bunyan. But they had so much, you won’t believe it until you see it. It’s honestly a bit hard to understand why there’s such a supply problem.” And now for the best part... “You’re coming over for supper, you and the children. Promise me you’ll come. I swear I won’t give you any details about the warehouse until you promise, and milk isn’t even the half of it.”
“Oh, you’re awful. We’ll be there.”
Promise extracted, Naomi said, “One word, Leah: cheese.”


Having not entertained since before the epidemic, Naomi was all a-twitter even if it was just a neighbor woman and her children popping in for supper. The beef was to be the centerpiece of her menu. This she seared well all over until it was brown and dripping with juices, then she sprinkled it with salt, covered the pot tightly and moved it as far back on her little stove as it would go, to make room and ensure it would finish simmering at a low temperature. Dried apples were set to soak in warm water. Once these had plumped up she put them in a tiny pot with a little of the soaking water and some brown sugar to stew down into a sweet, saucy dish to be served with a can of evaporated milk as dessert. There were the potatoes besides, for mashed potatoes later, and some canned corn and a dish of cold pork and beans.

Supper well started, Naomi cleared the room and began to scrub it all down with hot water, throwing the dregs out back. Amy was subjected to a bath, over loud protests, and forced into her last nice dress. Naomi washed up in the warm water left from Amy’s bath and put on her new dress from the sentry boys. She was just setting the table when Leah and the children walked in. Great minds must think alike, as they all showed similar signs of having scrubbed up for a special occasion.

Leah entered the room with a smile, and then stopped dead. “That... it can’t be... where did you get beef?”
“The warehouse,” Naomi said with a smug smile. “And we’re all going to share it as payment for you watching Amy.”

Leah smiled jerkily and helped her finish setting the table. Naomi didn’t actually bring out the beef, though. After going so long without eating meat, it was liable to make them all quite sick if they gorged themselves on rich beef. Instead she had made a thick gravy with the pan drippings, and this delectable steaming liquid was poured over big servings of fluffy mashed potatoes. There was butter for the corn besides, and the kids raved about the stewed apples, saying it was just as good as apple pie. Naomi didn’t fall for that for one moment, but after she tasted them, with the evaporated milk curling white and creamy among the spicy brown fruit, she had to reconsider. When one has been deprived of all good things, even the simplest dessert was amazingly exotic.

The sole jarring note to her supper’s success was Leah. The woman smiled a lot and was full of compliments and thanks for the food, and yet she remained stiff throughout the meal. Once every bite of food had been eaten and the plates licked clean - the ladies turned a blind eye just this once - the children ponderously went to go work off their meal outside. Leah rose to help her clear away and clean up.

“Is there anything wrong, Leah? Are you sure you’re feeling alright?” Naomi asked, concerned. Perhaps the butter and gravy had been a mistake, and combined with the apples, oh, it would be a wonder if they all weren’t sick to their stomachs by morning even if she hadn’t served the roast.
“I feel fine,” Leah said brightly, moving the dirty dishes to one side of the table to make room for the washtub. Her lower lip wobbled, putting lie to her words, and abruptly the woman broke down. “I... if Sara doesn’t get her certificate, I don’t know what we’ll do ”
Leah buried her face in her hands and sobbed. Mortified, Naomi awkwardly patted her back. If she wasn’t the biggest, most insensitive cad on earth. Here Leah was, on pins and needles waiting for word on whether Sara would pass her certificate, and Naomi chose that moment to flaunt around her own riches. Beef, and butter, and fresh milk, and the all-important security that comes of knowing one can get more any time one wanted.
“I didn’t mean it,” she murmured, blushing red to match her hair. “Oh, I’ve been awful, Leah, just awful. If I’d taken a second to think what this might do to you-“
Leah sniffled indelicately and wiped her face on a dishrag. “Never you mind that, I don’t blame you in the slightest. I was over at my house hogging bread and extra all to ourselves when I knew you didn’t have much, and the first thing you do when you get the your classification is to share the nicest stuff with us. Ron’s friend could never have gotten us fruit. I just... worry, so much. Sara’s been without milk for so long already, I don’t know if she’ll ever grow as well as she might have.”

Leah dissolved again into sobs and Naomi ineffectual patted her back, not knowing how to make it better. It was true, if Sara didn’t get her certificate then all of this would be out of Leah’s reach. Oh, F3s were fed well enough, certainly on far more generous rations than unclassifieds, and all fertile women and infants under two were given a dry milk allotment for calcium. Sara was past her second birthday, however, and small children needed real milk. Only F1s and F2s were given any sort of real milk, let alone luxury foods like meat and butter.

Mad thoughts of violating the ration laws flitted through her head, and then a truly sublime idea struck. “Leah, I have an idea. It’s perfect. Giving food away is illegal but there’s nothing that says I can’t trade it. It’s done all the time. How about you say you’re doing something for me, and I share what I get from the warehouse until the committee decides on Sara’s certificate - which I just know you’ll get, by the way. And, if by some wild fluke you don’t, I’ll insist that my selection contract include the clause that you and your children must stay with me.”
Leah dried her eyes again. “What? Can you do that?”
“Of course, it’s already been done. Those two gals on the end that had been friends for years before the outbreak, they went together and one of them was an F2 but the other was only F4. I heard the gossip, the healthier one had to take a lower-ranked man but they did get what they wanted in the end.”
“You’d do that? For me?”
“Of course not, I just wanted to see what you thought of the idea, hypothetically. Yes, silly, I’d do that for you. We all know Sara is as healthy as can be. So a stupid bureaucrat makes a paperwork mistake and misclassifies her, big deal, it just means whoever I select will be getting a bonus F1.”
Leah hugged her tightly. “I’ll owe you forever.”
“Damn right. I want breakfast in bed every morning, promptly at eight...” They chuckled and Naomi added hot water to the washtub. Leah began passing her the dirty dishes. “Men have been screwing up for centuries, and women fixing it for just as long. Am I right?”

The beginnings of a strong friendship were forged that evening. While some may say it was silly and economic in nature, there are worse ways to gain a friend than by mutual aid.