If Darkness Takes Us Page 32

  Some of the field corn growing tall in our front yards had worms. The nose-pieces on my glasses snapped off, and I had to replace them with duct tape. We ran out of batteries for flashlights and were down to the last batteries for clocks. The Geiger counter showed a new uptick in gamma radiation, which made me crazy. At least we had spare batteries for that instrument.

  I was running short on blood pressure meds. I thought sure I had more, but I couldn’t find them. I took half-doses and checked my blood pressure every few days as it inched steadily higher.

  A pack of mongrel dogs snuck into our backyard in broad daylight and broke into our chicken coop—I couldn’t figure out how—killing a chicken before Sonja shot two dogs and the others raced away. We ate those gristly dogs. We had to. Mazie refused to eat them, and who could blame her?

  We gave the remaining dry dog food to the Zizzos for their rabbits, so the neighborhood dogs had to fend for themselves. Some of them wandered away and never returned. Someone probably ate them.

  The heat was simply unbearable, passing one hundred degrees daily beginning in late May, and never falling below eighty—even at night—for weeks. The little grass we had left baked to a crisp and turned to dust. I wondered if the world would eventually cool down without industrial and auto pollution, but I recalled reading that we’d already doomed ourselves to hotter and hotter climes because of the many-year time lag between the creation of atmospheric carbon and the resultant heating of the planet.

  Jack and I focused our time on growing and protecting food. Jack’s presence comforted me, and it tempered my worry over what calamity would next befall us, how bad the environment was going to get, and what the hell had happened to Eddie and Pete. My dread about the fickle nature of the sun underlaid everything, a droning anxiety that never left me.

  Most of the veggies we grew got canned by Charlotte and June in the canning kitchen next door. Other neighbors helped when they could—I sometimes chopped veggies for them. We now had a few hundred Mason jars filled with okra, cucumber pickles, squash, peppers, peas, green beans, and eggplant.

  But the canning operation did in our stashes of water from the rain barrels. The five-gallon jugs were nearly empty, and the neighbors were freaking out.

  Gary Matheson wandered into the neighborhood one afternoon and called to me from my fence. Man, did he look lost and old.

  “Bea, I’m sorry about everything that happened,” he said when I stood up to face him from several feet away.

  “That’s nice. But if you’re asking me to forgive you, I can’t.”

  “I didn’t know he would turn out like he did. He was so good when he was little. I tried to teach him right and wrong. But he was headstrong—”

  “I get it, Gary. But I can’t forgive him, and I can’t forgive you. If you need forgiveness, talk to your Maker.”

  Bad as it was, I was done with trying to be good. It had got me exactly nowhere. I knew it wasn’t rational to blame only Chas and his wimp of a father for Tasha’s death, but I blamed them anyway.

  Gary nodded and rubbed at his eyes, sighing loudly. Finally, he said, “I just wanted to tell you that.”

  “In case you’re wanting me to ask you back into the neighborhood, I won’t. I couldn’t look at you every day.”

  He whipped his face around, revealing a version of Chas’s defiant sneer. “You can’t stop me from living in my house.”

  “True, but I’m not going to feed you.”

  He glared at me, rage and despair warring in the twitching muscles of his face.

  “Okay. Too much to hope for, I guess.” He started shuffling slowly away.

  But I was struck by a pang of conscience.

  “Gary? Didn’t you get any of the food Chas’s friends stole from us?”

  “Only a couple of meals. They made me beg, and I couldn’t do it anymore.” I guess even Gary had his pride.

  “Send Lyla to help in the gardens, and Jack will give her food when she comes.”

  “Thank you, Bea. Thank you!” He stifled a sob.

  “I’m buying your silence about the Mint, Gary. Now get out of here.”

  “What? Okay. I’m going.” He loped off, shaking his head.

  FIFTY-TWO

  SO IRONIC HOW, by drenching us in extreme light, the sun had taken us into darkness. I’d always thought that light and dark maintained a balance—the yin and the yang—but here the dark was winning and taunting me by throwing its tentacles over everything. My candles wouldn’t light the corners of a room or the subtleties of a face, and they wouldn’t hold out forever. Worse, the dark was overshadowing the light in my heart.

  Those of us who remained were the privileged few in our post-catastrophe world. We had each other to cling to. We could only pray that the sun would refrain from further eruptions that could plunge us into the deepest darkness of all.

  On this August day, I was exhausted. My hands were so shaky that I could barely read my own handwriting. My eyesight had kept deteriorating so that reading in poor light was rough.

  Yet, there was so much to attend to for our survival. On today’s agenda, for instance: Sonja and Mazie were baking bread next door, but they kept running in and out of this house to get things. Cesar was wheezing in the living room, building things with dominoes, while I kept an eye on him. Milo and Keno were at Jack’s, harvesting pinto beans, then they planned to start enlarging his chicken coop. I wanted to read up on how to make cornmeal and masa for tortillas. Maybe tomorrow Sonja and I could give cornmeal a try.

  Man, my head hurt—a lot. Nothing new about that though.

  I was making lists of things to discuss at this evening’s neighborhood meeting. We needed to dry and store those pinto beans and plant more. If we were lucky, we could grow another crop before the first frost. It was almost time to plant wheat and other grains in the park. Fall was the best time to start them in Texas. And there was the ongoing corn harvest—the picking, shucking, drying, canning, the saving of seed. Time to plant more fall veggies, too.

  Construction of composting toilets and rain collection systems had stalled for the time being. Everyone was too busy growing and preserving food.

  Ouch! A piercing pain shot through my skull, and my hands would not shop shaking. Damn it!

  I took a break and drank some water, closed my eyes for a minute. I was probably dehydrated in this stifling heat.

  I wanted to get the farming business over with at the beginning of tonight’s meeting. Once I told them all about the cistern, everyone would be too thrilled to think about farming. They’d want to see the pump and taste the water. So exciting.

  The neighbors had been upset about the scarcity of water for weeks. Maybe it was cruel of me, but I didn’t want to mention the cistern until the other water was almost gone, as it was now. I hoped people weren’t going to be pissed at me for keeping the cistern a secret. I was only trying to make the water last longer, but they might not see it that way.

  Yesterday I hinted to Keno, Jack, and Sonja that I had a big surprise for tonight’s meeting. They badgered me to tell them what it was, but I was adamant that it wouldn’t be a surprise if I told them. There were so few opportunities around here to celebrate, and I—

  “Christ!” That pain in my head is killing me & my heart—

  What’s wrong Cesar says

  but

  I can’t—

  PART THREE

  PRESENT DAY

  FIFTY-THREE

  A SQUAWKING BIRD snaps me out of my daydream here on the patio. The sun is hanging low in the west, casting long shadows across the yard.

  “She didn’t eat much today,” some young woman tells Keno.

  “She needs to go to bed,” he says.

  Did anyone ask me if I wanted to go to bed? I almost never want to go to bed. And don’t I have a name?

  They say I had some kind of episode—a stroke, I think, but I don’t know. I can’t remember what happened after I blacked out and, I guess, for a long time after. I do know
that people treat me funny now. They discuss me in front of my face as if I’m not here.

  I can’t talk much anymore, so I tell our story to myself over and over to remind myself who I am. Nowadays my brain lets me think pretty straight, but certain situations confuse me and some of my memories are lost.

  Sometimes they sit me on the patio and forget about me. I know they’re busy, so I mostly don’t mind. They bring me food with no salt in it, then they wonder why I don’t eat much. Why would I want to eat food with no salt? Hello! I’m still alive over here! What I will eat is spoons full of honey, but no more than one at a time.

  A beautiful young Hispanic woman who is not Sonja takes care of me when I need it, when she and Mazie aren’t busy gardening, cooking, and cleaning. Once in a while she sings me songs like “Amazing Grace,” and we cry.

  Now that I’m better, Jack takes me to his house each evening after supper. Whatever happened to me doesn’t keep me from wanting Jack. I want him more than ever, but. . . .

  The first night that Jack took me home, he made me comfy in his bed then climbed in beside me. I reached for him, eager to make love.

  “Whoa,” he said, searching my eyes, his face full of emotion. “Are you sure?”

  “It’s okay,” I said and tugged him to me.

  He squinted his eyes and studied me. He gave me some gentle kisses. I felt his tension melting. He even stroked my breasts. But then, he pulled back and sat on his knees in the bed, looking down at me.

  “I can’t do this, Bea. You’re too fragile. I’m afraid I’ll hurt you.” Such a tortured expression on that lovely man’s face. My heart broke for him. I patted his pillow, and he laid his head on it, having trouble meeting my gaze.

  “It’s okay,” I said, and I stroked his head, his strong shoulders and arms, while he wept against me. I meant that it was okay if we didn’t make love. I think he understood. No matter how much I ache for full sexual union with Jack, I won’t put him through that pain again.

  Many nights we just sit in his house and hold each other. So nice. . . . Often I’m the one who ends up crying, because it’s too nice to believe.

  Certain days, I remember things that happened right after my episode: thrashing and crying at full volume in my bed, the kids crying around me. I wanted to stop writhing and wailing for their sake, but I couldn’t stop. I had things I needed to tell them, stuff I needed to do, but I couldn’t speak or do anything except thrash and cry, my insides exploding with fear and rage.

  Then I remember Jack, sweet Jack, lying beside me, wrapping his arms around me and hugging me with an uncanny strength. He kept my arms to my sides within his embrace. He laid his leg on top of my kicking feet. He held me in place, absorbing wave after wave of my anguish and speaking into my ear. I’m not sure what he said, but the warmth of his love calmed me down after what could have been hours.

  I soon gave up, hoping to die. I recall long, empty hours of oppressive heat and mental paralysis, with no feeling except a tortured mind and a heart full of loss. Over and over, I heard Tasha’s sigh of resignation, her plea to me, “Don’t let me die!”

  Then Mazie, darling little Mazie. She crawled into bed beside me and petted my hands and face. She told me stories—or they seemed to be stories, but I don’t really know what she said. I think she did this for days on end. I woke in darkness many times to find her sleeping beside me. I saw Jack asleep on my loveseat more than once, dangling his long legs over the seat’s arm.

  When Mazie was awake, she talked to me nonstop, until at some point she got a nonverbal response from me. Then she became extra resolute, asking me questions she expected me to answer with one blink for “yes,” two blinks for “no.”

  I indulged her for a while, blinking once for yes when she asked if I was seventy years old, blinking twice for no when she asked if the oceans were red, and so on. She asked if I was going to get better. I froze in panic, then closed my teary eyes and rolled away.

  “Nana! You can’t give up! You have to get better!”

  I moaned and began to tremble.

  Mazie climbed over me and put her pink face in front of my eyes.

  “Nana, you promised you’d never forget me. That’s what you said. But if you don’t get better, you’ll forget me. I know you will.”

  For the first time since the stroke that I was aware of, my hands and arms complied with my wishes and pulled Mazie to me.

  “Nana, you’re hugging me. Are you getting better now?”

  “Yes,” I croaked aloud.

  The girl kissed me repeatedly, then scampered down the stairs, hollering, “Nana’s better! She talked! Nana talked!”

  Soon everyone was in my room, begging me to perform more talking tricks like a trained seal—only I didn’t get treats for succeeding, just encouraging words.

  I kissed each of my grandkids plus Sonja and Cesar that night. I spoke a handful of words.

  Then they were all gone except Jack. I kissed him until my mouth and tongue remembered all I’d ever known about kissing.

  “I love you, Bea,” Jack said, stroking my forehead.

  “Yes,” I said, blinking once.

  He kissed me again, and I think I fell asleep kissing him.

  Within days they had me taking small steps around my bedroom as a few words returned to my spoken vocabulary and the fog slowly cleared from my mind. One day, Jack and Keno carried me down the stairs, sitting on their locked arms.

  “You’ve lost so much weight, Bea,” Jack said, worriedly.

  “We will fatten you up,” Sonja said from the bottom of the stairs where Milo, Mazie, and Cesar also waited.

  I smiled at them all. I never went upstairs again.

  Some later day, I saw Sonja and a man—her husband I guess—leaving with Cesar in the bicycle cart that I’m happy to be rid of. I don’t recollect why they went, I only remember Sonja holding me and quivering.

  I saw Keno kissing the new woman in the old laundry room. He reached his hand under her shirt. He makes moon-eyes at her whenever she talks. It’s clear that he loves her, and she seems like she loves him, too, but I don’t know her so well.

  “When did Sonja’s husband come back?” I ask.

  “He didn’t,” Keno says. “We told you that.” He has no patience left for me.

  “Who was that man?” I say. “Where did they go?”

  “It was Uncle Pete, Nana. Uncle Pete. They went to Mexico to get medicine for Cesar. To get him away from the pollen. He was real sick.”

  “Well, where’s, uh, uh. . . ?”

  “I’m here, Mom,” Eddie says. “Right here where I’ve been for weeks.”

  “That’s nice. Where’s that other man and those girls?”

  “We never found Dad and Erin and Jeri and Wayne. Remember?”

  “Well, no, I don’t remember,” I say, as I’d apparently said before.

  They bring me glasses of cloudy water, and I make them last for two or three days. They admonish me to drink more, but it’s my fault we have so little water. That’s one thing I know for sure.

  I keep thinking I could help with the water problem, but I don’t recall how. I keep wishing the others knew my secrets, but I can’t think which ones or why.

  I should have shot that boy Chas before he had a chance to make Tasha pregnant and kill her. Before his friends stole our food. I should have killed him myself before Milo had to do it. It makes me sick that I left that horrid chore to a child.

  Another thing I know is that the Geiger counter is showing higher levels of radiation. I sometimes watch it ticking for hours, or it seems like hours. But I can get lost inside a minute these days.

  “Look!” I say to whoever’s around when the radiation level seems high.

  “Uh-huh,” or “I see,” my family members say, and never much more than that.

  I’m glad they leave me on the patio, because the house is like an oven inside. It’s hellishly hot out here, too, but there are breezes—hot breezes, but still. . . .

&nb
sp; I like to watch birds and cats, though I can’t remember the names of the different kinds. I watch sunflowers seems like everywhere, waving in the wind.

  My favorite things to watch are the giant white birds with black tips on their wings, flying high above the pond. Those birds almost died off, I do remember that. And now they are back again. I don’t know if humans will survive, but maybe the Earth and life will endure with or without us.

  I try not to look at the sun. I hate that horrid, hot thing.

  Once I tried to show the family things that I’d learned about making vegetable oil and cornmeal, about treating diseases on the tomatoes and corn, but I couldn’t follow the books, and I never came up with enough spoken words to make myself understood.

  “I’ll read the books, Mom,” Eddie said when I slapped the arm of my wheelchair.

  Another day—I think it was another day—I tried to tell them to check the Mint storage shed for bleach to treat the water they were getting from God knows where. We hadn’t had rain since before my episode, unless it rained during the weeks I lost. I’m so glad I’m not that lost anymore.

  “Get the thing and go to the . . . the thing,” I told Keno.

  “What thing? I don’t know what you mean.”

  I tried to draw pictures, but my hands shook too much. My right hand was too weak to keep a grip on the pen. I let out a squeal of frustration.

  “I’m sorry.” Keno looked stressed. “I don’t understand.”

  “Nana,” said Mazie, “I’ll help you. What thing is the first thing?”