We Are the Ants

by Shaun David Hutchinson

  “Are we doing this?” Audrey asked. “If we’re doing this, we should go now.” She’d been rambling like that for fifteen minutes, reciting everything she’d ever seen on TV about how to not get caught breaking into someone’s house, and the penalties if we were. I wanted to tell her this wasn’t an exam to be failed, but I got the feeling she’d melt down if I tried to silence her.

  Audrey’s car didn’t stand out, which was a boon to us, as were the Christmas Eve parties happening at a few of the Franklins’ neighbor’s houses. One set of teenagers would hardly be remembered by someone who might have glimpsed us as they stood on their front porch, guzzling spiked eggnog and trying to avoid one more pinch on the cheek from Aunt So-and-So.

  “In and out,” I said. “Mr. and Mrs. Franklin probably haven’t even gone into Jesse’s room since . . . Everything will look the same as it did the last time I was there.” I tried not to think about that last time or about what we’d done. I had to remain focused.

  “What if Jesse didn’t leave a note, Henry?”

  “Then he left a journal entry or an e-mail he never sent or a video he recorded on his phone that no one thought to check. There has to be something.”

  Audrey grabbed my hand and held it to her chest. She was sweating through her thin Muppets shirt. “Finding out why Jesse killed himself won’t change anything.”

  “You’re right. It’ll change everything.”

  I got out of the car before I lost my nerve. I was halfway across the lawn when Audrey caught up. I hoped to find out that Jesse had killed himself because someone had molested him when he was little or because his parents beat him or because he’d had a crisis of faith and couldn’t reconcile being gay with his belief in God. I didn’t actually believe any of those things were true, and I didn’t want to think that Jesse had been tormented by them, but if there had been some horror in Jesse’s life that had driven him to suicide, at least I’d know it wasn’t my fault.

  Audrey stumbled, and I caught her by the elbow. Anyone watching would have thought we were just a couple of tipsy kids. I led her around the side of the house to the back patio. The waterfall splashed into the pool, reminding me that I needed to pee. I pushed my bladder aside and went straight for the Christmas cactus on a metal shelf with a dozen other plants. Red-and-white blossoms burst out of the padlike stems. The key was under the pot. Jesse’s parents hadn’t even known he’d kept a spare for those nights he needed to sneak in. I put it to its intended use one last time.

  As we entered the house, Audrey hooked her finger through the belt loop of my jeans and crept so closely behind me that her breath warmed my neck. The alarm beeped its insistent warning, and I silenced it with Jesse’s birthday. The outside lights poured through the windows, but even without them, I could have navigated my way through the kitchen, to the living room, and up the grand staircase to Jesse’s room—third door on the right.

  “We don’t need to do this, Henry.” Audrey whispered even though the house was empty, and there was no one to hear us. The house felt more than empty. It felt gutted.

  “There are answers behind this door.” There was also truth, memories of times that sparkled in my mind like exposed bits of broken glass in a heaping pile of shit. Some of my best days happened behind that door, and they would never happen again.

  I turned the knob, pushed open the door, and turned on the light. Jesse’s bed stood in the center of the room, unmade; his long chest of drawers lined the far wall, the surface crowded with dirty clothes and half-empty water bottles and whatever scraps of the day he’d pulled out of his pockets and tossed there; across from his bed was a TV stand with a TV and four game systems, the controllers on the floor; and a small desk hunched in the corner, bearing the weight of a hundred books on its back.

  Only, none of those things were there.

  They should have been; they’d always been before. The books changed, the dirty laundry rotated items, but the fundamentals remained constant.

  Audrey poked her head in, pulled it back out, and looked around. “Is this the right room?” She already knew the answer. She’d spent more time in Jesse’s house than I had.

  The bed was gone, the dresser gone, the desk and books and game consoles. Gone. Even Jesse’s posters of the Broadway shows he’d seen—Miss Saigon and Little Shop of Horrors and Wicked—were gone. Jesse’s parents had transformed his bedroom into a sewing room. The walls were painted a tasteful yellow, antique shelves filled with bolts of cloth in every color lined the walls. Drawings of gowns were tacked to a corkboard, and racks held examples of work in various stages of completion.

  Jesse wasn’t there. It was as if he’d never existed at all.

  “Henry . . .”

  Audrey put her hand on my shoulder, but the weight was too much, and I sank to my knees. There were no truths to find in Jesse’s bedroom. No absolution.

  I didn’t cry. There was no point. There was no point to anything. “It’s all fucked up, Audrey. Jesse’s dead, and it’s probably my fault because I didn’t love him enough or I wasn’t good enough for him and he kept so many secrets from me that I thought maybe if I’d known I could have stopped him from killing himself, so I pushed Diego because he’s the first person who’s made me think maybe I was wrong, maybe it wasn’t my fault, and maybe I could press the button and have a future that wasn’t meaningless, but I pushed him too far and now he’s gone too.”

  Audrey knelt beside me. She held my hand to her chest. “Henry, Diego’s not gone.”

  “He told me about being in juvie and about how he got sent there for beating up his dad to protect his mom, and I accused him of smashing the windows in Marcus’s car.”

  “Oh, Henry, you didn’t.”

  “I fucked up so bad, Audrey.”

  As she was about to say something, the floor beneath us vibrated. I leapt to my feet. “Shit!”

  “What?” Audrey asked, but I was shutting off the light and grabbing her hand to run.

  “Someone’s home.” Jesse’s bedroom had been over the garage, and it had always given us plenty of warning when his parents came home so that we could dress and compose ourselves and pretend we’d been playing video games while alone in his house rather than what his parents knew we’d actually been doing.

  “I thought you said they were out of town!”

  “They should be.” We flew down the stairs, but I stopped at the landing.

  “What?” Audrey whispered.

  “I need to check one more place.” Audrey pulled my arm. “You go. I’ll meet you at the car.” I dashed back up the stairs before she could stop me.

  Jesse’s parents had practiced a fairly distant approach to parenting. They did the things parents were supposed to do, but they’d generally let him do whatever he wanted. He hadn’t needed to password protect his computer to keep them from prying or hide anything he didn’t want them to see. They respected his privacy. It was the cleaning people that made him nervous. Mr. Franklin couldn’t keep a housecleaner for more than a month, so the ever-changing array of people parading through his bedroom while he was at school had caused Jesse to develop a healthy sense of paranoia. Jesse owned few valuables he considered worth hiding, but those he did he kept in a hollow space under his bathroom sink.

  I didn’t have much time, so I gave up attempting to be quiet, and ran through Jesse’s bedroom to the connecting bathroom. His parents had redecorated it as well, though not as radically. I dropped to my knees, opened the cabinet doors, shoved the stacked toilet paper out of the way, and reached into the hole. I felt around for the cigar box he kept his treasures in, but it wasn’t there. I reached as deeply into the hole as I could, twisting my arm around to feel with my fingers, but I felt nothing. The box was gone. Everything was gone.

  I’d never know why Jesse killed himself. My sole consolation was that I only had to live with that for thirty-six more days.

  I crept out of the room that no longer belonged to Jesse, and stood at the top of the stairs. Mr. an
d Mrs. Franklin were arguing in the kitchen.

  “Don’t use that tone with me, Russell. I set the alarm before we left.” Mrs. Franklin’s voice was an iron rod.

  “You’re right. It must have disarmed on its own.”

  They fought while I stood quietly trying to figure out how to escape. The stairs were the only way down. When I heard footsteps coming my way, I ducked into the linen closet and shut the door behind me. I held my breath, praying that neither of Jesse’s parents needed clean sheets or towels. Five minutes must have passed before I heard water running from the direction of the Franklins’ bedroom, though it felt like days. I cracked open the door and peeked down the hallway. It was empty.

  I ran down the stairs, through the dining room, and to the back door. I opened it, and as I prepared to dash to freedom, a voice called my name, and I froze.

  “Henry Denton?”

  I could have kept running. I should have kept running. Mrs. Franklin hadn’t seen my face. She wouldn’t have been able to prove that it had been me in her house. But I turned around anyway.

  “Hi, Mrs. Franklin.”

  The last time I’d seen her was at Jesse’s funeral. She’d worn a dignified black dress and hadn’t cried. The last year hadn’t changed her. She still wore black. Her blond hair was wavy and loose, curling around her neck. So much of Jesse’s looks had come from her—the slightly upturned nose, the eyes that saw through all bullshit, the long, thin fingers—and it hurt to see pieces of him standing right in front of me.

  “I wanted to . . . I needed to see . . . I can’t believe you turned Jesse’s bedroom into a sewing room.”

  Mrs. Franklin’s mouth moved, but no sound came out. Her face was emotionless, a blank lump of clay. There was nothing left for me to say, nothing left for me in that house. All traces of Jesse had been eradicated.

  “Henry, I—”

  I didn’t wait around to hear the rest. I bolted out the door and didn’t stop until I reached Audrey’s car. The lights were off, but the engine was running, and she peeled out as soon as I was inside.

  We were both quiet until we reached Audrey’s house. She parked and shut off the engine. I climbed out and walked to the end of her driveway. Audrey sat beside me.

  “There’s something I need to tell you, Henry.”

  I wasn’t in the mood to talk. Mrs. Franklin’s face haunted me. The way she’d hardly seemed surprised to see me. How she’d disposed of Jesse like he’d never mattered. I hoped when the world ended, she would die terrified and alone. Even that was better than she deserved.

  “Can I sleep here tonight?”

  Audrey nodded. “Sure, but, Henry—”

  “Whatever it is, it doesn’t matter.”

  “Diego didn’t smash up Marcus’s car. I did.” She spit out the words fast, sending them hurtling toward me like photons from the sun, and I didn’t see them coming until they blinded me.

  “You?”

  “Me.”

  “But . . . why?”

  Audrey shrugged like committing a felony was no big deal. “Marcus McCoy is a dick, and you’re my best friend.”

  I was still trying to wrap my head around the idea that Audrey had busted the windows of Marcus’s car. For me. “You could have gotten arrested.”

  Maybe it was only the shadows, but she loomed over me in her driveway that night. She carried herself like a warrior, and spoke as fiercely. “I did it, and I’d do it again.”

  I leaned my head on Audrey’s shoulder. “Thank you.”

  Bees?

  The phenomenon is first observed in France. The year is 1994. Bees exposed to a new type of pesticide known as neonico­ti­noids exhibit confusion and odd behavior. Bees often abandon the hive, leading to the collapse of the entire colony.

  In 2006, United States beekeeper David Hackenberg reports to Congress on an unexplained phenomenon known as Colony Collapse Disorder (CCD) that had spread to over 70 percent of the bee populations in the country. The cause is yet unknown, but there is speculation linking it to pesticides, fungicides, mites, and parasites.

  In 2013, CCD contributes to the deaths of 60 percent of all hives. Scientists speak out against the use of certain neonicotinoids, and some countries limit or ban their use on crops, but the rate of collapse remains unchanged.

  On 29 January 2016, the last hive of honeybees, located on an almond farm in California, succumbs to CCD.

  The price of orange juice skyrockets overnight. Blueberries and almonds disappear from shelves. Onions become impossible to purchase. Within the first year, many common fruits simply vanish. Their juices, stored in tanks, become more precious than caviar. Pumpkins become too expensive to carve on Halloween.

  The effect of the loss of honeybees ripples to other crops. Coffee becomes a luxury few can afford. Worldwide food shortages lead to riots. The economies of states and countries that depend on honeybee-pollinated crops collapse shortly after the hives.

  The United States is the first. Unable to feed its people, unemployment soars to more than 50 percent. Disease runs rampant because few can afford health care, but starvation remains the number-one killer. Other nations soon follow.

  War, famine, and death become the rule of the planet. The poison that caused the collapse of the honeybees spreads to the human population, and, just as the bees did, humanity goes slowly mad.

  25 December 2015

  Grief is an ocean, and guilt the undertow that pulls me beneath the waves and drowns me.

  I woke up in Audrey’s bed, clutching my throat, gasping for breath. In my dreams I was drowning. I was in Jesse’s bedroom. It still looked the way it had when he was alive, except the ocean was rushing in to fill it. I tried to keep my head above water, but Jesse was at the bottom, pulling me down.

  Light streamed through the windows. Audrey was deep asleep, hugging her pillow, a shirt covering her face. It didn’t feel like Christmas morning. I wanted to close my eyes and sleep until the end of the world, but I needed to go home before my mom realized I wasn’t there.

  Rather than wake up Audrey, I left her a note and borrowed her bicycle. Her house was only a couple of miles from mine, and the ride gave me time to think. A little about Jesse, but mostly about Diego. I’d screwed everything up. He was right that I shouldn’t have had to ask him if he was responsible for smashing Marcus’s windows. I should have trusted him. I wasn’t sure if he’d accept my apology, but I needed to try.

  When I reached home, I was sweaty and out of breath. I dropped the bike in front of the duplex. Mr. Nabu was watching me from across the street. I waved; he waved back. I wondered how many times he’d seen me sneak home in the morning wearing nothing but my underwear or a trash can lid.

  I figured I’d peek through the window to make sure the rest of the house was still asleep before I snuck inside. When we were kids, Mom had discouraged me and Charlie from waking up at dawn on Christmas morning by instituting a rule that the first person out of bed had to make breakfast for everyone else. By the time we hit our teens, it was a competition to see who could stay in bed the longest. Usually, we didn’t get around to opening presents until after noon.

  I eased into the bushes and spied through the window. To my surprise, everyone was awake and gathered in the living room. Mom must have picked Nana up from the home early, and they sat on the couch together. Zooey was relaxing in the recliner next to the sofa, and Charlie had his back to me, digging around for something under the Christmas tree.

  Mom clapped her hands and held up a chef’s knife. The knife I bought for her. They were opening gifts without me. Had they gone into my room to see if I was awake? Did they even know I wasn’t home? I was about to storm inside when Charlie stood in the center of the room. I couldn’t hear what he was saying, but Zooey’s hand flew to her mouth as Charlie took a knee. He slipped a ring on Zooey’s finger, and she threw her arms around him and kissed him. I imagined her shouting, “Yes! Yes, I’ll marry you,” acting like it was a surprise even though she had to have been expe
cting it.

  I couldn’t believe he’d proposed to Zooey, and I’d missed it. He hadn’t even waited until I was awake. They were opening presents and proposing without me.

  “Everything all right, young man?” called Mr. Nabu. He was tough and stringy, like old celery, but his bright eyes missed nothing.

  I walked toward Mr. Nabu’s house. “If you knew the world was ending and could prevent it, would you?”

  Mr. Nabu set his newspaper in his lap. His bald head was speckled with liver spots, and his spectacles sat low on his nose. “It’s Christmas, young man, and I’m reading my newspaper alone on my front porch.”

  “Merry Christmas, sir.” I nodded and trudged around to the side of the house to crawl in through the bathroom window.

  • • •

  Physicists theorize that up to 27 percent of the mass-energy content of the universe is composed of what they refer to as dark matter. Dark matter is nonreactive to light and has so far eluded all efforts to prove its existence. However, the existence of dark matter is widely accepted because it explains the discrepancies found between the mass of large astronomical objects and their gravitational effect. The argument for the existence of dark matter can be observed in the motions of galaxies. Most do not contain enough observable mass to support the gravitational forces necessary to hold them together. Much like my family. Sometimes I watch them and wonder how we all don’t fly apart.

  The engagement was all anyone could talk about for the rest of the day. No one heard me when I accidentally tore down the shower curtain sneaking into the house. They didn’t even apologize for not waiting until I was awake to open presents. Every ten minutes, Nana gave me a sticky kiss on the cheek and told me how glad she was to see me. Charlie and Zooey couldn’t stop touching each other, and Mom spent nearly every minute in the kitchen, making trays of hors d’oeuvres a troupe of traveling acrobats couldn’t have finished.

  I couldn’t wait to leave.