A Plague Year

by Edward Bloor

  I can’t say I was surprised. The answer is always no.

  I said as evenly as I could, “Okay. Forget it. It was just an idea.” Then I took the stairs two at a time up to my room and, very calmly, got ready for school. But I was fuming inside.

  Mr. Proctor began class by describing his reactions to our journal entries. “These are great! Heartfelt and well-observed. I especially liked the ones about your town, and about coal mining, and about a place called Caldera.

  “They got me to thinking. We have talked about Pennsylvania as a Garden of Eden, as a paradise. It has some of the world’s most abundant farmland above, and it has some of the world’s most abundant coal veins below.

  “So picture this: It is glorious, sunny, and heaven-like up top, and it’s sulfurous, burning, and hell-like down below. It’s all here in one place. It’s yin and yang. It’s Paradise Lost.

  “And, while we are speaking of great literature …” He picked up his script for The Roses of Eyam. “All the roles in my play have now been assigned. I want to thank everybody who auditioned.”

  He looked at Wendy. “Some of you showed great talent.”

  Arthur muttered behind me, “Grape talent.”

  Mr. Proctor heard him, and he called him on it. “What’s that, Arthur?”

  “Uh, I was wondering, sir, if I got that village idiot job. Did I?”

  “Yes. I told you that before.”

  “And—I just want to double-check—if I play this part, I get an A in English?”

  Mr. Proctor summarized, somewhat impatiently, “Yes. You have been assigned the part of the Bedlam, the village idiot. And if you learn that role and you play it on December thirtieth in the school auditorium, you get an A. Why? Are you having second thoughts?”

  “No! No way. Oh, but I have to tell you: I’ll be gone from November twenty-first to the twenty-fifth. Out of town on business. I won’t be able to rehearse then.”

  “Okay. That won’t be a problem.”

  “Cool. Then you got yourself an idiot.”

  Mr. Proctor held the script high. “The original production had over fifty actors. I have managed to pare it down to a dozen speaking parts, and I’ve cut the three acts down to one. But I have preserved the essence of the play, which, in my view, is this:

  “One day, in the peaceful English village of Eyam, the plague arrives in a shipment of cloth. People start to die. At first no one knows what is happening. The plague starts to spread very rapidly, geometrically—two, four, eight, sixteen bodies a day. The people realize, to their horror, what is happening to them. But they also realize that if they let the plague move beyond their village, it will continue to increase, geometrically, until half of England is dead. To prevent that ultimate catastrophe, the villagers embark on something truly heroic: They stay in their own town. They do not run away. They stay and fight.”

  He stopped and looked at me, but I looked away. I had heard enough. Mr. Proctor could stay in Blackwater if he wanted, in his plague village, but I would not.

  I had made up my mind. I was getting the hell out, with my parents’ permission or not.

  I was going to Florida.

  The counseling group started right on time, at least for us. But I could tell by Catherine Lyle’s nervous glances at the door, and at her watch, that something was wrong. Our guest speaker, her husband, was not there.

  Wendy, however, was. She was sitting in her old spot, smiling, waiting to hear her famous father speak.

  Catherine Lyle improvised by saying, “I often start the meeting by introducing a topic. I know that some of you have things you want to talk about that I have not covered. So let’s start today with a free topic, anything you’d like to share that you have not been able to.”

  Ben’s hand shot up, of course. But some other hands did, too.

  Catherine Lyle pointed to Jenny, who said, quite unexpectedly, “I would like to share that I have a problem at home. My father is a recovering alcoholic. I tried to hide that fact all my life. I get all A’s on my report cards, and I’m on the Student Council, and I try really hard to act perfect, but that doesn’t change the truth. I have a problem at home, a big problem. I always have.”

  Jenny stopped there.

  Other kids nodded and said they understood her predicament.

  I was shocked. The Weavers did seem to be the perfect family, but I guess that was Jenny’s point.

  Angela spoke up next. Her topic was very different. “My cousin drank bleach to pass a urine test with her probation officer. But she drank too much, or it was too strong, and it burned out the lining of her esophagus. So now she has to eat through a tube.”

  Another girl advised her, “She shoulda drank vinegar instead. Vinegar’s supposed to work.”

  Lilly objected to that very strongly. “No! You shouldn’t learn how to lie better. Or cheat better. You should stop using drugs. That’s the only thing that works.”

  One of the high school guys was eager to share next. He didn’t even wait to be called on. “My brother mugged an old man outside a bank, but they caught him because of his army coat.”

  Arthur sounded puzzled. “What do you mean, dude?”

  “They caught him because the old man remembered the name on the army coat.”

  Arthur held up his hand. “Wait a minute. You’re telling us that your brother mugged somebody while wearing a coat that had his own name stitched on it?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Is he a moron?”

  The guy looked offended. “No. He’s an addict.”

  “That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”

  Ben agreed. “That guy’s, like, too stupid to live.”

  But Angela came to his defense. “Come on! Addicts don’t think.”

  The high school guy explained, “My brother was never good at anything. He even got kicked out of the army. So naturally, he’s not a good mugger, either.”

  For the next ten minutes, people shared other anecdotes about the stupid, and deadly, and just plain sad things that had happened to users they knew.

  All that talk stopped, though, when our guests walked in.

  Catherine Lyle looked up at her husband, so we did, too. He was not alone. (Was he ever? How weird was that?) He had two students trailing him, two frat boys who were smiling very wide. They looked familiar, but I couldn’t place them. Our three visitors walked to the head of the table and stared at us like we were some kind of lab specimens.

  I hadn’t seen Dr. Lyle since the Halloween party. He wasn’t wearing blue velvet now, just jeans and an old sweater. He had long gray hair tied up in a ponytail. You don’t see a lot of that around here.

  Dr. Lyle tried an opening joke. “We just saw your mascot outside, the Battlin’ Coal Miner. We were thinking they might replace him with a statue that better reflects the local economy. We came up with the Battlin’ Walmart Greeter.”

  He paused to let us all laugh, but we did not. We just glared at him. His boys did manage a low snigger, though.

  Catherine Lyle reacted to this awkward moment by launching quickly into an introduction. “Now we come to the main part of our meeting. We are all grateful to have Dr. Richard Lyle with us today, along with, I see, some of his graduate students.”

  The frat boys exchanged a smirk. I hated those guys. We all did; I could sense it.

  “Dr. Lyle has been a leader in his field for twenty years, holding professorships at the University of Southern California, the Florida Institute of Technology, and now Blackwater University. I have asked him to talk today about some exciting new treatments that are available to substance abusers. Please welcome Dr. Richard Lyle.”

  Dr. Lyle nodded at his wife and smiled at Wendy. “Thank you, Catherine, for inviting me here.” He looked around at us. “Obviously, there is never a good time to be a substance abuser, but if you had to choose a time in history, this would be it. Psychologists and physicians and counselors have been working together throughout the last decade to develop some of
the most effective and revolutionary treatments in medical history, treatments that have proven to be highly effective in their success-versus-relapse ratios.

  “Substance-abuse centers in California and in Florida now offer total-immersion programs to patients over a twenty-eight-day period. These programs include individual, group, and family therapy; relapse-prevention education; and trust building via team sports, horseback riding, rope courses, and other activities.”

  He then launched into a long list of places like the Betty Ford clinic where, basically, drug users could go and listen to people like him all day, and do activities, and get cured of their addictions. After about fifteen minutes, he wrapped it up by saying, “These programs are expensive, though. So my best advice to you is this: Get a job with good health benefits, benefits that cover drug treatment should you ever need it.”

  As soon as he stopped, Lilly raised her hand. She asked him, “Wouldn’t the best advice be ‘Don’t do drugs at all’?”

  Dr. Lyle looked confused. Then he smiled. “Sure. It would be. But that’s not what my talk was about.”

  “But aren’t all drugs bad?”

  Dr. Lyle tried to explain. “Well, I would differentiate between hard drugs, which are very destructive, and milder drugs, which are purely recreational.”

  Lilly sounded puzzled. “But aren’t they all illegal? Unless, like, you have a prescription from a doctor?”

  Dr. Lyle was no longer smiling at Lilly when he replied, “Yes, true. And they are all potentially bad, even legal drugs such as alcohol, or, for that matter, aspirin.”

  Then he didn’t say anything else.

  After a long silence, Catherine Lyle spoke up. “All right! Thanks, Lilly, for that question. Are there any others?”

  Ben raised his hand. “Dr. Lyle? What if you don’t have the money to go to one of those substance-abuse facilities? Where can you go?”

  Dr. Lyle suggested, “You could go to your church. They generally have programs.”

  “You mean like to an AA meeting?”

  “Yes. Those meetings have helped people in the past. But they are amateur operations, where substance abusers try to help each other.”

  Ben followed up, “So … what if you don’t have money and you don’t belong to a church?”

  Dr. Lyle answered, “Well, there are free social programs out there, but not everywhere. They are mostly in big cities.”

  “Yeah! I got diagnosed in Pittsburgh, by a social worker. I was eating stuff.”

  Catherine Lyle moved to cut Ben off. “Okay! Those were some good questions, and that was some great information about new options in substance-abuse treatment. I hope you have all benefited from this exchange. Now let’s thank Dr. Lyle and let him get back to the university.”

  Most of us just stared at him. But Jenny, ever polite, muttered, “Thank you, Dr. Lyle,” and a couple of other kids joined in.

  He replied, “You are all very welcome. And good luck to you.” Then he and his boys started toward the door.

  Catherine and Wendy got up to walk them out.

  That was when I overheard Wendy ask one of the boys a question. A very strange question. “Couldn’t Joel make it?”

  The boy shook his head no.

  Arthur heard the question, too. He said to me, loud enough for everyone to hear, “Does she mean Joe? ‘I don’t have a website anymore’ Joe? ‘My mommy needs to buy me a new laptop’ Joe?”

  Wendy stopped and turned. She asked Arthur, “What are you talking about? How do you know Joel?”

  Arthur assumed an innocent face. “I don’t. I don’t know anybody named Joel. I was thinking of a guy named Joe.” He turned to me. “What was Joe’s aura, Tom? Was it, like, ultraviolet? No, no, that’s right—it was yellow. Total yellow.”

  Wendy snapped, “Shut up!”

  Arthur snapped right back, “You shut up!”

  Dr. Lyle stepped toward Arthur and warned him, “Don’t you dare speak to my daughter like that.”

  Arthur met his gaze. “Okay. I’ll speak to you, then. How much weed did you and the boys smoke on the way here?”

  Dr. Lyle’s eyes widened (and they were really bloodshot). He growled, “I beg your pardon.”

  “You beg my pardon? Why? Did you burp?”

  “What?”

  “Hey, come on, Doc. You didn’t fart, did you?”

  “What?”

  “Are you having trouble hearing me? Is all that weed frying your brain?”

  Dr. Lyle turned to his wife. “What is going on here, Catherine?”

  Catherine Lyle had no idea, and her face showed it. She stammered, “I-I-I’m very sorry. Maybe you should just leave. Quickly. All of you.”

  Dr. Lyle spun around angrily. He stomped out through the office, with the boys on his heels. They weren’t smirking anymore.

  Catherine rounded on Arthur. “What was that about? Is that how you show respect to a guest? I am very disappointed in you, Arthur.”

  “Respect? We’re an antidrug group, and they showed up stoned.”

  Catherine Lyle sputtered, “Arthur! That is not true!”

  But Arthur knew what he was talking about, and he let her know. “That is true. I’ve seen those guys around Caldera.”

  Catherine clearly didn’t believe him. “What? What on earth for? What would they be doing at—”

  “They were trying to cop.”

  “What?”

  “Trying to buy drugs.”

  “Drugs? What drugs?”

  “Weed, I believe. That’s what the frat boys prefer.”

  She sputtered, “I’m sure that is not so, but I will mention it to my husband.”

  “Yeah. You do that. Mention it to him. Mention that they were driving a white Saab convertible. That might help him remember. I can get the tag number for you next time, if you need it.”

  Mrs. Lyle backed away and started to gather her belongings. She looked like she might cry.

  Wendy looked like she might punch Arthur. Instead, she grabbed her stuff and ran out of the room.

  It had been a long day already, and I still had to go to the Food Giant. I was in no mood for sweeping floors or bagging groceries or rounding up shopping carts.

  And I certainly was in no mood for Reg the Veg.

  I opened the door of the anteroom, though, and found myself looking at the trio of Reg, Bobby, and John. And they were at it again.

  Or at least Reg was at it again, trying to prank Bobby. I had long since given up on the Veg, but when was John going to grow up and stop this?

  Reg recapped tonight’s story, I suppose for my amusement. “So it’s a Thanksgiving promotion, Bobby. Walnuts for three-ninety-nine a pound. Now, that’s one heckuva price. All you gotta do is carry two walnuts like these”—he held out a pair of walnuts—“and put them in a Baggie like this.” He dropped them into a sandwich-size Baggie. “Then you take it out and you ask customers, ‘Aren’t these beautiful nuts?’ ”

  John started to laugh, but then he stole a glance at me and turned it into a wince. Still, he didn’t speak up, not even when Bobby reached out to take the bag.

  So I did. “No, Bobby! Don’t do that. My father would not want you to do that.”

  Then John acted like he agreed with me, and like he was about to do the same thing. “That’s right, Bobby. In fact, you should check with me before you do anything like this.”

  Bobby looked from John to me to Reg. His neck and ears turned bright red, like lava rising in a volcano. He slapped at Reg’s hand, knocking the Baggie to the floor and causing the nuts to roll out by Reg’s feet. Then he pushed past me, angrily, and exited the room.

  John shook his head. He told Reg, “You need to stop bustin’ his balls. I’m the one who catches hell about it, not you.”

  Reg bent and picked up the bag and the walnuts as John pulled on a slicker. Reg muttered, “Don’t be so pusillanimous, Uno, my man.”

  John looked at him, puzzled—clearly not up on his PSAT vocabulary. He frowned and
followed Bobby out.

  Reg straightened up. He tossed the Baggie and the walnuts into the trash. Then he told me seriously, “There ain’t much to do around here, Tom. Tom Terrific. Tom-Tom-the-piper’s-son. I think you’ll find that out someday. In the meantime, you have to get your laughs where you can.”

  Dad and I stayed after closing time to get some extra jobs done. We mostly stocked shelves—straightening, replenishing, removing misplaced items. After about an hour of working separately, we both ended up at the beer aisle, across from the frozen foods.

  I could tell that Dad was upset about something. He had been all night. He finally came out and told me, “I had to fire Walter today.”

  I was dumbfounded. Walter had been one of Dad’s favorites. I asked, “Why? What did he do?”

  Dad shook his head back and forth. “I caught him with a carton of Sudafed in his trunk.”

  “No! Not Walter!”

  “Yes. Inventory hasn’t matched sales for weeks now. I suspected it was Walter, and I caught him today.”

  “God. Did he say anything?”

  Dad shrugged. “He said he was sorry.”

  “Did you call the police?”

  Dad looked toward the office. “No. I’m leaving that up to corporate. But from here on out, I’m locking all pseudoephedrine products up in the office. Every night.”

  Dad returned to straightening beer bottles, so I did, too.

  I felt really bad for him. He hated firing people. After a few minutes, he told me something else. “I caught Bob Murphy shoplifting today.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “Yeah. Poor guy. He looked like hell—like a skeleton. I barely recognized him.” Dad nodded thoughtfully. “Does his kid still go to Haven?”

  “Mikemurphy? I think so. I haven’t seen him in a while. He was getting suspended a lot, so they might have sent him to the county school.”

  “That’s too bad. He was a nice kid.”

  “What was Mr. Murphy stealing?”

  “Beer. He had this big coat on, and he filled the pockets with cans of Yuengling Black and Tan. He couldn’t even walk without clunking. I followed him outside with a cart and got it all back.”