Doctor’s offices had always given Benji the creeps. Despite doctors’ attempts to make examination rooms welcoming and warm, they always seemed so cold. The examination tables, the hand sanitizer, the biohazard waste bins, all of it covered in protective paper, plastic, and latex, smelling of disinfectant and chemicals. He was always afraid he was going to catch something when he visited, a cold, the flu, something even worse like Ebola, where his organs would melt and seep from the inside out.
Dr. Foley came in. She looked tired and weary, like she hadn’t slept in days, eyes bruise-purple and swollen. “How’re things?” she asked with a more upbeat tone than he’d heard in a while. Her bedside manner was probably second nature. “Good, I hope.”
“About as well as they can be,” Summer said. “We haven’t drowned yet.”
Dr. Foley forced a chuckle and snapped on some latex gloves. She smiled, prepared her stethoscope, and listened to Summer’s heartbeat. “I’m worried about your blood pressure,” she said. “It’s awfully high.”
“Considering the circumstances…” Summer trailed off.
“No excuse,” Dr. Foley said. “Have you noticed anything irregular?”
“Irregular?”
“Discolored urine. Lower back pain.”
“I’m pregnant. What do you think?”
“Have you been drinking enough fluids? Getting enough rest?”
“Does anybody?”
The doctor grabbed an otoscope and examined Summer’s ears. Summer rubbed her hands together like she had terrible arthritis.
“Eating healthy? Morning sickness?” Dr. Foley asked.
“Option one no. Option two absolutely. Feel like I spend half my time in front of the toilet.”
“I get the feeling you aren’t taking this seriously.”
“Just tell us what’s wrong!” Benji yelled.
Both the doctor and Summer blinked at him and leaned back as if they needed to get a better view.
“Nothing is wrong,” Dr. Foley said. “Yet. If Summer’s high blood pressure continues, it could damage her kidneys and the baby could be born prematurely.”
“Might?”
“It’s just a possibility.”
Summer placed her hand atop Benji’s and patted to reassure him. “That’s it?”
“Well,” Dr. Foley said, “there’s a remote possibility that you could develop preeclampsia.”
“Oh, preeclampsia. Of course. Why didn’t I think of that?” Benji said.
“And what does that mean?” Summer asked.
“It could lead to seizures. Stillbirth. The mother’s death.”
“The mother’s death?” Summer asked.
“Your death.” The doctor readied the ultrasound machine and then plopped neon blue gel onto Summer’s stomach. “But like I said, it’s a very remote possibility. Odds are you’re going to be fine. Just fine.”
A picture appeared on the monitor. It was one of those three-dimensional images where Benji and Summer could make out the baby’s features. This was the first time they’d been able to see their baby in such high definition. Benji could make out the little nose and ears and fingers and its clamped-shut eyes, and he couldn’t help but stare in disbelief. This tiny little thing would forever be in their care. There was no escaping that fact. It would come. It was inevitable. The sun would rise, flowers would bloom, taxes would be due, rent would have to be paid, the waters would rise, it would be born and Benji couldn’t help but think this was wrong. All of it. Summer and him and the baby—every last bit of it.
It was a boy. A baby boy. Benji never really had a preference, boy or girl. It didn’t really matter to him as long as he or she was healthy. He had to admit, though, his preference for health didn’t stem out of any concern for the child itself. The baby had always been more of an idea, an abstraction. Mainly, his concern was that he wouldn’t be able to afford a sick child. But now, once he had seen the baby during the 3D ultrasound, his child had become real. The baby was now tangible, and the burden he carried palpable.
BENJI GOT TO WORK BEFORE dawn. Floodlights illuminated the skeletal structure of the high-rise. Red steel loomed up above, and a light mist fell, making the scene look almost eerie. He clocked in and lumbered into the elevator car along with his co-workers, but before they felt the familiar jolt of the elevator moving up, his boss ambled out of the darkness. He looked tired and dirty, as if he’d been working for hours already.
“The levee,” he said, gasping for breath, “we need every man at the levee.”
Before he had time to explain, he dragged Benji and the others to his truck. They drove through the deserted streets the five miles to the levee. It was too early for most to be about, readying for their days at work, sneaking in a cup of coffee and whatever food they could scrounge up. Benji was thankful for that. At least they had a few more moments of peace before they awoke to the levees being breached. Just like with the high-rise, floodlights illuminated the concrete. The wall sparkled with mist and Benji could smell the salt even more strongly than usual. His boss led them to an impromptu elevator powered by pulleys and levers rather than a generator. Benji’d worked enough construction to know that this was an emergency. As they lurched upward, a dread came over him and settled into the pit of his stomach like acid.
The view over the levee stunned Benji. The waters had travelled inland nearly a mile and the surface sat only a few feet below the top of the levee. Perhaps the siren he’d heard yesterday hadn’t been a false alarm but a genuine scare. Hundreds of men scrambled in the dark, applying mortar and building the wall even higher. They worked tirelessly, shoveling and lifting, cranes swinging steel beams as quickly as they could. An operation of this magnitude would take weeks, even months of planning in advance, but yet this had come to fruition almost overnight. It was such an awesome sight, really, that Benji couldn’t help but be astounded.
Boats travelled the length of the wall carrying supplies. It was odd the waters were so calm. Benji expected to see large waves crashing, knocking workmen over, and whitecaps as tall as buildings. But, instead, the waters looked like a vast, opaque mirror, reflecting the night sky in a deep navy.
“It won’t hold for long,” Benji’s boss said. He was a big man, had been working construction longer than Benji had been alive, and had canine-like jowls and bicuspids. “We got to raise this wall along a half-mile by tonight if we’re going to survive until tomorrow.” He slapped Benji on the back. “Get to work.”
Benji could feel the humidity and the salt in the air. Sweat and sea clung to his pores so that his flesh took on the texture of sandpaper. A man, his face cast in shadow, handed Benji a wheelbarrow full of brick. Looking at this familiar tool, he couldn’t help but think that the wheel would fit his unborn son’s stroller perfectly.
The man pointed down the line. In the dark Benji couldn’t make out where exactly the man was pointing, but he headed in that direction anyway. The walkway was narrow, and men smoothed grout in order to fix more brick to the wall. They cemented each one by hand. Small bricks. Stone. Marble. Granite. Limestone. There was no plan. No engineers or architects. These were just random men, building random segments out of random materials. The wall wouldn’t hold. Benji knew it wouldn’t. Later this morning the waters would break through the dam and destroy the city. Worse yet, there wasn’t any place to run. If the waters had risen like this here, it would be the same worldwide. The whole Earth would soon be under water.
Benji’s immediate thought was to call Summer. But what would he tell her? That the end was near and he wouldn’t be able to make it home in time? That she would spend the last moments on Earth alone and so would he? He couldn’t do that to her. It’d be better if she was asleep. Maybe the city wouldn’t even sound the sirens. What would be the point? There would just be panic. Let them go peacefully. It was the least they could do.
The sea began to churn. Tumultuous waves crashed into the wall, sending the waters up and over the men. Some even fell the few stor
ies to the ground. The boats carrying supplies rocked back and forth, the men fighting to hold on and not fall overboard. Bricks dropped. Benji heard screams. They didn’t seem to come from anyone in particular. They were just random. Some close. Others far away. But all were frightened.
A man reached for Benji. He was in a canoe. The supplies he had been carrying were already unloaded or overboard. He pleaded with Benji to help him, to pull him to safety. Benji grabbed his arm and tugged until he had two feet firmly on the wall. “Thank you,” he said. “You saved my life.”
The oars were still in their holsters as the canoe bobbed and thrashed. Benji expected the small boat to be taken away, smashed into pieces against the levee. But it stayed put as if tethered there, though Benji could see that it was not.
As all the other men clamored down the wall, the waters calmed as suddenly as they had turned violent, the whitecaps returned to the dark blue of the sea, and the waves ceased to chop. The waters had risen several feet in a matter of seconds. And there was the canoe still, floating next to the wall, the city’s last, great hope at survival.
The sirens began to blare as the sun broke the horizon and the first rays of morning light illuminated the city. Benji’s eardrums throbbed from the sirens, and he knew that once the sea overflowed he would die. His wife would die. His unborn son would die. Everyone he knew or did know or would ever have known would soon be dead. His cushy, selfish life would be lost amid the flood of mortal ills.
But if he stepped out onto the canoe and paddled away, he could stall the inevitable. He would still die, but he would not die from the flood. From exposure maybe. Or hunger. But not by the waters. To be the last human being alive. What would that feel like?
He stepped out into the canoe and faced the city. Hundreds of people stared back at him, frozen in terror in the streets. None seemed content with their fate. But none fought it either. They simply stood idly by, waiting for the end to come. Benji grabbed the oars, but before he pushed off and rowed out to sea, he waved to them. Not one of them waved back.
Those poor people, he thought. If only they could help themselves.
Disobedience
ALAN HAD JUST LOADED HIS TRUNK AND WAS RETURNING HIS CART TO THE BIN WHEN HE WAS STOPPED for a few seconds, that was all, cornered by Mrs. Fourkiller. She asked about the impending school district consolidation, and he asked how Scrappy, her husband, was doing, if he’d gained mobility in his knee since the car accident, and then when he turned around, a mother to one of his students, Amber Montgomery, was screaming.
The IGA parking lot wasn’t packed by any means. A highschool boy herded up shopping carts—Brentley was his name—a long train stretched out in front of him. Mary Redtree, a first-year history teacher, packed the trunk of her hatchback with brown paper bags. A Honda Civic parked in a handicap spot. Parents dragged their children behind them. A few old men, their cowboy hats prim and spotless, chewed tobacco on the bench by the newspaper rack. It was a typical Saturday afternoon, trash blowing around in the harsh spring breeze.
“Amber!” her mother yelled, hands cupped around her mouth. She let go of her shopping cart, and it rolled down the inclined parking lot, crashing finally into an old minivan. “Amber!” she yelled. “Please! Answer me!”
He’d watched Amber while in the store, followed her down the dog food aisle and past the frozen food section and the deli meats, contemplating whether or not he should speak. She was seventeen and pretty in a diffident sort of way. She wasn’t popular or well regarded by her teachers, and when Alan would run across her in school, she was often alone in the library, perusing how-to books for surviving in the wilderness or large-game hunting. She rarely smiled, and when she did, she covered her mouth with her hand. He’d always made an effort to speak with her when he saw her, to say hello and ask her how her studies were going, life at home. At first, she was shy when he asked, but after a while she warmed up to him, and about once per week she would stop by his office to ask his advice about one thing or another, if she should take the ACT or maybe just get a job after graduation in Bartlesville or Tulsa. Alan had to admit that he enjoyed these little meetings—they were the only times he ever felt he made a difference in his position—but lately teachers and parents and students had started to spread rumors of an inappropriate relationship. He’d been thinking he should speak with Amber about this when she spotted him watching her. They’d been in the produce section near the exit, and she approached him with her arms clasped in front of her like she had to protect herself, and Alan couldn’t help but be a little hurt by this—he didn’t, after all, wish her any harm.
Out in the parking lot, her mother ran the aisles. She called out Amber’s name and ran around the back of the store. She looked under cars. She looked in the alcove where the unused shopping carts were stored. She even looked in the big blue dumpster. She looked and looked and looked, and Alan just stood there watching her—they all did: Brentley and Mrs. Fourkiller and the old men—none of them offering to help.
THE SCHOOL HAD NO MONEY. That was just the plain reality, and no matter what Alan did, that wouldn’t change. The sooner the staff understood that fact, the quicker they could move on, plan for the inevitable—them losing their jobs, their students being absorbed into larger school districts, Bartlesville mostly, their dying town mercifully relieved of its last, wheezing gasp. Evidence of the situation surrounded all of them. He didn’t even have a door on his office anymore, just a curtain. An unruly student had shattered the glass, and instead of replacing it he just took it off its hinges. It now resided in the basement, stored away in the corner of the school’s tornado shelter.
But here was Ms. Redtree, asking for money. “The Land Run is a part of this state’s identity,” she explained. “The kids deserve to know what happened.”
“I’m not saying don’t teach them. They have books. Use those. A re-creation of the event is entirely unnecessary. And not within our budget.”
“Please don’t be condescending. I am well aware they have textbooks. Outdated, but they have them.”
Alan sighed and pinched his nose like he was holding in a sneeze. “I’m not trying to be condescending. I’m trying to tell you the truth.”
“These kids deserve this,” she said. “They need to get out of the classroom. They need learning to be fun. They need to get their minds off their missing classmate.”
Fun? Was she serious?
This was why he never should’ve hired a rookie teacher. They graduated from college full of hope and idealism and principle. They had fantasies of being Robin Williams in Dead Poet’s Society, students addressing an abusive authority figure and proclaiming their love for their dutiful teacher, “O Captain! My Captain!” Alan was sure he’d been that authority figure in many of Ms. Redtree’s daydreams. She had that look about her, wistful. Her hair flittered about her face, and the whites of her eyes were bright, not like his, yellowed and reddened by years of no sleep and a three-drink minimum in his recliner.
“What if I paid for the supplies myself?” Ms. Redtree asked.
“Yourself? On your salary?”
“Now you’re being condescending and offensive.”
He wished he could have a taste of Scotch right then. He’d never brought a bottle to school, unlike some of the teachers, Mr. Appleberry for sure. The school guidance counselor, he smelled of peppermint schnapps every day by lunch, so Alan was sure not to send any impressionable students his way past eleven. He would be apt to give the kid a pull. Perhaps he could visit him after this meeting. It’s not like he’d get fired. The district would only be open a few more weeks. Why hire an interim principal? Not even the Department of Education was that dense.
“All I’m saying is that maybe you should be concentrating on saving your money rather than wasting it on this project.”
“Some of us, Mr. Donahue, did not get into teaching for its fiduciary rewards.”
That was right; he wouldn’t get fired. Not yet anyway. So why did he ca
re what he spent the district’s money on? Who needed a prom? Most of the kids didn’t go, and the seniors’ banquet was more of a grim reminder of who didn’t graduate than a celebration of those who did. Besides, if he could just get her to shut up about it, it would make the last remaining weeks of the semester that much easier to deal with.
“Fine,” he said. “Whatever. I’ll find the cash.”
“You won’t regret this, Mr. Donahue. Thank you.”
Ms. Redtree stood and hurried out of his office before he could change his mind. He turned in his chair and stared out the window at the tattered yard. Years before it had been the football field, but the bleachers had long ago been torn down, the scraps probably dragged to homes for firewood. Now the yard was coarse with limestone gravel and spotted with cracked red clay. That’s where they would end up having the Land Run. He could see it then, all sixty-seven of his students lined up with Radio Flyers with sheets draped over them, their covered wagons, waiting for some damn fool to blow a whistle so they could mark out territory that had once been promised to the displaced tribes—their ancestors. It’d be sad if the irony wouldn’t be lost on all those kids.
ALAN LIVED JUST OUTSIDE OF Pawhuska where a tree line backed up into some rolling hills. The woods were intertwined with post oaks and blackjack and Indian grass. Limestone bedded streams, tributaries to Bluestem Lake, and murky water trickled through creeks where very little, if anything, swam. Whitetails pranced in gullies and squirrels skittered through the underbrush and avocets nested in branches. Every once in a while, a rifle shot would echo over the treetops. At night, coyotes howled at the moon like scavengers. It was a place Alan loved—he hunted big game, deer and mountain lion, the occasional wild boar. He would fish big-mouth at the lake and camp with friends so that he could drink beer without the PTA finding out. For the past thirty years there hadn’t been a week gone by that he hadn’t spent some time out there. It was a land he knew well. He knew the smell of the dirt. He knew every tree by name. He knew its story. In 1835, the federal government had guaranteed it to the Cherokee by the Treaty of New Echota. It didn’t matter the Osage already called the land home. Wars broke out constantly. Not in the grand terms learned in history books. There weren’t large massacres or battles fought by legions of warriors in open fields. Hundreds didn’t die in hand-to-hand combat. Instead, cattle and horses were stolen. Men were murdered one or two at a time. Crops destroyed. Subterfuge and mayhem.
Five Hundred Poor Page 8
