by Dan McNeill
Chapter 1
Everyone needed a Po. Raymond knew this to be true. Whether the two of them were fishing off the dam, burping the alphabet or playing battle chess with mall store mannequins, Po made the tedium of apocalypse brilliant.
Raymond let those thoughts drift away for the moment like the lure on his line, tugging on his pole while he rested his broad shoulders against the tall willow down the hill from their cottage. The mix of trees surrounding their cabin were a sunshine kaleidoscope of red and gold leaves. Before long those leaves would drift to the ground and he and Po would have something to do – namely that Po would jump in the piles while Raymond collected what was left for the compost pits. But Raymond didn't mind. Over these past three years, he'd learned something quite important. You had to mix survival with pleasure.
You also, of course, had to fish. A lot. Luckily, today appeared to be a good day for it. The early autumn sun was melting off the frost, producing a subtle fog that hung back around the edges of Lake Como like a quarterback from Ray's old football days angling for a receiver. Save for a scattering of geese, the lake was calm. Raymond liked calm. Calm meant Po might actually catch something.
Jiggling his pole, Raymond took in the silence. Raymond loved the silence. Most of all, Raymond liked being alone. At least he used to, before being alone was all that was left. The towering trees with their untended branches scratched the roofs of the empty cottages. Lake Como's cool waters remained starkly silent. Nothing at all like how it used to be when Raymond’d come out here with his friends in the summer, the water rippling with hot chicks from the University of Wisconsin and douche bags on jet skis from Illinois. The hot chicks had a way of finding themselves partying with the red headed jock from Lake Como. Partying with him of course.
The douche bags had a way of partying with Raymond too sometimes. But most of the times those kinds of parties weren't the ones the douche bags from Illinois found all that fun. Most of the time, the red headed jock won those parties. Most of the time.
But there were no more parties these days. No more hot chicks for the red headed jock to seduce. And no more douche bags for the red headed jock to get into scuffle parties with. All of them and everyone else they knew were torn to shit by the Rapture. Torn to shit in days. All of them. But not them.
Raymond let his red hair grow shoulder length these past three years. He presently brushed it aside to get a better view of the sky surrounding the lake this morning. The deep radiant hues of unreal blues. Raymond loved it. Hearing a low grumble, he glanced over at his older brother – who was not so great at fishing. It wasn't that he sucked at it exactly. More like his body was a great big obstacle.
Big being the operative word. In the years since the Rap, Po had changed. Before the virus, Po was an overweight teen with low muscle tone. Now...somehow, and Raymond couldn't even begin to explain why, the guy was built like an ox. It was disturbing. Freaky weird. The weight gain? The buffed up muscle tone? Growing up, Po was always the flabby kid on the "short bus". Nowadays, he was built like a defensive lineman on steroids. But Po was healthy and alive. And for that at least, Raymond was grateful.
Right now, Po's big head was partially covered up by the faded Kelly green White Sox baseball cap he wore to shield his pasty Irish skin from the sun. The hat was a souvenir from the Halfway to St. Paddy's Day White Sox game Grandpa Frank had taken him to the year before the Rap. Strands of Po's bushy brown hair snaked their way out of the corners of the hat.
With a sudden sweeping gesture, Po removed the hat from his head and whipped it to the ground. Growling, he started rocking from side to side. Raymond saw this before. Po was about to freak.
“Waymond!” Po shouted. “These stupid heads ain’t biting! The sun’s burning Po’s sweet cheeks and Po don't wanna fish no more!” Growling louder, he tossed his fishing pole over his shoulder, nearly piercing their dog Rowdy in the rump. “It’s clobbering time!” He clenched his fists, daring Raymond to talk him down.
“Settle down Thing,” Raymond said. He put his pole down and tried to smile. “I bet your worm just got away again.” Of course, that probably wasn’t true. Unless the worm was terribly unlucky, it usually never found its way onto Po’s hook in the first place. But Raymond didn’t blame him. Po had big fingers and trying to hook bait wasn’t one of his strengths. Though he had many others.
“Here you go,” Raymond said. Fetching Po's pole, he put a sluggish nightcrawler onto the wormless hook. “I tried to pick a sleepy one for you. Just don’t run him off with any more of your bad jokes! ”
“Thanks Waymond!” Po patted Raymond on the back so hard he almost dropped his own fishing pole. “Hey, are Po’s jokes really that bad?”
Raymond raised his eyebrows and smirked, nodding his head. Po let out a snort and they both sat back against the willow’s wide trunk, Po’s fishing malfunction momentarily fixed.
Po recast his line. Crossing his stumpy legs, he pulled his hat down a tad, nearly covering up his thin blue eyes. Tucking the grip of his pole underneath his armpit, he reached into the lining of his lime-green windbreaker to remove his golden tin whistle.
The six-holed golden whistle was a little scratched in spots but that didn’t matter. It was a gift to Po from their Grandpa Frank on Po's twelfth birthday. Something Po never asked for but always wanted. In the ten years since he got the gift, Po only learned to play five songs. But that didn't matter. Whether he was playing Happy Birthday or the theme from Superman, the melodies yearned of something that Raymond never had.
Optimism. Optimism was something Po had loads of. Even back when he had to get up to take his special bus to his special classes, knowing full well he'd probably get a special wallop by the bullies at Glenside, Po still found a reason to greet the day with a smile. Finishing up what Raymond thought sounded like Go Tell Aunt Rhodie, he put his tin whistle down to momentarily pretend to fish again.
Raymond was too tired to nag him today. Besides Po's tin whistle, the couple of hours of barren sleep Raymond got were one of his few escapes. No nightmares there. And no dreams either. Raymond hadn't dreamt since the Rap. Not real dreams, anyway. The place he went when danger came was not a place of dreams.
"Oh no Waymond!" Po shouted, tossing down his pole again.
"What, you big Wookie?"
"Po forgot his guys!"
Before Raymond could say a word, Po had jumped to his feet and was already barreling up the hill, back to their cottage. In the process of weaving around their fenced off vegetable garden, the big oaf nearly knocked over the jug of water Raymond had filled this morning from the pump at the Laughing Well.
A few minutes later, Raymond heard the back door slam as Po made his hasty return. Sprinting back to the fishing hole, Raymond knew there was a problem. Po didn't like being alone. When Po was alone, Po got scared. And when Po was scared, Po was a runner.
"Slow down!" Raymond yelled out. "You're coming in hot!"
But it was too late. The leaves on the sugar maple had already started to fall. Slick with moisture from the morning dew, Po took one step onto a golden patch and was sent flying out of control. It didn't help that his hands were full. Po hit the leaves and, for a moment, appeared to be skiing. He held his own past the vegetable garden but came crashing hard into the cedar picnic table. Miraculously, the four action figures he clutched in his ruddy hands were still there. But the jug of water Raymond had filled a few hours earlier wasn't as lucky.
"Sowwy Waymond," Po said. Wiping the wet leaves off his behind, he looked down at the now empty water jug and frowned.
Sorry Raymond. Raymond wondered how often during the course of a normal day Po uttered those words. Not that many days were really normal anymore. Nothing was normal since the Rap. The fact that he and Po were even still alive after three years on their own was a testament to Po's optimism and Raymond's resourcefulness. Resourcefulness that Raymond attributed solely on his mom. Of course Raymond's dad would have called their survival
a miracle.
But not Raymond. Raymond was a born-again atheist. God, church, miracles. Raymond didn’t believe in any of the things his father's faith swore would protect them. There was only one protector that Raymond put his faith into these days. Remmy. That was the name he gave to the Remington 750 semi-automatic rifle that found Raymond in the weeks after the Rapture. Raymond considered Remmy a silent brother.
Moseying down the hill while ignoring the wet leaves plastered on his behind, Po was in deep conversation with Superman, his favorite of the old Mego action figures he carried with him everywhere he went. The doll that their mom had bought Po at a Chicago ComicCon was presently being placed on the lookout tower of the Fortress of Solitude - an old Barbie penthouse play set Raymond found and spray painted silver.
“All right Waymond!" Po remarked, picking up his pole again as he sat down by the willow tree. "Po's weady to catch a wally!”
Raymond hadn’t seen walleye in Lake Como for years. But it didn’t matter. To Po, most all fish were walleye. Usually Po caught carp. “Sure, who knows?" Raymond said, brushing aside his hair again. "Maybe you’ll be lucky enough to catch Mighty Musky.”
Po let out a deep belly laugh. “That's wight Waymond! Po's gonna get him!” He smiled at his brother, giving him a hearty pat on the back. "Tonight, dinner's gonna be on Po!"
Raymond looked back at him with a grin, humorously shaking his head. “Well,” he said, "You could have started with dinner by re-filling the jug of water you knocked over you big walking carpet!”
“Po was gonna do that Waymond,” he squawked, his chubby cheeks turning a cherry red, “but then Superman told him about bad guys wunning around the place!” Po glared at Raymond for a moment, as if attempting to declare his innocence before kneeling down next to Rowdy to continue his conversation with Superman. With a hesitant cringe, he looked back at Raymond and frowned.
“Po knows Waymond,” he said dejectedly. “Po needs to use his R’s.”
Raymond shook his head again. He had stopped trying to remind Po to use his “R’s” a long time ago. That was something their asshole brother Abe always harped on - the one who ran away. Or their dad (who ran away too when everything went to shit). Raymond could care less. In the end, the only two people that judged Po the harshest were the ones that ran off while their family decomposed. Raymond often wondered how their God would judge that.
Clearing his throat, Raymond forced out a smile. “Don't worry about it Chewie. We'll go out together and fill it later.”
Po beamed back a wide grin as Raymond slapped him on the back. Raymond knew to teach Po the truly important things. Things like picking berries that wouldn’t make him sick, starting a fire, and fishing without giving up. Those were the things that would help Po survive - just in case Raymond had to go away for a while. Not that he ever intended to do so.
With his head looking down at his big feet, Po turned with a shy grin, resting his big head on Raymond’s shoulder.
“Waymond?” he asked in a hesitant whisper.
“Yes Po?”
“Can you read Po The Wizard of Oz?”
Raymond cringed. Not that he didn’t like reading to Po, because of course he did. He just really hated this book. This horrible book. The faded old picture book of The Wonderful Wizard of Oz.
It wasn't always that way. The book was a graphic novel version of the Wizard of Oz. A comic book. The old book was their mom's favorite and one she would take out from a laundry shoot back at their old house in Chicago before bedtime. Huddling close together while she hummed some Beatles tune, she’d assign them all parts to read.
Po was, by choice, the Scarecrow. Though Raymond never thought the part quite fit him. To Raymond, Po was always the lion. The cool cat that roamed around the house, acting out scenes from Raymond’s favorite movies while stealing cookies when mom pretended not to look. Occasionally he’d hear mom or dad whisper the words "Down syndrome", though Raymond had no idea what that was or what that label would eventually grow to mean to Po.
Raymond was the Tin Man. All Raymond knew was that it wasn’t Dorothy. That part went to mom. Raymond later learned that the reason mom gave him that part was because it required less reading.
The part of the Cowardly Lion went to Abe. That was a part that Raymond whole-heartedly agreed with. But, as it turned out, mom didn’t give Abe the part of the Cowardly Lion because she thought Abe a coward.
Their mom had assigned Abe the part of the Cowardly Lion as an inspired lesson. A lesson to Abe that he could compete with Raymond in all ways that mattered. For while Raymond and Abe were twins, there wasn’t much they had in common. Abe was as weak and sickly as Raymond was strong and agile. But during the readings, Mom was sure to point out to Abe that true bravery was more than brute strength and a loud growl.
For Raymond, it was the parts that Po read that inspired him the most. The true miracle of the reading was that Po couldn’t read. In fact, he could barely talk at the time. But he had a helluva memory. And even though Po’s recitations came off more sounding more like a series of grunts and giggles, Raymond understood everything he was trying to say and loved it. Eventually, Raymond would break into happy hysterics just from Po holding the book. Before long, the comic book was no longer just the Wonderful Wizard of Oz. It was the "Giggly Book".
“Of course buddy," Raymond finally answered. "Any reason?”
“No, no reason Waymond. Po just wanna hear it. Po wanna know the words.” Po stared at him grinning, his face beaming like the sunrise.
“Fine Po,” Raymond sighed. “But let's say we catch something first, ok?”
With an understanding nod, Po reached inside his partially zipped lime-green windbreaker and felt around. “Uh oh. Sowwy Waymond, Po musta forgot it.”
“Of course you did," Raymond said with a grin soaked in fake annoyance. "Why don’t you walk - not run- back up to the house and get it."
“Thanks Waymond!”
Po started to dash back up to the house. But before he got a few steps out, Raymond noticed the guard on the painted penthouse. “Hey, you forgot Supes!” he shouted.
Superman was Po’s security blanket. Po never wanted to go too far without Raymond. If Raymond didn't want Po to have another spill on his way back down to the lake, bringing Superman with him was the next best thing (although, as was the case this morning, having a wandering imagination was what usually got Po into trouble in the first place).
Po turned around as Raymond tossed him his courage. The rising sun illuminated his older brother’s round angelic face as he fumbled to catch it and failed.
“Dumb sun!” Po laughed. He picked up his doll, tucked him inside his lime-green windbreaker, and started off back towards the cottage.
Raymond watched Po as he flew Superman through the air, generally in the direction of the house. Superman was shouting motivational one-liners to Po like, “All clear Po!” or, “Don’t be a cowardly lion Po-Po!” As he watched his older brother pass by the fire pit, he smiled thinking about what sort of curious story Po might tell on this night.
Rowdy, their lazy Irish setter, was tracking Po too. Seeing that Po had safely made it back inside, he got up, stretched and made an uncharacteristically quick dash up the hill past their cottage. With his snout to the ground, he sprinted around the tall grasses in search of a chipmunk, a rabbit, or if he got really lucky, Roxy.
Roxy was the name Po gave to the old cat who lived in the Castle. Somehow, the fat feline had managed to elude the grasp of Rowdy's lazy paw these past three years. As far as Raymond knew, Roxy was the sole occupant living in the eccentric brick lake home that resembled a medieval castle - complete with a black-shingled conical spire that rested atop a three-story tower (and the stone-enclosed hot tub that the neighbors used to call, the “Dungeon”. Raymond never asked why). Raymond was quite sure that the chase between the two adversaries had become a game. If Rowdy ever did catch the cat, he'd probably
just let him go.
Because the cat was not a threat. If it was, it would have been in Rowdy's belly years ago. Rowdy, more than Raymond or Remmy or anything else, was their true protector. He knew how to keep Po and Raymond alive. The dog was infinitely more devoted to them than their father ever was. Rowdy was always the first into the fray and the last to leave it. Whether it was sniffing out a bear or howling when wolves were nearby, without Rowdy, they would never have made it this long. Po liked to call Rowdy his third brother. But Raymond knew better. Abraham was no brother. And comparing him to Rowdy was an insult to a braver comrade.
Raymond could see Rowdy now scampering up by the edge of the trees next to their house, his snout still sniffing excitedly over the ground. The animals they chased away last night must have left quite a scent. Rowdy froze in his tracks, his ears perking up to the sounds of something Raymond couldn’t catch. He shot up over the grassy hill by the eastern shore and was soon out of site.
Raymond craned his neck to see where the old dog had shot off to but couldn't spot him. A mild breeze blowing off the lake once again blew his hair over his eyes. With a huff, Raymond tugged on his line while Po made his way back down to the lake, Superman calmly leading the way.
Placing Supes back on lookout, Po sat down and recast his line. Po didn’t even need Raymond’s help these days. Other than getting distracted easily, Po had become quite the fisherman. Their dad would have been surprised at what Po could accomplish. Raymond wasn’t.
Without warning, Raymond felt a tug at his line. Slowly, he began to reel it in. But the fish on the other end wasn’t giving up easily.
Raymond stood up to get a better handle on it. The fish was about a yard away now, struggling so much that Raymond was afraid it might tear the line. Raymond gripped the pole tightly, stepping back onto the gravely shoreline to cement his feet into the sand for balance. The fish was huge - huge enough to fill them well tonight. It darted sharply from side to side, making it difficult to identify, but by the white spots dotting its body, Raymond thought it could be a Northern pike - a bony fish, but one that would taste delicious grilled over the flames.
Raymond had him now, reeling it the rest of the way in. He grabbed the line and brought the fish onto the shore. It had to be nearly two feet long, its pale olive scales glistening in the sun. Raymond held it down firmly to remove the hook. As he did, the sleek-nosed fish made one last incredible flip landing right besides Po.
But Po was taking an unexpected break. With his fishing pole lying beside him, he was busily conferring with his Aquaman doll on some secret mission while the fish frantically flipped itself over Po's lap. The last Raymond saw of their dinner was the gleam on its shiny white belly as the fish danced freely back into the placid Lake Como waters.
“Goddammit Po!” Raymond shouted. “Why didn't you grab it?”
Po shot a look back, his thin blue eyes crossed in a scowl. “Waymond!”
But Raymond was too pissed to worry about offending Po’s law against cussing. Throwing down his pole, he punched the side of the willow tree. “That fish wasn't make-believe!"
“Sowwy Waymond," he said, looking bashfully down at his dolls. His face was glowing bright red.
Raymond cussed something more under his breath, picking up his pole from the swamp weeds before he'd say something else he'd regret. Or, wiping the blood from his fist, doing any more damage to his hands. Remmy might be their protector but it was Raymond's hands that made him work his miracles.
The next half an hour was icy silent. The fish that Po let get away must have warned his friends because nothing was biting. While Raymond stewed, the water remained still. Eventually Po broke the logjam of stubborn silence, once again removing two dolls from his lime green windbreaker.
“What’s your problem Po?” the Hulk asked Po. “Why did you go and scare away all the fishies you big dummy? Don't you know the bad guys are coming? How's Aquaman gonna fight off Black Manta without help from the fishies?”
Raymond was still fuming, but knew that it didn't matter. What's done is done. Holding a grudge against the only person left in the world would be just plain ridiculous. Almost as ridiculous as punching a tree. Raymond sighed out the anger, turning slowly towards his brother. “What are you doing?”
“Po sorry Po can’t fish Waymond. Po's friends tell him the bad guys are gonna get us now. We're done for.” Po continued to chat up Hulk and Superman. Raymond lost it.
“There are no bad guys Po!” Raymond barked. “And we’re not done for! The only way we are gonna be done for is if we don’t catch anything! We don’t fish, we don’t eat. We don’t eat, we die! It’s simple really, even for you!” Raymond winced at the last words, wishing immediately that he could take them back.
“No Waymond,” Po replied. Lowering his head in a glum expression of guilt, Po stuffed all of his action figures back into the lining of his lime green windbreaker.
“No what?”
“We won’t die Waymond. Everyone else dies Waymond. All of Po’s friends die. Po’s momma died. But Po don’t die.”
He was right of course. By some biological quirk, the virus spared them. Po liked to attribute it to faith and prayed his thanks to God every night (sometimes more than once). But the fact that any god would also have spared a prick like Abraham dismissed the existence of such a thing out right.
Raymond looked back at Po calmly. The best way to approach a serious conversation with Po was to back into it with a slice of make-believe. “We’ve been through this before Superman. Our super-powers may have saved us from the Doomsday, but we still need to eat right? We get our powers from the sun, remember?”
“And the sun hits the lake and the wallys eat the sun," Po repeated like a kid being lectured to. "Po knows all that Waymond. Po’s sowwy.”
“No Po, don’t be sorry. Just do your best.” He reached over, yanked off Po's baseball cap and rubbed his messy brown hair. “And don’t you ever let me catch you doubting yourself again, got that?”
Po let out a shy giggle. "Yeah," Po laughed, "Po get that Waymond."
"What's so funny dorkus?"
Po's simple giggle erupted into a goose-like roaring laugh. "You sounded just like Grandpa Loo!"
Grandpa Lou was their dad's dad and a real stick in the mud. He was also more than a little senile which meant he was prone to repeating the boring things he said three times during the same conversation. Slowly. They all loved him, but the man was, as Abe used to put it, more of a snorefest than an afternoon watching grass grow at the opera while reading Emily Dickinson. Raymond never dug Abe's pretentious humor, but he got the point.
"Grandpa Lou, huh? Well at least he had teeth!"
"Oh Waymond!" Po said, wagging his finger. "Don't you make fun of Auntie Connie! That's Po's Godmother now jocko!"
"Hey, you started it tough guy!" he said, giving him a gentle jab on the shoulder.
Po beamed, letting out a timid chortle. "Wemember," he chuckled, forgetting to use his R's, "when she tried to eat your birthday cake?"
Raymond looked out at the even ripples on the lake with a melancholy grin. "I don't know what was more memorable, her false teeth getting stuck in the frosting or the face she made when she took a sip of the spiked punch." Of course the real reason Raymond remembered his eighteenth birthday was because it was the last one before the virus.
"Wemember Po's story Waymond?"
Raymond nodded. "Sure, of course I do." He stared into the clear Lake Como waters, letting its clear tranquility wash away the shit of dark memories.
"You and Abe never laughed so hard in your lives!"
That was probably true. Sitting around the campfire with their entire extended family that night, Po's story was one for the ages. Resurrecting his "giggly book" glory, this story was interactive, actually involving Raymond and Abraham. As Po got to certain points in his made up story, Raymond and Abraham were expected to fill in the plot. While Raymond thought he
was too cool to take part at first, by the end, he and Abe were having a ball. A brief respite in their eternal feud.
"Po sure misses them Waymond. Po misses all of them. Grandpa Loo, Auntie Connie, Grandpa Frank. And mom and dad Waymond, Po miss them most of all." Po paused for a second, looking down. "And Abey too Waymond. Po want them back so we can tell stories by the fire and catch lightning bugs in the dark."
"I know buddy, I want that all back too," he said, knowing that at least most of that were true. Raymond looked up at the position of the sun, realizing that the morning was slipping away. "I'll bet they'd be impressed if you brought back a big fish for dinner tonight?"
"Yeah, Po guesses you're right about that Waymond," he said, slowly putting his pole back into the water.
"You know I love you buddy, right? You know that whenever I talk like Grandpa Lou, it's because I love you. It's for your own good, you know."
"Po always knows you love Po, Waymond, no worries. But Po not know what happened to Po's good."
"Huh?"
"To Po's good Waymond. You're always telling Po you doing it for Po's own good. Po thinks his good is right where he left it. In his sock drawer!" He started to laugh but instead let out a deep stanky belch while he slapped Raymond on the knee.
Raymond wasn't sure if Po was being serious or if this were just a joke. Probably a little bit of both, knowing Po. Sometimes Raymond wished he could treat Po like a brother again, like the wise old goof he used to climb trees with and giggle at when he read. But those days were long gone. By necessity, that relationship had changed.
Raymond leaned back and smiled, tugging at his line. "Listen bud, there's enough good in you to fill a zillion sock drawers."
Po's puffy cheeks turned a rose red as he looked down at his bobber floating on the lake's surface. With a tiny ripple as a warning, something grabbed hold of his line and pulled it under the surface fast. Shaking his head in surprise, he sat up straight, looking over at Raymond with a big nervous grin.
“Hang on!" Raymond shouted, not wanting to say anything else and make him nervous. Nope, he wanted his brother to bring this one in all on his own.
Po looked ready. Standing up, he focused hard, making sure not to let the fish out of his site. Slowly, he reeled the fish closer. Raymond could tell it was not going to come easy. The fish stopped fighting long enough for Raymond to grab a look at him. With dark blotches lining its side, Raymond could tell the fish was a largemouth bass. He forced out a smile that didn't do much to hide his look of worry. These guys were jumpers.
“Keep at it Chewie! You almost got him!” Raymond shouted, trying to sound upbeat. The last thing he wanted to do now was to freak him out. “Get him on the shore and I’ll help you hold it down.”
Po hesitated, and for a second, it almost looked like he was going to flip forward into the drink. Focusing hard, Po reached over, and with a serious swoop, grabbed the line and slammed the fish onto the dry ground between him and Raymond.
Raymond cheered - for his brother's unorthodox way of doing pretty much everything and at keeping his confidence. As for the squirming fish - with Po’s considerable upper arm strength, the bass remained more passed out than Raymond was after over-imbibing on Grandpa Lou's rum-spiked punch. Whistling Aunt Rhodie, Raymond removed the hook from the fish's mouth and placed the catch into their cooler. They would eat tonight.
“So," Raymond said as he closed the lid. "How about a story for the star fisherman?”
Po put his pole down so fast Raymond thought it was going to crack. He sat up straight and looked back at Raymond with his full attention. Po squirmed his hand into his lime-green windbreaker, removing a slightly tattered book with a faded green cover. With a wide grin, he handed the book over to Raymond.
Po loved stories. Any stories, really. He loved hearing them, he loved watching them and he especially loved make-believing them. Of course he especially loved this story.
But the one time "giggly book" was now like a poison for Raymond. It was in fact the only sickness that Raymond caught from the two-weeks of the Rapture. Two weeks.
Raymond recalled that clearly. It started on a Saturday. He remembered that because they cancelled football practice when the news reports started screaming slaughter. Two Saturday’s later and everyone was gone. Almost everyone.
Raymond’s memories of those two weeks of chaos were jumbled and unclear. Like a rapid-shot YouTube video of washed out images and tinny sounds - of their mother’s suffering wails, of fires from the looters. And the sound of their dad's timid voice reading the Giggly Book to Po.
Yes, their father, who had completely disappeared during the weeks leading up to the outbreak, suddenly had decided to show up. He looked tired and distraught, wearing a tattered corduroy sports coat that reeked of sweat. Raymond never got a closer look than that.
He was home less than a day. While Raymond's mother sat in the other room coughing up blood and shitting out her insides, his father locked himself in the room with Po. And read to him. On occasion, he would come out for a couple of minutes and check on his wife. Muttering pointless apologies as her limbs atrophied into dried out cancerous nubs, he would retreat in haste back to the room with Po. Later that night, without a word, he was gone.
Raymond tried to rebury the fury. “So,” he said, forcing a smile. “Where should we start?”
Po tapped his head with his finger, pretending to ponder the question. Raymond knew where he’d have him start – the part where Dorothy first arrives in Oz.
“Hmmm...how about...” Po said.
Raymond began turning to the page.
“How about the part where Tin Man saves the Queen of the Field Mice from the Wildcat? Po wants to hear about that Waymond.”
"Really?" Raymond stared at Po with a puzzled look. "What makes you want to start there? We never start there.” Raymond knew that on most occasions, they never even got to that part.
Po looked back at Raymond, seemingly just as puzzled. “Oh, Po don't know Waymond,” he said, shaking his head. “Po just guesses he likes it when the little mice go back and save Lion.”
Of course it was about saving the Lion. The Cowardly Lion. It was about saving Abraham. After the great day they had fishing, Raymond didn't want to get into it with him. He'd let this one go.
“Sure bud,” Raymond finally said, starting to thumb through the chapters. "Whatever you want."
Coming up to the page, a sharp yelp came from one of the nearby cottages. Raymond looked up. It was Rowdy and by the sound of things, he must have encountered something. The dog was running into the woods, barking furiously now.
“Hey,” Raymond said, trying to hide his concern. “How about we have story time at the campfire tonight, during dinner? I’ll even break out the Green River, in honor of your catch! But right now, it sounds like Rowdy might need our help.”
“No pwob Waymond,” Po replied. “Po’ll bring the gear back home. You just be careful, all right?”
“Of course,” he smiled. With Po lumbering back up to their cottage, Raymond ran off to check on Rowdy.
The dog's barking seemed to be coming from the street in front of their house. Sprinting past the small cedar shed Raymond used to dry fish, he grabbed a baseball bat and jogged between the grove of apple trees. As he turned the corner to the front of the house, he held the bat high, ready to swing.
But there was nothing there. Almost nothing. Standing in front of the cabin where Mr. and Mrs. Beatty used to live was Rowdy. He was staring off at something beyond the thickly overhanging branches at the end of the property, past which was the dam that Raymond and Po would fish off of on occasion. Raymond approached him cautiously, holding the bat up over his shoulders.
“What is it boy?” Raymond asked. Following Rowdy’s gaze, Raymond tried to find what it was he was so obsessed with. Then, on one of the tall branches of an expansive maple overlooking the lake, Raymond could make out a single bu
shy-tailed squirrel, prancing down the trunk onto a crooked power-line pole. “You made me come all the way out here for this?” Raymond gave him a shrill whistle to get his attention. “Come on,” he commanded. “Let’s get back to the house. Po caught a fish big enough for all of us. If you're lucky, I may even give you some.”
Rowdy obeyed, as he always did. But as they began their walk back to the cottage, Raymond couldn’t help but notice Rowdy’s curious attentions constantly being tugged back to whatever he had noticed just moments earlier. Raymond also couldn’t stop thinking about something else. Rowdy didn’t care much for squirrel.
