Drop by Drop

by Morgan Llywelyn

  A shadow passed overhead. Evan glanced up. A single-engine airplane was descending in the direction of Nolan’s Falls. One small silhouette in a wide sky that until recently had been crisscrossed with jet trails. Earlier in the century international terrorism had curtailed air travel, but with massively improved security measures it had been recovering—until the first passenger jet crashed after the onset of the Change. While the wreckage was still smoldering in a field outside of Cleveland the aeronautical world had changed.

  Now the only passenger aircraft that dared fly were small private planes constructed with canvas and sizing and relying on human eyes for guidance.

  No area of commerce was as vulnerable as the aircraft industry. The malfunctioning of computers was only part of the problem. Flight was one mode of transportation that dare not use improvised parts. Manufacturers were frantically retooling and retrofitting to replace polymeric components wherever possible. “We explored the whole world with ships and sails,” Evan informed the unseen pilot overhead, “and horses. Horses can take you almost anywhere if you’re not in a hurry.”

  He was still young; he only viewed life from his own perspective. Evan was not much interested in airplanes, but he harbored a secret fantasy about being one of the first colonists on Mars.

  If there was still a chance of going there; if They could stop the Change.

  But maybe They caused the Change. And who was “They” anyway?

  * * *

  “Since the Change began Rob’s become paranoid,” Eleanor Bennett complained to her widowed mother, Katharine Richmond. “I mean it, Mom. He thinks the whole thing’s a plot against him personally.”

  Because the dishwasher no longer worked the two women were doing a sinkful of dishes by hand. Mrs. Richmond allowed them to pile up when she was alone, and Nell did not often get time to spend with her mother. Rob’s silent but evident disapproval was an obstacle she rarely challenged. She felt guilty about it.

  She was wearing her mother’s red-and-white–striped cotton apron in the kitchen of the apartment where she had announced her engagement to Rob with a lot of blushing and a Big Ring. The ring had impressed Nell’s father, who regretted he did not make enough money to give his pretty daughter the finer things in life. The things her beloved Dad had taught her to expect as her due.

  “Businesses are switching to wood products these days,” Nell continued as she dried the teak salad bowl. “If RobBenn controlled the timber rights to Daggett’s Woods we’d be set for life. I suspect Rob knows what strings to pull to make it happen, but he’s focused on what is rather than what could be. He’d never listen to me anyway, he’s convinced I have no head for business.”

  Nell’s mother sighed and made sympathetic noises; urged her daughter to change her hairstyle and do more home cooking. “Take home some of my cookbooks,” she suggested. “Nothing improves a man’s mood like coming home to the smell of muffins baking.”

  “Muffins baking,” Nell muttered under her breath as she left the apartment. “She has no idea.” Wasn’t there an old song about the road getting lonelier and tougher? Nell understood perfectly. Especially the lonely part.

  Was Rob lonely too? He must be, he had no gift for making friends. She decided to make one more effort to reach out to him. She didn’t call it “one final effort,” though in the back of her mind she knew it was.

  Thankfully her car was still operable. She drove to the Golden Peacock to make a dinner reservation for that evening. Another reconciliation dinner.

  Over the years Rob had become increasingly detached from their marriage. Hoping to sever the umbilical connection between her husband and his work, Nell had booked reservations in one restaurant after another. She knew that Rob liked fine dining. Used to like fine dining.

  Before the Change Rob had always brought at least one AllCom with him whenever they went out together, as well as a laptop in its case. The moment they sat down he would begin talking, texting, answering emails. Sorry, Cookie, I have to take this call. Send this memo, look up these stats. Sorry, Cookie, sorry.

  He wasn’t sorry. He scarcely knew she was there.

  All but the old metal AllComs were useless now, and laptops of every age were being thrown away. Nell hoped that without them dinner would be different at the Golden Peacock. If only half of what the new restaurant advertised was true it would be hard to resist the atmosphere. The owners offered Edwardian luxury to create a sense of the past; the safe, pre-Change past. Private booths with lush upholstery and heavy curtains that could be drawn to suit the mood of the diners. Mood music, requested in advance, played by a string quartet. A six-page menu and the best wine list in the state.

  For weeks Nell had been dropping hints about the Golden Peacock until finally Rob shouted at her, “For fuck’s sake, get us a reservation at the damned place and stop going on about it!” His voice was so loud the Irish setters had fled the room.

  He was at the breaking point: Nell knew it even if he didn’t. Her pity was as great as her love had been, and more tender.

  14

  “Life,” a lugubrious Hooper Watson informed the occupants of Bill’s Bar and Grill as he entered, “is a misery.”

  No one disagreed. There were only three other people in the place: Bill Burdick, who was polishing glasses behind the bar, and a couple of out-of-work salesmen in a corner booth, sharing a pitcher of beer and making up stories about nonexistent sales to impress each other.

  The former sheriff of Sycamore River expected to join his longtime drinking buddy, Morris Saddlethwaite. The two spent many evenings in Bill’s, discussing the chaotic state of the world and trying to drink one another under the table. Friday and Saturday were sacrosanct, however. Hooper Watson wanted to be home on those nights to see who his daughter, Angela, went out with and how late she returned.

  Saddlethwaite had not yet arrived, so Watson perched his bony behind on a wooden barstool. “Rock and rye, Bill.”

  “Can’t,” Burdick replied. “No rye, not today.”

  “Whaddaya mean? You been keeping rye for me since the time I didn’t run you in for selling hard liquor to a minor.”

  Burdick continued polishing glasses. “That liquor wasn’t so hard, Hoop, and she was no minor.”

  “Sez you. What about my rye?”

  “The distributor can’t get any. Trouble at the distillery, faulty equipment, he said.”

  The door opened and Morris Saddlethwaite entered. Blowing on his hands, he announced, “I swear there’s a blizzard coming. At least the wife’ll turn off the air-conditioning, it’s costing us a fortune. When it works, that is.”

  Watson swung around on his stool. “Y’know what Bill just told me, Morris? Damned distiller’s got faulty equipment. Fuckin’ Change’s ruining everything.”

  Saddlethwaite carefully hoisted his 230 pounds onto the adjoining barstool. “I won’t let no Change drive me to drinking water,” he declared, “no matter how bad it gets. Some things are more’n a man can tolerate.”

  “I’ll drink to that,” said Watson, “soon as Bill gives me something fit to drink. I was just saying life is a misery. No rye whisky to be had and my girl’s at home weepin’ her eyes out over a loony tree hugger.”

  Saddlethwaite prodded his ample posterior with thick fingers, trying to fit more of it onto the hard wooden stool. He missed the plastic-covered cushion that used to welcome his buttocks. “Which tree hugger? Town’s full of ’em, putting up posters and collecting money on street corners.”

  “I’m talking about that redheaded son of a bitch out on Pine Grove, the one with the vet practice. Angela thinks he’s seeing someone else now.”

  “I thought you hated both sides of him.”

  “I do, Morris, he’s not near good enough for my girl. But I don’t want her bawlin’ in her bedroom, neither. You got anything behind the bar that even smells like rye, Bill?”

  * * *

  Try as he might, Colin Bennett could not get to sleep. His mother had given specifi
c instructions to his sister: “I’m meeting your father for dinner and I expect you to take care of yourselves tonight. It’s important. Jess. See that Colin’s in bed at a reasonable hour, and you too. No having friends over, do you understand?”

  Jessamyn had no trouble with Colin; the boy was suffering from one of his headaches and was willing to go to bed early. As soon as he was quiet she left the house to walk to a girlfriend’s home several blocks away.

  His sister had given Colin an aspirin before she left, but it did not seem to be having any effect. The boy tossed and turned in bed, his brain a jumble of thoughts. Until a few months ago his world had seemed normal—as normal as it could be, for a pubescent boy with raging hormones and erupting pimples. Now every day brought a new crisis for which he was unprepared. His sister was no help. Didn’t Jess realize their parents were on the verge of divorce? What would that mean?

  The house sold, a custody battle, the kids having to take sides, maybe even dividing up the dogs? What if they wound up going to school miles away from Sycamore River and his friends? He would have to start battling all over again to make the team, in a place where his father’s college sporting reputation cut no ice. Maybe never get another coach like Coach Lonsdale, who let the guys get away with so much stuff …

  When Colin heard a distant boom he thought it was thunder.

  He waited, expecting Satan to bark his familiar challenge to the Storm Gods.

  Satan didn’t bark.

  Carried on a rising night wind, the noise came again. Not thunder; it was a furious rippling growl that rose in volume as if a giant beast was slavering over its food. And moving closer.

  Satan in his kennel began to howl.

  * * *

  Throwing back the covers, the boy slid out of bed and padded barefoot to one of the casement windows on the west side of his room. With an effort—something was sticking—he raised the bottom half of the window and looked out.

  A clear, starless night greeted him. He could not see the moon, but there was a faint pink halo around the big holly bush in the yard, like a light shining on it from behind. Colin wondered where the light was coming from.

  The growling beast exploded into a roar.

  Colin hurried to the next window. An angry red glare suffused the sky in the direction of Daggett’s Woods.

  The boy gasped. RobBenn was over that way.

  Could there be a fire at the complex? Was anyone calling the fire department? Could anyone call the fire department?

  His parents were supposed to be having dinner somewhere, but where?

  The blast that followed was louder than all the other sounds together. “Daddy!” Colin screamed in terror. “What’s that?”

  Robert Bennett could have told his son what was happening. But the CEO of RobBenn was fully occupied with dying.

  * * *

  At the Golden Peacock Nell was tapping her fingers on the tablecloth. She had finally managed to get through to Rob on one of his AllComs and tell him about the dinner arrangements. He had texted back, “I’ll be there, just finishing up here…” Then the device failed.

  At least he had not offered an excuse. Nell was grateful for small blessings.

  In the restaurant she had no option but to sit and wait as the minutes crawled by.

  The maître d’ bustled over to her. “Is everything all right, Mrs. Bennett?”

  “Yes, of course. I’m sure my husband’s just tied up at work, but he’ll be here. In the meantime, may I have another glass of wine?”

  She sank back into the plush upholstery, sipped her wine and waited. And waited. Trying to concentrate on the good things about Rob and recall early, happy days together.

  * * *

  There had been a time when Dwayne Nyeberger rarely lost his temper with his wife, or if he did, she did not know. He had limited himself to subvocal mutterings well out of her hearing. These inaudible conversations had let off a fair amount of steam.

  Since his breakdown—which he referred to as his “little episode”—he made no effort to tiptoe around other people. When he came home late from the bank and his sons were not there, he was enraged. “How could you let them wander off, you fucking imbecile!” he shouted at his wife. “You’re dumber than a fucking sack full of hair!”

  She cringed. “They didn’t ‘wander off,’ Dwayne. They were outdoors playing.”

  “On a school day?”

  “They’ve been skipping school a lot lately, I told you about it. Sometimes the school calls, but these days…” Tricia made a futile gesture with her hands.

  “Have you called the police?”

  “Not yet. My AllCom…” She made another futile gesture. “I took the bus to do some shopping and when I got home … how much trouble could they get into, Dwayne? In a nice town like this?”

  “You really don’t know anything, do you?” he shouted. “If I wanted smart kids I should have married a smart woman!”

  Tears welled in her eyes.

  Dwayne doubled his fist.

  Her fear affected him like gasoline poured on a fire.

  * * *

  “D’ja hear that?” Hooper Watson asked abruptly.

  Morris Saddlethwaite removed his hand from the bowl of peanuts. “Wha?”

  “Sounded like the siren at the fire station.”

  “I didn’t hear any … oh yeah, now I do.”

  “It was the fire alarm, all right,” Bill Burdick confirmed. “And there it goes again. Must be something big.”

  Watson slid off the barstool. “Put that last drink on the tab, Bill, I better get over there.”

  “You don’t have a tab, Hoop.”

  “Yeah, great, just put it on.” Hooper was already hurrying out the door.

  “A man with that much alcohol in ’em gets anywhere near a fire,” Saddlethwaite remarked as he reached for Watson’s unfinished drink, “he just might combust.”

  * * *

  Nell checked her wristwatch every few minutes while the tiny hands sliced away sections of the hour. The solicitous maître d’ inquired if she would like another glass of wine, but she refused. On an empty stomach it would make her dizzy and she wanted to keep her head clear for Rob. Perhaps it would be a good idea to order a plate of canapés, something to nibble on. Edibles she could substitute for a meal if she had to. In case she needed to drive home alone. In case there was ice on the roads.

  The cold was gathering outside.

  And Rob wasn’t coming after all.

  Another ten minutes, she told herself. I’ll give him another ten minutes.

  The cork soundproofing of the Golden Peacock muffled the scream of sirens on the highway.

  15

  Sunnyslope offered the best view in the Sycamore River Valley. Beyond the wrought-iron gates an expanse of manicured lawn descended by gentle degrees to the river. The parklike atmosphere was enhanced by carefully selected shrubbery, mostly evergreens that still had leaves in November. To keep them company a few treasured specimens of the nearly extinct American elm tree raised prayerful arms to heaven.

  Only a few automobiles were parked on the paving at the end of the drive. Two black limousines waited among them. With the hearse.

  For the rest of her life Nell would remember that the people of Sycamore River had made a pilgrimage to the cemetery on foot out of respect for her husband.

  That was the way she chose to remember it.

  She and her children had been assigned seats in the front row of wooden folding chairs beneath the funeral marquee. Beside the grave. Nell remained standing to greet the mourners and introduce them to each other. So many people. The family: Mom and the elderly cousins; the friends—mostly hers, not Rob’s—and the numerous acquaintances; the business associates; a scattering of strangers … I’ll never remember all their names, she thought. But Rob would expect it.

  Rob.

  Rob.

  For once Colin and Jessamyn were subdued. In the funeral home when the director handed their mother the br
onze urn containing her husband’s ashes, Jessamyn had broken into uncontrollable sobbing. She was quiet now. Too quiet. Jess had thought of herself as “Daddy’s little girl,” and she was taking this very hard.

  Colin’s expression was frozen. To his mother he looked both older and younger than a week before.

  A tall, thin man with an acne-scarred face approached Nell and extended his hand. “I’m Tyler Whittaker, the chief of police, Mrs. Bennett. I’m sorry about what happened.” He spoke softly, as befitted the occasion.

  “You’re very kind.” The response had become automatic.

  “I’m in charge of the investigation, and I’d like to talk to you after—”

  “Yes. After. Tomorrow, maybe.”

  “As soon as possible, while memories are fresh,” he urged.

  “Yes.”

  He wondered if she heard a word he was saying. “We don’t have much in the way of forensic capabilities so I’m calling in a team from the state capital.”

  “Yes.” Nell looked past him.

  “It will take some time, though.”

  She shifted her eyes to meet his. “Everything takes time, doesn’t it? Except dying. Death can happen in an instant.”

  * * *

  Jack Reece had escorted Bea Fontaine to the funeral. They traveled in her Volkswagen with its new high-performance tires because she insisted his scarlet Mustang was too flamboyant for the occasion. As they approached the marquee Bea kept one hand firmly on his arm. She knew herself to be a strong woman, but recent events had upset her balance.

  A lot of people in Sycamore River felt that way.

  “I’d like to speak to Nell before the service begins,” she told Jack, “but I don’t know what to say to her. There aren’t any words for a situation like this.”

  “Remind her that her husband died a hero,” he suggested.

  Bea frowned at him. “Do you have a shred of sensitivity? Sometimes I wonder.”

  “Well, it’s true. There are five little boys in the hospital who might be having their funerals today if Robert Bennett hadn’t tried so hard to save them. I never liked the man, but I’m willing to give the devil his due.”