Drop by Drop

by Morgan Llywelyn

  The cattle guard was the first line of defense. Its warning was a shrill whistle that would galvanize Edgar Tilbury.

  * * *

  Finding himself confined to a hospital bed—and the suddenness with which the event took place—had unnerved O. M. Staunton. He issued the staff at the Hilda Staunton Memorial Hospital specific orders that he was to have no visitors. He did not want anyone to see him in his present condition.

  Almost at once he rescinded the order and demanded to see Bea Fontaine.

  The chief of the cardiac unit came in person to tell Staunton, “I’m sorry, sir, but we haven’t been able to contact Miss Fontaine by AllCom. At this hour the bank is closed, of course. We dispatched an orderly to her house, but he reports no one home. Do you have another address for her?”

  The once-sturdy frame beneath the bedcovers was hardly enough to lift the sheets. With a trembling hand Staunton shoved the oxygen mask aside. He regarded the doctor with baleful eyes. Every word was an effort. “Am I going to die? Or not?”

  “We all die sometime, but—”

  “Today!” Staunton rasped. “Am I dying today?”

  The doctor was acutely aware of the money the Stauntons had pumped into the hospital over the years, and reluctant to do anything that might damage the relationship. The Old Man was going to die, and soon. Was it better to tell him the truth? Or to mollify him—at least until the next shift came on duty?

  Buying time, the doctor picked up Staunton’s chart and studied it intently, looking for the hope that wasn’t there. His patient’s labored breathing filled the room.

  “Mr. Staunton, you’re a strong man. We have every confidence that you will still be with us by the time Miss Fontaine is located and arrives here.”

  “I’d better be,” Staunton growled.

  Life gurgled in his throat.

  * * *

  Later—he had lost all sense of time—he heard her step in the hallway. Another moment and she was in the room, pushing aside the curtain that encircled his bed.

  “You’re here.” His voice was unrecognizable.

  “I came as soon as I could. I was in the—”

  “Doesn’t matter. You came.”

  “Of course I did.” She pulled a chair over to the bed and sat down beside him.

  Through failing eyes he tried to keep his vision fixed on her. “Miz Bea.”

  “Yes.” She managed a tremulous smile. “Miz Bea.”

  “Bea,” he said.

  “Yes.”

  “Remember?”

  “Remember what, Oliver?” She stood up and leaned over him, placing her warm hand on one of the cold, liver-spotted hands lying on the sheet.

  “You remember what to do?” he asked again with the last of his strength.

  “Everything.”

  “Good.” The Old Man gave a satisfied sigh. And was gone.

  When she returned to the bank she took the safe deposit box from his desk and opened it again.

  * * *

  The death of Oliver Morse Staunton was announced to a stunned town by The Sycamore Seed. Death had become shockingly routine, but his funeral would be the largest in local memory. The River Valley Transportation Service draped its newest vehicle in black crepe and conveyed the coffin to Sunnyslope behind a team of black horses purchased from a breeder in Nolan’s Falls.

  Shay Mulligan handled the reins himself, with his son, Evan, sitting beside him. Both wore black.

  So did Lila Ragland, who walked alone just behind the hearse.

  Dwayne Nyeberger was furious once again. “That’s crazy; my wife was his daughter, I should have been the principal mourner!”

  In a signed and legally witnessed codicil added to Staunton’s will a few weeks before his death every detail of the funeral had been specified, including the horse-drawn hearse “to be followed by my granddaughter Lila.”

  Everything was done as the Old Man wanted.

  Bea Fontaine had authorized the loan with which the transport service had bought their latest carriage and horses. The church where the funeral was held, as well as the hearse and grave, were spectacularly heaped with flowers from Gold’s Court Florist.

  Jack escorted Bea to the services. He noticed that her eyes were red, but she was not crying. “You were fond of the old tyrant, weren’t you?”

  “He wasn’t a tyrant. He hated sentimentality, but you always knew where you stood with him. Oliver was a rock; the last of the bedrock this town was built on. There’s hardly a family here today that didn’t have reason to be grateful to the Stauntons at one time or another.” She shook her head. “There’s been an awful lot of changes, Jack; I’m afraid this might be one too many.”

  “I doubt it, Aunt Bea. You’re a rock yourself, that’s why he left you in charge.”

  “No, he left me in charge because I could keep a secret.”

  “Lila Ragland?”

  “Her mother was Oliver’s illegitimate daughter. He’d lost track of her—maybe he’d wanted to, he wasn’t what you’d call tolerant. But when we opened her safety deposit box it contained papers identifying her, together with Lila’s birth certificate. No father’s name on it, of course. I almost thought the shock would kill Oliver then, but it didn’t.”

  Once Staunton was in his grave, Dwayne Nyeberger set out to wage war. He had been robbed. Robbed! Under the terms of Staunton’s will, half of his estate would go to his granddaughter. His five grandsons would share the rest, as well as the family home or proceeds from it. Nothing had been allotted to his son-in-law.

  Obviously the will must be set aside.

  Bea tried to reason with him. “Oliver provided for his blood kin, he was that kind of man. He wanted you to stand on your own feet, Dwayne, the way a man should. You’re a bank executive with a good salary; what more do you want?”

  “Recognition! That old snake recognized his bastard granddaughter, and I demand what’s rightfully mine!”

  Bea and Staunton had discussed this. His wishes had been specific and she remembered them to the smallest detail. She presented Dwayne with a large cardboard carton containing all of his clothes, toiletries and golf clubs. The label read “Rightfully Yours.”

  * * *

  Frank Auerbach put a black border—or as near black as his ink substitute would allow—around the front page of The Sycamore Seed.

  “The funeral of Oliver Morse Staunton was a tragic milestone in the history of Sycamore River. His death followed a tragic anniversary; it has now been over a year since the onset of the Change. O. M. Staunton represented all that was solid and constructive about our town. The Change, which has damaged modern technology and mechanization around the globe, is a force for destruction. In this badly crippled world the Change goes on, but O. M. Staunton is no longer with us.

  “May he rest in peace.”

  * * *

  At the next gathering of the Wednesday Club Jack asked, “Anything around here dissolved lately?”

  “Nothing I can name offhand,” said Bill, “but not a day goes by that my customers aren’t bellyaching about something.”

  “Out of curiosity, when was the last complaint?”

  “I dunno; yesterday maybe. Folks love complaining to a bartender. They pound my ear about everything under the sun—except the Change. Not so much about that anymore.”

  “Maybe it’s become the new normal,” Gerry suggested.

  Jack raised an eyebrow. “The Change the new normal? Not likely.”

  “You think things will get better?”

  “I don’t go in for wishful thinking.”

  Nell turned toward him. “If you did, what would you wish for?”

  Jack smiled. “I plead the fifth amendment.”

  She smiled too. “One of my wishes has been granted: my children have agreed to move back into our old house. It won’t be easy, not for any of us, but it’s for the best. Since your car’s still running I was hoping you’d lend a hand. We have a lot to move over; I hadn’t realized the kids had so much
stuff.”

  When he took her back to her mother’s apartment later Jack could feel a change in the atmosphere. Instead of getting out of the car immediately Nell sat still. They both leaned in at the same time, resulting in a tender collision.

  When the kiss finally ended he said, “Tomorrow?”

  “Tomorrow,” she said.

  And that was that.

  * * *

  Before the Bennett family could return to their former home Nell hired a contractor to replace every damaged article in it, from the light switches to the chandeliers. “I can’t give you a guarantee on any of these,” he warned. “If the Change destroys them you’ll have to buy more.”

  She also purchased new appliances and had the rooms repainted. “This will cost you a fortune, dear,” her mother fretted. “And it’s so unnecessary.”

  “Exorcism can be expensive, Mom. But in this case it’s very necessary.”

  When the work was finished Jack drove her to the gated community west of town to inspect the results. The mock-Normandy château stood like a silent sentinel in the midst of a vast, freshly mowed lawn. Larger, more lavish, more conspicuously expensive than any of its neighbors.

  Nell sat in the car gazing at it, recalling how impressed she was the first time she saw it. How proud of himself Rob had been.

  “Do you want me to go in with you?”

  “Thanks, but no, Jack. I have to do this myself.”

  He leaned against the scarlet Mustang and watched her approach the double front doors. Because of the problem with AllComs they were now locked with old-fashioned keys. Framed by the antique copper carriage lamps she had chosen in what seemed the distant past, Nell took a key from her handbag, squared her shoulders and inserted it in the lock.

  One small step for womankind.

  She opened the door and went in.

  22

  Bud Moriarty was disappointed that Jack had not suggested he invest in the River Valley Transportation Service. The business obviously was expanding. Lacey Strawbridge was even more disappointed. “I thought you and Jack were partners! How could he cut you out like that?”

  “He didn’t cut me out of anything, it’s a separate business entirely. Besides, it doesn’t belong to him.”

  “Are you sure? I’ll bet he has a finger in it, a silent partnership maybe. Jack’s always had an eye for the main chance and those two are friends of his.”

  “That doesn’t mean they’re joined at the hip. Don’t worry about it, Lace, we’re doing all right, aren’t we?”

  “We’d do a lot better if you had more gumption. The tire business isn’t nearly as good as it was at first because there are so few cars on the road—so the garage is failing too.”

  “It isn’t failing,” he assured her. “I still have my tools and I’m doing more repair work than I ever did. Most anything that comes apart gets brought to me.”

  “Mending the handles of pots and pans. What sort of work is that?”

  “Damned good work, Lace, and I’m glad to have it. People aren’t throwing things away anymore, and it’s not just pots and pans. Frank Auerbach was mighty happy I could repair his typewriters, that’s where I got the advertising posters I put up in Friendly Foods. They’ve brought in a lot of business. We could have had more if you’d taken some posters to Goettinger’s.”

  She was appalled. “I used to model for Goettinger’s!”

  “There’s nothing to be ashamed of about putting up posters.”

  “I’m not ashamed of anything—except that I was fool enough to give up a modeling career for this.”

  Your modeling career gave you up, Bud thought, but did not say.

  * * *

  Jack took Nell home after every meeting of the Wednesday Club, and always allowed enough time at the end of the evening to enjoy a brief tussle with Sheila and Rocky. The setters adored him. His scarlet Mustang continued to provide reliable transportation; he subjected it to an exhaustive examination morning and evening. He even broke up the cement floor in Bea’s garage and dug a mechanic’s pit so he could get at the undercarriage. Bud Moriarty had long since replaced the few vulnerable items in the classic car with substitutions of his own devising. “If I could just get my hands on an old Model T…” he said.

  But no one was selling antique cars.

  Nell enjoyed riding in the convertible with the top down; it reminded her of the brief, carefree time before her marriage. She brought a silk scarf to keep in the car’s glove compartment and wound it around her head and throat to keep her hair from blowing.

  “You look like Grace Kelly,” Jack told her.

  “Who was she?”

  “A movie star years ago. She married a prince.”

  No matter how late the hour Nell’s children were always waiting up for her—a development Jack had not anticipated. They would not go to bed until they knew she was in the house. Colin still suffered from terrible nightmares. Jessamyn sucked her thumb in her sleep.

  “It breaks my heart to see her do that,” Nell confided to Jack.

  “She’ll outgrow it, give her time.”

  “What if there are psychological problems that haven’t surfaced yet? After all they’ve been through there could be serious damage. How do I protect my children?”

  You can’t, he thought privately. Nell, so gentle otherwise, became a tigress where her children were involved. She refused to accept any advice from a man who had no children of his own.

  There were other elements of Jack’s relationship with Nell that he tiptoed around. Sex was one. Or the lack of sex, to be accurate. Under the circumstances it did not happen very often.

  On the few occasions when they did manage to be intimate he discovered to his delight the playful sensuality hidden beneath her reserved exterior. When he made the mistake of comparing her to a kid in a candy store she was embarrassed. “How could you say that? Oh, Jack, am I—”

  He laid a restraining finger across her lips. “Absolutely perfect for me? Yes, you are.”

  * * *

  Gerry Delmonico prepared rigorously for the next meeting of the Wednesday Club, even searching through college textbooks that had survived the problems with ink. He explained to Gloria, “I keep hoping to find a clue to the Change, one that’s been overlooked.”

  “Do you think there is one? Surely by now the other scientists have—”

  “Scientists are only human, Muffin; they find what they expect to see. Jack Reece once said something that’s stuck in my mind ever since. He said, ‘The man in the street might be better than a panel of experts.’ So I’m trying to look at the problem like that man, with no presuppositions. Random violence is increasing because of the stress we’re all under and I want to offer our friends a ray of hope. If not hope of a solution to the Change, at least hope of understanding it. I’ve even jotted down some notes and tucked them in my shirt pocket, just in case. Jack’s bound to have questions.”

  “Doesn’t he always?”

  That evening Gerry waited until the others arrived and drinks had been ordered before he asked, “What do any of you know about quantum physics?”

  That got their attention.

  “I have a layman’s acquaintance with theoretical physics,” Jack offered. “E equals mc squared?”

  “Einstein’s famous equation, that’s right. But what does it mean?”

  “Energy is equivalent to mass?”

  “Basically, yes, but there’s more to it than that,” said Gerry. “Mass is congealed energy. Energy has inertia, which is the defining feature of mass. When something like plastic dissolves there can be a mass-to-energy conversion. That’s what happens in nuclear fission. Less than one gram of mass was converted to energy in the explosion at Hiroshima, which will give you an idea of what powerful forces we’re dealing with here. For over a year we’ve been seeing the Change release the energy from apparently solid objects. Why? Where in hell is all that energy going?”

  Gerry swept the room with his eyes. He had a rapt au
dience. “Take a step back. That equation is E equals mc squared. Energy equals mass plus the square of the speed of light. That’s the c squared part, which is a constant of proportionality linking energy and mass. Every time energy is released there is some decrease in mass. Conversely, every time energy is gained there is some increase in mass, though I don’t see how that could apply here.”

  Lila Ragland leaned forward. “Is the Change some huge experiment?”

  “I’m not saying that, but the possibilities are—”

  “Frightening,” Gloria interrupted.

  “Not necessarily. It could indicate that a very powerful mind is at work here, which means the Change is not uncontrollable but being controlled. If so that’s the good news. Maybe.” Gerry waited for a response.

  “You referred to quantum physics,” said Jack. “That’s a lot more complicated than what you just outlined.”

  “It is, but it begins with the tiniest known particles, because they’re the building blocks of the universe.”

  “Particles! Like the highly charged particles in solar flares.”

  “That’s right, Jack. All the interactions in our universe involve the creation and annihilation of particles. The Change is a perfect example.”

  “So is the Change good, or evil?”

  “Neither or both, Nell. I suspect it’s like power; it all depends on how it’s used.”

  “And who’s using it,” Tilbury said darkly. “You have any theories about that?”

  “Not yet, but if I’m right about what’s happening we may be able to find out. To track the Change to its lair,” Gerry added hopefully.

  Another round of drinks was ordered.

  An hour later Nell recalled, “When I was a girl I used to hear my grandparents complaining because everything was changing, and I didn’t know what they meant. To me it seemed that nothing changed. Every day was like the one before. I thought I’d give anything for a change.”

  Gloria said fervently, “I’d give anything for the Change to stop.” She glanced at the baby lying beside her on the seat, snugly wrapped in blankets and sound asleep. “I want Danielle to grow up in a stable environment.”