Drop by Drop

by Morgan Llywelyn

  He had not planned it; had not even thought, consciously, about proposing to her. The words had poured out as if his brain and mouth were not connected.

  “We’re going to get married,” he said aloud.

  After a startled silence Gerry began to applaud. The others joined in.

  “Way to go, buddy!” Bill called from behind the bar. “When did it happen?”

  “Just now. I mean, an hour ago.”

  “Have you set a date yet?” Gloria asked as she hurried over to them.

  Nell said, “It’s far too soon, I haven’t even thought about dates.”

  “Well, what about the ring? Did you give her a ring, Jack?” Gloria reached for Nell’s left hand, then frowned in disappointment. “No ring yet. Jack, you’ve got to get your act together. First the ring, then the proposal.”

  “I’ve never done this before.”

  “Then tomorrow morning you take this girl down to Art Hannisch and make the engagement official.”

  Nell was embarrassed. “All this fuss…”

  “It’s important.”

  From his place at one end of the booth Evan Mulligan declared, “Nobody gets married anymore. And nobody buys engagement rings either.”

  Shay told his son, “That’s not true.”

  The boy saw his opportunity. “So are you going to marry Lila?”

  “Wait a minute!” Lila protested.

  Conversation swirled around Nell as if she were in the eye of a storm. Which was how she felt. Questions, suggestions, recollections of other weddings … the Wednesday Club was delighted with the unexpected turn of events: a happy topic to replace all the gloom and doom.

  The threat of war was so close now. The air almost smelled of death and destruction.

  But two people were in love.

  Champagne was ordered. She and Jack were given seats in the middle of the booth. “So you can put your arm around her,” he was told.

  She was almost painfully aware of his physical presence. He seemed to radiate heat.

  I’ve been married before and it was nothing like I expected. Will this be any different?

  I love him. And I’m in love with him, at least I think I am. They’re not the same thing, but I know the difference.

  “About the date…” Nell said tentatively.

  Jack looked down at her. “Don’t worry about that; like you said, it’s too early.”

  Is she trying to back out? Suddenly he realized how very much he wanted this.

  “About the date,” she reiterated. “And making all the arrangements … it won’t be easy, the way things are. But … it’s going to get better.”

  They were all looking at her now.

  I have to believe in something, and here it is.

  “The Change is slowing down,” she said, “I’m convinced of it. As soon as it’s over we’ll get married.”

  “That’s what I’d call a giant leap of faith,” said Edgar Tilbury.

  * * *

  Little things. Knobs on kitchen cabinets. Buttons on clothes. Covers on checkbooks thrust into the backs of desk drawers.

  Did not melt.

  Cessation was not instantaneous. The Change had taken months to build to its full fury; it would not abate for months more.

  But the end was coming.

  * * *

  The members of the Wednesday Club devoted themselves to sniffing out every instance of returning normalcy.

  Lila wrote an article about it for the Seed. She did not mention Jack and Nell, but she reported that people were making plans for the end of the Change. She encouraged her readers to watch for examples and report them to the paper.

  Within a week the letters began to come in.

  Bit by bit, a sense of excitement pervaded Sycamore River. It was like a giant treasure hunt. At the end everyone would win.

  Beyond the Sycamore River Valley, across America and around the globe, others also were aware of the improving situation. The puzzle that could not be solved was starting to go away. Soon it would be possible to concentrate on other matters.

  In the meantime the race to provide acceptable substitutes for plastic continued. The Change had disrupted too much for the modern lifestyle to be restored completely, but some of the discoveries and innovations forced on the human race had proved themselves better than the originals.

  Bamboo surgical stents, being organic, were more readily accepted by the human body and did not need to be replaced as often.

  Some though not all of the people who had substituted real horses for automotive horse power found the slower pace of their lives too pleasant to relinquish. For them, returning to the combustion engine was viewed as a retrograde step.

  But.

  The international armaments industry continued to move ahead. The old-style weapons they had begun producing could be manufactured more cheaply and required less training to use than their modern counterparts. Battle would become the preserve of the infantry again, rather than a technological game played out by opponents who never saw each other. The nuclear option was shelved. For the time being.

  However, the genii had been let out of the bottle and might find a way to escape again in the future.

  After an absence from toy store shelves, startlingly realistic guns and other weapons—with no plastic parts—became available again, and were heavily promoted.

  War had never gone out of fashion.

  25

  “I’m sorry, Nell, but there’s nothing I can do about your trees.”

  “They aren’t my trees, Finbar, they belong to my grandchildren and their grandchildren. Did you explain that to the people you were talking to?”

  “In the federal government? I didn’t even try. They’re too busy with everything else that’s going on to—”

  “What about at state level? Surely—”

  “They reminded me quite firmly that we have a perfectly good state park in this area, at Nolan’s Falls. To fund another so close by would be—”

  “But they don’t need to fund it,” she argued, “it’s already there. We just have to keep the authorities from destroying the trees.”

  He tried to placate her. “You don’t know they’re going to do that.”

  “Yes, I do. My friend Lila Ragland works for The Sycamore Seed and they’ve learned the entire forest is going to be cut down. To make room for a military airport!”

  “I’m sorry,” O’Mahony said again. “My hands are tied. At a time like this—”

  “Blast you and the ‘time like this’!” Nell was almost screaming.

  * * *

  When Jack arrived to take her to the Wednesday Club she was still tense with anger. “Don’t take it so hard,” he counseled. “Sometimes you have to walk away.”

  “I don’t think I can.”

  “Why not? You lived close to that forest for years and never got involved with the conservancy, so why’s it upsetting you now?”

  She had no answer for him. She did not know the reason herself, but the feeling was very strong in her. If he loved her, really loved her, he should take it on blind faith.

  Bill’s Bar and Grill had become more than a meeting place; for each member of the club it was, in one way or another, a haven. Among themselves they talked more freely than they would anywhere else. Trusting their friends to understand.

  A haphazard mix of disparate personalities had turned into something greater than the sum of its parts.

  Shay Mulligan understood when Nell bemoaned the projected fate of the forest. “It’s going to break Paige’s heart,” he told her.

  “Paige?”

  “Paige Prentiss, in my clinic. She’s the girl who took your Rottweiler; he goes everywhere with her now. And she’s one of the most dedicated members of the conservancy.”

  “Do you suppose she could draw up a petition of protest and get lots of signatures?”

  “I’m sure she could, Nell—but would it do any good?”

  “Not with the federal government
,” Edgar Tilbury interjected. “We’re like ants at a picnic to them. What you need is an appeal to a higher authority. And there is no higher authority.”

  Tilbury felt sympathy for Nell. She was an intelligent, sensitive woman—perhaps too sensitive. She had never acquired the armor plating Lila Ragland possessed.

  On his own he wrote some letters, made some inquiries—and had to admit that Finbar O’Mahony was right. In a matter of months Daggett’s Woods would cease to exist.

  Scorched earth, he thought. Some folks just can’t resist pushing the destruct button.

  * * *

  As the Change loosened its grip the sun seemed to shine more brightly over Sycamore River. Spirits began to lift. People greeted each other on the street again instead of lowering their eyes and hurrying past.

  The five Nyeberger boys had returned to normal—or what was normal for them. They were living in their parents’ home as temporary wards of the court, being cared for by Haydon Leveritt because their father was rarely home. Even when he was, Dwayne Nyeberger was not an acceptable parent figure.

  Flub was usually speechless, but he could talk if he wanted to. When someone mentioned the approaching war he said, “The best thing about dying young is you’ll never get old.”

  Kirby, once the handsome pick of the litter, bore scars he would carry all his life. But they were all alive, that was the main thing.

  When Nell saw them in town she thought of Rob.

  It was becoming easier to remember the good things, harder to recall the bad.

  Jessamyn and Colin were delighted when she told them she was going to marry Jack Reece. Colin enthused about having a car like the Mustang. “When you get all that money from the government you could buy one easy,” he told his mother.

  “It’s not going to be a fortune, and I don’t think we should waste it on sports cars. That money will take both of you to university and give you a start afterwards.”

  Colin went straight to Jack. “Talk to her, will you?”

  “I warned you about taking on a ready-made family,” Bea told her nephew when he related the conversation. “You’re likely to get caught in the middle.”

  “I have to be careful, Aunt Bea. They’re not my children, not even my stepchildren yet. Not children at all, actually. When the war starts Colin will be old enough to fight.”

  “You said ‘when,’ not ‘if.’ I hope the wedding will happen first.”

  “It will, Nell’s finally agreed. April sixth. There are so few incidents of the Change now, she’s not going to make me wait any longer.”

  Bea ducked her chin and peered at him over the rims of her glasses. “I was under the impression she’s not making you wait now.”

  Jack smiled.

  * * *

  Nell wanted a traditional wedding. An afternoon ceremony in a chapel, with flowers and music. Beeswax candles and flowers from Gold’s Court Florist. Gerry Delmonico would sing a medley of her favorite songs. Jessamyn would be her bridesmaid, Colin would give his mother away. She would wear a fitted silk suit in a pale golden shade that complemented her hair, a tiny matching hat with a wisp of veil across her face … and the ring.

  Arthur Hannisch had outdone himself with the ring. She did not want diamonds—Rob had given her diamonds. The ring Jack would put on her finger was a square-cut emerald that glowed like green fire.

  Jack assured her the date she had chosen would be fine. “We might be cutting it close, but I doubt it. You can be sure there’s a lot of diplomatic maneuvering going on behind the scenes, and as long as they’re talking, they’re not fighting.”

  Yet Nell felt an irrational anxiety building in herself, like her experience on the morning she took the children for a hike to Daggett’s Woods. Nothing awful had happened then—so why should she worry now?

  Pre-wedding jitters, that’s it.

  The Change was becoming a memory, the wedding would be beautiful and maybe there would be no war after all.

  Please. Please!

  * * *

  Lila Ragland had become Nell’s confederate, writing up the engagement announcement for the paper and surreptitiously informing her of the latest developments gleaned from abroad. “I don’t want Jack to know I’m worried,” Nell confided.

  “We’re all worried, but put it out of your mind and enjoy the day. At least we won’t be watching a three-dimensional war on a wallscreen.”

  “Guns, tanks, missiles … they’re gathering now, Lila. Can’t you feel it? I can.”

  Lila said sharply, “Stop obsessing over it, you’re going to make me nervous.”

  * * *

  Dwayne Nyeberger read the engagement announcement with interest, particularly about the members of the wedding party.

  * * *

  Arguably the most beautiful building in Sycamore River was a little chapel on Cornelius Place, in the peaceful heart of the south side. Built at the end of the nineteenth century, the small building was constructed of golden sandstone and contained a much-admired stained glass window depicting the Good Shepherd with his flock. Generations of townspeople had been christened and married there—though not the Bennetts. On the occasions when he felt obligated to attend church Robert Bennett went to the much larger one on Pine Grove, where his presence would be observed and noted.

  Once in a great while, when she felt overwhelmed, Nell Bennett had visited the chapel just to sit in a pew at the back and absorb the atmosphere of serenity. The silence within the golden walls was not dead; it was alive with the inaudible prayers of ages past.

  Nell booked the chapel for April 6th.

  The morning of the wedding presented a mixed weather picture. The sky overhead was clear, but silvery clouds along the horizon were wearing black skirts, pregnant with rain.

  There had been no rowdy bachelor’s party the night before, but the reception after the wedding would be held in Bill’s Bar and Grill, which would introduce a slightly raffish touch. The idea, to Jack’s delight, had been Nell’s.

  To prevent him from seeing his bride before she walked down the aisle—a tradition the women insisted on—the male members of the wedding party would also gather in Bill’s before the wedding. The bar and grill would otherwise be closed for the day.

  Nell would be getting ready at her house, accompanied by the female members of the Wednesday Club and Katharine Richmond, the matron of honor.

  The celebration began early at Bill’s. By common consent there was no discussion of the looming war, and Bill kept a close eye on the amount of alcohol being consumed. “Nobody’s going to that wedding drunk! You guys can do your heavy drinking after. Except for Jack,” he added with a wink at the soon-to-be bridegroom. “Nell might thank me for keeping you sober.”

  “The idea of getting married is enough to make any man sober,” Edgar Tilbury commented.

  Shay said, “You’ve never considered remarriage?”

  “I thought I was finished with all that.”

  “You thought? Past tense? You old dog, have you met somebody?”

  Instead of answering Tilbury went back to the bar for a refill.

  Bill Burdick was keeping a close eye on the time. A bachelor himself, he was enjoying the celebratory atmosphere. It had been a long time since his customers had been so merry. Mentally Bill considered three or four Sycamore River women whom he might consider marrying. A man who owned a bar had an opportunity to meet almost every attractive girl in Sycamore River.

  The end of the Change would mark a passage in the life of the town. On one level it could start to be normal again. There was the war, of course; if war came it would change life in a different way. The threat of personal extinction was enough to make a man grab what happiness he could while there was still time.

  * * *

  Tyler Whittaker had not been invited to the wedding, nor did he expect to be. The fading of the Change—like many people, he was unable to accept it without reservation—meant the sheriff needed to be as watchful as ever. “No more Change is a ch
ange,” he remarked to Hooper Watson on the morning of the wedding, “and any change seems to upset people one way or another.”

  Watson had dropped in at the sheriff’s office on his way to the bar and grill. A daily stop by the office and a cup of coffee with its current incumbent was part of his way of keeping “plugged in,” as he called it.

  “You still carrying your gun?” he asked Whittaker.

  “’Course I am, Hoop. You know a gun comes with the job.”

  “I don’t mean a pistol; I’m talking about your revolver. Now, that’s a gun.”

  “Straight out of the Old West,” Whittaker boasted. “Not actually, of course, but it’s part of the image. Like a Stetson and cowboy boots.”

  “If you wore those in Sycamore River you’d be laughed out of office.”

  “I know that. But I always carry my revolver; there’s something about the sight of it that quiets people right down. Even that nutjob who killed the Nyeberger woman gave in as soon as I shoved it in his face.”

  “I still carry a gun too,” said Watson. “Guns work when nothing else will and I don’t feel like me without it. ’Course I won’t take mine to the wedding.”

  “’Course not.” Whittaker glanced at his wristwatch, wondering if AllComs would be back on the market anytime soon. “You better get on over to Bill’s, Hoop. Look here.” He extended his arm. “It’s later than you think.”

  * * *

  Dwayne Nyeberger was waiting down the street from the chapel. After a diligent search he had found the perfect vantage point, a large residential lot landscaped with specimen trees surrounded by rhododendrons. The homeowners were away. Their luxuriant shrubbery provided excellent cover, and when he stood behind the largest tree he was confident no one could observe him from the street.

  Him and his shotgun. He carried a pistol in his pocket.

  He had been in place since early morning. Not thinking of anything much, that was the trick of it. If you didn’t think about what you were going to do it was easier to do it. All he thought about was what should have been his. All the good things of life, the rewards of the heroes.

  When he got tired he sat down, in slow motion, careful not to disturb a leaf. When he had rested he stood up again. In slow motion.