Since Tomorrow

by Morgan Nyberg

  “Climbin stairs” said Ice.

  “Hopin’ to stay healthy” said Spring.

  “Waitin’ for the wine to get ready” said Hollyburn.

  “Waitin’ for the girl from the farm to drop by” said Robson, and turned slowly to Noor.

  101 reached inside his shirt and slid out a length of white plastic pipe with a few evenly spaced holes. He covered the holes with his fingertips and placed the end of the pipe to his lips and closed his eyes. The melody that he fashioned was both heartbreaking and whimsical, both dance and dirge. It was offered back as echo by the stone walls and by the looming darkness of the church.

  Ice and Hollyburn rose. They joined hands. Facing each other they swayed and dipped. They took small, shuffling but graceful steps. They moved away from the fire to the border of the darkness. Powell stood and helped Spring, who struggled out of her chair with a grunt and a laugh. They waited a few seconds, hands joined, swaying, and then the same restless but sensual movements carried them away from the light.

  Noor rose and joined hands with Robson. She looked into the black moist depth of his eyes. She was dizzy from the wine. She laughed and let the circling, off-kilter sounds of the flute instruct her feet.

  From behind the fireplace a chubby young boy emerged in a man’s brown cardigan that hung to his feet. He had pale hair that was cut like a helmet. He stood there for a minute, rubbing his eyes and observing the dancers. Then he knelt and leaned his chin on 101’s knee, watching him make his music.

  Robson and Noor stepped and dipped and swayed to the edge of the light and then farther, into the darkness at the end of the church, slipping without effort among the treasures piled there, and then farther, toward a quiet room waiting beyond the altar.

  30

  Frost said “It’s no use. I’ll have to let the smoke out.” He tied back the sheet of plastic that covered old Joshua’s doorway, and smoke began to slide swiftly out of the room. It was dawn. In the hallway, in the weak light near the doorway, he saw old Ryan and Brittany and Jessica. They watched him without expression. He nodded to them. Then he went to the fire bucket and flicked the embers aside, but they continued to give off thin streams of smoke. He said “I didn’t know his stovepipe was in such bad shape.”

  Grace said “Never mind. The fire doesn’t matter. He’s too hot already from the fever. Or he was too hot. He’s past that now.”

  Old Joshua lay on his back on a mat of rabbit skins. He was covered up to his chest with the sheet from the clinic, which was twisted and limp from his night of thrashing. But now he lay still and straight. His only struggles were the heaving of his narrow white-haired chest and the desperate gasps of his breathing. His eyes were open, slightly clouded, unfocussed. Slowly his breathing became less laboured. He made a sound, a kind of brief humming, as if he were trying out his voice or setting the pitch for a song. Then he said “...two-sailin’ wait for Schwartz Bay…”

  Frost turned away and sighed and rubbed his forehead. He said “Joshua was a real-estate salesman. He and his wife arrived pulling their two kids in a wagon. She had lovely blond hair.” He stood in front of the fogged plastic of the window, as if outside in the rain and the dim light he could see that scene from the past. He said “You don’t have to stay, Grace. It’s Christmas day.”

  “I’ll stay. But you should go and rest.” She was sitting sideways on the mat, beside the dying man.

  “Yes, I know. Thanks to staying up with Joshua I might be able to sleep through the day. I hope so.” Without turning from the window, he cleared his throat slightly and said “I was looking for you. Two days ago. I couldn’t find you.”

  As Grace hesitated, he stiffened. She said in her halting way “What did you want?”

  Frost went to the door of the room. He said evenly to Ryan and Brittany and Jessica “I need you to go away for a while. We’ll call you if... if there’s a change.” Ryan and Brittany hesitated, but Jessica urged them down the dark hallway.

  Frost stood above the still-smoking fire bucket and looked down at Grace and said “There’s only so many places you could be.”

  Grace said, looking nervously up at him “I was a lot of places. You must have just missed me.” She looked haggard.

  “You’re not sick, are you?”

  She shook her head, looked away.

  “Nobody else saw you either. I needed to talk to you. Noor had just taken off and...” He looked back to the window’s frail light. “I saw Brandon. He said I didn’t know what was going on. He said I wasn’t the only game in town.”

  “What does that mean? Was he talkin’ about me?”

  “I don’t know. Was he?”

  Joshua said again “...two-sailin’ wait...” He was bald, with his white fringe of hair and his beard trimmed close. He did not look afraid. In spite of his struggle to breathe he looked calm and trustworthy, as if he were still selling real-estate. He muttered a string of incoherent syllables.

  “Grampa.”

  Frost turned, stared in surprise for a second. Will was standing in the doorway in his dripping poncho. “Will, not now.”

  “Grampa, there’s a bunch of people. They want to live here.”

  Frost went down. A dozen people stood in the rain in front of the entrance to the domicile. Twice that number stood at the top of the front steps, still disheveled from sleep, silently observing the newcomers. Beyond the new arrivals stood Tyrell, leaning on his spear, shaking his head in disgust.

  Frost hurried out the entrance. He stopped and exhaled sharply, as if to expel not only the smoke, the stuffy air and the human reek that had accumulated in the domicile through the winter, but his own heavy thoughts. He closed his eyes, drew a long breath and stepped carefully forward through the crowd of residents. He touched Salmon on the stump of her cut-off arm, and she moved aside. He caught her look of pity for the refugees. He saw her nod to him, a gesture not of affirmation but of pleading. Her daughter, Cloud, plucked at his poncho. He had heard the hysterical screams of this girl as he tried to carry her up the stairwell that day of the amputation, and he had heard her carousing with the other children on the riverbank that day he had gone looking for Grace, but he heard now her first words. “Please let them stay, Frost.” She meant the children.

  Frost knew the two girls. Today they wore long filthy shifts made from a multitude of rags. The last time he had seen them they had been naked, walking hand in hand with their father away from the ruin of a building where Frost had laid their mother’s almost lifeless head on a bed made from a car seat. Today they held their father’s hands as well, and the three of them, thin and soaked, looked as miserable as they had that other day. A black garbage bag of their possessions rested at the father’s feet.

  There was no spokesman for the arrivals. There was not even any unity. Town-dwellers formed their own group on the left, three men and two women, each holding a bag, watching Frost. One of these women Frost had last seen at the market, under the bridge, grasping a dead rat. Twenty feet away on the right were the man and his girls.

  Between them and back a little two men stood separate and alone. One was old Christopher, from south of the farm. The other man crouched slightly, leaning on a knee as if he were in pain. He wore a rabbit-skin hat, a rabbit-skin poncho and the square-toed leather shoes that had once belonged to Frost, tied with double loops.

  In front, as if they were on display, stood a man and a woman in ragged kilts of layered plastic. They had only scraps of hair. Their ribs pressed like blades against grey skin. They shivered and hugged themselves against the cold. They looked at the ground and would not meet the eyes of the other newcomers or Frost or most of the other residents. But every few seconds their eyes darted to Granville, who stood on the top step in a wool poncho and sandals, milky skinned, well fleshed, his hair like a thick red cap.

  Frost went down the steps. He stopped beside the two addicts and waited for them to look at him. They would not. He walked past them and turned and stood between Christopher a
nd the hunched man whose burgundy-rimmed glasses Frost was wearing. He looked up at his people spread on the porch and steps of the domicile. He said “Jessica, there are no more empty rooms, are there?”

  Jessica said “No, and a bunch are doubled up already with Wing’s people and the others who come a while back.”

  From somewhere, Brittany’s little girl voice: “You know that, Frost. Get your head on straight.”

  There were mutters of annoyance as Amber nudged people aside with her length of rebar and stepped slowly and carefully down to the muddy ground. She said “I’ll go back to my barge.”

  Daniel Charlie, standing at the back, taller than the rest, said “You ain’t goin’ nowhere, Amber. Get back up here out of the rain before that walkin’ stick of yours gets any rustier.” Amber looked at Frost, who nodded. She turned and was helped back up the steps.

  Wing’s white hair and wisp of beard flashed briefly between bodies at the back of the porch. He said “Most of my crew is up on the bridge, so I guess I have to speak for them. It’s not up to them or me to say if we should take in more people or not, ’cause we’re here on the generosity of you people who took us in when Langley run us off our farm. But if people come to me beggin’ for help I would not turn them away.”

  From behind Frost came the loud crack of Tyrell’s voice. “Fine, there, Wing. Let’s go and get rid of Langley and his crew like we should’ve done when all this started. Then you can have your farm back, and you can help as many god damn refugees as you want.”

  Frost did not turn, and no voices were raised in support of Tyrell.

  A few more residents straggled out the door, scratching themselves and muttering about the noise and blinking their way out of sleep.

  Old Ryan said “There’s room on my floor.”

  Someone else said “Mine too.”

  Frost turned to old Christopher. His sparse white hair and beard hung in wet tangles to his waist. But the rain had not washed away his rank and belligerent odour. He was very skinny. He looked at Frost defiantly with his head thrown back and his eyes wide and said “You ain’t gettin’ me into no god damn domicile. I just come to get my squash. You said you was bringin’ me some squash. And I could use some spuds. How come you didn’t bring no more spuds? What the hell’s wrong with you, Frost? And you said you was going to bring me a fire lighter. I been waitin’ all this time to cook them eggs you brung.”

  Among the residents there was a giggle or two.

  Frost said “You don’t have to stay in the domicile. You can sleep in the clinic.”

  “Oh, no way, Frost.” Christopher shook his head wildly and stepped back, out of grabbing distance. “You ain’t getting’ me into no god damn clinic. Just give me my vegetables and my fire lighter and I’ll be on my way. And maybe you’ve got a dog to spare. You got a dog?”

  There was a guffaw from the residents.

  Frost said “You can go back if you want. But if you want me to feed you you’ve got to stay here. Make up your mind.”

  Christopher turned one way, then another, as if he were looking for a way to run.

  Daniel Charlie spoke up. “Christopher, calm down. It ain’t the end of the world. You can sleep in the workshop.” He came forward, down the steps and out beside Frost. He said to Christopher “But you got to wash first.” There was more laughter. When it died Daniel Charlie said to the gathering “It’s time we used up some of those concrete blocks and that bag-and-a-half of cement powder and some of those two-by-fours. We’ll build somethin’. We’ll put roofs over heads. For now we can sleep three in a room in the domicile. Four. Whatever. It’ll just be temporary.”

  But then Tyrell spoke again. “What are we going to eat, Daniel? Already we don’t have enough to last till next harvest. We can’t afford to kill any more cows, and the meat don’t go far anyways. It’s like this... Frost, are you listenin’! It’s like this – if we try to feed everyone, we’re all going to starve. It’s a bitch, but that’s the way it is. And you know it, Frost. It’s time to stop pretendin’. Me and my men ain’t sleepin’ in the rain up on that bridge and waitin’ for a crossbow arrow in the gizzard just so’s we can starve along with everybody else.”

  Wing shouted “My men are up there too, Tyrell. These are men who’ve had their women and daughters took away. And I know they would never turn back anyone who asks for help. Food or no food.”

  Tyrell shot back “Well, come up and spend a night with your men in the freezin’ rain. Then you might find out you don’t know shit.”

  Now from among the residents came a volley of declarations and objections.

  “He’s right, Frost. Them spuds won’t go far.”

  “Don’t be so god damn selfish.”

  “Tell me that when we’ve all starved to death.”

  “What kind of world are we tryin’ to build here!”

  “Go put the soup on. We got hungry people here.”

  Frost looked on worriedly. But there were no blows except when Amber got upset by all the shouting and took a whack at Kingsway with her rebar.

  “Ow! You bloody old fool!”

  Jessica guided Amber back into the domicile, and soon there was silence again, with the refugees and the residents regarding each other through the few feet of rain. Even the addicts had looked up to see whether they were finally to be sheltered or turned away.

  Frost said “You’ve all got to wash. But first come into my place and get warm. And we’ll get you something to eat.”

  Some people came down from the steps to welcome the newcomers. Others spat and turned away.

  Daniel Charlie and Wing walked side by side toward the ranked piles of lumber. Daniel Charlie said “You ever build anythin’?”

  Wing answered “I built a lot of castles in the air.”

  “Well, that`s a start. I hope you saved the plans.”

  Tyrell walked back toward the bridge, with his spear on his shoulder.

  Most of the residents and all of the refugees had filed through the door of the domicile, even old Christopher and the two skag addicts. Frost and Will stood behind on the bottom step like shepherds guiding a flock. Brittany waited near the door for the crowd to clear, calling “Go on, go on, you bunch of roughnecks. You tryin’ to crush me, or what?”

  Grace materialized from the darkness beyond the doorway. She stepped out into the dismal dawn light and stood there, head hanging. Frost looked worried – she was so drawn, so faded. She lifted her head and tried to say something, but had to clear her throat and try again. “Joshua’s room is free now.”

  Brittany was furious. “No it ain’t! He’s in there! He’s sick and he needs to stay there!”

  Frost said “Joshua’s dead, Brittany.”

  Brittany started wailing. She ran down the steps and off into the rain, shaking her fists, screaming.

  Frost stepped up onto the porch. “I’ll bring him down.”

  Will said “I’ll help you, Grampa.”

  Grace said “I’ll help too.”

  Frost said “No, I’ll do it myself. Will, can you find a shovel?”

  31

  Frost stood facing the stairwell doorway, holding in his arms the limp corpse of Joshua, which was wrapped for most of its length in a rabbit skin poncho. Joshua’s head hung sharply back. His eyes were closed, but his mouth was half open. The arm that was not constrained against Frost’s chest hung down at an angle, as if Joshua were reaching to open the stairwell door, which was not there. Here in the corridor there was more daylight than before. But ahead in the stairwell Frost saw only blackness. A steady current of frigid air streamed out of that blackness and over his feet.

  A form emerged from the darkness. It was Jessica. She stopped in the gloom at the top of the stairs and stared at Frost and his burden. She looked down and shook her head. She said quietly “They’re all in your place. The soup’ll be hot soon.” She was broad shouldered and only a couple of inches shorter than Frost. She stepped forward into the watery light and sighed and sa
id firmly “Give me his feet.”

  Frost ticked his head sideways and said “Move.”

  She said with both exasperation and resignation “For Christ sake, Frost, don’t. Don’t do this. It’s five floors.”

  He waited, inhaled impatiently. Jessica stepped past him out into the corridor.

  Even at the top where there was a little light, he did not try to see the stairs but stared straight ahead as a blind man might. Standing very upright he lowered his right foot to a stair. He lowered his left to the next, then continued.

  At the landing he gave the corpse a heft to improve his grip. His heavy exhalations echoed in the stairwell. He took the next flight more cautiously. Right foot to a stair. Left foot to the same stair. Now there was a desperate quality to his breathing, almost a groan. He stood at the landing for ten or fifteen seconds.

  Invisible in the darkness above him, but close, Jessica said “At least put him down and rest. He’s not in a hurry to get nowhere.”

  Frost gave Joshua a mighty heave and doubled him over his left shoulder. But he was too weak for such a maneuver and stumbled backward. Joshua’s head thumped into the wall.

  Jessica said “Jesus, Frost, don’t kill him twice.”

  Frost was breathing a little better. He said “Mind your own business.”

  “It’s my business as much as yours. You stubborn son of a bitch.”

  Further up the stairwell Frost heard Grace pleading. “Please, Frost. You’re not as strong as you think.”