by Brian Hart
“It’s a spare generator, for parts,” Roy said. “It ran dry and we killed it. Thought maybe you could use it.”
“Sure. Sure, we can use it.”
“Are we ready?” Ilah asked.
“OK,” Barry said. He closed his eyes and Roy pressed his weight into his shoulders.
Sarah and Karen went with Ilah to feed and water the animals in Barry’s weird circular barn. Once they’d finished and gotten Barry to his bed in the house, Roy busied himself moving sprinkler pipe from one side of the pasture to the other and filling the stock tank, at the same time checking out all the new structures Barry had built. He’d made a windmill from a kit and it turned a drive line that worked his main irrigation pump and there was a second PTO coming from the windmill tower that turned an ancient hammer mill for grinding silage at the pull of a lever. By the time they climbed back into the truck to leave, Roy had to admit that he kind of admired Barry.
Jerzy and Wiley were in the garden when they came home. Roy watched as Jerzy registered the blood on their clothes and his mouth fell open and Roy held up his hand and Sarah climbed out of the back where she’d been sleeping.
“We’re OK,” Roy said. “The blood is Barry’s.”
Jerzy dropped his shovel and stepped over the raised bed he’d been digging in and grabbed Wiley by the arm and they hurried together down the path out of the garden and closed the goat-fence gate behind them.
“Someone shot him,” Sarah yelled to her sister. “And Ilah sewed him up like a doll.”
“Who’s Ilah?” Wiley asked.
“Barry’s new wife,” Roy said.
“Who shot him?” Wiley asked.
“I don’t know,” Roy said. “Guessing his militia pals, but he didn’t talk about it.”
“That’s nuts,” Jerzy said, looking at Wiley. She was acting strange. They both were.
“What’re you two up to?” Roy said. Roy was caught looking at her stomach and shook his head and blew out a big breath of air.
“I’m not pregnant,” Wiley said. “Quit looking at me like that.” She was wearing her mom’s Archers of Loaf dead hero T-shirt and a cowboy hat she’d taken from the extensive collection of Stetsons that Jerzy had inherited from Sullivan. She was already taller than Karen, stood eye to eye with Roy. She’d known hard work her whole life, even their vacations were strenuous, cycle touring, backpacking, camping. Let’s load ourselves up with a bunch of heavy shit and haul it way into the mountains and then haul it back. Maybe we’ll go fishing, maybe not. Might not be any fish to catch. Same with hunting but the gear weighs ten times as much. Sound like fun? Then, when we get home, we’ll haul a bunch of heavy shit around and never stop weeding and milking goats and fixing fence and working from dawn to dusk. How about that, life’s a party, right? By the time I was her age, Roy thought, I’d probably sat on my ass watching TV for a quarter of my life, maybe more. But Wiley never asked for a break, Sarah either. Jerzy got depressed if he wasn’t solving a problem or sweating his ass off fixing something. Look at them. Look at my people, he thought proudly.
Karen glared at Wiley and shut the door of the pickup and then eased Sarah toward the house with a firm push on the small of her back. “Go on. You need to wash up. We’ll be inside in a sec so we can get dinner going.” Sarah didn’t argue but she went by her sister giving her the big eyes, like better you than me.
“It can wait until we’re at the table,” Jerzy said. “We should be sitting down.”
“What can wait?” Karen said.
“Spit it out, Jerzy,” Roy said. “Why do you look so terrified all of a sudden?” Roy held up his fist and smiled. “I’ll give you something to be afraid of.”
“Roy, Mr. Bingham, Mrs. Bingham, I’d like to ask your permission to marry your daughter.”
“Would you listen to this?” Karen said.
“Fine with me,” Roy said. “If you want her.”
“Hey,” Wiley said.
“I’m kidding. You have my blessing. Babe?” he said to Karen. “Say something.”
Jerzy took Wiley’s hand. “You don’t have to worry about me ever hurting her or leaving her.”
“Words, Jerzy. Words are just words,” Karen said.
“OK,” Roy said. “Let’s go make dinner and we’ll talk about this at the table, but no fighting. There’s nothing to fight about. We’re happy for you and you have my blessing.” Nodding at Karen, “Hers is worth more than mine so it’ll be harder to come by. Probably just be patient.”
Karen was headed for the house but turned around suddenly to get the paper sack of frozen steaks and green beans that Ilah had sent them home with. “We aren’t having these tonight,” she said to Roy.
“We could thaw them in time,” Roy said. “It’s a special occasion.”
“No, we aren’t having them tonight.” As she went by she went to smack Roy with the heavy sack of meat but she missed and the handles ripped and the butcher-paper-wrapped steaks went skittering into the gravel driveway.
“See,” Roy said, smiling, “they’re already thawing.”
Karen’s mouth went from a grimace to a smile and back to a grimace so quickly that Roy was sure he was the only one that caught it. She dropped the sack of green beans where she stood and walked off empty-handed.
Jerzy and Wiley picked up the steaks, careful to wipe off the gravel, while Roy sat on the tailgate eating green beans from the bag. “Did he propose?” he asked Wiley. “Was he sweet about it?”
“Yes.”
“It was romantic?” Roy fluttered his hands in front of his face and made Jerzy squirm.
“C’mon,” Jerzy said.
“You can call me Dad now, or Mr. Dad.” Roy pitched a bean at Jerzy and he caught it and broke it in half and split it with Wiley.
“We were in the garden,” Wiley said. “It just happened.”
“Crushing aphids, digging thistle, romantic,” Roy said.
“It was romantic. He got down on his knees and gave me a ring.” She took a ring out of her pocket and put it on and held up her finger.
“Where’d you get that?” Roy asked Jerzy.
“Sullivan left it to me. It was his mom’s.”
Roy smiled, the ring didn’t matter—symbols and words—but Sullivan did, to Jerzy he mattered. “Let’s go unthaw your mother,” he said to Wiley.
But they didn’t have to. When they got inside there were wineglasses on the table and a dusty cabernet they’d been saving. Karen hugged Jerzy first and then Wiley, wouldn’t let her go until Roy shoved the filled glasses between them. They ate late and were a little drunk because the steaks took so long to thaw. Roy made a toast and Karen hassled him for being weepy.
[39]
M<55
OR XXXXX
Roland pushes his bike up the hills. The man waits for him. He’s feeling better and as long he keeps moving the body aches don’t bother him. His nail beds are bleeding and it’s weird but not painful. The dog mostly sticks with the kid. The giant power-company windmills still turn on the ridges and are sprinkled along the horizon like jacks or obviously pinwheels and the man wonders—not for the first time—what a person waking from a coma, Rip Van Winkle, would think of these alien objects. You slept too long, all the grass is dead and the rivers run dry. When they get closer they see that the transmission lines have all been taken down and many of the towers and transformers have been disassembled. The mills are turning for nothing.
They pass a U-Haul box truck with two shredded tires. The back door has been torn open and what’s left of the contents, mostly children’s toys and clothes, are strewn across the two lanes. The glass in the cab is shattered. They don’t even touch their brakes, rubberneck and go.
A mile or two down the road, Roland leans his bicycle against an abandoned RV at the roadside and sits down in the shade. The man bangs on the door and circles the vehicle to make sure no one is around. All of the window glass is intact but judging by the large oil stain that has spread from the motor to
the ditch, the sweet stink of antifreeze, the occupants have moved on.
“Your dog has the squirts,” Roland says.
“Good, so do I,” says the man. The pain in his hips and back swells the longer he stands. He sits down next to Roland.
“Is he sick like you?”
“I don’t know if dogs get sick in the same way from what I got but he ate more of that bear than I did.” He glances at the boy, his gaunt and dusty face, clumped hair. Street urchin. Road dog. From any century and anyplace except recently and here.
“I’m tired.”
“So am I.” The man stretches his legs out before him and rolls his left ankle until he gets it to pop.
The wind is entertaining, things blow by, trash and weeds. A farm truck drives by and the driver keeps his eyes locked to the road and never sees them, doesn’t want to. The dog licks its paws and the man scoots over to have a look, searches in the webs for goat heads or other damage, finds the pads sound and well-calloused, nails dull but intact. They share the last of their water.
“Where are we going?” Roland asks.
“I told you. North. To Alaska.”
“I’m not.”
“You don’t have to.”
“My sisters.”
“We’ll go to Portland first. Seattle if we can catch a ride.”
“You think we’ll find them?”
The man glances at Roland.
“Are you going to help me look for them?”
“Yeah, I’ll help you.” He pulls the dog toward him and rubs his belly. “I used to skate with a guy named Roland,” the man says. “Did I tell you this already?”
“No. What was he like?”
“He was from Australia. I think the name is more common there. You don’t meet many Rolands in the States. But I met you.” The man holds out his fist for a bump and Roland obliges him. “There was a guy named Gerald too, that’s one of those names. Gerald. People called him Gerbil. He was a mess.”
“What happened to him?”
“If the choice was skate or die, I’m guessing he died.” The man is exhausted. He doesn’t want to go on. He stands up and rips open the door on the RV but the rotten smell turns him around. Roland plugs his nose and climbs the stairs, finds a dead cat curled in the little plastic commode. The man goes in to see because the boy asks him to.
When they are back outside they pick up their bikes.
“Did you ever collect baseball cards?” Roland asks.
“No, never. Wasn’t my thing.”
“My dad said mine are worthless.” He produces a short stack of tattered cards from his pocket.
“Do they seem worthless?”
Roland looks at the cards one at a time and then drops them on the ground and walks to his bike. The man picks them up before the wind blows them away and puts them in his pocket. They pedal on. The wind has turned and it isn’t doing them any favors. Miles tick by.
[40]
R>45
CA 96118, CA 94203
They’d been planning the trip since before the generator died, before the engagement was announced. They needed coffee, rice, flour, sugar, beer and wine, vitamins, antibiotics, and, if they were extremely fortunate, a new generator. They’d go see April first because Pecos had a bit of mange going. They always went to April’s first. Most of her neighbors had left so the power company would no longer fix her lines. Last year, Roy and Jerzy had helped her rig her solar panels to her secondhand lithium-ion batteries. Roy gassed up the truck from the five-hundred-gallon tank by the barn—thanks, Miller—and everyone but Jerzy piled in. He’d stay to take care of the animals. Somebody had to. Wiley wanted to stay with him but Karen told her she was coming, like it or not, engaged or not. “Load up, child bride,” she said, without smiling.
The roadblock was unattended and the gate was up so they didn’t stop. A makeshift plywood bulletin board at the roadside had some kind of warning or message posted on it but they didn’t bother reading it.
Driving out of the mountains, Roy had to use four-wheel drive to maneuver down the embankment to skirt washouts and mudslides again and again. What the insects hadn’t killed had burned in seemingly endless forest fires. Then the heavy winter and the rains brought the mountains down and had them looking scraped raw. Twice, he had to use his chain saw and they moved the sections of timber in pieces as a family. Sarah had never seen it green the way that Roy and Karen and Wiley had. She’d only known the Sierras as brown and charred or buried in snow and streaked with mud.
When they got to April’s, Roy honked the horn and April came out and unlocked the gate and pushed it open so they could pull in. Her motorcycle was parked in front of the house, full-face helmet hanging from the right handgrip, polished chrome, wet chain, new-looking rubber, her daily driver. It was the bike that Roy had given to Aaron so many years ago, Yano’s old bike. Aaron’s other motorcycles had either been sold or gone to his cop buddy Sang-Chul. April had offered them to Roy but he didn’t have the time or resources to keep them going.
April gave the girls hugs and took Roy and Karen by the hands and gave them each a peck on the cheek. Karen had brought her a few pounds of goat cheese and some milk and the girls gave her a flat of canned tomatoes.
“What about you, Roy? What did you bring me?” she asked as she put the tomatoes on the counter and the cheese and milk in the fridge.
“T. S. Eliot said April was the cruelest month,” he said. “But I think you’re a sweetheart, any day of the week.”
“That’s good. I like you.” April laughed and then nodded to Wiley to let her know that she could take Sarah back to the kennels and see who was there. April hadn’t claimed a pet since Aaron’s K9, Gem, had died, but there was never a shortage of strays. Pecos lay down on the dog bed in the kitchen that was only used by him when he came to visit.
Karen told April about the engagement. She stepped back, in shock, and then opened a cupboard and took out a bottle of Glenlivet and three glasses. “Is she pregnant?” April asked, while she poured.
“She says she’s not.” Karen took her glass and downed it like a shot and held it out for a refill.
“If it’s gonna be that kind of party, we better eat something first,” April said.
“I’ll cook,” Roy said. “You two can get hammered.”
“You’ll just get hammered later,” Karen said, “after you cook.”
“Fair is fair,” April said.
“Can we stay the night?” Karen asked.
“Can you stop asking?” April slugged down her drink and winced.
Roy opened the fridge but it was mostly pet medicine. “Is there anything open where I can get some things? Any place that’s not Walmart.”
“Like what?” April said.
“Food stuff, staples.”
April checked her watch. “If you hurry, you can make the street fair on Auburn. There’s usually a guy there selling ‘beef,’” air quotes, “but he sells out early. You might be able to get some fish. Hard to say without going. There’s always kelp now, always.”
“Are you taking the girls?” Karen asked.
“Should I?”
“Yes, you should. Go and let us get shit-faced.”
Wiley walked in, Sarah right behind her. “Who’s getting shit-faced?” she asked.
“Nobody,” Roy said. “You two are coming with me. Food run.”
“Can we get clothes?” Wiley asked. “You said we could get some clothes.”
“I heard you say it,” Sarah said. “We all heard you.”
Roy looked at Karen. “I thought that would be for tomorrow. With your mom.”
“You can take them,” Karen said. She sipped her drink and winked at April.
“OK. Fine.” Roy poured a splash of scotch in his glass and downed it.
“You’re not supposed to do that if you’re driving,” Sarah said.
“Easy, copper,” Roy said.
“Go ahead and have another, Roy,” Wiley said. “I’ll drive.�
�
“Wiley Jean wants to drive.”
“Don’t call me that.”
“Mess with the bull and you get the bullshit. Cause and effect, Wiley Jean.”
The gate closed behind them. He wasn’t letting Wiley drive. Now she was pouting. He got lost trying to find the street fair and by the time they got there, all the beef guy had left was some greenish stew meat but Roy took it anyway and put it in the cooler with the ice packs in the back. Wiley bought carrots and golden beets and chard. Sarah found someone selling earrings and Roy ended up buying three pairs and left the fair feeling pretty good about himself.
At Walmart, Roy popped the hood on the truck and removed the fuel pump relay and put it in his pocket. The motor wouldn’t start without it. He locked the doors and had to jog a little to catch up to the girls. The security line took an hour and any buzz Roy might’ve had was long gone. The girls were excited inside the store, as everyone was, and Roy tried not to kill it by telling them what a fucking joke the place was and that it had always been a joke. While the girls picked out new underwear and socks and shirts and jeans, Roy grabbed one of the motorized super carts, like a mini-flatbed truck, and limited-out on one hundred pounds of rice, fifty pounds of coffee, one hundred pounds of rye flour, one hundred pounds of black beans, a five-gallon jug of olive oil, and topped off the cart bed with as many cases of Wally beer and box wine as he could.
The girls found him already waiting in the checkout queue. He should’ve brought the dog and he should’ve brought Karen, or he could’ve waited until tomorrow. He could get rolled while he was loading all this stuff up. He’d left his pistol in his truck. He couldn’t bring it through security.
The girls were trying on sunglasses and tossing candy into the cart, knowing that Roy wouldn’t stop them.
“Wiley,” he said, “come here. Grab your sister.”
“What?” Wiley said.
“When we get by security and into the parking lot, I want you to pay attention. If you see anyone coming at us, in a car or on foot, any wrong-looking shit at all, I want you to let me know, because I’m going to be loading the truck and I won’t be able to see anything when I’m in the camper, all right?”
