Chapter 6
Water and Warmth
When we were nearing Lydia’s brother’s house, I started smelling burning wood, but it didn’t register in my thick, clouded mind until I saw several thin, wispy columns of smoke rising in the distance. I stopped in my tracks and stared, fearing another huge inferno ahead. Lydia must have noticed the fear in my eyes because she stopped and said gently,
—It’s okay; most of the homes in this neighborhood have fireplaces.
It took a few seconds for that to sink in, but when it did, I started walking again with increased urgency to get there. It was late afternoon now and bitterly cold. I couldn’t feel my feet or my face, and I knew that Lydia must have been freezing, too. As terrified as I now was of fire, the thought of a chance to get warm overwhelmed my fear, and now I couldn’t wait to get there.
The neighborhood was quiet and clean, unlike downtown. In the twilight it looked like it was out of a fairytale, untouched by the events of the last few months. It was only as we got closer that I noticed the many tree stumps in the yards—ornamental trees that had been cut down for fuel. The few trees that were left in the yards and a nearby park were huge old-growth trees, whose lower branches had all been hacked off, their ragged stumps protruding from the trunk like amputations gone wrong. Nevertheless, the neighborhood seemed magical to me and in my overtired, overwrought, starved and dehydrated brain I started to believe that I might be in heaven.
When we got to the house, Lydia’s brother was ecstatic to see her. It was obvious that he hadn’t heard from her for a while and feared for her safety when downtown was burning. He looked at me a little warily but invited me in anyway, apparently trusting his sister’s instincts. Lydia introduced her brother as Roger, his wife as Silvia, and their daughter, who seemed to be about nine or ten years old, as Whitley. I was able to choke out my name through my cracked, frozen lips and parched throat. Roger led Lydia and me into the living room where the fireplace was sending out rays of wonderful heat, then handed us large cups of clear, warm water. I gulped it down, marveling that they had so much water to drink. After the cup was empty, he filled it again, and I gulped it down, as well. After the third cup, Roger told me I should slow down, or I would get sick. He said that since it had snowed, they had plenty of water that they could melt over the fireplace. They didn’t have any food they could offer, though, and that was fine by me. I wasn’t hungry anymore, now that my belly was full of water. I managed to squeak out a reply.
—Thanks, I’m good now.
After I warmed up a bit, I took a look around at the family. Lydia was talking softly with her brother and his wife while their daughter was sitting on the floor across the room staring at me with her huge dark eyes. I noticed that like everyone else I’d seen lately, this family was skinny and their faces had a sickly, grayish tint surrounding eyes that appeared larger than normal and sunken into their heads. It reminded me of some of the people in anime movies, the really sad ones like Grave of the Fireflies. I knew then that I wasn’t in heaven and that these people were suffering, too, although they seemed to have it a little better than the people in the downtown area had. At least they had some heat and now water to drink. The little girl motioned me over to her, and I decided to go since I felt a little awkward just standing there by the fire.
Another thing I noticed as I sat on the floor by Whitley, was the absence of much furniture. There was a sofa, on which was seated Roger and Lydia, and a recliner that Sylvia was sitting in. Other than that, there was not another chair, no end tables, bookcases, or any other piece of furniture that you’d expect to see in a house such as this. Lamps and a few knickknacks were placed on the floor near the walls, and there was a big pile of blankets on the floor behind the sofa. Whitley tentatively began a conversation.
—Your name’s Ben, right?
I nodded.
— I’m Whitley.
—That’s an unusual name. Where’d you get it?
I knew my reply had sounded lame, but I couldn’t think of anything else to say.
—My mom’s middle name is Whitney and my dad’s middle name is Lee.
When I still looked perplexed, she continued.
—You know, Whit Lee.
—Oh, I get it.
—Who are you named for?
—My dad named me after Benjamin Franklin, I guess. He admired him.
My voice cracked at the mention of my dad, and I looked down quickly to hide the tears that threatened to spring to my eyes. While I was struggling to take control of my tingling eyes, I focused on my name and why I was named that. I know Dad was a fan of Benjamin Franklin, but I wasn’t sure if it was the man he loved or the $100 bill that bore his portrait. As for my middle name, Matthew, I didn’t know where that came from, but then out of the blue, I remembered that Mom’s maiden name was Matthews and all of a sudden I had an immense yearning to see her again and to be held in her arms. I knew then that I had subconsciously been following Lydia because she was heading north, the direction of Mom’s house. Somehow the thought of being halfway to Mom’s cheered me, and I was able to answer when Whitley asked me,
—How old are you?
—I’ll be fifteen in April. How about you?
—I’m almost thirteen. In May.
That surprised me. I didn’t think she was older than ten, but I realized it was probably because of her emaciated condition. I probably looked a lot younger than I was, as well. She sounded sad when she spoke next.
—I don’t think my dad will let you stay. We don’t have enough food for us as it is, and now with Aunt Lydia…
She shook her head apologetically.
—That’s ok. I’m headed to my mom’s house up north.
I smiled to show her that I understood her family’s predicament.
—You want to know what I miss most?
She sounded wistful and young. I figured she was going to say that she missed going to school, seeing friends, texting on her cell phone, or something like that, but she surprised me again.
—I miss reading before I go to sleep. I always used to read until I couldn’t keep my eyes open anymore. Now it’s too dark, and I just lie there in the dark, not able to go to sleep.
—Don’t you have any candles that you could read by?
—Oh, no. Those we burned in the first month. And the flashlight batteries gave out the first week.
—I can show you how to make a lamp out of cooking oil if you have some.
Whitley’s eyes grew bright even in the dim light of the fireplace.
—I think we have some in the pantry! Let’s go see.
Whitley jumped up and grabbed a small piece of wood stacked on the floor beside the fireplace. It appeared to be the leg off some piece of furniture, and it dawned on me why the house was so empty. They were forced to burn pieces of their wood furniture to keep warm. Whitley held the end of the piece of wood in the fire until it lit, then led me through the kitchen to the pantry. The fire from the stick was dim, but we could see the few items left on the pantry shelves, mostly non-food items like trash bags and dishwashing liquid. There was no cooking oil, however, there was a big can of Crisco. She held it out to me.
—Will this work?
—I don’t know why we couldn’t try it and see.
It took Whitley a little time to talk her dad into letting us use it. He thought they might have to eat it to stay alive, but finally decided that if they were reduced to eating shortening, they wouldn’t live long after that anyway, so he let her have it. She gave him a big hug with tears in her eyes, and I could tell that he was happy to see her smile for once. We found some string and a small stick, which I used to poke a hole down the middle of the shortening. Then I pushed one end of the string down into it, leaving about a half an inch sticking out the top. Whitley used the lit piece of wood to light the end of the wick. It flickered at first, then began to burn brightly after the shortening around it melted a little. It was amazing how much light it put off and soon
the rest of the family was gathered around it, marveling at my ingenuity.
Later that night, Whitley happily read herself to sleep wrapped in blankets on the floor behind the sofa with the Crisco lamp burning brightly. While Lydia slept on the sofa, I was ecstatic to be able to sleep in front of the fireplace, my yearning for warmth winning out over my fear of fire. Sylvia smiled at me gratefully as she blew out the wick on her way to bed.
In the morning, Roger showed me the traps that he and his neighbors had devised for trapping small animals, like squirrels and rabbits, in the neighborhood. He told me that at first they were successful, but now there weren’t many animals left in the neighborhood. He said that he now spent a good portion of each day walking the three miles or so down to the banks of the Missouri River to set traps for birds, rats, squirrels, or any other animal he was lucky enough to catch. He had to stay to guard them, though, or someone else would steal the trapped animal and often the trap itself. Most days he came home empty handed, but sometimes he would get lucky and catch two or three animals.
Roger reluctantly told me I could stay with them, as long as I caught my own food. He made it clear that although they were willing to share their house, there wasn’t enough food to go around and I could tell it was hard for him to say it, both because he didn’t want to feel obligated to share and because he felt bad about turning a needy kid away. I didn’t mind, though. I knew they had to take care of family first, and they had absolutely no reason to open their home to me, a stranger. I assured him that I wouldn’t be staying much longer. As soon as the weather warmed up a little I was going to head out for my mom’s house up north.
Chapter 7
Homecoming
I stayed a week with Whitley and her family. I didn’t eat much, but at least I was warm and had water to drink. I liked the family and they were pretty nice to me, especially when I bagged a couple of rabbits in a park down by the river and gave it to them for letting me stay, but I began thinking about Mom all the time. I found I didn’t care anymore about the divorce and remarriage—I just wanted her to hold me in her arms again. I left one morning when the sun was shining and I had hope in my heart. Roger told me before I left that if things got bad, I could come back and stay with them. I couldn’t imagine a reason that I would do that.
It had snowed twice more since the day of the fire, but it had melted some, too, so the highway I was following was sloshy and uncomfortable. I walked from early morning until after dark but arrived at Mom’s before it was very late. I was so happy to see the house, the same house I had spent so much time avoiding the past two years, time that could have been spent with Mom. I felt the lost Time like a finger poking my heart and vowed to make up for it now.
I knocked on the door—the doorbell didn’t work without electricity, of course—and after several minutes, Lyle answered the door. At least I thought it was Lyle; I barely recognized him at first and I was shocked by his appearance. He was thin and unshaven; his clothes were stained and torn. A long way from the handsome, self-assured doctor he had been last time I’d seen him. He stared at me for a few seconds before he recognized me, then he smiled sadly and invited me in.
He led me into the living room, where he had a fire burning in the fireplace and asked me if I wanted something to drink. I nodded, and he gave me a cup of water, apologizing that he didn’t have any pop or anything else to offer me. He seemed odd, but I just figured it was the situation we were all in.
—Where’s Mom?
— She’s not here…
Lyle looked away and wrung his hands together like he was trying to hold on to something, but not succeeding.
—Your mother…
He looked at me then, and his eyes teared up. It was a few seconds before he could go on, but I didn’t want him to. I wanted to shout, NO! Don’t tell me!, but I just stood there dumbfounded, while the finger poking my heart turned into a fist.
—I’m sorry, Ben. She passed away three days ago.
The fist suddenly slammed into my heart, and I felt my whole body crumpling under the blow. Lyle caught me before I hit the floor, then he held me in his arms like I was a little kid and cried into my neck. I couldn’t cry, I couldn’t breathe, I couldn’t see, I couldn’t hear. I felt like I had died, like the blow was too great and that my heart had stopped beating right then and there. I don’t know how long Lyle held me, but after a while he gently laid me on the sofa by the fire and covered me with a very soft, warm blanket and left the room. I remember lying there thinking, This must be it, this must be heaven. It’s warm and soft; I’m not hungry or thirsty. The only thing missing is Mom and Dad. Then I got mad. I finally started crying hot, angry tears. It was my old enemy Time again—three days, I missed her by three days. If I had left Whitley’s house the day after I’d arrived, I could have seen her, saved her. I could have at least apologized for turning my back on Time before the CME, time we could have spent together, time I could have forgiven her, told her I loved her, and time we could have used to make new happy memories. Now there was no time; there would never be time again. I felt the crush of guilt for blaming Time and Mom, instead of myself.
I think I lay on that couch, drifting in and out of consciousness for a few days; I no longer cared how many days were passing. Lyle brought me water, spooned some weak broth into my mouth, and every so often, something bitter tasting dissolved in water. I hoped it was poison, but I think it was probably some kind of medicine. He also put cold compresses on my forehead when I was feverish and tucked extra blankets around me when I shivered. I dreamed about Dad and fire, and Mom and snow, sometimes even when I was awake. I thought if I lived, I would be insane. I deserved worse.
After a number of days, I awoke one morning with a clear head. The sun was shining through the big bay window in the living room, and I smelled something cooking. It smelled delicious and for the first time in months, I was hungry. I tried to sit up, but got dizzy and had to lie back down until the spell passed. I tried again, slower this time, and was able to stay upright. Lyle came in then and smiled his sad smile.
—Glad to see you back among the living.
I wasn’t glad to be back, but I just nodded my head.
—I stitched up a little girl’s arm last night and gave her some antibiotics to keep it from getting infected. Her father insisted that I take some food in payment. Of course, I refused at first—God knows no one has food to spare—but they’re Mormons, very nice people, and they have those food storage caches. Anyway, I finally let him give me some cans of soup, and he even threw in some crackers.
Lyle was talking as he checked my temperature and looked into my eyes and throat with a little penlight. I was amazed that the battery still worked; I hadn’t seen a flashlight in months, but I guess he probably just used it for short periods of time to check patients. After he seemed satisfied that I was going to live, he went to the kitchen and brought back a steaming cup of soup on a plate, surrounded by crackers. I remembered that this house had four fireplaces, one of which was in the kitchen. It had seemed so ostentatious the last time I was here, but now I felt bad for judging Lyle so harshly.
After I had eaten, I slept for most of the day, as it was dark again when I woke up to the sound of the front door being closed. Lyle came in to check on me while taking off his coat, hat, and gloves and warming his hands over the fire. He gave me another of his now familiar sad smiles and turned back to staring at the fire, saying nothing. I sat up slowly, cleared my throat, reached for the cup of water that Lyle had left on the coffee table, and struggled to make a sound come out of my raspy throat.
—Another patient?
—Yes… Not as good an outcome this time, I’m afraid.
He pressed his lips together and closed his eyes. I decided I didn’t want to know exactly what that meant, so I said nothing. After several minutes, Lyle finally turned to me and said,
—Are you hungry? I can make another can of soup for you.
—That would be really nice, th
ank you.
Lyle returned later with two mugs of soup, and we ate in silence. After we were done, Lyle took the dishes into the kitchen and returned some time later with something in his hand. He gave it to me, then sat down on the sofa opposite mine, watching me as I looked at the object in my hand. It was the watch pin I had given Mom over two years ago. It was stopped at 11:47 a.m. and the little date at the bottom said Nov 1. I just stared at it until Lyle said,
—The last thing she told me was “Give this to Ben; tell him I love him more than Time itself.”
A tear rolled down my cheek and fell onto the face of the watch, then many more began to fall. Lyle handed me a hand towel to wipe my face. After a while, I asked,
—How… why’d she die?
—Your mom had been helping me go door-to-door to take care of sick people. She would normally wear a mask when there was some kind of communicable disease, but one little girl who had the flu or pneumonia was scared of the mask, so your mom took it off to soothe her and care for her. She stayed with the family, caring for that sick little girl for four days until she recovered. Unfortunately, though, your mom couldn’t recover from it after she came down with it. I did all I could, but it just wasn’t enough.
Lyle stared at me for a second, his eyes begging for forgiveness, then looked down, resignedly, at his hands folded in his lap. He seemed to be struggling with the fact that he could not save her.
—Where is she now? I mean, where’d you bury her?
—Well, Ben, I haven’t been able to bury her; the ground’s been too frozen. I made her a box, and she’s in it… out in the shed out back.
He seemed almost apologetic as I stared at him. The thought of putting my mother, my precious, beautiful mother, in a box in the shed seemed like an outrage, an assault on everything good and pure and reasonable.
—I didn’t know what else to do, Ben. You’ve got to understand, there’s nowhere else I could take her. I tried to dig a grave for her, but I couldn’t get deep enough. I’ll finish it when the ground thaws a bit. You can help if you want to.
Teenage Survivalist Series [Books 1-3] Page 18
