The Anarchists

by Brian Thompson

  “Hello there. Offer you some lemonade?” An elderly black woman approached him with a sweating mason jar of pale yellow liquid. Damario’s grandmother looked just the way he remembered her the last time he saw her alive. He grasped the jar and almost choked on the frigid drink as he gulped it. It quenched a thirst he did not even know that he had.

  Nothing in my dreams has ever felt this real.

  “You ain’t gotta admit it. I know it’s good. Ain’t nothin’ like it on a day hot as this. Weatherman say it’s s’posed to be 90 degrees. Swear it’s more; ain’t no wind movin’.”

  He gazed into the clear sky. She led him through the parlor into the kitchen. Sure enough, an antique high definition television covered in dust and a digital telephone sat near the front door. Despite that, the parlor showed an attention to cleanliness. His grandmother kept the maroon shag impeccably vacuumed, and the wooden panel walls retained their original color. Damario ran his hand over the ivory cloth furniture and detected the scent of dinner cooking in the air. Three places were set with napkins and silverware.

  “Who’s joining us, Ma’Dear?”

  “Who you think? Have a seat. She’ll be here soon.”

  Damario did not have to dig through the compartments of his memory. Soon, the screen door opened. In came a female vision of a woman in a purple flowing silk evening gown and flowing thin dreadlocks. Suddenly, he felt underdressed and conscious of it. Robinne Glasse greeted his grandmother by name and assumed the chair next to Damario, which urged him to slide away from her.

  “Be civil,” his grandmother warned him. “Ain’t Christian to be mean and nasty like that.”

  “Please stay out of it, Ma’Dear.” At that, she vanished like a wisp of steam. He looked around for her. Had he wished his grandmother away? He wanted Robinne to do the same.

  “It doesn’t work that way,” the beauty said. “I think you know that.”

  Damario huffed. “I don’t know much of anything here, wherever I am.”

  “You know.” Robinne moistened her lips. “Love the dreads, Copycat.”

  “Why are you here?”

  “You know the answer to that, too, D.”

  Frustrated, he pounded his right fist against the table. When it struck, he realized that his fist had regained function. So did his eye. He wiggled his fingers and touched his eyelid. He shook salt and pepper into his hand and tasted it. Real. The linoleum floor and the cheap plastic dining room furniture were authentic, as well. With much hesitation, he touched Robinne’s arm and stroked its skin.

  “That tickles,” she giggled. “What more do you need to understand?”

  “Senior year. Why?”

  She smiled. “You don’t waste time. Why do you think?”

  “I never bought that crap about someone else. I know you better than that.” The atmosphere behind them shifted, from that of a southern home’s kitchen to a nighttime garden in the midst of a college campus quad. “You thought it couldn’t work long distance. I told you it would, but to not answer my calls for 13 years? C’mon, we’re at least friends, aren’t we?”

  Tears formed in her eyes.

  “I heard you’d asked about me, and I got married, but that doesn’t mean there’s nothing left for me to say. I went to business school, not the end of the earth.”

  “We were friends, but we were lovers, too. No wife wants that kind of friend for her husband.”

  Damario’s heart pumped a little harder. “And if I hadn’t gone?

  “I know what you want me to say,” Robinne sniffed.

  He took her hand in his and held it tightly. His pulse quickened as they came closer. Their surroundings and clothes had changed again. “Let me say it for you.”

  The couple leaned into a passionate kiss that continued – longer, deeper, and more passionate than any he had ever remembered experiencing. Breathless, they parted enough for him to directly speak into her ear.

  “You’re still in my heart,” he said. He felt the skin of Robinne’s cheek shift backwards from smiling. He also smiled. “Would you have me again?”

  There needed to be no answer. He sniffed the perfume emanating from behind her ear – a mixture of sweet flower nectar and a summer breeze. She giggled with delight. Robinne. For the first time since his early 20’s, he said her name, over and over again.

  A paralyzing pain dropped him to the ground. Damario unintelligibly moaned.

  “Relax, Mister Coley.” No longer feminine, her voice resembled that of Ellis. “Settle down and try to relax.”

  His arm beneath the elbow ached. Then, stabbing flared at the right knee. Damario struggled to catch his breath and lost vision in his right eye before passing out.

  When Damario awoke, Ellis monitored his racing heartbeat. A red-eyed Madison crossed to the right side of the room. How much of it did she hear? He typed into the keypad. “Date.”

  “Ask Robinne,” Madison sniffled before storming out.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  January 5, 2050

  Since the mid-1960’s, the James family mandated that its dead be in the ground after no more than three days. The ceremony rooted in superstition would be the manner in which Harper buried Micah. Pronounced dead late last Saturday, he would be interred Wednesday.

  Next to Micah’s mother, Laverne James, Harper held court in the funeral home’s parlor and popped a few saltines into her mouth. Her pregnancy limited her to the amount and type of medications she could take. The nurse said to avoid stress, which might be possible, after today.

  Both the James and Lowe families flew into town. The former did not wear black or navy blue, yet another decades-old tradition. Micah’s great-grandmother, Joséphine Coutiér-James, had insisted on the wardrobe for funerals ages ago. The family observed it for her and each of her four children – Darrion, Jr., the oldest and Micah’s grandfather, Betty Joséphine, Kelley, and Leroy – before making it an unspoken expectation.

  The picture of composure for a grieving mother, Laverne donned a royal purple suit jacket and matching dress to celebrate her son’s life, and possibly more. After all, who knew if Micah would be resurrected on earth instead, warranting celebration? God had intervened like that before in her family, though most of them now debunked it as a hoax once all of the eyewitnesses died.

  “Welcome.” Harper greeted those who passed the front row of chairs, occasionally substituting salutations with a hug. The fatigue and guilt of the past few days caught up to her. In those brief moments of respite, the baby in her belly reminded her of it. She did not do what she and her boyfriend agreed to do and because of it, he died. If she had aborted their child, all three of them would be gone. His daughter and their son would be orphans. That thought alone tethered her in the weak moments.

  Christian sat on Harper’s lap and Gabrielle fidgeted next to Laverne on Harper’s left, with Charlotte Lowe, Harper’s mother, at her right. Gabrielle’s mother, who refused to attend the wake or the viewing, did not care whether Micah lived or died, as long as her child support payments kept coming.

  The music slowly dragged during the closed casket ceremony and the building’s heater sputtered out bursts of temperate air. Micah desired to be buried here – not in Zyonne, North Carolina where his people originated. Harper’s insistence on following his wishes to the letter caused a rift with Laverne so large that Charlotte stepped in and paid for everything. While this resulted in a lecture about how Harper should have conducted herself differently when it came to finances, it lifted a weight off of her shoulders. Harper would use most of Micah’s life insurance policy to help their family maintain a slightly better quality of life. It’s what he would have wanted, she thought.

  Laverne asked the pastor of the local assembly to say a few words, before speaking herself – after which she expected Harper to represent Micah, as the mother of his son.

  Just yesterday, she regained the power to talk and retain composure. And they want me to eulogize him? He wasn’t saved. Laverne should ask someone else
to do it, but she won’t.

  “Talk from your heart,” Laverne told Harper. “You don’t have to be long.”

  “You know, Harper.” Charlotte moistened her thin pink lips. “You don’t have to say anything, no matter what these people think of you.”

  “These people?” Laverne reared back. “What do you mean, ‘these people’, Charlotte?”

  “She loved him in her way,” retorted Charlotte. “She should say goodbye to him the same.”

  “I know, Mother.” Harper set Christian in her place. “This is how Mike wanted it. And don’t say ‘these people’. It’s offensive.”

  Charlotte tugged the ends of her suit’s coat. “You know, that’s not what I meant, Laverne.”

  “No, Charlotte, I don’t. But now's not the time.”

  Harper walked to the front. “I wanted to do things his way today, and not the way we thought it should’ve gone. I know that’s hard for some of you to understand because of your rich spiritual tradition. I would never want to disrespect that about you. But Mike wanted things done his way.”

  Her soft voice cracked with sadness. “The last thing he wanted me to do, I couldn’t do. There are a million reasons why I should’ve. But there’s one reason I didn’t and, because of that, he’s no longer here with us. I chose. I chose our unborn child and it cost him his life.”

  Charlotte rose and tried to escort her daughter back to her seat. They struggled for a second until Charlotte accidentally said, “It’s not your fault he’s dead!” out loud for all to hear.

  “A group of hateful people killed my husband.” Tears rolled down Harper’s face. “But we gave them the opportunity. All I could see was the money. How could we afford another baby?

  “We’ve borrowed money from some of you down the line and couldn’t repay it. Soon, I will. But the love of my life is gone. My children have no father. And if you have a sense of loss, but there’s money in your pocket, maybe you know what it’s like to be me a little. Does it ease your pain?” Harper rushed out down the center aisle. Charlotte, Gabrielle, and Christian followed.

  Members of both families muttered among themselves until Laverne quieted them. “Please, everyone, let’s show reverence.” Once it became clear to her that Harper, Charlotte, and the children did not intend to return to the main room, she instructed the undertaker to call the pallbearers forth.

  After the families bid their goodbyes, the men loaded the casket into the rear of a stretch black Marque. From there, a caravan led by Charlotte’s canary yellow Spirit proceeded to the cemetery. Micah’s final resting place would be a compartment inside of a climate-controlled building. There, a bronze placard emblazoned with his name, birth, and death dates would mark it.

  Following the interment, Charlotte invited both families to her home for a repast. The socialite’s prim but stately opulence left no doubt to the type of culinary spread she planned; ham, turkey, and all the trimmings. Most of the Jameses, including Laverne, did not care for the pretentious woman, but they would not give up a free meal – especially after traveling so far and so long. But, while Micah’s mother recounted old stories en route to her transport, Charlotte, Harper and her children did not move from the mausoleum’s foyer.

  “Miss Lowe.” The undertaker placed a gloved hand on Harper’s shoulder. “The rest of the family is readying to leave. We are waiting on you.”

  Harper did nothing that indicated an awareness of anything around her, including the man at her right.

  “Ma’am, with all due respect, I have another funeral I must prepare for.”

  Charlotte approached. “Leave us.”

  “It's part of my duties. I must insist that. . .”

  “. . .and we must decline. Thank you for your service. Now go.”

  The kindly man donned a hat and walked back to the main transport. While Gabrielle minded after her brother, Harper and Charlotte stood next to one another in front of Micah’s blank marker. Harper rolled a small object inside her closed hand.

  “The droids and service staff will take good care of them,” Charlotte said. She checked her appearance in a compact mirror. “Formalities are the last thing you need to worry about right now, but your family will be everything you’ll need later. It was that way for me when Harper had his accident. Afterward, I needed you and you were there. Micah and I had our differences, but I loved him.” She squeezed Harper’s fist. “Let me be here for you now.”

  Until now, Harper’s ability to keep it together had strained under the day’s emotional weight. Her mascara did not run. Tears had been in limited supply. “This morning,” she forced out. “I scrambled eggs.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Mike liked them with a bit of pancake mix. . .makes them fluff up more. I used the stove, you know, old fashioned. He said it retains more heat that way. But he stirs them with a fork. It makes them look like crumbs.”

  “I didn’t know that.”

  “The kids eat them whatever way. So, I forgot this morning and used a spoon. He didn’t correct me, like he usually does. I forgot he’s gone, Mom. His got cold, so I ate them.”

  “Keep up your strength.”

  “Dad said all the time, ‘You can always make more money’.”

  “I suppose that's true.”

  “Because, if so. . .” Harper trailed off with sudden vigor. She opened her closed fist. In it rolled a fire-damaged, thumb segment-sized, blood red disk. “Why didn’t we have it?”

  Charlotte knew the correct answer to the question, because she had asked a similar one of herself years ago. In time, her daughter would discover it, as well. To their left, another funeral gathered and would soon intrude upon them.

  “In weeks, I’ll have more money in my account than I could want.”

  Aware of the approaching company, her mother stood up and encouraged her daughter to do the same. “Harper. . .”

  “Three times as much as we’ve ever earned as a household, at least.”

  “It’s time to go. Say your peace.”

  “There is no peace!” Harper’s bellowing frightened the children present. The grieving elderly ignored the outburst and filled in around them. Composing herself, Harper approached Micah’s placard, touched her lips and gently fingered the placard. The next service was for a woman who peacefully died at the nadir of life and not its zenith.

  Harper would not say goodbye. “So long.”

  The ride to Charlotte’s home went speechless. When the mother-daughter duo entered the room, the conversations continued. Glasses were filled and eating commenced without a pause. Silence and stares would worsen the already present discomfort. Robbed of many of their traditions, the James contingent expressed displeasure through mumbling. Their beloved would stay dead this day, but little had been said of his spiritual condition. He came from a rich lineage of faith and preachers, but those raised close to the faith often shunned it under pressure.

  Harper did believe, and she took the children to church with her. But if Micah did not personally confess Jesus Christ, it explained the dark pall over the proceedings and her discomfort.

  Some of the more radical believers there thought his violent end balanced the scales for his attempt at aborting his child. None would voice it. But Harper knew that they thought it and talked behind her back – even if they would not say so. Mentally, she strangled Micah’s trio of busybody, opinionated female cousins.

  Someone finally came to check on her: Jackie, from the Genesis Institute. Harper never introduced her to Micah because of his affinity for exotic-looking women. She never remembered the woman’s ethnic name, so she named her “Jackie.”

  The woman sidled up to Harper and passed her a plate of food. “How are you holding up?”

  Harper stuffed a finger sandwich into her mouth. “This baby’s been kicking my butt. Half the day, I’m nauseous, the other half, I’m ravenous. Don’t worry, I still have your money.”

  “Don’t worry about it. Try the cous cous. It’s amazing.”

>   She scooped the salmon-colored concoction onto a cracker and wolfed it down. “Seldom wrong and right again,” she said with a full mouth. “It's fantastic.”

  “The managing partners and I talked. Take as much time as you need. Don’t worry about your sick days. A bunch of the others kicked in, so you’ve got time. I reallocated your patients.”

  “Thank you for everything.”

  “Listen.” “Jackie” reached out and patted Harper’s thigh. “There's no right time to say this, but you should consider talking to someone. Go see Dr. Nandor Adharma. He’s a psychiatrist and fantastic at what he does. He might be able to help the kids cope. Understanding death poses a difficult challenge for people at any age.”

  Harper considered the offer a good omen. “I know the psychiatry spiel, thanks.” She gave a slight smile to her superior. “I think I’ll take a week or two.”

  “Take three. You’ll need it. Arranging your life after something like this takes longer than you think and you never know how long until you’re knee deep in it.”

  Her superior’s kindness overwhelmed Harper. For reasons unknown to Harper, all of her coworkers referred to their superior as a conniving, silver-tongued serpent. “I don’t know what to say. I think I’ll call him.”

  “Good. Call him any time. Tell him Kareza Noor sent you.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  January 13, 2050

  “My name is Andre. I’m an alcoholic, but I’m beginning again.”

  Piano music swelled and broke into a dramatic, sweeping decrescendo. Quick choral chords built as each different person introduced themselves.

  “My name is Kelly. I’m a sniff addict, but I’m beginning again.”

  “My name is Tamara. . .”

  “My name is Jennifer. . .”

  “Terran. . .”

  “Sophie. . .”