The City, Not Long After

by Pat Murphy

  The farmer scratched at the surface with a work-hardened fingernail. The blue did not scratch off.

  “Look, Dad,” the boy said. He had found a living butterfly, sunning itself on the railing, and had captured it in his cupped hands. “I got one of them.”

  “Doesn’t make sense,” the farmer grumbled. “Come on, let’s go.”

  Reluctantly, the boy let the butterfly go and returned to the cart with his father. The insect, a straggler who had been blown away by the wind, found a butterfly-sized patch where the orange paint still showed, opened its wings, and flattened itself against the surface. The ox cart moved off in the direction of San Francisco. “The people who live in that city are crazy,” the farmer muttered, more to himself than to his son. “It’s always been that way.” But his son smiled, thinking of butterflies; and the farmer, for reasons that he could not name, felt a little happier too.

  CHAPTER 17

  ROSE MALONEY HAD GROWN UP in the Richmond district, just a few blocks away from Saint Monica’s Church. Each Sunday her mother took her to Mass. Her father was a building contractor who drank too much and was always generous in his inevitable repentance. Maloney & Associates repaired the church’s roof, fixed leaks in its plumbing, improved its wiring.

  Rose’s childhood memories were filled with polished wooden pews, perfumed holy water, stained glass windows in which every bit of glass shone like a jewel. When Rose was old enough to enroll in kindergarten, she went to the parish school and spent her weekdays under the watchful eyes of black-clad nuns. During recess the students played on the blacktop that doubled as a parking lot on Sundays. Games of four-square, Chinese jumprope, jacks, and dodgeball were conducted beneath the shadow of Saint Monica’s steeple.

  Rose was thirty-nine years old when the Plague struck. She had never married, and she had always lived in her parents’ house. When she graduated from high school, she had taken a job as a secretary. She was a thin woman with a square face and mousy hair that her mother’s hairdresser cut in a style that matched her mother’s. At the time of the Plague, Rose had been working for many years in a small insurance office: typing forms, filing forms, removing forms from the files. She assisted with Catechism class each Saturday and played the organ for weddings.

  Then the Plague came. Her father was an early victim: half the parish attended his funeral. Her mother’s funeral, held just two weeks later, was sparsely attended—by that time, death had become commonplace and every family had funerals of its own to attend. The priest had comforted Rose and murmured platitudes about the will of God.

  After the Plague, when Rose was the last remaining member of the congregation, she continued to walk to the church each day. She sat in a wooden pew, gazing at the effigy of Christ on the cross and admiring the colored light that poured in through the stained glass. She missed chatting with her friends after the service; she missed the Sunday afternoon potluck dinners. But she felt quite at home in the empty church.

  She took good care of the church. Every morning, she swept the congregation hall’s marble floor. She filled the fonts with water—it wasn’t holy water, but she could not help that. She watered the plants that grew in planter boxes just inside the door. This last was her favorite chore; she had always been an amateur gardener.

  One Sunday, three months after the Exodus, she sat in the empty church and looked at the altar. It seemed awfully bare. She wondered if God would mind if she dressed it up a little with flowers and plants. Surely He wouldn’t, she thought.

  As she was thinking about it, a warbler flew in through the open door of the church, perched on the altar, tilted its head back to release a burst of song, then flew to perch on Christ’s head. It was, Rose thought, a sign from God.

  She started slowly, with a few pots of geraniums beneath the crucifix and baskets of English ivy beside each station of the cross. She took the plants from the nursery, stilling a pang of conscience by tallying up the cost of the plants and leaving an IOU at the register.

  She opened the church’s windows to let in more light and air. Finches and sparrows came to explore the cool interior. She took to feeding them—scattering bird seed on the marble floor beside the altar. Each day, she added something: a window box filled with the soft-leafed house plant known as creeping Charlie, a plaster replica of a Grecian urn in which a glossy-leafed olive tree grew, a potted palm that she rescued from someone’s living room.

  After a year or so, she moved to the rectory to be closer to her garden. She set up a system of barrels to catch the rainwater, so that she would have irrigation water during the summer months. She planted ivy at the base of the steeple, bamboo in the baptismal font. When a minor earth tremor broke three of the stained glass windows, she tore out all the colored glass to let in more light. The plants flourished; the birds sang in the foliage and nested on the outstretched arms of the crucifix.

  Danny-boy watched Books flip through a field guide to butterflies. “What about this one?” Books said, holding the book out to Jax and tapping his finger on a photo of a pale blue butterfly. “It’s about the right size. And it’s a uniform blue, as you said.”

  Jax examined the photo and shook her head. “Wrong color. You can see if you go look at the bridge. These were a darker blue.”

  Books continued leafing through the book. For the past few hours he had been writing down Jax’s account of the incident at the bridge, noting the details for his history of the city. He was determined to identify the precise species of butterfly, and he was having little luck. “Are you certain they weren’t moths?” he muttered.

  “I suppose they could have been,” Jax said. “Butterflies and moths aren’t that different, I guess.”

  Shaking his head, Books pulled another book from the stack on the table. Danny-boy wandered away, leaving the two of them poring over a field guide to moths. He strolled down the broad stairway that led to the foyer and stood in the doorway, looking out across the Civic Center Plaza.

  It had been drizzling on and off since morning, and the sky was a sodden gray. He felt restless, tired of being indoors. Ever since the butterflies had made painting the rest of the bridge unnecessary, he had been feeling at loose ends, in need of a new project.

  He heard a bicycle bell ringing and saw Ms. Migsdale riding her bicycle down McAllister Street toward him. Her orange poncho Happed as she rode, like a tropical bird desperate to escape this earthbound mode of transportation. She pulled up at the curb and leaned her bicycle against a lamppost.

  “Hello,” she called to him as she climbed the library steps.

  “Glad to find you here. I came to tell Books that Fourstar’s sent a scouting party to Duff’s place. This is more than the usual spy masquerading as a trader. Looks like he’s getting serious.”

  Danny-boy felt a touch of excitement, which he tried to suppress. It seemed wrong to be glad that the long-promised invasion was finally materializing.

  In the foyer, Ms. Migsdale pulled off the poncho, scattering drops of rainwater on the marble floor. She draped the wet garment over the check-out counter and left it dripping. Danny-boy followed her upstairs where she interrupted Jax and Books to tell them her news.

  “Ten men, headed by a short dark fellow called Rodriguez. Seems like they came the long way around: over the Richmond Bridge and then over the Golden Gate. According to Duff, Rodriguez claims he wanted to avoid a skirmish with the Black Dragons in Oakland. But Duff thinks he wanted to avoid a direct route through the city. A cautious man, I’d say.”

  Danny-boy noticed that Jax’s expression was grim. He rubbed her shoulder gently, but she seemed to take no notice.

  “Duff says he’s been asking about the city. Says he wants to talk to some representatives of the local government.”

  “I’ll talk to him,” Danny-boy said, just as Jax said, “I’ll go.”

  Ms. Migsdale looked at Books. “I thought we might all go. Together we represent a good cross-section of the city, wouldn’t you say?”

  As a
lways, the asphalt courtyard in front of Duff’s trading post bustled with farmers, traders, scavengers, and city dwellers. Farmers were selling vegetables from wagons and makeshift stalls. The drooping awnings that sheltered the produce steamed in the afternoon sun as the last of the rain evaporated.

  With the others, Danny-boy followed Ms. Migsdale through the market. The old woman greeted many of the traders by name, inquiring after their families and promising to stop and chat after she finished her business with Rodriguez.

  “Ms. Migsdale knows just about everybody who trades at Duff’s,” Danny-boy told Jax. “That’s one way she gets stories for the New City News.”

  Jax nodded, but didn’t reply. She held her crossbow in her right hand, and her left kept straying to touch her knife.

  “You doing all right?” he asked, touching her arm.

  “I wish I’d been wrong.” He could barely hear her voice over the noise of the market. “I thought maybe they wouldn’t come after all.”

  He squeezed her arm in an effort at reassurance. “You don’t have to talk to them. You can go back to the city.”

  She shot him an incredulous look. “Go back? Not likely. I have to stay. These guys would eat you three for breakfast and look around for more.”

  “You’re underestimating us,” Danny-boy protested. “You’d be surprised at—”

  “Right,” she said in a tone of disbelief. She straightened her shoulders and whistled to Jezebel, who was delicately sniffing at an unattended basket of dried fish. “I’m coming.”

  On the front porch of one of Duff’s houses, they found a barefoot soldier leaning against the wall and polishing his black boots. “Excuse me,” Ms. Migsdale said. “We’re looking for a man named Rodriguez.”

  The soldier, a Chicano no older than Danny-boy, looked up from his work, studying them with eyes as black and expressionless as his polished boot. “You mean Major Rodriguez?”

  “I suppose so,” Ms. Migsdale said. “What’s your business?”

  Danny-boy noticed Jax stiffen, but she said nothing. Ms. Migsdale ignored the soldier’s hostile tone. “We understand he wanted to speak with some representatives from the city,” she said mildly. “You represent the city?” The soldier eyed the group—taking in Ms. Migsdale’s orange poncho and Books’ stained gray suit—and laughed. “You’ve got to be kidding? This place must be even worse off than we thought. Is the dog a representative too?”

  “There’s really no need to take that attitude,” Books began. “I don’t see…”

  Danny-boy glanced at Jax and saw her lift her crossbow. “Soldier, we don’t have time to waste on your bullshit,” she said, and fired the bolt into the wall just a few inches above the man’s head. The bolt penetrated the wood with a sharp crack. Without taking her eyes from the soldier, Jax slipped another bolt into place and lifted the bow again.

  Danny-boy noticed that the traders nearest the house had fallen silent and were watching the soldier. He saw the soldier’s eyes dart to the traders, then back to Jax. The corners of her mouth lifted in a kind of smile. “Just wanted to get your attention,” she said softly.

  “Why don’t you try being polite, son?” a trader suggested. “Don’t know if he knows how,” said a farmer standing nearby. “There’s no need for all this,” Ms. Migsdale broke in. “If you would just let Major Rodriguez know that we’re here, I’m certain that he’ll be glad to see us.”

  The soldier backed away, abandoning his boots on the porch and vanishing through the front door. Danny-boy laid a hand on Jax’s shoulder. “Take it easy,” he murmured. She was trembling, ever so slightly. “It’s okay.”

  The curtain at an upstairs window moved, as if someone were glancing out. A few minutes later, a different soldier—this one with his boots on and his rifle in hand—came to escort them into a small living room.

  Major Rodriguez was a clean-shaven man with a military haircut. He smiled when Books introduced the members of the group, but the expression was just a movement of the lips. It never reached his eyes. “My apologies for the incident at the door. I wasn’t expecting a citizen’s delegation.” He sounded more annoyed than apologetic.

  He shook hands with Books, Ms. Migsdale, and Danny-boy. Jax hung back, remaining in the doorway. The soldier who had escorted them to the room held his rifle ready and kept his eyes on Jax. The Major gestured to the couch, and Ms. Migsdale, Books, and Danny-boy sat down.

  “Please make yourself comfortable,” he said to Jax.

  She didn’t move. “I am comfortable,” she said.

  Major Rodriguez’s smile vanished for an instant, then reappeared quickly. He shrugged. “As you like.” He turned his attention to Books, the person he clearly regarded as the leader of the group. “Now, what portion of the city’s population do you represent?”

  Books wet his lips, frowning. “We represent ourselves, of course. And we can talk to the others. But you see, we don’t have a representative form of government. We follow more of a town council model. When we want to decide something, we all get together and discuss it. But you’d be surprised at how few things really affect everyone. Most decisions can be made in smaller groups.”

  “I see. But you’ve been appointed to talk for the other people who live in the city?”

  “Not at all,” Books said. “We just thought we’d come and find out what you wanted.”

  Rodriguez frowned. “Then you aren’t an official delegation?” Books looked at Danny-boy and Ms. Migsdale. “As official as you’ll find anywhere in the city, I’d guess. Wouldn’t you say?”

  Danny-boy shrugged. “I suppose.”

  “You won’t find anything more official,” Ms. Migsdale said. “I’d say you’re lucky to find anyone who wants to talk to you at all.”

  “You might as well talk to us,” Books said. “We can let the others know what you say. So why don’t you just explain what you’re doing here?”

  Rodriguez shifted uneasily in his seat, then straightened his shoulders as if determined to proceed even under such irregular circumstances. “I’m sure that you’re aware of Sacramento’s efforts to reunify our nation,” he said. “Under the leadership of General Alexander Miles, the citizens of the Central Valley are reaching out to their neighbors. Wherever we find pockets of survivors, struggling to make a new life in the ruins of the old, we join with them, add our strength to theirs. I’ve come to invite you to join us.”

  Danny-boy studied the faces of his companions during Rodriguez’s speech. Books looked noncommittal, Jax looked hostile, and Ms. Migsdale’s expression grew distinctly sour. When Rodriguez finished, they sat in silence for a moment. Finally, Ms. Migsdale spoke.

  “I wouldn’t say we were struggling,” she said dryly. “In fact, I’d say we were doing quite well.” She stared at Rodriguez steadily. Danny-boy had seen her use the same kind of look on Tommy when he misbehaved. “And from what I hear, General Miles’ invitations are difficult to decline. As I understand it, the folks in Fresno chose not to accept the invitation—and yet somehow they’re now part of the General’s empire.”

  Rodriguez leaned back in his chair. Danny-boy had the feeling that he welcomed Ms. Migsdale’s objection. “In Fresno, a minority faction attempted to prevent the city from joining our alliance. The General’s army assisted the legitimate government in overcoming this resistance.” He smiled, showing a thin line of yellowing teeth. “If you visit Fresno today, you’ll find that the citizens are proud to be part of our alliance.”

  “I find that difficult to believe,” Ms. Migsdale muttered. “Could you be more specific, Major?” Books asked calmly.

  “What exactly do you want from us?”

  “We want to join forces with you,” Rodriguez said. “Our forces will protect you from your enemies. In return, the resources of San Francisco will assist our efforts. Both parties will benefit.”

  Danny-boy spoke for the first time, genuinely puzzled by Rodriguez. “I don’t understand. Who are you going to protect us from? The only pe
ople who ever bother us much are the Black Dragons, and they haven’t been on this side of the bay for years.”

  Rodriguez glanced at Danny-boy, obviously annoyed by what he perceived as an interruption from a minor member of the delegation. “I’m sure you’re aware of the fanatics to the south and the bigamists to the east,” Rodriguez said. “The fabric of our society is threatened by gypsies, who wander from place to place, spreading infection, stealing. General Miles seeks to restore order to a nation sorely in need of it.”

  Danny-boy scratched his head. “I’ve always liked the gypsies and traders. They’ve got some interesting ideas. How would we get our news if they weren’t around?”

  “I agree,” Books said. “Why, I had a fascinating conversation just the other day with a Mormon who had stopped for the night here at Duff’s. Quite an intelligent man, though I felt his views on the Bible were rather narrow. Still it was an interesting interchange.”

  “It seems we have a very basic disagreement,” Ms. Migsdale broke in. “You seem to think that joining together into a larger and more powerful nation is automatically good. We don’t necessarily agree. Personally, I’ve always thought that nations were tremendously overrated. I can’t say I was particularly proud to be an American; I never cared much for America as a whole, though I liked my neighborhood well enough. I’ve always favored a somewhat looser structure, more like the city-states of early Greece.”

  Danny-boy spoke up, trying to explain their position more clearly. “I don’t really like this business of wanting to restore order,” he said. “I think disorder works just fine. There’s a lot to be said for chaos. It’s a much more creative environment. So I guess we don’t have much to say to each other. It doesn’t seem like we have all that much in common.” He hesitated, watching the expression on Rodriguez’s face. The man seemed so distressed. Danny-boy groped for a suggestion that might comfort him. “But maybe you could send some of your artists here. Just a few, maybe. That’d be fun. They’d bring in some new ideas, and it might be interesting.”