by Mic Roland
While they walked the narrow back streets of North Andover, Martin was juggling more mental balls than he liked. People seemed so calm yesterday: annoyed but relatively calm. That fight at La Quinta seemed like the statistical outlier rather than a trend. This morning, they saw more of the same complacency: people waiting for their usual routines to resume. There was some tension at Andrew’s Market, and those gas stations, but by and large, people still acting pretty typical. Not all that good, he thought, but typical.
Had things suddenly gone nuts in just two days? Protesters demanding food and clashing with police? Riots? This was only the third day without power. Part of Martin did not want to believe that civility could collapse so quickly. Maybe there had been riots in those inner city neighborhoods. It did not take but a day or two for the Fergusson trouble to boil over into riots. Was that happening here?
A vague third option danced around the edges of his thinking like a persistent gnat. Were the reports fake? That seemed impossible to pull off. Even if they could, why would they?
He had no warm feelings towards Massachusetts government, but neither was he one of those twichy-eyed old coots in tinfoil hats, bristling with paranoia about ‘The Gubmint.’ He had a hard time picturing Mass government as the diabolical Beast from the book of Revelation. A pack of 400 pound Keystone Cops seemed more fitting. They did not seem competent enough to be evil.
Trying to rationalize what he had seen and knew, he wondered if the governor knew the outage was going to be a long one. Food and fuel shipments would be virtually halted. Trouble could brew up. Were they trying to get everyone “locked down” before riots — real riots — could break out? Were the riot stories to scare people into complying with their stern emergency protocols? Authoritarian control via the smoke screen of public safety?
“Hey, could we take a break?” Susan called out.
“Huh? Oh sure. Sorry. I’ve been lost in thought.”
“Noticed. You haven’t said a word for blocks. I thought you were really angry or something.”
“No, not angry, just thinking.”
“I guess. You walked across that busy road back there without even looking. Good thing those people slowed down for you.”
Martin felt embarrassed. He did not remember crossing any busy roads. Nor had he noticed that the tree-lined suburb had morphed into a low scrabble retail zone. He certainly scored no points for situational awareness.
No more deep thinking, he resolved. Not until I’m safely at home in my comfy chair again.
He pointed up ahead. “How about that planter around that sign over there?”
“Sounds good,” she said. ”I just need to sit for awhile.”
Martin coaxed Susan into checking her blister bandaging. The gauze did need to be replaced. He insisted on checking her other foot for any blisters-in-the-making. She reluctantly agreed. Martin noted that she did not close her eyes or look away this time. She did, however, resume her sad-puzzled look.
Without looking up from applying fresh tape, Martin said. “Your feet still aren’t weird, by the way.”
When she did not answer, he looked over at her. She was not looking at her feet, but at him. He was a bug under the magnifying glass again.
“What?” He sounded more annoyed than he was.
“Nothing?” She answered slowly, like a kid who had a frog in her pocket at church.
“Uh huh.” Martin was not buying it, but had a feeling he was better off not knowing.
They were at Sutton Street. It was not as wide as Route 125, but seemed just as full of traffic. Martin noticed more abandoned cars along the sides of the roads: hoods open, doors ajar. People must have used up whatever gas they had in their tanks while trying to get around the roadblocks. More people walked the sidewalks too. Perhaps the gas-less drivers. From their frowns, they seemed like a cranky bunch.
“Okay,” Susan said. “Ready.” She had her socks and shoes on, and her bag poised to roll.
“Alright then.” Martin stood and stretched. He felt dog-tired.
He stopped in mid-stretch. Across the street, a railroad crossing sign caught his eye. He looked at his map again. Tracks came out of Lawrence and followed the river before turning up into Haverhill.
“What do you say we take the tracks up to the bridges? It will be a little trickier walking, but to tell you the truth, melding into all these other walkers doesn’t seem like a good idea. Maybe I’m just spooked by those apartment people back there, but being in a crowd seems like a bad idea right now.”
“I know what you mean. Let’s take the tracks.”
Martin carried the wheels end of Susan’s roller bag. She carried the handle. They looked like hobo stretcher-bearers. In the distance, an occasional siren wailed into earshot, then faded out. Sporadic car horns were proof that frustrated drivers were still trying to get around. It was all muffled, like a television playing in another room. It was someone else’s reality. Alone, on the quiet tracks, between the red, yellow and brown trees, it was a world removed.
Walking single file did not encourage conversation. Despite his resolution to not get lost in thought again, he did. Would there be policemen blocking the roads to the bridge? Would they be on the bridge? They seemed to be trying to cordon off the areas between interstates. Perhaps this was easier, since fewer roads crossed interstates, there was less to block. Even still, were there enough policemen in the state to block all those roads? That seemed unlikely.
Given the modern commuter lifestyle, few people work near home. What would all those out-of-area people do for housing? Assuming everyone settled down within the cordons, what did the authorities plan to do after that? Did they expect that all the non-residents would get put up in the homes of area residents? How long could that last?
Perhaps that was where the FEMA camps would come in. Maybe that is what the SWAT teams were doing in the middle of Reading. The pretense could be that the authorities are just trying to “help” all those displaced people. Why not just let them all get home? Being “helped” at the point of a carbine was not all that comforting.
Without houses, intersections or landmarks, it was hard to gauge their progress. The sky had been overcast all day, but was getting darker: subtle proof that time was not as frozen as it seemed.
About the time Martin spotted the overpass in the distance, he began to feel drops on his cheeks. He hoped it was just a passing sprinkle, but it picked up.
“It’s starting to rain,” Susan said from behind him.
Martin set down the roller bag. “I was hoping it would stop, but the sky seems pretty dark, so I don’t think it will.”
“I didn’t grab my raincoat,” she said. “Or an umbrella.”
“Well, I’ve got one of us covered.” Martin rummaged in his backpack.
“I’ve got one of these dollar-store plastic ponchos. Here.” He handed it to her.
“You don’t have two? I can’t take your only one.” She handed it back to him.
“No. Take it. I’ll be okay. My jacket is water resistant-ish, and I’ve got my cap. Go ahead, put it on before you get too wet.”
When they got to the overpass, Martin had Susan wait beneath the bridge while he scrambled up the brushy embankment. He wanted to see if the police had the road blocked off.
They did. A black Suburban, with blue lights flashing, blocked one side of the divided roadway. A fire chief’s big red sedan blocked the other side. A large state trooper stood nearer 125, in an impressive none-shall-pass posture. The traffic coming and going along 125 was taking the hint.
Martin could not see far up the road towards 495. He scrambled back down.
“They have the access road blocked off,” he reported. “There could be others up near the interchange, but I couldn’t see that from here. I think we should go back to that little road that crossed the tracks back there. I don’t think it goes far enough, but it will get us close.”
“Looks like you might be right about this little road.” Susa
n pointed to a pair of sawhorses and a half dozen cones where the road met the highway. “The police didn’t think it was worth guarding.”
The sprinkle developed into a light rain. Drips fell from the bill of Martin’s cap. The shoulders of his jacket were starting to get wet. The heavy sky promised more rain.
Through a break in the trees, Martin could see the side of a large commercial building. Two police cars and a handful of officers stood in a loose line, weapons at flat stock, or low ready.
“There’s a BJs over there.” Martin pointed. “Looks like they’re expecting trouble.”
“Looters maybe?” Susan offered.
“Maybe. Guess that’s why they only left sawhorses back there. More men to guard BJs.”
Maybe there really were riots and lootings, thought Martin. Why would they waste manpower guarding a BJs if the stories were fake? Of course, this only proves that these cops believe the stories were true, not that they are true. Perhaps the State House isn’t sharing all their plans with the locals. What if the cops weren’t guarding the BJs but taking control of it?
“Looks like the end of our road,” Susan said. The pavement ended in a parking lot beside a commercial building.
“It’s getting dark,” she added. “And the rain isn’t letting up. We need to find someplace to get out of the rain, at least.”
“I know. I know. 495 must be just beyond those tall trees,” said Martin. I bet we can find a dry spot under one of the bridges.”
He found a section of chain link fence mashed down by a fallen tree. They crossed over into the woods. Martin led the way to the left, along the base of the embankment, towards the river. The structure of the bridge loomed over the trees and brush.
The land under the bridge sloped down gently, from the riprap abutment to the river, roughly thirty yards away. Those thirty yards were covered in bushes, weeds and brambles.
“At least it’s dry under here,” Martin said.
“That’s great.” Susan did not sound all that pleased. “What do we do now?
“Hmm. The day is pretty well spent,” he said. “And the rain doesn’t sound like it’s going to let up anytime soon. We should probably stay here for the night, or until the rain stops.”
“I don’t want to sound like a whiny princess, but I’m wet and cold and very tired. You wouldn’t happen to have a collapsible clothes drier in your magical bag, would you?”
“Sorry to disappoint,” Martin said.
“Figured, but it didn’t hurt to ask. When I was still living at home and felt a chill I just couldn’t shake, I would put my heavy flannel pajamas in the drier for 10 minutes. Oh, that felt good.”
Martin looked around on the ground. “No collapsable driers, but maybe I can get us a little fire going. Not as cozy as hot flannel jammies, but it’ll help.
“Make a fire out of what? Everything is wet?”
“Maybe not everything. Why don’t you scour around in the brush under this bridge and the other one. Whatever’s under here should still be dry. Gather up all the dry twigs, dead branches and anything else that looks like firewood.”
“Okay.”
“I’ll go back into the woods and see what I can find.”
Susan began searching the ground between the scrubby bushes. Martin headed back out into the light rain. The canopy of leaves was still shedding the early rain, so beneath the trees was still relatively dry. He found several good low-hanging dead branches that were still dry. He broke off what he could, sometimes using his puny multi-tool saw to score the bigger ones for easier breaking.
Martin gasped. “Jackpot!” He dropped his armful of branches. A tall slender tree, dead for a few years, had fallen over, but gotten hung up in the branches of two medium sized oaks. From the pattern of the branching, it appeared to have been a maple. Good hardwood. The twigs and bark were gone from the upper half. The base of it was pithy from rot.
“Now, how to get you down, my pretty,” Martin said in his Witch of the West voice.
He tried shaking and bouncing the maple, but the branches were too interlocked. Martin squatted down at the rotten base of the maple to see if he could yank it loose from the oaks. He was more successful than he expected.
The butt of the maple was not attached, but simply sitting on the ground. His tug released the power of gravity. The dead maple lunged forward, knocking Martin to the ground. Several sharp cracks rang out from overhead as branches broke. The maple fell.
Martin stood up, laughing as he brushed the wet leaves off himself. “Now to make you more portable,” he said to the tree. The upper branches broke off easily enough. More good medium wood for the fire. What they needed were some thicker logs that would last longer.
He positioned the maple between the two oak trunks and pushed. A strong push broke off the barkless top. He wanted one more break to give him three manageable pieces. He positioned the trunk between the oaks again and pushed. Nothing, not even a crack.
He flung himself at the maple trunk. He bounced off.
“Martin?” Susan called out. “Are you out there?”
“Yes. Over here.”
“I heard a lot of crashing and cracking. Are you okay?”
“Pretty much. I found some good big-wood, but I could use your help.” He showed her the maple trunk between the two oaks. His plan was for her to pull and him to push at the far end for best leverage. They would use bounces to create some peak stresses and break the maple.
The first few tries yielded a few encouraging cracking sounds, but no break.
“Hold on,” Martin said. “Let me shift it over. All these little mushrooms on the bark could mean a weaker spot. Okay. This time for sure. On three.”
Martin braced himself and started the bounce. “One. Two…”
The maple broke with a dull crunch on the second bounce. The sudden release sent Susan onto her back. The log was going to fall on her, so with the last of his shaky footing, Martin tried to toss the log upwards like a volleyball player’s diving save.
The log did arc up over Susan’s head, but Martin fell partially on top of her.
It took him a moment to get his bearings. He pushed himself up on his arms. The log had landed ahead of him. That was good.
Susan? She was looking up at him with wide eyes. It was a startled expression, but there was also animal fear in her eyes. She had her arms tight up on her chest, fists up by her neck.
“Don’t,” she gasped.
“Huh? Are you okay?” He asked.
She did not answer. Her eyes shifted back and forth from looking into his right eye or his left.
Martin realized he was looking into her eyes. He had no business looking into her eyes. His face felt hot. He rolled left and scrambled to his feet.
“I’m really sorry,” he stammered. He felt like he had dented a friend’s car or a fireman that had dropped the cat.
“I really didn’t think it would break like that.” He offered his hand to help her up, but she ignored it and got up on her own. “Are you hurt?”
She backed up a step as she stood. She kept looking at Martin as she brushed the leaves off her pants. Her expression morphed from worry to sadness. This made Martin squirm inside. He had put a big dent in his friend’s car, or maybe ran over their cat.
“I feel awful about this,” Martin said. “We needed some bigger wood, see, to make a fire last and…”
“It’s okay,” she said flatly.
Nothing about her body language agreed with her words. Rain drizzling down Martin’s collar reminded him of his goal of making a fire.
“Well, um. I’m going to take this wood under the bridge so it…um…” Martin rushed to gather up the sections of maple in his arms. Action always felt better than searching for words which would not come.
He returned to get his pile of dead branches. Susan still stood, looking at the ground. “I’m going to make that fire now,” he said. “You should at least come stand under the bridge…out of the rain.”
Martin dropped his armload at the base of the bridge abutment’s heavy stone riprap. He set about pulling up the weeds and scrawny bushes around his pile of logs to make a small clearing. He set the pulled brush atop the edge bushes to improve the visual screen. A few of the stones were small enough that he could muscle them down the embankment and set up a back wall for their fire. He did not want their little campfire to be seen far and wide, especially from the deck of the southbound bridge.
He pulled two of the maple logs up to his rock screen then built up a criss-cross of broken branch sticks. He tore a half a page of his Spare Change News and wadded it into a ball. Around that paper ball he made a teepee of the little twigs Susan had gathered.
Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Susan walking slowly towards his little camp. He made no sign that he had seen her, but went on with building his fire lay.
A click of his disposable lighter had yellow licks eagerly consuming the twigs. The warmth from even that little fire felt surprisingly good. He slowly fed on a few bigger sticks, to avoid choking the fire and making more smoke.
The flickering yellow light reflected on Susan, standing nearby.
“It’s a small fire,” he said. “It won’t throw heat very far.”
She squatted down on the opposite side of the fire. She had her folded arms atop her knees and her nose behind her arms. She was a little ball. The fire glinted off of moisture in her eyes.
“Are you alright?” Martin asked.
“I’m fine,” she said quietly.
Fine. There was that word again. Martin was not fluent in woman-speak, but he knew that ‘fine’ meant just about anything but fine.
“I don’t mean to be all pushy,” he began. “But you don’t look ‘fine’. Are you sure you didn’t get hurt in the fall?”
“No.” She kept her eyes fixed on the little yellow flame.
“Something is bothering you.” He wanted to sound reassuring, but had no confidence that he did. “I’d really rather you talked about it. It’s going to be a long night.”
She turned just her eyes to look at him. “That’s just it.”
