by Ginger Booth
Alex popped by to say he was heading down to the Catholic church a couple blocks away. They had a party going too, but they were dancing to rock instead of old fogey music. I told him to have a blast, and let me know when he got in tonight. Shelley chose to leave with him and waved good-bye from the door.
Reverend Connolly made the rounds visiting with people. I introduced Zack to him. Connolly solemnly thanked Zack and his people for protecting the neighborhood, and extended an offer to help anyone on his team ‘who experienced difficulties.’ Apparently the church business was booming lately with people lost and frightened. Connolly had a soup kitchen going daily at noon, followed by services, then group counselling.
Zack thanked him for his services, as well, and assured the minister of his whole-hearted support. Zack asked if it might be possible to use the church hall for civic association organizational meetings. The Reverend was enthusiastic about organizing the community. But he offered to discuss the matter with Father Marks, the pastor at St. Mary’s down the road. He felt it might be more inclusive if the two congregations took turns. The two men clasped hands on it warmly, and Reverend Connolly moved on.
“So Connolly is Protestant, and Marks is the Catholic?” Zack clarified quietly to me.
“Counter-intuitive, but yes,” I assured him. “They’re both great pastors, and good friends. We’re lucky to have them. And we’re lucky to have you.”
He smiled gratefully and squeezed my hand. “You know, sometimes I think we just might be able to make this work.”
I squeezed his hand back. In the short run, I had no doubt of it. In the long run, it seemed highly unlikely, but worthy of our best efforts, considering the alternative. “Are you religious?”
“No. Or rather, the spirit moves me out in nature, like in the woods at Sleeping Giant, or at harvest in the garden, or watching the livestock when the sun is just so. A church like this, it just feels comfortable.”
We both gazed around the nave of the Union Church. Not a well-funded church, the congregation mostly chipped in their time and skills instead of money. It was a well-loved but rather splintery wooden affair. Time and paint were easy to donate. Sanding down and refinishing warped floorboards were less so. It felt warm and happy, though, safe and peaceful. St. Mary’s down the street was posh and modern, but felt homey, too.
“You?” he asked.
“The same,” I agreed softly.
I had no idea how Adam felt spiritually about anything. Or even politically. Or perhaps that wasn’t true. We both felt at peace staring out at beautiful views. We’d just never spoken of it.
The lights came back on, after two days without power. The whole church erupted in whooping and applause, and we joined in. There was much rustling and movement as many in the crowd said their farewells and headed out to check their homes.
To a diminished house, the contra caller announced one last set. Zack offered his arm to lead me to the dance floor. His Army boots were a bit inhibiting, in a clompy sort of way. But he really was good at the line dance, and joy shone out on his face as we twirled towards and away from each other along the line of partners. He’d mastered smiling and saying a brief word to each person as he linked up with them, as well. I’d never seen him look so free and happy.
It looked good on him.
As Mangal switched in to swing me around, he murmured, “Zack’s a keeper.”
“They both are,” I said helplessly.
“You need to choose,” he admonished, and he twirled away.
After three wonderful dances, the caller and fiddlers called it quits. Reverend Connolly said the sun was going down, and suggested everyone get home before dark. Many split immediately after that. But we and the Jain community and others spent an extra 10 minutes helping the pastor clean up and put away. No one took food home. The leftovers were left for the Reverend’s soup kitchen, which was long on customers and spiritual comfort, but short on food.
Mangal and Shanti left us to walk alone together, while they joined their Jain friends. The last drop of fiery orange sun slid behind the next ridge while we walked. The sunny afternoon had cleared the icicles from the trees, and left the road clear and dry. When we reached Zack’s house, Venus shining brightly in a violet post-sunset sky, I invited him to come on over for Christmas supper at my house. I wasn’t sure how many takers I’d have, if Shelley and Alex were still out partying. Mangal and Shanti wouldn’t join us for ham on Christmas.
“Um, I need to tend the livestock, and be back at the barricade by eight,” Zack demurred. That gave him less than three hours. “I’d like to, but.”
“Man’s got to eat,” I countered. Though privately I was relieved to hear he couldn’t stay long. “And woman’s got to cook – dinner isn’t ready yet. You’re welcome to come by when your chores are done.”
By this point, everyone else was well out of earshot. Zack looked around to check that point. “I’m a little confused, Dee. You’re with Adam, but we’re dancing. You invite me over to a dinner that might be just the two of us, and… Look, I like Adam.”
“I like Adam, too,” I agreed, studying my boot toes. My fancy boots weren’t going to stay fancy too long if I kept using them this hard. I looked up to meet Zack’s eye. “And I like you, too. I haven’t known either of you very long. Not long enough to make a commitment to either of you. But, you’re right. It’s awkward.
“The fact remains, Harkonnen. Dinner is on offer, spiral sliced honey ham, scalloped potatoes, and a cabbage salad. I’m not inviting you to spend the night. But I do care that you’re on the barricade protecting me and mine. You could accept the meal as payment and a token of esteem for the work you do for us. I mean, even if my company for its own sake is dubious and all.”
He flashed a tiny smile at that last, but mostly still gazed at me seriously. “Alright. Thank you. I’ll be a half hour behind you or so.”
Nearly three hours seemed like a long time until Zack had to leave, until I started scrubbing potatoes and onions. But he arrived before I’d gotten any further.
“How about I expedite the potatoes while you do the rest,” he offered. I’d seen him cook before, and he was good at it. But anyone can make an omelet. Zack was just as comfortable making scalloped potatoes from scratch. All while he danced around me in a strange kitchen, while I prepared the ham and a cabbage salad.
It was a lot of fun. I was done with my part before he was done with his. I poured us some goblets of the excellent hard cider he contributed, and sat at the table to get out of his way.
“Damn, you’re good,” I said in admiration, after he slapped his final half-pre-cooked scalloped potatoes into the oven.
He shrugged. “I like cooking. It doesn’t feel like Christmas dinner if I haven’t made any of it.” He slid into a seat at the table with me.
“I know the feeling,” I agreed. “Your cider is good. Thank you for bringing it.”
He shrugged. “I just bought it fresh pressed, and let it sit there to harden.”
“Zack, I’m going to give you a compliment now. And you’re going to accept it. I know you’re not any better at accepting compliments than I am, but exert yourself. Ready? You’re a good cook.”
He laughed out loud. “Thank you.”
“Well done!” I raised my cider in toast. “Merry Christmas, Zack!”
“Merry Christmas, Dee,” he agreed, still smiling warmly.
“How’s it going out there, really? On the barricades,” I asked.
“I don’t know if I should talk about that at Christmas dinner.”
“Up to you, if you want to take a break from it. But if you’re doing it on Christmas Day, I’m certainly up to hearing about it on Christmas night.”
He nodded. “Thank you. Actually… If I could look at your map again? I could explain more easily.”
“Absolutely,” I said, and pulled up the latest satellite feed. It was dark, so I demonstrated silently how to turn back time to about 4 p.m., and back to present.
/>
“You can do that?” he said, interested. He took the controller from me and nosed around the night view first. “So those fires. That’s the Route 1 barricade, and the estuary bridge. And the Forbes avenue bridge in New Haven. That’s barricaded now.” He panned along I-95, and explained, “The National Guard controls the interstate.” He studied the fires in East Haven carefully. “We had a few, um, customers this morning on Route 1. One group of forty we had to fire upon. I injured a couple. I don’t think we’ve killed anyone. Yet.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Why are you sorry?”
I shrugged. “Not much of a present for Christmas morning.”
“They didn’t get through. That’s present enough.” He scrolled to the East Haven waterfront, where a number of larger fires were burning. Some orange flashes appeared, and Zack mimed gunshots with his hand as a pistol. Those flashes were considerably more than just pistol fire, but I got the gist. “Adam lives where?” he asked.
I pointed. That particular stretch of beach was dark and quiet. Zack nodded. “Good.”
He panned back to the East Haven side of the Route 1 barricade at maximum resolution. He turned the display back to 4 p.m., 4:05, 4:10, and 4:15. Then he panned further into East Haven over a supermarket complex, and did it again. There was a gang ransacking the supermarket. My eyes widened. As Zack ran the time sequence through again, we both counted as well as we could. That group might have been over a hundred, heavily armed. There were fights over supermarket carts of stuff. There were bodies left lying in the parking lot.
I wondered if it was racist of me to immediately notice that the dead bodies were black. East Haven is a more affordable town than Totoket, except for the premium waterfront. But it was heavily Italian. The black and Neapolitan Italian cultures clashed badly, and often violently. Vanishingly few blacks chose to live in East Haven. The Italians had moved en masse to East Haven when the blacks were imported up north to New Haven to work the munitions factories during World War II. This oil and water did not mix.
Zack turned the TV off. “Thanks, good to know,” he said. He actually looked grateful rather than grim. “I don’t suppose we want to see the news.”
“I turned it on last night. My team did the graphics for Santa’s progress to a chimney near you. They were good graphics,” I assured him.
“Is that the companion website for real-time satellite tracking of Santa?”
I gave an exaggerated childish nod. “We do good work.” To his continued amused look, I replied, “Hey, I get paid to play for a living. It pays surprisingly well. And there are benefits.” I nodded at the big display.
He nodded thoughtfully, and mouthed an exaggerated and heart-felt, “Thank you.” What he actually said was, “When were we going to put that ham in the oven to warm? The potatoes should be almost ready to come out.”
While I finished getting dinner onto to the table, he stepped outside to have a brief chat with Delilah down at the barricade. He used a hunter’s long-range walkie-talkie instead of a cell phone, I was glad to see. As he returned and sat down to eat, he placed it on the table next to his dinner knife. I pursed my lips at the place setting and him until he wryly tucked the walkie-talkie away in a pocket.
“How many people are down at the barricade?” I asked, while serving out the potatoes.
“Eight.”
My arm froze as I looked at him stricken.
“More on alert,” he added. “We can call in reinforcements. Some. If and when there’s some action. Delilah says it’s quiet down there now.”
“To peace on Earth,” I toasted quietly.
Right then, the door slammed open with Alex and Shelley arriving for dinner. They both reeked of marijuana, stoned with a case of the munchies. I glared at Shelley, who shrugged and said, “He started it…”
Legal adult or not, Shelley was closer to Alex’s age than ours. And if anything, losing her mother had made her regress. The two of them bonded over their grief, and behaved like brother and sister.
“It’s Christmas, Dee. Let it go,” Zack suggested. Though he thwacked Alex, who sheepishly slid into a seat and tried to grab at the hard cider. “Go get a glass of water. You, too,” he told Shelley. “The hard cider is for Dee and me.”
The miscreants didn’t bother looking repentant very long. The ham and Zack’s potatoes absorbed everyone’s attention and glee. We’d dug into the succulent sweet ham several times already, but the potatoes were new and wonderful. The smoky paprika and onion and ham sweetness were perfectly controlled with the sharp pepper and mustard notes, and brought out the rich savory cream and cheese and potatoes. His incremental speed-it-up cooking had brought out extra texture in the dish.
“Dee, you should make this more often,” Alex requested.
“Every night would be awesome,” agreed Shelley.
“Zack made the potatoes. I’m going to steal his ideas, though,” I chimed in.
“Glad you like. Dee’s cabbage is excellent, too,” Zack attempted.
The black and blond heads of my young neighbors bobbed perfunctorily. They were sick of cabbage, no matter how well dressed.
When eating slowed, Shelley and Alex filled us in on the party at St. Mary’s. Alex flat-out preferred the Catholic party, which had concentrated the teen crowd. Shelley tried to subtly grill Zack about the soldier, Jake, she’d danced with at the Protestant hall. Shelley wasn’t subtle when she was sober, and being stoned didn’t help. Zack supplied that the young man was an import from Niantic up the coast. His family had decided to suicide, except for him. He wanted to leave all that behind and find a place to fight. He’d inquired at the Totoket police department, and Zack snapped him up as soon as he was offered.
“So Jake’s a soldier?” asked Alex.
“No, I think he went to some military academy high school. Irritated his stepfather by getting stoned or something,” Zack supplied.
This clearly earned Jake extra brownie points in Shelley and Alex’s esteem.
“I’ll tell him you asked about him,” Zack told Shelley with a smile.
“Oh, no, don’t do that!” she cried.
Zack’s walkie-talkie buzzed and he answered, without apology. His hostess, me, already knew why, after all. “Right… God. On my way.” He was already up and at the door, pulling back on his fatigue sweater.
“Zack, take my car.” I grabbed up and handed him the car keys. “There’s not much gas, but it’ll get you to the reservoir.”
“You’re sure? Thanks!” And he was gone.
Alex turned on the living room screen, still set to show the aerial view of the reservoir barricade and its approach. “That’s a lot of muzzle flashes,” he said. He was stoned and safe and well-fed. He said this as an observation, seemingly devoid of fear for us, or concern for Zack’s safety.
I hadn’t even realized he knew about those satellite maps. I dragged both Alex and Shelley outdoors by the figurative ears and gave them a stern lecture on the lawn about staying the hell away from my stuff.
My rant was derailed by Alex. He asked, “How would we know? If you were dragged away by Homeland Security, or went off to a doctor of death, or just left us?”
I wondered whether he was asking about me, or his mother. “That’s a good question,” I allowed. “Alex, if I ever leave of my own free will, I won’t leave without saying good-bye. I’d make sure you’re OK first, and have another adult to lean on.”
“I’ve got Shelley and Zack,” he said.
“You’ve got lots of good people,” I agreed. “I still won’t leave you without saying good-bye. Not if I can help it. I care about you, Alex.” I folded him into a hug.
“Sorry I screwed with your stuff,” he mumbled into my shoulder. “I didn’t think about it being dangerous. I won’t talk to people about it anymore.”
My heart sank. “How many people have you told about it?”
“Just Shelley… and a couple friends.”
“OK. Thank you for telling me.
Don’t talk to them about it anymore, OK? Not even Shelley in your house. Only me or Mangal or Zack. Deal?”
“Deal,” he agreed. I let him go, and he went back inside to finish eating. I started to follow him.
But Shelley stood her ground. “I want in. Whatever you’re doing, I want in.”
After a pause, I asked, “Why?”
“I don’t want to be pushed around anymore. Go here, stay there, oops, you’re dead. I want to know what’s going on. I want to fight back.”
I nodded my head slowly. Those were good reasons. “Alright. We’ll think about what you can do. But you cannot, absolutely cannot, access my stuff without my permission again. Deal?”
“Deal. Dee? I don’t really have a chance at the UNC ark, do I?”
“No. I don’t think any of us do. Dan says I might, and Mangal might, but… I don’t even think Dan will be in that ark, really. But Shelley, I don’t really know.”
“It’s all a fucking lie. The arks.”
“Pretty much. Or rather, they’re real. Little castles for the rich, surrounded by soldier serfs. But we’re not American royalty, and we’re not soldiers.”
“So what’s Adam?”
“An engineer who makes the ark work. Royalty of a sort, I guess. His family bought their way into an ark. But not the ark Adam is building.”
“Can I eat the rest of this?” Alex called out from the door.
“No!” we replied in unison. We headed in to save our suppers.
“You should dump Adam for Zack,” Shelley grumbled, on the way to the door.
I shrugged, and held the door as she stormed in. Her grief over her mother was gone, the stoned apathy gone. Her face was set in rage. That scared me more than anything, the rage. Faced with a climate gone haywire, family killed or suicided, friends getting murdered over a food fight, betrayed by their own politicians – just how many billions settled on rage as the only thing they had left?
13
Interesting fact: The U.S. had more guns per capita than any other country, at about 0.9 guns per person. The runners-up were Serbia and Yemen, with less than 0.6 guns per person. These statistics were civilian guns, not including the military.
