The Great Unknowable End

by Kathryn Ormsbee

  Not that any of the crossers are happy. They’re grumbling and shaking their heads, and Archer has scrunched his face in tight like he’s a kid about to throw a tantrum.

  Opal steps in front of Rod to address us. “Red Sun,” she says, “has been and always will be about cultivating a supportive community. We ask that our younger members please understand, this order is only an attempt to do what we have always done: hold one another toward the light. And for those of you with remaining concerns about these unsettling events, we remind you that Red Sun has a clear safety protocol in place. We are equipped with a shelter large enough to accommodate this entire community. It was built for times like this. There is no need to fear. Let us instead concentrate on putting positive energy back into our surroundings.”

  • • •

  Afterward, once everyone’s gone, Archer and I sit on the back steps of Common House, near the wildflower garden.

  “Rod’s such a bastard,” Archer says. “He needs a history lesson. Restrictions only lead to revolt. It’s twisted logic. People tell us we can’t do something, and then we want to do it more.”

  I clear my throat—a tic. Then I ask, “Is that how you feel? You want to go out?”

  Archer is quiet. His eyes are on me. “Do you?”

  Another harsh sound claws up my throat. “I . . . don’t know.”

  “Yeah.”

  “This place is everything to me. It’s everything I know.”

  “You and me both.”

  “Do you think they do that to us on purpose?” I ask.

  Archer frowns into the sun. “Do what?”

  “Make us this way—dependent on them. So that, even with Crossing, we don’t want to leave. Even with Crossing, we choose to stay here.”

  “Shit. I . . . I don’t know.”

  I never told Archer about my meeting with Rod. Didn’t even hint at it. There was never a good time and no way of phrasing it that wouldn’t make me sound like a kiss-ass prick, same as Phoenix. I think I need to say it now, though. It’s been hanging around in my head, a piece of a puzzle that won’t seem to fit.

  I tell Archer what I can. What the Council told me on Assignment Day and what Rod said to me in his office, about training with him and the community respecting a guy who has labored with his own two hands. When I’m through, Archer whistles.

  “Think that’s true? You think the bastard meant it?”

  I say, “Part of me thinks so. The other part thinks it was Rod trying to stop me from Crossing again. Because he thought I was in danger of—I don’t know, abandoning ship. The Council never cared what I did before.”

  “It’s about the PR,” says Archer. “Think it through: You’re the first Red Sun member who was born and raised in the commune. How good would it look if, after sixteen years on the inside, you up and left?”

  I haven’t thought of it that way, but maybe Archer’s got a point. It would look pretty bad if the very first commune baby ran away to the Outside.

  “Was Rod right?” he asks.

  “What?”

  Archer leans forward, looking me over with his mud-brown eyes. “You abandoning ship, Galliard?”

  I clear my throat with gusto. “What? No.”

  “Haven’t even thought about it?”

  I look around. There is no one walking past. The door behind us is shut tight. Most people are at their jobs or indoors, hiding from the summer heat.

  “Have you?” I ask.

  “Sure.” Archer stretches his arms lazily down his legs, wrapping his hands around his shins. “Loads of times. I’m thinking of it now.”

  I stare, and my blinking tic starts up. “Are you shitting me?”

  “Honest to God, Galliard. Don’t tell me you haven’t.”

  “I haven’t.” A familiar indignation bubbles in me—something I’ve carried with me every Crossing summer until this one. Something Phoenix set alight. “I mean . . . I hadn’t. People made the Outside sound so wrong.”

  “Especially Phoenix.”

  “Yeah.” I shake my head, blinking rapidly. “Why would you leave? You like it here, don’t you? You wanted your job with J. J.”

  “Sure. But . . . I don’t know, man. Some people can grow up in a place like this and go out in a place like that and be okay when it’s said and done. Some people don’t dig the parties, the rush. Plenty don’t. Those kinds of people made Red Sun to begin with. Some people, though . . . they go to the Outside, and it ruins them. Fucks them up big time. Because they’ve seen it, and they can’t forget it, and after that they feel they’re always going to be missing out. I guess that’s me. I guess I’m that kind. I’m the crosser who leaves.”

  “I thought you might be.”

  I say it quiet, and, as quiet as me, Archer replies, “There are plenty of kitchen jobs on the Outside.”

  I look straight at him, still blinking hard, but he won’t look back. He just digs his thumbs into his calves.

  It’s true: I’ve been scared Archer would cross over to the Outside since his first summer in Slater. I shouldn’t be surprised. I’m not, really. I don’t even feel sad. I feel . . . jealous. Which isn’t right. I have every reason in the world to stay here. I’ve been reciting those reasons to myself for days now.

  I decide not to think about the jealousy. I decide to be helpful and ask, “You need anything from me? You can take my allowance. What’s left of it.”

  Archer shakes his head. “I’ve got a plan. My uncle and aunt live in Pasadena. That’s in California. They tried to make contact with me a while back. Sent a letter, before the Council tightened the mail restrictions. Told me to get out, this place was a cult, they’d put me up. I’ve got an address. The plan is, I hitchhike to Kansas City, then use my allowance on a Greyhound ticket. It’s pricey, but I’ve done the research. I’ve been saving up since my first summer. I’ve worked out everything.”

  Since his first summer. He’s been planning this all along. And again, I shouldn’t be surprised, but again, there’s envy lodged in my chest.

  “I wish I could cross again,” I say. “Do it one more time.”

  Then I clear my throat. I’m thinking of Stella, but I’m also thinking of myself. Of the music Kim played for us at the Exchange. Of my fingers on the keys of the combo organ. Of Ferrell’s hamburgers and red rain, and the new song I composed.

  Archer is quiet for a while before he says, in that bad accent of his, “You always could, old chap.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Sure. Sure. Fair enough.” He claps me on the back. “Anyway, don’t you have work to get to?”

  I do. We part ways there on the steps.

  • • •

  The Moonglow is nothing but rapid chops and sizzling oil. I don’t want to think. I only want to work. I’m working until someone tells me to stop.

  Then Mac swings into the kitchen, eyes big.

  “It’s crazy in there,” he says. “Some people are crying.”

  This gets him a round of “What?” from the rest of us.

  I can tell it’s bad news, because Mac looks freaked.

  I think it’s about town. I think it’s about the weather. I think it’s about something that doesn’t affect me.

  So I’m not expecting it when, red in the face, he says, all excited, “Elvis Presley died.”

  22

  Stella

  TUESDAY, AUGUST 16

  The sky remains cloudless. Slater is quieter than usual. It’s waiting, ready for the worst though hoping for the best—that the unexplainable weather is over and, regardless of who or what is to blame, life has resumed its normal course. It’s only a hope, because the countdown has not disappeared from town hall. The violet numbers keep ticking off on the inside of my closet door. I check each night and am greeted by the faint glow of the shifting right-hand minute:

  03:03:24

  03:03:23

  03:03:22

  On Monday, Kim called my house to say she’d set aside some records at the Exchange she t
hought will interest Galliard. I did not mention that I haven’t seen Galliard since we kissed and I fled. I’ve told myself that, if Galliard wants to talk about it, he knows where to find me.

  But I’m not sure if I can be found. I’m not sure of who I am anymore. The project is gone, and my plans for the salon—a better system, a better job—have been destroyed along with it.

  I didn’t do anything. I didn’t yell at Jill or tell my father. I threw the strips of paper away, and I placed the parts of the project that could be salvaged back into the wicker bin. I haven’t spoken to Jill since. Monday night I merely fixed her dinner, set it on the kitchen counter, and locked myself in my room. I cannot see her right now, cannot speak to her—not because of the damage she caused, but because she knows. She knows I’ve considered the possibility of leaving her, and my resulting guilt is all-consuming.

  I don’t know what I’ve been playing at for the past week. How did that countdown in my closet ever make me feel free? I should have felt terrified. Why did I think this weather gave me permission to lose control? I should have been more cautious than ever before. I realize now, I’ve been treating the possible end of the world like a game. I thought I was only make-believing That Stella’s life, and now I am facing very real consequences.

  I am seeing something that I’ve been blind to for two long years. It is the answer to my biggest question. It is the reason why my brother left us.

  Craig was This Stella first. He played the role of older sibling, parent, caretaker, confidant. Then, when he left, he surrendered the job to me. When Craig left, I made dinner, and I shopped for Jill. I did all the things that he’d been doing before.

  I know now, though, what I didn’t at age fifteen, when I first stepped into these worn work shoes. I see what he could only see after years in this role: There’s no way out. You either accept your place in the family, or you abandon the post altogether. There can be no in-between. You must choose. And at eighteen, the age I’m about to be, Craig chose to abandon us. He chose what was worst for us and best for him. I think he felt he had to, as strongly as I feel that I must stay. Mom left the post first, and then Craig, and now it’s down to me. I’m the only one Jill has left.

  It’s time for me to snap out of it. I’m returning to the skin of This Stella, a girl who knows her place and what is prudent. It’s time to right my wrongs. And if that clock really is counting down to apocalypse, I only hope I can do what I need to before time runs out.

  • • •

  On Tuesday, Vine Street Salon has a full load of clients. Women who canceled last week are now bravely venturing out for their rescheduled (and overbooked) appointments. It would have been the perfect time to try out my project.

  I try not to think that way. I take down names and brook the sighs of Connie’s annoyed clients. It’s what This Stella must do.

  When work is over, I do not bike home straightaway. Instead I walk farther east down Vine to the town’s one pay phone, located in front of Belmont Electronics. I take out a folded paper from my jeans pocket, along with a dime for the call.

  I was wrong to consider Gayle’s offer—that’s clear now. Calling her Sunday night was an act of frenzied weakness. I’m not That Stella anymore, and the fact is, I should be angry at Gayle. Very angry.

  Gayle Nelson does not know me. She does not know the life I live. She may think she is helping, may consider herself some savior come to rescue me from my blue-collar life so that one day I can be the first female astronaut and thank her profusely in a bestselling autobiography. She may think that, but she is wrong. She doesn’t know that we Mercers cannot take another departure. She does not know how much Jill needs me. She doesn’t even know if I could cut it in an engineering program. If anyone thought that, they would’ve told me by now. But none of my high school science or math teachers ever took me aside and told me what a good job I was doing. None of them told me I should consider a field in science or technology. They gave me As, and I left their classes, and that was that. Not even my guidance counselor put up a fight when I told him I planned to stay in town and work full-time at the salon. They are the people who would know if I am qualified to make it in college, and not a single one of them told me I could.

  I pay the phone my dime and dial Gayle’s number, praying that she will not answer.

  She does, after two rings.

  “Gayle Nelson, Slater Creek.”

  I am struck silent. I’d forgotten how Gayle speaks, confident and familiar, and like a chain-smoker. Something in her voice makes me want to cry.

  “Hello?” says Gayle. “Hello?”

  “It’s Stella. Stella Mercer.”

  “Stella? Well, hey! How are you? I’m so sorry I haven’t returned your call yet. See, I’ve been trying to work out some things with KU before I got back in touch.”

  “I didn’t know this was your work phone. I don’t want to bother—”

  “Uh-uh, no bother. Happy to talk.”

  I am silent. I am trying to form the words. I need to tell her. I need to stop this—even the chance. It has to be dead. An impossible thing. Maybe once it is, I won’t feel short of breath.

  “Listen,” Gayle says, “I want to apologize. I realize I overstepped my bounds by bringing this up to your father, but I truly believe—”

  “No, no. I don’t want you to apologize. I—I changed my mind. I can’t do it.”

  “Oh.”

  I want her to say more. I want Gayle to tell me she understands, even if she is disappointed. I need her to understand. I feel the way I did the night she was over for dinner—as though I mustn’t let her down.

  I clutch the phone hard to my face, to keep my hand from trembling, and say, “I have to stay here, with my family.”

  “I respect that, Stella, but—”

  “You won’t convince me. I’ve thought it through, and I’ve made up my mind for good this time.”

  I turn my teary face toward the storefront windows and away from passing cars. That is when I see the color image flash up on the five display televisions of Belmont Electronics: David Brinkley of NBC news, solemn-faced, his words muted by the glass. To his left is the photograph of an all-too recognizable face, and beside that are the words Elvis Presley, 1935–1977.

  I swallow. I swallow again.

  “Stella?” says Gayle.

  “I—sorry, I’ve got to go.”

  I hang up before she can reply.

  “Oh my God,” I say, gripping the phone where it rests on its cradle. “Oh my God.”

  I hear jingling bells, but I’m too absorbed in my attempt to lip-read David Brinkley’s report. I do not see Tom Whalen, the manager at Belmont Electronics, until he is a mere two feet from me, saying my name.

  I cry out and stumble back, but he does not apologize. There is urgency in his voice.

  “What’re you doing out, Stella? Didn’t you hear there’s a tornado warning?”

  He must see that I am not processing his words, because he repeats them, slower. “There’s a tornado warning out for Slater.”

  I look to the sky. It’s grown cloudy, and I only now become aware that the world around me is blanketed under green haze, eerie and ominous. I’ve seen this several times before. It is a charged green stink discoloring earth and sky and everything in between. The times I’ve seen it, it’s been April or May—tornado season, not late summer. The clouds have rolled in fast, eating up the blue sky. It is a storm from nowhere.

  I step away from Tom Whalen. I grab my bike, mount, and begin to pedal. He is calling after me to come back, to take shelter right away, because the man on the radio says touchdown is imminent. I do not go back, though. I do not take shelter.

  I have to get home to Jill.

  Instinct carries me, leading me down Vine and left on Oak and past house after house. Dogs howl and whimper in yards; the birds are deathly quiet. My wheels rotate in loud, rapid ticktickticks. I pedal harder, and harder. From above, thunder claps across the sky.

  Jill
will be all right. Jill notices everything first. She will have heard the broadcast on the radio and already taken shelter. She will be all right, she will, she will, and I will get home to her and hug her close and be her safety. I will be This Stella for her. I will be the sister she needs me to be.

  When I turn the corner onto our street, I look up. Congregated in the sky are a host of black clouds, and from them a slender funnel has emerged. I brake, going perfectly still, and watch as the funnel lengthens, forming a tether down to the earth. Wind roars around me, whipping my hair into my face. The twister cannot be more than a half mile away, in cornfield territory.

  I push energy back into my legs and I pedal even harder than before, to my house. I abandon my bike in the driveway and run for the house, stumbling on the first of the porch steps, then lunging toward the door, throwing it open with enough force to crack the storm door. I keep running. I run into the hall, shouting Jill’s name.

  She answers me from the bathroom.

  “Here! In here!”

  She is sitting in the tub, radio clutched to her chest.

  I slam the bathroom door shut behind me and crawl in beside her. Then I do what my arms have been itching to do this whole time and wrap them around her, tight. Jill is not crying or shaking. I am doing both.

  “I’m fine,” she tells me, straining her neck against my grip. “This is the safest place in the house.”

  I realize then that Jill is not listening to weather updates, but to jazz music.

  “Elvis died,” she whispers.

  “I know,” I say, dismissive, distracted by a thumping sound I hear overhead.

  A train is speeding toward us. We are on the tracks, and the engine chugs on an inexorable path to where we sit.

  “Just pass,” I whisper into Jill’s hair. “Just pass, just pass us by.”

  An image slices into my mind, white hot. It is of Galliard and Archer and their friends, huddled together at Red Sun. Craig once wrote that the commune had built a fallout shelter. He told me that, I think. I think, though my brain is pounding so hard I cannot be sure. Only what if Galliard does not even know about the tornado? What if no one is listening to their radio, or what if he is out in the fields? And does he know yet about Elvis? Does that death mean to Galliard what he claimed it would mean? How is he? Where is he? Will he be okay?