“What?” he asks, noticing me looking at him.
“Nothing.”
“Mmm.” He keeps chewing his cereal. He’s stopped complaining about the watered-down milk because he knows we’re lucky; places in Europe and South America haven’t had milk supplies all year. He looks at his watch and pushes his bowl away. “I gotta run. I’ll be in late tonight.”
“No problem.” I start clearing the dishes. “Me too.”
There is a lot of work to be done when so many people are gone. We volunteer to deliver mail three times a week; the U.S. mail is starting to creep along but the international deliveries are still dicey. Citizens must mow their yards plus maintain any adjacent abandoned properties. We do pothole repair, trash collection, and food delivery.
There isn’t enough demand at the college for Cal to teach algebra again, so he is working at the local airport doing helicopter maintenance. He complained bitterly when he received his Citizen’s Orders. “I worked on helicopters twenty years ago! What will I remember?” But the U.S. Council for Recovery must have found his old Army records, and flying workers out to the Gulf’s offshore rigs is a top priority.
As he works in the hangers I do street cleaning, dig in our victory garden, and teach basic English at the college. There are no more literature classes; the liberal arts may have gasped their last breath with the plague. English as a Second Language isn’t really my field, but since half of the students are now Spanish-speaking, it’s needed. Especially after the second Tres de Julio celebration and the borders declared open indefinitely. The hot jobs of the future will be elementary ed (for the upcoming baby boom), medical care, and industry. To add to my load, I also take a Spanish refresher course taught by one of my colleagues.
With teaching, volunteering, studying, and digging in the dirt, I’m tired all the time. I crave sleep but it’s full of nightmares. Ever since Cal mentioned wanting to see the Menil collection in Houston, I dream of Greco-Roman statues, deathlike in their pale and marbled skin. In my dreams they are cold to the touch, as white as bones.
“You look tired,” he says, as if reading my thoughts.
“I’m fine,” I lie. “When will you get in?” I run water over the dishes as he gets his toolbox.
“Maybe midnight.”
“That is late.”
“Well, I’ve got mail deliveries, street repair, then work at the hanger.”
“But midnight? You’re going to the Lazarus meetings, aren’t you?” I hadn’t planned to ask that, but it just came out and I can’t pull the words back into my mouth.
“What? Of course not.”
I stop washing the dishes and turn to him. “If you need a support group, I understand. I just want you to be honest with me about it.”
“I’m not hanging around with a bunch of Jesus freaks. You know that.”
“Do I?” My words can’t stop themselves. I think to myself shut up, shut up, shut up but I still go on. “Yesterday you said that Revelation had predicted the rising of the dead. And that communion is a type of cannibalism.”
“I don’t have to go to a meeting to know that.”
“But then you were talking about how Christians believe God forgives everything, no matter how horrible, and you seemed to be admiring the idea. Don’t you remember how you used to laugh at that?”
“Can you blame people for wanting to hear some comforting words now?”
“But you’ve never believed in a god.”
“I still don’t! Christ, after everything that’s happened you think I believe in some white-bearded grandpa in the sky? And just because I’m thinking about some things out loud, trying to wrap my head around what has happened, philosophically, you think I’m going to meetings?”
“I’m sorry.”
“Are you mad at me for something?” he asks. “Is there anything you want to talk about?”
His question is so big that my brain turns off.
“No.”
“Look,” he says. “The only thing that the Lazarus loo-loo’s have right is that it’s not the Turners’ fault what happened. It was the virus’ fault. Right?”
“Right.” I stand with my arms crossed over my chest. I know he thinks that I’m self-righteous, just because I never turned. I was an NI. A Mole. A scared but healthy citizen hiding in the dark with my head between my knees. But even though I was a Non-Infected, I have just as much guilt as anyone else.
“We all have to stand together,” he says.
He’s echoing the President, the former U.S. Secretary of Education, who seems to channel Abraham Lincoln, Margaret Thatcher, and even Winston Churchill on her good days. A house divided against itself cannot stand.
“I’ll see you tonight,” he says. I expect him to come over and hug me in reconciliation but he doesn’t; he just leaves. The front door still has the deep drill bit holes in it left over from the two-by-four bracings. When it slams shut, it looks like it’s been crucified.
The first thing Cal did was board up the house. We were lucky that we already had the hurricane plywood and boards in his garage shop; by this time there was already looting at the lumber stores. Then I heard grinding. When Cal came out of the garage he had made arrows for his recurve bow and sharpened an old Civil War sword he had found at a flea market years ago. I kept Lindy occupied and away from the TV, where live reports of outbreaks were showing horrific scenes. Cal said we needed food. I begged him not to go but he took the longest of the kitchen knives and the sword. He was gone for two days. I only allowed myself to be hysterical when Lindy was asleep. Cell phones weren’t working and there were sounds of gunfire in the distance. When the car finally screeched back into the driveway, it was full of supplies.
“Cal!” I removed the bracings and let him in. I tried to hug him and Lindy was shouting “Daddy! Daddy!” but he pushed us back. “Stay inside. Let me unload.”
He had parked the car as close to the front door as possible, as both a barricade and quick escape. He unpacked bags of cornmeal, rice, beans, flour, bottles of vitamins, cans of Sterno, bags of dog food, and boxes of moist cat food.
“Are we going to eat pet food?” I asked.
“There’s almost nothing left. But no one has thought of the pet stores yet.”
“What’s it like out there?”
“It’s spreading very fast.”
“But what took you so long?”
“The highways are clogged. People are getting trapped inside their cars. I had to go off-road just to get what I could and I got stuck in the baseball field. There were lots of . . . them, wandering around, looking for people. I had to hide in the backseat under a blanket until they were gone. Then I dug out the tires.”
He had a stuffed toy for Lindy and she danced with it into her room.
“There are people jumping off overpasses,” Cal whispered. “There’s no place to go right now.”
I had never seen my husband’s hands shake before.
“We’ll be okay here, right?”
“We’ll be okay,” he kissed me. “We’ll hunker down. I’m glad I thought of the pet stores. The animals were locked up and thirsty. I opened the cages and let them go.”
“Will they be okay?”
“They’re fast; they have instincts. Hell, they probably have a better chance than most of us.”