He looked up and smiled. “It’s safe until it dries. I had it in mind in case I ever found myself in an underground. Occupying troops take a sour view of natives having explosives, but there is nothing suspicious about ammonia or iodine. The stuff is safe until you put it together and does not require a primer. But I never expected to use it for construction; it’s too treacherous.”
“Hugh, I just remembered I don’t care whether a floor is level or not.”
“If it makes you nervous, take a walk.”
Making it was simple; he combined tincture of iodine and ordinary household ammonia; a precipitate settled out. This he filtered through Kleenex, the result was a paste.
Joe drilled holes into those stubborn posts; Hugh wrapped this mess in two batches, in paper, and packed a bundle into each hole, tamping with his finger. “Now we wait for it to dry.”
Everything that he used he flushed down with water, then took a bath with his clothes on, removed them in the water and left them, weighted down with rocks. That was all that day.
Our armament includes two lovely ladies’ guns, .22 magnum rimfires with telescopic sights. Hugh had Duke and Joe sight them in. The sighting-in was done with sandbag rest—heaped-up dirt, that is. Hugh had them expend five bullets each, so I knew he was serious. “One bullet, one bear” is his motto.
When the explosive was dry, everything breakable was removed from the shelter. We women were chased far back, Karen was charged with hanging on to Dr. Livingstone, and I was armed with Duke’s bear rifle, just in case.
Duke and Joe were on their bellies a measured hundred feet from the posts. Hugh stood between them. “Ready for count?”
“Ready, Hugh.”—“Ready, Dad.”
“Deep breath. Let part of it out. Hold it, steady on target, take up the slack. Five…four…three…two…one…fire!”
A sound like a giant slammed door and the middle of each post disintegrated. The shelter stuck out like a shelf, then tilted ponderously down, touched, and was level.
Karen and I cheered; Grace started to clap; Dr. Livingstone jumped down to investigate. Hugh turned his head and grinned.
And the shelter tilted back the other way as the ridge crumbled; it started to slide. It pivoted on the tunnel protuberance, picked up speed and tobogganed down the slope. I thought it was going to end up in the creek.
But the slope leveled off; it ground to a stop, with the tunnel choked with dirt and the whole thing farther out of plumb than before!
Hugh picked up the shovel he had used to heap up shooting supports, walked down to the shelter, began to dig.
I ran down, tears bursting from my eyes. Joe was there first. Hugh looked up and said, “Joe, dig out the tunnel. I want to know if anything is damaged and the girls will want to get lunch.”
“Boss—” Joe choked out. “Boss! Oh, gosh!”
Hugh said, in a tone you use to a child, “Why are you upset, Joe? This has saved us work.”
I thought he had flipped. Joe said, “Huh?”
“Certainly,” Hugh assured him. “See how much lower the roof is? Every foot it dropped saves at least a hundred feet of aqueduct. And leveling will be simple here; the ground is loam and boulders are few. A week, with everybody pitching in. Then we bring water to the house and garden two weeks early.”
He was correct. The shelter was level in a week, and this time he triggered the end posts with crosspieces; blasting was not needed. Best of all, the armor door cranked back without a murmur and we had air and sunlight inside—It had been stuffy and candles made it pretty rank. Joe and Hugh started the ditch the same day. In anticipation of the glorious day, Karen sketched on the walls of the tank room life-size pictures of a washstand, a bathtub, a pot.
Truthfully, we are comfortable. Two mattress covers Karen filled with dried grass; sleeping on the floor is no worse than the bunks. We sit in chairs and play our evening rubber at the table. It is amazing what a difference level floors make and how much better it is to have a door than to climb down a ladder and crawl out a hole.
We had to cook over a campfire a while as our grill and Dutch oven were smashed. Karen and I have thrown together a make-do because, as soon as water is led to the house, Hugh intends to start on ceramics, not only for a toilet and a sink but also for a stove vented out through the periscope hole. Luxury!
My corn is coming up beautifully. I wonder what I can use to grind corn? The thought of hot corn bread buttered with deer grease makes me drool.
December 25th—Merry Christmas!
We think it is. Hugh says we are not more than a day off.
Shortly after we got here Hugh picked a small tree with a flat boulder due north of it and sawed it off so that it placed a sharp shadow on the boulder at noon. As “Keeper of the Flame” it has been my duty to sit by that boulder from before apparent noon and note the shortest shadow—follow it down, mark the shortest position and date it.
That shadow had been growing longer and the days shorter. A week ago it began to be hard to see any change and I told Hugh. So we watched together and three days ago was the turning point…so that day became December 22nd and we are celebrating Christmas instead of the Fourth of July. But we got our flag up, as Hugh had planned, to the top of the tallest tree in our clearing, with its branches lopped to make it a pole. As Keeper of the Flame I am charged with raising and lowering it but this was a special occasion; we drew lots and Joe won. We lined up and sang “The Star Spangled Banner” while he hauled it to the peak—and everyone was crying so hard he could hardly sing.
Then we pledged allegiance. Maybe it is sentimental nonsense by ragged castaways but I don’t think so. We are still one nation, under God, free and indivisible, with liberty and justice for all.
Hugh held divine services and read the Christmas story from the Gospel According to Luke and called on Karen to pray, then we sang carols. Grace has a strong, sure lead; Joe is a bell-like tenor, and Karen, myself, Hugh, and Duke are soprano, contralto, baritone, and bass. I think we sound good. In any case we enjoyed it, even though Grace got taken by the weeps during “White Christmas” and it was contagious.
We would have had services anyhow as today would be Sunday by the old calendar; Hugh holds them every Sunday. Everybody attends, even Duke who is an avowed atheist. Hugh reads a Psalm or some other chapter; we sing hymns; he prays or invites someone to pray, and ends it with “Bless This House—” We are back to the days when the Old Man is priest.
But Hugh never uses the Apostles’ Creed and his prayers are so nonsectarian that he does not even end them “In Jesus’ Name, Amen.”
On a rare occasion when he and I spoke in private—waiting out a noon sight last week—I asked him where he stood on matters of faith? (It is important to me to know where my man stands even though he is not my man and can’t be.)
“You could call me an Existentialist.”
“You are not a Christian?”
“I didn’t say that. I can’t express it in the negative because it’s affirmative. I shan’t define it; it would only add to the confusion. You are wondering why I hold church since I refuse to assert a creed?”
“Well…yes.”
“It’s my duty. Services should be available to those who need them. If there is no good and no God, this ritual is harmless. If God is, it is appropriate—and still harmless. We are bleeding no peasants, offering no bloody sacrifices, raising no vanities to the skies in the name of religion. Or so I see it, Barbara.”
That had better hold me; it’s all I’ll get out of him. In my past life religion was a nice, warm, comfy thing I did on Sundays; I can’t say it agonized me. But Hugh’s Godless offering to God has become important.
Sundays are important other ways. Hugh discourages work other than barbering and primping or hobby work, and encourages games, or any fun thing. Chess, bridge, Scrabble, modeling in clay, group sings, such like—Or just yakking. Games are important; they mark that we are not just animals trying to stay alive but humans enjoying lif
e and savoring it. That nightly rubber of bridge we never skip. It proclaims that our lives are not just hoeing and digging ditches and butchering.
We keep up our bodies, too. I’ve become pretty good at cutting hair. Duke grew a beard at first but Hugh shaved every day and presently Duke did, too. I don’t know what they will do when blades are no more. I’ve noticed Joe honing a Gem blade on an oil stone.
It’s still Christmas and I’ll cut back in when the rubber in progress is finished. Dinner was lavish; Grace and Karen spent two days on it—brook trout savory aux herbes, steamed freshwater prawns, steaks and broiled mushrooms, smoked tongue, bouillon Ursine, crackers (quite a treat), radishes, lettuce, green onions, baby beets a la Grace, and best of all, a pan of fudge, as condensed milk, chocolate, and sugar are irreplaceable. Nescafé and cigarettes, two cups and two cigarettes each.
Presents for everybody—All I saved besides clothes I had on was my purse. I was wearing nylons, took them off soon and haven’t worn stockings since; I gave them to Karen. I had a lipstick; Grace got that. I had been plaiting a belt; Joe got that. In my purse was a fancy hanky; I washed it, ironed it by pressing it against smooth concrete—Duke got that.
It was this morning before I figured out anything for Hugh. For years I’ve carried in my purse a little memo book. It has my maiden name in gold and still has half of a filler. Hugh can use it—but it was my name on it that decided me.
I must run; Grace and I are due to attempt to clobber Hugh and Joe.
I’ve never had a happier Christmas.
7
Karen and Barbara were washing themselves, the day’s dishes, and the week’s laundry. Above them, Joe kept watch. Bushes and then trees had been cut away around the stretch they used for bathing; a predator could not approach without Joe having a clear shot at it. His eyes swung constantly, checking approaches. He wasted no seconds on the Elysian tableau he guarded.
Karen said, “Barbie, this sheet won’t stand another laundering. It’s rags.”
“We need rags.”
“But what will we use for sheets? It’s this soap.” Karen scooped a handful from a bowl on the bank. It was soft and gray and harsh and looked like oatmeal mush. “The stuff eats holes.”
“I’m not fretted about sheets but I dread the day when we are down to our last towel.”
“Which will belong to Mother,” Karen stated. “Our rationing officer will have some excellent reason.”
“Nasty, nasty. Karen, Duke has done a wonderful job.”
“I wasn’t bitching. Duke can’t help it. It’s his friend Eddie.”
“‘Eddie?’”
“Edipus Rex, dear.”
Barbara turned away and began rinsing a pair of ragged blue jeans.
Karen said, “You dig me?”
“We all have faults.”
“Sure, everybody but me. Even Daddy has a shortcoming. His neck pains him.”
Barbara looked up. “Is Hugh having trouble with his neck? Perhaps it would help if we massaged it.”
Karen giggled. “Your weakness, sister mine, is that you wouldn’t know a joke if it bit you. Daddy is stiff-necked and nothing will cure it. He doesn’t have weaknesses and that’s his weakness. Don’t frown. I love Daddy. I admire him. But I’m glad I’m not like him. I’ll take this load up to the thorn bushes. Damn it, why didn’t Daddy stock clothespins? Those thorns are as bad as the soap.”
“Clothespins we can do without. Hugh did an incredible job. Everything from an eight-day clock—”
“Which got busted, right off.”
“—to tools and seeds and books and I don’t know what. Karen! Don’t climb out naked!”
Karen stopped, one foot on the bank. “Nonsense. Old Stone Face won’t look. Humiliating, that’s what it is. I think I’ll yoo-hoo at him.”
“You’ll do no such thing. Joe is being a gentleman under trying circumstances. Don’t make it harder. Let that load wait and we’ll take it all up at once.”
“Okay, okay. I can’t help wondering if he’s human.”
“He is. I can vouch for it.”
“Hmm—Barbie, don’t tell me Saint Joseph made a pass at you?”
“Heavens, no! But he blushes if I squeeze past him in the house.”
“How can you tell?”
“Sort of purple. Karen, Joe is sweet. I wish you had heard him explain about Doc.”
“Explain what?”
“Well, Doc is beginning to accept me. I was holding Doc yesterday and noticed something and said, ‘Joe, Doc is getting terribly fat. Or was he always?’
“That was a time when he blushed. But he answered with sweet seriousness, ‘Barbara, Dr. Livingstone isn’t as much of a boy cat as he thinks he is. Old Doc is more a girl-type cat. That isn’t fat. Uh, you see—Doc is going to have babies.’ He blurted it out. Seemed to think it would upset me. Didn’t of course, but I was astonished.”
“Barbara, you mean you didn’t know that Dr.-Livingstone-I-Presume is a female?”
“How would I know? Everybody calls him ‘he’ and he—she—has a male name.”
“A doctor can be female. Can’t you tell a tomcat?”
“I never thought about it. Doc is pretty fuzzy.”
“Mmm, yes, with a Persian one might not be certain at first glance. But a tomcat’s badges of authority are prominent.”
“Had I noticed, I would have assumed that he had been altered.”
Karen looked shocked. “Don’t let Daddy hear that! He never allows a cat to be spayed or cut. Daddy thinks cats are citizens. However, you’ve surprised me. Kittens, huh?”
“So Joe says.”
“And I didn’t notice.” Karen looked puzzled. “Come to think of it, I haven’t picked him up lately. Just petted him and tried to keep him out of things. Lately it hasn’t been safe to open a drawer; he’s into it. Looking for a place to have kittens of course. I should have twigged.”
“Karen, why do you keep saying ‘he’ and ‘him’?”
“‘Why?’ Joe told you. Doc thinks he is a boy cat—and who am I to argue? He’s always thought so, he was the feistiest kitten we ever had. Hmm—Kittens. Barbie, the first time Doc came into heat we arranged for Doc to meet a gentleman cat of exalted ancestry. But it wasn’t Doc’s métier and he beat the hell out of the tomcat. So we quit trying. Mmm—Calendar girl, how long have we been here?”
“Sixty-two days. I’ve looked it up; it’s sixty days with a normal range to seventy.”
“So it’s any time now. I’ll bet you two back rubs that we are up all night tonight. Cats never have kittens at a convenient hour.” Karen abruptly changed the subject. “Barbie, what do you miss most? Cigarettes?”
“I’ve quit thinking of them. Eggs, I guess. Eggs for breakfast.”
“Daddy did plan for that. Fertilized eggs and a little incubator. But he hadn’t built it and anyhow, eggs would have busted. Yes, I miss eggs. But I wish cows laid eggs and Daddy had figured out how to bring cow eggs along. Ice cream! Cold milk!”
“Butter,” agreed Barbara. “Banana splits with whipped cream. Chocolate malts.”
“Stop it! Barbie, I’m starving in front of your eyes.”
Barbara pinched her. “You aren’t fading way. Fact is, you’ve put on weight.”
“Perhaps.” Karen shut up and began on the dishes.
Presently she said in a low voice, “Barbie, Doc won’t hand this household half the surprise I’m going to.”
“How, hon?”
“I’m pregnant.”
“Huh?”
“You heard me. Pregnant. Knocked up, if you insist on the technical term!”
“Are you sure, dear?”
“Of course I’m sure! I had a test, the froggie winked at me. Hell, I’m four months gone.” Karen threw herself into the arms of the older girl. “And I’m scared!”
Barbara hugged her. “There, there, dear. It’s going to be all right.”
“The hell it is,” Karen blubbered. “Mother’s going to raise hell�
�and there aren’t any hospitals…nor doctors. Oh, why didn’t Duke study medicine? Barbie, I’m going to die. I know I am.”
“Karen, that’s silly. More babies have been born without doctors and hospitals than ever were wheeled into a delivery room. You’re not scared of dying, you’re scared of telling your parents.”
“Well, that, too.” Karen wiped at her eyes and sniffed. “Uh—Barbie, don’t be mad…but that’s why I invited you down that weekend.”
“So?”
“I figured Mother wouldn’t raise quite so much hell if you were present. Most girls in our chapter are either squares or sluts, and silly heads besides. But you are neither and I knew you would stand up for me.”
“Thank you, dear.”
“Thank me, hell! I was using you.”
“It’s the finest compliment another woman ever paid me.” Barbara wiped a tear from Karen’s face and tweaked her cheek. “I’m glad I’m here. So you haven’t told your parents?”
“Well, I was going to. But the attack hit…and then Mother went to pieces…and Daddy has been loaded down with worries and there’s never been the right time.”
“Karen, you aren’t scared to tell your father, just your mother.”
“Well… Mother mostly. But Daddy, too. Besides being shocked and hurt—he’ll think it was silly of me to get caught.”
“While he’s certain to be surprised, I doubt the other.” Barbara hesitated. “Karen, you needn’t take this alone. I can share it.”
“That’s what I had hoped. That’s why I asked you to come home with me. I told you.”
“I mean really share it. I’m pregnant, too.”
“What?”
“Yes. We can tell them together.”
“Good Lord, Barbara! How did it happen?”
Barbara shrugged. “Careless. How did it happen to you?”
Karen suddenly grinned. “How? A bee sprinkled pollen on me; how else? ‘Who’ you mean.”
“‘Who’ I don’t care about. Your business. Well, dear? Shall we go tell them? I’ll do the talking.”
“Wait a minute. You hadn’t planned to tell anybody? Or had you?”
“Why, no,” Barbara answered truthfully, “I was going to wait until it showed.”
Farnham's Freehold Page 11