She said, “I’m sorry you had to leave camp early.”
They parted.
“Class, Mother. I was in a class. Not camp.”
“Yes, that’s what I meant.”
“What’s the emergency?”
“Let’s get in the car. It’s freezing out here. Aren’t you cold?” She reached out, pulling the collar of Simon’s flannel jacket closed, and began buttoning the top button when Simon pulled away. “I’m fine.”
She opened the door and Simon got in, tossing his duffel bag on the floor. She sat opposite him, and the car began to move.
“How was class?”
“Good. It was good. Just one more week, Mom. Just one more week, and I would have graduated.”
“Yes, well …”
Simon doubted she knew how many classes he had already taken, or how long he was gone for. Ever since he’d had that talk with his parents, they had been giving him the cold shoulder. So what if he didn’t want to go to college at Princeton or Stanford like his asshole brother Marty? So what if he dropped out of college right before it started, and told his father—who sat across from him behind that huge, pretentious mahogany desk—that he did not want to follow in the family business? Managing the chain of sporting goods stores, buying and selling properties worldwide, and doing whatever it was that the family business did, was not in his deck of cards. His father heard him out and took it well, until Simon told him his true ambition.
“A park ranger?” His father had leaned over his desk. “You want to become a park ranger?” He loosened his tie. His father understood numbers and letters, not sticks and stones.
“Y-yes. I think I do.”
“You want to give up on the family, turn your back on the business your great-grandfather began when he was just a boy your age, to do what … walk around in the woods? Your great-grandfather started this business so that his family, including you, wouldn’t be forced to do exactly that. He started this business so that none of us would ever have to worry about having a roof over our heads or a hot meal in our stomachs. And you want to show him your gratitude by becoming a park ranger?”
“It’s more than that, it’s …”
But he couldn’t explain. He couldn’t express the raw happiness he received when he was out in the woods. He couldn’t tell his father that every day when he came home from school, he would go over to Alice Springs Park to stalk animals, identify edible plants, and sit upon the twisted roots of his favorite old tree. Like sitting on a throne, he overlooked the Alice Reservoir in deep meditation.
That tree was how it all started. When Simon first saw it bathed in sunlight like it had emerged from some spiritual world, when he stepped out on the steep perch of branches with the water twenty feet below and the pale green leaves nearly transparent against the bright sky, he felt a connection with the earth that he could never put into words. He touched the side of the bark, felt compelled to remove his shoes and feel the roughness on the bottom of his feet.
Sunlight filtered in from overhead, touching his face with warmth. When he looked out over the reservoir, the water shimmered with a million sparkles of reflected light. The realization hit him like a jolt—he was a part of something bigger. A deep happiness that he had never felt before overtook him—a high of sorts. A floating sensation tingled in his body, and a calming that was almost unreal soothed his mind. It was a brief taste of nirvana, and he wanted more.
Now, if he told his father any of this, the man’s head would have exploded, ruining the crisp collar of his suit.
But, in the end, it was Simon’s choice. His father paid for the classes Simon wanted to take, but he muttered to himself when signing the checks and never once asked how things were going. “Hippie shit,” Simon once heard him say from behind his office door. And when his mother asked him about the classes, she never really listened for a response.
It was best not to talk about it.
“Is that Santo in the bag?” Simon asked his mother.
“Yes, it is.” His mother unzipped the snazzy-looking pet carrier on the seat beside her, and the prized Pomeranian, Santo—named after the island of Santorini where Simon’s parents owned a house—leapt out. The dog commenced its yipping and jumping all around the cabin of the limousine.
“Hey, Santo. Come here, boy.” Simon patted his knees, but the little dog was not paying attention. Santo went to the closed window and smeared his tiny nose all over the glass.
“No, Santo,” his mother scolded. “Now we’ll have to get the car cleaned.”
She scooted Santo back into his stylish little carrier and zipped it up. Santo’s beady black eyes stared out through the netting.
“All right, Mother, now can we talk about why you took me out of class?”
“I didn’t, Simon. Someone from the school called last night. A Steven, I think … or maybe Justin? Whoever it was, he said the class was cancelled. Everyone is being sent home. I believe I was just the first to arrive.”
“What? That’s bullshit! Why wouldn’t they tell us? Are we at least getting our credit? Do I have to take the class all over again?” The car came to a stop, and Simon could see a curved line of traffic out the window.
“I don’t know. I didn’t ask.”
Simon was listening, but his attention was stolen outside. Up ahead, he thought he could see a Humvee. Then the cars inched forward, and from around the bend a massive tank came into view. There were men in army fatigues standing about.
“What the hell is going on?”
“It’s a checkpoint, Simon.” She lifted her bag and rummaged through it. “Here, I brought your passport. It’s in here somewhere.”
“A checkpoint? Why?”
“Because we’re at war. While you’ve been off gallivanting in the woods, the rest of the world has been getting ready to destroy itself.” Her hand fumbled about in her purse. “Here’s your passport.” She handed it across the seat. “I’m sorry, Simon. I didn’t mean to snap at you. It’s been … a tough couple of weeks.”
“We’re at war?”
“It’s …” She looked down and shook her head. “Any day now, any hour.”
“Turn the news on. Jesus, I thought it was all just a bunch of political bullshit.”
“You can listen to the news when you get home. I have a headache. Things are going to be … bad.”
He turned his gaze from the window to face his mother. She was just as lean and regal as ever, but the lines on her face had deepened, and he could see the bags under her eyes through her makeup.
“Talk to your father when we get home. He’ll tell you everything.”
***
The limo made the familiar twists and turns up scenic Ridgeline Road, and Simon took in the mansions and age-old carriage houses, mostly hidden at the end of long driveways. The town’s proximity to New York, and the excellent fishing from the Ridgeline River, gave the area immediate affluence after being settled. That affluence had grown over the years, and was evident in the size of the manors that now dotted the shore.
Fishing in the river was not as prominent as it once had been, as the water had been polluted over the many years due to its nearness to New York. Now the river was little more than a playground for the rich. Many of the homeowners had yachts tied to private docks in their own backyards, and jet skies were everywhere, crisscrossing the river during the summer months. Simon had once gone on a yachting trip with a neighboring friend, his friend’s father steering the boat. It was only a short distance until the river fed into the ocean, and the sailing beyond was limitless.
The limousine slowed and turned to the gated entrance of the family’s estate. The driver leaned out and typed a code into the sentry box, and the mechanical hinges on the gate began to open without so much as a squeak.
They drove down the winding driveway, past rows of buttonwood trees with mulched bases and flowering plants artistically arranged around the bottoms. They passed another swerve in the driveway, and Simon’s house cam
e into view—a massive structure, designed to imitate European or Southern grandeur. The facade of the house was mostly stone, partially covered with ivy and with several circular turret windows and intricate craftsmanship around the wood-shingled roof.
The limousine swung around the paved brick roundabout with the three-tiered fountain in the center and came to a stop before the house entrance. Two large moving trucks were parked just ahead of them. A dozen or so men were coming and going from the front door, carrying boxes and large pieces of furniture draped with white canvas sheets.
Simon scratched his jaw. “We’re moving?”
“Just putting a few things in storage,” his mother replied. “Just to be safe.”
The driver got out and opened the car door. His mother stepped out, followed by Simon carrying his duffel bag.
“Master Simon,” Anthony, the driver said. “Welcome home. Please, let me take your bag.” He reached out.
“No, no, Anthony. Please. I got it. It’s good to see you.” Simon reached out and shook Anthony’s waiting hand.
“Thank you, sir.”
“Anthony, it’s Simon.”
“Yes, Master Simon.”
“Just Simon.”
Simon followed his mother up the steps to the front door. They stopped beside the two-story columns to let several men carrying a couch pass by, and then they entered. There was activity all about. The moving crew and maids were coming and going. The entryway was already cleared out—the benches were gone, the Persian rug was rolled up, and all the paintings and artwork had been removed, leaving rectangular outlines on the walls.
“Your father should be home soon. Why don’t you go upstairs and freshen up?”
Simon nodded, and went to the semicircular staircase. The activity in the house made him quicken his pace as he walked up the stairs and down the east wing toward his bedroom. The door was cracked open.
They better not have packed up my stuff.
He pushed the door open, expecting to see a vacant room, but it was still fully furnished. Winston was sleeping on his bed. The dog’s eyes darted open when Simon entered, and his tail went wild, thumping against the mattress, his mouth open and panting.
“Winston!”
The dog flew off the bed, and Simon dropped his bag and fell onto his back, wrestling with Winston and ruffling his head. He scratched at the dark spot by his ear. Winston bucked his head and panted, stepping back to stretch in a play-bow. He then leaped back to assault Simon with his drooping tongue.
“I missed you so much, buddy. I missed you so much.”
Simon closed his eyes and mouth as Winston’s tongue went wild over his face with the crazed love that only a dog can provide.
After a few minutes, Simon sat on the ground with Winston, who was now tired and content.
“You’re a good boy, aren’t you, buddy?”
The dog panted, looking up with his dark eyes.
After another minute on the ground, scratching Winston’s head, Simon looked across the room to the door to his private bathroom. After all that time in the woods, a hot shower sounded unbelievable.
***
From his bedroom window, Simon watched his father’s car pull up. The back door of the limousine opened and his father hurried to the front steps with his cell phone in one hand, his briefcase in the other.
Simon wanted to run downstairs to talk to him, but he knew the best way to ensure his father’s attention was to give him a few minutes to settle into his office.
Simon stepped away from the window and looked over the rows of books on the bookshelf, and the various knickknacks and trophies mixed in. He picked up a football trophy—the entire team had received the same one—and felt the alloy-metal statue of a football player running in mid-stride, ball in the crook between his elbow and chest. The trophy looked silly to him now, and thinking back to when he was twelve and adored the thing made him feel stupid. If he was going to be staying home, he would have to redo his room. Get rid of the clutter and the childish mementoes.
Simon put the trophy back on the dresser and headed toward the door, taking a deep breath.
It’s now or never.
He walked to the stairway, went downstairs, and continued past the kitchen to his father’s office at the far end of the house. It was surprising to see the door open, and Simon could hear the television as he approached.
He hesitated at the doorway. His father was leaning against his desk, watching the news from the television in the built-in mahogany shelving. The sleeves of his father’s shirt were rolled up, and his jacket was off.
Simon knocked on the doorframe and his dad flinched.
“Simon. There you are.” He picked up the remote and hit the mute button.
“Hello, Father.”
“Come here; come in.”
Simon put his hand out to shake, but his father did something surprising—he gave him a hug. And not just a quick hug, but a long and powerful one. When they parted, his dad said, “Sit, sit. Take a seat.” He went around the desk to his own seat. “How are you? How was the class?”
“I’m good, I’m fine. And the class was going well.”
“You look skinny. Strong. Those classes are getting you in shape, huh?”
Simon nodded. Why did his father care? He’d certainly had no interest before.
His dad took a deep breath. “All right, let’s cut to the chase … I have something here for you.” He opened a side drawer, pulled out an envelope, and handed it across the desk.
The envelope, addressed to Simon, was cut open along the top. He was about to protest at his parents opening his mail, but then decided against it. Two pieces of paper were folded inside, one smaller than the other. He read the heading on the larger paper: ORDER TO REPORT FOR PHYSICAL EXAMINATION. The smaller paper listed his name and personal information: birthday, height, weight.
“It’s a draft card, Simon,” his father said. “I didn’t mean to open it. It was a mistake. I saw an envelope from the government, and I didn’t look at whom it was addressed to. I’m sorry.”
“A draft card?” Simon started reading the fine print. Indeed it was a draft card, and an order to report for physical examination. “I’ve been drafted?”
“Everyone’s been drafted.”
“Oh … God.” The letter felt heavy in his hands. “I-I’m going to be sent to war? We’re at war? Oh Christ …”
“Not yet, but it’s only a matter of time. Just look at the news.” He pointed to the TV, but Simon remained examining the letter.
His father spoke, “There might be … another option for you. We’ve been discussing alternatives.” His dad leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk. His tie was so loose around his collar that the top of his white T-shirt was visible.
“I don’t see how anything would make a difference.” Simon’s voice wavered, and he swallowed back a lump in his throat.
Not in front of Dad, God damn it!
“I’ve heard some things … things about this war. It’s not going to be pleasant. You remember Tom Byrnes, right?”
Simon nodded. There was a picture of Tom Byrnes on the built-in shelving, next to his father’s various awards and trophies—trophies not unlike those in Simon’s room, only these were made of solid metal and glass and actually meant something.
The picture of Tom Byrnes had been taken when Simon was a boy. His father had taken him fishing along with Tom and Tom’s son, who was about the same age as Simon. They were all holding their day’s catches and looking silly in full fishing gear, standing on some boat, somewhere beautiful.
Simon couldn’t remember the details. He had been young then. The name of Tom Byrnes’s son eluded him, although he remembered the boy arguing with Simon over who got to hold the largest fish for the picture. Simon knew that Tom Byrnes was a highly decorated military man, as well as an alleged CIA affiliate. Allegedly.
His father went on, “I talked to Tom recently. He’s scared. He called me two nights ago i
n a panic, and we had a long talk. FEMA is not only preparing for wide-scale nuclear devastation in almost every major US city, they’ve just dispatched emergency teams to be stationed in towns bordering potential strike zones, ready to go in with hazmat suits. There’s something like ten million body bags for New York alone, and that’s not even for the city. According to Tom … the cities have been written off. The body bags are for the surrounding areas where bodies might be found.” He stopped to let that fact sink in and then continued. “Our own missiles are on standby. It’s going to be … just horrific.”
He closed his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose, shaking his head. “Just look at what they did to Boston and Chicago.” His dad pointed again to the silent news, where every scene seemed to display something burning, someone protesting, people dead. “And if that’s not bad enough, Tom told me that something else is coming. It’s already here, but the reporters are blocked from covering it. The government doesn’t want the public to panic, because they are powerless to do anything to stop it. Some sort of disease, a plague, but Tom wouldn’t give me the details. It’s already struck Africa, the Middle East, Europe—and it’s here, in the US. He’s scared. And if he’s scared, we should be terrified. He only told me because … because we have to leave. There is still a chance to get out of here. He said we have to drop everything and go far away from the East Coast. Right away.”
“Why-why won’t they allow the news to cover it?”
“Just think of the chaos news like that would create. There’s nothing that can be done. It’s here, Simon. It’s too late.”
They became quiet, and Simon didn’t know what to say. The gravity of their situation was hard to comprehend. “Where … but what … where will we go?”
A voice spoke up from behind him, and Simon turned to see his mother standing at the doorway. “Do you remember Uncle Timothy’s cabin?” she asked. “You’ve been up there before, when you were younger.”
Simon remembered his deceased uncle’s cabin fondly. Only the men had gone for hunting trips—his father, Uncle Tim, his brother Marty, and sometimes a few cousins. They fished, hunted, and started huge bonfires. He loved those trips, just the guys out in the woods, shooting guns, splitting wood, wearing knives on their belts. Being men. His dad even let him drink a beer a few times and sip some whiskey, even though the last time he was up there he had only been eleven. After his uncle passed away, and the cabin went to his father, they never returned.
The After War Page 7