A Plague Year

by Edward Bloor

  I finally said this: “We’ve seen other families lose a lot this year. They’ve lost family members to death, and to jail, and to just … zombieland.”

  Mom and Dad looked uncomfortable, like they were wondering where this prayer was going. So was I. I continued: “But our family has hung in there. We’re all healthy, and we’re all still here, and we’re not in jail, and we have even added a family member in John, so that’s all good.”

  Mom and Dad quickly said, “Amen!” Lilly and John followed. Then we started to eat.

  Sunday, December 30, 2001

  The show went on, too. The Roses of Eyam.

  Arthur had offered to drive me to it, and I was happy to accept. He picked me up outside the house on Sunday evening, immediately handing me one of Mr. Proctor’s Bibles with dialogue inside. We drove to the school, with me reading lines from the play and Arthur trying to remember his responses to them.

  We parked in the row nearest to the auditorium. The Weavers’ Explorer was next to us. The Lyles’ red Suburban was in the row behind, three spaces over.

  I followed Arthur through the main doors. We then veered left down a side corridor that led to the back of the stage. Arthur joined Jenny and Mike at a table, where they were going over their lines. I started to sit with them, when a hand reached out and grabbed me.

  It was Wendy Lyle’s. She had not spoken to me in over two weeks. She had not bothered to tell me that she was leaving school and that she was moving away forever. But now she was pleading with me, like we were best friends, “Tom! You have to help. This play is a total disaster!”

  I said calmly, “Hello, Wendy. How are you?”

  She replied with controlled fury, “There is no director! We haven’t rehearsed in forever. Ben is in the bathroom, throwing up. And Chris Collier has bailed on us!”

  “What?”

  “He’s the freaking male lead, and he’s not here!”

  I looked at the side door. “Well, there’s still time.”

  But she was adamant. She practically babbled, “No, he has bailed on us! I knew he would, the jerk. He was only doing it for a grade from Mr. Proctor, and now Mr. Proctor has bailed, too!”

  I couldn’t let that go. I repeated, “Mr. Proctor has bailed?”

  She looked at me, puzzled. “Uh, yeah. Do you see him anywhere?”

  “You think he just … quit because he felt like it?”

  She answered simply, even convincingly, “Yes. He got the hell out of this place.”

  I thought, Maybe she doesn’t know the truth. She’s been out of school. Maybe no one has told her.

  Wendy looked at the door. She spoke bitterly. “Chris sucked anyway.” Then she added, to my shock, “It’s because he’s a freaking druggie.”

  “No way!”

  “Yes.”

  “How do you know?”

  She looked at me like I was deaf, dumb, and blind. “Please! He couldn’t memorize his character’s name, never mind his lines. He was still reading every word from the book.”

  I was dumbfounded. “Chris Collier is using? Using what?”

  “Who cares? Something that makes you stupid; that’s all I know.” Suddenly Wendy put both hands on my shoulders and begged me. “Tom! You have to do it. You have to play the lead!”

  “Me?”

  “Yes! You were Mr. Proctor’s first choice. He wrote the part for you.” She spun around and grabbed a black book off a table. She opened it and thrust it in my face. “Look! All you have to do is find the name Mompesson and read his lines. I’ll move you around where you need to be onstage. Please. Please!”

  Arthur appeared beside me, bent double. He had obviously been listening, because he said in an idiotic voice, “Do it, Mr. Tom! Do it! The show must go on. Arthur needs to get his A.”

  I stared at his hunched figure. “Are you serious?”

  Arthur stood erect and spoke normally. “Dead serious, cuz. Come on, it’s no big deal. You just stand out there and read the lines. Nobody expects you to be any good.”

  Jenny called from the table, “Yeah! Come on, Tom. We need you.”

  I looked at all of their faces (well, mostly at Jenny’s face). I heard myself say, “Okay, then. All right.”

  Fifteen minutes later, I was on the stage. I was appearing in The Roses of Eyam, by Don Taylor, as adapted by Mr. Proctor. I was the star of the show, in fact, performing before a small crowd consisting of mostly the actors’ parents.

  I could see the Weavers in the first row. I could see Catherine Lyle in the second row. She was sitting with her creepy husband and a line of three frat boys, including, of all people, Joel. It was bizarre to see his curly head again. He didn’t seem uncomfortable to be there, either. He was just chatting with Dr. Lyle and the boys, acting like nothing was wrong. I thought, Why did they come tonight? Just to make fun of us?

  I put them all out of my mind, though, and concentrated on my character. I stood where the Reverend Mompesson was supposed to stand, and I read all his lines the best I could. The Reverend had to convince the villagers of Eyam to stay where they were; to fight the plague to the death; to save the rest of England.

  I liked the part. And I liked the character. Mr. Proctor had given the Reverend Mompesson some stirring speeches about honor, and responsibility, and shared humanity.

  Mr. Proctor had condensed the play down to one long act, a little over an hour’s running time. Halfway through, Dr. Lyle’s frat boys got up and left. They returned ten minutes later, and suddenly everything was funny to them. They laughed particularly long and hard at anything Arthur did as the Bedlam, the village idiot.

  But I must say, from where I was standing, that Arthur performed his part very well. He really threw himself into it. So did Wendy and Jenny and Mike; so did Ben, despite his earlier bout with stage fright. We managed to deliver Mr. Proctor’s version of The Roses of Eyam competently. Maybe even with some conviction. Maybe even with some passion.

  There was a nice round of applause when it was over. There was also some silly hooting from the frat boys, causing Catherine Lyle to look uncomfortable. We took a group bow, with me in the middle, and made our exit. It was really an exhilarating feeling.

  Backstage, Arthur was hopping around and slapping five with everybody, still in his stooped village-idiot posture. Wendy had her head down, muttering, “Thank God that’s over.” But Jenny, Ben, Mike, Arthur, and I were all up and giddy and elated.

  I felt elated for Mr. Proctor, too. This had been his vision, and we had made it real. It wasn’t great; it wasn’t Broadway. But it was good, and it was Blackwater.

  Our group walked together, going back down that side corridor and out into the night. As soon as we pushed open the auditorium doors, we were greeted by a swirl of blowing white snowflakes.

  Ben stuck out his tongue and shouted sloppily, “I love eating snow!”

  Arthur slapped him on the back. “Eat all you want, dude. It’s only water.”

  We moved along in a laughing, chattering bunch to the first row of cars. Mrs. Weaver rolled down the driver’s window of her SUV. She called out, “You kids were great!”

  “I know!” Ben replied.

  “We want to take you to Friendly’s, the whole cast.”

  Ben clenched his fist. “Yes! Real food!”

  Jenny looked at me, so I looked at Arthur. He raised his shoulders up and down and said, “Sure. Sounds good. We’ll meet you there.”

  Jenny, Mike, and Ben piled into the SUV, and the Weavers took off. As they backed out, Arthur and I got a clearer view of the Geo Metro.

  Something was wrong. It was slumping to one side, like a man leaning on a crutch.

  “Damn!” Arthur spat out. “Flat tire. We don’t need that now.”

  “Can I help?” I asked him.

  “You ever changed a tire before?”

  “No.”

  “Then how can you help?”

  I was going to press the issue, but I heard the sound of people emerging from the auditorium,
heading toward us. It was the Lyles—Dr., Mrs., and Wendy—and the college guys.

  I could hear Joel teasing Wendy. “That was the worst play in history, like in ancient Greek history, like in three thousand years of history.”

  Wendy said flatly, “Shut up. You were sleeping.”

  “Only in the first half. We got it up for the second half.”

  “Yeah. I bet you did.”

  As they got closer to the Suburban, Wendy noticed me. She raised a gloved hand to silence Joel. She called over, “You did a nice job tonight, Tom. You were the best actor out there.”

  Joel disagreed. “Next to you,” he said.

  She ignored him.

  I replied humbly, “Well, maybe the others shouldn’t have rehearsed, either.”

  “Yeah. Maybe.”

  I didn’t say anything else, and neither did she.

  Dr. Lyle then joined the boys in mocking our production of The Roses of Eyam. They all started repeating lines of dialogue and guffawing, amusing themselves.

  As I listened to them carry on, I thought, What the hell do they know? Mr. Proctor had chosen the play for its message, and they had missed it completely.

  Dumbasses.

  Catherine Lyle turned away. Did she think she still had to ignore me? Was this confidentiality again? Or was she just plain ignoring me?

  I looked back at Arthur. He had changed the tire very quickly, very expertly, like a NASCAR pit-crew guy. He was now hefting the old tire into the trunk and spinning it around slowly, looking for the puncture.

  Wendy stepped closer and spoke to me. “We’re leaving tomorrow.”

  I said, “Yeah? To where?”

  “Florida. My dad is going back to his old position at FIT.”

  “Yeah? Is that a college?”

  Her lip curled. “Yes, it’s a college. What do you think it is?”

  I curled my lip right back at her. “I don’t know. It sounds like a gym, maybe, or a ladies’ spa.”

  To my surprise, Dr. Lyle stopped goofing around with the frat boys, stepped forward, and snapped at me, “For your information, young man, the Florida Institute of Technology has one of the top Psy.D. programs in the nation.”

  I nodded. “Oh? Psy.D.? Is that some new kind of workout? Like yoga, maybe?”

  Spit flew from his lips. “It’s a doctor of psychology degree!”

  Just as I was pondering a reply, Arthur came shuffling up next to me. He was bent slightly and slurring his words, like he was still playing the Bedlam. “A doctor? There’s a doctor here? Can you fix a crooked back? Are you that kind of doctor?”

  Dr. Lyle rolled his eyes. He pointed to the Suburban and told his group, “All right, that’s enough. Let’s go.”

  “I was taught, at Haven High, that doctors cure things like that.”

  Dr. Lyle muttered, “I’ll bet you were.” He pointed at the school doors. With contempt in his voice, he told his wife, “I said this school was a mistake. Wendy never learned a thing here.”

  I couldn’t let that go. I asked him, “No? She didn’t learn about supply and demand?” I raised my voice and addressed his group. “Well, here it is, then, in a nutshell: If demand is high, like if frat boys and old professors with ponytails demand to have illegal drugs, then supply will be high, too.”

  Dr. Lyle and his boys froze in place.

  I went on: “If demand is low, or if demand disappears, then supply disappears. And there is no more drug problem.” I asked them, “Everybody understand?”

  No one replied. No one even moved.

  Arthur stepped in front of me and pointed at Joel. “Hey, Joe? It’s snowing, and I got ice building up on my windshield. You don’t have an ice pick on you, do you?”

  Joel’s eyes shifted toward the Suburban.

  Arthur waited a moment and then continued. “No? You don’t?” Arthur looked at the Suburban, too. “Because I could swear somebody put an ice pick in my tire. I thought it might have been you.”

  Joel stepped behind the other two guys.

  Arthur turned his attention to Catherine. “Excuse me, Mrs. Lyle? Did you get a chance to speak to the doctor about that”—he lowered his voice—“that sensitive matter?”

  She seemed genuinely puzzled. “What do you mean?”

  “If you recall, I suggested that some of Wendy’s companions, these boys right here, in fact, were seen in a very unsavory neighborhood. And I should know, since it’s my neighborhood. And they were perhaps involved in some illegal activity?”

  Catherine Lyle swallowed hard. Clearly, she had not spoken to her husband about it.

  Arthur continued: “Because, if I am not mistaken, there is once again a strange smell coming from these boys.” He whacked me in the chest with the back of his hand. “Tom? Did you notice a strange smell?”

  I had not, but I said, “Yeah. I did.”

  Arthur held up his head and sniffed the air like a ten-point buck. He walked back toward the Geo Metro. He pulled a tire iron out of his trunk, turned, and retraced his steps toward us.

  The Lyles all exchanged frightened looks, but they were not Arthur’s target. Not his direct target, anyway. Arthur crossed over to the red Suburban. He cranked back his right arm and delivered a mighty blow to the back window. The wide pane of glass shattered, splitting into long horizontal lines. But the glass did not fall.

  Arthur then pulled back and struck again at the center of the window, and again, and again, pounding away until he had opened up a hole about two feet in diameter. He poked his head in, then pulled it out quickly. “This is it, Mrs. Lyle! The source of the smell. It’s coming from inside this very vehicle.”

  Everyone in the Lyles’ group remained frozen except Wendy. She held out her hands to them all, demanding to know, “Aren’t we going to do something about this? We need to call the police. We need to have this psycho village-idiot jerk arrested!”

  I told her, “Your family doesn’t call the police.”

  “What?”

  “Isn’t that right, Dr. Lyle? No talking to the police? Oh, wait. Wait!” I slapped my own head, as Arthur likes to do. “You did talk to the police, though—to Officer O’Dell. You talked to him last week. You ratted out Mr. Proctor to save yourself, right? So you probably don’t want to talk to them again so soon, not with your vehicle having a suspicious smell and all.”

  I walked over to the Suburban and stood next to Arthur. I leaned my head into the hole he had just made. There was no question about it; Joel and his boys had smoked weed here during the play.

  I was pulling my head back out, carefully, when I noticed a toolbox. Some pieces of the windshield had fallen down onto an open metal toolbox, but I could still see what was sitting right on top—a wood-handled ice pick. I reached in, brushed the glass shards away, and pulled it out.

  Arthur’s eyes narrowed. But before he could do anything, I did it for him. I gripped the wooden handle tightly and stepped around to the left side of the Suburban. I pulled the ice pick back and plunged it, hard, into the left rear tire. I heard a quick hissing sound; then I smelled stale air rushing past my nostrils.

  Arthur just stared at me, amazed. He finally proclaimed, “Righteous, cuz,” and clapped me on the shoulder.

  We turned and walked back to the Geo Metro, leaving the ice pick, still hissing, in the sidewall of that very big, very expensive-looking tire. Arthur tossed the tire iron into his trunk and slammed it shut. Then we got in the car and drove off.

  And we didn’t look back.

  Arthur gunned it down the long entrance, laughing all the way. “I can’t believe you, cuz! I can’t believe that act of blatant vandalism. And with an ice pick! That was righteously blatant.”

  “Well, they deserved it.”

  He held up a hand to slap, which I did. He slowed down to negotiate the right turn onto Route 16. “Hey! Forget them, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Forget all of them. Forever.”

  “Right again.”

  “I have already f
orgotten them.”

  “Me, too.”

  “Now tell me: Where are we going?”

  “The Friendly’s downtown. It’s across from Kroger.”

  “Got it.” Arthur shook his head, bemused. “Those losers are too stoned to change a tire.”

  I added, “And too pusillanimous.”

  “Yeah. Whatever. Hey! Do you think they belong to triple A?”

  “Yeah. Probably.”

  “Check it out: We belong to double A; they belong to triple A.”

  We slapped five again.

  The car kept skidding at every stop sign and traffic light, so Arthur dropped the transmission to a lower gear. Still, we managed to arrive at Friendly’s right after the Weavers.

  As soon as we walked inside, I saw Jenny wave to me from a vinyl-backed booth. I cut in front of Arthur and slipped in next to her. The lineup was this: Ben, Jenny, me, and Arthur on the red vinyl side: Mike, Mrs. Weaver, and Mr. Weaver in chairs on the other side.

  Ben ordered a sundae with a cherry and nuts on top. He picked up the cherry, held it out to Arthur, and asked, “Can I eat this?”

  Arthur assured him, “Yeah. That’d be okay.”

  “What about the stem?”

  “Ah, no. No stems.”

  “Oh, man!”

  We all laughed. The Weavers seemed puzzled, but they smiled along with us.

  The Weavers started talking about the play and its themes, Mr. Proctor’s themes. They understood that it was all about Blackwater, and that the plague was meth. We talked about meth and what it had done to us, and how we could continue to fight against it.

  Mrs. Weaver said, “Your parents have been terrific, Tom. Your father has been so generous with supplies from his store. Your mother has been so generous with her time.”

  Mr. Weaver added, “We’re getting more people at the church basement—desperate, desperate people. We’re going to expand our services to food, clothing, and medical care. We’ll need more volunteers.”

  Everybody raised a hand, nodded, or spoke up. We would all volunteer. We would have it covered.

  I asked, “Medical care? How are we doing that?”

  Mrs. Weaver said, “Nurses from Good Samaritan.”