Journal

by Craig Buckhout

  The family room showed much use. There was a leather sectional and matching lounge chair, oil stained, cracked, and hollowed out from the weight of its occupants. It was one of those types that you can lean back in and stretch out. Next to that was a reading lamp and a wooden — a wooden what? — a wooden something that had more old magazines stacked in it. There was a big screen TV covered in dust and an iron stove with a glass door set in it. The carpet was indoor-outdoor, window-pane beige.

  As we explored further, I followed Anna down a hallway and past an open door. It was a bathroom, wallpapered with small yellow roses and had a hanging, framed mirror facing the door, so my reflection blinked as I went by. I stopped and took the two steps back. What a strange experience that was. I knew it was me of course, but I didn’t recognize me. There was no feature of my landscape that provided any hint for orientation. I was a stranger to myself.

  Of course, the first thing I noticed was my face. I knew I had lost weight. As I mentioned before, I am constantly hiking up my pants like a kid in his big brother’s hand-me-downs, but seeing myself now, I looked truly emaciated. My once fleshy appearance had given way to pale sunken cheeks and hollowed out eyes that seemed to have changed from their natural yellow-brown color to something closer to black. My skin was tanned, or maybe weathered is a better description for it, and lined in places that had before been smooth. From the bottom of my nose on down, I was covered with a greasy, tangled mat of hair, liberally streaked with gray. There’d never been any gray before, or, for that matter, greasy, tangled hair, either. I can’t say I like the look. What was on top of my head was no better. I used to have straight, limp, light brown hair that I kept short and combed back. It was now parted in the middle from front to rear and hung to my collar. It was also dark, dark brown and looked as if I’d shampooed with motor oil. When I rubbed a clump of it between my fingers, I noticed my nails were split and dirty, and the skin around them was cracked and calloused. No wonder Petra wouldn’t shake my hand.

  I was pretty much just standing there thinking what an ugly SOB I’d become, not that there was that much to run down in the first place, when Anna’s voice pulled me from my quickly develoa breakfast of canned fruit and with t ping funk.

  I found her at the top of the stairs in what I suppose was the master bedroom, staring at the remains of a woman, propped sitting up in bed with two, large, lace-trimmed pillows.

  The woman’s skin was saddle-leather brown, suggesting she had been there a long, long time. She was dressed in a white sleeping gown of some sort, with red buttons up the front and little pink flowers on it. One eye was closed, the other half open. Her jaw hung down and her lips, still showing traces of red lipstick, were shrunken back exposing her teeth. She had a single stud pearl earring in each lobe and a gold chain with a simple two inch matching cross around her neck. The blankets were pulled up to her chest, but her arms were lying on the outside next to her body. Her left ring finger had an engagement/wedding ring set on it that hung loose on stick fingers.

  On the night stand beside her were three empty pill vials, an empty water glass with a white residue in the bottom, suggesting some liquid in it had evaporated, a three inch candle, and a telephone, one of the old ones with buttons that you push. Tucked partially under the phone was a piece of paper with some writing.

  Anna asked me to bring the candle closer and picked up the piece of paper and read it out loud. I’ve recorded it here word for word.

  To Whom It May Concern: I’ve had a good life, so I have no misgivings about what I am going to do. I had a wonderful husband who provided for me as best he knew how and five children who grew to be good fathers and mothers in their turn. But they’re all gone now, and I’ve no business staying around. I have just one more prayer to say before I take leave of this life but it won’t be for me in the hereafter. My last prayer is for those I leave behind. Peace be with you. Beth Morgan.

  As I write out these words of Beth Morgan and remember those written by Chester Huston, Claire’s husband, it strikes me how we humans so value companionship and family; almost a higher order of need. In both cases, these fine people saw no point in continuing to live without their families. And think of Anna, too. She said that the only thing left was deciding how to kill herself. Remember that? But suddenly there was Gabriel and she lived. What about me, though, eh?

  For two years now, I’ve been on my own. I’ve had no one to confide in, no one to trust. I too have lost family and friends. So why didn’t I kill myself as the others did? But if I’m so different from Chester and Beth and don’t need companionship like they did, why haven’t I abandoned Anna and Christian out of pure self-interest? I certainly could move quicker, quieter, and need less food (less everything) by myself. I think the answer is that I never had anyone to miss before. I had an ex-wife and daughter on the east coast, and a sister I never spoke with. Now though, as rough as our relationship started out, I have two people in my life I care about. I wonder how I would feel if I lost one or both of them. Would I want to take my own life?

  We found a blanket in her closet and covered her head and shoulders so Gabriel and Petra wouldn’t see her. Once the blanket was in place, Anna took up the candle on the night stand and lit it with mine. I told her that the kids would be wondering where we were, so I had better go get them. She said she’d stay behind because she wanted to explore the house a little more and maybe get a fire started in the stove so we could heat something to eat.

  One more thing to mention: the water supply for the house was a well, as is the case for most places in the area. Since there was no electricity, the pump supplying water to the house was of course out of commission. But the Morgan’s had a hand pump installed at the wellhead as a back-up. On the way back to get Gabriel and Petra, I gave it a couple of licks and discovered it still worked. It would be suitable water for bathing and, if boiled, safe for drinking. We’d never had it so good.

  By the time the three of us got back to the house, Anna had a fire going in the iron stove. I can’t begin to tell you how good that felt. None of us had been truly warm in many days. We had fires here and there but even when we could let them burn awhile, they just heated one side of us while the other went cold.

  Anna found a large bag of white rice and used the water in our water bottles to start it boiling. Once the rice was done, she spooned it onto three plates and scooped the contents of a can of beef stew she also had found, over the top of it. I ate until it hurt.

  And that’s pretty much it for April 10th. Anna and Petra took one of the bedrooms downstairs and Gabriel the other. I’ve stayed up to finish this and afterwards I’ll use the sectional in the family room to sleep on.

  April 11, 2054 –

  It’s been ten days since I first encountered Gabriel. I almost can’t believe it.

  I woke up well past sunrise with a sore back, no doubt from sleeping on something softer than I’m used to. I probably should have just slept on the floor.

  We ate a breakfast of canned fruit and more rice, only with a little sugar on it this time (don’t knock it unless you’ve tried it) and decided to take advantage of some soap and warm water while we had the opportunity. No telling when we’d have another chance at it.

  Anna helped Petra with a bath, using water heated on the wood-burning stove. Gabriel went next, followed by Anna. While they were doing that, I found a pair of scissors and a safety razor, and got rid of that ugly mess that had grown on my face. It actually didn’t come out too bad. Not that it made me look any better. Gray in my hair at my age, I can’t believe it.

  After Anna finished, I took what amounted to a glorified sponge bath but still a bath none the less. You should have seen the bottom of the tub after I finished. Then again maybe you shouldn’t have. It was pretty bad.a breakfast of canned fruit ands , but at

  I dressed in a pair of heavy canvas work pants that probably belonged to Beth Morgan’s husband, along with a long sleeve flannel shirt. But better than that, a hundred tim
es better, was the fresh underwear and socks. Oh, they felt good. I even took a spare set for later.

  You know something? As I write this, the crazy notion that maybe our luck has finally changed, has come into my head. It’s like somehow the food, bath, heat, and clean clothes are a sign that we’ve paid our dues and now things will be easier. Maybe that includes being done with Ponytail, too. I don’t know if it’s true, but just the thought is infectious. I’m smiling.

  Moving on now, after I finished my bath and dressed in clean clothes, I thought I’d take a shot at cutting my hair, so I stood in front of the mirror trying to at least do a halfway decent job of it. I wasn’t having too much success, though, partly because (as you know) a mirror reverses everything, and partly because there were just too many places I couldn’t easily reach. I kept at it anyway and, while so occupied, heard Gabriel and Petra go out to explore the grounds and garage.

  Shortly after that, Anna appeared in the doorway, leaned against the jam, and watched me for a few seconds, which naturally made my job all the harder. Eventually she asked if I wanted some help. For some reason my brain said no but for some other reason my mouth said yes, so she led me into the kitchen where she had me sit in a chair. (I can imagine that about now whoever is reading this is thinking this is just too damn much information about personal grooming. But if you can hang in there a minute, I’ll get to the point.)

  She worked away on me for about ten minutes I suppose, moving around from side to back to side to front, and I have to admit I was getting more out of it than just a haircut. Sitting there as I was, I could smell the soap she had used to wash her own hair. I felt the heat radiating off her body. I registered her softness, here and there, a touch of my shoulder, arm, back, even a brush of my leg with hers. It was overwhelming in a sensual, erotic sort of way. I don’t know if she was doing it on purpose, but I suspect so. No matter, on purpose or not, the effect was the same.

  At one point, to try and save myself by getting my mind off of things, I attempted to engage her in conversation, but she just raised my chin, put a finger on my lips, gave me a short shush, and went silently back to work.

  That little sneaky move of hers literally gave me goose bumps across the back of my shoulders, and a warming bloomed in my cheeks and neck. I remember praying I wasn’t turning red. She would have had the advantage of knowing my thoughts, but I wouldn’t have known hers.

  At some point she said she was done or some such thing, I don’t even remember now to be honest with you, and moved around in front of me to presumably check her handiwork. There she stood, feet slightly spread, looking down at me, close up to my knees, before reaching out a hand and brushing a hair from my cheek with a couple of short, soft strokes. I put my palm over hers and moved it to my lips. She just stared at me at that point, expressionless except for just the sligh informationwottest softening of her eyes. She didn’t take her hand from mine, though. No, she sure didn’t do that. And as unsure as I was about all this, my feelings and what I wanted, I knew this to be a good sign. So I pulled her forward and kissed her lips.

  I swear we stayed like that for two or three seconds, her hands on my shoulders, her eyes open and looking at mine and mine at hers. Maybe in that time she was thinking about what a stupid thing it was to do (me too) and how she ought to push away before it went any further (me too), but I was leagues past the point of being able to actually stop myself.

  A tremor ran through me. My knees shook as if in anticipation of some great race. And I guess she also went past that point of no return because she slid forward and straddled my legs, and I wrapped my arms around the small of her back and pulled her tight. After that, it was as if something we’d both crammed deep down for all these days came busting out. Our lips, our tongues, our hands touched everywhere two clothed people can touch. There was no stopping us.

  No, there was no stopping us except for one little thing — the two kids. We heard them come in the front door. Anna was off my lap and into the kitchen like her pants were on fire. She immediately went about pretending to look through a cupboard. Me, I got up as well, only to sit right back down again. I started laughing at that point, which made Anna laugh, too, which made Gabriel, who was now in the room, ask what was so funny.

  I shrugged my shoulders and told him he should ask his mom, which got me a dirty look from Anna, not a humorous one either, and made me laugh even more.

  He looked at her with a confused expression on his face and asked why she was so red.

  She squirmed like a worm on a summer sidewalk and choked for an answer, leaving the question just floating there, getting louder and louder by the second, until Petra said, “We found a boat.”

  Thank God for the innocent child, huh? The subject was changed, so everyone had an excuse to talk about something else, even though our minds hadn’t changed subjects at all.

  It was in the garage, sitting on a trailer with two flat tires. It looked about twelve feet long and was made of aluminum with three seats across, front to back. There was an outboard motor mounted on it, and a couple of fiberglass oars resting inside.

  Gabriel said if only we could fix the tires maybe we could get it to the river. He was still casting a fish eye at Anna and me, though. I think he’s onto us now.

  We started looking around and found a hand pump in one of the cabinets. At that point, we all kind of just looked at one another, shrugged our shoulders and agreed to give it a try. I started pumping away while calculating; a quarter mile to the road and maybe another half mile to the river. We could do this, I thought. The boat wasn’t very heavy. We could also carry a little more of the food that way.

  The tires sense ofwotinflated and held, so I took the motor off the back and rigged a piece of galvanized pipe across the tongue so two people could lift and walk at the same time. We just packed up our gear after that, like I said, taking more food than we would normally be willing to carry, loaded it all in the back of the boat for balance, and said good bye to our temporary shelter. Things were looking up.

  It was a little harder than I thought it would be. Still, we made the river in about forty-five minutes and found a place to get into the water. It was a tight fit with the four of us and our gear, but the boat was solid, and the waterline stayed a foot or so below swamp level. My guess is it was about eleven in the morning when we finally got underway. Yo-ho-ho, it’s a sailor’s life for me. I guess you can tell I’m in a good mood as I write this.

  The spring runoff was just starting, so the current was good, and it carried us south at a speed faster than we could have ever walked. That was the good thing. The bad thing was that we were more exposed and would have difficulty seeking cover if we were attacked. But if we could travel the distance of two days in one, not only would we have a better chance of getting to Woburn in time, but we would be putting more distance between our pursuers and us than they may be able to make up.

  Not much happened in the next few hours. The river just flowed silent and gray under an overcast sky, slapping at the banks, over and around rocks, and then swirled and eddied in its passing. On occasion we were witness to great flights of geese formed like waves of lumbering bombers a century past, on their way to do their mischief. Petra would always look up when they flew over, point, and make Gabriel look, too, and answer all her questions. She has quickly latched onto Gabriel, and he seems enchanted by her attention. As for Anna and I, we were at opposite ends of the boat and avoiding eye contact. I know we have to talk and find out what each other thinks and feels, but I’m afraid there will be little opportunity for that soon.

  My thoughts on what happened are mixed. I’m not sure of my motivation. I challenge myself to dismiss my uncertainty, do away with any contemplation that doesn’t bare witness to man’s nature. Shrug and set it aside, I say. It’s nothing more than a mixing of proximity and abstinence. In another setting, in another time, it wouldn’t have happened (so I say).

  Try as I might, though, other voices speak to me, and thei
r words demand fair share consideration. They argue another thing. There’s something there beyond the easy explanation — need. It’s deeper and warmer and more substantial. It seeped into me when she used her body to warm mine and mine hers, and later gave me strength to end another man’s suffering. I heard it in her voice when she thought her son was done-in. I saw it spill down her face when a dead woman was given the return of her dignity. And it radiated when an orphaned child, so suddenly alone, was soothed. These things weren’t falsely done; no face contrived. They are she and her character to cherish.

  There was plenty of time for me to think about these things because we stayed on the river until about six in the evening. I guess we traveled somewhere around thirty miles. I base this on the fact that we passed under a narrow cement bridge at one point, and I think I found it informationwot on the map. Using the map’s scale, I was able to make a rough guess on our distance traveled.

  We paddled our way to the edge of the river and pulled the boat out, doing the best we could to hide it in the brush. Camping near the river would have provided a measure of concealment but it would also have been cold and damp throughout the night. We gathered our gear and moved inland through a stand of Aspen that made me think of an old photo I once saw in a tin roofed bar in East Texas. It showed civil war soldiers, dust covered and gray from battle, some standing tall with others leaning into them, the debris of battle accumulated around their feet.

  We went on through and found a place near a large boulder, shielded by cedar and pine. We moved about our chores, now a familiar routine. A clear plastic tarp taken from Beth Morgan’s garage, served as our roof. Wood was gathered, bedding was laid, a fire built, and food prepared. All this time, Anna and I went about our business hiding behind necessary words and forced expressions. I’m wondering now if I might not have made a mistake. It’s awkward.