by Robert Reed
They’ll eventually build their own cooler and slaughterhouse . And
at that point, both of us will be scrambling for work .”
So everybody’s in a tough place . Except that I don’t care about
Jack’s troubles . We’re friends, even partners . But when your life is
tumbling down, it’s amazing how little you feel for the rest of the
hapless debris .
PALLBEARER, by Robert Reed | 25
* * * *
Visits to town usually include the only official bar, The Quilt
Shop . Christians don’t like public drinking, which is why the town
policy is one beer every day—served in a very tall glass, of course .
But the barter papers from Jack won’t cover the food and cloth that
we need . In an ugly, sober mood, I walk past the bar, aiming to visit
my mother instead . Marching across the town square, I pause here
and there to chat with the faces I know . Nobody mentions Lola; noth-
ing of substance is discussed . They want to know how I am . They
tell me that I look fit and fed. What’s the news from the wilderness?
Did I bring in my usual venison? Is the weather cold enough? This
winter must be like the old winters, young voices claim . But Old
Ferris knows better . “I’ve seen bigger chills and a lot more snow,”
he says . “And I grew up in Oklahoma .”
Oklahoma used to be a real place . Now it’s a word that a seventy-
year-old man might as well have made up .
“Off to see your mom, are you?”
“I am .”
Ferris nods . “Say a good prayer for me, would you?”
“Yes, sir . I will .”
The cemetery sits on north-facing ground too steep to be planted,
affording a view of the rooftops and solar panels, bottomlands and
the hills and prairie reaching to the rolling horizon . Looking east and
downstream, the distant country changes from dead brown to sterile
cold gray . That grayness marks crisscrossing paved roads and too
many houses to count . I’ll never go into the city again . It’s a vow
I made years ago, and I’ve kept it better than most . A few slump-
ing buildings can look noble and important, but a landscape where
hundreds of thousands of people lived and died is never noble . Cem-
eteries are beautiful places in comparison, even when the grass is
brown . A cemetery doesn’t smell, and it doesn’t cry out in pain, and
looking at neat burial sites never makes me think about the waste
and appalling loss that comes when half a million ghosts are whis-
pering in one miserable voice .
PALLBEARER, by Robert Reed | 26
I don’t know what to think about the afterlife . But I’ll never ac-
cept pretty notions like Heaven and a righteous Hell .
Mom’s marker is a square block cut from the local limestone, her
name and the important dates chiseled into the flattest face, along
with the usual scripture . My Mom believed in God and loved Christ,
and she took lessons from that strange old book . It’s those lessons
that save my life, and that’s why I can stand on this frozen ground
today . Mom always acted on what she believed, and since the heart
is a fool, my poor father and his heart usually went along with her
crazy decisions .
I never could make sense of their love . But if I were a grateful
son, I would kneel down on this frozen sacred ground and clasp my
hands together, thanking my mother and God for this opportunity to
be alive, seeing the world unfold into new, unexpected shapes .
Except that I’m not a grateful son .
My little ritual—this chore that I perform whenever visiting
town—I do for the sake of my wife . Years ago, most of the local
people treated Lola and her family unfairly . One bitter old woman
was at the center of those bad feelings and petty slights . Even as a
boy, I realized that my future wife didn’t deserve to be shunned . But
that was what happened . My mother was responsible, and the pain
has lingered long past her death . And that’s why I usually have one
tall beer at the bar and then walk to the cemetery, taking a long look
around to make sure that I’m alone, then yanking down my pants
and investing a few moments pissing on that crude tombstone .
It feels better than prayer . And that’s what I’m doing today—
without beer to help, but managing just fine—and that’s what I’m
finishing up when something unexpected happens. First comes the
sound of an engine working, and on then I catch a glimpse of a
remarkable apparition on the highway east of town .
What kind of truck is that?
I pull up my trousers and fasten the buttons . I’m tying my belt
when the mystery machine enters the town square . A long aluminum
box rides high on fat tires, and the windshield looks like the window
on a house, and smaller windows are fixed to at least one long side,
PALLBEARER, by Robert Reed | 27
and loyally following the vehicle is a big trailer carrying what looks
like an auxiliary fuel tank and other supplies .
From some deep unexpected corner of my head, a memory finds
me . No, the vehicle isn’t quite the same . It has been updated to meet
this world’s bad roads and fuel shortages . But out of the fog between
my ears comes an impossible answer:
An RV .
Which stands for what?
I can’t remember . I probably never knew . But this is the best kind
of marvel, like something from a dream, and that foolish part of me
is beating fast now, making me feel like a happy little kid .
* * * *
I was seven and glad to be traveling the world, eating canned
food and picking out new clothes as soon as my almost-new clothes
were dirty . It seemed like a natural life, and I didn’t complain . Then
Dad heard chatter on the short wave radio . People of Faith were
talking about a town left empty and clean, and life was going to be
easy again . But weren’t things pretty sweet already? The dead didn’t
stink much anymore . I liked wandering and the everyday rituals,
like helping my father explore empty houses, hunting for ammuni-
tion and tools and keys to cars that still ran . The scale of the disaster
was enormous . But then again, everything’s enormous to a young
boy . And nothing is more natural than Death . For all I knew, people
had lived this way since the Creation: Prosperity always made
our species too proud, and then God would send a flood or worse,
slaughtering only the evil people in the world .
That’s what my mother’s prayers said . Every night and every
morning, and with each meal of scavenged food, she would thank
the Good Lord for the treasure left behind by the vanquished Unbe-
lievers .
I prayed and Dad prayed, but not like Mom . She was the one who
decided we should drive to Salvation . Dad wasn’t as hopeful, but
he couldn’t find good reasons to hang his doubts on. So we found a
new car for a new beginning, and by the end of that trip I was feeling
PALLBEARER, by Robert Reed | 28
excited about this mythical place . We crossed half the state before
swingi
ng wide around the giant city . Mom navigated; Dad watched
the gas gauge. I studied a thousand fires burning out of control, en-
joying the towering smoke with the dirty flames at the bottom and
the stink of chemicals and old wood incinerated by the wild, won-
drous heat . I didn’t think once about the consequences to anybody’s
health. I was seven, and fire was fun, and this very important drive
was another great adventure in a life filled with little else.
But once we pulled into Salvation, nagging disappointment took
hold. We were late arrivals; only a few half-finished houses were left
unclaimed . The Mayor welcomed us as Christians, and a little feast
was held in our honor . But we didn’t have solar panels or windmills
on our house . Holes for pipes and wires were cut in the walls, but
none of that work had begun . Suddenly there were kids to play with,
except now I was too busy to act my age . My folks put me to work .
Ferris was our first friend, helping with the toughest jobs. He told us
how the town was abandoned when he arrived, not even the usual
bodies lying about . But then again, rich sinners usually died in dis-
tant hospitals and hospices . What else could explain it? A naturally
happy fellow, Ferris smiled and sang odd songs as he and a few
other men helped with our carpentry and plumbing and wiring . But
everybody had duties in their own homes . People with real skills
were scarce, and the Mayor and his inner circle monopolizing their
time . My parents did their best, learning from the daily mistakes . If I
was lucky, the fires few and the weather clear, I got to ride with Dad
into the city . We hunted for useful machines or materials that could
be bartered. I loved those little journeys. I killed my first wild game
in one of city parks, and Dad helped clean and cook my rabbit lunch .
When the day got late, he said, “We need to head home .”
“Why?”
He laughed . Shaking his head, he admitted, “I don’t know why .”
I argued that we could stay here tonight, go back tomorrow .
He dwelled on the merits of that strategy . Then he added his own
good reason to delay . “We wouldn’t have to pray again until tomor-
row .”
PALLBEARER, by Robert Reed | 29
We hadn’t prayed before the rabbit feast . Until then, I hadn’t no-
ticed .
“What do you think of Salvation, Noah?”
I thought hard . Then shrugging, I said, “It’s okay .”
He didn’t talk .
“Do you like it?” I asked .
He didn’t want to answer . It was best to point out, “Those houses
are perfect for us. When ours is finished, we’ll have power and water
and all the comforts . We can grow vegetables out back, so the canned
goods last longer, and you’ll go to school with the other kids .”
“Are you going to teach us?”
Dad was a teacher before . But the question seemed to take him
by surprise . “If they want me to serve . Yes .”
But nobody ever asked, and Dad knew better than volunteer .
After that first year, life in Salvation became ordinary. Normal
even . I had school and church and no reason to wonder where my
food was coming from tomorrow . Which was good and bad . New
people kept arriving, some coming from distant parts of the country,
and while a few lingered, most found reasons to keep moving . Most
weren’t Believers, or we didn’t think they were . Why God’s wrath
had spared them was a mystery to me . But one undeserving fam-
ily was particularly stubborn, claiming to have nowhere else to go .
They built a new house in the hills . The dad was a talented carpenter,
so he was able to find work even with the people who despised him.
His little girl was named Lola . Lola’s mother taught her at home,
and only on rare occasions did they attend church services . But I
made a point of talking to the girl whenever I saw her, and better yet,
she would smile and happily talk to me .
Mom noticed and thought it best to warn me, “She isn’t a good
person, Noah . Stay clear of her .”
“How do you know that?”
Mom had many talents . She could talk to God and convince her-
self about anything, and she was a marvel when it came to manipu-
lating others . But better than anyone, she was able to read people,
measuring their souls and spotting their weaknesses .
PALLBEARER, by Robert Reed | 30
“Lola’s parents are pretenders,” she claimed . “They say the right
words, but words mean nothing if there’s no feeling behind them .”
Mom wasn’t the only perceptive person in our family . “What
about Dad?” I asked .
She stared at me for a long moment . Then she looked away, ask-
ing, “What do you mean?”
“He says the right words . But I don’t think he believes them .”
“Well,” she said, her coldest eyes finding me. “Don’t repeat those
words . Do you understand me?”
I understood, but that didn’t matter . We weren’t the only people
watching, and ideas, particularly the dangerous one, have their own
lives . Like diseases, they can be carried on the wind, growing wher-
ever they find weakness.
* * * *
A couple years after our arrival, Salvation’s first Mayor was
drummed out of office. Three young girls were pregnant, each nam-
ing him as the father, and maybe that was true . Maybe . What mat-
tered was that he was shunned, and Mom became a very prominent
citizen . She belonged to the new Mayor’s inner circle, suddenly at-
tending meetings and seeing to important but vague duties, holding
no official station but acquiring a considerable reputation nonethe-
less . People couldn’t stop smiling at her, even when they despised
her . She formed a Bible study group, and women fought for the
chance to sit in our living room, reading about God’s mercy and
judgment . When those ladies visited, Dad would vanish . Then he
started to skip Sunday church . And here the story can be told one
of two ways: Either my mother protected my father, deflecting criti-
cisms to keep him safe for as long as possible . Or she was the acidic
force that decided something had to be done about the doubter in
our midst .
Either way, one morning I woke to find Dad’s hand over my
mouth . He told me to follow him, and we walked out back, past
the battery shed holding yesterday’s sun and the woodpile holding
forty years of sunshine . That’s the way that one-time teacher would
PALLBEARER, by Robert Reed | 31
talk to me, explaining how the world worked . But there weren’t any
lessons that day . He barely had time to confess that he was leaving,
leaving right now, and this was good-bye .
I didn’t ask why . There wasn’t any need . All I said was, “Take
me .”
He shook his head . “I can’t, Noah . No .”
“Where are you going?”
“I’m not sure,” he admitted, looking worried about whatever
would come next .
I didn’t feel scared . Until that moment, I didn’
t appreciate how
much I wanted to be free of this town and its people—most of these
people, at least—and that’s why I asked to go with him, and that’s
why I was furious watching this man that I loved climb alone into a
truck that probably didn’t have enough fuel to run fifty miles.
He felt sorry for me . I could see that . To make both of us feel
better, he said, “I’ll be back someday . You’ll see .”
He was lying . I knew it, but maybe he didn’t . He was lying to
himself, just like he did for years when he pretended to believe
whatever his crazy wife would tell him to believe .
I started crying . On bare feet, I chased that truck west on the
river highway, and I kept running hard even when I couldn’t see my
father anymore . Then I stumbled and skinned both knees and limped
home, finding my mother sitting at the kitchen table. She had been
crying, but her tears were finished by then. She looked old and extra
stern . The woman used to be pretty . Before she was a mother, she
was beautiful . I knew that from the old pictures . But that woman
died during these last years, and what sat before me was tough and
incapable of telling even a pitying lie .
“He did what was best,” she claimed . “Leaving like this, before
the harm spread to his loved ones…”
“But what about me?” I blurted .
“You?” She stared at me . Then after a shrug of the shoulders and
one bored sigh, she admitted, “You’ll thrive or you’ll perish, Noah .
Either way, your fate is entirely up to you .”
PALLBEARER, by Robert Reed | 32
* * * *
The RV sits on the ornate brick road that borders the grassy town
square . The machine’s big engine has been turned off but still ticks
down . Maybe twenty adults have gathered nearby, warning the chil-
dren and one another to keep back . Guns are on display, and for
every visible shotgun there are probably two pistols in easy reach .
Stories about bandits have become common fodder, and people want
to feel cautious and smart . Why nameless enemies would travel in-
side an old mobile home is a mystery. But sure enough, I find myself
standing back too, listening to the engine cool, watching the dusty
windows .
Behind the glass, someone moves .
Prayers break out; neighbors join hands . But when somebody
reaches for me, I step ahead of everyone, including the kids .