by Robert Reed
PALLBEARER, by Robert Reed | 40
they tirelessly pushed needles into little brown arms, even as word
began to find its way to them that the first people who had received
the vaccine—the subjects in the hurry-up trials—were beginning to
shake, growing weaker by the day and profoundly confused .
According to the dates displayed on the recordings, the world’s
fate was decided on my sixth birthday . An old man stood before the
cameras, the seal of his doomed nation behind him . With a worn
sorry voice, he admitted that mistakes had been made . Who was re-
sponsible wasn’t known and might never be, but the rush to market
was a blunder, and a horrific tragedy had been unleashed, and every
citizen who had tried to do something good was now infected .
That old broadcast triggered memories . Suddenly I was six again,
sitting between my parents, watching the president talk . I hadn’t un-
derstood most of the man’s words or grasped even the easiest part of
what he was saying . But Mom was praying hard even when she was
crying, and Dad was weeping like I’d never seen before, and I sat
there with my hands in my lap, staring at the birthday gifts wrapped
in all that bright colored paper .
“When will this be done?” I asked impatiently . “When can I open
up my presents?”
* * * *
A boy’s voice calls out to the visitors . Abrasive and impatient, he
asks, “So where’d you people come from?”
Then Old Ferris adds, “The south, if I’m not mistaking that ac-
cent .”
Grandma’s eyes jump from one face to the next . People surge to-
ward her, some running and everybody talking, and the old woman
begins to panic. She gives a little gasp, spinning until she finds her
granddaughter standing beside me .
“I’m here,” says May .
Grandma’s mouth opens, waiting for a name to be recalled .
Once again, the girl introduces herself, taking hold of a puffy
hand before telling the rest of us, “Florida .”
To the little ones, the word sounds made-up . Senseless .
PALLBEARER, by Robert Reed | 41
Old Ferris nods . “Thought so .”
Half-remembered maps pop into my head . On the fringe of the
continent, an orange leg sticks out into the colorless ocean .
“How is our Sunshine State?” Ferris inquires .
“Wet,” a new voice declares .
Gazes shift . Even May turns, as surprised as anyone to see her
mountainous brother filling up the RV’s door.
Something here is worth laughing about . “Florida’s half-
drowned,” Winston warns, his round face full of delight and big
teeth . “Live there, and you’re lucky to be one step ahead of the
ocean .”
“That’s not true,” his father insists . “Maybe the Atlantic’s a few
feet deeper, but there’s plenty of land left .”
Kids ask about Florida, but most of their parents are younger
than me and even more ignorant . Arms lift, pointing toward random
spots on the southern horizon . Someone says mentions alligators—
another word that means almost nothing to this gathering . Then
Butcher Jack finally asks the most important question:
“But now what brings you good folks all the way up here?”
“My grandmother,” the girl admits, tugging on one of the big
arms . “She wanted to see her old home again .”
The doughy face hears those words, considers them for a mo-
ment, and gives a slight nod of agreement .
“She’s from where?” Jack asks, as if he doesn’t trust his ears .
“From Salvation,” says May .
“And I am too,” the father announces . “In fact, when I was a boy,
Mom and I lived right over there .”
He points at the mayor’s house . Some of us look, but most people
can’t pull their eyes off these unexpected, astonishing strangers .
Once again, I move close to May .
She smiles at me, nothing about this girl shy . “It’s a cold day,”
she observes .
“The worst winter in forty,” Jack jumps in .
I ask, “Have you ever seen frost before?”
She laughs . “Not until two weeks ago .”
PALLBEARER, by Robert Reed | 42
“When did you leave home?” I want to know .
“Last summer,” her father reports .
“Florida is cooler than usual,” says May . “We’ve got a short-
wave, and sometimes we’ll talk to friends . There have been some
nights when the thermometer dives below sixty .”
“Maybe this is a sign,” says Jack, twinkling eyes full of hope .
“Maybe our climate’s turning cool again .”
Winston lets out a loud, disagreeable laugh . “That’s not it at all,”
he says . “A pair of volcanoes blew up last year . In Indonesia and
Colombia . Right now, two mountains worth of dust are hanging up
in the stratosphere, and they keep chilling things down for the next
year or two .”
May and her father exchange quick tense looks .
“All that water,” I say to May . “I’ve always wanted to see the
ocean .”
But Winston doesn’t like ignorance, and he won’t let anyone keep
his little dreams . “Believe me, you don’t want to see the Atlantic .
That water is hot and acidic and half-dead . The reefs are gone, and
the shellfish. But not the jellies, no. Those bastards are doing great.”
I’m not sure what a jelly is .
“The Gulf Stream still runs,” he continues . “Maybe not as hard as
it should . But at least the oceans haven’t suffocating yet .”
May frowns, but she won’t take her eyes off me . “The sea is
beautiful,” she insists. “And there are a lot of fish and some whales
even .”
“Yeah, some,” says her brother .
“Summer,” I repeat . “A long time on the road .”
“And we didn’t know if we would make it,” she says cheerfully .
“Dad and his friends built this truck . We’ve got great tires and a
special suspension and the motor burns almost anything . But you
can’t trust bridges anymore. And even if you find people, sometimes
there isn’t any fuel .”
“People give up their alcohol?” Ferris asks skeptically .
To nobody in particular, she says, “We barter for it . Trade news
and goods from other places . When we started out, we had fruit and
PALLBEARER, by Robert Reed | 43
dried fish strapped on top, and every cubbyhole was filled with some
little treasure .”
And they stole their fuel too . I don’t see them as thieves, but there
is no way to come this far and not take what charity won’t surrender .
May’s father stands on the other side of the old woman . He has to
bend forward to look around her, asking me, “Would it be all right?
Mom and I would love to see our old house .”
Crossing half of the continent to tour one building . That might
be the most unlikely story that I’ve ever heard . Yet the mayor leaps
to the cause . “It’s my house, and please . You’d be my welcomed
guests, yes .”
Except grandma isn’t in the mo
od . She watches her arm lift when
her son pulls at it . Yanking her hand free, she snaps, “I don’t want to
be here . I want to lay down .”
Her son doesn’t seem like the patient kind . “Mom,” he says with
a complaining tone. “Don’t be difficult please.”
But the woman starts to drop again, seemingly melting into the
dull red bricks underfoot .
May jumps right in . “There’s a good bed in that house, Grandma .”
“What?” she asks .
“A fine place to sleep, and warm too.”
Perhaps the woman reconsiders her decision . More likely, she
has already forgotten her planned collapse .
“Come on, Grandma . Show me which room was yours .”
And just like that, we start to walk . May remains close to the slow,
stately woman, and I’m taking sluggish little steps to keep my place
beside her . The present mayor is the gray-haired son of the second
mayor—my mother’s old ally . He normally can’t look at me without
showing his contempt . But on this exceptional occasion he manages
to smile in my direction, showing the world his friendliness . “We
have the biggest distillery in two hundred miles,” he boasts . “And
you’re certainly welcome take all the fuel you can carry .”
May looks at me and says, “Thank you .” As if I am the gracious
one .
PALLBEARER, by Robert Reed | 44
I match her smile, my step growing lighter . When was the last
time a young woman gave me this kind of undeserved attention? It
was Lola, of course, and a small, bearable guilt gnaws at me .
“Unless of course you want to remain here in Salvation,” the
mayor continues . “We’re always looking for good neighbors .”
The girl seems ready for the suggestion . It isn’t that she acts
uneasy, but it feels as if a hundred other topics would be more wel-
comed . May nods . She pretends to consider the offer . Then with a
polite, practiced tone, she says, “We might stay for a little while .”
“But we’re pushing north,” the brother announces . “North before
spring .”
Curiosity changes directions . Older voices name likely places .
“Farther north,” Winston declares . Then catching something in
his father’s gaze, he adds, “Nobody cares where we’re going . These
people are staying right here .”
May tugs fondly on her grandmother’s arm .
With a quiet voice, I ask her, “Where?”
She doesn’t want to reply . But silence only makes these matters
more difficult. Not too softly and not too privately, she tells me,
“Canada .”
“Nothing there but moose,” I warn . With its nearly perfect in-
oculation rate, Canada was obliterated . The few survivors were too
scattered to survive, much less build communities . At least that’s
what people have always claimed .
She acts untroubled by my concerns .
Half a dozen questions pile up inside my brain .
And then she artfully changes topics . “Where’s your house,
Noah?”
The mayor makes a low, disapproving sound .
I point at the horizon . “You can’t see it from here .”
“Are you a hermit?”
I feel uncomfortable . I want to hide my life and can’t . With a hint
of confession, I admit, “I live there with my wife .”
I expect to feel better, only I don’t .
The mayor overhears . “Maybe four times a year, we see Noah .”
PALLBEARER, by Robert Reed | 45
May studies me, holding her grandmother’s hand with both of
hers . This peculiar parade has reached the largest, grandest house in
Salvation . It is a towering structure with its south-facing windows
and the old black solar panels and five corkscrew windmills on top,
four of them turning and at least one windmill demanding new bear-
ings or fresh grease—a squeaky, irritable sound that makes me more
nervous by the moment .
Yet I stay beside the girl .
To the mayor, she says, “I’m curious . We asked other people
about you . Salvation, I mean . They say you’re Christian and that
you’re prosperous .”
Hearing praise, the man blushes .
I don’t know what I heard in her voice . More suspicion than ap-
proval, if I was guessing .
“Our residents are all True Believers,” the mayor says . As if
being Christian isn’t good enough . “Our parents and grandparents
knew God would save us . And that’s why we survived the Shakes .”
I have always despised that inadequate term .
“The Shakes .”
May studies the mayor and then looks at me . I’m sure she wants
to ask my affiliations, and part of me wants to tell her whatever she
wants to hear . But changing topics seems like the better tactic .
“Why Canada?” I press .
She doesn’t answer . One hand reaches behind . A small thick
notebook has worked its way out of her hip pocket, and she shoves it
back in place . Two ancient pens are nestled beside the book . “We’re
almost there, Grandma . Do you see the front door?”
This is the slowest walk of my life .
Winston has heard my question . Pushing closer, he says, “Florida
is a goddamn nightmare .”
I don’t want to talk to this creature .
“It’s the Africans,” he adds . “They’re coming in boats now . By
the hundreds, thousands .”
His sister says his name, nothing more .
“What?” he growls .
PALLBEARER, by Robert Reed | 46
“That’s not why we left,” she insists .
“It’s a big reason,” he says . Then he looks at me, adding, “Af-
rica has millions of people . Their climate is getting hotter and drier .
Some head toward Europe, but the Turks and Russians claimed
those empty cities . New immigrants get shot, or worse . So the refu-
gees pay diamonds and gold to ride what boats that can still cross
the Acid-lantic . Hundreds of men and women and all those children
jammed close, and they know nothing about America except that it
used to be rich .”
He has told this story many times, but it’s still emotional . Work-
ing himself into a rage, he says, “We had good lives in Florida . But
the freighters started dropping their cargo on the beaches . Those
people expect to find houses ready to live in. They want cars and
grocery stores . They’ve been lied to, which makes them angry . But
before anybody can complain, their boat’s turned around and headed
back for another bunch of fools .”
Hearing the shrill chatter, the mayor seems less sure about his
guests . But the commitment was made . He throws a weak smile at
everyone and turns the knob on his front door, leading the way into
a great volume of warm air and little children . “Company,” he calls
out . “We’ve got guests .”
Entering the sunny living room, May’s father says, “Well, well . I
sure remember this place .”
Maybe it’s my age, or maybe it’s my present life . Whatever the
reason, I’m not as angry as I would have expected . The last time I
was under this roof, my neighbors were holding a meeting, and my
mother was voting with the rest of the mob to shun Lola and all of
her family .
“Do you remember this room, Grandma?”
May is sweet, an angel effortlessly guiding the old lady to the
tall windows that look south at the brown bluffs and bright winter
skies . I go with them . For some reason, May lets go of the woman,
pulling out the notebook and one pen and spending a few moments
jotting down notes . Then again, always patient, she asks, “Do you
remember any of this, Grandma?”
PALLBEARER, by Robert Reed | 47
The upper windows are original, but tossed balls and careless
tumbles have broken all the lower panes . The replacement glass is
never as good . Cold air seeps through gaps . And maybe that’s what
the old lady feels now. The hand that May was holding lifts, finger-
tips to the dingy glass, and she seems to tilt into the sunshine, pre-
paring to collapse again . But she doesn’t . She manages to straighten,
the big dim eyes staring at the bluffs . “What happened to those trees,
darling?”
“What trees, Grandma?”
“On that hill there . Are they dead?”
“No, Grandma.” The girl leans in close, speaking with a flat
teaching voice . “It’s winter, Grandma . The trees are sleeping .”
“Winter?”
The lady seems flabbergasted.
“Not like Florida, is it?” May asks .
And then Grandma giggles . There’s no other word for the joyful
girlish laugh that rolls out of her . She giggles and turns back to her
granddaughter, saying, “Oh, my . Winter? Really?”
“Really .”
Delighted to her core, the old gal says, “Well then, we did it,
didn’t we? Winter came . We saved the world!”
* * * *
I wasn’t quite seven years old, hunting inside a garage for gas
cans or tools, or even better, fresh toys that might help pass the day .
Dad was searching the house for food . Mom waited on the front
yard . She was supposed to be helping us, but sometimes her energy
would leave her . Maybe she looked stern and strong, but the truth
is never as simple as appearances . Sitting and doing nothing was all
she could manage that morning, her face unchanged but the wrinkles
deeper, the color leaving the skin as secret thoughts made her sick .
All of us were sick. More than once, Dad confided that to me.