by Bob Brown
“You’re not there, anymore.” The woman walked and Jane trudged along after her. “That’s the best I can give you. It’s not a good situation.”
“They did this . . . I still don’t understand.”
They were out in the sun. There was sun here, and it had been out since she landed.
“If people knew what happened, people could protest. People could demand that nothing like this happen again. If nobody knows the risks and people are afraid, then it plays the way they want it.” She walked a few steps in front of Jane, then turned around. “I’m Simone.”
“Jane.” She suppressed a shiver. “I . . . can I trust you?” She didn’t have the energy left to avoid bluntness.
“I understand. You’ve been fucked, Jane. But I want to help you.” She nodded, as though that was that. “I know you don’t have any reason to trust me, but I hope you’ll give me a chance. Just a small one.” She smiled slightly. “There’s an American who lives a few blocks away. Let me take you that far.”
Jane hesitated, but only a moment. She had nothing else.
So she followed Simone.
END
WE’RE STILL HERE
Rebecca McFarland Kyle
“The citizens of America can ill-afford another tragedy like Armadillo, Oklahoma.” The White House spokesperson waved a hand at the images of devastation. “The rioting and wanton destruction by these illegal Mexican thugs is yet another attack on the property and lives of the American people.” She looked past the interviewer and into the camera. “How can our president protect us if the borders are still open?”
“We’re still here!” I shouted at the television. On the screen, a panning camera shot displayed a scene of wreckage with felled trees, black mud, and overturned cars. “What is this picture, Northern Ireland?”
Anyone who’d ever been to Western Oklahoma knew the dirt was red and it was a semi-arid desert biome getting dryer every year. If you were lucky you might see the wind-shaped bush that looked like someone took a weed whacker to it.
I reached behind the counter of Armadillo’s only convenience store and grabbed the dusty remote control. It was so old the numbers were worn off. I switched the channel only to find that same spokesperson yakking about the Armadillo, Oklahoma Massacre on yet another talking head show. I hit the mute button. It was the next best thing to duct tape.
“That’s a pack of lies.”
“What’s that?” John McKay, the good-natured septuagenarian owner, called as he moved from the back to stock the beer coolers. Like my family, the McKays descended from the original settlers who occupied the land in the Land Run of 1892. In just a few weeks, Armadillo would celebrate the anniversary of the Run with a church social, same old lecture from the blue hairs, and a mock Land Run for the kids.
“According to our President’s spokesperson, Mexican immigrants just torched our town,” I replied.
John shook his head. “Hannah Wagoner, it’s not patriotic to criticize our President.”
“Patriotism means to stand by the country. It does not mean to stand by the president or any other public official, save exactly to the degree in which he himself stands by the country. It is unpatriotic not to tell the truth, whether about the president or anyone else,” I said.
“Don’t lecture me, Hannah,” John frowned.
“I’m not,” I said. “That was President Theodore Roosevelt. We’re still here.”
“I’m sure it was a mistake,” John said in that tone adults used for small children and agitated animals. He averted his gaze. “Now what did you come in here for besides trouble?”
“Air conditioning,” I did my best to lighten up. “Place’s so hot, we’ve lost our mascot. All the armadillos moved back East.”
“So’ve the fiddlebacks. Saving me a bundle on bug—” John abruptly grabbed for the counter as the ground shook and stock tumbled off the shelves. I sank to my hands and knees on the scarred-up green linoleum floor, hoping the quake would pass quickly and nothing would fall on my head. My whole body felt like a giant picked me up and shook me as the quick-pickup items stocked by the register tumbled around me.
“You okay, Hannah?”
“Yeah.” I was more concerned about him. We were thirty miles from the nearest hospital. John had open-heart surgery twice. His voice sounded like he’d done helium. His cheeks were pale, but he was breathing. I brushed red dust off my blue jeans and quickly moved around the store putting items back where they belonged as best I could, keeping one eye on John.
He was lucky this time. Both his heart and the store withstood the shock. Then again, he’d finally stopped smoking and started leaving the glass items in their cardboard boxes instead of shelving them where they could break.
We all knew it was fracking that caused the quakes, but enough folks still got checks from the oil leases that nobody dared complain.
“Thanks,” he said. “But you might want to get on home and check on your folks.” John suggested kindly.
I nodded. Despite the earthquakes, Mom still had tall bookshelves in nearly every room. I grabbed windshield wiper fluid, which was what my Dad actually sent me to get, a coke, which in my case, was the generic Okie term for every soft drink (actually a Cherry Pepsi), and a Snickers bar, and laid them down on the counter.
John quickly rang my purchases up. I loaded into Dad’s dust-covered F-150 and headed for home. I stopped along the way going live on Facebook, commenting about the “massacree” while shooting photos of the main street, my high school, and the Baptist Church.
We lived just outside of town on a red dirt single-track road in a turn-of-the-past-century frame home with a white picket fence. I parked and headed into the house to deposit my goodies in the icebox and then went out to the detached garage with the jug of wiper fluid.
The garage was actually the most modern building on our property. Dad rebuilt it eighteen years ago when a tornado swept the old one away on their wedding day. He joked that was a harbinger for the rest of his marriage.
“Hey,” Dad said as I entered. He’d found a vintage Ford Galaxie 500 to restore and was working to get it as close to spec as he could to sell it at auction. “Good to see you survived the quake. Nothing major here. Just a few books fell off the shelves.”
“Yeah,” I smirked, handing over the jug and his change. “And we all survived the Armadillo, Oklahoma Massacree.”
Dad raised a dark brow. He was a tall man with a trim figure who still kept his dark hair cut “high and tight” Marine style.
“The news said illegal Mexicans rioted and destroyed Armadillo.”
“Really,” he said. “Good thing they put it back when they were done.” Then he gave me the look. “Got homework?” He asked, seeing as I was still hanging out.
“Algebra, History, English,” I muttered and headed back to the house. I’d be up until midnight as it was and with midterms including Algebra and History tomorrow. Coach Perkins, my “history” teacher loved the essay question, and you better agree with his politics if you wanted an A.
I stopped at the icebox to grab my snack and then headed into my room to boot up my MacBook.
As always, I checked Facebook on the way to homeworkville. My live session had 2,317 shares! I stared stunned and hit refresh just for fun only to see the number double.
I was about to click off when Amanda from my History class PMd me to tell me that #werestillhere was trending on Twitter with my live video of the town attached.
My heart skipped when Josh, who played on the football team and only noticed me as a study buddy, PMd next:
Going to sell t-shirts. Want to help design them?
I glanced at my pile of books and back at the PM. How many times in a lifetime did the POTUS’ spokesperson “accidentally” say my home was destroyed? I typed almost faster than the thud of my heart:
Sure, come on over. But I have to study.
If I’d held my breath any longer, I might have fainted. As it was, my shriek brought
Mom, my little brother, and our three Coonhounds running into the room.
“Josh Johnson is coming over to study,” I announced triumphantly to my assembled family.
“You like him. You wanna kiss him . . . .” my little brother, Ethan, sing-songed from the doorway.
“Mom, can I duct tape his mouth shut just long enough to have a social life?”
Mom laughed, her cheeks going a tinge pink. Both Ethan and I favored her ashy colored hair and brown eyes. “I still caught your Dad and you know about Uncle Matt.”
“Tell you what,” I said to Ethan, holding up the Snickers bar. “You stay away, I’ll give you this.”
I didn’t hear his answer over the roar of Josh’s red Mustang GT. His family were one of the lucky ones with oil rights and the town’s Ford dealership. His Dad was the mayor and had served on the town council for most of my life.
I swore under my breath realizing I didn’t have a chance to do anything to my face or windblown hair.
Of course, the brat opened the door just in time for Josh to see me racing for the door. There I was, an A student failing at cool. On the other hand, Josh’s brown hair looked perfect as always, his polo shirt spotless, his jeans fitting and faded in just the right places, and his eyes sparkled with mischief.
I dislodged Ethan and got Josh to my room just in time for Dad to make sure the door was open.
“It’s cool,” Josh said. “My sister, Jessica, has to keep her door open.”
My stomach knotted at the name. Jessica was the popular girl in our small high school. I was nowhere on her level and she reminded me of that every chance she got. Those of us on the bottom of the totem pole referred to Josh as “The Good Twin.”
“So what did you have in mind for the shirts?” I asked, pulling up the design program on my MacBook.
“How about an armadillo on the front with the slogan I survived the 2017 Armadillo, Oklahoma Massacree?”
Josh quickly sketched out an armadillo wearing a battered Oklahoma baseball hat standing by a beat-up prickly-pear cactus. We set to work and created a cool t-shirt available on a popular sale site.
“So we split profits 50/50?” Josh asked.
I nodded, numb. I never thought about profits or that Josh would split anything with me. Yeah we were friends, but that was the best I hoped for. We both shared the design on our Facebook and Twitter. Instead of ordering one ourselves, I used my printer and a t-shirt iron-on and made us shirts.
“Did you get any studying done?” Mom asked as she passed around the mashed potatoes after Josh went home.
I swallowed and shook my head. “We designed a t-shirt commemorating the massacre.”
“I’m quizzing you on that study guide after supper. You better know it.” Dad glowered. Then he grinned. “Let’s see the shirt.”
~o0o~
I woke exhausted and bumbled through my chores and drank black coffee for breakfast. As sleepy as I was, I opted to ride into school with Dad and Ethan so I didn’t wreck anyone.
My history class greeted me with a mixture of applause and cold stares.
“You put us back on the map,” Coach Perkins said quietly as he handed out the essay test questions. I noted a few of my fellow students wore various armadillo t-shirts in support. Even our teacher wore a pair of armadillo cufflinks.
“Do I get extra credit?” I rubbed my bleary eyes and asked.
“Looking at how you’ve occupied yourself instead of studying, you appear to be attempting to make history rather than study it,” Coach Perkins replied.
I was the last to finish the test.
I finally had time to check Facebook only to see a pink banner saying my account was disabled. Twitter said my account was locked for security purposes.
“Dad,” I was near in tears when he drove up. Then, I looked into the back seat and saw my kid brother sporting a black eye and my own troubles were forgotten.
I opened my mouth and Dad shook his head. I didn’t need to ask what Ethan had gotten in a fight about. He wore the armadillo t-shirt to school this morning and had on a plain one now.
“Both Facebook and Twitter suspended my accounts.”
He nodded. “Suspecting it’s about the massacre film?”
“But it’s the truth.”
“That’s not always enough.”
“But why do people defend a lie?”
“It fits what they want to believe,” Dad said. “There are people in this town who will excuse the Armadillo massacre and claim the Holocaust is a lie.”
I shook my head.
“I’m cut off from the world,” I stared disconsolately down at my phone. ”I can’t communicate with any of my friends.”
“What?” Dad shook his head. “You forgot how to punch in a number?”
“We—” I started to protest and I realized he was right. I laughed. I did have phone numbers for most of my classmates. I just never used them.
Unfortunately, I had more homework and chores piled up. By the time I did that, it was bedtime. I didn’t argue with Mom. I was too tired.
~o0o~
I drove the next day since I had choir practice for the Spring concert after school. I stopped in at John’s after practice to grab a Coke.
The normally well-stocked shelves were barren and John looked like he’d aged about ten years in the two days since I’d seen him.
“What happened?” I asked as I contemplated my choices in the cooler and settled for an orange soda. It was my least favorite, but I had the feeling John could use the business.
“When my suppliers heard the town was destroyed, they took me off the route,” John said tiredly. “I’ve spent all day trying to get someone to bring me merchandise. It’s the same with the grocery.”
I shook my head and noted for the first time I could recall the television was off.
“You know there’s a storm alert?” I told him, noting the skies were turning an ominous black. I added a package of cookies to my purchases pretty certain we would be spending part of the evening in the storm cellar. John didn’t have my favorites in stock, but I figured Dad and Ethan would eat anything.
I drove back home quickly and pulled into the garage to keep the truck from getting bent out of shape from the hail I was pretty sure would be here soon from the green in the clouds. Dad was back working on the Galaxie.
“How’s it coming?” I called when I got out of the pickup.
“Not good,” Dad said. “Tried to order a starter and the website wouldn’t accept our address. Seems we’re no longer on the map.”
“We were barely there to start with,” I shook my head.
Dad nodded, his lips pressed in a firm line. “Place in Oklahoma City has the part. We’ll go this weekend.”
“Yay! May I go to the mall? Please?”
Dad made his long-suffering face, which I knew meant he was planning on a trip to the mall already so Mom and I could shop and my kid brother could buy LEGOS®.
“We probably should take the ice chest and buy groceries, too.” I suggested. “John says his suppliers and the grocer’s have both dried up.”
Dad said words which would have gotten my mouth washed out with soap. I wisely knew not to mention that, but I stored the verbiage away because a girl never knew when she needed to inventively cuss someone out and ex-Marines were good sources of material.
Mom was on the phone when I went inside. She didn’t look much happier than Dad.
“What do you mean, we can’t participate in College Bowl, we put our entry in on time,” Mom said. “Look, the town’s still here and my students are still ready to participate. So please—”
She slammed the old fashioned phone down so hard, it sounded like it was ringing.
“I brought cookies in case we have a storm tonight,” I held up the package, hoping to put her in a better mood.
A faint smile crossed her lips. “Yeah, we need to stock the cellar again before the season starts . . . though I guess it already has and earlier too.�
�
I nodded. Being from Oklahoma, we looked at what the weather did rather than what the politicians told us because our lives and our crops depended on it. Folks were planting earlier and dealing with even more irrigation costs due to climate change though a lot of them just called it a “hot year” instead of admitting our planet was getting warmer.
We were Okies, but we also lived in the State of Denial.
“I’m going to get started on my—”
The storm siren finished my sentence for me. I picked up the cookies and some bottled drinks, yelled at my brother, and followed Mom outside to the cellar.
~o0o~
We survived the storm, with just wind damage. The little town of Eustis, just twenty miles from us got blown away, literally. Three tornadoes had taken turns. There wasn’t much left.
The next day was Saturday. Knowing the news about Eustis, Mom woke us up early so we could clean out our closets of stuff we’d outgrown to take to our church where some of the folks who’d lost their homes had taken shelter.
“Hey come in here,” Ethan yelled. “You’ve got to see this.”
His tone of voice had me racing to the living room. The national news was on and film rolled, showing the Eustis tornado, only the reporter claimed it was from the Armadillo Massacre. At least the dirt was red this time.
“You have got to be kidding!” I shouted at the set. I could see the name Eustis on several buildings.
“What—do they think those illegal aliens are super beings from Mars that they can throw old cast iron tubs up into the trees?” I shook my head at the footage.
My shout brought Dad out of the bathroom, half his face coated in shaving cream and the other half hairless.
“They’re serious.” He shook the razor at the set spattering shaving cream on the hardwood floor. “They’re doubling down.”
My stomach clenched at that. I could see from Dad’s face, he was worried, too. I smiled at my kid brother, who simply giggled about illegal aliens from Mars and found a cartoon. I finished boxing up the clothing and we drove to the church on the way to Oklahoma City.
It was still raining so Mom and Ethan stayed in the van while Dad and I brought out the stuff we’d gathered to the refugees. Everybody was in the small fellowship hall where we had Wednesday night dinners, wedding and funeral receptions. Instead of the rows of tables I was used to, cots were set up with people either sitting up or snoozing. My stomach growled from the delicious smells. Church members had already been there with crock pots and casserole pans full of food. Whether someone wed, died, or any other event in between, these people knew how to feed you.