Water

by Dan O'Brien

  As he crossed over Palo Verde Street, he saw the beige-colored trim of the house he remembered as being Violet’s. The lawn was the conglomeration of dirty and pale rocks accented by the occasional thorny brush cut low to the ground. Santa and his reindeer, dilapidated and drawn thin from the long summers of Arizona, remained a silent guardian of holidays past.

  The front light was burned out.

  There was a suspicious lack of lights in the front rooms.

  His heartbeat raced as he stepped up to the front door.

  It was open.

  Cautiously approaching the door, he pushed on the handle. It swung open, revealing a darkened interior. His eyes had adjusted to the artificial light of the night, so for the moment he was blind. Swinging to the right, a sound drew his attention. He took another step into the darkened interior of the house.

  “Violet?”

  The response was altogether different than he had anticipated. The pain radiated from his arm, and the cry of pain that erupted from his lips was replaced with a string of curse words as he fell to the side. His foot caught on a small toy, disrupting his balance, and he fell. The carpet was thick, but the darkness made it so he fell hard, not able to cushion his fall by repositioning his body.

  Looking up in the dark, he saw the scattered shadow of a small figure. “Violet,” he repeated, though he could not hide the slight irritation in his voice.

  Light enveloped the room and Julie stood with her small hand on the switch. Brandishing an unmarked bat, Violet looked far more fearsome than James had thought her capable. “James,” she spoke. And then looking at him strangely, she repeated his name once more. “What are you doing here?”

  James groaned as he pushed himself to his feet.

  “I found your husband in the street.” The pause was an attempt to find a way to delicately describe the situation. “He was angry and armed in the street. He scared some people, tried to shoot me.”

  She lowered the bat and Julie moved to her side.

  Wide brown eyes watched James with great interest.

  Her words came slowly. “Why did you come here?”

  Looking out the window into the street, he saw that some people had already begun the eventual evacuation. Cars packed full and stacked high were littered in the streets, some flashing their lights and disappearing into the night.

  “He said some things.”

  “What things?”

  James stepped away from the window. “That you were dead. Maybe he meant dead to him, I couldn’t be sure.”

  “And so you just came running?”

  James reddened and scratched his head.

  “Well, I, uh, thought maybe…”

  “That I needed help?”

  James’ embarrassment dissipated. “That maybe you were gone. I needed to know you were okay.”

  Violet looked at him.

  “That I was okay?”

  Julie looked up at James in wonder.

  There was a kind of quiet innocence to her, but as well a deep chasm of understanding in her wide, brown eyes. Lowering to one knee, he looked back at the young girl.

  “Hi, Julie, remember me?”

  She nodded vigorously.

  “You don’t have to be scared of me.”

  Violet bent down as well. She hugged her daughter tightly, looking up at James. “She hasn’t talked in a while, since, an incident. It’s nothing worth talking about. She does remember you, James.”

  Standing again, he looked out into the street.

  He watched as yet another family dispersed into the night, fleeing the inevitable. Moving toward the window, he had attracted a follower. Julie stood beside him, looking out into the streets as well. Her wide eyes watched the frenzy of animals moving out into the open night, packing their clothes and metal into boxes of gasoline.

  Violet watched the pair of them quietly.

  “The longer I stay in Miranda…the longer any of us stay here, the greater the risk. The window is shrinking for a way to escape what’s coming. They have not spoken of helping us, Violet. They have spoken of leaving us to our devices, to abandon us.”

  She nodded.

  “I realize that. I have heard the whispers.”

  “Why did he leave?”

  Violet looked down this time.

  Watching her feet carefully, she inspected the worn shoes she wore. Peering at the cracked and peeling walls of her home, this life she had was one built on fear and diffidence.

  “He has been drinking a lot lately. I guess that isn’t true. He is always drinking. Morning. Night. Weekends. Work, when he shows up. That’s what prompted it. They fired him this past weekend. It has been building.”

  James nodded slowly.

  He was not certain that he understood, but he could empathize. The beauty of the desert was often found at night, lucid skies that spoke of stars and gas giants millions of miles away. There was a place for everything, an order to which every creature, large and small, paid homage.

  The desert was a brilliant example.

  An arid, suffocating ecosystem that created beauty and pain; and then each night the rhythm became radiant. Violet had moved behind her daughter, placing her hands on her shoulders lightly.

  “I am leaving, Violet. They are going to have military evacuations in a few days, but the suggestion has already filtered down. Before too long, the roads will be filled with refuges, people without homes.”

  Looking down at Julie, Violet spoke as softly as she often did. “Where will you go?”

  “North. Oregon. California. Washington, maybe. Outrun it if we can.”

  “North,” she repeated.

  The tempo slowed as the bright lights of a caravan of minivans passed down the street and deeper into the night. They sought a home away from home, a shelter from the coming storm.

  And what a storm was yet to come.

  “This toxin in the groundwater, they don’t know how to contain it yet. I’m sure they have a brain-trust deep in thought about it. But there’s urgency to it, spreading beneath us, beyond our reach. It’s beyond our control. We seek such control over the world, yet our greatest need has become our greatest enemy. There’s poetry to that, eh?”

  Stillness infected the house.

  Their shallow breathing was the only sound that permeated the air. They stood there in a sort of perfect harmony, unburdened by the world for a moment. A growl filled the air, transforming the peace into terror.

  Violet grabbed her daughter tightly, pulling her back into the darkness beside the bay window. Her face was half hidden, but the fear situated there required only that slice of her features. The shotgun had found its way to his shoulder, the barrel wavering slightly out in front of James at the darkness of the hall.

  “Did you get a dog?” he asked with a tremor in his voice.

  She shook her head, or rather as little of it as he could make out. Moving forward, he tested his resolve. He wondered whether he would have the fortitude to play hero once more this night. Foot in front of foot, he found the courage to continue forward. His forehead perspired, falling into his vision.

  With a shake of his head, he walked into the hallway.

  The kitchen door creaked.

  Light emanated from underneath.

  He moved slowly out of necessity.

  His mind could not force him to crash forward blindly.

  Each step was laced with doubt, uncertainty about what it was he thought he would do with what might be on the other side of the door. Twice this night he had acted impulsively, marching out for a battle of which he knew nothing. Shadows passed though the light, casting strange shapes across his vision.

  And then another.

  And another.

  Each was smaller than the one before.

  Sweating, he lost his grip on the barrel of the weapon for a moment. A silent curse and a wipe on his pants later, he repositioned the weapon against his shoulder. He rolled his neck as if he had slept on it all night.

&nb
sp; Something bumped the door, revealing a sliver of light from within. Shadows covered in wispy darkness paced across the opening.

  A pair of eyes paused.

  The half-moons of silver and gray seemed to peer through James as he approached. His back flattened as best he could, he felt picture frames and other hanging ornaments lined along the wall.

  One slid and then fell.

  Glass shattered, revealing a family photo taken in a moment of happiness. James could feel his heart beat his chest. Sweat crawled down his back and face as he attempted to move silently in the dimly lit home. He drew in a deep breath as he paused, watching the lack of movement from within the kitchen.

  Holding the shotgun as steady as he could muster, he moved toward the closed door. Expelling the breath he had been holding in a kind of low whistle, he wished he had not done so. Adrenaline propelled his foot forward, impacting the door with a heavy, sudden sound.

  It swung open wildly.

  Making a full motion, it opened into the darkened hallway. Growls, low and guttural, erupted from deeper within the kitchen. Scattered shadows moved across the open door as it opened back into the kitchen once more.

  “I have a gun, a shotgun. I will use it,” spoke James, his voice wavering.

  The growls intensified as he took another step forward. His shoes squeaked against the tile in front of the door. The world, except for this moment, had grown quiet, deafening.

  A pan clattered.

  A glass broke.

  “I mean it. I will kill if I have to. There’s a child here.”

  He cursed himself.

  If it was an intruder of some kind, then that was not the information to reveal. Summoning all the courage he could muster, he moved into the kitchen with one smooth motion. He held the shotgun against his shoulder, his eyes wide. Pans and dishes were scattered about the kitchen. The wastebasket overturned. Garbage littered the clean tile, smearing condiments and leftovers across the blinding white floor.

  “Hello?” called James.

  He moved through the kitchen, keeping the barrel of the shotgun trained in front him. His legs bent, he was ready to move at a moment’s notice. One of the lights flickered like in a bad horror movie. It was the moment before something ghastly leapt from the shadows.

  The door to the back patio slammed.

  James moved forward, weaving through the mess in the kitchen like a soldier through a war-torn city. His eyes had steeled. No longer wide with concern, but rather serious and penetrating.

  The door to the small foyer at the back of the kitchen was propped open, the screen torn. An incandescent bulb illuminated a small circle of darkness behind the house. As James emerged into the backyard, he felt along the wall with his balancing hand.

  The barrel of the shotgun dipped slightly.

  The yard flooded with a deep white light.

  Every corner exploded with newfound glory.

  And there she stood once more.

  He assumed it was a she.

  The coyote looked at James carefully, two small pups circling behind her. Wide eyes watched him with curiosity. She had a family. James lowered the shotgun, his eyes never leaving the adult coyote. He could swear that it was the same one who had watched him the night before.

  Had she been following him?

  That was a ridiculous idea.

  They stood there for a time, the shotgun slipping such that he held it like a stick––the barrel wrapped in his fingers. The adult circled around her young slowly, never breaking eye contact. But, she put herself closer to the danger. Minutes passed as they surveyed each other, until the adult bucked and then bolted. Her pups were just ahead of her, disappearing into the darkness.

  “James?”

  It was Violet, her voice frightened.

  “Here,” he croaked.

  His voice was dry, raw.

  Julie walked just in front of her mother.

  Her body was shrouded by Violet, but protected nonetheless. As they emerged from the foyer, James was struck by the return of noise in the neighborhood. Engines humming and voices raised, discussions blending into one another in the night.

  “What happened? We were worried about you.”

  James stood quietly, the shotgun bouncing against his leg. She moved in front of him, her daughter in tow. Standing there, she fixed a concerned look upon him.

  “James? What was it?” Then noticing the strange look on his face, she began to speak in a low whisper. “Why are you outside?”

  Time seemed to pass slowly as he turned.

  He took in her serene, if perhaps befuddled, face.

  The words felt awkward in his mouth as he spoke them, as though it was a foreign language. “They came outside.” And then gesturing toward the door, he continued. “From inside. They were in the kitchen and then they ran outside.”

  Violet looked at him as she had looked at so many men in life: in disbelief. “What are you talking about, James? Why are you standing out here alone?”

  James could not seem to articulate what he had witnessed.

  The profound spectacle had unnerved him.

  It had robbed him of clear speech.

  “I was looking at something,” he began and then realizing the futility of an attempt at an explanation, he continued. “It is gone now, like we should be. Miranda will be a ghost town soon enough. We shouldn’t invite haunting this desert upon ourselves.”

  Julie reached out and grabbed James’ free hand, her wide eyes looking up at him. Often adults forget that children are simply small adults walking about, not yet fettered by the realities and sadness that inflicts us. Yet in her eyes, there was an understanding that James could not explain.

  She understood.

  “What about our jobs? Miranda?”

  James emerged from the fog that had come over him. “I’m afraid that there is nothing left. Unless you want to get your husband….”

  She looked at him with as much anger as she could call upon. Though, it was little more than a stare and a frown. “He left us. As far as I’m concerned, he can rot in the streets.”

  James looked to the little girl sadly.

  “Daddy isn’t coming?” she whispered.

  Violet knelt so that she could look at her daughter. “Honey, your daddy doesn’t want to come along. He decided to have his own adventure.”

  “Without us?”

  James watched the exchange and he felt a heaviness weigh upon his chest. There was nothing worse than seeing the disappointment in a child’s eyes when they first realized the mortality and fallibility of their parents.

  Violet nodded. “I’m sorry, honey.”

  Julie looked out into the darkness, as if she could see the direction her father had gone. “Would you like James to go with us? He says he’s up for an adventure.”

  The little girl looked at James, assessing his nature with as critical an eye as a young girl was capable of. That was to say quite a bit. “He looks reliable enough,” she said finally with the authority of a person much older than the little girl who lingered.

  James could not help but smile.

  They stood there for some time, talking about this and that. They spoke of the mundane things about life that we often speak of to fill the void of fear and anxiety. There was a rhythm to it––a pattern that emerged over time, revealing holes in our paper-thin veneer.

  Thursday

  N

  ight skittered away and the pastel morning of the desert rose like licks of amber-colored flames from a fire. The colors collided like brilliant strokes from the easel of a master. There was a pensive feeling in the air, bloated and apprehensive––a collected baited breath. It was waiting to exhale. Yet the energy dissipated just against the surface, ready to emerge again when the heat of the day changed sane beings into skin-itching madmen.

  James, Violet, and Julie crested the sloping street.

  The light of the day made them appear as travelling shadows traversing the sandy hills. There was
evidence of a turbulent night before: broken glass littered across the ground and vehicles parked in such a manner that could only have been intoxication or panic.

  A persistent hum resonated in the air, white noise.

  They reached the front lawn of James’ home.

  The shades still drawn and the outside light dim.

  “Here at last.”

  The words were a whisper from his lips.

  Julie hovered just in front of her mother, shielded from the rising day. A pink backpack looked too large for her shoulders. The wide-brimmed straw hat complete with a yellow sunflower hid her features.

  “Why’s it so dark?” the little girl wondered aloud.

  James stepped ahead of them. “Let me go up and see if he’s still here. Things were intense last night. I want to make sure that he isn’t holed up with a rifle thinking he’s in the trenches.”

  Violet paused, drawing her daughter tighter against her. “I’m sure your father is fine,” she replied. Her voice sounded loud against the silence of the morning.

  He jogged up and opened the porch door. It creaked as it always did. The screen was torn. Moving slowly, he reached the front door and turned the knob; it was locked.

  “Pop?”

  There was some rustling.

  The latch disengaged.

  The door handle turned, and then a crack in the door made visible. His father had the gray, torn hood of his sweater pulled across his features. “Jimmy, where the hell did you go?”

  Opening the door wider, James heard the sliding of a chair. He stepped through so that he stood next to his father. The house was in disarray. Most of the pictures had been pulled down from the wall––frames in scattered piles. Cabinet doors thrown open and things pulled free and placed in open cardboard boxes.

  Old black lettering was scrawled across.

  Stepping into the kitchen, he knelt next to one of the boxes. He recognized the letters: it was his mother’s handwriting. He reached a hand inside and pulled out clean, porcelain plates. They were plates that he had not seen used for the better part of a decade. Holding it up over his head, he tilted it to get his father’s attention. “The best dinnerware? Really? What exactly do we need to bring this along for?”