We Are Unprepared

by Meg Little Reilly

  “Which is why we need to skip the town hall debate over this and just start knocking on doors?” I asked.

  “Right.”

  “Exactly.”

  “I’m happy to help in any way that I can,” I said, and I was.

  Salty and Peg nodded, apparently already counting on my participation and ready to move forward with the plan.

  We decided that the Subcommittee, as it would cryptically be known, would break for the day and reconvene early next week. Salty had to get to the office and we all had driveways to clear. I followed Peg and Salty out to the porch, where a long-handled tool designed for rooftop snow removal was waiting for me. Peg shook both of our hands and left us alone on the porch steps. The snow was still coming down in fat chunks that sparkled under a dim sky.

  “I’m sure I don’t have to tell you that we should keep talk of the Subcommittee to a minimum,” Salty said as he wiggled into the bindings of enormous wooden snowshoes.

  I nodded.

  He finished strapping in and looked up. Salty was significantly shorter than me, but his presence was substantial.

  “Ash, I love this town. Isole is a civilized place. But fear makes people behave strangely. It dissolves the glue. We’re not trying to undermine a tradition of participatory democracy. We would never want that. We’re just trying to protect everyone. The Storm isn’t going to wait for democracy. You get it, right?”

  I nodded.

  “Then I’ll see you Tuesday.”

  Salty took deliberate moonwalking steps away from me and into Peg’s apple orchard, leaving giant snowshoe prints in his wake. His family farm was nearby, though it seemed a long distance on foot.

  I remembered that Pia and I had snowshoes, somewhere, from a vacation we’d taken in Stowe three years earlier. We had rented a luxury condo with two other couples. It was supposed to be a ski trip, but it had been unseasonably warm and rainy, so we spent the whole week drinking, playing board games and shopping in overpriced alpine stores. It was one of the best trips we ever took together, and I think that was when we realized how badly we wanted to be in Vermont. We bought snowshoes, of course, because that was what all the natives seemed to be doing, along with expensive, unfussy outdoor gear that we thought would camouflage our glaring outsiderness. We wanted to be windburned and fit and real like the locals. We wanted to bottle it all up and drink it, whatever it was that they had. Salty certainly had it.

  “Oh good, you’re back!” Pia said as I opened the front door. I was soaked from an awkward trek home from Peg’s, which required forging my own path through the snow and dragging the enormous borrowed tool behind me.

  Pia was in long thermal underwear that were dotted with tiny flowers, the sort a young girl might wear, and drinking red wine from a mason jar. It was a surprisingly upbeat greeting given the shaky new energy between us, but I could see that she had moved on to other concerns. She hurried me into the living room, where things seemed to be happening.

  “I need help dumping these buckets into this tub,” she said.

  Our sparse living room furniture had been pushed aside to make room for an enormous wooden box, about the size of a coffin. Propped up around the coffin-like container were four plastic sacks of soil and two large buckets labeled Eisenia fetida.

  “What is this, Pia?” I asked. “How did you get this stuff in here?”

  “Calm down,” she said, sure that I would be pleased once I heard her explanation. “They’re red wigglers—compost worms. We just have to compost, Ash! We’ve been talking about it for so long now, but we can’t wait any longer. Who knows what things are going to be like after The Storm! I’m not even talking about this storm; I’m talking about, like, the future in general. We are going to need to start growing more of our own food, so we’re going to need fertilizer. Plus there’s the reduction in waste and sustainability and everything.”

  Her talking points were improvised and thin, but I knew nothing good would come of pointing that out.

  “But right now?” I asked. “The snow is two feet deep out there. What are we going to do with worms in December? Why are there worms in our living room in December?”

  “They’ll die outside, Ash.” She looked at me like I was a monster. “They have to stay inside for winter. That will give them time to get comfortable and breed and grow and be ready for spring. I thought you’d be happy about my foresight! You always say I’m too impulsive, but this is an investment in our future. God, can I do nothing right by you?”

  The last part was a dramatic flourish that we both knew to be untrue. I recognized it as a warning for the direction the conversation was taking.

  I should have fought her. I should have put my foot down about the fucking worms in the living room, but I didn’t know then that every time I would see our worm farm thereafter, I would be reminded of how different our worldviews had become. I didn’t know that it would make me feel as though she’d recruited an army of writhing allies to be on her side, opposing me. They would outnumber me in my own house and make me question which one of us was on the right side of sanity. But at the time it just seemed like a fight worth avoiding because I wanted my own mason jar of wine and an evening of peace.

  So the worms stayed. Of course they did. My acquiescence was a temporary Band-Aid on a growing wound, which was fine with both of us. For a while, I even considered that she was right. I did want to compost. Or rather, I wanted to be the type of person who composted. So I agreed to the idea of worms breeding in the warmth of our home. Maybe, I thought, this was just the kind of sacrifice one had to make to be a compost-type person. I could see the humor in it, too. I imagined making jokes about it to our old friends. Sometimes we go out for a long snowshoe hike and come back to find the worms watching TV or making a sandwich in the kitchen. They’re just part of the family now!

  The larger problem wasn’t over whether we should or should not have purchased five hundred worms. There was a change occurring in our marriage that had been triggered by The Storm. Our most fearful inner selves had been driven to the surface and were beginning to run our lives. And those selves, Pia’s and mine, weren’t as alike as I once thought. That was what the worms made me think of, every day when I looked at them in the living room.

  The truth was that Pia had always been impulsive. I worked hard to see her as a passionate free spirit, but I knew she had a tenuous grasp on sanity most of the time. I didn’t wish her any other way because with that impulsivity came creativity and joyful spontaneity. She was just as she was supposed to be and I loved her. But then the storm report came and Pia’s compulsions began multiplying, feeding on the bad news like our growing worms. And instead of driving her toward me for support and stability, The Storm was pulling her away. It was also—and this was the most shameful part—it was also repelling me. A seed of resentment was growing inside of me for her selfish ability to make The Storm all about her with no regard for how I might be coping. It probably makes me a truly awful person to be repelled by someone who may have qualified for a mental illness diagnosis, but that’s the effect that her unhinging had on me. My only defense is that I was scared and selfish then, too. Wasn’t I allowed to be?

  If only we had something positive to focus on together, something that required we both stay sane and unselfish, we could get past The Storm. That was what I believed. August could be that purpose.

  “Have you thought about August?” I asked.

  She turned away from the worms to face me. “I have.” She sighed. “And I think what I’m most worried about is passing all this fear on to him. There’s so much of it between us and it’s toxic.”

  Pia was sincere. I could see the concern in her eyes, unclouded by the judgment and criticism that was there when I first proposed the idea. I stepped toward her and wrapped my arms around her shoulders, stooping down to bury my face in the pile of hair at her nec
k. She softened and let me stay there for a moment before standing back up straight.

  She was right. But the fear wasn’t just between us; it was everywhere. Everyone I encountered was like us, breathing fear onto each other like a deadly contagion. Fear hormones were coursing through our bodies and oozing out our pores, staining our clothes and seeping into the water supply. Our food tasted like fear and it raced through our nervous intestines. I didn’t want to give fear to August either, but he was going to get it one way or another.

  I wondered if maybe we should see a therapist or a marriage counselor to help sort through these concerns. That sounded like a mature way to handle such a decision. But I knew that I wouldn’t suggest it; and if I did, Pia wouldn’t agree to it. The fear that she was talking about wasn’t the paranoia of a delusional sick person. It was, to some degree, a natural and logical response to the threat before us. The Storm was coming and no shrink could change that.

  Pia used to see a therapist, years ago. She was having trouble sleeping and we both thought it would help with her anxiety, so we found a fatherly man in our neighborhood who took our insurance. At first, it seemed like the therapy was helping. She was calmer and more even-keeled, which made her seem saner to me. I realized later that wasn’t it at all. The calm faded and eventually it just seemed as if the only thing she was getting out of her sessions was a new vocabulary for explaining her occasionally erratic behavior. It was possible that she just had a bad therapist, but I suspected that she was charming him the way she did me, by making us feel like her attention was the sweetest gift anyone could receive. Pia was fascinated by the idea of introspection, but impervious to the benefits of psychotherapy. After six months of it, she got bored and enrolled in an interpretive dance class, which had roughly the same effect as therapy.

  In truth, I was the one who could have benefited from therapy in New York. Pia was living relatively well with her quirks, but I lacked the same self-awareness. I behaved like a happy person, which isn’t the same thing as being happy. I had grown bored and detached, letting friendships fade along with hobbies and interests. But that was changing in Vermont. Ever since we found August in the woods and particularly since I wrestled the gun from Angry Roger at the town hall meeting, things started feeling right for me in a new way. Every part of me was present in Isole, mentoring children and joining secret committees and managing snow-removal projects. I was engaged and emboldened. All of this would have been great if it hadn’t contributed to the growing gulf between my wife and me. My world was getting bigger while hers seemed to be closing in.

  It’s impossible to know just how much of the change in our marriage could be attributed to The Storm, but I suspect it was a lot. We all found out who we were very quickly because of the fear. I guess that was happening in marriages and towns across the country in the months before The Storm, but we didn’t have such perspective at the time. It felt as if Pia and I, and the people of Isole, were the only ones falling apart, dividing into factions and turning on one another.

  TEN

  “THE STORM WILL take your home, your equity, your livelihood and maybe even your loved ones. Do not underestimate the power of nature, which is to say, do not underestimate God’s power. Something much bigger than us is coming. The Storm will rearrange our lives and test our faith. It will wash away thousands of square miles of North America and change this country. Will you wash away with it? That’s a choice you can make now. You can prepare for this.”

  This was the new voice of the fear: Rodney Riggins, evangelical meteorologist.

  Rodney Riggins—a Canadian-born atheist who had already reinvented himself several times before striking gold with his final act as a man of God—was the most brilliant variety of opportunist. His vaguely Judeo-Christian message was free of bible verse but heavy on folk wisdom. He studied the crowd and tailored his message accordingly, adopting a Creole patois in New Orleans, fronting his vowels in Baltimore and faking a Yankee mumble with enough subtlety to pass at the Isole diner counter. Riggins’s message was accessible and within our reach: you don’t need organized religion in the face of this threat; you need to commune directly with God, respect the earth’s power and prepare yourself (“Pray, Props, Prepare!”). For the people of Isole, his message focused on pragmatism, with a dash of personal integrity, and just enough fear to sell it. What he was selling, of course, wasn’t just God. Rodney Riggins had an endorsement contract with a growing company that produced disaster preparedness kits. This part of the pitch came later, after the groundwork had been laid.

  Vermont was Riggins’s first stop on his tour down the East Coast, so no one had heard of him when he came to speak to a few hundred people in nearby St. Johnsbury on the first Friday in December. His presentation was billed as “Meteorology and Spirituality: How We Can Be Ready,” and although the tickets started at twelve dollars each (fourteen for the front section), it sold out so quickly that additional shows were added for Saturday and Sunday. The event was hosted by God’s Kingdom Congregational Church, an inclusive and well-regarded staple of the St. Johnsbury community. God’s Kingdom was known throughout the region for its volunteerism and civic commitment. Nearly all the revenue it took in was reinvested in after-school programs for low-income youth. And after decades of selflessness, the church facilities were in such disrepair that they were at risk of being condemned. For the small favor of hosting his speeches, Rodney Riggins made a sizable donation toward church renovations. It was an easy agreement.

  I think people were starved for more information about the future. We were getting almost nothing from the federal government in the useless weekly storm reports and we were desperate to do something that would make us feel in control again. It wasn’t just our little town or state or region; it was everywhere. Rodney Riggins had something—anything—to say at just the right time.

  He knew nothing about meteorology or religion, but Riggins was smart enough to know not to sound like a preacher in New England. His two-hour debut sermon was more of a training session for surviving the end of the world. He started with the devastation, a grisly, detailed description of the horrors that likely awaited us when The Storm came: loss of home, civic disintegration, panic, death. It was cinematic and gripping. From there, he got existential. “Why is this storm happening to us and how do we make sense of it?” he asked, a placid expression washing over his unblemished face. “Maybe we won’t ever understand why Mother Earth punishes us. Let’s all agree to be okay with that. Asking why is a futile exercise and Yankees don’t waste time! We need to focus our energy on the opportunity before us: the opportunity to live more purposefully. This means appreciating the amazing gift of community that we—you—have been given and doing what’s within our humble power to take care of each other. This storm is coming, folks. Let’s face it with grace, love and good planning!”

  The crowd responded with as much emotion as a group of Vermonters in a congregational church would allow themselves, with knowing nods and polite claps. Riggins had them.

  I wasn’t there for his first performance in St. Johnsbury—most of Isole wasn’t. But the text of the speech was printed in its entirety as part of a paid ad in the Isole paper that Sunday, and before long, it was as if we had all been in the church for its original delivery. So when Riggins began leaving flyers around town, offering free home preparedness consultations and exclusive deals on “bugout bags,” we were primed.

  The next town hall meeting was held a few days after Riggins’s presentation. It was the first meeting after the gun fiasco and, though attendance by the general public was normally sparse, the gymnasium was packed on that day. I was there as both a member of the public and a covert observer on behalf of the Subcommittee. Salty’s plan for the meeting was to tick through all the minutiae, let the discussion wander and bog down, and adjourn on time with most points unresolved. This was apparently the natural tendency of every public meeting, so Salty fel
t liberated from his role of trying to squeeze productivity out of an untenable system. The Subcommittee would fix the real problems later.

  Things began in their normal, cordial manner and then quickly devolved just as Salty had predicted. He looked a little too happy to me as he sat at the front of the room and watched a group of locals in the audience argue over whether there should be restrictions on which days manure was laid. I leaned up against the wall in the back while August practiced card tricks on the floor beside my feet. I loved his willingness to come along on whatever strange adventure I proposed. Pia was at a prepper meeting and I was grateful for her absence.

  People quarreled respectfully and spent too long on topics that I couldn’t will myself to care about yet. My thoughts drifted until an older man in a neat flannel shirt raised his hand politely. “I’d like to suggest something that’s not on the agenda,” he said as heads all turned his way. “This will be a bit out of the ordinary for our fair town, but I think we should consider having Mr. Rodney Riggins host one of his workshops in Isole. It won’t cost us anything; we just need permission to use this gymnasium. Whether you’re interested in a higher power or not, I think we could all benefit from his message right now.”

  Following his successful weekend sermons in St. Johnsbury, Riggins had been leaving glossy flyers around town advertising his “Facing Fear” workshops, which promised to prepare people of all faiths for “the storms in life.” I had never seen him in person, but I was sure that I hated Riggins, who seemed little more to me than a carpetbag salesman.

  “No way,” yelled the chunky-sweater lady from the last public meeting. She put her hands on her hips and looked at the gentle old man without sympathy. “Religion has no role in our civic concerns, Artie. You and your church friends can pray all day long if you like, but not in our public buildings.”