We Are Unprepared

by Meg Little Reilly

  When the flooding finally subsided and we emerged from our homes to start the rebuilding, there was a shared sense of relief. So much damage was around us that it was easy to believe the universe couldn’t possibly muster something bigger and meaner. Surely the gods weren’t that cruel. Perhaps, we thought, we’d been spared the big storm. The damage before us was bad, but it wasn’t catastrophic. We were cautiously hopeful.

  Among the Subcommittee members, there was measured excitement. The melting snow meant that we had been given another chance to move forward with our runoff route plans. The Isole Creek had flooded just enough to demonstrate the urgent point we were trying to make, and it compelled several more affected landowners to consent to the plan. We were very close to getting agreement from everyone, which meant there was a possibility that digging could start by the time the waters dried. The remaining holdouts were Crow, two other preppers and an unoccupied estate that was managed through a trust in Connecticut. Salty was in charge of navigating the legal labyrinth of the estate, while Peg and I were tasked with turning the preppers.

  As soon as the roads seemed passable again, I called Peg to ask when we would resume our home visits.

  “Does tomorrow at four work for you?” she said, sounding distracted. “I’ve got a full day of classes to teach and I’m afraid I can’t find time before that.”

  “Yes, that works fine. See you then!” I was looking for a reason to leave my house at that very moment, but it would have to wait. The people around me had full, busy lives.

  What I should have been doing was the work I was still being paid for, but that wasn’t going to happen. Over the previous week, my work performance had gone from barely passable to obviously inadequate. My coworkers in New York had lived through the storm and subsequent flooding, too, but they all seemed to bounce right back into productivity when the office reopened. Not me. When I opened my laptop that morning and tried to write a memo for a new ad campaign, nothing came. The job itself felt futile. No, it felt stupid—utterly meaningless. I was beginning to hate myself for having worked for so long at something so insignificant. I knew how dangerous this thinking was to our survival and tried to talk myself out of it, but logic was losing out to my fatalism.

  On the last day of January, I stepped out into a bright, warm sun to see the water on our lawn still four inches deep. It was uninviting, but I needed to get out, so I put on one rain boot and a fresh plastic bag over the medical boot and hobbled through the path in the woods to August’s house. We hadn’t seen each other in two days and I was eager to hear his voice.

  “Hey, buddy,” I said as he opened the door in soccer shorts. “Put some clothes on and we’ll go exploring.”

  August looked nervously over his shoulder to where his mother sat reading at the kitchen table. She was wearing a bathrobe and a colorful turban of vaguely ethnic origin wrapped around her head.

  “I can’t,” August whispered.

  His mother stood up and walked toward us in the doorway. Liz, that was her name. I remembered it now.

  “Hello, Ash,” she said coldly. “How’d you guys fare in the storm?”

  It was a neighborly question, though she didn’t seem interested in my answer.

  “Look—” she put her hand out to interrupt me and went on “—I know you think you’re doing a good thing here by looking after August, but we’re just fine. And I don’t like what I’m hearing about these aggressive government tactics that you’re involved with.”

  “What?” I asked. I was dumbfounded.

  “You think you can take my son away and dig trenches through everyone’s backyard. You and John Salting and the rest of them think you know what’s best for everyone, don’t you.”

  It wasn’t a question. At first, I didn’t understand why she was conflating August with the runoff plan, but it came to me slowly: she thought I was the enemy. The Storm was drawing lines through the community and I had been assigned to a different faction. She was an individualist and I was a paternalist. No one could be trusted.

  She began to close the front door, edging me back out to the stoop. August’s eyes watched me for as long as they could before he was sealed off inside with his terrible parents. But he didn’t really know they were terrible. They were his parents and he was seven, so they defined reality for him. It made me sick to think that August may have believed what they said about me.

  I waded back along the submerged path to our house and down the driveway toward our car, confused and fuming. I needed to get out, to go somewhere and get my mind off what had just happened. I couldn’t discuss it with Pia.

  I needed a distraction but dreaded seeing what damage might have been done to our car over the course of the recent storm. On the night the snow began, while I was at the hospital, Pia had pulled the car off to the side of the road to be buried and possibly ruined by town plows, fallen trees and any number of variables she hadn’t bothered to consider. It had become a new source of simmering rage I suppressed, like the worms but more financially consequential.

  To my great surprise, the Volvo seemed to be okay. The floor had flooded and its wet odor would later turn into a moldy, immutable stench, but for now it smelled like freedom. I turned the key in the ignition, considering too late the possibility that I might be electrocuted. Mercifully, I was not. It ignited and with a few aggressive thrusts to the gas pedal, I pulled the car out of our ditch and onto the muddy, wrecked dirt road. I had heard all the radio reports of stuck cars and knew that going out was probably ill-advised. But staying in that house was not an option. I was anxious and angry after the confrontation with August’s mother.

  When I finally reached the main, paved road, I realized that I had no particular destination in mind, so I headed toward downtown and decided that my first task would be grocery shopping. Few vehicles were on the road and most looked significantly more equipped for treacherous terrain than mine. We raised our hands from our steering wheels to say gracious hellos and crept past one another. Despite the efforts of state highway crews, which were out in full force, large branches were scattered across the road, along with the occasional car part. I nearly drove into an oncoming truck to avoid a dismembered bumper at the crest of one hill. A grim obstacle course juxtaposed the cheery blue sky. Strangest of all were the dead animals: a fisher, two white-tailed deer and something so small that it may have been a field mouse. It wasn’t roadkill; there were no signs of collision. These were just dead animals lying in and around the road. After the first two, I worked to avert my gaze from their eyes. They looked stunned, terrified. I thought of the birds, fallen dead on our roof in the previous snowstorm. They’d had the same expression on their tiny bird faces. All the wildlife around me seemed confused, afraid. I considered that this was a fabrication of my own mind, projecting anxieties onto thoughtless creatures. But did it matter either way? This was terrifying, whether they knew it or not.

  As I turned the corner for the main road, I passed the run-down old church that sat on the corner. I had never seen anyone come or go from that church, but they must have had a congregation of some size because there was a large sign out front—the kind that cheap steak houses use to advertise specials—with a message that changed regularly. I noticed that there was a new message blaring at me in uppercase letters on that day: THE REAL STORM IS COMING. WE HAVE NOT FELT HIS FULL WRATH YET. This was, more or less, what the meteorologists on the radio were saying, too.

  When I pulled into the food co-op, I saw the rusty BMW always parked there along with a few other cars. I was grateful to return to all the familiar and ordinary aspects of my daily life. I also realized that I was hungry—really, really hungry. Maybe they’d have the lemon blueberry scones, I thought. I could forget about August and the dead animals and focus on the scones.

  I always felt a swell of affection when I walked into the crowded little co-op with its funky smell and aloof earth-
girl cashiers. This was why we lived here! I pulled back the creaky door to find that the floor was still wet there, too. It was disgusting, but everything was kind of disgusting that week as North America dried out. Reggaeton music was playing faintly in the background and a few other people milled around. Most of the shelves had yet to be replenished, but there was plenty to choose from for someone with no particular needs. Lucky for me, the baker had arrived that morning and a sensuous pile of nubby muffins and scones was stacked on the counter. I took a few pastries and then walked around slowly with no place to be. I gathered almond milk, cereal, tortilla chips and salsa. Nonperishables were better because you never know.

  I stood in front of the frozen-food case for a while, considering which variety of microwave burrito was worth investing in when I heard a muffled sniffle. A woman was crying behind me. I didn’t turn around, but I could see her reflection in the glass case in front of me. She looked about fifty, petite in knee-high rain boots and a purple windbreaker. She was crying into a tissue in front of the frozen edamame and broccoli florets. If she noticed me, she didn’t show it.

  “Frozen peas. Green beans. Who cares?” she said to herself. “Why am I still pretending like any of this still matters?”

  I didn’t move.

  She heaved out loud in a full-body sob, this time attracting the attention of someone else in the store, a young woman who peered around the corner of the aisle.

  “Does this still matter,” the woman yelled again, not as a question, but a statement.

  The bereft woman opened the glass door and began throwing bags of frozen vegetables at her feet. They stacked neatly until a sack of sliced carrots exploded and the other woman who had been watching ran over. She put her arms around the crying older one and shushed her in a manner that seemed condescending to me, but worked. I was facing them now and had that expectant look on my face that people have when they wish to appear helpful but secretly hope someone else does the helping.

  “Shushhh,” the young woman said again while the older one let out one final sob into the shoulder of this apparent stranger.

  I just stood there. I wanted the whole episode to be over, not only because it was awkward, but also because it was frightening. This woman didn’t seem crazy or drunk. She seemed like a nice motherly lady who was terrified, and that terrified me. I needed all the nice mothers of the world to be brave and optimistic then. I thought about my own mother, the inventor of motherly bravery and optimism, and vowed to call her soon. Or should she be calling me? Why doesn’t she call me more? No doubt, she’s completely preoccupied with my needy brother and my sister’s kids, I thought. I resented my siblings for the distance that had grown between me and my parents, knowing full well that the distance was a product of my own inaction.

  The woman stopped crying and I bent down to help them pick up the vegetables. Another man about my age who had wandered over during the commotion joined us on the floor. His curly blond hair was pulled back into a bun, which looked surprisingly cool on such a masculine guy. I envied the effortless wear on his fleece jacket and imagined that he rock climbed in his spare time. We looked up at each other briefly, saying nothing, and it was clear that he had been rattled by the episode, as well. Had he been crying, too? His eyes were red and his face puffy.

  When most of the carrots had been collected, I stood up quickly and nearly ran for the door. Waiting in line behind the crying woman or bun man to pay for my groceries seemed too much at that moment. I needed air. So I left my half-filled basket in the aisle and walked out.

  It felt as if I might hyperventilate as I climbed into my car, unsure of where to go next. Why did the man in the store look so scared? I knew why. He was scared because that woman was crying, and she was crying for the same reason we all wanted to. We couldn’t live in this perpetual state of fearful anticipation that The Storm suspended us in. It wasn’t healthy or sustainable. Our nerves would break before It even arrived.

  Breathe in. Breathe out. Breath in. Breathe out.

  I turned the key in the ignition and pulled out of the parking lot slowly, unsure of my destination. A few more cars were on the road by then and it was noticeably warmer than it had been twenty minutes before. Everything is fine, I reminded myself. I rolled past a bustling gas station and the firehouse. Everything is fine.

  As I neared the high school, I fell in line behind a row of cars all waiting to turn left into the parking lot. I couldn’t imagine what so many people would be doing there—schools hadn’t reopened yet since the last storm—so I craned my head around to get a look. A group was gathering around the front doors, but it was too far away for me to discern what they were doing. With nowhere else to go, I followed the cars in front of me and pulled into the lot. Massive piles of melting snow were heaped around the perimeter, where the plows had pushed the excess. It created a sort of coliseum.

  As I drew closer, I could see that a few people were holding handmade signs and chanting.

  “Hope in God! Hope in God!” they yelled.

  I left the car and walked as quickly as I could with a bum foot toward the action to get a better look. A group of people, old and young, surrounded the front doors of the high school. They were dressed shabbily in camouflage and hunters orange. I imagined that most were from once-thriving small farms that had slowly dried up, leaving the remaining generations with few resources and much anger. I felt sympathy for these Vermonters—even a pang of jealousy at their utter realness—but I didn’t know any of them personally. At the center of their circle was Roger, crazy Roger, the one who pulled out the gun at the meeting and was escorted off in handcuffs. He was again in handcuffs, but this time they were attached to the front doors of the school. He was a protester and these were his supporters. I could see their signs now; the smaller ones all repeated their “hope in God” mantra. One very large banner required a handler at each end and had a bible verse on it: “Out of the south cometh the whirlwind: and a cold out of the north.” —Job 37:9. It was a pretty uncanny fit for the actual superstorm forecast.

  A police officer whom I recognized from the town hall meeting stood nearby.

  “What is this?” I asked.

  “Rodney Riggins,” he said. “You know, that evangelist or whatever he is. There was a town vote over whether he should be allowed to host one of his talks here at the school, and the Riggins people lost, so they’ve decided to make a federal case out of it.”

  The crowd was growing bigger as we talked; apparently word of the kerfuffle was spreading around town. I saw a local newspaper reporter waving a microphone; he looked about sixteen.

  “I’m just keeping an eye on things,” the officer went on. “They aren’t breaking any laws at the moment.”

  I nodded. It was difficult to imagine any civil disobedience in Isole that rose to the level of police force, but stranger things had been happening lately.

  “We need a voice!” one woman shouted. “Who represents the God-fearing people of Isole?”

  “Government should be by the people, for the people,” a man shouted. “We need more God in government—now more than ever.”

  The reporter put his microphone in front of the man’s face and asked, “What exactly are you protesting here? Is this about the vote to host Rodney Riggins?”

  “Heck, yes, it’s about the vote,” the man said. “The vote was rigged! Where are our rights?”

  I stood watching for another moment before an oncoming roar shifted my attention. An enormous pickup truck pulled into the parking lot, jacked up high over wheels as tall as an adult human and splattered with mud. It was blasting a power ballad out the front windows. When the truck got dangerously close, it slammed on the brakes and cranked the music up even further. There was a dramatic electric guitar swell, and then—bam—with a crash of drums, a smiling man popped to his feet from the back of the truck and the protest crowd broke into appla
use.

  It was Rodney Riggins. He wore work pants, a neat-fitting blue sweater and hiking boots. His lustrous coif, parted on the left side, gleamed in the sun as he turned and waved to the crowd like a rock star about to start his set. Despite the filthy appearance of the truck that carried him, Riggins looked dewy fresh.

  He knocked on the glass window of his driver’s cab to signal for him to kill the music. When it stopped, Riggins shook his head in false modesty and waited for the rowdy crowd of protesters and onlookers below to quiet.

  “I apologize for the dramatic entry!” he yelled, climbing down from the truck. “I was getting a tour of the damages from the storm. It’s hell out there...but this is nothing compared with what’s ahead.”

  Riggins walked toward the crowd. “Were you scared? I was. The suddenness of the storm...the uncertainty...it’s frightening. But I’ll tell you, it’s not so bad when you’ve got the Big Man on your side.”

  He stopped just a few feet from me and I thought I could smell cologne on his repellent body.

  “You’ve heard that God helps those who help themselves, right? That’s all we’re doing here in Isole,” Riggins said, briefly locking eyes with me. “We’re getting prepared and we’re putting a little faith in God that he’s going to reward us for our smarts when the superstorm strikes.”

  The policeman stepped forward and cut in, “Sir, we’ve got no problems with God. I just want all these good folks to go home. Is all this your doing?”

  Riggins ignored the question. “Let’s open up these school doors!” he boomed. “Let’s open up the doors in our hearts and start preparing ourselves for this test we’re about to face. We’ll be okay, and the great town of Isole will be okay, with a little hope in God!”

  The protest group, which had doubled in size by then, began chanting, “Hope in God! Hope in God!” and Riggins smiled his big perfect smile.