First we’d have eggs and toast and we’d drink that stuff that came out of a bottle and didn’t taste like coffee but which I was supposed to pretend did. Then I’d ask her?
—Damn it, where’s that paperboy?
I hadn’t meant to say it out loud but there she was behind me, holding the paper. Its edges were curled up and I could see a rip on the first page, a rip right through the lead article, an intolerable rip that had no place severing the head of the prime minister, a man who, granted, I hadn’t voted for, but a man who still didn’t deserve his head flapping off to one side, his body clenched tightly against her fingers. Her nails yellowing, flecks of red dotting the surface, dotting the surface like, like, dotting the surface?
—I already got it. He came while you were in the bathroom.
—You saw him?
—Well no, I didn’t see him.
—Then how do you know?
—I heard it hit the door. And here it is. Now why don’t you come in. I’ve made eggs.
But I wasn’t listening. I was striding, most definitely striding, I could feel it through the soles of my slippers, I was striding through the door and down the steps, striding toward where the hedge broke at the end of the walkway, toward the road that still smelled like dirt except on rainy days when it smelled like what it was – crumbling blacktop – and my hands were swinging at my side, swinging like a man of 40, a man who had things to do, a man who didn’t wear slippers all day and sometimes a bathrobe, a man who knew people and was known, a man who knew how to get things done, a man who, when I got to the road, would most definitely not be nice, not be a dear, I’d be a man who knew, who knew, I’d be a man who?
But before I broke past the hedge and confronted the road, confronted the very likely empty road with my anger and my venom, before I blasted the road for being empty, before I let that goddamn road have it good and square, before any of that I saw the body lying at the edge of the lawn. It was partway concealed by the hedge as if, before it was a body, it’d tried to crawl under it, maybe to get out of the heat or to hide or maybe for no reason at all. Now though, with all that trying to get cool and trying to get out of sight and trying to do god-knows-what-else out of the way, it lay there, one leg and one hand resting beneath the hedge, being quite definitely a body. It was the smell that gave it away, that told me immediately that it was a body and not, say, a drunk passed out which would have made sense too since there were a lot of drunks these days (I’d read in the newspaper alarming statistics, alarming, and that was just the other morning while I was waiting for my breakfast on a day not unlike this). And being drunks they frequently passed out somewhere so why not in our yard, which was out of sight of the rest of town and might as well have been alone on the planet for all the visitors who made their way to the end of the lane, the asphalt pitted and bits of it strewn in the ditches so that it wasn’t any better than the gravel it had replaced. No, I couldn’t think of a better place for a drunk to pass out, except that it wasn’t a drunk, it was a body, and one that was old, maybe three or four days if the way it smelled was any clue. The smell, or rather the stench – a clinging, cloying, sticking-to-the-hairs-in-my-nose stink – stopped me at five paces from it, all pretence of blasting the road spent in the odour that even now (has it been five days? six? I couldn’t say) lingers, making me wipe and rub and dig about the inside of my nose with a pinkie hoping, somehow, to dislodge it so I could forget, even though now (seven days later? eight?) I’m way beyond forgetting and would be happy with just being able to smell the way I used to.
Not knowing what to do, I looked back at the house hoping she’d still be there, standing at the door, a reservoir of good advice, just waiting to splash a little my way, but the door was closed; closed against the bugs and the heat and (let’s be honest, I told myself) the scene I was about to make had the body not intervened, had the body not brought me to my senses, had the body, the body, had the body?
—There’s a body out there.
—Out where?
Standing in the kitchen now, facing her back, bent over the wood stove, making breakfast even though it was far too early to be eating, the question threw me, made me pause to consider, made me, all of a sudden, wonder if things were really as bad as all that.
Out where?
What kind of a question was that? Did it strike at the core? I thought not but then maybe it did, maybe I was wrong, maybe bodies had a habit of turning up frequently enough, with enough regularity, that their location was the most important thing, trumped all other questions, questions like, like?
—Didn’t you hear what I said? There’s a goddamn body out there.
—No need to scream.
—There’s a body?
—I heard you the first two times. Now sit down, your eggs are ready.
—But what about the body?
—I’m sure it will be fine.
—Fine, how can it be? I mean, it’s?
—Yes, dear?
—It’s a goddamn body and?
—Please keep your voice down.
—And it’s on our front yard.
—So you said.
—Well, don’t take my word for it. You can see for your goddamn self.
Setting my plate of eggs next to a large glass of water to wash them down since we were out of the other stuff – the pretend coffee – she touched my arm and smiled. I knew what that smile meant, and for a moment I felt foolish, like a child who wouldn’t take no for an answer and ended up in his room because of it. But then the anger was back and I wouldn’t sit down, I wouldn’t, I wouldn’t damn well?
—What are you doing?
—I’m calling the police. What am I doing?
The phone was in my hand and my fingers were pounding on the keys. After three pounds the phone was at my ear and I was listening between rings, to the dead air between the rings, listening between the rings?
—Something wrong, dear?
—The phone’s dead.
—Probably a tree down on the line.
A tree down, sure, it all made sense. But still I stood with the phone to my ear, listening between the rings, waiting and listening, listening and waiting?
—Your eggs are getting cold.
—Blast it!
I slammed the receiver down with enough force to send a spike through my knuckles, a pain that felt like a nail driven into my fingers, sparing only the thumb, like the thumb was special, like the thumb had a plan, an idea, like the thumb was, the thumb was, like the thumb was?
And then I was back at the table staring at my plate.
—What the hell are these?
—Blueberries.
—Where’s my toast?
—We’re out of toast. Maybe tomorrow. Now eat.
Good advice, yes, excellent. I took a forkful of the scrambled-up eggs. They were dry, I could tell from the way they hung dully on my fork. Not a hint of glisten. Not a trace of shine. Would it kill her to add a little butter, I thought, and my eyes drifted to the fridge. The fridge, yes. There it was, most certainly a fridge, sitting where a fridge should sit, next to the stove and a little further on, the sink. Nothing but the floor in between to keep me from walking right over to it and getting myself some butter – a little glisten, a taste of shine – but still I sat, staring, the eggs growing cold on the plate in front of me, the smell of something dead in my nose. Something dead. A body. A dead body.
—When was the last time Chris visited?
—Chris?
—Our son, damn it. The boy.
A momentary waver. A quiver to her hand. So, I was getting somewhere. After long last. Here it was. I was on the verge of it now.
—I don’t?
—Was it a week ago?
—It’s hard?
—A month?
—I?
—Was it Christmas, for Christ’s sake? Was that when he came? Damn it, woman, speak!
—Yes. It was Christmas.
—And now the first week o
f August. Shameful, it’s shameful.
With new resolve I pitched my fork into the yellow cloud of eggs. I crammed them into my mouth, thinking about toast and coffee, and bacon, and not looking at the fridge, most definitely not looking?
—Where are you going?
For she was going somewhere, was at the back door, her hand turning, turning, her hand on the knob, turning?
—I’m going to feed the chickens.
I couldn’t think of anything to say to that so I harrumphed, harrumphed hard, with no regard for the eggs mashing against my teeth so that little bits flew out. There was one on my sleeve so I flicked at it. It made the most unbelievable sound as it hit the floor – a clattering – so out of place for a fleck of eggs, not at all like an egg should sound, especially a fleck so small, and then it occurred to me that it must have been the door and not the egg at all. Which made sense. Sure, in a world such as this?
At the window over the sink: The plate was in my hand, worried maybe about something in the sink so it clung to my fingers, trying to act all casual so my hand wouldn’t notice it still hanging there, the same way my hand was trying to avoid my eyes because my eyes were onto something, on the verge, distinctly and definitely on the verge of the thing. And my hands wanted no part of it, my hands had enough to worry about. My hands were already thinking about the paper sitting on the table. Thumbing through it, thumbing, yes thumbing, all the way through, a test of their mettle and merit, a true test of their moxie, and me along for the?
—They burnt down the Parliament Building. The prime minister set the first torch, it says. He said we’re on our own now. Say, what happened to you?
She was at the sink. Dirt covered in dirt. Hands, I could see, like they’d been dipped in it, her hair wild like straw, and a smell, something familiar, a smell I couldn’t place but even now (nine, 10 days later) I can’t get rid of. Most definitely the smell of something, of something, the smell of… something.
D-DAY
T.S. Bazelli
Seven days after D-Day
That’s what we’ve taken to calling it: D-Day, the day everybody disappeared. One minute cars zipped past the bus stop, the next, they just stopped. Oh, they’re still there, parked in the middle of the road. It’s like their drivers cut the engines and just walked away. Only no one ever came back, and it all happened in the time it took to glance at my watch and back up again.
It’s eerie walking around Vancouver these days. No women in tight yoga pants walking small yappy dogs, no kids running around the yard at the high school down Cambie Street, no early morning joggers.
But you should see the house. It hasn’t been this full since the last time the grandkids came over for Christmas. There were five of us waiting at the bus stop on D-Day, and for some reason, whatever took the rest, just passed us by.
They’re all staying at our house until we figure out what’s going on. It made sense to invite them over, since we lived the closest, and I know you’d have done the same.
You’d be proud! I’ve been feeding our guests, and cleaning up around the house so that everything’s in good order for when you come back. I know you will. It all happened so suddenly that it stands to reason things will go back to normal just as fast. We’ve even got a board up in the living room with bets on how long it will take, and you know I’m a gambling man.
It’s been all right so far. There’s a middle-aged couple from the Island, the Snows; a young kid, Ying; and this quiet banker, Tom.
We’ve been trying to get in touch with everyone’s families but the phones just ring and ring. I drove Ying and Tom over to their houses but their families are gone too. No one’s answering emails. For now, it seems safer if we stick together, just in case.
Eight days after D-Day
Something’s wrong with the Internet. Whatever’s happened must be global or else Vancouver’s been cut off from the rest of the world. Ying’s some kind of engineering whiz from UBC and she’s been scouring the Net for days. Everything’s still working fine, but all that social media, you know, those YouTubes and Twitters, and Facebooks, no one’s posted anything for days. Ying says that’s bad.
What if we’re the only ones left?
Two weeks after D-Day
No matter how hard we try to figure out what’s happened, we can’t come up with anything. There’s no way to prove who’s right one way or the other. Did we miss the end of days? Did aliens just decide we weren’t worth taking? Did some crazy science experiment go wrong? It’s a great big mystery that’s way beyond me, and maybe all of us.
The pantry’s looking a bit thin now and the Snows want to prepare for the worst. They say we’ve got to focus on living. How long will the power last? How long will the phone lines stay open? How long until the sewers back up?
The Snows keep looking to me for answers. You’d laugh. I know I’m no spry young thing but I haven’t been around long enough to know how to live without electricity. I say Ying’s our best shot. She’s been printing off manuals written by a bunch of twentysomethings interested in doing things the hard way. Hipsters, she calls them? DIYers? I can’t get the jargon right. It looks like the future is the year 1900.
The kid’s got some really good ideas (You’d like her).
Tom’s an odd one. He doesn’t seem interested in anything but passing the time reading through our book collection. Mostly he reads the Bible. I suppose sometimes we need to do whatever makes life more bearable.
None of this makes any sense. Why did we get left behind? Where did you go?
I imagine you coming home and having a good laugh about it over tea, your eyes wide, the way they get when you’ve got a good joke to share. I hope you’re having an adventure, love.
Twenty-two days after D-Day
We’ve resorted to thievery! I suppose no one will blame us for trying to survive. Most of the fresh produce in the stores is starting to rot, and there are flies everywhere. Soon all the stores will be stinking and crawling with maggots.
We’ve filled up the house with supplies from the hardware store and the nearest supermarkets. There’s so much to do to become self-sufficient, and it’s all a little overwhelming. I’m not sure I can get a hang of it, but the Snows have been a great help. They’re excited about all the construction. I think they’re secretly a couple of environmentalists, which is handy. Judy Snow knows a few things about herbal remedies and growing edible plants. Bob Snow did a lot of camping and fishing in his youth. They’re both trying to teach me all this now. I wouldn’t know how to start a fire from scratch if I had to, but I suppose this old dog’s got to learn some new tricks. Matches I can manage.
You’d laugh at me, learning new things every day. I think my face may be permanently frozen into a look of puzzlement.
Ying finds me funny and started calling me Grandpa. Sweet, horrible kid. She spends most of her time trying to establish communications, glued to a computer sending out signals to anyone else who’s left, but I’d hate for her to find out we really are the only ones.
All of us give Tom a wide berth. I worry about him. He speaks only when we ask him direct questions. What a world of pain he must be living in… He won’t talk about his family or who he’s lost. He always shies away when he hears us laughing and joking, but living requires a sense of humour, doesn’t it?
I remain an eternal optimist. Ying’s bet already got crossed off the board, but my wager is still on the table, and I may just win this one.
Twenty-seven days after D-Day
Tom started spouting the Book of Revelation at us. And the sea gave up the dead which were in it; and death and hell delivered up the dead which were in them: and they were judged every man according to their works. You know, all the doom and gloom parts. He’s convinced we’ve been left behind on the earth for our sins. All I know is that if this is the end of days, it really isn’t that bad. The worst part is not knowing what happened to you. I wonder and I worry more than I admit aloud.
Bob and Judy came
back from one of their hardware store raids with a different sort of tool. I didn’t want to take it. I have no idea how to fire a gun. Just having the things around are trouble, if you ask me.
“Just in case, Mr. Kagawa,” Judy said.
But I took it and hid it behind the pot rack in the kitchen. I hope I’ll never have to think about it again.
Thirty-five days after D-Day
We haven’t seen any planes, or moving cars, or smoke. No one has answered any of our calls or signals. We’ve driven past the border and back again, but it’s all just the same. It looks like everyone just vanished.
Weariness hit us all hard this week. The other day I caught Ying crying. “I’m never going to get married. I have no family left. No friends.” All I could do was pass her tissues. We’re all missing people. No one suffers any less than the other. In a way, I suppose that makes it easier for me, missing you. We stay busy, and I fall asleep every night exhausted, worried about the rest more than myself. I’ve lived a long life. I’ve had you. I count my blessings instead.
Tom thinks I’m a fool and that may be so.
Forty days after D-Day
Tom broke. He just broke. He came at me while I pulled weeds in the garden, Bible in one hand and kitchen cleaver in the other.
“God has spoken to me. He has called me to clean this earth of its last unbelievers,” Tom said.
I clutched my dull, muddy spade tight. So small compared to the cleaver in his hand. And I remembered you at the kitchen table, two summers ago, cleaving up that roast pig to serve at our granddaughter’s fifth birthday party. The thought of that almost made my mouth water. What was I thinking?
“So, you’re God’s hired mop, eh?” I asked. Tom wasn’t impressed by my terrible joke. “I don’t remember that from Sunday school. I bet if we didn’t believe in God before, I’m sure we all do now, because how else could this have happened?”
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