End Times

by Anna Schumacher

  He held her at arm’s length. “Lookit you: a grown woman. Little skinny, but a couple weeks of Aunt Karen’s cooking will fix that.” He laughed good and deep.

  “Do you know where that noise is coming from?” she asked as the bus pulled away, kicking up a cloud of dust as it turned onto Buzzard Road.

  Floyd grinned. “Isn’t it amazing? It just started, practically the moment I got in the truck to come pick you up. It’s like a sign from God, coming from the heavens.”

  Daphne frowned as she followed him to his ancient, rust-spattered pickup. “But there has to be an explanation,” she said. “What about the high school band? Maybe they’re practicing?”

  “Doubt it,” Floyd said amiably, hoisting himself into the driver’s seat. “Music got cut from the school budget years ago.”

  Daphne rolled down her window, letting the long metallic notes sweep in on a brisk, clean breeze. “Maybe it’s a trick of the wind?” she suggested. The air felt so fresh and pure on her face, it seemed almost possible that it could manufacture a sound exactly like a trumpet fanfare.

  Floyd’s laugh rolled deep and rich from his chest. “Could be,” he surmised. “But I’ve lived here my whole life, and I’ve never heard anything even remotely like it.”

  He swung the pickup onto Main Street, passing the movie theater where Daphne remembered going to see cartoons with the Peytons as a child. It was boarded up, a lone P hanging haphazardly from the marquee. Beyond it, more stores were shuttered permanently, with dusty For Rent signs in the windows and tattered awnings flapping in the wind. She noticed with a pang that the ice cream parlor where she’d always ordered a chocolate cone with double rainbow sprinkles had been converted to a pawnshop—and even that looked like it hadn’t been open in months. The village that she remembered as a candy-colored vacation mecca seemed more like a sleepy town ravaged by the recession, a drive-by on Highway 80 somewhere between Cheyenne and Salt Lake City.

  “Hey, Hal!” Floyd called to a man sitting on a bench outside the hardware store. Daphne vividly remembered visiting her uncle there, the way he’d held her up to see the wall of flashlights and brightly colored electrical tape and helped her open the gleaming drawers full of every size and type of screw, proudly explaining to her how he’d organized them all himself.

  “Floyd!” Hal, whose big, round ears stuck out of the side of his head like a pair of bolts and washers, creaked to his feet. He wore a faded flannel shirt and overalls, and the grin under his baseball cap was enormous. “Can you believe this?” He gestured at the sky. “Like it’s coming straight from heaven!”

  Floyd slowed to a stop, his engine idling. “Like a sign from God,” he agreed.

  “Straight out of the book of Revelations!” Hal peered into the truck. “Say, is this your little niece? She ain’t so little anymore!” He grinned at Daphne. “Last time I saw you, you had a bullfrog in your hands that you refused to let go. Did you bring this miracle in with you on the bus, or what?”

  Daphne shook her head. She dimly remembered Hal as her uncle’s boss, the owner of the hardware store. “I’m clueless,” she said. “Maybe there’s a band or orchestra visiting from out of town?”

  “Visiting Carbon County?” Hal whooped, underscoring a series of low, brassy notes that seemed to boom straight from the sky. “That’s a good one. Wherever they’re from, I can guarantee there’s even less to see here.”

  “Well, I should get Daphne home to unpack—and see what the missus has to say about all this.” Floyd pointed at the sky. “Ten bucks says she’s already called Pastor Ted.”

  “That’s one bet I’m not willing to take,” Hal chuckled. “See you around, Floyd.”

  They chugged on down the street, the trumpets waxing and waning like a fire alarm all around them. Daphne was starting to feel like the music was following her—no matter how far they drove, it always seemed to be coming from just over the next bend.

  “It’s good the hardware store’s still open,” she said. “You must be glad to be working.”

  Uncle Floyd’s grin disappeared, and the lines in his face grew heavier. “Well, Daphne, I guess that’s something I should tell you. Times are a little tough around here, and business hasn’t been so good lately.”

  Foreboding tickled the back of her throat. “Are you only part-time now?” she guessed.

  “Not exactly, no.” He concentrated heavily on the road, not meeting her eyes. “Hal kept me on for as long as he could, but it’s all he can do to keep the lights on. I’ve been out of work since December.”

  The tickle in her throat turned to a full-fledged ache. Why hadn’t Floyd mentioned that when she called? If she’d known the family was struggling, she would have found somewhere else to go. But before she could ask, Floyd pulled the pickup past a stand of scrubby pines and up to a narrow trailer home propped up on cinder blocks. Auto parts, old metal lawn chairs, and a long-forgotten birdbath rusted on patches of dry brown grass out front.

  “Here we are.” His tone, behind a jovial grin, was almost apologetic. “Home sweet home, trumpet fanfare and all.”

  Daphne gaped. “You’re still living in the trailer?” she asked before she could stop herself. The last summer she’d visited, when she was eight, the kitchen table had been spread with blueprints for the house Floyd planned to build. He’d been so proud when he pointed to the guest room where her parents would sleep, then to the square that would be Janie’s room, big enough for two twin beds and all the sleepovers the girls could dream of.

  Again, Floyd avoided her eyes. “I never could quite scrape together the money,” he said as the mysterious trumpets sounded a mournful note. “Tax rates went up, and the bank’s been pretty stingy with loans. But you should see what Karen’s done with the place—we got a new living room set a few years back, and everyone swears the foldout’s as comfy as a real bed. You’ll be snug as a bug in a rug.”

  He grabbed her bag, and Daphne followed him up the scrubby path to the trailer, her head still spinning. Nothing was the way she’d imagined it back in Detroit, where the glimmer of Carbon County and her uncle’s welcoming smile had gotten her through so many of the long, uncertain nights since Jim’s stabbing. It hadn’t even occurred to her that the Peytons might not be doing well themselves.

  “There you are!” Karen Peyton threw open the trailer’s door and wrapped Daphne in a cinnamon-scented hug. The trumpet blasts disappeared momentarily into the folds of her aunt’s fleshy shoulders as Karen squeezed her tight.

  “Welcome back, dear.” Aunt Karen pulled away, still grasping Daphne’s wrist in one of her pudgy hands. Wispy blond hair flew around her face, and a basket of cartoon kittens grinned from her sweatshirt. “Can you believe this . . . this . . . ?” She waved her hand in the air, at a loss for words.

  “This miracle?” Floyd supplied.

  “Miracle, racket, whatever you want to call it!” Karen hustled them inside, letting the screen door slam behind them. “Me an’ Janie’ve been on the phone with everyone, and of course the first person I called was Pastor Ted.”

  Uncle Floyd caught Daphne’s eye and winked.

  “Does he agree?” Floyd asked. “This could be that sign from God he’s been talking about all these years?”

  “Well, he doesn’t know for sure, of course. Some folks say it’s gotta be a busload of trumpet players or something, some trick of the wind. But as far as I’m concerned, there’s really only one explanation: The good Lord is trying to send us a message, and He found the absolute loudest possible way to do it.” She raised her head to the trailer’s low, curved ceiling. “We hear you up there, okay, Lord?” she said. “And we’re ready and willing to do your bidding, always have been and always will be—so you can stop driving us nuts with that noise already!”

  “For real!”

  Over her aunt’s shoulder, Daphne saw her cousin Janie coming toward them from the hall. The towh
eaded girl who had once made Daphne call her Princess Janie was still blond, but now her color came with hair spray and dark roots. Her eyes were ringed in thick blue liner and accentuated with layers of mascara, and peachy gloss coated her lips. She’d filled out, too, with big breasts and pudgy shoulders and . . .

  “Oh my God.” Daphne set down her bag and stared at the bulge under her cousin’s top. “You guys didn’t tell me Janie was pregnant!”

  “We don’t take the Lord’s name in vain in this house,” Janie said sunnily. “And—yep, surprise! I’m gonna have a baby boy.”

  Daphne’d been wrong. This was all wrong. She’d be an imposition on the Peytons, taking up space they didn’t have in a trailer that could barely accommodate them in the first place, stealing food from a baby that needed it way more than she did. She never should have come. The trailer felt like it was closing in on her, even more claustrophobic than her mother’s apartment. A claw of panic seized at her throat as she realized she’d have to leave, to find a whole new place for herself in the world, one without any friends or family at all. Maybe it was what she deserved.

  “I’m sorry—I didn’t realize,” she babbled. “You should have told me. I could have gone somewhere else . . .”

  “Don’t be ridiculous!” Janie swooped in to give Daphne a hug. “We wanted it to be a surprise! There’s plenty of room for all of us here—like Pastor Ted says, if there’s room in your heart, there’s room in your home. Now come on, I’ll show you where I cleaned off a shelf in my room for your stuff.” She eyed Daphne’s duffel. “Although if that’s all you brought, I guess that’s a good thing, ’cause I’m a bit of a slob. So can you get a load of these trumpets or what? It’s all anyone in town can talk about . . .”

  The claw eased its grip on Daphne’s throat as Janie led her down the hall, chattering the entire way: about clothes, the ordeals of pregnancy, and the kooky trumpet sounds that still filled the air. If the Peytons minded having her there, they sure did a good job of hiding it. I’ll help out however I can, Daphne promised herself. I’ll do the dishes, try to get a job—maybe even start a garden out back.

  Daphne reminded herself that even if the situation wasn’t ideal, she was safe with the Peytons. It was time to forget about what had happened back in Detroit, to forget the nightmare of the past nine years. It was time to be a Peyton again.

  THE trumpets continued as Janie showed Daphne around the trailer, serenading them as her cousin pointed out the holder for her toothbrush in the closet-sized bathroom and how to kick the stubborn leg on the foldout couch where she’d be sleeping in the living room. As cramped as the trailer was, she could tell that the Peytons had tried hard to make it feel like a home. The pint-size kitchen was painted a cheery yellow, and clean lace curtains hung over the windows above the sink and built-in banquette.

  Two steps away, the living room was stuffed with plush, rose-colored furniture. Daphne saw her own seven-year-old face grinning from a photo on the wall, clutching an ice cream cone in one hand and her father’s swim trunks in the other, the entire family wet and sunburned and smiling. The photo was surrounded by Janie’s school pictures, framed certificates, and inspirational posters, and a big wooden cross decorated in hand-painted vines and flowers dominated the wall.

  The trumpets blared through dinner, interrupting with blast after triumphant blast as Janie tried to lead the family in a lengthy grace blessing the Lord, the food, the baby, the baby’s daddy, Cousin Daphne’s poor dead stepdad, Pastor Ted and the entire congregation of the Carbon County First Church of God, and also Wal-Mart for having such cheap maternity clothes. Daphne had just finished doing the dishes when a bright green pickup truck decorated with shiny black lightning careened into the driveway, a dirt bike strapped to the back. An oversize guy in an Abercrombie T-shirt and Carhartt jacket, with hulking shoulders and a thick, pink neck, came lumbering out.

  “Doug!” Janie called. She threw open the door and kissed him loudly while Aunt Karen averted her eyes. “Can you believe this noise? It’s, like, the craziest thing that’s ever happened to Carbon County since—well, ever!”

  “Sure, babe.” Doug regarded Daphne over his girlfriend’s head. His eyes were narrow and piggish under puffy lids, and a purple pimple throbbed ripely by his lip. “This your cousin?”

  Janie bobbed between them, making introductions. “It’s real nice to meet you,” Doug said, a slow grin spreading across his face. Daphne forced herself to smile back, reminding herself that not all guys were giant scumbags like Jim. “You ready to watch me ride?”

  “I guess,” Daphne replied. During dinner, Janie had told her all about the motocross track in town, how ever since it had been built it was the main thing—and pretty much the only thing—to do on Friday nights.

  “So you really never seen any motocross?” Doug asked as they headed toward his truck.

  She shook her head.

  “I guess not a lot of dirt bike tracks in Detroit. Just dirtbags, ha ha ha!” He guffawed at his own joke, and Janie joined in. After a moment, Daphne choked out a laugh of her own. She was liking Doug less and less by the minute—but if there was one thing Jim had taught her, it was that the bigger a guy talked, the less he liked to be contradicted.

  “You’re gonna love it!” Janie did her best to twist around and smile at Daphne from the passenger seat. “Some of the guys around here are real good. Especially my man here—right, baby?”

  Doug puffed up at the compliment. “I guess I’m all right,” he said. It was clear that he thought he was more than all right.

  They passed a hand-painted sign that read Carbon County Motocross Track: Ride at Your Own Risk! and the road dead-ended in a parking area bordered by pines. A narrow dirt road at one end bisected into two trails, one leading to a small stand of metal bleachers and the other down to the track itself, which was a long series of packed-dirt jumps and S-curves, all arranged in a shape like a sloppy figure eight.

  Doug pulled into a prime parking spot right up by the track, tooting his horn. A half dozen guys paused from untying their own dirt bikes to greet them. Strutting around like the biggest turkey on the farm, Doug dispensed high fives while Janie gingerly let herself down from the passenger seat.

  “Hey, everyone, I want you to meet my baby cousin Daphne, bringer of bizarro trumpet sounds from God!” Janie crowed to the crowd. Conversations hushed, and a couple dozen heads swiveled toward them as Daphne stood awkwardly by the truck, her hands shoved deep in the pockets of her worn black hoodie.

  “You really responsible for this?” a guy with a crew cut asked, just as a brassy A-minor scale thundered from the sky.

  “Uh, no.” Daphne felt her cheeks grow hot from the attention. She wished she could melt back into the shadows. “It’s just a coincidence.”

  “You sure?” a girl with brown corkscrew curls and an acne scar on her cheek asked. “’Cause, dollars to donuts, nobody from around here’s special enough to kick up this kind of fuss.”

  The crowd laughed, and Daphne tried to laugh with them. But it came out sounding like she was being choked. She wasn’t used to being in the spotlight; back in Detroit she’d been a ghost, drifting silently from class to class, ducking her head whenever someone met her eyes. Once she was past the metal detectors, it was easy to blend into the riot of color and noise—much easier than trying to make friends in the chaos of clashing cliques and shifting alliances. She was more comfortable working long shifts at the 7-Eleven or roaming Detroit’s crumbling downtown on her own, hands in her pockets and the wind a bitter relief on her face.

  “Where’d you come from?” someone else asked.

  “Definitely heaven,” the girl with the corkscrew curls said authoritatively. “Y’know—where they keep the trumpets and stuff.” She broke into raucous laughter, and the rest of the crowd joined in.

  “Actually, it’s kind of the opposite,” Daphne said. “I’m from Detroit.”r />
  “Hah—nice one.” The girl extended her hand. “I’m Hilary. Welcome to Carbon County, where the most exciting thing ever to happen to us is you.”

  “Thanks.” Daphne smiled.

  “Who wants a refreshing beverage?” Doug butted between them, dispensing cans from a sweaty twelve-pack of Coors. It was becoming obvious that he was the leader of the pack—and equally obvious that he’d bought more than his fair share of beers to get there.

  “Aren’t they going to be racing and stuff?” Daphne whispered to Hilary as the crowd popped their tabs and began guzzling.

  “Oh, it’s fine.” Hilary took a deep swig. “When it comes to drinking, we’re all professionals. Have I mentioned this isn’t exactly a happening town?”

  “Daphne?” Doug smirked as he held out a can. “Brewski for you-ski?”

  “No thanks.” She pointed a thumb at Janie’s belly. “Solidarity.”

  “Aw, you are too sweet!” Janie planted a pink-frosted kiss on Daphne’s cheek. “Isn’t she the best, everyone? Forgoing beer just to keep her preggo cousin company!”

  “You want a soda?” The voice at her elbow was so quiet, it took Daphne a moment to realize he was speaking to her. She turned slowly and saw a guy with blond hair and a dimple in his right cheek. “I’ve got Coke and Sprite. And, uh, maybe a Dr Pepper. I’d have to check.”

  “Coke sounds great,” she said.

  “Oh, uh, awesome. I’ve got a cooler in my truck, if you want to, uh . . .” He gulped, sending his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down.

  “Sure.” She followed him to an ancient Toyota rusting at the edge of the parking lot. Scanning her brain for his name, she found herself drawing a blank. He had one of those pleasant but easily forgettable faces, like the guy in an action movie whose car the hero steals to go save the day.

  “So, uh, you just got into town?” He rummaged in a cooler that was held together with bungee cords and handed her a Coke.

  “Yeah. Just this afternoon. With the trumpets.”