The Two That Remained
Page 23
She held tight to Emily, swaddled in thin blankets, and kissed her on the forehead. “I’m glad Tish is okay.”
Ryan exhaled. “Me too. I can’t even imagine. Stupid little fucks can’t pay attention. I hope they get slapped hard by the law.”
Zoo Man took the reporter up to the lion enclosure. “All animals are territorial,” he told her, each syllable annunciated. “That is why, if a child falls into a cage it can be hurt. Believe it or not, when you change, say this lion here’s, territory, this environment, this enclosure, we have placed it within, you confound its senses. What if someone threw a goat into your bed out of nowhere? Hmm? It is afraid of the child, and thus, might attack out of fear. It is not being malicious or evil, it is merely protecting its sense of calm. Then again, the lion is often curious of people and might be inclined to follow them if he were ever freed.”
“To attack, Mr. Bandyopadhyay?” the reported asked.
“I wouldn’t think so,” Zoo Man said, his belly shaking with laughter. “And please, call me Sanjay, it is easier to say. Now, unless you are within what it deems is its immediate territory, or perhaps, if it is driven to extreme hunger by poor conditions in nature. If you do not threaten wild animals, or tempt them with food, keep your distance and they will not harm you. But this one, he is a cat at heart. And cats? Well… Cats are curious creatures. Yes they are.”
“Tell that to the bear,” Ryan mumbled.
Lillian’s phone vibrated on the tabletop, making a racket. She leaned forward to pick it up, first muting the TV. “Hello? Yes. One moment.” She turned to Ryan. “Hold Emily for a second, I need to take this call.”
He nodded and scooped four-month-old Emily into his arms, still nervous he would break something by holding her. Her eyes were closed and she was breathing softly, lips and lids quivering from time to time. She was dreaming of boob milk, smiling faces, and bright colors. He put his right index finger against her tiny hand and she held tight.
“Okay, sorry about that. Yes. Okay. That’s right…” Lillian paced out of the living room and into the kitchen.
Ryan rocked Emily while craning his head around the back of the couch to eavesdrop. His brows dug a deep furrow in his forehead.
“That sounds wonderful. Yes, if you’ve read through my resume you’ll see I have a great deal of experience with that. I love research. Okay. Sure. Wednesday at four would be fine with me.” She peered over at Ryan just to be sure. He shrugged and nodded once, not really sure what he was agreeing to. In marriage, he’d learned it’s better to agree first and deal with the rest later. “I’ll see you then Mr. Kilgore. What? Okay, that’s great. I can call you that. I’ll see you then, Peter. Have a wonderful day.” She hung up the phone.
“What was that about?” Ryan asked, indigestion bubbling in his stomach.
Lillian beamed, clasped phone against her chest. “I think you know.”
Chapter 39
Though it might have been a no-brainer, Ryan started locking their front door, deadbolt, and white plastic child safety knob. He made sure the windows were securely locked and that the fence gate leading into the back yard was latched. Not only did he have his daughter's life to worry over now, a goat had joined their little family, and Ryan intended on keeping all three of them alive.
Neither he nor Emily had ever drank goat’s milk. The first couple of days Ryan had a hard time milking Fork—the name Emily had given their goat while eating dinner the first night. He knew there was a proper technique to this like anything else, though he had no idea what that was. He knew it involved a lot of sitting and pulling, and thus, created a lot of chafing. The prospect of fresh milk spurred him past any ignorance and into experimentation. If ancient man had figured out a way to milk animals, so could he, an erudite individual who had once earned a PHD.
He slathered lotion on his hands, put a bucket underneath Fork, sat on a step stool rung, and squeezed her udders. She spun her head back and made a throaty sound.
“It’s okay,” he reassured her. He squeezed and pulled, didn’t produce any milk, and tried harder.
She let out a bahh, her flanks shifting, cloven hooves stamping. Fork didn’t care for his shoddy technique. After several minutes, and about one ounce of milk, Ryan left her udders be. He rubbed her on the back, spoke soft, and let her return to feeding on the tall fescue and bluegrass in their yard.
With Emily glued to his side, Ryan constructed a lean-to for Fork out of found lumber. He positioned it at the corner of their yard, cleared out the grass beneath, and placed water buckets. Several hours passed and Fork took an inspection. She seemed to like it here.
“Dote,” Emily said, sitting on the back porch.
“It’s goat. That’s how you say it.” Ryan had his arm around her, leaning her head into his side. It felt good to have her close again. The world was easier to face. Father and daughter against it all.
“Go-at?”
“Goat. Like dote, but with a g. Goat.”
“Goat.”
“Much better.”
“My goat is Fork.”
“Yes, she is. And Fork is such a pretty goat.”
“Mmhm. Fork pretty goat.”
While Fork grazed and recovered from farmer ignoramus, Ryan led an expedition back to the west side of North Skinker, following up on his notes. It turned out that one of the homes he’d previously passed up was fully solar powered.
“Would have been good to know sooner,” he mused, breaking the front deadbolt. He locked Emily in a nearly empty bedroom upstairs.
“I’ll be right back, sweetie. You play with your Barbies, okay?”
She nodded and took a seat, sipping on flavored water from a Hello Kitty shaped pink cup.
Ryan exited one of the bedroom windows, tool belt and rope over his shoulder, and made his way on top of the roof. He disconnected three of the head high solar panels, boots occasionally slipping on the slimy, leaf covered shingles. That might leave enough connected to the system for it still to work. For now, casa de Sharpe, version 3.2, had few power requirements. If these panels gave them lights and a Blu-Ray player, he’d be tickled pink.
The power cables nestled beneath the blue and black panels came easily unclipped as they were slid free of the mounting rails. They were then tied and lowered to the ground one at a time. With a socket wrench, he removed the aluminum rails next, bundled them together, resting them beside the panels. Ryan’s palms were cold and wet with phantom needles as he slipped on the damp sill, monkeying his way back through the open window into the master bedroom. Once safely inside he plopped down on the floor, head between his knees, breathing slowly with eyes shut.
“Fuckin’ idiot.”
He recovered Emily, who was blissfully conducting Barbie group therapy, and they roamed the rest of the large house. He flipped the breaker in the pantry and tested the power. Lights came on. A TV was showered with static. The air conditioner clicked, hot air pushed through dusty vents. Ryan grinned.
“Maybe we should just move in here?” he wondered, eyes scanning the well-appointed, vaulted living room. “This place is a heck of a lot nicer than our house. And you know what? It has power. Freakin’ pyr! What do you think, Emme? Want to live somewhere different?”
She stared up at him and frowned.
“Okay, maybe you’re right. This isn’t our home. Not really. Too bad. Besides, it’s too ornate for our refined, colonial academic style. Still, it’d be a good backup if winter comes and I can’t get power going at the house. Come on, let’s go home.”
They wobbled over the uneven terrain with their shopping cart full of heavy solar panels, spare inverters, and hundreds of feet of uncrimped cable still on spools. They were silent on their walk, forcing Ryan deep into reflection over Lillian’s videos. With all the commotion, he hadn’t thought much of them in days. At this point they almost seemed unreal.
What he needed now was direction. Where to go from here?
Lillian hadn’t said much, yet her few words h
ad spoken volumes through the nuance of a long relationship. The last few days of his wife’s life had been filled with uncertainty and dread, in which, she had chosen to sacrifice herself so that Emily and he could live as a pair. The CSU he and Emily had been placed within was done without anyone’s direct permission. Ryan figured that Peter Kilgore, her eternal, asshole boss, would have been pissed if he’d discovered her actions, especially if knowing this was a means to escape a bitter end. So how was it that Peter hadn’t figured it out? Had he been too busy with work to notice, or had Lillian just been clever? Played a game on her boss and left him befuddled?
One aspect of the videos was hitting Ryan the hardest, an image ever present in his mind. She had revealed to him in the short clips a brittle veneer he had never seen. This was not her personality. She was made of iron. The two of them had survived many near misses in their life together. A thirty car pile-up had nearly claimed them in Kentucky one foggy morning. Snow had trapped them on an interstate in Wyoming, where they were forced to hike two miles through fresh powder in February. On a trip to Hawaii, they’d been caught under a tsunami alert for twenty-four hours. Ryan had sweated nervous buckets as the warning alarms wailed. Yet in all these situations, when he was supposed to be the strong male archetype consoling his disconsolate wife, Lillian had been the one that was cool as a cucumber. She was ice under pressure, an adamant pillar of support.
She had always been an optimistic person, able to see the good in every situation, like when they’d first found a trashy, foreclosed home, but in the last days she’d given in to despair—though it was clear she tried to hide it. Perhaps it was her lack of sleep, or the weight of the collective data UBL had pointing to humanity's quiet end. He wondered to what degree she believed it was true, or merely supposed it was likely and wanted to be safe. She had, at the very least, believed hard enough to break company policy, and possibly federal law, placing her husband and daughter within an unproven device that could have easily as killed them as saved their lives. That said, she must have believed it was true, mammaries to uterus, or she wouldn’t have risked such a dangerous course of action. She would have done anything to protect them from harm.
When Ryan got back he would have to watch the videos again. He didn’t look forward to it.
After stacking the solar panels on the porch, they went inside, ate a lunch of mushrooms, chickweed and white rice, and passed out together on the couch. Ryan stirred a couple times when he heard Fork bahhing outside or got too hot cuddled up with Emily. He closed his eyes and went back to sleep, holding Emily tight against his chest. He dreamt vividly for the first time in a while, of his wife and a trip to the park. He dreamt of their vacation in Japan and of an epic party night at Stanford. He woke several hours later, Emily tugging his eyelids open.
“Ouch, that hurts.”
She let go.
“Get a good nap?”
“I sleep, Dada.”
“Me too.”
Fork bahhed from outside and Ryan decided to give milking another shot. He refilled her water buckets, petted and talked softly for a while, then set a stool beside her. Emily pulled a toddler-sized pink plastic chair off the patio and found a place beside him.
“Shh, Fork. It’ll be okay. We can do this together.”
“Together,” Emily echoed.
He held his thumb and forefinger high on the teat, squeezed and pulled down. Several times he repeated this action without any result. Fork didn’t seem put out, so he kept on. A squirt of ivory liquid shot from the end of one teat, but not the other. One side, then the other. Milk sprayed into the bucket, spattering in an uneven stream like that of a dollar store water gun. After about fifteen minutes the bottom of the bucket was a uniform ivory shade. Fork’s teats were turning red. Ryan stopped and held the milk up. He gave it a sniff.
“Smells okay. Want some milk?”
“Milk?” Emily asked, head cocked to the side. How long had it been since they’d last had milk? A month? Two months? He’d have to consult the log.
Ryan thanked Fork and went back inside. He poured the milk into a clean, glass measuring cup.
“Twelve ounces. That’s all? That was a hell of a lot of work.” Flecks of dirt and goat hair were floating on top of the creamy fluid. Ryan poured the milk into a French press, pushed down, allowing the plunger to filter out the undesirables, and poured the result into a coffee mug. Emily watched with rapt attention as Ryan took a sip. It was lukewarm, but the flavor was sweet and clean, leaving hardly any filmy aftertaste. “It’s pretty dang good. Want to try?”
Emily’s eyes went wide. He tipped the coffee mug into her mouth. Her lips curved up into a massive grin as she rocked on her feet, non-verbally asking for more. Emily polished off the rest of the mug, then threw her arms around his leg. “More milk? Pweese, Dada?” She stared at him up the length of his pants, lip poked out.
His heart melted just a little. “How about later? I think Fork needs a break from my groping hands. I’ve really lost my touch with women.”
The following day Ryan locked Emily in her room with a drink, a snack, and plenty of toys. He cracked the window and told her to yell if she needed him. As soon as he was outside she did just that, and he rushed back in to see what the matter was. She grinned but acted like nothing had happened.
“Hi, Dada.”
“Umm… Hi?”
Ryan leaned an extension ladder against the house and climbed onto the roof. Due to the overgrowth of trees, the house was in partial shade all day, other than a small section near the highest point. He slid up the steep roof grade, butt to shingles, and located the roof joists. It was hard work getting the aluminum brackets into place without power tools.
From his vantage aloft the roof he could see tree cover in all directions, even part of downtown off in the east. Fork was below him looking perplexed at what he was doing, a bit of grass hanging out of her mouth. He pressed hard, putting his weight into the turn, and finally got the first bolt to bite into wood. After a cool drink from his canteen he pressed on.
A few minutes of hard work passed as he breathed evenly, felt the sweat gathering on his neck. He realized that this was refreshing in a soulful way. Despite, and possibly because, of the fact that the world was empty, devoid of human life, he was free in a way he had never known. He had never felt so free in all his life. Without social networking, TV, or radio blasting his info-seeking brain with half-cocked news reports 24/7 regarding excessive use of force by police, retaliation shootings, hate-motivated mass killings, social debates over bathroom uses, or deadly terrorist attacks, he was relaxed. Unencumbered. That must have been how things were in the Wild West. Nothing but survival and family and open landscape. Perhaps it was no coincidence he lived in St. Louis, the Gateway to the West.
He shouted into the air as he turned the next bolt, a wordless bellow filled with sweet release. Skeletons rattled and clapped. Animals took to cover. Dew fell from leaves and the sky turned bluer. The city echoed his triumph.
It took nearly three hours in the scorching sun, but eventually he was able to get the solar panels’ mounting rails into place, if only slightly crooked. A rugged pride filled every ounce of him, just as powerful as the elation felt when finishing a program without any bugs. He’d done this himself, and without anyone’s help. He almost screamed, “I am man, hear me roar!”
Almost.
With the same ropes used to lower the panels from the other house, he raised them up onto their roof and fixed them to the rails. He then ran the power cables around the back of the units down through the attic, and descended the ladder, sweat drenching his t-shirt and jeans.
“You know, if this works, maybe I can get that van going.”
Emily was so glad to see him she tossed away her toys and threw her arms around his legs. He sat down and held her for a long time, cooling off with a bottle of water. Never again would he let her get away. Never again. He would protect her from everything, even if he had to build a gilded cage.
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As they foraged the neighborhood the following morning, Ryan dwelled on the videos. He watched them again and again. A sense of urgency was building in his stomach, an inexorable need to take action.
Direction.
Jumping a short fence, Ryan let out a hoot, delighted to find an unkempt garden full of fresh vegetables. There were juicy tomatoes dangling from the vine, and potatoes under his boots, but for the most part there were cucumbers. Hundreds and hundreds of cucumbers. He picked all he could carry, even handing Emily a plastic bag.
“Help me count them?” he asked.
She started filling her bag with small cucumbers. “One. Two. Three.”
“And what color are they?”
“Green.”
“Good job.”
“Four. Five. Eleven.”
Back at the house he started sterilizing mason jars. Pickling was something he’d foreseen doing and collected supplies for it several weeks back. Though he didn’t have a recipe, he knew the general idea. Boil vinegar, water, and salt, put in jar.
Emily and he chowed on fresh cucumbers as they cooked the brine. It felt indescribably good to be eating fresh food. Even without salt or seasoning, everything was the most wonderful thing he had ever eaten. He gave milking Fork another go and this time produced nearly half a gallon. Ryan wasn’t sure what to do with the excess. All this time they’d had plenty of rice to eat, but no fresh foods. Now, he was overwhelmed with stock. If he didn’t find a way to preserve some of this it would have to be thrown out. He never liked the idea of waste, even less so now.
As Emily took her afternoon nap he fought with the solar power system. Before leaving the house they’d taken them from, he’d made detailed notes. Following these scribblings to the letter he still couldn’t get them to produce any power. He checked to be sure they were getting enough sun. They were. After an hour of retracing his cables from the panels, to the DC cut off, to the inverters, and back to his AC breaker box, he realized he was an idiot. When the Event had occurred, or shortly after, it must have flipped the main breaker of his house.