by Ryan Schow
He’s fully in the conversation now.
“All I’m saying is you can’t lead her toward something she’s not mature enough to handle. I don’t want her killing anyone, Stanton. Not even if it’s necessary. I know this doesn’t make sense—”
The old stove flickers, then shuts off, then starts back up again. Both of us pause for a second, and then Stanton goes back to what he was saying.
“She’s stronger than you think,” he says, his eyes becoming a touch intense. “And more resilient than we give her credit for. I mean, her friend Trevor died in front of her and she hasn’t gone to pieces over it.”
“You don’t hear her crying at night. I do. And when she’s making jokes during the day or being snarky or whatever, she’s just like Rex. You haven’t had a man that tough and that experienced in combat curl up in your lap and sob for all the lives he’s taken.”
“What’s your point?”
“Hiding your emotions isn’t the same as not having them. Things like regret and remorse sit like lead in your heart, infecting you, filling your head with nightmares, your eyes with tears and your soul with a terrible, impossible sadness. Is that what you want for our child?”
“You know I don’t want that.”
“I can’t protect Rex or you, but I can protect her. That’s why I don’t want her having a gun. It’s why I don’t want her killing anyone.”
“We can’t tuck her away from this world, Sin. We can’t wait until it’s safe to bring her out of hiding. She has to learn it, the hard truths, the dangers, even if this world only lasts another week, month or year.”
Turning away, feeling the sting of tears in the backs of my eyes, I say, “The water’s done.”
He shuts off the stove.
“I thought I was stronger than I am and look at what happened to me,” I say. “Look at this blubbering mess I’m turning into. I never cried at work, or on the job. I mean, maybe once or twice, when there were children involved, or when mothers or fathers were taken from their family, but never like this.”
“We’re all handling the stress differently,” he says, as if that helps at all. “Besides, you’re different than me and Macy. You’re strong, but you overthink the ramifications of what you might do, of what might happen. Have you ever thought of the consequences of not acting swiftly and decisively? Have you thought about what could happen if Macy was on her own and someone with bad intentions cornered her? Tried to hurt her, or take advantage of her?”
“You think I don’t think about that? That’s all I think about! I can’t stop, Stanton!”
“Then you understand why I want her to know how to protect herself.”
“You can protect us,” I tell him, not completely believing this, but saying it anyway because I need to in order to clarify my position.
“That’s where you’re wrong,” he says after a long pause. “Eventually, if we’re in the wrong place at the wrong time, if we’re overwhelmed…”
He can’t finish, but I know where he’s going.
“Is that why you’re doing this? Is that why you’re letting Rex train her? Because you’re afraid you won’t be able to do something if it really comes down to it? Because if we stick together, Rex included, she’ll have plenty of protection.”
He looks away, then back at me, then away again. Something in the air changes, grows a few degrees warmer, a little more suffocating. His eyes mist over. I know what he’s thinking, what he’s been thinking since the beginning. He’s thinking about rape, about our baby’s virtue. For the first time in a long time, I see the real him. The scared him. The insecure him.
“No matter how prepared or capable we are, or how willing we are to savagely slog through the mires of this sick new existence,” he says with haunted eyes and resignation in his voice, “if someone wants to, they can hurt us. Badly. Kill us, even. Or worse…”
In that moment I’m pinned down by the hard edge of his greatest fears. I see them laid bare behind those rich brown eyes and it frightens me to know he feels this way. To know we feel the same. It’s this fear that’s been eating at me more and more each day. Apparently it’s been eating at him, too—among other things.
“So this is the last time I’ll talk about this with you or anyone. We are on untenable ground, Cincinnati, and we can’t afford these tender moments. We can’t afford to give fear, concern or even civilized reason an inch of ground less we get caught off guard and killed. My only focus is on the survival of this family and if you keep taking me to these weak moments because you can’t crawl out of them on your own, you’re going to cut a hole in the only line of defense between this insane world and us.”
I see his point. Still, I won’t relent, not just yet. I’m not sure how to do this, and maybe Stanton is right: we have to protect our daughter. But we have to protect her not just from those who would look to take advantage of her, but from the things this new world might require of her. I can’t have her shooting anyone.
In my most delicate voice, I say, “How are you going to feel when you look into her eyes after she’s murdered someone and she realizes the gravity of her actions?”
He doesn’t answer. The sickness of guilt permeates him. The loss of everything but his family and maybe a fraction of his pride is a weight he’s now carrying openly.
The truth is, I’m terrified of what that day with Macy will bring. Will I sigh with relief? Will my heart fracture or will I swell with pride for her? Will I sob for the loss of my baby’s innocence, or will the circumstances be so harrowing that I’ll feel nothing but joy that she’s alive? All I want is for her to live, to survive, to lead a moral, happy life. That’s why I can’t let her grow up too fast. And certainly not behind a gun.
The day comes and goes with no more talk of killing or regret, and now it’s nearly midnight. The bombing has stopped, the night is full and the sly creeping of a bitter cold has invaded our home, as it does every night about this time.
Curling into my blankets, relying on Stanton for body heat, I feel him. He’s breathing slowly. He’s awake. His body is nudged gently against mine, the heat of his skin a reminder that this war has failed to separate us as husband and wife, to break us apart as a family. It’s the little things like this that fortify you, sustain you. But will this always be the case? Will this always be enough for me? For him? For any of us?
“I love you, Cincinnati,” he tells me.
He always says this at night. Most times I believe he really means it; other times I’m convinced he’s speaking out of habit while his mind is preoccupied by more urgent problems in need of solving. Tonight, I can tell (the way married couples often can) that dark things are tying knots in his mind. Darker things than normal. Eventually he rolls over on his back, laces his fingers in mine, kisses my neck and tells me to go to sleep.
This dog-tired mattress of ours sags in the middle and smells musty; these creaky springs have seen better days—just like my back, my neck and my hips. An hour passes. Stanton’s breathing remains constant.
“What’s wrong, honey?” I ask, knowing he’s still awake.
“Can’t sleep.”
He takes his time telling me what’s on his mind. Really takes his time collecting his thoughts. Twice I almost drift off waiting, but I don’t. He’s got something to say and if I’m asleep he’ll wake me anyway. This is a man who talked a lot in his former career, in his once amazing job that is no longer. This is a man who needs to be heard.
“We’re doing our best to survive,” he finally says, keeping his voice whisper quiet. I wait for the rest, but the rest isn’t coming just yet. His silence forces my mind to drift on passing tides. The truth is, I don’t like having these conversations with Macy in the room. It’s inevitable, though. We all share this corner of the living room for safety and body heat, and as I’ve told Stanton twice now, having her near keeps me from worrying so much.
Tonight, however, Macy is fast asleep. And judging by where this conversation might be headed, it’s
probably a good thing.
After an eternity of silence, I feel his head turning toward me in the darkness, his eyes surely lasered in on the shadow of my face. He brushes a strand of hair off my cheek, tucks it lovingly behind my ear.
“We’re all dead, Cincinnati—you, me, Macy…all of us. It’s just a matter of time. I know that now.”
“Rex is planning an escape for us,” I tell him.
“That’s a pipe dream.”
“It’s not. He has friends in the city. Friends with resources.”
“So he says.”
The defeat in his voice is a wrecking ball destroying my resolve to press on, to live. When he says things like this, he has no idea the damage he’s causing. How fear pumps mercilessly into my heart, and my indefatigable soul shrivels along the edges.
“I’m not sure how long we can do this,” he admits.
“I know,” is all I can say.
It’s hard as hell to get any words past this lump in my throat. And I can’t tell him the effect the turn in his mood is having on me. I just don’t have the energy.
The words I ache to say lean on the edge of my tongue, trying to come out if only for that extra surge of…what?—anger, weariness, resignation? Every defeated bone in me is dying to call him a hypocrite, a selfish jerk, a quitter. I so badly want to say thoughts like these will get us killed. All three of us. But I don’t. I won’t. Had I said nothing about Macy having a gun earlier, he wouldn’t be thinking about this. Maybe the way he’s weakening me right now is the way I weakened him hours earlier. I shouldn’t have said anything.
“I’m tired, Sin,” he says.
“I know,” I reply, still holding my tongue. “Me, too. Just go to sleep.”
“It’s not that kind of tired I’m referring to.”
I know this, too.
Stanton was once a proud man, a market slayer in the business world and so confident about life a woman like me needed no help falling hard for him. Over time he amassed a nice fortune for us, and a substantial ego for himself. I didn’t mind as long as he didn’t end up in some other woman’s bed. What I did was play my part in the life we created for ourselves. Truthfully, I was thrilled to do so. We were the San Francisco success story every young couple ever dreamt of becoming. God, I miss those days.
I miss that life.
Thinking of how things are now, the three of us squatting in this parceled out hovel on the edge of a war zone, my stomach makes an epic turn.
As much as I don’t recognize this life, I’m starting to recognize even less of the man beside me. It takes a little more of me than usual to remember the finer details of him. I try though. If anything to remind myself that when this is over—if it ever is over—we’re going to find our way back to each other. And possibly back to ourselves.
My ears tune in to the sounds of Macy sleeping. She’s balled up on the couch, her body turned away from us. Her breathing is deep, consistent. A few minutes later, Stanton begins snoring softly. Now that he’s leveled me with his anxieties, with his defeat, now that I see the error of my ways, I’m left with the weight of him, the weight of this impossible burden, and the crushing weight of yet another sleepless night.
Chapter Fifteen
Once upon a time, our day used to begin with an alarm clock. Now we wake to the symphony of a rapidly declining civilization. The distant thunderclap of a city being bombed into oblivion is the new five a.m. rooster.
“I’d just about kill for waffles and bacon right now,” Macy says over the noise.
She’s curled up on the couch next to us, rubbing sleep from her eyes, a little dust from the ceiling sprinkled in her hair and on her shoulders like an advanced case of dandruff.
We all have it living here. The drywall dust. It’s something we stopped talking about, and mostly because this is a symptom of aging homes perched on compromised foundations. When subterranean tremors rock these old buildings, sometimes a wall falls, or a ceiling collapses on you. Most times it’s just a little dust raining down on you at first light.
“Am I the only one freezing here?” I ask.
“No,” Stanton says, yawning. “You’re just the only one talking about it.”
When no one responds to Macy’s plea for waffles, she says, “They sound close today. Don’t they sound close today?”
I meet my daughter’s gaze. I’m looking at her, trying to remember what she used to look like. A couple of weeks ago she was a slightly chubby, well-fed girl. She’s dropped some weight now (too much), but she says it looks good on her so I’m not freaking out yet.
“Waffles sound amazing,” I tell her, smiling even though inside I can’t seem to shake this constant anxiousness. How you feel when you’re right about to sneeze, but just can’t get it out—that’s how I feel about my anxiousness. It’s like I’m on the verge of a panic attack every single second of the day.
“I know, right?” she says, getting out of bed. “Waffles with strawberries and whip cream, and bacon.”
Watching her, I’m overwhelmed with love. My beautiful baby. She’s such a pretty child, and this scares me. Although beauty is good for the soul, the more restless parts of me know good looks don’t always mix well with a lawless society. Stretching, pushing out a yawn or three, I work to fill my mind with more constructive thoughts.
Stanton’s now at the window, turning his ear to the noise outside. He’s listening to the concussion bursts following each explosion, trying to figure out if the attacks are moving closer or further from us. Macy heads into the bathroom, closes the door.
Looking at him now, un-showered, unshaven, his black hair longish and messy, my mind wanders back to that first time he looked at me from across the restaurant. There was so much promise in that look. An unwritten future between us. Since that day, he’s always made me feel cared for, spoiled even. Now the light has died in his eyes, like that impossible burden he’s carrying has become too large for a man his size. Turning away from him, snuggling up in the blankets to ward off the early morning chill, I can’t help thinking we haven’t made love in three months. We always reconnected that way.
Whenever I bring this up, though, it’s like it pains him to talk about things like love, a brighter future, the rest of our lives together. It’s as if the very mention of personal indulgences is me ripping an old scab off a deep wound knowing how badly it’s going to bleed.
Since we don’t running have water, we pretty much pee down the bathtub drain, rinse it with a little water in a jar, and hope it goes somewhere, not just into the bottom of whatever pipes are down there.
A minute later, Macy comes out of the bathroom saying, “So about breakfast…”
“We’ll eat in a bit, doll,” I tell her. “Dad just needs to make sure it’s safe, and I want to wait for Rex and Gunner before we even contemplate food.”
“Might be an indoors kind of day,” Stanton announces. “They’re close. Plus drone traffic is a bit heavier than normal.”
“Any pee-dee?” I ask.
“No,” he answers. “Not that I can see.”
That’s what we call the new police: the pee-dee. The group of men and women formerly known as the San Francisco Police Department, or the SFPD…they’re gone. These new cops, they aren’t real cops at all. They’re bullies with badges.
When the attacks first began, presumably the police leapt into action. Time and violence would have thinned their numbers though, and after that it wouldn’t take long for everything to tunnel south fast. Odds are, half the force took off their uniforms for the last time. They had families to think of, homes to defend. Those brave officers who chose to remain in uniform and behind the badge hunkered down for the fight of their lives. These were the last real cops.
The now dead cops.
After what went down at the church, Rex said the biggest threat to law enforcement was probably the gangs. These days, on the block, that’s all anyone can talk about. The Mission District threat. According to Rex’s buddies, four hardcore
affiliations rule the roost: The MS-13, the Central Divis Playas (CDP), the Sureños and the Norteños.
The word on the street is that it was the Sureños who crashed the Northern District Police Station with an RPG. With this much confirmed, you don’t need boots on the ground to know the Sureños raided the station. We’re talking guns and ammunition, spare uniforms, medical supplies. And you want to know why people don’t trust the cops anymore?
There’s a saying you’ll almost never hear, but one that bears relevance in this day and age: you’re only above the law if you are the law. These self-righteous thugs stopped being a gang and instead decided they needed new colors, badges, and a new way to rule the Mission District post-apocalypse style. So they became the law.
Needless to say, Rex said if we see them, we need to hide. He says not to be heroes. He says we should shoot them before they shoot us, but only if there are less than three in the group. Anything more than three…run.
Stanton still thinks there might be good cops in those uniforms, but I think he’s way off base. Of course, I’ve been wrong before. And it’ll happen again. Either way, Rex tells us we have half a second to read their faces. I personally don’t think that’s time enough to fully clarify their intent, but it would have to do.
To Macy, he says, “You need to be sure. So as you’re aiming, in that fraction of a second before you pull the trigger, you need to see them. Really get a read of this human being you’re about to kill.”
“Tattoos first, right?” Macy asked.
“You’re not killing anyone,” I say to Macy. To Rex I add: “Don’t encourage her, please.”
He nods, then says, “Before you launch your lug nut into their lug nuts, size them up by their stance and posture, get a quick read of their eyes and intentions. These guys will be wearing their false authority like a pair of stolen Nikes. They’re as arrogant as the day is long, they’re heavily armed and they have a gang member’s mindset. This means they operate in packs and they don’t treat anyone with respect. A real cop is different and you need to be able to feel this difference before you pull that trigger. Or launch that sock, if you will.”