The little boy stared back, his eyes warm brown pools, just like his grandmother’s...grandmother, my God, that makes me...a grandfather, Wes turned that realization over in his head, as the boy grinned and giggled, then wiggled impatiently to be let down. He hadn’t been the least afraid of this tall strange man. Wes set him gently on the ground and the boy ran on his short little chubby legs toward the back door where he knew there were toys to play with.
Chris looked a bit disconcerted; the fat man had looked familiar somehow, but he couldn’t put a name on the face. This woman, Sarah, didn’t look at all familiar, yet Wes had called her Sarah.
The Sarah? Wes’s long-disappeared wife Sarah? This was getting crazier by the moment.
Wes watched the boy disappear and then focused again on Sarah. He managed a small smile, “Turner? So you’ve remarried, Sarah?” Why did his chest squeeze tight at the thought of her married to another? No ring on her finger, but not everyone wore one. Their wedding rings, along with Angie’s, were still there, solid, warm and heavy on the chain against his chest. He had worn his wedding band for years before finally slipping it off again and adding it to the chain.
He had thought briefly of leaving all of them there in the drawer in the house in Tiptonville. Those days were so long past, his children a snapshot of a memory. Grown or dead, they were gone forever. And Angie, along with their unborn baby, gone before they had any chance at a good life together. He had pulled the chain off of his neck, stared at it for several long minutes, and then quietly put it back on. They were a part of him, his memories of a life he hadn’t deserved but wished he could make right.
Sarah shook her head, “I took my name from a highway sign, changed the kids to that too; I figured you wouldn’t let us go without a fight.” She was right.
He had done plenty of searching for her himself, hired a private investigator for a short time, before the world had gone to hell in a hand basket. The trail had gone cold in Texas and when word of the nuke had come, he had feared the worst. Now, thinking back on it all, he simply nodded; of course she would have done just that. He had looked under her maiden name, tracked down every boy in middle school or high school that had looked twice at her, dated her, tried to date her, and got nowhere. She had disappeared, slid into a world full of people, full of opportunities to remain anonymous, to remain hidden. He tried to summon anger or resentment, but it was impossible. He had hurt her, emotionally, verbally, and, finally, physically. He’d deserved nothing less.
Chris leaned close to Carrie, “Perhaps we should leave them to talk. We could walk over to the house; see if it is still there. It isn’t more than twenty minutes or so from here.” Carrie nodded and they slipped out. Wes and Sarah didn’t even seem to notice. They were too busy staring at each other in a way that seemed peaceable enough. A few years ago, Chris wouldn’t have thought it possible that Wes would be able to hold it together like that. Now? Chances were pretty good that he would be reconnecting with his long-lost family. His mind reeled at the thought. He missed Mom and Dad. He missed Jess. Damned if it isn’t a small world. How he wished the impossible could happen for him too.
The bell on the door quietly chimed as the young couple made their exit. Sarah and Wes stood frozen, their memories, their ghosts between them, plenty of questions in their eyes. Sarah broke the silence first, “Let me get you some coffee.”
She slid behind the counter, her mind awhirl with the shock of seeing a man she had loved once upon a time. She poured the coffee with both hands to stop the shaking that had suddenly started up. He had always taken it the same way, black, one spoon of sugar. But this was chicory, not the real stuff, and she suddenly panicked; what if he didn’t like it? She looked up, startled, as he closed a hand over hers. He’d moved with cat-like stealth, silently slipping behind the bar. She looked up, her heart thumping hard, wordless.
“I take two spoons now; the chicory is so doggoned bitter.” He smiled. “Sometimes I even add a splash of milk as well.” He paused, his expression turning sober, “I’m glad you are alive, Sarah. You and the kids. The world seemed a darker place without you in it.” His hand still covered hers; it felt calloused, strong. “Can we sit a bit? And talk? I’d like to hear about Cody and Laura...and you.”
Sarah nodded, her eyes filling. The man she had married, full of hope and youth and love, was standing before her. He was different, but so was she—older, wiser perhaps. She didn’t see the Wes she had run from. Instead Sarah saw the Wes who had loved her.
She squeezed his hand, walked to the front of the café. She closed the curtains, turned the “Open” sign over to “Closed” and locked the door. The townspeople could go elsewhere for their lunch today; it was time she and Wes had a talk.
“Come on,” she said, “let me introduce you to your grandson.”
A Ghost Returns
“How do I even describe today? There was so much joy, such indescribable joy. Shock too, for both of us. I had given up hope and so had he. Standing there, face to face, was like a page out of one of my dreams. How often had those dreams haunted my nights? I hated waking up and realizing I had only dreamed it. I think tomorrow I will pinch myself, and check here in this journal, before I believe that it is really real.” – Jess’s Journal
Chris and Carrie walked down to the end of Main Street and turned right, heading first north and crossing over Highway 58. It wasn’t much of a highway, just a two-lane road running from east to west.
“Do you think Wes and...what was her name...Sarah?...will be all right?” Carrie asked.
The look on the older man’s face was one that neither of them had ever seen. It might have been twenty years or more, but the woman had run off with his kids, and no matter what had prompted her to do it, would Wes be able to forgive her for it?
“Yeah,” Chris said, and he squinted in the bright sunlight; it was a hot day, “I think they’ll be okay.”
He stared at the remains of what had been the new Price Chopper, which had opened just a handful of years before the Collapse. The walls had collapsed in, the insides blackened with fire. He wondered when it happened. It had been cleaned out early on, after the trucks stopped showing up with food and goods. One of the first signs of the Collapse had been the breakdown in the chain of deliveries. Slowly stores found themselves out of one item, then another, until finally a cascade of outages, combined with ever-increasing blackouts and a panicked rush on the foodstuffs that remained, had caused the store to close. Chris could still see a portion of one of the handwritten signs that had been placed in the glass windows. It should have read, “store closed until further notice,” but all that remained was “store clo” and the rest of the sign was long gone, as was the glass window it had hung on inside.
Now they were passing the road to nowhere—an access road that had been planned, along with several miles of walking trails, and never finished, yet another victim of the financial troubles years before the actual Collapse. The pavement was now cracked and warped. Several trees had pushed through the tarmac and were flourishing, undeterred by their asphalt surroundings. The road was clear, and there was little traffic, either on foot or by auto. It was obvious that the town’s population had been severely decimated. Prior to the collapse, there had been more than 20,000 residents in Belton. From the looks of it, there was perhaps ten percent of that number now.
The day before, they had made their way slowly through parts of Kansas City. The highways were in tatters, all overpasses had long been destroyed, and huge swaths of the city appeared to be nothing but blackened ruins. Wes had spoken with a few others shortly outside of St. Louis and learned that Kansas City had endured several large fires over the course of a decade of hot and dry summers.
It had destroyed most of the inner city, sparing only a few homes in the historic Northeast district, and leaving the West Bottoms full of blackened and crumbling brick buildings. Most of downtown had been lost, as well as nearly all of the poorer neighborhoods where the old houses we
re filled with dry, brittle wood just waiting for an excuse to go up in flames.
The city had suffered greatly in the aftermath of the Collapse. The loss of many of its inhabitants from the inner core had occurred years before the Collapse, but it was hit hard when the country descended into anarchy and war. In wide swaths throughout the state, homes were left abandoned, crime rose, and those who could, fled to the suburbs and surrounding countryside. This had all occurred years before the Collapse, but it had set the tone for what came next.
Despite the efforts of many to re-populate the city at the turn of the century and try to save some of the historic, yet crumbling, buildings, when the Collapse finally came, it hit hard and fast. The loss of utilities—clean water, dependable electricity, and finally gas main breaks—was only the beginning of Kansas City’s woes. Quickly, food shortages and water-borne illnesses due to the lack of utilities began to take a horrific toll on the inhabitants who were left. The hospitals collapsed next, due to the shortage in supplies and loss of infrastructure—it was a scene that played out in city after city; one that resulted in mayhem, death, and the panicked flight of the remaining population.
Kansas City had become a ghost town filled with collapsed buildings and a general sense of empty decay. There were a few pockets of civilization—certain areas that had held out and refused to fall into ruin. Here and there, scattered through the city, people bustled about, tending large gardens in empty lots, repairing what they could of the damaged buildings closest to them, and working toward opening trade routes.
Belton was a world of difference from the chaos and destruction they had seen when passing through the city. Chris had winced as he pointed out much of the cultural center of Kansas City, which was now abandoned, looted and destroyed; even the grand stone edifice of the Nelson-Atkins Art Museum had reflected the devastation of the Collapse and the warring troops that had fought for control of the ruins of the former United States. It had been heavily damaged during mortar fire and most of the roof in the older section had collapsed.
The highway overpass that bisected the town of Belton into its east and west sides had been obliterated. The on and off ramps still remained, but they were closed into narrow sections, of which a normal car barely fit through, intentionally. Military vehicles, large trucks, especially a tank or Humvee, would not be able to pass through the choked-off passage ten feet high on each side of twisted rock and metal rebar. The van and truck waited for them near Main Street, but it felt good to stretch their legs, and gas was too difficult to find to waste on a little side trip.
As they walked, slowly approaching a large network of fences and walls with the obvious smell of cattle emanating from them, Chris was experiencing what could only be described as double vision. The memory of what had been a United Rentals and Casey’s gas station next to it was clear in his memory. How often had he taken a run with his dad to rent an auger or chipper? How often had he and Jess begged for a treat when stopping at the Casey’s for gas? It was, however, overlaid by what now existed—blackened ruins with amorphous lumps within. His memories of his hometown were sharp; it felt as if the past twelve years had passed in a quick snap of the fingers, and Chris felt as if he was waking from a dream. He wondered why he had never come back, never tried, not once, to find out what had become of the home and the family he had lost.
In the distance, coming toward them, was a man on a horse. He wore a bandana, most likely to soak up the sweat from the heat of the sun pounding down on him. Chris stared at him, thinking he looked vaguely familiar and the man stared back, a look of shock on his face.
“Chris Aaronson?” the man asked, a tone of wonder in his voice. His hair was red, and Chris couldn’t place him, but he appeared close to the same age, late 20s, early 30s at the most. He certainly knew Chris, which made Chris uneasy and embarrassed he couldn’t place him.
“Yeah, I’m Chris, and I’m sorry, it’s been a long journey...you are...?” he stared at the man as he dismounted.
“Todd Stevens. I was a couple of years ahead of you in school and at Scouts.” The man grinned, and shook his head, “I just can’t believe it’s you! Where in the hell have you been, Aaronson?”
Chris’s memories of a red-headed lanky teen a couple of years older than him came flooding back. They had bunked in the same tent one year when the Scouts went on their annual campout. Todd had been a cool guy, and he hadn’t been a jerk to Chris and Allen; he’d shared his homemade beef jerky and shown them some tips during archery lessons.
“Man, Todd, I remember you now.” He reached out and shook Todd’s hand and turned to Carrie, who had been quietly watching the exchange, “This is my wife, Carrie. I’ve been in Tennessee for nearly twelve years now, in a small town by the name of Tiptonville. We’re moving on, going on to Denver, but I had to stop and see the town before I went. See if the house is still standing.” He shrugged. “Pay my respects to anyone from before...you know.”
Todd had a strange look on his face. “Well, your house is still there, Chris. Still there.” He looked as if he wanted to say more, but thought better of it. “Let me walk you over there.” He waved at one of the other sentries, which Chris had noticed were posted every few hundred yards, watchful, with horses saddled and ready to go nearby. “Most won’t remember you, and we don’t allow visitors through the gate without an escort.” He shrugged, “The Reformation may be in full swing on the coasts, but I guess we have got a ways to go before it stops being the Wild West ’round here.” He nodded to Carrie, “Nice to meet you, Carrie.”
They walked for another block, passing a sentry along the way. It appeared that everyone was heavily armed and quite watchful. “Have trouble with raiders?” Chris asked.
“Yeah, now and then. It just makes sense to be more watchful. Word gets back to ’em, and they stop trying. Leastways, the attacks have petered off to nothing, down from a swarm of them last year. We lost two men and 20 head of cattle, including two beautiful heifers we were hoping to breed.”
They passed through a set of heavy metal cattle doors. Half of the block had burned, but the houses here had been torn down, hauled away, and the empty lots filled with gardens. Every possible space was being utilized. They were quickly approaching Chris’s old street.
As the small group turned onto the street, Chris’s pulse quickened. He could see his childhood home, just barely; it was hiding now behind tall trees and massive blackberry bushes. Most of the houses were gone on this street, but there were fruiting bushes, fruit trees, and rows of in-ground plants in various stages of growth. From the looks of it, the land was intensively planted, every bit of it utilized to grow something. It was a riot of green growth.
Chris stopped in the middle of the road as a boy, aged eleven or twelve, popped out of a long line of corn, chasing a dark-haired girl, pelting her with what looked like overripe grape-sized tomatoes as she screamed and laughed. One hit her square in the back as she skidded to a stop in front of the group. The boy, also dark-haired, was so intent on chasing her that he nearly ran into the back of her, crashing to the ground to avoid knocking her over. Both kids stared at Chris and Carrie curiously.
Todd Stevens laughed, “You kids are sure working hard, I see.” He reached a hand down, helping the boy up. Chris thought the boy looked eerily familiar. But he couldn’t possibly know this boy; he would have been an infant, at most, on the day Belton was invaded. Todd asked, “Where’s your mom? Tell her I’ve got someone she would like to meet.”
Chris stared as the boy, who looked so strangely familiar, as did the girl, they were obviously siblings, gave Chris a short, appraising stare with his crayon-blue eyes and ran off calling to his mother.
“Mom! Hey Mom! We got visitors.” He disappeared around a row of trees, and several hens squawked in alarm at his passing.
“Someone’s living here, then,” he said, a statement and a question rolled into one.
Todd nodded, a peculiar smile forming on his face—as if there was a joke that
Chris should be clued in on. Chris’s heart panged a little at the thought. The memories, some of the best memories of his life, were of that house. It felt both good and painful to think that someone was living here. The house looked relatively well cared for, and the garden would have made his mother proud. How she had loved her garden and teaching her neighbors how to grow luscious fruits and vegetables out of soil once reserved for immaculate lawns and ornamental flowers.
A young man with unruly dark brown hair and patched jeans came around the corner with a wheelbarrow. He was in his early 20s, and his arms and chest were tanned dark from the sun.
“Hey, Todd, what do you know?” He asked with a friendly smile on his face, a look of curiosity at the strange man and woman in front of him.
“Hey, David, I have some folks here you’ll want to meet,” Todd said, nodding to Chris and Carrie. “This here is Carrie, and this is Chris...Aaronson.”
David’s face changed from a look of welcome to one of shock. He had been in the act of shaking hands with Carrie and froze at the mention of Chris’s last name. “Aaronson?” He glanced at Todd, “Does she know?”
Chris wondered who “she” was. He began to page through his memories. Had there been a girl or woman here who knew him? For a brief moment his hope surged at the thought that possibly his mother was still alive. As quickly as the hope came, it died. Allen had been sure. Chris had wrested the memories from his friend, insisting he know in every detail. They had both died, his mom and his dad, and the children who had fallen behind and slowed them down had died with them. Allen had been certain and God knows Chris had tried to convince himself that it wasn’t true, but reality was harshly indifferent to hope.
And Jess; those scumbags had told them all about how she had died, her and Erin. The dull ache of her memory thumped in his chest. Losing Jess, knowing she was gone and he had failed to protect her, that was the worst part of it. And it is what had set his feet walking far, far away from the only home he had ever known.
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