The Great Unknowable End

by Kathryn Ormsbee

  “Excuse me, miss. I want three cups liquid butter and just a sprinkling of popcorn.”

  I look up from sliding a ten-dollar bill into the cash box and find a handsome guy smirking at me from the other side of the counter. His name is Derrick Schultheis, and he was the president of my graduating class. His girlfriend, Pat, hangs on his arm. His best friend, Scott, is squinting at the menu board as though our prices might have magically changed since their visit last week. The wind is doing a number on Pat’s long, stick-straight hair. Every few seconds she tosses it back from her face, like a poor attempt at a Cher impression.

  “That’ll be extra,” I deadpan to Derrick.

  “Fine by me,” he says. “I once sold my soul to the devil for a large pizza.”

  Scott snickers. Pat shoves Derrick’s arm. “You shouldn’t make those kinds of jokes. They’re sacrilegious.”

  “Got you down for a popcorn,” I say. “What else?”

  “Two popcorns,” says Pat, who has assumed command of this order. She folds her arms over the counter and adds, “Three Cokes. A box of Gobstoppers.”

  “Coming up.”

  I pass Kim on my way to the chest freezer, and we exchange looks. Kim wasn’t as much of a pariah as I was in school, but she certainly didn’t run in the same crowd as our student government. Serving the likes of Derrick and Pat is the least savory aspect of our job—primarily because they never leave a tip in the stripped soup can we keep on the service counter.

  I tip scoops of ice into three large paper cups. Then I set to work on the soda, filling each cup until the fizz reaches the brim, waiting, topping off. As I do, I listen to my customers’ conversation.

  “. . . been such a drag. She’s on that couch with a box of tissues and a bottle of Merlot and refuses to leave his side. She’s convinced this is the end.”

  “Rudy’s old, though. Isn’t it kind of expected?”

  Soda spills over the brim of the cup I’m filling, hits my hand. I hiss, step away from the soda fountain, and grab a napkin. Still, I don’t stop listening.

  “He’s getting on, yeah. Great Danes live less than most dogs. Eight or so years? But he wasn’t acting sick or anything before today. Then Mom found him in her bed this morning, whimpering, piss all over the sheets. Don’t get me wrong, it was awful, but Dad says it’s the weird weather we’ve been having. Rudy’s just anxious about whatever storm’s coming in. And he’s old, so the bladder control isn’t such a surprise.”

  I return to the window, cups lidded, and then concentrate on scooping out the two popcorns. I give no outward indication that I am hanging on every word that Derrick, Pat, and Scott are saying. I push the popcorns across the counter. Then I grab a package of Gobstoppers and toss it into the mix, and Derrick hands over the money.

  I shouldn’t say anything, but curiosity is burning in my chest. It isn’t as though I have anything to lose—these people already don’t care about me.

  “You think it’s the weather, then?” I ask, as I hand Derrick the change he will pocket and not tip. “It’s the weather that’s making the animals act funny?”

  Derrick’s head jolts up. Clearly, he was not expecting someone like me to address someone like him. He fixes me with a half-confused, wholly dirty look.

  “Well, yeah. What else would it be?”

  “Nothing.” I shrug. “What else would it be?”

  His look gets dirtier. “Yeah, sure.”

  They grab their food and drinks, and as they walk away, I hear Pat laugh and say, “Freak,” followed by Scott’s voice: “. . . heard she and Kim get it on during the movie.”

  This doesn’t rattle me. I heard much worse in school hallways. What rattles me is an account of another animal acting strangely.

  Outside the concessions hut, the wind howls on like a rabid wolf.

  • • •

  The movie begins—bold yellow words on a starry sky—and Kim and I reach the end of our lines. After the rush, I only have to field the occasional stragglers, who are mostly potheads after popcorn or overeager boyfriends back to refill their dates’ Coca-Colas. The hut may be hot and run-down, but I prefer my position here to Kim’s, which is “sex patrol” during the movie; she and Mr. Cavallo walk the partitioned section, shining their flashlights in the eyes of any couples getting a little too physical on their grandmothers’ quilts.

  There are wind ripples cutting across the movie screen tonight, but the picture is clear enough, and whatever storm is rolling in remains a ways off. This isn’t a showing worth canceling after all; instead it’s a night for dates to hold each other close under the pretense of protection from the elements. There’s no doubt that Kim is in for a busy night, and I think at first that this is why she doesn’t leave the hut straightaway. I watch from my perch atop the back counter as she hacks at the clumped ice in the chest freezer. She uses the tip of the metal scoop, as though this will do much good. It is a mindless and mostly inefficient action.

  “Pent-up rage?” I ask, when she stops to rest.

  She glances up, shrugs, then drops the scoop into the freezer and slams it shut. Her shoulders are hitched high, like she’s nervous. She draws something out of her back pocket and flaps it in my direction.

  “Okay, here,” she says. “I found this when I was cleaning a couple nights ago. It was on the floor, by the sink.”

  Instantly I know what she is holding.

  I want it to be anything else, but I can think of only one envelope that belongs to me and has been missing for three days. It is my most recent correspondence from Craig—the last of his letters, sent nearly two months ago. I’d been keeping it in my back pocket to analyze during the lulls at the concessions hut. When I noticed it missing, I assumed it had fallen out during my bike ride. In a panic, I retraced my path down Eisenhower, even digging into the cornfields, horrified by the thought not only of losing the letter but of it finding its way into someone else’s hands. Now I’m finding out those hands were Kim’s.

  I take the letter, equal parts relieved and mortified.

  “I read it.” Kim isn’t apologetic, more matter-of-fact. I don’t know what to say, so I don’t say anything.

  “You and that Phoenix seem pretty close,” Kim says, folding her arms. “He trying to convert you or something?”

  I study Kim’s face. I don’t think she is trying to bait me. I think she is asking a genuine question.

  She knows about my older brother, Craig. Everyone at Slater High knew about the well-rounded, artistically gifted basketball captain who had it all and then decided to leave his whole life behind and take up residence at Red Sun—Slater’s very own hippie commune. What Kim does not know is that Craig has since changed his name to Phoenix, and that he and I have been writing each other letters during his two-year absence. There is no way she would know that. Not even my family knows. No one knows but me.

  I could tell her about it. Kim may be the kind of person to read private letters, but she is not the kind to judge. Even so, telling Kim about Craig before telling my own father would be a kind of familial betrayal. Also, I am still stunned by the revelation that Kim Dupree found my letter and that it was not lost in a maze of cornstalks, blown out of my reach forever by hard summer winds.

  “No conversion,” I say. “I met him a couple years ago when he was on Crossing. He’s an okay guy.”

  “So you’re in love with him.” Kim doesn’t even smile.

  She would be smiling if she knew what she is asking. She would be rolling on the floor laughing.

  “No. I’m not.”

  “Sad. Because the way he writes, you’d think he was in love with you.”

  I am tempted again to tell her. I would like to laugh and say, The closeness you’re reading is sibling understanding, not sexual undercurrent.

  Instead I say, “We’re friends.”

  Kim is wrestling with words on her tongue. I can tell. She is wearing the fidgety, almost cross-eyed expression everyone in this town gets when they bring up my mo
ther or my brother.

  “He a friend of Craig’s?” she finally asks.

  “Something like that.”

  “Huh. You ever hear from him?”

  I consider again. I shake my head.

  “That’s rough, man.”

  “It’s fine.”

  “I’ll be honest, those guys creep me out. Manson Family vibes, you know?”

  “I think they mean well, though.” I note Kim’s expression and add, “I’m not being converted.”

  I’m surprised by my own words. I wouldn’t have said any of this two years ago, when Craig first left the family without warning, explanation, or apology. I was so angry at him then, and even angrier at the commune for taking him away. When he answered my first letter, that anger calmed, and over the many months since, it’s faded to a faint stirring. I am still upset with my brother. I still think he was selfish to leave us. All the same, these letters mean he hasn’t abandoned me entirely, and I have to cling to the hope that he will not now. Because recently, I made a mistake, and I haven’t had a letter from Craig since.

  “Live and let live, I guess.” Kim pushes out of a lean and unfastens her apron. “It’s all right, you befriending one of their kind. Next time they come calling here, I’m directing them to your line.”

  “Sure. Send them my way.”

  We get our fair share of Crossing kids here at the drive-in. Since Red Sun is only a quarter mile away, a little deeper into farm country, the Dreamlight is one of the closest attractions for curious commune teenagers. I’ve served girls and guys alike—every one of them long-haired and clothed in white linen tunics over jeans. They are big spenders, usually. I once served a girl who ordered one of every boxed candy we have. It’s understandable. With only three summers to experience life on the outside, they’ve got to make the most of it.

  Craig, now Phoenix, is beyond that stage. He had eighteen years out here, and he’s chosen to live on the inside of Red Sun for the rest of his life. It seems this confinement means he will never see me in person again. Because that is the mistake I made: I asked to see him.

  “Okay,” says Kim. “Off to stop some baby making.”

  Just when she is through the hut’s back door, I say, “You haven’t seen any dead animals today, have you?”

  “Sorry, what?” Kim bends back inside, one brow raised high. The wind is pushing the door against her, and her arm strains to hold it open.

  “Nothing. I . . . came across these dead snakes on the way here. Kind of freaked me out.”

  Kim’s face transforms with disgust. “Dead snakes? Fuck’s sake, Stell.”

  “My sister’s goldfish died this morning too. And we passed this dead dog. . . . I don’t know, sorry. It’s just been bothering me.”

  Kim shakes her head slowly. “Yeah, no dead animals to report. But that’s messed up.”

  I nod. “Probably a coincidence.”

  “Or an omen.” Kim smirks. “Maybe you should stay inside tomorrow.”

  I laugh so Kim doesn’t think I’ve lost my mind. “Maybe.”

  She leaves for real, slamming the door behind her.

  I watch her through the plexiglass. She switches on a flashlight, illuminating the blue-gray of early evening. Around her, a congregation of fireflies lights up in sporadic bursts.

  Not everything is dropping dead, I remind myself. Despite the change in weather, not every creature is acting strangely. Birds still chirp. Fireflies still light up. It’s only my natural repulsion at seeing several dead things in such a short span of time that has stirred up this unease. It is coincidence, and that is all.

  Some people say there is no such thing as coincidence. But those are the same people who got my mother’s death wrong.

  August 20, 1975

  Craig,

  Today I'm going to tell you about the Pioneer program. Do you know it? Pioneer 10 launched three years ago, and Pioneer 11 launched a year after. Nobody made as big a deal about them as they did the rockets.

  I don't understand why that is, because to me, the Pioneer program is the best thing NASA has done to date. They're probes that have gone farther than any human has-to Jupiter and Saturn, and now beyond. I've enclosed a drawing of Pioneer 10, and the stamp I'm using to mail this letter has an accurate rendering of the spacecraft too. Only, of course, Pioneer 10 is much, much, much smaller than Jupiter.

  I want to tell you about the most interesting part of the Pioneer missions. (Or, at least, what I find most interesting.) Each probe has a plaque attached to it, which the people at NASA made in case it's picked up by aliens. The plaques are made of gold-anodized aluminum, which is good at resisting degradation. This means that even after the probes have sailed deep into space and we have lost contact with them, they will continue onward, with those plaques attached. Carl Sagan calls it our "cosmic greeting card."

  Here's what is on the plaque:

  A sketch of a hydrogen atom

  A map of our solar system

  A pulsar map, to show where the sun is located in our galaxy

  Figures of a man and a woman, superimposed on an image of the spacecraft, to give aliens an idea of scale

  It's all in the hopes that maybe there's extraterrestrial life, and maybe they will find us and have some idea of what to expect.

  Isn't that something? The smartest scientists in our country have acknowledged that there might be aliens, and this is what they've decided aliens most need to know. It is a message in a bottle, cast into the sea of space. We've sent it out in the good faith that, should an alien civilization as advanced as or more advanced than ours find it, they will want to seek us out for the betterment of both our worlds.

  Only, it may be that by the time aliens find the plaque and then find us, we will be long gone. Not just you and me, Craig. I mean humanity. Perhaps millions of years will have passed, and humans will have died off-wiped away by famine or flood or disease or, most likely, a nuclear holocaust. It's sad to think about: those hopeful aliens coming out to meet us and instead finding only charred ground and radioactive air.

  I wonder sometimes what I would send out, if I had one plaque with which to tell aliens about myself. What would I want them to know? My street address and how I look, or pictures of Dad and you and Jill? What would I want them to know about me, even after I am long gone? What would I want to send deeper and deeper into space, fated to travel after my death?

  I don't know, Craig. I'm thinking it through. You might try thinking about it too.

  Your sister,

  Stella

  5

  Galliard

  MONDAY, AUGUST 1

  “Peace upon you, brothers and sisters. May we be renewed this first day of the new month. May light surround us and fill us and guide us. May all actions of ours be united through the abiding Life Force.”

  It’s the first evening of the month, which means most members of Red Sun have assembled in Common House for the community meeting. We sit on the floor in straight rows, legs crossed and eyes fixed on the Council standing before us: Rod and Saff and, between them, Opal, our leader.

  Opal is kind of creepy, but I like her. She founded Red Sun in 1960 along with her husband, Leander. Together with twenty other founding members, they established the guiding principles of the commune. Red Sun would set itself apart from the outside world, avoiding a life reliant upon industrialization and commercial waste. Its members would live off the land and consume as few products from the Outside as possible. It would be a place free of the selfish bonds that cause so much contention and turmoil on the Outside. There would be no divisions, no ranks, no hierarchy; even the Council members were not to be considered power holders, but rather community servants. No divisions would also mean no individual families. In Red Sun, all members would belong to one family and share their land, their resources, their everything. The Council would decide on fair assignments, each one necessary to keep the self-sustaining community operative. And the guiding principle that bound all these beliefs to
gether would be a belief in a Life Force—a higher power, however personal or impersonal each member wished it to be—that brought the community together, merging its members’ resonating, complementary energies. So Red Sun became what the wooden engraving at the entrance of Common House professes it to be: An egalitarian family devoted to one another, the Life Force, and the land.

  Twenty members turned to two hundred, drawn from all over the Outside, as far west as San Francisco and as far north as Burlington, Vermont. Then two hundred members doubled to the four hundred we have today. Leander is no longer with us; he passed away from lung cancer when I was still a kid. Opal’s been here from the very start, and she’s both the head of the Council and our spiritual leader; if anyone’s in tune with the Life Force, it’s her. She’s almost seventy, and her face is raisiny, while her eyes are clear and sharp and very light blue.

  At the moment, Opal’s speaking with stretched arms and open palms tilted heavenward. Her face is at peace. Her blue eyes sweep over us with the tenderness of a mother, and behind her gaze is a comfortable sort of knowing. It’s creepy, sure, but she’s easier to like than Rod, who is loud and forceful and always giving orders. Saff oversees the residential houses, kitchens, and gardens. Even though I can only hear her half the time, she’s all right. Tonight her head is bowed, dark dreads draped over her face. She murmurs quietly as Opal welcomes us, offering a prayer to the Life Force to restore balance and accord within the commune.

  I want to be anywhere but here.