The Great Unknowable End

by Kathryn Ormsbee

  What can I say?

  I'm curious.

  Your sister,

  Stella Kay

  25

  Galliard

  WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 17

  We make camp in the den. There are pillows, blankets, books, and also a big pitcher of bright orange sweet stuff that Stella calls Tang. Jill brings up the fact that there’s not a whole lot of food in the kitchen. Mr. Mercer says there’s plenty and there’s no way we’re going out At a Time Like This. People steal At a Time Like This. They get violent, even in small-town Slater, Kansas. That’s what he tells us, and I believe it. I still feel pretty shaky about that purple-faced pastor yelling at me.

  But the humor of the incident isn’t lost on me.

  It’s really funny. I should’ve expected it:

  The Outside blames the inside as much as the inside blames them. Maybe, if they could get over hating each other, Rod and that pastor would be the best of friends. Who knows. Maybe we’re all to blame.

  Maybe none of us are, but we’re horrible people anyway.

  I think this through a lot. I think a whole bunch there, in our camp. We spend long hours sitting, listening to the radio and watching television.

  Slater is on national news, which seems to be a big deal. The governor of Kansas has declared a state of emergency, which seems to be a bigger deal, and he’s sent in the National Guard, which seems to be the biggest deal. Posts have been set up on the edges of the darkness, which encompasses the drive-in and Red Sun and even the Slater Creek Generating Station. They’re not allowing anyone to enter or leave town. They’re calling it a quarantine, because so far the darkness is only over Slater, and no one can be sure if what’s happening in here is spreadable. No one knows much of anything.

  On 580 AM, Jim Goddard has been replaced by a television news anchor—this guy named Charlie Bridges, from Kansas City—who brings on guest speakers. He talks to experts like meteorologists and university professors. He even interviews people off the street in an end-of-the-hour segment he calls “A Word from the People.”

  “It’s the end of times,” says an elderly woman, “and it’s beginning right here in Kansas. The chosen are gonna be raptured to the sky; we’re gonna be taken out of wicked Babylon. Now’s the time to repent, is what I say. Repent before the four horsemen come a-trottin’ to your door.”

  “Charles,” says a professional-sounding man. “I’ll tell you what I’ve been telling everyone since ’74: Nixon’s to blame. I’ve no doubt what’s happening in that town is the direct result of one of his undercover nuclear experiments gone wrong. And we should be worried. Not just us folks in Kansas City. This whole nation should be worried about what’s to come. Who’s next.”

  “These people are kooky,” says Jill, and the kid couldn’t be more right.

  We keep on listening, though, because we’ve got to listen, and even if it’s just more scientists saying they don’t have an explanation, we keep on tuning in, trying to make sense of it all.

  The only break in the Slater reports is the televised evening news. Elvis will be buried tomorrow. Cameras pan outside Graceland, where hundreds of people have gathered. If only they knew he’s not in that coffin. Now he’s in the sky, with the other gone-too-soon gods.

  “Why go to all this trouble?” a reporter asks one of the mourners—a blond woman in big sunglasses.

  “Because we love Elvis,” she says, teared up. “We still do.”

  “You’re not going to get in, you know,” he says, the helpful asshole.

  “Doesn’t make any difference.”

  “Those people are kooky too,” says Jill. “Everyone’s kooky.”

  But I can’t agree with her there.

  It’s my first time watching TV. The novelty of moving pictures on a screen has worn off fast, replaced by this awful ache in my chest. What’s the point of moving pictures if all the pictures are sad?

  I’m not numb the way I was during the tornado. I feel it now: It’s a too-soon death of a too-talented musician who ended every one of my Back Room listening sessions. I’m not exactly surprised by Elvis’s death; in a way, it feels like an inevitability. He was too big to live long, I guess, like Jimi, Janis, and Buddy. So it feels inevitable, but it still hurts like hell, and I’m relieved when the news report moves on to something called the Panama Canal. Eventually, Stella comes into the den (I don’t know why she left it, or even when) and turns the TV off. Mr. Mercer, who’s been watching with us on the sofa, stands up.

  “I’m going out,” he says. “To the plant.”

  “What!” Jill’s on her feet. “You can’t! Not At a Time Like This. You said so!”

  “Gayle isn’t answering her phone.” Mr. Mercer says this to Stella. “I need to make sure she’s all right.”

  “Okay. We’ll be fine.” That’s what Stella says, even though she sure doesn’t look fine.

  Mr. Mercer kisses her on the head. He does the same to Jill.

  “You better be back soon,” she says, pouty. “Be back soon, okay?”

  “As soon as I can.”

  Then Mr. Mercer gives us another lecture about staying in the house and how if there’s an emergency we should take shelter in the bathroom, and how we’re not to open the door for anyone.

  When he leaves, Stella gets up and says, “Who’s hungry?”

  She fixes us a dinner of boxed, frozen foods that she heats inside an oven. The food looks bad, and it tastes even worse, but I’m not in any place to complain. Archer and I scarf down our meals with no comment save “thanks.”

  In case you’re wondering at this point, Archer and I do have a plan. Or, more like Archer’s plan, plus me. We’re using our allowance money to buy tickets for that Greyhound bus, headed for Archer’s aunt and uncle in Pasadena. He already called them from the pay phone on Vine Street, and they say they couldn’t be happier that he’s out of the commune. They say they’ll help him start a new life.

  We’ve got this plan, but Stella’s part of it. Because I can’t leave until I finally tell her everything. And now we can’t leave because the government won’t let us. It seems we’re stuck waiting it out, eating from tinfoil trays. Waiting for California, or maybe waiting for the end.

  The end of the world—that’s what everyone’s started calling it. And not just the kooks on the radio. I mean, come on, let’s face the facts: There’s a countdown over town hall telling everybody we’re one day away from the unknown.

  I don’t have any explanations left.

  • • •

  I fall asleep, and when I wake, the phone is ringing. It’s Mr. Mercer, who tells Stella he is at the plant with Gayle, but they’ve been put on lockdown until further notice, because of the darkness. When Stella tells us this, Jill tears up. Then the two of them don’t talk about it again. I guess they’re too upset. Or trying to be brave.

  • • •

  It’s Thursday afternoon, not that you’d guess that from looking outside. It’s as dark out as before. We keep listening to the radio, and we eat more tinfoil tray meals until there aren’t any left.

  Jill’s been folding and unfolding a crumpled sheet of paper. It’s this advertisement I saw posted on Vine Street yesterday, before the town meeting. It reads:

  END OF WORLD SHOWING

  MIDNIGHT, THURSDAY

  DREAMLIGHT DRIVE-IN THEATRE

  HELP USHER IN THE END OF TIMES WITH A SPECIAL VIEWING OF STAR WARS

  ADMISSION $5

  “Why aren’t you going?” Jill asks Stella, not for the first time. “It could be fun.”

  “It won’t be fun,” Stella says. “It’ll be a bunch of loons, drunk and high and out of control. It won’t be safe.”

  “You’re boring,” says Jill. “We’re going to stay cooped in this house forever.”

  “Better to stay cooped in and stay alive.”

  “Nuh-uh. Better to have fun and get killed.”

  At which point Stella claims we can stay alive and have fun and asks if Jill wants to p
lay one of her board games.

  Like that, Jill forgets the end-of-the-world showing and runs to fetch a game called Happy Days, which is based on some fictional television show. She and Stella and Archer and I play three full rounds, and we make sure Jill wins every time.

  The radio stays on. Time passes. Outside, it remains dark as midnight.

  Jill falls asleep on the sofa, one arm draped around the radio. Archer falls asleep sitting upright in a rocking chair. Stella and I are awake, our backs to the coffee table, staring at the television’s blank screen.

  I nod toward Jill. “She’s got strong opinions.”

  Stella smiles. “She’s a detective-in-training. Craig used to call her Inspector Clouseau.”

  I don’t know who Inspector Clouseau is, but I sure as hell know Craig. He’s been the unspoken word between me and Stella this whole time. And this is it. We’re alone, or as good as.

  I’ve got to say it now.

  “Stella. There’s something I have to tell you.”

  “No. You don’t.” She shakes her head. “We can forget it happened. That kiss. I don’t know why—”

  “No, it’s not—”

  “And I already know about Craig.”

  Shit. She knows? I stare at her, petrified. Then I start to blink.

  “You . . . do?”

  “He told you he doesn’t want to see me, right?”

  Shit. She doesn’t know. I blink, fast and hard.

  “Stella,” I say. “That’s not—”

  “Did he ever tell you why he left?”

  “I . . . well, he said the Outside was a bad place. He said people here are selfish.”

  “That’s it?”

  I could tell her about Phoenix’s rants. Rants about war and crime and financial depression, about double-dealing politicians and the uselessness of families and religion. But that’s nothing Stella needs to hear. And anyway, I don’t think it’s what she’s after.

  So, blinking, I say, “Pretty much, yeah. That’s it.”

  “He didn’t tell you about Walt?”

  I shake my head at the unfamiliar name.

  Stella heaves out a sigh. She closes her eyes, and she doesn’t open them again, even as she speaks. “He was our neighbor. Walt Metcalfe. He was older than Craig, so they didn’t exactly hang out growing up. Walt got drafted in ’69, and when he came back, he lived with his parents. He and Craig became friends then, when Craig was in high school. They hung out, started a lawn-care business together. Craig really looked up to him.

  “A couple years back, in the spring, when the North Vietnamese took over Saigon—no one knew how much the news affected Walt. Craig went over to hang out, same as always. And they were in the Metcalfes’ basement, talking, like nothing was wrong. And then Walt . . . He pulled out a shotgun from between the sofa cushions. And he shot himself. He shot himself right in the face.”

  I feel sick. I feel I might vomit on both my and Stella’s shoes. She’s crying, but she keeps on talking, pushing the words out like she doesn’t have a choice. Meanwhile, I clear my throat, again and again.

  “Craig passed out. I guess it was the shock. But the Metcalfes’ collie, Major—he was there in the basement too. And he got upset and ran outside. The neighbors found him running in circles, going berserk. They caught up to him, and that’s when they saw it all over his coat. There was blood and brain, and . . . and they called the cops and Mr. and Mrs. Metcalfe, and the whole street was full of police and firefighters. The lights were flashing the whole night long. And Craig left the next week.”

  “Stella. I’m—”

  “So, I know why he left. And I know why he said the world is an awful place. I thought maybe he only needed time away, a year to heal, a chance to get his head straight. I thought he’d come back to us one day. He didn’t, though, and it’s clear to me now: From the very beginning, he meant to leave us for good. These two years, I’ve told myself that he left because of Walt, but that’s not true. Walt was only a catalyst. Craig was unhappy before that. He was stuck here, in this family, in a role he didn’t want. He didn’t just leave; he left me to be what he couldn’t. And I hate him for it. I hate what he did, and I need him to know that. I need him to say he’s sorry for doing it wrong.”

  I want her to be okay. I want Stella to be okay, but I don’t know how to help. I don’t have the right to hug her or tell her it’ll be fine. The only thing I can say is, “I’m sorry.”

  After what feels like minutes of silence—punctuated by my throat clears—she looks straight at me. Her face is wet and rumpled, shadow-cast in the dark den.

  “The dog ran away,” she says. “Major, the dog—after the neighbors called the police, they couldn’t find him. He ran off, and they never tracked him down. The Metcalfes looked everywhere before they moved. People figured he got hit by a car out on a country road. That it was one more tragic thing to add to the list.

  “But . . .” Stella grinds her knuckles into her jaw. She looks startled, almost wild. “He came back. I saw him, Galliard. I saw him dead, on the side of the road, almost three weeks ago. When the winds blew into town. When everything began. It was Major, I know. I just don’t know what it means. I know it can’t be connected to the other strange things. That’s absurd. It’s completely unfounded. But . . . isn’t life connected in weird ways? Like you and me, connected through Craig? Or how you and I were talking about Elvis a week ago, and now he’s dead? And I know, I know, it’s coincidence. It’s not cause and effect. It’s the same as horoscopes, how you start seeing the world a certain way, mystical and predictable, and that’s ridiculous. But I can’t get rid of the feeling. I’ve got this feeling deep down that if I see Craig now—just see him—it will all be over. The strangeness and the bad things, they’ll finally stop.”

  “Stella.” I say it slow, like a sentence, not a word. “I don’t think that’s how it works.”

  I want to tell her I understand, though. I’ve thought, like her, that this strange weather has had to do with what my gods want of me. But this isn’t about me. It’s about her, and her story, and I have no right to speak.

  “I know that’s not how it works. It’s only a feeling; I told you.”

  She stands up suddenly and leaves the room. There’s light from the kitchen, and rummaging, and the commotion wakes Archer, who sits up and blinks around.

  “What’s that?” he rasps. “What’d I miss?”

  “Nothing.” I stare at the light of the kitchen.

  When Stella returns, she holds two glasses of water. “We need to stay hydrated,” she says, setting the glasses down for me and for Archer, though it’s clear she meant Archer’s for herself. “We don’t know what’s going to happen next.”

  The Stella sitting here a minute ago is gone, and so is my chance.

  The world outside is black, no stars in sight. Buddy isn’t here to give me confidence. Jimi can’t give me cool. And Janis can’t give me the courage I desperately need.

  Even so, I know what my gods want of me. I’ll have to do it without them, on my own.

  26

  Stella

  THURSDAY, AUGUST 18

  Everyone in the den is sleeping. They’ve all dozed off except for me, and the room is filled with the soft drone of 98.5 and Archer’s uneven snores. Quietly, I slip off to my bedroom, flick on the lights, and check my watch. It’s ten thirty, and it’s as dark out as it was at noon. The night hangs heavy, a kind of buildup with no release.

  I haven’t bothered to hide the wicker bin. It sits where I left it, atop my desk, alongside two walkie-talkies. I’ve finished one and am working on the other. They were the least damaged of the lot, by no means perfect, but salvageable. The first was the easiest to repair—plastic broken off on one corner, exposing some of the interior. It only required a bit of duct tape and some cereal-box cardboard I scavenged from the kitchen trash. The other walkie-talkie was more complicated—a frayed wire connecting battery to circuit board. That’s where a third one came in handy. U
sing pliers and red electrical tape, I’ve performed a kind of organ transplant between the two. Now all that’s left is to close up the back shell and test the efficacy of the surgery.

  I do not touch the walkie-talkies yet. I sit at my desk and stare at the bare wall where my paper plans used to be.

  I don’t know how so much can change within the space of a month. How we Mercers, notorious loners for years, could bring new people like Gayle and Galliard into our lives. How my perfect plan for This Stella could be wholly derailed. How I could kiss a boy I only met two weeks ago. How college, only a pipe dream before, could seem attainable. How the town of Slater can fall apart while we watch and listen from the den.

  For once, reasons and facts do nothing to help me. I can only wonder at it all.

  My closet door is open, and from my desk I stare at the glowing violet numbers there. 00:05:24.

  It’s nearly here, whatever end is coming for us. I wish it wouldn’t, right when so many things are changing.

  The knocking on my door is soft at first, then louder and more rapid. I’m quick to my feet, and I hurriedly slam the closet door shut, hiding away my personal doomsday clock. Then I return to my desk chair and assume an expression of nonchalance.

  “Come in,” I say, expecting it to be Jill.

  It isn’t.

  “Am I bothering you?” Galliard asks.

  I straighten in the chair, casting about for an excuse for my absence. The obvious answer is there, though, scattered on my desk.

  “Making that bomb,” I say.

  Galliard doesn’t laugh. He blinks rapidly. “I can leave you alone,” he says, retreating.

  “No, no! Galliard, I’m kidding. You’re fine. Actually, I could use you for something.”

  He looks uncertain, still blinking, but I do not give him time to back out. I slip the plastic shell into place on the second of the walkie-talkies and hold it out to him.

  “What’s this?” he asks, taking it.

  “See the button? The red one. Right, that one. I want you to go out there, to the bathroom. I’m going to try talking to you with this.” I hold up my own, duct-taped talkie. “If you can hear me, after I say ‘over,’ you press the red button and you say something. Then we’ll know if they work.”