The Great Unknowable End

by Kathryn Ormsbee

  “Uh . . . okay.” He looks upset, so I say, “I don’t know what Red Sun told you about technology, but there’s not a demon inside that thing.”

  He shakes his head. “No, I know.” Then he steps out of my room and disappears from view. I wait fifteen seconds before pressing my button.

  “Stella Kay Mercer to Galliard . . . I don’t know your last name, Galliard. Over.”

  Now here it is. The moment of truth. I sit tensed, worrying my lip. A second passes, and then another. My heart tips from side to side, then begins to fall. I hear nothing from the speaker. I am about to give it up as a failure and call Galliard back to my room, when a crackle comes through.

  “It’s Lazzari,” says Galliard’s voice. “Galliard Lazzari. Um. Over.”

  I smile wide. “Excellent, Lazzari. Report back to the base. Over.”

  It’s cheesy, I know, but I’m excited, and more than a little proud of myself. It’s not the satisfaction I dreamed of feeling had I unveiled my project in Vine Street Salon. It is something, though. It’s a victory, however small, that both This and That Stella can be proud of.

  Galliard slips through the door and shuts it behind him. He hands me the walkie-talkie, and I set it beside its mate with satisfaction.

  “Just in case,” I say. “We don’t know what’s going to happen. It’s nice to have some military-grade communication devices on hand, right?”

  Galliard nods. “Sure.”

  “Everything okay in there?” I nod toward the den.

  “Hmm? Oh, no, it’s fine.”

  “It’s funny, isn’t it? The world could be ending, and we’re eating TV dinners.”

  I smile at my own words. Only Galliard is not smiling back. His face is carved in hard, somber lines. He blinks several times.

  “Something wrong?” I ask.

  Galliard looks at me, then at the floor.

  “There’s something I need to tell you,” he says. “I should’ve told you a while ago.”

  I’m thankful his back is turned to me, so he does not see my nervousness. I think through every possible explanation, but there is only one clear answer: Craig. This has something to do with Craig.

  “He’s never going to see me.” I surprise myself with the strength of my voice. “I think I’ve known that for a long time. It’s just, after some of the things he wrote . . . And now, with everything that’s happening out there, I thought maybe—”

  “He didn’t write you those things.”

  “What?”

  Galliard turns to me. “He didn’t write you. He didn’t write any of those letters. I did.”

  Since he entered the room, a suspicion has begun to take shape in my mind. Though it’s been forming, growing, its details have remained vague. Now they sharpen into focus, too quick and too awful to behold. I shut my eyes, and I say, “What are you talking about?”

  I don’t want him to answer. I don’t want to listen.

  He speaks, though, and I hear every last word.

  “I found your letter in Phoenix’s wastebasket. He told me he’d moved on and didn’t want anything to do with his old life. I respected that, because that’s what we do at Red Sun: We respect each other’s decisions. But . . . I don’t know. I was younger then. I was curious. So I took your letter, and I read it, and I felt terrible.”

  “You felt terrible for reading my private correspondence?”

  “No. Well, yeah, I did. But I felt terrible for—for you. I could tell how much you loved him, and I couldn’t stand to think that you wouldn’t hear back. Ever. I respected his decision, but I didn’t think it was the right one. I didn’t think it was fair to you. It bothered me for days. I tried forgetting about it, but I couldn’t.

  “Then finally, one night, I wrote you back. I used the typewriter so the handwriting wouldn’t be an issue. I tried to write the way I heard him talk. I answered your questions the way I thought he would. I worked it out with Ronnie, in the mail room, to send and get your letters direct. See, the commune has this thing about particular familial bonds. Honestly, I don’t know why they let your first letter through to Phoenix; probably some new guy on the job. But I told Ronnie it wasn’t hurting anybody, that you were a potential member, and I was working on you. After a while, I knew he didn’t believe me anymore, but he also didn’t have the heart to stop it. I don’t know what I was thinking. I guess part of me thought it wouldn’t actually work. It did, though, and you kept writing, and I kept answering. The more I got to know Phoenix, the easier it was to write you back. Then . . . I don’t know, something changed. I started to know you, and I wanted to know you better, and I wanted you to know some real part of me. That’s when I started to write things Phoenix wouldn’t say and things I would. I figured you’d chalk it up to the commune changing him.”

  The longer Galliard speaks, the faster his words become. He is sweating at the brow, and his eyes roam the room in a disoriented way. He pulls at the hem of his white tunic, shaking his head, and his wild eyes suddenly fix on me. “Fuck it, Stella, I don’t know what I was doing. I never had an endgame. I just liked our letters, and hearing from you was the highlight of my damn week, and I knew I couldn’t keep it up forever, but I didn’t want to stop.”

  I am quiet. I have heard everything. I understand it on a basic, informational level. Only it is not sinking any deeper. It has not reached my heart. My voice is stone hard when I say, “Did you come to the Dreamlight on purpose?”

  “No. What? No. I had no idea you’d be there. You never talked about the Dreamlight in your letters. I didn’t know. I swear, I wasn’t trying to meet you or fuck anything up. But then you caught me and Archer, and I recognized you from Phoenix’s painting, and I couldn’t help it. I was saying your name before I could stop myself. It was so stupidly improbable that you were there, of all places, on the first night I decided to leave Red Sun.”

  “It was,” I whisper. “It was highly improbable.”

  He draws closer, and as he does, his jaw jerks hard to the right. The tic repeats seconds later, then again. He is only a couple of feet from where I sit, my arms crossed tight over my stomach.

  “I know I should’ve told you when you came to Red Sun that first time. I should’ve admitted everything right then and been done with it. I was a coward. I told myself it was because I didn’t want to hurt you. I think underneath that, though, I was scared. I was scared of you hating me, right when I was figuring out that I was . . . I was . . .”

  “You were what?”

  His words are sinking deeper, at last. They are entering my heart, filling its chambers, rushing through its valves. They make it beat faster, heavier. Tears fill my eyes and fall down my face. My heartbeat will not slow. I am feeling too much at once, too much for my body to contain, too much to ever, ever capture and write down in neat equations. I am hurt, and I am gratified, and I am astonished. More than that, more than anything else, I am angry.

  “How could you do that?”

  Galliard begins to answer, but I do not let him. I am not through.

  “How could you ever think that was the right thing to do? If Craig wanted to hurt me, then it was on him to hurt me. It wasn’t on you to make things better. And you didn’t make them better, Galliard. You’ve been lying to me. You’ve been lying to me for two years. Do you know how wrong that is? How sick?”

  “I know, Stella. God, I know, I—”

  “No, you don’t know!” I shout. “Because you’ve known the truth this whole time. You’ve had the luxury of feeling however you want about me, because you’ve known that I’m not your sister. And what, did you think if you told me the truth we could just . . . be friends? Friendship is equal footing, Galliard. Friendship is honesty.”

  “I know that! Fuck, I know. That’s why I’m telling you now. I wanted to make things right.”

  “You mean you want your conscience clear before Buddy Holly and the rest of your gods. You want to be at peace before the world ends and Elvis calls you home to some shining Gracelan
d in the sky, is that it?”

  “I’m telling you because I know it was twisted. And I know if I ever wanted a chance with you—”

  “A chance with me?” I rise from my chair. “We are far beyond a chance with me. You had your chance when we first met. And even then, do you think there was ever going to be a chance with me?”

  Galliard’s face contorts. His jaw is jerking hard right every few seconds.

  I realize then what my words could mean.

  “It’s not about that,” I say, trembling. “Your tics are fine. They’re completely fine, Galliard.”

  “They bother you, though. They bother everyone out here. How could I—”

  “No!” I yell, throwing out my arms. “You want to know what bothers me? You pretending to be my brother. That’s wrong. That’s so wrong, Galliard. It has nothing to do with your tics. Don’t tell yourself that so you don’t have to confront the real issue here. That you purposefully stay cooped inside a tiny, fenced-in shelter that won’t let you do what you love.”

  “Right!” Galliard shouts back in my face. “Right, because you don’t have that same exact problem.”

  “But I can’t do anything about it!” I scream. “I can’t leave!”

  My back is to the bedroom door, so I do not notice that it has opened or that Jill is standing there. I don’t notice until Galliard’s startled gaze flicks to her, and I turn and see.

  “Jill,” I say. “What’s—”

  Her expression is blank. She holds her hands behind her back.

  “Dad called. He says the plant is still on lockdown. That means they can’t leave.” When I say nothing, she adds, “I did knock.”

  I nod limply. “I’m sure you did.”

  Her eyes flit from me to Galliard to the walkie-talkies on my desk. She backs away slowly, then heads down the hall and out of sight.

  Galliard shifts behind me, clears his throat. Then he clears it again. I know it must be a tic, because there is no chance he would willingly draw attention to himself. Not now.

  I do not look at him. I keep my eyes to the hallway and say, “I want you to leave.”

  He clears his throat.

  “I don’t care where you go. I don’t care if aliens abduct you or fire and brimstone come down or the earth swallows you whole. Just get out.”

  His shoulder brushes mine as he steps into the hall. I do not wait to hear what reaction there will be in the den. I slam my bedroom door. Then I crawl onto my bed and keep my eyes shut against the world. Against Galliard and my brother and even my little sister. Against this entire month and every change it has brought into my life.

  27

  Galliard

  THURSDAY, AUGUST 18

  I feel like shit.

  I feel like the worst possible outcome of the human race.

  And it’s what I deserve.

  That’s right, you’re saying. C’mon, Galliard, you had one hundred chances to tell Stella everything, and you chose now, at the end of the world.

  Which is what Archer is mind-screaming at me. I know he is, even if he doesn’t say a word from the time we leave the house to the time we reclaim our miraculously not-stolen bikes on Vine Street to the time we’re well down Eisenhower, pedaling through thick dark, with only streetlamps to light the way. He doesn’t ask where we’re going, which is just as well, because I don’t know.

  It’s so quiet. I can’t hear birds or crickets or traffic. Everyone’s inside, as they should be. Everyone but us. If we keep biking out this way, past Red Sun, we’ll run into the blockade. I know we’ve got to stop eventually, but I don’t know where.

  Where do you hide when you’re trapped in an apocalypse?

  Where the hell do you go to hide from yourself?

  I hear noise. At first I think it’s got to be in my head. Then it gets louder—the sound of talking and shouts and car engines running. I see something too, off the road and up on the left. It’s a burst of light in a dark sea of cornfields.

  The Dreamlight.

  Not everyone is safe inside.

  Some Slater residents are out for the Dreamlight’s midnight showing.

  Archer and I slow our bikes to a stop. We stand looking toward the glow of the concessions hut and the big, illuminated screen. There are two dozen cars in the lot.

  “How long till the National Guard shuts it down, you think?” asks Archer.

  “We could find out for ourselves.”

  Archer looks at me. I look at him.

  “I never did get to see the movie,” I say.

  Archer grins. He shakes his head, long and slow. “Why not.”

  And really, why not?

  I’ve already made the bravest and probably stupidest decision of my life. There’s no turning back, no looking over my shoulder at a setting Red Sun. Call it weak. Call it ignorant. A song isn’t just a song, though, and a movie isn’t just a movie. I’m going to see Star Wars at the end of the world.

  Why not.

  July 30, 1977

  Stella,

  I'm not going to send this. I already know I won't. I think that's best. It's what I should've done at the start. I should've left your letter unanswered.

  It wasn't my place to interfere. It wasn't my place to decide what would hurt you and what would help.

  I've been thinking about aliens again. How you've been writing to one this whole time. Someone different from you, from another place and perspective. And you didn't even know.

  Point is, I got the things you said. I think you got the things I said too. Maybe we disagreed on points, but we had a conversation.

  So maybe I've changed my mind. Maybe it is possible to make an alien connection. Maybe they'd actually want to reach out and talk to us. But only to the humans who could believe it. The ones who had an open mind.

  It’s something to think about. And I wish I could tell you that not as Craig, but as me. Because it's really

  Galliard

  28

  Stella

  MIDNIGHT, FRIDAY, AUGUST 19

  I wake, which comes as a surprise, because I do not remember growing tired.

  There have been no knocks at my door, no shouts, no clamor. When I walk into the den, there is no one there. The radio is turned off. In fact, from what I can tell, the radio is gone. I peer into the kitchen, but Jill is not there either. She is not in her bedroom, or our father’s.

  My heart begins to thrum. Now, fresh from sleep, I can’t believe what I’ve done. How could I shut my door without thinking that Jill might react to what she heard? That, like Galliard and Archer, she might leave?

  “Jill?” I call.

  There is no reply.

  I check the garage. I check the bathrooms and even the linen closet.

  Nothing.

  The thrum of my heart grows louder. I hurry back to my bedroom and lace on my sneakers, ready to go outside, to search the yard and the street and every inch of Slater, if necessary.

  That’s when I see what is on my desk. Or, what is not there.

  One of the walkie-talkies is missing.

  No, I think. She wouldn’t.

  She would, though.

  I grab the remaining walkie-talkie. Pressing the red button, I say, “Jill? Jill, it’s Stella. Over.”

  I release the button and wait.

  And wait.

  My bones are burning with panic.

  “Jill,” I say. “Answer me. This isn’t funny. Come back home. Over.”

  Release, and wait.

  And wait.

  “Jill, at least tell me where you are. Over.”

  Nothing.

  I hate myself. I thought that by repairing the walkie-talkies, I was doing something useful, making us safer. Instead I’ve given Jill a reason to run away. A chance to be a real-live Nancy Drew, in action.

  I’m crying as I hurry to the kitchen and fish a well-creased paper from my jeans pocket. I dial the number written there in rapid strokes.

  The telephone rings and rings and rings.


  Then: “Hello, this is Gayle Nelson. I’m not available, but if you leave a message with a number where you can be reached, I’ll be in touch soon.”

  There’s a long, loud beep in my ear, followed by silence. I stutter for a moment, then push speech from my mouth.

  “Gayle? Dad? Please call me. Please, please, if you’re there. Jill’s run away, I don’t know where—”

  I catch sight of something on the counter—a sheet of paper. I grab it and read, in Jill’s careful cursive, Going to investigate. I’m okay on my own.

  I flip the paper, looking for something, anything more. It is Mr. Cavallo’s flyer about his end-of-the-world showing. I check my watch. It’s nearly midnight.

  “I think I know where she is,” I say into the phone. “I’m going out to find her.”

  I slam the phone on its cradle and make quick work of gathering items into a rucksack, including two flashlights and the first-aid kit from the linen closet. Then, most important, though currently most useless, the walkie-talkie. I drop the bag into my bike basket and pedal out of the garage, not bothering to stop and close the door behind me.

  There are sirens wailing in the distance, and a rumbling sound, like thunder. I look to the sky, but there are no storm clouds overhead—only blackness. As I speed down Vine, and as Vine turns to Eisenhower, the sirens grow louder. I know where they are coming from, but I do not want to think it. To think that means to entertain the idea that my father is not okay.

  I keep pedaling, heading in the direction of the Dreamlight, and beyond that Red Sun, and beyond that the Slater Creek Generating Station.

  A car speeds past me, heading toward town, horn blaring. Then another passes, and another, and another. One passenger rolls down his window and shouts, “Get off the road! Get to shelter!”

  Then they’re gone, zipping off into the dark, and I do not have the chance to yell back that I will only get to shelter when my sister’s hand is in mine.

  • • •