by Pat Frank
The McGovern house was damp and it was chilly. It retained the cold of night. Lib, wearing corduroy jodhpurs and a heavy blue turtleneck sweater, greeted him at the door. She said, "I heard the jalopy and I knew it was you. Thanks for coming, Randy."
She held out her hands to him and he kissed her. Her hands felt cold and when he looked down at them he saw that her fingernails, always so carefully kept, were broken and crusted with dirt. Still she was dry-eyed and calm. Whatever tears she had had for her mother were already shed. Randy said, "Alice told us. We're all terribly sorry, darling." He knew it sounded insincere, and it was. With so many dead - so many friends for whom he had as yet not had time even for thought - the death of one woman, whom he did not admire overmuch and with whom he had never been and could not be close, was a triviality. With perhaps half the country's population dead, death itself, unless it took someone close and dear, was trivial.
She said, "Come on in and talk to Dad. He's worried about how we're going to bury her."
"We're arranging that," Randy said, and followed her into the house.
Bill McGovern sat in the living room, staring out on the river. He had not bothered to dress, or shave. Over his pajamas and robe he had pulled a topcoat. Randy turned to Lib. "Have either of you had any breakfast?"
She shook her head, no.
Bill spoke without turning his head. "Hello, Randy. I'm not much of a success, am I, in time of crisis? I can't feed my daughter, or myself, or even bury my wife. I wish I had enough guts to swim out into the channel and sink."
"That can't help Lavinia and wouldn't help Elizabeth, or anybody. You and Lib are going to live with me. Things will be better."
"Randy, I'm not going to impose myself on you. I might as well face it. I'm finished. You know, I'm over sixty. And do you know what the worst thing is? Central Tool and Plate. I spent my whole life building it up. What is it now? Chances are, just a mess of twisted and burned metal. Junk. So there goes my life and what good am I? I can't start over. Central Tool and Plate is junk and I'm junk."
Randy stepped over and stood between Bill and the cracked window, so as to look into his face. "You might as well stop feeling sorry for yourself," he said. "You're going to have to start over. Either that or die. You have to face it."
Lib touched her father's shoulder. "Come on, Dad."
Bill didn't move, or reply.
Randy felt anger inside him. "You want to know what good you are? That means what good you are to somebody else, not to yourself, doesn't it? If you're no good to anybody else I guess you'd better take the long swim. You know something about machinery, don't you?"
McGovern pushed himself in his chair. "I know as much about machine tools as any man in America."
"I didn't say machine tools. I said machinery. Batteries, gasoline engines, simple stuff like that."
"I didn't start at Central Tool as president, or board chairman. I started in the shop, working with my hands. Sure, I know about machinery."
"That's fine. You can help Malachai and Admiral Hazzard. We've taken the batteries out of my car, and the admiral's car, and hooked them on to the Admiral's shortwave set so we can find out what cooks around the world. Only it doesn't work right - something's wrong with the circuit - and the batteries are fading and I don't know how we can charge 'em."
"Very simple," said Bill. "Power takeoff from the Model-A. It'll work so long as you have gas."
"Fine," Randy said. "That's your first job, Bill, helping Malachai."
"Malachai? Isn't he the brother of our cleaning woman, Missouri? Your yardman?"
"That's him. First-class mechanic."
Bill McGovern smiled. "So I'll be mechanic, second class?"
"That's right."
Bill rose. "All right. It's a deal. I'll dress, and then-" He stopped. "Oh, Lord, I forgot. Poor Lavinia. Randy, what am I going to do about her-" he hesitated as if the word were crude but he could find no other - "body?"
"We're attending to that," Randy said. "Dan Gunn has gone up to get Bubba Offenhaus. I hope Bubba will handle the burial. Meanwhile, I think you and Lib better start packing. We'll have to make three or four trips, I guess. How much gas have you got in your car?"
Lib said, "A couple of gallons, I think."
"That'll be enough to make the move, and you won't need the car after that. We can use the battery for Sam Hazzard's short-wave set."
While they packed, Randy prowled the house searching for useful items. In a kitchen cupboard he discovered an old, pitted iron pot of tremendous capacity, and, forgetting the presence of death in the house, whooped with delight.
Lib raced into the kitchen, demanding a reason for the shouting. He hefted the pot. "I'll bet it'll hold two gallons," he said. "What a find!"
"It's just an old pot Mother bought when we were in New England one summer. An antique. She thought it would look wonderful with a plant. It looked awful."
"It'll look beautiful hanging in the dining-room fireplace," Randy said, "filled with stew."
The old pot was the most useful object - indeed it was one of the few useful objects - he found in the McGovern house.
Twenty minutes later Dan Gunn returned, alone and worried. "Bubba Offenhaus," he said, "can't help us. Bubba would like to bury himself. He's got dysentery. Running at both ends. He and Kitty were certain it was radiation poisoning. Symptoms are pretty much alike, you know. Both of them were in panic. He'll get over it in a few days, but that's not helping us now."
Randy said, "So what do we do?"
Dan looked at Bill McGovern, fully dressed now but still unwashed and unshaven, for there was no water in the house except a jug, for drinking, that Randy had brought to them the day before. Dan said, "I think that's up to you to decide, Bill."
"What is thereto decide?" Bill asked.
"Whether to bury your wife here or in the cemetery. You don't have a plot in Repose-in-Peace but I'm sure Bubba won't mind. Anyway, there's nothing he can do about it, and you can settle with him later."
Bill McGovern turned to his daughter. "What do you say, Elizabeth?"
"Well, of course I think Mother deserves a proper funeral in a cemetery. It seems like the least we can do for her. And yet-" She turned to Randy. "You don't agree, do you, Randy?"
Randy was glad that she asked. Intervening in this private and personal matter was brutal but necessary. "No, I don't agree. It's six miles to the cemetery. We'd have to make the trip in two cars because of the - because of Lavinia. That's twenty-four miles' worth of gasoline, round trip, and we can't afford it. We will have to bury Lavinia here, on the grounds."
"But how-" Lib began.
"Where do you keep the shovels, Bill?"
"There's a tool shed back of the garage."
While handing a shovel to Dan, and selecting one for himself, Randy examined the other tools. There was a new ax. It would be very useful. There were pitchforks, edgers, a scythe, a wheelbarrow. He would bring Malachai over before dark and they would divvy up the McGovern tools. In everything he did, now, he found he looked into the needs of the future.
Between house and river, a crescent-shaped azalea bed flanked the west border of the McGovern property. The bitter-blue grass had been carefully tended, and the bed was shaded from afternoon's hot sun by a live oak older than Fort Repose. Looking around, Randy could find no spot more suitable for a grave. He stepped off six feet and marked a rectangle within the crescent. He and Dan began to dig.
After a few minutes Randy removed his sweater. This was no easy job. Dan stopped and inspected his hands. He said, "I'm getting ditchdigger's hands. Very bad for a surgeon." They continued to dig, steadily, until it was awkward working from the surface. Randy stepped into the deepening grave. They had made a discovery. A grave designed to accommodate one person must be dug by one person alone.
When Randy paused, winded, Bill McGovern stopped down and took the shovel, saying, "I'll spell you."
From above, Lib watched. Prese
ntly she said, "That's enough for you, Dad. Remember the blood pressure. I don't want to lose you too." She stepped into the hole and relieved him of the shovel. After he climbed out, panting and white-faced, she thrust the shovel savagely into the sand. As she dug, her stature increased in Randy's eyes. She was like a fine sword, slender and flexible, but steel; a woman of courage. It was not gentlemanly, but Randy allowed her to dig, recognizing that physical effort was an outlet for her emotions. When her pace slowed he dropped into the hole and took the shovel. "That's enough. Dan and I will finish. You and your father had better go back to the house and get on with your packing."
"You don't want us to help you carry her out, do you?"
"I think it would be better if you didn't."
Dan reached down and lifted her out of the hole.
When the grave was finished, they wrapped Lavinia's emaciated body in her bedsheets, Her coffin was an electric blanket and her hearse a wheelbarrow. They lowered her into the five-foot hole and packed in the sand and loam afterwards, leaving an insignificant mound. Randy knew that when spring came the mound would flatten with the rains, the grass would swiftly cover it, and by June it would have disappeared entirely.
Randy called the McGoverns. There was no service, no spoken word. They all stood silent for a moment and then Bill McGovern said, "We don't even have a wooden marker for her, or a sliver of stone, do we?"
"We could take something out of the house," Randy suggested, "a statue or a vase or something."
"It isn't necessary," Lib said. "The house is my mother's monument."
This of course was true. They turned from the grave and back to their work.
That evening Bill McGovern, with some eagerness, walked to the Henrys' house and talked to Malachai. Together they went along the riverbank to Sam Hazzard's house and conferred with him on a plan for supplying power for the Admiral's short-wave receiver.
Dan Gunn drove to Fort Repose to visit the homeless, some of them sick or burned, lodged in the school. Randy and Lib McGovern sat alone on the front porch steps, Lib's elbows on her knees, her chin supported by her hands, Randy's arms encircling her shoulders. She was speaking of her mother. "I'm sure she never really comprehended what happened on The Day, or ever could. Perhaps I am only rationalizing, but I think her death was an act of mercy."
Randy heard someone running up the driveway and then he saw the figure and recognized Ben Franklin. "Ben!" he called. "What's the matter?"
Ben stopped, out of breath, and said, "Something's happened at Miss Wechek's!"
Randy rose, ready to get his pistol. "What happened?"
"I don't know. I was just walking by her house and I heard somebody scream. I think Miss Wechek. Then I heard her crying."
Randy said, "We'd better take a look, Lib. You stay here, Ben."
Yellow candlelight shone from Florence's kitchen. They went to the back door. Florence was wailing and Randy entered without bothering to knock.
As he opened the screen door green and yellow feathers fluttered around his feet. Florence's head rested on her arms on the kitchen table. She was dressed in a quilted, rose-hued robe. Alice Cooksey was with her, coaxing water to a boil on a Sterno kit. Randy said, "What seems to be the trouble?"
Florence raised her head. Her untidy pink hair was moist and stringy. Her eyes were swollen. "Sir Percy ate Anthony!" she said. She began to sob.
"She's had a terrible day," said Alice Cooksey. "I'm trying to make tea. She'll be better after she's had tea."
"What all happened?" Randy asked.
"It really began yesterday," Alice said. "When we woke up yesterday morning the angelfish were dead. You know how cold it was night before last, and of course without electricity there's no heat for the aquarium. And this morning all the mollies and neons were dead. As a matter of fact nothing's alive in the tank except the miniature catfish and a few guppies. And then, this evening-"
"Sir Percy," Florence interrupted, "a murderer!"
"Hush, dear," Alice said. "The water will be boiling in a moment." She turned to Randy. "Florence really shouldn't blame Sir Percy. After all, there's been no milk for him, and very little of anything else. As a matter of fact, we haven't seen Sir Percy in three or four days - I suppose he was out hunting for himself - but a few minutes ago when Anthony flew home Sir Percy was on the porch."
"Ambushed poor Anthony," Florence said. "Actually ambushed him. Killed him and ate him right there on the porch. Poor Cleo."
"Where's Sir Percy now?" Randy asked.
"He's gone again," Alice said. "He'd better not come back."
Randy was thoughtful. Hunting cats would be a problem. And what would happen to dogs? He still had a few cans of dog food for Graf, but he could foresee a time when humans might look upon dog food as a delicacy. He said aloud, but speaking to himself rather than the others, "Survival of the fittest."
"What do you mean?" Lib said.
"The strong survive. The frail die. The exotic fish die because the aquarium isn't heated. The common guppy lives. So does the tough catfish. The house cat turns hunter and eats the pet bird. If he didn't, he'd starve. That's the way it is and that's the way it's going to be."
Florence had stopped crying. "You mean, with humans? You mean, we humans are going to have to turn savage, like Sir Percy? Well, I can't do it. I don't want to live in that kind of a world, Randy."
"You'll live, Florence," Randy said.
Walking back to his own house, Randy said, "Florence is a guppy, a nice, drab little guppy. That's why she'll survive."
"What about you and me?" Lib said.
"We're going to have to be tough. We're going to have to be catfish."
[8]
On a morning in April, four months after The Day, Randy Bragg awoke and watched a shaft of sunlight creep down the wall. At the foot of the couch, Graf squirmed and then wormed his way upward under the blanket. During the January cold spell Randy had discovered a new use for Graf. The dachshund made a most satisfactory footwarmer, mobile, automatic, and operating on a minimum of fuel which he would consume anyway. Randy flung off the blanket and swung his feet to the floor. He was hungry. He was always hungry. No matter how much he ate the night before, he was always starving in the morning. He never had enough fats, or sweets, or starches, and the greater part of each day was usually spent in physical effort of one kind or another. Downstairs, Helen and Lib would be preparing breakfast. Before Randy ate he would shower and shave. These were painful luxuries, almost his only remnant of routine from before The Day.
Randy walked to the bar-counter and began to sharpen his razor. The razor was a six-inch hunting knife. He honed its edges vigorously on a whetstone and then stropped it on a belt nailed to the wall. A clean, smooth, painless shave was one of the things he missed, but not what he missed most.
He missed music. It had been a long time since he had heard music. The record player and his collection of LP's of course were useless without electricity. Music was no longer broadcast, anywhere. Anyway, his second and last set of batteries for the transistor radio was losing strength. Very soon, they would have neither flashlights nor any means of receiving radio except through the Admiral's short wave. WSMF in San Marco was no longer operating. Something had happened to the diesel supplying the hospital and the radio station and it was impossible to find spare parts. This was the word that had come from San Marco, eighteen miles away. It had required two days for the word to reach Fort Repose.
He missed cigarettes, but not so much. Dan Gunn still had a few pounds of tobacco, and had lent him a pipe. Randy found more pleasure in a pipe after each meal, and one before bedtime, than he had ever found in a whole carton of cigarettes. With tobacco so limited, each pipe was a luxury, relaxing and wonderful.
He missed whiskey not at all. Since The Day, he had drunk hardly anything, nor found need for it. He no longer regarded whiskey as a drink. Whiskey was Dan Gunn's emergency anesthetic. Whiskey, what was left of his sup
ply, was for medical use, and for trading.
He missed his morning coffee most. It had been, he calculated, six or seven weeks since he had tasted coffee. Coffee was more precious than gasoline, or even whiskey. Tobacco could be grown, and doubtless was being grown in a strip all the way from northwest Florida to Kentucky, Maryland and Virginia in the rural areas still habitable. Whiskey you could make, given the proper equipment and ingredients. But coffee came from South America.
Randy tested his knife on a bit of paper. It was as sharp as he could ever make it. He went into the bathroom and showered. The cold water no longer chilled him as it had through January and February. He was inured to it. Soap he used sparingly. The house reserve was down to three cakes.
He dried and stepped on the scales. One fifty-two. This was exactly what he had weighed at eighteen, as a freshman at the University. Even after three months on the line in Korea, he had dropped only to one fifty-six. He had lost an average of a pound a week for the past sixteen weeks, but now, he noted, his weight loss was slower. He had held one fifty-two for the past three days. He was leaner and harder, and, truthfully, felt better than before The Day.
There was a knock on the living-room door. That would be Peyton. He slipped on his shorts and said, "Come in."
Peyton came in, carefully balancing the tiny pot of steaming water allotted for his morning shave. She set the pot before him on the counter as if it were a crystal bowl filled with flowers. "There," she said. "Can I watch you shave this morning, Randy?"
The sight of Peyton enriched Randy's mornings. She was brash and buoyant, bobbing like a brightly colored cork in the maelstrom, unsinkable and unafraid. "Why do you like to watch me shave?" he asked.
"Because you make such funny faces in the mirror. You should see yourself."