by Jim Wurst
They had also placed most of the parking underground so that the prairie not pavement would surround the church. They paid for a spur from the monorail, laid a photovacular roadbed, and in the long tradition of churches, organized a fleet of buses to bring the poor and elderly congregants to the church. They sprayed brown water over the grounds on Saturday night so the grasses would look as fresh as possible. A windmill at the far end of the grounds pumped water and supplemented the solar panels. The Prairie Grass Evangelical Church was completely self-sufficient.
Freed of his cubicle, Mr. Anderson smiled and sang along loudly with his off-key pitch, taking comfort from that fact that Mrs. Anderson’s beautiful voice would balance the scales. Pastor Tshua “Harry” Hang led the congregation in the hymn “His Eye is on the Sparrow.” The pastor was a third-generation Hmong; the Lutherans resettled his grandparents after they escaped from Laos. Tshua meant “to have compassion” in his ancestral language. He was very proud of that but decided years ago that Harry was easier for public consumption.
The hymn ended.
“Pray for our brothers and sisters
In distant lands, selflessly working/
They are the children of the Beatitudes!
Blessed are Peacemakers!”
The congregation made a joyful noise. “Praise the Lord!”
“Blessed are the meek!”
“Praise the Lord!”
“They are seeding the earth with God’s bounty! They are curing the sick and comforting the dying!”
“Praise the Lord!”
“I tell you the Truth, whatever you do for one of the least of these brothers of mine, you do for Me.”
“Praise the Lord!”
“Amen!”
“Walk with the Lord and glory in His goodness and protect His creation!”
“Amen!”
“Amen!”
The service ended, and most of the congregants filed out. Some remained to continue praying, a few wept silently. Mr. and Mrs. Anderson separately slightly from the flow and soon found themselves in private conversations.
“Everything going well?” Mr. Wentzler asked Mr. Anderson.
“I suppose. Had a really annoying case the other day, a mechanic wanting to do farm work. When I told him that would not happen, he switched to wind farm maintenance. I cut him off entirely.”
“Was it a close call?”
“Not at all, wholly unqualified and was most likely hiding exposure to Texas Cholera.” Mr. Wentzler recoiled a bit. Mr. Anderson made a mental note not to share so much.
“So if you were justified, what’s the problem?”
“I told him that waiting list for the wind farms was full…”
“That’s true.”
“I know. But why can’t we build more wind farms? There’s room. The buffalo migration isn’t affected. I don’t know about bird migration, but a lot of those species are already gone. So why not?”
Mr. Wentzler made the sideways glance of someone practiced at speaking his mind, even at church. “Not under this administration. More wind farms, more energy, more energy, fewer strategically timed brownouts. Election’s coming, have to keep people off balance.”
“‘Promise of a better tomorrow’ cutting close to the political muscle. They all promise a better tomorrow, after wrecking yesterday.”
“But only one can deliver it.”
Mrs. Anderson noticed an elderly woman standing just to the side. Even here, the elderly tried not to be too obvious. She approached the younger woman cautiously. “Excuse me, is it correct that you raise mousers and rent them out?”
“Yes, ma’am. I’ve trained three of them. I hire them out by the night.”
“Do you accept payment by barter?”
“I prefer it. What’s your offer?”
“I’m very good in the kitchen, especially baking.”
“Bake? You bake pies?”
“Oh yes. Apple, cherry, peach when I can. Rhubarb.”
“An apple pie for Thanksgiving and one for Christmas. And two cherry pies when you can next year. How’s that?”
“Fine. Thank you. It’ll take a bit to get enough apples, but I’m sure I can do it in time. How soon can you come?”
“Tonight, if you wish. Do you know how many mice you’re talking about?”
“At least two. Which of course means there could be a nest.”
“If the nest is nearby, Arnold will find it.”
“Is one night enough?”
“Usually, never more than two.”
“Then, yes, please. Come tonight.”
“I would discourage you from using the kitchen tonight. You have no pets or other animals? No small children?”
“No. Is that important?”
“Vital.”
CHAPTER 27
The Cranston brain trust was meeting in the townhouse: the candidate, George Sr., Maggie, Sean, Mei and Nancy. The father had center stage. “We start from the assumption that Ailes doesn’t really expect us to roll over,” completing his briefing about the lunch in New York. “So, they are afraid of something, something we don’t know about but could threaten them. Political? Do we have the votes to win? Foreign? He’s probably right that the Chinese Device plays into Hayden’s hands, and we can be sure knowledge about the device will turn up at a convenient moment. What have we got that we don’t know we have?”
The candidate replied. “One possibility is that a second tipping point is just beginning to sink in with the public. Hayden will insist that the Doctrinists are best positioned to keep America strong. We can keep linking the ‘tipping point’ and the ‘Doctrinists’ but that’s not an association they’ll like, given their performance with the first tipping point. There may be something bad on the horizon we don’t know about.”
“That’s not enough,” Maggie said, “Even without a second tipping point, the Doctrinists lose on the environmental front, but they always lose on the environmental front and still win. Besides, what kind of environmental catastrophe could they possibly know about that no one else knows. There’s got to be more.”
Sean played to his strength. “Maybe they’re afraid of SID. It’s a force they can’t control. Despite their rhetoric, they’re likely convinced we’re not behind SID. So, we’re not SID and they’re not SID. Who is SID? They could be afraid that SID will disrupt the election.”
“Or prevent Ailes from disrupting the election. It’s the uncertainly that’s driving them nuts,” said Maggie, somewhat relishing the thought.
“Shouldn’t SID be driving us nuts?” asked the senator, “What if SID is an elaborate feign by the Doctrinists, that they really can control SID when it counts the most on Election Day.”
“They don’t need SID to screw around with the election,” Mei said, “They have the federal government for that. We know our votes are going to disappear, we’re going to counter it as best we can, but we’re no match for them. It’s a basic consideration of our strategy.”
“Ok, focus. First, politics. Can we win a fair fight…” Cutting off the instinctive protests, he added, “I know it’s not a fair fight, but let’s look at all the variables. Maggie.”
Maggie clicked on her computer. There was a large screen at one end of the room, and it suddenly brought up a map of the United States. A visitor from the 20th century would have recognized it: the same 50 states, the same internal borders. However, the map showed changes in the coastline: Cape Cod, May and Hatteras, gone. As were the Florida Keys, the Outer Banks, Mississippi Delta, and much of the Texas Gulf Coast. The southern California coastline retreated. San Francisco Bay and Puget Sound appear much larger and the smaller islands of Alaska and Hawaii, also gone.
Maggie clicked again, and the map became an electoral map, showing all the congressional districts. “Okay, 420 congressional districts; 42
0 electoral votes; 212 needed to win. We’ve got most of the coastal vote, but Ailes is right, Gulf coast votes don’t count for much. A lot of them don’t vote, and some have been in camps for almost 20 years now. Every storm or outbreak shifts the population more, so it’s easier to stop people trying to vote. Those who do vote can have their votes disappear. It’s a phantom victory with a phantom constituency. Still, what votes there are, are ours.”
She shifted the focus of the map. “With those congressional districts all along the Pacific coast, all of Hawaii and most of Alaska, the Northeast down to North Carolina, nearly all of Florida and the Gulf Coast turn green. That should be 92 districts, but realistically call it 80. Working inland, we can hold many of the interior districts of California, Oregon and Washington, some of the interior of Texas and Louisiana districts.” She turned these districts green. “New Jersey and Delaware such as they are ours.” More green. “In New England, New York, Pennsylvania and Maryland, we lose ground the further inland we go. The Mountain, Plains and Great Lake states are mostly the Doctrinists.” Now some districts are purple. “They’ve been pumping up energy and agricultural programs across the region…”
“Programs we started…” George Sr. said.
“Which is no longer a part of the official history,” his son added.
Maggie continued. “The bright spots are some urban and high-tech districts that will probably go for us. The Doctrinists have poured a lot of money into these towns but say what you will about Lilly she is helping us in these districts. They don’t care about race and they like the way Lilly talks about science as salvation.” A few green islands appear within the purple sea large cities and towns famous for their universities including Chicago, Omaha, Huntsville, Raleigh, Denver and Minneapolis/St. Paul. “We’ve been concentrating on these from the start. Highly educated, motivated voters. People who won’t let their votes disappear. We pull them into our column, expand outward into their satellite towns, hold our own on the Atlantic and Pacific coasts, and we’re within reach. If, if, we can get a decent turnout on the Gulf and the poorest districts and have those votes counted, I put us at 204 votes. We expand to just a few satellite districts and we win. But we know the Doctrinists can easily manipulate the Gulf vote and a few isolated interior districts, and we fall short by as much as 20 votes.”
Everyone silently made their own calculations. George Sr. was the first to speak. “Chicago goes from four to six votes. Omaha goes from one to two. Chapel Hill goes from one to two. Minneapolis goes from three to four. Huntsville goes from one to two. Denver goes from three to four. We win a fair election.”
“Irrelevant,” Mei countered, “How do we win a crooked election?”
CHAPTER 28
Mrs. Anderson arrived at the house just after sunset, holding an animal carrier and a small backpack. It was a simple suburban home, with a prairie grass lawn and a few trees. There was also a large decaying stump of some grand tree, maybe a cottonwood that had not survived. It must have provided magnificent shade and comfort when Mrs. Ullman was young.
The house was modest and clean. A few photos and knick-knacks from a vanished life sat on shelves and covered the walls. Mrs. Anderson opened the carrying case, and the cat sauntered out on giant cat paws, like a soldier anticipating an ambush and knowing he would win. Mrs. Ullman stood by in awe. She had heard of such creatures but had never seen one. It was a feline of pure hunter descent, the claws, eyes and mouth of a predator. What was so remarkable was that its head was larger, and legs were longer while the body was thick and strong. As if they had crossed a cheetah with a bobcat. It was power and speed in a single animal. Mrs. Anderson obviously knew what she was doing.
“Arnold, stay.”
The cat obeyed. A cat, obeyed?
Arnold’s claws extended, his head slowly turned side to side, a menacing hiss poured from his clenched mouth. She snapped her fingers. “Arnold, come.” The beast followed as the women ambled through the house, stopping in the kitchen. Arnold was unimpressed until he got to a door near the back of the kitchen. Arnold’s claws fully extended now, and his back hunched.
“What’s this? The basement door?”
“Yes.”
She opened it and Arnold immediately disappeared down the stairs.
“We start, here. Prop this door open but remember to keep all other doors and windows closed. We trained Arnold not to leave a house, but it’s always possible he’ll forget his training if he’s in pursuit. If it doesn’t look like he finished the job tomorrow, then we’ll try a second night and let him out in the yard. That can be risky, but it shouldn’t be necessary.”
“Is it likely to be… messy?”
“Sometimes, depends on the size and number of the mice he catches. Not to be indelicate, but usually he swallows them whole. If there are too many or are too big, he may leave… remnants. I’ll clean them up, that’s part of the service.”
“Thank you.” They returned to the living room and sat quietly for a few moments. “If you don’t mind me asking, how did you get involved in this work?”
“I grew up on a farm, had cats and dogs. During the ‘30s we all had to do whatever it took to survive I took to breeding mousers easily. I always liked cats. One day we traded for a mouser. I bred it with a big, mean stray we had caught. Arnold’s great grandparents were the result. The need for mousers isn’t as great as it used to be, praise God, but I still keep busy.”
Mrs. Anderson left. Mrs. Ullman went to her room with a pot of tea and some sandwiches. She told herself she would be very comfortable this night.
She stayed in her room all night. She couldn’t help herself and listened. She heard nothing. “Of course, I can’t hear. It’s a cat. That’s the point.” And then she heard the shrieks. The first shriek of the hunter, a very un-cat-like guttural explosion, more like a motorboat revving up. The second shriek was death. She got up, checked to be sure she locked her door, took a sleeping pill and went to bed.
CHAPTER 29
The two women of different generations, the mentor and the student, were walking along Central Park West. They appeared to be strolling, but there was a specific destination. The Museum of Natural History in New York was Lilly’s home. Ever since she was old enough to read, she dashed to the stone bench engraved with “SCIENTIST.” It was where they now sat. Looking across Central Park West towards the park, she always meditated on how much had changed. Especially the trees.
When she was young, the elms, maples, tulip trees, ash and linden (no monoculture nonsense here) looked like the tallest trees in the world to her. As she aged and New York got hotter, introducing fungi and insects northern hardwoods should never have to face.
Every year a few more trees lost their leaves, and had their bark corroded and splintered until they finally died. By the time she was in her 30s, many of the trees she had known as a child were no more. They attempted to plant hybrids and subtropical species, but it was a lost cause. It had only been in the last decade that new hybrids took hold. The trees were healthy but still young and vulnerable. Elena so wanted to know what Lilly was thinking when she looked across the park and the decades.
“My parents took me here several times a year. It was one of my favorite places in the city,” she said, knowing what Elena was thinking but exercising her prerogative of not answering.
They were comfortably alone. Washington had decided she didn’t merit a Secret Service detail.
“Well, for someone raised in Brooklyn, you had that advantage over me. I didn’t see it until a family vacation when I was, maybe 15.”
“Couldn’t get enough of this place.”
“The dinosaurs?”
“Of course, what child do they not fascinate? But also, the dioramas of all those exotic animals, the Blue Whale suspended over our heads, even the non-exotic forests scenes drew me. I’m a city kid. Even a beaver dam was wondrous. Of course, by the time I
was able to fully grasp what ‘the natural world,’ meant the losses were already accelerating. The museum started running a kind of ‘doomsday clock’ on species and habitat loss. They never called it ‘doomsday clock’ it was a media nickname, but that didn’t stop the usual suspects from screaming fear-monger, America-hating or whatever. The museum never backed down. I guess that’s when I went into science.”
“One of these days, I’m going to ask you to tell me the whole story.”
“Fine, but you’ll never get the whole story.”
“I know you don’t like to do that in public, because all the Expendable stuff gets raised. But there have to be amazing stories from Columbia, about your…” The casualness of the setting tripped up Elena.
“My parents?”
Oh, no. “Expendables” and “parents” in the same minute. This would not end well for Elena. The casualness of the setting tripped her up. She looked around desperately. It wasn’t easy to cross Lilly, but she had done it. Mercifully, she saw what she had hoped for. “There he is.” Lilly looked up as Worth walked up the stairs. He was carrying a water bottle and nothing else. He shook hands with Lilly and shared an affectionate peck on the cheek with Elena.
“Thank you, Elena,” Lilly said while keeping her eyes on Worth.
“Oh, yes, ma’am. I’ll be at the office.” Leaving was a relief. Worth took her place on the bench and placed the water bottle between them.