by Debra Tash
LAST CALL AMERICA
LAST CALL BEFORE DARKNESS FALLS
BY
DEBRA TASH
Last Call America by Debra Tash
This book is a work of fiction.
All names, characters, locations, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, or have been used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, locales, or events is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2016 by Debra Tash All rights reserved.
No portion of this book may be transmitted or reproduced in any form, or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher, with the exception of brief excerpts used for the purposes of review.
First Edition, 2018, Long Canyon Press
Published in the United States of America
By Long Canyon Press
PO Box 152, Somis, CA 93066
Ebook ISBN-13: 978-0-9975926-2-7
To all those who continue to battle for our freedoms
PART 1: HARDSHIP
CHAPTER 1
It began the morning Jason Poole pointed a rifle at me. The curfew siren signaling the day’s beginning hadn’t sounded yet, and shadows lingered beyond the diner’s windows as the sky just hinted of the dawn. I sat at one of the empty booths, looking out at the deserted street. There were no fires now, no broken glass. Anyone caught outside after Last Call would be shot on sight. What a strange thing, even after a year, to see our small town draped in darkness without a single streetlight burning, not a flicker of a candle, nothing in all the windows of houses and storefronts lining Main Street. Temporary martial law, which had stretched into months, had been declared by executive presidential order.
By the poor illumination of a single lantern on the counter, I could see my younger sister as she worked setting up for what passed as our breakfast trade. Christina ran a dust cloth across the Formica counter, polishing it for customers who would come with their ration cards in hand once we opened. At twenty, Christina was four years my junior. She and I were only half sisters, but there was never anyone closer to me, in sprit if not in looks. Tina always wore her hair in long, black, wavy ribbons, heavy and thick. I cut mine short, leaving it to look more like a cap of wispy dark red curls than anything that had been styled. She always smelled of lavender, the sweetness of spring, and her skin was the color of bronzed earth, mine light as cream. My sister fancied skirts and tank tops even when the weather cooled and the first taste of autumn seasoned the air. Then she would don her mother’s white cable-knit sweater in more a way to cling to someone we’d both lost years ago than to staying warm. I favored jeans and my worn Harvard sweatshirt that I’d gotten in my freshman year.
All in all, Christina took after her mother more than the white father we shared. Christina’s mom was Black with a hint of some other parentage. My sister possessed the woman’s high cheekbones, the same stunning brown eyes. But the fire that had been in my stepmother’s gaze was absent from Christina’s. Hers was more of a tearful longing tinged with a deep and buried wound. It showed her to be vulnerable, a fragile being and nothing at all like me.
About to get up and pitch in, I spotted the beam of a solitary flashlight outside on the empty street. “Christina,” I exhaled. “Turn off the lantern.”
“It’s barely burning.”
The beam tipped in the direction of our café. “Turn it off!” I snapped as I slid out of the booth.
My sister snuffed the light as I joined her at the counter. Crouching, I pulled Christina to her knees beside me. Soon, that beam of light penetrated the glass of our front door to form a glowing spot on the wall behind us. It roamed through the diner, across the empty booths with their worn vinyl seats, the small tables in the center of the room. Then that beam swept across the counter, lit each stool momentarily before ending its travels on the wall behind us again.
The sound of my sister’s soft breathing suddenly broke with a tapping on the window. I started to get up, but Christina held tight to the sleeve of my sweatshirt.
“Whoever it is may break the glass,” I said in a strained whisper. “Let go.”
She did and I got to my feet, reached under the counter, and gingerly felt around for the knife we kept there. After grabbing it by the handle, I held it behind my back and walked forward.
“We’re not open!” I shouted, making sure to stay clear of that flashlight’s beam.
“Captain Poole. I saw the light in there. Open up.”
I inched closer, finally settling to the side of the door to make certain I stayed hidden. “The siren hasn’t sounded yet. After First Call, Captain.”
“The door,” he demanded.
I didn’t move as sweat collected at the base of my neck. At the sound of metal scraping, I glanced around to see the silhouette of a man, the barrel of his gun against our front door. After tucking the knife in my belt, I made sure my sweatshirt covered it. Sucking in a deep breath, I stepped into the light with upraised hands.
“Now, Miss,” the captain said with a slight drawl.
I turned the lock and drew back, raising both hands again.
“You violated curfew.” He chuckled, that rifle aimed straight at me. He lowered his weapon. “Honey, I’d just like a cup of coffee.”
I finally dropped my arms to my sides. “We don’t have any made yet.”
He shouldered his rifle and blew on his cupped hands. “Instant would be fine. Long as it’s real hot and stone black.”
Christina turned up the lantern all the way. Captain Poole was a head taller than me, muscular, his hair as dark and wavy as my sister’s. The man was decidedly handsome with strong features, a straight nose, and those eyes of his. They were compelling, deep blue, a stormy gray when he turned his head.
“You got instant?” he asked, his gaze never breaking its grip on me.
“We do,” Christina answered. “I’ll put on some water. It’s an even day. We have reliable water service straight from the tap on even days. Of course, you know that.”
He finally looked at my sister, freeing me. “That’s real fine. Thank you, Miss.” Poole started for the counter.
“You have a ration card?” I asked.
He stopped. I froze. For a moment, I thought he would unshoulder his rifle again, the only ration card he really needed. “Why, sure thing,” he answered as he slipped his hand into his pocket and gave over the plastic card to Christina.
The captain turned to me. “Smart to ask.” He chuckled again. “Even asking for it from someone like me. Everybody has to have a ration card. Get fined otherwise. Besides, it’s our duty as citizens. Least ways that’s what President Whitman says.”
“Just until the financial crisis is over,” I added.
“Sure thing,” he said, his tone turning hard and cutting as he spat, “Right.”
Sliding on to one of the stools, he planted his elbows atop the counter and blew on his hands again. “Damn, I’ll never get used to this weather.”
“Take it you’re not from Massachusetts,” Christina ventured.
His mouth curled up at one corner. “The Texas hill country. Warm and fine even in December. And the land fills with blue bonnets come spring. Nothing more lovely than Texas in the springtime. Smelling like you, young lady, sweet and tempting.”
My jaw tightened.
“Don’t you like the fall?” my sister asked. “The trees changing color and all?”
“Don’t mind the color,” he answered, his gaze drifting over Christina. “Don�
�t mind it at all.” That half-smile reappeared. “Just like to stay warm. And by the looks of it, things can get mighty cozy here.” His mouth bloomed with a full smile now. “Name’s Jason Poole.”
“Christina Sanders.”
“And mine’s Rebecca,” I said, adjusting the knife secured in my belt as I sat on the stool beside him. My naive sister turned to get some hot water steaming in the stainless steel carafe. “Christina, you should put it in a To-Go cup. The captain probably has to get back on duty.”
“Why, sure thing.” He licked his lips as Christina handed him his ration card and the coffee in a Styrofoam cup. He grunted as he took it. “Thought they banned these cups for not being earth-friendly.”
“Had a lot left over from when our parents ran the diner,” I said.
He studied me for a moment, then Christina. “Your parents? You don’t much look like sisters.”
“Half-sisters.”
“Sisters who break curfew. That lantern. You know no lights before First Call.”
“We live above the diner,” I explained. “Have to rise early to get ready for the breakfast trade.”
Poole didn’t make a move to get up and leave with his coffee. Instead, he took a long sip, licked his lips again, and asked, “Did you both grow up here in Farmsworth?”
“Born in Boston. Our dad bought the diner when Rebecca was four,” Christina offered.
He took another taste of coffee. “Moved you out closer to Lexington.”
“No,” I said. “Just moved us out of the big city.”
“Lexington. ‘The shot heard around the world.’ My sergeant keeps talking about it. Sure does make you think.”
“Of what?” my sister asked, brow creased.
For an instant, those eyes of his lit with fire. “The revolution.” He finally stood and started for the front door with his coffee. Grasping the handle, he paused, looked over his shoulder, and said, “Thank you for the coffee, and don’t worry, ladies. I’ll be back soon enough.” He pointed to me. “And honey, next time, forget the knife.”
CHAPTER 2
Captain Jason Poole did come back, the next morning and each morning after that. He would arrive at our door the same time every day, just before dawn, increasingly more agitated. Not knowing this man, we wouldn’t risk questioning him about what lay beneath his irritation. All we did was serve him instant coffee in a Styrofoam cup, try to be pleasant, and get him out of the diner as soon as we could.
After a few weeks of such mornings, he came in as usual with his rifle slung over his shoulder. He strode right by me and took a seat at the counter. I shut the front door, turned the latch, and came up beside him with an outstretched hand.
He grunted and slapped his ration card onto my open palm. “Water’s on. Have your coffee ready in a minute,” Christina said as the stainless steel carafe steamed behind her.
Poole planted his crossed arms on the countertop. “How about some eggs with that, sunny-side up?”
“We have powdered,” Christina said. “Scrambled. I can make you some.”
“Powdered.” He grunted. “Instant coffee. Boiled chicory mud. Would give my soul for a real egg and some decent coffee.”
My sister glanced at me, then at her feet.
Poole caught sight of the exchange, an eyebrow cocked. “You hiding something?”
“No, Captain,” I insisted.
He stared at me a moment, his eyes penetrating, searching, drawing me closer. “Black-market. Contraband, maybe? Illegal as hell.” A smile creased his mouth. Poole’s smile was nearly as intense as his gaze. “Darlin’, for a real egg and a fine cup of java, I swear I’d do about anything.” He clenched the strap of his rifle.
Christina took a sharp step backward, bumping into the coffeemaker behind her. The carafe tipped over, spilling hot water. My sister jumped, biting her lip. Tears puddled in Christina’s eyes as she put her burnt hand to her mouth.
“Damn it,” I mumbled under my breath as I came around the counter, grabbed Christina by the arm, and took her to the sink.
I reached for the tap and paused as Poole pressed against my back, his breath on my cheek, his scent musty, masculine. His body felt sultry in contrast to the cool fall air as he leaned forward and turned the handle. Cold water splashed into the metal sink. It was an even day. He nudged me aside and tended the burn on Christina’s hand.
“I’m sorry. Truly sorry.” Jason Poole sounded so sincere, I almost believed him.
“Just clumsy,” my sister offered. “It’s not your fault.”
There he stood dressed in drab, olive green fatigues, that rifle in hand, his blue eyes, more gray than blue now, softening with regret.
“She’s right, Captain. It’s not your fault.”
Poole shifted his gaze to me, Christina’s wounded hand still cupped in his. “You got something I can put on this?”
I went through the swinging door to the kitchen where we had the first aid kit hung on the back wall. By the time I returned, Poole had taken a bar towel and soaked it in cold water. He pressed the chilled cloth against Christina’s burn.
I held up the tube of antiseptic cream. “Here.”
He took it and gently rubbed the salve onto her reddened skin. When she was taken care of, Poole hitched up his rifle. “I’ll get some powdered eggs and instant coffee over at the base.” His voice lowered as he muttered, “If there’s any left.” He gave Christina a small nod. “Sorry for the trouble.”
The captain was nearly to the door when I shouted at his back, “Wait!”
He looked at me over his shoulder.
“One egg, sunny-side up. Fresh coffee and wheat toast.”
“Make that wheat toast rye instead, and I’ll be forever in your debt.”
“Have a seat, then,” I insisted as I pointed to a booth. Captain Jason Poole may have made that pledge in jest, but I intended to hold him to it.
Poole ate the same thing every morning, always finishing his prized sunny-side-up egg before we opened our doors for business. Rations were getting tighter, even for the military. At first, his presence unsettled me. What if he demanded to know where we were getting our extra food? Or what if he wanted something else? But Poole never did ask where those fresh eggs were coming from or how we managed to provide him with a decent cup of coffee. Perhaps the captain was grateful he had won himself a small boon and didn’t care where it came from. After a while my uneasiness ebbed, and I actually looked forward to his morning visits. Jason Poole seemed to possess an extraordinary talent for making people trust him.
Poole may have come for breakfast, but he never made the evening trade. With supplies short, we supplemented the lunch and dinner fare from our own Austerity Garden. Root vegetables grew well in our corner of New England, and there was always enough rain. Just the same, we found it necessary to pare down the menu even more by the last week of September. With tougher cuts of meat to work with, Christina, the acting chef, artfully applied our limited stash of spices to enhance the stews. Even if the fare didn’t measure up to our typical down-home cuisine, when we were open for business there were always lines of townsfolk with ration cards in hand waiting for their share.
The time to celebrate the harvest came with the onset of October. The holidays were just ahead on the calendar. But there would be no pumpkins for carving that year since nothing was wasted, and the Saturday Morning People’s Market, where folks bartered for anything and everything, had recently been banned. We relied on the government to mete out food and other goods. October, with its display of fall color, was my favorite season. But it felt more like a wake that year, especially when the day came around marking Father’s death.
I grabbed his old coat from the bedroom closet and the scarf he always favored. Of red and black knitted wool, it wasn’t the best scarf he had owned, but the one he’d cherished most. Christina’s mom had ma
de it for him shortly before her own death. Now I wrapped the scarf around my neck, went downstairs, and stopped at the kitchen to ask my sister, “You sure you don’t want to come?”
She shook her head; that thick black hair of hers had been pulled back into a ponytail. “You go for both of us.” She stirred the simmering pot with a large metal spoon. “Have to get ready for the dinner trade.”
I snorted. “Tina, like everyone else, we have to wait for another Sup Ship from Central to be open for business. We’ll put up the ‘Closed for the Day’ sign and you come with me.”
She shook her head again, then finally looked at me, her eyes glassy with tears. “You go alone. I want to stay home.”
“Okay. Sure. Stay home,” I conceded, then changed my mind. “But right now you’re going to help me.”
I grabbed her by the hand and led her through the rear door to the backyard. There was our garden, raised beds nearly picked clean and the lawn choked with weeds. How Dad had loved that lawn, his very own patch of earth. In the center of our yard was an old maple tree. My sister and I used to scale its trunk and shimmy along the branches when we were growing up. How many hours had we spent tucked beneath its shelter, looking out beyond our fence at the small town we called home? And, even better, come spring we would tap that old maple when the sap began to run; maple sugar candy, the best thing on earth to a kid.
“Up and up, Tiny,” I said as I took a pair of shears from my back pocket, gave them to Christina, and leaned down, hands cupped to give her a boost. Born five weeks early, she’d been so small. Four years her senior, I managed to shorten her name to Tina, then Tiny because of her size, and later because of her being so delicate.
She gifted me with one of her shy smiles. “Okay, Rib.” She couldn’t say my name when she first learned to speak. It came out Reb, and later changed to Rib as revenge for every time I’d call her Tiny. She gingerly placed her small foot in my open palms. I hefted her up, and she started to cut one of the boughs.