(a novel excerpt)
“Gods of the younger generation,
you have ridden down the laws of the elder time,
torn them out of my hands.”
–Eumenides of the Furies, from the Oresteia, Aeschylus
“The peasant won’t cross himself before the thunder crashes.”
–old Russian folk saying
We are being swallowed, and soon, we will drown. No escaping the thought but Julie walked faster, the pungent scent of magnolias filling her lungs. Her stomach lurched. In the pinkish morning mist the porch lights glowed softly, and a slight breeze off the lake rustled the cypresses and oaks. Along the disappearing house a little crowd had formed: sinkhole-gawkers. Dogs strained on leashes, shrill whines pouring from their throats. The owner of a Dogo Argentino and Jack Russell called hers each by name and jerkily tugged, as a pair of firemen barricaded the property’s perimeter with reflector signs and tape. Inside the nearest bedroom window a child’s stuffed toy, a dolphin, lay smashed and jeering. “How many?” Julie asked, and the Dogo owner responded at once. Eleven victims, was the closest guess: a set of grandparents, two sets of small children. Some cats. Refugees from the south, was all anyone knew, arrived after last November’s hurricane. And now the first storm of this season on its way, too early, swiftly strengthening in the Caribbean. Julie kicked a loose tuft of grass and earth. The clump tumbled down the side of the bowl, spitting up puffs of sand. Was this the inevitable end of the ceaseless attempts at conquering a fragile and hostile peninsula—of the millions who had settled there and insisted on reinventing themselves, determined to fulfill some impossible dream? Julie could barely remember her dreams, how they had once felt not only tangible to her, but destined. So why stay?
“Tell you what.” A middle-aged man, slightly younger than Julie, stepped up. He stuck a Aquaman-logoed pipe to his lips, sucked hard, and blew out a vape cloud, oily and sweet. Agave and citrus. “All these holes opening up, no warning—you don’t think God’s shouting for the last time? Telling us to quit messing with what we shouldn’t? Like an opposite Rapture, the ground swallowing people, instead of sucking them up into the clouds. And what about all these hurricanes, and the snakes? You can only ignore for so long—”
The half-caved house shifted and groaned. Gravel raced down the hole’s slopes and what remained of the chimney toppled in a clattering heap. The top story plummeted one meter, then another and another. The crowd cried out. In one swoop the remaining dwelling fell out of sight, buried in sand. The GeoSolutions team waved and yelled for everyone to please clear the area. The hollow gaped at the sky. On the chasm’s far rim the backyard pool remained, though not for much longer, an inflatable gator raft floating idly on top. A mallard duck and his mate landed in the shallow end. Happily they splashed in the bright patches of sunlight.
Back home her husband David was gone, likely to get milk and eggs, the electricity humming at last. Julie timed her walks during the usual two-hour early morning black-out, the porch lights signaling when she might return. David didn’t care, however; most mornings he brewed his espresso on the propane grill and went to work at the piano. Alone, she clicked open the old Mac desktop, found the Internet. Today was Tuesday, the cone projecting from the spinning onscreen eye not anticipated to make landfall until Sunday but the tropical storm had been upgraded: Hurricane Calypso. A Florida hit was now certain. Mid-September had used to mark when the worst hurricanes struck Florida; the date was July eighteenth. How soon until a storm like the one approaching cut up the state’s center like a buzz-saw, and leave all of Florida in shambles? For if a superstorm didn’t brush Cuba, didn’t weaken over those mountains, and instead warmed over the Gulf, such a landfall would mean the end of Tampa, or Miami, kill off the dwindling tourism for good, and Florida would become another failed branch of civilization, like Puerto Rico. Abandoned to the warlords and criminals, the impoverished and invisible.
And to think barely six weeks ago drought and wildfire had consumed them. Rains followed, fierce and abrupt, and within a week, sinkholes as big as lakes pockmarked the I-4 corridor, Tampa to Orlando, a geological disaster not seen since the middle of the last century. An exit ramp’s asphalt buckled and fell, the sudden crevasse devouring vehicles, one after another. A Publix lot sank to a shallow crater during morning deliveries, but by sundown had collapsed to the depths of a swimming pool, and an area three times as wide was barricaded off. Hoping the worst was over, residents witnessed the largest strike right before Mother’s Day beneath the shady lanes of Genius Drive in Winter Park. The cracks, moss-hidden, ran silently, so many of the great old houses overgrown and peeling from disrepair. Glass shattered, beams snapped, and too late, the nearest neighbor ran outside to watch the two-story mansion get swallowed by sand, the screams of those within, the renters—or more often lately, squatters—snuffed out.
A knot tightened in Julie’s middle and her mouth grew dry. She and David had prepared, kept a closet stocked for emergencies; there was little to do but wait. But she didn’t want to wait; she wanted to run, to leave. Those winds howling in the pitch black—she didn’t want to be stuck on this overcrowded stick of land anymore! The last hurricane she had ridden out brought down an oak in the middle of the night, and Julie had spent the long hours staring at the crack growing longer and wider across their ceiling, and the eerie creak of the trunk, she and David frozen under a door frame in case the roof caved. The tree damage had forced them to hastily move into another of their landlord’s rentals, on a shabbier street—the concrete block bungalow they now occupied. Never would she stay for another hurricane, she had promised herself, no matter how expensive the flights or the gas. What would David say? He had his big show tonight, had been excited for weeks about the debut of his new piece: the tenth anniversary celebration for the jazz club where he played weekends, a guest appearance as pianist with the Orlando Jazz Orchestra. He would be jittery enough already, and now this.
No doubt she had several dozen essays to grade in her Myths for Game Design class, but she didn’t care to log in; she couldn’t concentrate. Instead she logged onto the peer-to-peer web channel and the secret group she frequented, Hospice for Humanity. Maybe if she wrote a post expressing her fears she would feel better. H4H was the only place she had found that was truly supportive, a respite from the denial, ridicule, and witch-hunting rampant among the public these days.
But first, an alert on her profile told her she’d be tagged in a post by the group’s main Admin, Eva Wasserman. Eva had posted a link to a webpage and the following introduction: “For those of you who have expressed interest in finding a supportive off-grid community—the Winterland Collective started a couple of decades ago in Newfoundland, and now has a network of a dozen or so ‘growhouse’ centered farms across northeastern Canada. They have a good reputation, and I find this odd that they would be accepting anyone from outside Canada, but sounds like the wildfires out west have really taken a lot of potential laborers. If you’re serious about applying, please message me.” Eva had tagged Julie along with a handful of other highly active H4H members. Julie followed the link. The home page depicted abundant vegetables inside a greenhouse, and a wide shot of several solar-powered greenhouses against a blue sky, a broad Northern meadow in the foreground. She read:
RECRUITMENT CALL: The Winterland Collective is founding a new branch in Kings County, Nova Scotia, and due to a shortage of citizen labor, is temporarily open to international applicants. Must be able-bodied, sound-minded, English-speaking adults, ages 18-65, with basic skills in gardening, food preservation, animal husbandry, electrical, wood- and metal-working skills, etc. Simple community living limited to 25 residents or less, no kids, no pets. Commitment to daily work ethic in a secular, rugged environment: the beautiful Bay of Fundy and Annapolis Valley. Musicians highly desired.
Julie reread the paragraph, then let out a long breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. Musicians highly desired. Was this why Eva Wasserman had thought to tag Julie in the post, because in some discussion or another Julie must have mentioned that she wanted to leave Florida, and that her husband was a jazz pianist and composer? Why would a busy Admin of a social networking group with tens of thousands of members care to remember such a minute personal detail? Julie flushed and sipped some coffee, now lukewarm. Any opportunity, however legitimate, that Julie might come across via the H2H group would have to be broached carefully to David.
This was because six months before, Julie and David had attended a lecture by an outspoken climatologist who declared that humanity had no more than ten years before going extinct, the crucial ecological tipping points had been breached, and there was nothing to be done. Afterward, Julie joined the Hospice for Humanity support group and discovered a whole world of others like her: grieving, angry, confused. How could so many of them have foolishly believed they’d still had more time, when the drilling and mining had continued well after the warnings of their long-ago youth? Not to mention the aging power grid, resource depletion, and peak oil, to name a few—what those phrases really meant. David refused to join Hospice for Humanity, saying he just couldn’t believe humans would go extinct, not entirely—couldn’t a few pockets find survivable conditions, somewhere? “Ah well, better get to work then,” he said, and headed for his keyboard, “You know what one of my professors used to say—posterity is a grand delusion.”
Julie could see no way out. Not with the eventual demise of the grid and resources, the oceans choking upon dead zones and plastic, the nuclear and industrial plants at sea-level that would finish the job. She found solace in connecting with others, knowing in her numbness and depression, her moods swinging from dark to giddy, she was not alone. She joined a handful of such groups: Climate SOS, Polar Ice Melt Updates, Methane Trackers, Childfree Adults Community Finder, Elegy for Earth. But she spent the most time at H4H, drawn by the mysterious woman who had founded the page, Eva Wasserman. Eva’s avatar was always an illustrated critter and her location merely read, “Rivendell” or “Shambala” (such cryptic humor was common in the secret doomer groups, where Admins especially wanted their whereabouts unknown, lest some government goon or unhinged stalker come after them). Time and habit revealed little about Eva Wasserman. She posted a steady stream of scientific articles, graphs, and jokes, and the occasional wise and artfully-wrought contemplation, with enough of a lyrical bent to make Julie slightly jealous and more than curious. Unlike Julie, who posted as her real, boring self: Julie Wilder, Course Director for Media Arts and Gaming, Orlando, Florida. Julie clicked on Eva’s profile to see if anything had changed, but no—today the Admin’s avatar was a Victorian rabbit who resided in “Mr. McGregor’s Garden.” Julie prodded her lip. Was Eva Wasserman a former environmental activist, or scientist—ecologist, perhaps? What had compelled her to start this grief-support group? Unless she was a psychologist or counselor of some sort. If Julie contacted her, what might she find out?
A car pulled in the driveway. Julie bookmarked the page and closed out of the screen. David’s key rattled in the lock.
The blurry glow of headlights crept across the parking lot, and every time the orange-vested attendant opened the door the lobby carpet got a fresh douse. In carload after carload, late concert goers stumbled in. Julie offered paper towels and took wine and beer orders. An older man shakily grasped the plastic cup of cabernet she handed him, his eyeglasses water-splotched. She darted over to guide a frail woman whose wet hair was plastered over her eyes, arms outstretched like a grey swamp thing, to a couch. The woman said something to Julie, she couldn’t hear what—the rain sounded like hail on the warehouse roof, or gunfire. Who would brave such flooded roads, risk getting stranded? Or did such a torrential storm not faze them? Yet still more headlights lit the glass. Another couple burst in, middle-aged, in work clothes, his pant legs soaked to the knees, her makeup streaked and muddied, the two of them laughing. At the desk, Monica, co-owner of the venue with her husband, Bobby, vigorously flapped another group’s sodden sheet midair, and squinted to read the tickets. “Can you believe this?” she exclaimed in her Creole accent, and tilted her head toward the theater. “You can barely hear them doing sound check—imagine, a big band, sixteen pieces! No, this rain is too much. We’re lucky we don’t get mudslides here.”
Inside, the soundcheck ceased. David slipped out, tie askew and eyes wide, the theater door closing heavily behind him. Only a few rare strands of brown streaked his hair which was otherwise a smooth silver, and in his dark blazer and lavender shirt he made a handsome almost-sixty. He also appeared stunningly pressed and dry among the bevy of rumpled attendees huddled in the lobby. His anxious gaze flitted over the faces.
“Everything okay?” Julie asked. “Are your mom and sister still coming?”
“We’ve got flooding behind the stage. Bobby’s got the shop vac and hopefully that’ll do the trick, as long as we don’t lose power—if we do we’ll have to use the generator.” He frowned. “My mom and sister aren’t here yet? That’s not good.”
“I’m sure they’re just taking their time. Hey, maybe they’re picking up some sandbags.”
“Wouldn’t that be funny, my mom balancing sandbags on her walker. She would, too,” he said, and shifted his weight. He clutched her arm. “What’s that sound? Is that the gutters?”
“I think so. Look, don’t let this spoil your show. Okay?” She patted his hand, warm, the knuckles rough.
Bobby emerged from around the corner, declaring the water had been successfully vacuumed, for now, and the patrons could go to their seats. Bobby and David were both musicians and had played together, off and on, since their college years—David the piano, Bobby the trumpet. Slighter in build than David, with even skin and a quick way on his feet, Bobby appeared the younger of the two. He and Monica exchanged looks of relief. He patted himself down with paper towel, said they’d better pray the roof didn’t leak.
When her mother-in-law, Gail, and sister-in-law, Deborah, arrived just as Bobby was dimming the lights, Julie could only wave and hope David had spotted them taking their seats in the back. A hundred or so longtime patrons crammed the rows of the private theater, one of the last of its kind still operating in Orlando, and kept her opening bottle after bottle behind the bar. How could she have been so mistaken, to think that tonight, because of the weather, maybe fewer people would drink! Let alone the cost. The only people she knew these days who could afford to splurge on alcohol were this crowd—the last of the aging Boomers, and a few GenXers who had scraped through the big crash. Those in line exchanged nervous laughter and jokes, too loud, about the oncoming storm—“Calypso’s coming, drink up!” bellowed a patron, and he gave the counter a playful slap. The iridescent sheen of his SpaceX jacket had dulled in patches, the dark letters split and cuffs frayed. From an inside pocket he counted out a stack of bills, she handed him the bottle of merlot, marked her register sheet, and tucked the cash inside the metal box.
Julie was both grateful and resentful for the bartending shifts Monica and Bobby allowed her to pick up, since salaries in the Media Arts & Gaming Department hadn’t risen in twenty-five years, or so she’d heard; Julie had only worked at the institute for eleven. Selling cheap glasses of wine for the last of the retirees wasn’t where she’d pictured her perimenopausal years. But circumstances were worse for many of her and David’s peers; some of Julie’s co-workers, despite having full-time salaries, had moved into crowded houses, with relatives, after the crash, and never left. Sometimes, Julie, eyes weary from moderating student discussions, forgot how impressionable David’s music was—when she lamented his closing the doors to his office nook with a huff, his lighting candles during the blackouts and scribbling music with pencil and paper.
Later on, when Julie would think of David, this was the version she recalled: the hazel eyes behind thin wire frames, and head of silver hair like a wild straw broom, so unkempt when he was working at home. His plain t-shirt, specked with holes here and there, erratically shoved into his khaki shorts, the pudge of middle-age firming the cloth from underneath. One hand grasped a coffee cup or jazz chart; he had smooth hands, still youthful and well-kept.
Now the last attendee wobbled to her seat with her cup of white zinfandel, and the band leader invited David to step to the microphone and introduce his new composition. David stood squarely in the spotlight, and thanked everyone for braving the monsoon to celebrate the ten years they’d shared, performers and audience, in this sacred space. Then he sat down and began to play. Bass and drums vibrated, the lights glinted from the jutting brass. Heads nodded to the piano chords, jaunty and sweet, then grew still during the saxophone melody. The drums erupted in a breathtakingly jarring solo, unexpected. In the shadows the listeners remained transfixed. The hairs on Julie’s arms and neck stiffened, the saxophone cutting in again, singing its melodic dream. As the song ended the magenta-haired woman at the high top nearest the bar brushed a tear from her eye, and Julie swallowed the tightness in her throat. Applause erupted, and David again spoke into the microphone, thanking the crowd. “Where I grew up on the coast, this time of year you could paddle into the lagoon at night at see all these blue sparkles illuminate the water, anyone remember that?” Voices murmured hastily in agreement, a few patrons shifted, fidgeted with napkins or sweaters. He said, “I call the song, ‘Lagoon of Light and Sorrow.’”
The orchestra started up the next song by Miles Davis. Other standards Julie had come to know by heart filled the first set, and no one budged from his seat for another drink. What made David sought after as a pianist was his “enchanted left hand” that danced so effortlessly, it appeared, over the keys. Musicians highly desired—yes, but for what? How could she even think of persuading David to leave to join some collective farm, when he had so much to share here? For talent was not so rare as joy and exuberance, and the courage to face the darkness. To persist and emerge from the bleak. David had already battled loss; maybe he was wiser in avoiding all the scientific updates and charts Julie had become consumed with in her doomer circles. At breakfast he would wave a hand and say, “Oh, what is it now? Don’t tell me,” before she could make an announcement that the aquifer was even more decimated than the researchers had thought, or crop yields were down another twenty-percent, which meant food prices climbing again. And she admired how well he blocked out the world, despite the careening oil prices, household bills, and crime.
Once Julie had thought she could be like David, rise from the ashes of her thirties, if only to resume the half-drafted novel she’d been working on before the death of Mikhail, her first husband. That was when she and David had met, he on the heels of his broken marriage following the loss of his daughter at nineteen—Hannah, his only child. Somehow, David had turned that bereavement and injustice into beauty, in his compositions. But unlike David, Julie found she had to keep busy to survive her grief, with tangible, finite tasks, even after they were married. Without the financial support of an engineer spouse—Mikhail had worked at Cape Canaveral—and with David’s income from teaching and jazz gigs too meager and erratic, she took a full-time position at the for-profit polytechnic institute. Mikhail’s death—some kind of cyber-terrorist attack, the authorities never found out who was behind the explosion—her younger sister’s disappearance, the estrangement between her brother and father these past ten years, so much to write about, and yet she hadn’t. What was the point? Was she going to write a book, spend all that effort, solely for herself? Almost no one read anymore, anyway, the publishers and bookstores closing, one by one. No, she had no qualms about her choosing, every day, to be the breadwinner and grade lousy essays if that enabled David to write his music. Music belonged to the moment, and the moment was all anyone had left anymore.
At intermission, the crowd staggered to the restrooms and to congratulate the musicians. The show was going well, the power on and the flooding backstage minimal— according to Bobby, a sheer miracle. Julie found David near his mother and sister, and handed him some water which he drank gratefully. She hugged her sister-on-law, who matched her brother for height but was stronger and slimmer from her lifelong dedication to martial arts. “We were worried about you,” Julie said, “thought you might have drowned.”
“Oh, Mom can still swim,” Deborah said, and leaned down. “Can’t you, Mom?”
Gail, a good deal shorter than her children, shoved her walker aside. “I got a medal in eighth grade for swimming, you know,” she said, and with one arm mimed being underwater. “Breast stroke. Now I’d probably have to float.”
Julie embraced her mother-in-law. “This hurricane that’s coming looks like a real monster. You’re not planning on staying, are you?”
“Of course we are—where would we go?” Gail said. “Board up the house, like always, invite the neighbors to stay. I’m not sitting for hours on some evacuation route, forget that.”
“But you live near the coast,” Julie said, her chest growing hot. “If you pack up and leave tomorrow, ahead of everyone, you won’t have to get stuck on any roads. I would feel better if you’d leave, go up to the Carolinas. I’m sure David would, too.”
David took a swig, snapped the lid back on the bottle. Deborah’s gaze drifted past Julie, toward the bustling lobby. Stale body odor and perfume grew thick; a large woman in a shawl shoved past. Julie stifled a gag. “Nonsense,” Gail said, louder this time. “Can’t be worse than that terrible storm in the nineties—what was that? Andrew? Anyway, that hit south of us and we’re inland enough.”
“Too expensive to leave, anyway,” Deborah said, hand on hip. “Think of how much gas you’d need, to get all the way to Charlotte’s, if that’s where you mean.” A welcoming, practical-minded cousin, Charlotte had an off-grid home not far from Asheville.
“Speaking of which, I’ll come over tomorrow afternoon, help you get those storm shutters up at Mom’s.” The drummer and bass player were once again taking their places onstage, and David handed Julie the empty bottle, stepped back. “Gotta run. We’ll talk about this later.” He raised his eyebrows—jagged and bushy, they badly needed a trim, and were the only drawback to his otherwise neat appearance. Julie had been too preoccupied to notice. The house lights blinked; Deborah silently steered her mother to their seats. Julie hurried back behind the bar, counted the money. All there, but she shouldn’t have left the cash box unlocked.
Intermission over, the orchestra invited a vocalist onstage for the concert’s second half. “When they asked me to perform tonight, I said only if I can pick the songs I love the most from that golden era,” the singer said, and swayed slightly. Sequins glittered, purple and black. “And did you know how long my list was? I had so many.” She laughed, and the lines in her face deepened. “Wasn’t that a wonderful time—I know, almost no one here was around yet, but we can go back just for tonight, can’t we? Let’s pretend.” And she began the first notes. “How Deep is the Ocean,” “Stardust,” “Nature Boy”—Julie loved those songs too. The vocalist finished, and the band pivoted from romantic to lively. She tallied up her register sheet, shimmying and rocking, while the audience laughed and cried out, “Salt PEA-nuts, salt PEA-nuts!”—the orchestra leader no Dizzie Gillespie but fervidly focused and enthused just the same. By the time she had counted all the cash, the audience had leaped to their feet for the final song, belting along to Benny Goodman’s “Sing, Sing, Sing,” and Julie chimed in too. Box tucked underneath her arm, she exited, theater still dark, for Monica to hide the cash. A few others were slipping out, too, and she nearly bumped into one—the man in the worn SpaceX jacket, the corked neck of his merlot bottle peeking out from where he had hidden it beneath, as he struggled with the zipper. She apologized quickly but said nothing else. Let him enjoy this evening.
After the band had been thoroughly congratulated, the audience streamed out. Julie squinted in the lobby’s glare, hugged Deborah and her mother-in-law again. “Please at least consider going to Charlotte’s,” she said. Her sweater, fuzzy and soft, brushed Julie’s cheek. “The aftermath is what I really worry about.”
“Thank you, dear,” Gail said, and patted her shoulder. “But this is nothing new. We’ll be fine, and if we’re not, well—” She poked absently inside her handbag as Deborah positioned her walker out in front. “You can’t just run away every time there’s a bad storm. You’ve got to stick together, ride it out.”
Concert over, parched and hungry, Julie and David pulled up to the nearby Steakburgers ’R’ Us. A special treat—most weekends, after David finished a gig and Julie her bartending shift, they would head straight home and if the power was out, heat up leftovers on the camp stove. If there wasn’t a blackout they could watch a movie; otherwise Julie would sit up and read aloud until David fell asleep. Tonight, a lingering waft of marijuana and the odor of burger grease greeted them. The colorful table tent read, PROUD TO SERVE REAL BURGERS – GENUINE GROUND BEEF!—as opposed to what? Julie had to wonder. Steakburgers ‘R’ Us was the only place in the city to get a meal after hours; the other restaurants still operating did so on a limited basis, and you didn’t know when you showed up if there would be a sign on the door or not. The waiter, pudgy but quick with menus, flashed a smile of wide-gapped teeth. Julie couldn’t recall the last time they’d eaten here, but none of the staff appeared to be younger than forty. Near the restrooms was seated a bushy-bearded man, deeply tanned and filthy, working out some sort of puzzle on paper—a crossword, did they still make those?—and in the booth beside him, another man, older and alone, snored, chin dangling, weathered backpack at his feet.
“What’s the latest on Calypso?” Julie asked. The waiter set down two glasses of water.
“Do we have to look?” David said. He groaned and raised his glass. “Because I’d rather sit here, enjoy some of this delightfully overly-chlorinated water, and celebrate not getting electrocuted backstage earlier as I helped Bobby with the shop vac. This weekend’s shows are canceled, by the way.”
“I figured.” She flipped open the menu, its flaps sticky with fingerprints. “So why doesn’t your mother want to leave, when she has a nice place to go? I sure want to.”
“She’s ninety, what do you expect? She says the same thing every storm, ‘I’ll die in my house.’” The corners of his mouth turned up. “What do you suggest I do, wrestle my mother into the car? Throw her cane in after her?”
“Something like that.” Outside, the restaurant’s private security guard swayed and slowly paced. The green glow of his vape pipe blinked beyond the cloud he exhaled. “Fine if she wants to die in her own house, but I don’t want to—and we don’t even have a house, we rent. What do you want to do, now that this hurricane is looking serious? We could board up tomorrow and leave.”
“Tomorrow, I promised Deb and Mom I’d help them board up, and Bobby that I’d help him get sandbags, plug up the lobby doors and where it flooded backstage.” David drummed the Formica. “Why are you so obsessed with leaving? Was it last year? The tree?”
“The tree? Yeah, more like tornadoes. Why don’t you understand?”
“You’re afraid. It’s okay, I get it.”
Their meals came, burgers and fries. She squirted ketchup on the grey patty but looked away, outside—the white mist, the neon flash of the pipe. She didn’t want to know what passed for meat these days. “If your mom doesn’t want to go to Charlotte’s, maybe I’ll go.”
“Go, then. Although it doesn’t make me feel very good that you’re abandoning me so easily.”
“I’m not—come with me.”
“I can’t.”
“You won’t. You’re as stubborn as your mother.”
They chewed. The overly polite waiter with his Jack ’o’ lantern grin asked if they were doing okay, could he get them a shake or perhaps they were saving room for a sundae or banana split—with real fruit! She said no thanks. The sleeping man choked out a snore, slumped down further.
“Talk about stubborn,” David said. He stabbed his fries with a fork. “Don’t you think you’re being just a little bit selfish?” She set down her glass, sat back. “Look,” he said, voice lowered, “I don’t want to argue. I’d love to leave too—take whatever money we have stashed away, fill up the tank and some extra cans of fuel, spend hundreds, drive north, whatever. But if I can’t convince Deb and my mom to leave, then I have to stay. My sister would never forgive me, and frankly, she’ll have a problem if you leave, too. Family pulls together in crisis. We don’t abandon one another.” He paused and added, “Sorry.”
“It’s okay.” A crescent of burger remained, the fries cold and too salty. “If your family sees me as a coward, fine. I just can’t stand the tribal thinking that comes over everyone down here by default, never could. ‘Hunker down, ride it out’—why not bug out?” She crumpled a napkin, tossed it atop the plate. Then leaned forward. “You know, I came across something this morning. I didn’t want to tell you right away—but it’s an opportunity that I thought might be worth exploring.”
“What? Someone selling an RV that runs on solar? You want to go see the national parks, all the oil wells and uranium mines we’re auctioning off to the Chinese?”
“No—but you’re close. This place is in Canada. Winterland. A number of small farms, actually, just above New England. They almost never take international applicants, but there’s a special need right now. And they want musicians.”
“Musicians? Why musicians?”
“Why not? I mean, you’d have to work in the greenhouses, too, but I’ll bet instruments are the only entertainment at night. Nova Scotia. Looks beautiful.”
“Are you kidding? Me? Do I look like a farmer to you?” He pointed to himself with the fries pinched between his fingers.
She laughed. “I’m sure they have some light tasks. But look, I’m serious.”
“Let me guess where you saw this. The group.” He raised his eyebrows and pried the cash from his wallet. She read the check as he counted out the bills. Both them grimaced. Not long ago you could buy a nice meal for that amount. Wine, too—nothing fancy, but still.
Bright-faced bobby soxers grinned down from the wheels of their Cadillacs as another waiter, limping, with a knee brace, whisked a rag across the table. “Yes, the group. So what? Eva posted it, and apparently they’re very reputable and keep the collectives small. No Jim Jones stuff.” A whiff of bleach burned her nostrils. “Would you ever want to do something like that? Could be a real adventure.”
“Maybe. Not yet. Mom’s still here, and the theater’s still going.”
“Right. Well, an option to consider, isn’t it?” They arose and paid at the register. The guard nodded as they exited the doors. She said, “Winterland—I just love the name.”
“From Winter Park to Winterland?” David said, and laughed. “Sounds like we’re not leaving Florida.”
Outside hung heavy with the stench of overflown gutters and stagnant pools. In the high weeds on the lot’s edge a figure lay sprawled, immobile. A young woman, possibly a teenager. David rushed over, told Julie to bring the guard. Julie waved and shouted, the hired security trudged over, tucked away his pipe. He bent over the girl, checked for a pulse, shook his head. “Overdose,” he said. “She’s gone. I’ll call it in.” The streetlight sputtered; blackout time. Julie asked the guard if the cops would try and find the girl’s family, and he said they would, but there were too many kids ODing, the cops were busy with break-ins and murders, and the ER’s and morgues couldn’t keep up. In fact, he and his brothers were opening a fast-cremation business, with the lowest rates available—he stepped over the girl’s bare foot, chin lifted, and handed Julie a card, slick and red. David was speechless, ashen. Julie put her arm around him and led them both away.
Vanessa Blakeslee’s latest book, Perfect Conditions: stories won the Foreword Reviews’ INDIEFAB Book of the Year Award for the Short Story (2018). Blakeslee is also the author of Train Shots: stories and Juventud, a novel, both of which received prizes and accolades. Her writing has appeared in The Southern Review, The Paris Review Daily, Kenyon Review Online, and many other places. She has been awarded grants and residencies from Yaddo, Art Omi/Ledig House, the Individual Artist Fellowship in Literature from the Florida Division of Cultural Affairs, and many others. Blakeslee currently teaches at the University of Central Florida. Visit www.vanessablakeslee.com