Tim Washburn: Powerless

“They all going to that designer in Dallas? Ruth’s friend?”

“Yeah, she’s created a good market for them. It’s getting hard to keep up.” To occupy his mind, Zeke started building tables—dining, end, and every other type. But these aren’t just any tables. They’re handcrafted and all the joinery is hand finished. They can’t be found at IKEA; they reside only in some of the more expensive homes around Dallas.

“How much are you selling them for now?”

“More than I ever thought possible, Dad. Dining tables seating eight sell for ten grand.”

His father whistles. “Damn, that’s a lot of money.”

Zeke senses his father’s pride. Hell, he could give them away and his father would probably be happy, as long as Zeke had something to keep himself busy—busy enough so that the bad memories can’t stake a claim to his sanity.

“Your sister called this morning and wanted to make sure we were coming for Thanksgiving,” his mother says, sliding the steaming plates of scrambled eggs and bacon onto the table. Zeke’s sister, Ruth, makes her home in Dallas with her husband and two children.

“On one condition,” Zeke says between bites. “As long as Carl doesn’t make me watch any more episodes of that doomsday-prepping show he’s so fascinated with.” He uses the distraction of their chuckling to slip a piece of bacon to Lexi, who’s sitting patiently under the table in anticipation of a few stray crumbs.

“You know you promised to go and bring them home if something happened,” his mother says.

“And I would, too, if something happened. But I think the odds are better of winning the lottery. I don’t think we have much to worry about. Besides, Dad, you’ve stocked up on ten of everything, right?”

“No, eleven of everything. You can’t be too prepared,” he says, stone-faced.

Zeke sneaks another piece of bacon to Lexi before standing from the table. He gathers up the plates and carries them to the hammered-copper farmhouse sink his mother fell in love with at the kitchen showroom. “Mom, I’m washing the dishes but I need to run out to the shop. Deal?”

“Okay, son, the dishes are all yours.”

Outside, the portion of the cerulean sky visible through the tree canopy is devoid of clouds. The sunlight stabs through the leaves, creating a shimmering shade that sways with the breeze. Zeke passes the remainder of his mother’s garden on the way to the workshop. The garden is a source of pride for her. Bright red peppers and a few late tomatoes hang limply, but everything else has already been harvested. After hours of online research she learned how to preserve what was harvested. The shelves in the garage sag under the weight of dozens of canned jars containing tomatoes and pickled okra, plus a large sack of dried beans that will probably end up being tossed out after a year or two.

As usual, Lexi matches her owner step for step until she spies a pair of squirrels spiraling around an old oak tree. She darts off with a bark, sending them scampering farther up the tree. Zeke crosses the threshold of the woodshop and flips on the lights. The interior illuminates as bright as a modern laboratory, with precise overhead lighting for each woodworking machine, as if they were on display in an art gallery. The woody aroma produces an instant calmness in Zeke. The different textures and colors of sawdust littering the floor create a natural, multicolored carpet. He sorts through the wood and counts out the number of walnut boards remaining and does a quick mental calculation to determine if he has enough to finish. Barely, but definitely not enough to start on another project.

He heads back to the house. When Zeke first moved here he was apprehensive about being so far from civilization. But he adapted quickly to a new way of living. No cell phone, only the one small television, and an ancient laptop, which he piggybacks onto his father’s Wi-Fi connection on the rare occasion he needs to go online. Off the grid—almost. Robert and Barbara Marshall aren’t so far off the grid, owning a television, a couple of cell phones, and two computers. The cell phones work better as paperweights most of the time because of the spotty coverage in this heavily wooded section of southeastern Oklahoma.

Zeke climbs the steps of the back porch and stops in his tracks. His parents are arguing, an uncommon occurrence. They stop when Zeke pulls the squeaky screen door open. His mother glances in his direction, a blush of pink on her cheeks. His father is staring at the honey oak tabletop as if memorizing the pattern of the wood grain. The sudden silence is uncomfortable, but in his gut Zeke knows what they were arguing about even though he heard very little of the hushed conversation. Him. Zeke squares his shoulders and holds his head just a tad higher as he walks to the sink.

“Son, you really don’t need to wash the dishes,” his mother says. “I’m quite capable of doing that.”

“I know, Mom, but you cooked.” Zeke rubs the soapy rag around the same plate three times as his mind spins. Should I start a conversation about something I have no desire to talk about? No. Moments later he places the last plate into the rack next to the sink and turns to face his parents. His father still won’t meet his eyes.

“I called Ruth and told her we would be down for Thanksgiving,” his mother says. “I told her what you said about Carl and his doomsday show, and she assured me he’s no longer as fascinated by the end of the world. He’s now engrossed with gold digging in Alaska.”

“Maybe he and I can take a trip to Alaska and strike it rich,” Zeke says.

“You’d have better luck digging worms in the garden. Now get out of my hair and go to work.” His mother shoos him toward the door.

“Dad, you busy?”

“I’ll be out in a minute, son.”

Zeke reenters the shop and soon loses himself in the work. He grabs a board from the drying shed and fires up the planer to smooth its surface. The whirring blades emit a fountain of shavings as the spicy aroma of walnut fills the space. The noise of the machine cancels out all the others, including those within, until the lights suddenly flash off and the planer groans to a stop.

The White House, Washington, D.C.

Wednesday, September 29, 8:11 A.M.

Presidential Chief of Staff Scott Alexander rushes through the corridors of the West Wing on his way to the Oval Office. The secretary of commerce has just briefed him on the possibility of an imminent geomagnetic storm, after word was passed up through the ranks of NOAA. With a secret love for all things science-related, Alexander is familiar with most of the studies dealing with the effects of space weather on Earth. After his brief meeting this morning, he took a moment to reread the results of the latest computer simulation. The report more closely resembles a script for a disaster movie rather than a scientific paper.

He arrives at the secretary’s desk fronting the entrance to the Oval Office and stops for a minute to catch his breath and sort out his thoughts. He hitched his wagon to President Harris during his first run for office: a U.S. House seat left vacant after the incumbent was indicted on federal bribery charges. Paul Harris is a no-bullshit man, and the information Alexander is preparing to present could be a hard sell with the limited data available.

“Who’s in with him?” he asks Barbara, the longtime presidential secretary. She’s wearing a navy dress, refusing to wear slacks to work, and her short gray bob is, as it has been over the last twenty years, perfectly coiffed.

“The British ambassador, and they’ve been in there for some time. Do you want me to buzz the President?”