Нэнси Кресс - The End Is Now

When Ray got to the end of the driveway, he put the car in park and stared at Helen Anderson’s mailbox. What now? Try to get to Omaha, where his sister lived? The National Guard was shooting refugees on sight in Nebraska and the rest of the Midwest.

What had she meant by Something like that? It was a peculiar reply, especially paired with that sad smile. Ray wondered if she meant she was going to start drinking again. Helen Anderson was a recovered alcoholic, sober twenty years, a vocal supporter of Alcoholics Anonymous. Ray couldn’t blame her for falling off the wagon at this particular juncture. If he’d ever stopped drinking he’d be leaping off the wagon.

There was something about her answer, though. Something about her whole demeanor. She hadn’t been scared; she’d been sad.

Ray headed back up the driveway on foot.

This time when Helen opened the door, there was no chain.

Ray held up both hands, palms out. “I’m so sorry to bother you again, Miss Anderson, and feel free to slam this door in my face, but I’m worried that maybe you’re not all right.”

Helen raised her eyebrows. “Excuse me?”

“When we spoke a minute ago, you didn’t back away from the door like you were afraid to catch the virus from me. You just seemed sad.”

Helen swept a stray hair out of her face, folded her arms. “Well, Ray, I’ll let you in on a little secret. I am sad. I’ve been sad for a long time.”

Ray nodded slowly. “When I asked if you were going to ride this out at home, you said, ‘Something like that.’”

Helen half-turned, looked off into the trees. She was fifty-eight years old. Ray could see those years in the lines under her eyes, the loose skin under her chin.

“I came back to make sure you’re not going to hurt yourself.”

Batgirl’s eyes locked on his. “How could you possibly—” she stammered. “A complete stranger, at my door on this particular day, coming to see if I’m okay.” Helen pressed her forehead. “You could have come yesterday, or tomorrow. Even two hours from now.” She studied his face, shaking her head.

Finally, she swung the door open. “Come on in, Ray.”

His mind reeling, Ray followed Helen Anderson into her house, through a high-ceilinged living room, into a spacious kitchen with black marble countertops.

Helen snared a bottle of tequila from the counter as she passed, took a big swig as she continued to the kitchen table, which had an army of pink pills and three prescription bottles spilled across it. Helen gestured at them. “I was just about to get started when you rang.”

Movement out the window caught Ray’s eye. Little birds, darting between a feeder and the safety of an orange tree. To them it was just another day.

“My wife left me today. We were married twenty-two years.” It just came out.

“I’m sorry to hear that, Ray.” Helen went to a cabinet and pulled down a glass, then ducked and produced a second fifth of tequila from under the sink. She set the glass on the kitchen table, twisted the cap on the fresh bottle. “Probably not a good idea to share a bottle.” She poured, slid the glass in front of him, pushing some pills out of the way in the process.

Ray took a swig.

“What’s your wife’s name?”

“Eileen.” Ray set the glass down with a thunk as the tequila burned its way down his throat. “She told me she’s been having an affair. Justin. From work.”

Helen nodded. “So, your wife walked out on you, and you got in the car and came to make sure the star of a thirty year-old TV show was all right?”

Ray shrugged. “Whenever I feel bad I watch a few episodes of Batgirl, and I feel better. I was feeling so bad that I figured only Batgirl herself could make me feel better.”

Helen threw back her head and laughed. “Maybe if you’d turned to Eileen when you felt bad instead of a TV show, things would have turned out better.”

Seeing Ray flinch, Helen clutched his forearm. “I’m sorry. That was a terrible thing to say.” She reached for her bottle. “Now you know why I’ve had three husbands walk out on me.”

“They were all out of their frickin’ minds.”

“No,” Helen said. “No. They were smart.” She surveyed the pills scattered across the table, muttered, “I was always uneasy about all the higher power shit they went on about at AA, but this . . .” She shook her head. “It’s like God sent you to tell me, ‘Not so fast. You’re not through here yet.’” She looked up at Ray and laughed. “Which makes you my guardian angel.”

Ray spread his arms. “That’s exactly right. That’s me.”

The giant TV on the living room wall was muted, which was fine with Ray, because the images were loud enough. Times Square in New York, shown from above; the streets were hopelessly clogged, drivers frozen at the wheel. People with covered faces pushed along the sidewalks, climbed through the maze of traffic, stepped over other people lying on the ground twitching, nodding, or just perfectly still. They were all trying to get out of the city, even though they were being told to stay put. The more people moved around, the more the virus spread.

Ray had always imagined that if there was an apocalypse, it would be a violent thing—people fighting, buildings burning, looting. But this was quiet. Civilized. When you’re afraid to let other people breathe on you, let alone bleed on you, it made sense that things would be peaceful.

Lightning flashed outside. The sky was dark; the palm trees in Helen’s back yard bent and thrashed as rain hammered the ground.

He eyed the pile of empty bottles in the corner, then looked at Helen, amazed all over again that he was there, sitting in her living room. Eileen would choke if she knew. On her good days she’d tolerated his passion for all things Batgirl with amused disdain. On her bad days she’d told him he was embarrassing himself.

Helen looked at him. “What?”

Ray shrugged. “Nothing.”

“Stop staring at me all the time.”

“I can’t help it.”

“It makes me paranoid. I feel like you’re trying to catch a glimpse of Batgirl behind the bags and the wrinkles.” Her words were only slightly slurred, which was impressive, given how many pulls she’d taken from the bottle since morning. “That face is gone.”

Ray sprung from his seat. “Are you kidding me? Is that really what you think?”

Helen stared, glassy-eyed, into the bottle.

“I can’t take my eyes off you because you are Batgirl. The way you move, your expressions. Since I was fifteen I’ve been mesmerized by you, and now you’re right here, moving around this house. I can’t help watching you.”

She gave him a flat cynical, very un-Batgirl look. “I’m an aging has-been who had very little talent to begin with.”

Ray clicked his tongue. “What a shame that you think that. So many people would give anything to be you. You should savor it.”

Helen sighed heavily; she looked like she was about to cry.

The TV, the lights, flicked off. Outside, the hum of the air conditioner died.

“Damn it,” Ray hissed. They’d been expecting the power to go out for days, but it was still a blow. Things were about to get harder.

Helen went to the kitchen counter and twisted open one of the prescription bottles lined up there. “Shit.” She dumped the contents into her palm. “I only have three Xanax left.” She looked around, as if searching the bookshelves for a stray bottle she might have left lying around. Her gaze settled on Ray. “I can’t make it without my Xanax, Ray. I’ll die.”

Ray grabbed his keys off the counter, where they’d been sitting, untouched, for four days. “I’ll get it.”