Carol Amen: The Last Testament

On the way home, we saw a crowd at the Catholic church, and went in. The mayor was huffing and puffing. Robbery of drugs from the pharmacy. Gas a hundred dollars a gallon at some stations. Might have to invoke martial law. He also advised drinking only bottled water and eating canned food. I felt like laughing. A bomb that could level a city and shoot debris into the sky a hundred and fifty miles away probably wouldn’t have much trouble finding its way into my apricots.

March 27.Our tree. Our tree. I cannot write today.

March 29.I thought to find some relief for us. We packed lunch and pulled Scottie in his wagon. Intended to walk to the beach. But then we saw our tree.

Several years ago, families contributed trees and shrubs for roadside beautification. Ours was a flowering plum and Tom had dug the hole himself. Pr oudl y we wat che d it thr oug h sea son s of blo om, pur ple leaf, and bar ebranch. Just a couple of weeks ago we photographed the little beauty under a corona of blossoms. What delicate color .

Then, the other day, as we crested the hill, we saw it again. Apparently it had come to leaf since our photo, but this didn’t look like a plum tree in spring. It was — it was—

Papery tatters hung like shrouds from its limbs.

Ma ry Li z an d br ad st ar ed , un co mp r eh en di ng at fi rs t. Th en Br admurmured, “We’re going to die, too, aren’t we, Mom?”

We huddled together, trying not to look at the ashy leaves. I thought of those Exposure to Communicable Disease forms teachers sometimes send ho me wh en th er e’ s an ou tb r ea k of mu mp s or me asl es . Th e pa pe r li st svarious diseases and the incubation period of each, and the teacher checks the appropriate box so the parent can be prepared. We have seen a plum tree — Nature’s Exposure to Disease warning.

March 31. The first to go was the thr ee- wee k-ol d inf ant of Cat hyPitkin, our former baby-sitter.

At a town meeting/prayer service someone said tiny Susie’s death wa s pr oba bl y du e to bi rt h de fe ct s. I hu rr ie d ov er to se e Ca th y an d he rhusband and found the young mother sobbing quietly.

“W e tho ugh t we wer e so luc ky ,” Joh n mut ter ed. “D idn ’t see m lik ethere’d be any more bombs. Then poor little Susie had to get sick and die. ’Course I’ve tried to tell Cathy we’re young. We can have another baby.”

He said something about it being up to the survivors to continue, to repopulate the earth. I can’t remember exactly. I just stared at him, wanting to reach over and pull his eyelids down over the indecent innocence in his eyes. Not even Brad is as naïve as this boy.

“Don’t know why she won’t talk to you. She admires you. Had to nurse Susie just because you always nursed your babies.”

“She nursed?”

“Oh, yeah. Susie hadn’t had so much as a spoonful of cereal or canned baby food yet. Cathy was so proud of having plenty of milk. We gave her water, but we boiled it. Y ou don’t suppose the water was contaminated?”

“I think everything’s contaminated, John. Try to comfort Cathy. Tell her Susie’s better off. In a few weeks, I think she’ll understand.”

April 2.Mary Liz is sure she heard a robin today. I wonder.

April 5. Twe nt y -s om e ha ve di ed , and ma ny mo r e ar e si ck . Th esymptoms vary. High fever, itching, dry skin. Some nausea. I thought hair would fall out, but perhaps they went too quickly for that.

At the time of the baby’s death, I suspected it was an omen, just the beg inn ing . Whe n the other s wer e str ick en, tho ugh , I tri ed to pr ete nd, toclutch at coincidence. It took a walk on the beach to convince me of what I knew all along. I didn’t tell the children what I saw, nor will I recount it here.

April 8.Scottie is feverish. Repeatedly he asks for the story of Peter Pan. Mary Liz sings, “I can fly, I can fly, I can fly .” I cannot bear to listen. But Icannot bear to be far from him.

April 9.By turns Mary Liz and I bathe Scottie. Still the fever won’t come down. My baby . My baby .

Many in town are dead. Most businesses are closed, as is the school. The newspaper comes out weekly now, only a single sheet with survival information. Garbage pickup continues irregularly, due to the gas shortage. Other services dependent on gas or electricity have been discontinued.

Two sup er ma rk et s and thr ee ti ny gr oc er ie s ar e op er at io nal . Th eproprietors inventoried canned goods and are rationing them out fairly. They tell us that after everything returns to normal we can pay them back.

There is a theory that only the young and old will die. A few feel they ar e som eho w str ong , inv uln era ble . Ab Hal lid ay cam e ove r . The Hal lid ayshave lost two of their four children, but Ab is far from giving up. He is at the radio at least eighteen hours a day. By relay he has found people alive as far east as Nebraska.

Ab has dis cov er ed tha t de aths ar e occ urr ing ev ery whe re , eve n inremote are as, yet he is determined all is not lost. I envy him his fiction.

April 11.Scott died yesterday at 1:30 PM.

The three of us dug a deep hole in the backyard near the browning rose bushes. The cemetery is unspeakable. Mr. Jansen came and prayed with us. Mostly, he and the Catholic priest are conducting mass burials. About seven hundred so far.

Ironically, I think Mr. Jansen took as much comfort from us as we did from him. We became close when Tom’s parents were killed in the car crash,and then again during my depression before Scottie was born. He is a good man.

April 12. A t le as t th ir te en hu nd r ed go ne . Mo r e th an ha lf ou rpopulation. Beale’s Contracting picks up the bodies in one of their large dump trucks and bulldozes communal graves on the east edge of town. That’s since the cemetery can’t handle it any more.

Brad and Mary Liz fall into petty bickering at times and I want to scream: “We are dying. Can’t you for God’s sake, love each other a few mi nu te s? ” Th en wi th ou t a wo r d on my pa rt , th ey m ak e up an d we si ttogether quietly, at peace.

After Scottie died, Brad kept proposing projects, games, brainteasers. But it didn’t work. Nor can I find comfort in my garden. My plants are dead,and the only fragrance in the air is a stench — the smell of death from San Francisco, from Canada, from China, for all I know.

Then Brad had another idea. It happened after Larry’s parents died and he moved in with us. Maybe to keep his friend busy, Brad suggested we organize a work detail for our street. He proposed that the four of us — he and Larry, Mary Liz and I — working by teams, make a morning check at each house in the neighborhood.

Wh en we fi rs t cal le d on a wo ma n I’ d qu ar r el ed wi th ye ar s ago , Ithought I couldn’t go through with it. She and I had fought over a supposedly stolen ball — claimed by each family of youngsters. We’d not spoken in ten years. Larry and I carried a jar of soup to her porch, waited down her hostile stare, then followed her inside.

She led me back to a bedroom where her daughter, once Mary Liz’s playmate, lay in a stupor. For a terrible, timeless moment we forgot the past,in which we had been stupid, and the future, when we would be dead. It was the pr ese nt. Two mot her s hel ple ss in fr ont of a str ick en chi ld. Our ar msgr op ed fo r ea ch ot he r, an d we cl un g to ge th er a lo ng ti me , cr yi ng andinhaling the girl’s cloying breath.