Carol Amen: The Last Testament

I asked Larry to finish rounds without me. At the end of our road, I fell to the dry grass of a vacant lot. I tore the earth. Retched. Screamed. I have no idea the length of time. I was demented. But I knew enough not to let the children see me.

April 14.We three need to be near, and Larry’s presence doesn’t intrude. Sometimes when we’re resting one will tell a family story, recall a tri p, som eth ing fun ny. “R eme mbe r the qui lt in Gra ndm a’s gue st ro om? ”“Remember Monopoly?” “Remember Daddy?”

We’re all getting slower now, and wondered about the rounds. Mary Liz pointed out, “Their eyes light up so when we go in.” We voted to continue. Because of the deaths we have fewer houses to call at but it takes us longer. We have brought two young children to Scottie’s old room. They will not be with us long, I’m afraid.

April 15.This used to be Income Tax Day . Now it marks Beale’s switchfrom bulldozing to burning. It takes less strength to torch the bodies than it does to drive the big cat that opened the graves.

April 24.Larry died suddenly a day or two ago. He had gone in the morning on rounds and that afternoon crawled into his bunk and died. I regret not noticing how quiet he had become. His mother was my friend and our boys have been close for years. I wish I had told her I’d take care of Larry, but she died too soon.

W e pu ll ed th e bo dy of th at sw ee t, un co mp la in ing bo y ov er to th ecorner for pickup and I remember ed some lines of Millay’s.

Odd how close I feel to all poets, craftspeople, and workers who have e v e r t r i e d t o m ake a s t a t e m e n t . W i l l a n y o n e s u r v i v e t o g az e atMichelangelo’s creations, a Navajo rug, or my own scribblings?

May 1.Mary Liz collapsed today. As I sit beside her and write, I suspect that with her also the battle will be brief. She calls out for reassurance I cannot muster.

I was strong with Scottie. But I cannot seem to steel myself for this. I long for those days when I could afford depression, tantrums, counseling and comfort in Tom’s arms.

This is my firstborn. My beautiful daughter. She brushes hot fingers against the sheet. Who will comfort me when she is gone? She asks for a drink. Something I can give. She asks for her Daddy . Something I can’t.

From his rounds alone today Brad brought home a man. This sick creature is a pitiful shell. Occasionally he staggers from his bed to the kitchen to grab food and hoard it in his room. Why can’t he trust us to care for him? I have no pity to spare. Brad says it’s better to have him here than go a block and a half to check him several times a day .

Lat er , af ter r est ing , Bra d wal ke d cle ar ove r to Hal lid ay’ s for new s.There is no one left to drive Beale’s truck. Dear Betty Halliday and all their children are gone. Ab sent word with Brad we should move over there. He dares not leave his radio. The fool. Nearly all his hams are silent now. But he thinks some miracle may save us yet.

Is Mary Liz still alive? She is so still. Oh, T om, I scream in my soul. Tom, you are the lucky one not to have to watch our children die.

I am sick myself. It is so hard to concentrate. Perhaps I don’t make sense. Sometimes I read back over what I have written and the words swim. What was my point? Why do I not save my strength? I keep arguing that the journal is important. My link to sanity, to civilization.

Probably May 3.Mary Liz is gone. I made a winding sheet and Brad and I dragged her to the backyard, to the raw dirt on top of Scottie’s grave. We sat beside her, staring, waiting for some ease to the pain. After forever, Brad began, “Our Father, who art in heaven…” It took us a long time to say it. We ke pt forgetting and had to start again and again.

I am getting sicker, but Brad shows no signs of weakening. I will try to hold on a while longer . I think I can manage.

Brad tries so hard to be a man. No, he is a man. He’s so like you, Tom. He went out again yesterday, right after Mary Liz — I cannot say the word that means the end of our daughter. But Brad went out. He says Mr. Jansen died se ve ra l day s ag o. He fo un d th e pr ie st st agg er ing . He an d Jan se n hadpromised each other they would call at every home and pray with the sick. Brad helped him for a while. They found three people alive.

May 5, I think.today Brad brought home Teddy from the gas station. He reminds me of Scottie in his confusion. Slim must have died days ago. Brad said their house was in an awful state.

Days later.Y esterday, in Brad’s walk, he found Ab like a zombie at theradio set. He had to slap him to get a response. The man hadn’t left his radio for four days or nights. In all that time — silence.

It finished him, Tom. His hope lasted longer than anybody’s. Brad says Ab asked to come over here. He started up out of his chair. Then fell to the floor. No pulse.

Brad walked home. Told me about Ab. Admitted he is sick now, too. Our time surely must be short. I thought to end it for us three together, in the garage. Slim had hoped we could use the gas. And that way no one would be left alone at the end.

I went out to check the car . The battery is still alive. How ironic that theinanimate objects fare so much better. Such effort to start the car. Each movement laborious, slow motion. Then back to get Teddy and Brad. Teddy had found Tom’s favorite fishing rod. Held it clutched to his cheek like a security blanket. Brad sitting nearby, eyes closed.

Final entry.If survivors come here. Want them to know something. We didn’t act like animals. Most people were good. Helped. Tried.

If only we could have lived as well as we have died.

I wish—

Carol Amen is a free-lance writer, a wife, mother, and writing teacher. She lives in Sunnyvale, California, and dares to hope that her stories, especially this one, might make a difference in the world.

Amen, Carol. “The Last Testament.” Ms. Magazine , August 1981, pp. 72-74, 81-82.

Reprinted from the September, 1980, St. Anthony’s Messenger , copyright © Franciscan Friars, 1615 Republic Street, Cincinnati, Ohio 45210.