David Dalglish: A Land of Ash

“You’re right,” she said. “Not often, but when you are, you are.”

Oren was not much for baking, and even with the end of the world approaching, he felt awkward in the kitchen. After a few clumsy attempts at separating pasta and chopping tomatoes, his little bat of a wife ushered him out the door.

“Go get a fire going,” she said. “Thelma will be fine with my lasagna, but you know Roy. If it wasn’t mooing, he don’t want it.”

Three squirts of lighter fluid were enough to get the charcoal going. He’d known others that’d drown the coals with fluid for an easy light, but that felt wasteful to Oren. It seemed a silly thing to worry about, but some habits are hard to break after sixty-five years, and that was one.

They’d kept a giant freezer full of meat on their porch ever since they bought their first pig thirty years ago. A few of their neighbors had swung by since morning, right after the news first hit the air. They all had a desperate, embarrassed look on their faces, as if they were ashamed to steal but knowing they would anyway. Sighing, Oren gently nudged the coals about with a poker, trying to forget that he was building his last fire.

What the hell, he thought. He grabbed the lighter fluid and gave it a healthy squeeze. With a satisfying roar, it flared high above the grill. Oren jumped backward, letting out a ‘whoa’ before laughing. It felt good to laugh.

The first of the steaks was on the grill when Thelma and Roy pulled up in a brown Chevy that was ten years passed its date with a junkyard. Oren continued plopping down and flipping steaks, preferring to let his wife handle the initial greeting. From the corner of his eye, he saw them climb out of the car. Thelma wore a black dress and an old hat that reminded him of Jackie Kennedy. Roy, meanwhile, wore a tux that had served him reliably for the past ten years.

Absurd, thought Oren as his wife wrapped them both in a hug. My wife’s going to Easter, Roy a wedding, and Thelma a funeral. What’s so wrong with jeans? If I’m going to die, I’ll die comfortable, not like a stuffed Barbie doll.

His wife led Thelma into the den while Roy wandered over to check on the fire. It was a habit of his; quite possibly a habit of every man. All roaring fires needed communal assessment.

“Looking good,” Roy said, sounding as if Oren should be pleased by his seal of approval. “Hotter than normal for you, though. In a hurry?”

“We’ve got an hour,” Oren said. “And I’ll be damned if I don’t get to eat my steak first.”

He stole a glance at Roy. The man had a haggard look to his face, and his bloodshot eyes made him look damned, steak or not.

“Thelma baked up a pie,” Roy said. “Well, cobbler really. Peach. It was Randy’s favorite, you know? His…” His words drifted off, and Oren kept his eyes fixed on the fire so he didn’t have to see the tears.

“We had no word from there,” Roy said after composing himself. “News said the satellites and radios were knocked out immediately. But the winds coming from the ocean, they might push it away, right? Randy and Susan are south of Yellowstone, maybe it’s far enough, and the winds will just push it our way. You think there’s a chance of that, Oren? Do you?”

Oren flipped a steak.

“No,” he said. He could imagine the tiny thread of hope that his friend clung to, and while a part of him thought to let him hang on, another couldn’t bear to lie. “I don’t think so, Roy. Not from what I was hearing. Not from what the TV was showing.”

Roy nodded. More tears ran down his cheeks, but he wasn’t sobbing, and his voice was firm when he talked.

“I can keep hoping though, right? Who knows, I may walk up to Jesus and ask for my little boy and girl, and he’ll look at me like I’m a simple-minded fool and say, ‘You beat them here, Roy, but don’t you worry, time flies up here, it’ll fly, and before you know you’ll be seeing them again.’ You don’t know everything, Oren, and that damn TV knows even less.”

“I reckon you’re right,” Oren said, though he didn’t think he was.

Hank arrived when they were pulling the steaks off the grill. The two women had joined them outside, iced drinks in hand. When Hank stepped out of his Ford, he held a giant 24-pack of Bud like it was a basket of gold.

“Nothing I had could match your cooking,” Hank said to Wilma. “But this here’s something.”

Wilma accepted a can, but Thelma refused. Her makeup had run from a recent crying fit. Her wig was askew, revealing a bit of the gray underneath. She looked much like a deer staring at a pair of oncoming headlights, baffled and unable to move. They were all like that, Oren realized. Soon they’d see headlights in the western sky, and they’d stare in wonder. Like the deer, they’d stayed put, unmoving, unblinking, waiting for its approach.

Oren hoped it’d be quick, like a speeding car, and hurt for even less.

The steaks finished before the lasagna. Oren slapped a few hot dogs on the fire, doubting anyone would eat them but seeing no point in keeping them. As they cooked, he listened as Thelma told stories about their children to Wilma while Roy quietly sipped a beer nearby. The tales of diaper changes and midnight scares and faulty pregnancy tests brought Oren’s mind back to Julie in New York, and he wished that Thelma would talk about something else. Their life was soon to end; did they have to sulk about it?

Shame they cancelled the baseball games, he thought. Could use a good distraction.

The two women went inside, and after a moment, Roy followed.

“He looks like hell,” Hank said, crunching up an empty can in his fist.

“We all do,” Oren said.

Hank chuckled, still holding the can. A queer smile crossed his face, and looking like a naughty schoolchild, he tossed it to the ground.

“Might make an Indian cry,” he said, “but I think they got bigger things to shed tears for lately.”

“I’ll drink to that,” Oren said. “God, I just want to watch one more ball game. Cardinals had a shot this year, you know? Seems silly, but I always knew I’d go one day, and Wilma probably soon after, but the Cardinals…they’re supposed to go on forever. No more seasons, now. No more records. No more playoffs. It’s a goddamn shame.”

Oren piled the hot dogs onto a large plate, directly atop the steaks. When he glanced up, he saw Wilma at the door wearing a look he knew well.

“Supper’s ready,” he told Hank. “Let’s get to it.”

They ate outside. The weather had already grown chillier, but none of them could bear the idea of being cooped up indoors. They piled their plates atop a circular white patio table, devouring lasagna and steaks and beer with ravenous appetites. Even Wilma, a notorious light eater, devoured two helpings of lasagna plus a third of a dog.

Conversation remained light until Thelma said what had obviously been on her mind the whole day.

“Today’s the Rapture,” she announced. “It has to be. God wouldn’t let our good Christian nation be wiped out unless he’s preparing for the end.”

“I don’t know,” Hank said. “The local stations lasted a bit longer than the cable, and they had on a little spitfire in a suit shouting about how this was our punishment. We’ve gotten too sinful, you know? We’re like a modern day Sodom, and hallelujah, we’re all about to become pillars of salt.”

He chuckled, but Oren saw no humor in it. He didn’t think either of them was right, but he sure wasn’t going to say so. Thelma flushed a deep red, as if insulted that someone might disagree.

“If the Rapture’s come,” Hank continued, “then why are you still here?”

Shut your mouth, Oren thought. Just shut your damn mouth.