Морган Лливелин - Drop by Drop

The older boys edged around the tables, reading the labels aloud to each other.

“Sodium something,” Sandy reported. “That’s just salt. You think they put it on their hamburgers?”

His brothers laughed.

On one of the highest shelves Buster spied a large glass container filled with what looked like water. Something floated inside. A shrunken head maybe? He climbed onto a stool in order to examine the label on the jar. “Phosphorus,” he called over his shoulder.

“That’s just what we need for the fireworks!” Kirby cried. “Let’s get it down!”

Everything was right with Evan Mulligan’s world. He was driving his new cart down a country lane, enjoying the autumn sunshine and the rhythm of trotting hooves. His chestnut mare, Rocket, was as content as he was. A brisk currying and brushing and a manger full of oats were waiting for her back in Sycamore River. Life was good.

Several weeks earlier Evan had ridden Rocket seven miles to meet Edgar Tilbury, who taught the youngster how to harness the mare and instructed him in driving a pony and trap.

“Don’t go too fast until you get the hang of it, and swing wide on the corners. Remember it’s a two-wheeled cart and you can turn it over pretty easy. As for driving, it’s like a telegraph, son. Those long reins in your hands telegraph your thoughts to your horse; she telegraphs hers back to you. Don’t pull at her or saw on her mouth, just talk to her through your fingers. Ask her to do something new and maybe she won’t like it at first. Horses don’t care much for change; I’m like that myself. Give her time, she’ll come ’round if you’re kind to her.”

Thanks to Rocket, Evan Mulligan felt independent. Many of his friends had their own cars, but the automobile had become problematic. Rocket was not problematic. She was warm and alive and carrying more life within her swelling belly.

“Rocket,” he said fondly. She flicked an ear back in response.

“You and me zooming through space all on our own. Next stop, Mars Colony. What d’ya think of that?”

A shadow passed overhead. Evan glanced up. A single-engine airplane was descending in the direction of Nolan’s Falls. One small silhouette in a wide sky that until recently had been crisscrossed with jet trails. Earlier in the century international terrorism had curtailed air travel, but with massively improved security measures it had been recovering—until the first passenger jet crashed after the onset of the Change. While the wreckage was still smoldering in a field outside of Cleveland the aeronautical world had changed.

Now the only passenger aircraft that dared fly were small private planes constructed with canvas and sizing and relying on human eyes for guidance.

No area of commerce was as vulnerable as the aircraft industry. The malfunctioning of computers was only part of the problem. Flight was one mode of transportation that dare not use improvised parts. Manufacturers were frantically retooling and retrofitting to replace polymeric components wherever possible. “We explored the whole world with ships and sails,” Evan informed the unseen pilot overhead, “and horses. Horses can take you almost anywhere if you’re not in a hurry.”

He was still young; he only viewed life from his own perspective. Evan was not much interested in airplanes, but he harbored a secret fantasy about being one of the first colonists on Mars.

If there was still a chance of going there; if They could stop the Change.

But maybe They caused the Change. And who was “They” anyway?

“Since the Change began Rob’s become paranoid,” Eleanor Bennett complained to her widowed mother, Katharine Richmond. “I mean it, Mom. He thinks the whole thing’s a plot against him personally.”

Because the dishwasher no longer worked the two women were doing a sinkful of dishes by hand. Mrs. Richmond allowed them to pile up when she was alone, and Nell did not often get time to spend with her mother. Rob’s silent but evident disapproval was an obstacle she rarely challenged. She felt guilty about it.

She was wearing her mother’s red-and-white–striped cotton apron in the kitchen of the apartment where she had announced her engagement to Rob with a lot of blushing and a Big Ring. The ring had impressed Nell’s father, who regretted he did not make enough money to give his pretty daughter the finer things in life. The things her beloved Dad had taught her to expect as her due.

“Businesses are switching to wood products these days,” Nell continued as she dried the teak salad bowl. “If RobBenn controlled the timber rights to Daggett’s Woods we’d be set for life. I suspect Rob knows what strings to pull to make it happen, but he’s focused on what is rather than what could be. He’d never listen to me anyway, he’s convinced I have no head for business.”

Nell’s mother sighed and made sympathetic noises; urged her daughter to change her hairstyle and do more home cooking. “Take home some of my cookbooks,” she suggested. “Nothing improves a man’s mood like coming home to the smell of muffins baking.”

“Muffins baking,” Nell muttered under her breath as she left the apartment. “She has no idea.” Wasn’t there an old song about the road getting lonelier and tougher? Nell understood perfectly. Especially the lonely part.

Was Rob lonely too? He must be, he had no gift for making friends. She decided to make one more effort to reach out to him. She didn’t call it “one final effort,” though in the back of her mind she knew it was.

Thankfully her car was still operable. She drove to the Golden Peacock to make a dinner reservation for that evening. Another reconciliation dinner.

Over the years Rob had become increasingly detached from their marriage. Hoping to sever the umbilical connection between her husband and his work, Nell had booked reservations in one restaurant after another. She knew that Rob liked fine dining. Used to like fine dining.

Before the Change Rob had always brought at least one AllCom with him whenever they went out together, as well as a laptop in its case. The moment they sat down he would begin talking, texting, answering emails. Sorry, Cookie, I have to take this call. Send this memo, look up these stats. Sorry, Cookie, sorry.

He wasn’t sorry. He scarcely knew she was there.

All but the old metal AllComs were useless now, and laptops of every age were being thrown away. Nell hoped that without them dinner would be different at the Golden Peacock. If only half of what the new restaurant advertised was true it would be hard to resist the atmosphere. The owners offered Edwardian luxury to create a sense of the past; the safe, pre-Change past. Private booths with lush upholstery and heavy curtains that could be drawn to suit the mood of the diners. Mood music, requested in advance, played by a string quartet. A six-page menu and the best wine list in the state.

For weeks Nell had been dropping hints about the Golden Peacock until finally Rob shouted at her, “For fuck’s sake, get us a reservation at the damned place and stop going on about it!” His voice was so loud the Irish setters had fled the room.

He was at the breaking point: Nell knew it even if he didn’t. Her pity was as great as her love had been, and more tender.

“Life,” a lugubrious Hooper Watson informed the occupants of Bill’s Bar and Grill as he entered, “is a misery.”

No one disagreed. There were only three other people in the place: Bill Burdick, who was polishing glasses behind the bar, and a couple of out-of-work salesmen in a corner booth, sharing a pitcher of beer and making up stories about nonexistent sales to impress each other.