same thing about Fred Laudermilk’s grain silo down in Renick.
Carl undid the top button of his pants and patted his stomach. He sighed with contentment. “That was a fine meal, Teddy. Best I’ve had in quite awhile. I’m fit to burst.”
“Glad you liked it. If we ever run into Nancy again, we’ll have to compliment her on her canning abilities. Most of that was food I took from her cupboard.”
“I reckon so.”
“We’ll have the leftovers for breakfast. And I won’t even make you do the dishes.”
Carl looked around the kitchen. “What have you been doing with the paper plates, anyway?”
“Throwing them outside.”
“But Teddy, that’s littering!”
I pointed to the window. “Do you think it really matters at this point?”
“I guess not. Don’t suppose Smoky the Bear will be showing up anytime soon.”
He was right about one thing, though. It had been a good meal. Damn good. And now I was craving some tobacco again. I think the nicotine desire is at its very worst after you’ve eaten.
To distract myself, I cleared the paper plates and Styrofoam bowls from the table and put them in the trash. I’d been carrying the garbage bags down to the tree line once a week, and tossing them into the forest. Broke my heart to do so because, like Carl had said, it was littering. But I couldn’t just let it pile up inside the house, and burning it outside like I used to do just wasn’t possible anymore.
Carl rubbed his arthritic knee. “So, if the National Guard took all those folks to White Sulphur Springs, you reckon we should make our way there too?”
“You still got that old bass boat we used to take down the Greenbrier?”
He shook his head. “No, I sold it to Billy Anderson for fifty bucks and few rolls of hay.”
“Sounds like you ripped Billy off.”
“He didn’t have no complaints.”
“Well, without the boat, I don’t know how we’d make it. Truthfully, I doubt there’s much left in White Sulphur Springs, anyway. Remember, it’s in a valley.”
“You reckon that it’s underwater then?”
“Not one hundred percent sure, mind you, but yeah, I would guess so. I’m pretty sure everything else is flooded, except up here on top of the mountain.”
“So it’s just us. And the waters are rising.” His voice sounded very small and quiet. And afraid. It echoed the same hopelessness I felt deep down in my heart.
“No.” I tried to smile. “It’s not just us. We’ve still got Earl to keep us company. Reckon he’ll come over and apologize for his rude behavior?”
Carl made a face like he’d just bit into a lemon, while Skeeter Davis sang to us from my little stereo. She was singing about the end of the world.
Time passed. It was a good night—the first good night either of us had enjoyed in a long time. I lent Carl a pair of my pajamas and hauled out the deck of cards. We stayed up late playing poker and blackjack and war and hearts, and switched back and forth between the country music tape and the radio dial, hoping against hope to hear something other than static.
But we didn’t. Just the white noise of dead air and the rain coming down outside.
Always the rain.
We talked a lot—about our missing friends and cars and politics and football, and how there probably wouldn’t be any of those things anymore. I think that was what really brought it all home to Carl; how he wouldn’t be able to watch another West Virginia Mountaineers game next season. We talked about hunting and fishing victories of the past, of our glory days before we got married, of our wives and women we’d known before our wives, and eventually the war.
We both grew pretty maudlin after that, and when Carl farted, it broke the tension like a sledgehammer through glass. I laughed till I thought I’d have a heart attack, and Carl laughed, too, and it felt good. It felt real.
We talked late into the night, bathed in the soft glow of the kerosene lamp. I whooped Carl’s butt at cards.
The two things we didn’t talk about were what we’d seen earlier at Dave and Nancy’s house and the holes that we’d found. The wormholes, as I’d taken to thinking of them, even though God had never made worms that big.
We went to sleep long after midnight. I fixed up the bed in the spare room, and gave Carl an extra flashlight so he could see his way around. Then I went out on the back porch and pissed. The rain had backed up the seepage bed, making the toilet useless, and I didn’t feel like making the hike to the outhouse.
It was pitch black outside, and I couldn’t even see my hand in front of my face. I thought I heard a wet, squelching sound from somewhere in the darkness. I froze. My breath caught in my throat and my penis shriveled in my hand like a frightened turtle. But when I cocked my head and listened again, all I heard was the rain.
Shivering, I shook myself off and hurried back inside. I made sure the door was locked, and then I double checked it.
On my way down the hall to my bedroom I stopped at Carl’s door to make sure he didn’t need anything else. I raised my fist to knock, then paused. His voice was muffled, and at first, I thought he was talking to somebody. Then I realized Carl was singing Skeeter Davis’s “The End of the World.”
“Don’t they know it’s the end of the world? It ended when you said good-bye.”
His crooning still hadn’t improved. Carl sounded like a cat with its tail plugged into an electrical socket, but it was the most beautiful and sad thing I’d heard in some time. A lump swelled in my throat. Instead of knocking on the door, I shuffled off to bed. I climbed under the blankets and lay there in the darkness, craving nicotine and missing my wife.
It was a long time before I slept.
When I finally did, Rose came to visit me.
In the dream, I woke up to find that the house had flooded. Everything was underwater and my bed floated on the surface, gently rocking back and forth. The water level grew higher, and my bed rose with it. I had to duck my head to keep from hitting it on the ceiling. The bed swayed. I hollered for Carl, but he didn’t answer. I shifted on the mattress, and the sudden movement caused the bed to tilt, spilling me into the water. I plunged downward to the carpet and opened my eyes.
Rose stared back at me, as beautiful and lovely as the first time we’d met. Her nightgown floated around her, the same one she’d been wearing when she died.
She opened her mouth and sang. Each word was crystal clear, even though we were underwater. That’s just the way it is in dreams.
“I can’t understand, no, I can’t understand how life goes on the way it does.”
Skeeter Davis. She was singing the same song that Carl had been singing before bed.
“I miss you, Rosie,” I said, and bubbles came out of my mouth. But despite that, I wasn’t drowning.
“I miss you, too, Teddy. It’s been hard to watch what you’re going through.”
“What? An old man, fooling with crossword puzzles and trying to figure out a three-letter word for peccadillo? Afraid to go out into the rain because he might catch pneumonia? Yeah, I reckon that would be hard to watch. Must be pretty boring.”
“That’s not what I’m talking about and you know it. Don’t you know it’s the end of the world?”
“No, it’s not,” I told her. “It ended when you said good-bye, Rosie. Just like in the song.”
“It’s going to get worse. The rain is just the beginning. They’re coming, Teddy.”
“Who is coming? What do you mean? The worms? I thought maybe I was going crazy.”
If she heard me, she didn’t give any indication. Instead of answering, she swam forward and kissed my forehead. Her lips were cool, soft, and wet. I’d missed them, and I wanted that kiss to last forever.
“They’re coming,” she repeated, drifting away. “You and Carl need to get ready. It’s going to be bad.”
“Who’s coming, Rosie? Tell me. I don’t understand what you’re talking about.”
“The people from the sky.”
“What?”
She suddenly bent over, clutching her stomach.
