Ensuring that only the ethnically and racially pure get to vote, to shop, to live…
“And if this committee decides you don’t belong? What then? Arrested? Exiled? Burned at the stake?”
Now his neighbor looked embarrassed as he stepped up from the wicker chair. “You should just be there, Mister uh, I mean, Rick. It’s at eight o’clock. At the town hall.”
“That’s a long walk in, when it’s getting dark. Any chance I could get a ride?”
Even with his neighbor’s back turned to him, Rick could sense the humiliation. “Well, I, well, I don’t think so, Rick. I’m sorry. You see, I think Marcia wants to visit her sister after the meeting, and I don’t know what time we might get back, and, well, I’m sorry.”
Henry climbed up into the wagon, retrieved the reins from his son, and Rick called out.
“Henry?”
“Yes?”
“Any chance your wife is on this committee?”
The expression on his neighbor’s face was all he needed to know, as the wagon turned around on his brown lawn and headed back up to the road.
Back inside, he grabbed his mail and went upstairs, to the spare bedroom that he had converted into an office during the first year he had made it back to Boston Falls. He went to unlock the door and found that it was already open. Damn his memory, which he knew was starting to show its age, just like his hips. He was certain he had locked it the last time. He sat down at the desk and untied the twine, knowing he would save it. What was that old Yankee saying? Use it up, wear it out, or do without? Heavy thrift, one of the many lessons being relearned these years.
One envelope he set aside to bring into Glen Roundell, the General Store owner. It was his Social Security check, only three months late, and Glen—who was also the town’s banker—would take it and apply it against Rick’s account. Not much being made for sale nowadays, so whatever tiny amount his Social Security check was this month was usually enough to keep his account in good shape.
There was an advertising flyer for the Grafton County Fair, set to start next week.
Another flyer announcing a week-long camp revival at the old Boy Scout camp on Conway Lake, during the same time. Competition, no doubt. And a thin envelope, postmarked Houston, Texas, which he was happy to see. It had only taken a month for the envelope to get here, which he thought was a good sign. Maybe some things were improving in the country.
Maybe.
He slit open the envelope with an old knife, saw the familiar handwriting inside.
Dear Rick,
Hope this sees you doing well in the wilds of New Hampshire.
Down here what passes for recovery continues. Last month, two whole city blocks had their power restored. It only comes on for a couple of hours a day, and no a/c is allowed, but it’s still progress, eh?
Enclosed are the latest elements for Our Boy. I’m sorry to say the orbit degradation is continuing. Latest guess is that Our Boy may be good for another five years, maybe six.
Considering what was spent in blood and treasure to put him up there, it breaks my heart.
If you get bored and lonely up there, do consider coming down here. I understand that with Amtrak coming back, it should only take four weeks to get here. The heat is awful but at least you’ll be in good company with those of us who still remember.
Your pal,
With the handwritten sheet was another sheet of paper, with a listing of dates and times, and he shook his head in dismay. Most of the sightings were for early mornings, and he hated getting up in the morning. But tonight—how fortunate!—there was going to be a sighting at just after eight o’clock.
Eight o’clock. Why did that sound familiar?
Now he remembered. The town meeting tonight, where supposedly his fate and those of any other possible sinners was to be decided. He carefully folded up the letter, put it back in the envelope. He decided one more viewing was more important, more important than whatever chatter session was going to happen later. And besides, knowing what he did about the town and its politics, the decision had already been made.
He looked around his small office, with the handmade bookshelves and books, and more framed photos on the cracked plaster wall. One of the photos was of him and his friend, Brian Poole, wearing blue-zippered jumpsuits, standing in front of something large and complex, built ages ago in the swamps of Florida.
“Thanks, guy,” he murmured, and he got up and went downstairs, to think of what might be for dinner.
Later that night he was in the big backyard, a pasture that he let his other neighbor, George Thompson, mow for hay a couple of times each summer, for which George gave him some venison and smoked ham over the long winters in exchange. He brought along a folding lawn chair, its bright plastic cracked and faded away, and he sat there, stretching out his legs. It was a quiet night, like every night since he had come here, years ago. He smiled in the darkness. What strange twists of fate and fortune had brought him back here, to his old family farm. He had grown up here, until his dad had moved the family south, to a suburb of Boston, and from there, high school and Air Force ROTC, and then many, many years traveling, thousands upon thousands of miles, hardly ever thinking about the old family farm, now owned by a second or third family.
And he would have never come back here, until the troubles started, when—
A noise made him turn his head. Something crackling out there, in the underbrush.
“Who’s out there?” he called out, wondering if some of the more hot-blooded young’uns in town had decided not to wait until the meeting was over. “Come out and show yourself.”
A shape came out from the wood line, ambled over, small, and then there was a young boy’s voice, “Mister Monroe, it’s me, Tom Cooper.”
“Tom? Oh, yes, Tom. Come on over here.”
The young boy came up, sniffling some, and Rick said, “Tom, you gave me a bit of a surprise. What can I do for you?”
Tom stood next to him, and said slowly, “I was just wondering… well, that cold stuff you gave me earlier, that tasted really good. I didn’t know if you had any more left…”
He laughed. “Sorry, guy. Maybe tomorrow. How come you’re not with your mom and dad at the meeting?”
Tom said, “My sister Ruth is supposed to be watching us, but I snuck out of my room and came here. I was bored.”
“Well, boredom can be good, it means something will happen. Tell you what, Tom, wait a couple of minutes, I’ll show you something special.”
“What’s that?”
“You just wait and I’ll show you.”
Rick folded his hands together in his lap, looked over at the southeast. Years and years ago, that part of the night sky would be a light yellow glow, the lights from the cities in that part of the state. Now, like every other part of the night sky, there was just blackness and the stars, the night sky now back where it had once been, almost two centuries ago.
There. Right there. A dot of light, moving up and away from the horizon.
“Take a look, Tom. See that moving light?”
“Unh-hunh.”
“Good. Just keep your eye on it. Look at it go.”
The solid point of light rose up higher and seemed brighter, and he found his hands were tingling and his chest was getting tighter. Oh, God, how beautiful, how beautiful it had been up there, looking down on the great globe, watching the world unfold beneath you, slow and majestic and lovely, knowing that as expensive and ill- designed and over-budget and late in being built, it was there, the first permanent outpost for humanity, the first step in reaching out to the planets and stars that were humanity’s destiny…
The crickets seemed louder. An owl out in the woods hoo-hoo’ed, and beside him, Tom said, “What is it, Mister Monroe?”
