developing along lines they might not have followed at all if it weren’t for…”
Silence.
“The bombings?” she said.
“Maybe,” he said.
“Well, they’re causing the dust storms. They’re probably causing a lot of things.”
She sighed wearily and shook her head.
“And they say we won the war,” she said.
“Nobody won it”
“The mosquitoes won it.”
He smiled a little.
“I guess they did,” he said.
They sat there for a few moments without talking and the only sound in the kitchen was the clink of his fork on the plate and the cup on the saucer.
“You looked at Kathy last night?” she asked.
“I just looked at her now. She looks fine.”
“Good.”
She looked at him studiedly.
“I’ve been thinking, Bob,” she said. “Maybe we should send her east to your mother’s until I get better. It may be contagious.”
“We could,” he said dubiously, “but if it’s contagious, my mother’s place wouldn’t be any safer than here.”
“You don’t think so?” she asked. She looked worried.
He shrugged. “I don’t know, hon. I think probably she’s just as safe here. If it starts to get bad on the block, we’ll keep her out of school.”
She started to say something, then stopped.
“All right,” she said.
He looked at his watch.
“I’d better finish up,” he said.
She nodded and he ate the rest of his breakfast quickly. While he was draining the coffee cup she asked him if he had bought a paper the night before.
“It’s in the living room,” he told her.
'Anything new in it?’
“No. Same old stuff. It’s all over the country, a little here, a little there. They haven’t been able to find the germ yet.”
She bit her lower lip.
“Nobody knows what it is?”
“I doubt it. If anybody did they’d have surely said so by now.
“But they must have some idea.”
“Everybody’s got an idea. But they aren’t worth anything.”
“What do they say?”
He shrugged. “Everything from germ warfare on down.”
“Do you think it is?”
“Germ warfare?”
“Yes,” she said.
“The war’s over,” he said.
“Bob,” she said suddenly, “do you think you should go to work?”
He smiled helplessly.
“What else can I do?” he asked. “We have to eat.”
“I know, but…”
He reached across the table and felt how cold her hand was.
“Honey, it’ll be all right,” he said.
“And you think I should send Kathy to school?”
“I think so,” he said. “Unless the health authorities say schools have to shut down, I don’t see why we should keep her home. She’s not sick.”
“But all the kids at school.”
“I think we’d better, though,” he said.
She made a tiny sound in her throat. Then she said, “All right. If you think so.”
“Is there anything you want before I go?” he asked.
She shook her head.
“Now you stay in the house today,” he told her, “and in bed.”
“I will,” she said. “As soon as I send Kathy off.” He patted her hand. Outside, the car horn sounded. He finished the coffee and went to the bathroom to rinse out his mouth. Then he got his jacket from the hall closet and pulled it on.
“Good-by, honey,” he said, kissing her on the cheek. “Take it easy, now.”
“Good-by,” she said. “Be careful.”
He moved across the lawn, gritting his teeth at the residue of dust in the air. He could smell it as he walked, a dry tickling sensation in his nasal passages.
“Morning,” he said, getting in the car and pulling the door shut behind him.
“Good morning,” said Ben Cortman.
Chapter Seven
“Dstilled from
There it was. He jiggled one of the pink, leathery cloves in his right palm. For seven months now he’d strung them together into aromatic necklaces and hung them outside his house without the remotest idea of why they chased the vampires away. It was time he learned why.
He put the clove on the sink ledge. Leek, onion, shallot, and chive. Would they all work as well as garlic? He’d really feel like a fool if they did, after searching miles around for garlic when onions were everywhere.
He mashed the clove to a pulp and smelled the acrid fluid on the thick cleaver blade.
All right, what now? The past revealed nothing to help him; only talk of insect carriers and virus, and they weren’t the causes. He was sure of it.
The past had brought something else, though; pain at remembering. Every recalled word had been like a knife blade twisting in him. Old wounds had been reopened with every thought of her. He’d finally had to stop, eyes closed, fists clenched, trying desperately to accept the present on its own terms and not yearn with his very flesh for the past. But only enough drinks to stultify all introspection had managed to drive away the enervating sorrow that remembering brought.
He focused his eyes. All right, damn it, he told himself, do something!
He looked at the text again, water—was it that? he asked himself. No, that was ridiculous; all things had water in them. Protein? No. Fat? No. Carbohydrates? No. Fiber? No. Ash? No. What then?
“The characteristic odor and flavor of garlic are due to an essential oil amounting to about 0.2% of the weight, which consists mainly of allyl sulphide and allyl isothicyanate.”
