Jennifer was born he had placed Rabs in her crib and Mary had cried at the sight of the snowy white rabbit from a story she had loved in her own childhood days. Rabs, now so dingy gray from years of being held, kissed, and loved, was nestled in Jennifer’s arms.
“The Adventures of Rabs the Rabbit…” he began, swallowing hard as he turned the first page, remembering so many nights when Mary would read Jennifer to sleep with this wonderful old classic that mother and daughter had so loved and cherished together.
“One day, when Jennifer, and her best friend Rabs had nothing else to do…”
The real name in the book was Kathy but Mary had always used Jennifer’s name, the same way when she was a child, her mother had used hers. He looked up at Jen, who stood silent by the foot of the bed, who unable to speak, could merely nod her head. He felt such love and pity for her at this moment for all that she had lost as well.
And he began to read.
The house was silent throughout the day, except for John softly reading, pausing when Jennifer was obviously asleep.
The shadows lengthened, the windows still open, the cool air drifting in, but he did not close them, the soft rushing of the brook outside the window soothing with its gentle murmur.
Jennifer stirred, Makala trying to get her to drink. She wouldn’t, so Makala just sat by the other side of the bed, moistening Jennifer’s lips with a damp towel.
“Daddy?”
She looked up at him, eyes open. “Sweetie?”
“Remember your promise?”
“Which one was that angel?”
“Let me stay close to you… and keep Rabs warm and with you; he loves you too…”
“Of course, of course,” and control did finally break. Crying, John leaned over and hugged her, kissing her forehead. She tried to put her arms around him but couldn’t, and as he took her hands he could feel how cold they were.
He tucked Rabs back under her arms, floppy head of the much loved stuffed rabbit resting on her chest.
Makala sat on the other side of the bed, gently brushing Jennifer’s brow. Elizabeth had led Jen away, the two in the next room, sobbing. Jennifer was no longer sweat soaked and he knew what that meant. Makala slowly let her hand drift to Jennifer’s throat, felt the pulse, and looked over at John.
He picked the book back up, it was nearly finished, and he continued to read, turning the page with one hand, holding Jennifer’s hand with the other.
He could feel her hand getting colder and he read now, almost in a fast monotone, turning the pages, and then reached the last one.
“And so Rabs, nestled in Jennifer’s arms watched as she went to sleep. ‘Some day you will be all grown up,’ Rabs whispered to her, ‘but I will love you forever. And far, far away, we will play again some day. Sleep tight Jennifer, and I will see you in the morning.’”
“John,” Makala whispered.
He couldn’t speak.
“John, she’s gone.”
He knew. He had felt her slip away before he had turned the last page.
She was buried in the garden, her grave near the bay window, very close by to him as promised. At nighttime Rabs rested on the windowsill inside the house, keeping vigilant watch. He had spent a fair part of the day outside, just sitting by her grave, holding Rabs, talking to Jennifer as if she were sitting before him, again his little girl of five, the fur on Rabs still not completely worn off as it now was, Ginger, barely able to move, lying by his side.
It was towards evening and Makala came to sit by him.
“I’m worried about Elizabeth,” she said. “She needs to eat.”
“There’s nothing to eat,” John replied, “other than the rations at the college.”
“John, she’s in her third month. It’s crucial now, perhaps the most crucial month of all. The rations are mostly carbs. She needs protein, meat, as much as we can force into her.”
Makala fell silent, leaning against his shoulder, and he knew what she was saying.
It was not a hard decision at all now. Not hard at all. He went into the house and came out a minute later, carrying the .22 pistol. He handed Rabs to her.
Ginger was lying by Jennifer’s grave as if keeping watch. He knelt down and picked Ginger up. She was so light. “Come along,” he whispered. “You can still save a life, my dear friend. And besides… Jennifer wants to play with you again.”
How doth the city sit solitary, that was full of people? How is she become as a widow? She that was great among the nations, and princess among the provinces, how is she become tributary?
CHAPTER TWELVE
The phone ringing by his bedside woke him up, the light streaming through the window; it was just about dawn.
He could hear crying in the next room, little Ben, Elizabeth shushing him.
John picked up the phone. It was Judy and he listened, finally sitting up.
“I’ll be down there as quickly as possible.”
Makala was snuggled up by his side, half-awake.
“Come on, love; get up now.”
“What?”
She opened her eyes and looked around.
“Not even dawn yet.”
“Up. We got to get into town, all of us.”
He pulled on the old stiff trousers lying by the side of the bed and rubbed his chin, suddenly wondering if he should shave. Absurd, he had not shaved in more than six months.
It had been warm enough a week ago for all of them to have a bath. He had built a roaring fire, scooped water from the creek to heat, and then filled what had once been a small outdoor fishpond. By the time the girls and the baby had finished, the water was a dark scummy gray, but John didn’t care, the first at least tepid bath since late autumn.
The following day Makala and Jen had scrubbed clothes along the bank of the creek the old-fashioned way, a flat rock and an antique scrub board scrounged out of the basement. All had walked up to the college that evening for an actual spring dinner feast, 140 of the surviving students, Reverend Abel offering a service in the Chapel of the Prodigal, the choir putting on a musical performance, and then what was supposed to be a one-act comedy about someone finding a television that still worked… It had fallen rather flat, too painful, though the audience did laugh politely.
Ben had of course been passed from girl to girl, and for more than a few it was practice. The autumn and winter had resulted in more than a few pregnancies and rather quick marriages by Reverend Abel.
The dinner, of boiled corn mixed with apples, garnished with ramps and the first dandelions of spring, had at least been filling.
After the dinner, music, and play he had met with Abel, Malady, and the surviving faculty to talk about trying to get at least a few courses up and running… but the conversation had fallen away. It was time to struggle to bring in the first greens, to get hunting parties out, to maybe, just maybe, get the turbine project finished at the dam and finally hook electricity back up. Courses could wait until the fall.
