'Yeah, well, that's one of the theories, but the Russians and Arabs say it was us,' Asher answered.
'Yeah, I heard that on the news. That's why I figure it was them. Besides, I heard that only a few thousand Arabs died.'
Hank Asher continued digging and the boy continued talking. Every other sentence or so the boy would throw out a shovelful of dirt, just to keep his hand in.
When they were finished, Hank Asher was about to pay the boy his ten dollars but paused with the bill in his hand as he looked at the boy and then down at himself. The distribution of dirt and sweat left no doubt that the boy had done less than his share. Hank checked his wallet again and, as a matter of principle, decided to pay the boy eight dollars instead often.
'Hey, what about my other two bucks?'
'Eight dollars is more than you deserve, for the little bit of work you did.'
'Man, what a ripoff! I'm gonna go get my dad. He'll make you pay me.' With that the boy threw down the shovel and stomped off.
Asher rested for a moment and it suddenly occurred to him that he still had to carry the bodies out and fill the hole back in. 'Aw, shit!' he said, realizing that he had gotten rid of the boy too soon.
Inside the house, Suzy was trying to talk to Decker, but there was no indication he could hear her. He just stared blankly into space. When she put food in his mouth he chewed and swallowed, but still he just stared.
After Asher finished the burial he came in and collapsed on the couch across the living room from Decker. 'Has he said anything?' Asher asked.
'Not a word. He just stares,' Suzy answered. 'What are we going to do with him?'
'He needs to be cared for, but the hospitals are packed like sardine cans. I don't suppose you'd take him home with you?'
Suzy looked at Decker and then back at Asher. The desperate look on her face made it clear that she did not like the idea at all but was afraid of saying no to her boss. As she struggled to respond, Hank Asher let her sweat it out. He knew it was an unusual request, but these were unusual times.
Just then there was a knock at the door.
'I'll get it,' Suzy said, jumping up from her seat, hoping to evade her boss's question. Asher was too tired to argue.
A moment later, she came back. 'It's a kid,' she said. 'He says he wants to see Mr. Hawthorne.'
'Tell that damn kid to go away; that he's not going to get one penny more than I've already paid him! No, wait! I'll tell him myself.' Energized by his anger, Hank Asher picked himself up off the couch and headed for the front door. 'Look, you lousy kid, I'm not… ' Asher stopped himself in mid-sentence as he realized this was not the boy from the back yard. 'I'm sorry, kid. I thought you were someone else. Look, Mr. Hawthorne isn't feeling well right now. Can you come back later?' he asked, trying to get rid of the boy.
'I'm sorry, but I need to talk to Mr. Hawthorne,' the boy persisted.
'Like I said, kid, Mr. Hawthorne isn't feeling well. Come back tomorrow.'
The boy held his ground.
'Okay,' Asher said, 'look, maybe I can help you. What is it that you need to talk to Mr. Hawthorne about?'
From the living room, Suzy Stites called to Asher, 'Hey, he moved his eyes a little!'
Asher went to his friend's side and looked, but saw no sign of awareness.
'Mr. Hawthorne, it's me, Christopher Goodman.' Asher turned around and saw that the boy had followed him into the living room.
'Mr. Hawthorne, please tell these people you know me. I've come a long way and I don't have anywhere else to go. Uncle Harry and Aunt Martha both died in a plane crash flying back to Los Angeles. Uncle Harry told me if anything ever happened to them I should call you. But you didn't answer your phone.'
Hank Asher, who knew of Harry Goodman from Decker's articles, put the pieces together. 'Your uncle is Professor Goodman from Los Angeles?'
'Yes,' Christopher responded. 'Did you know him?'
'I know his work. What are you doing in Washington?'
'Uncle Harry told me that if anything ever happened to him and Aunt Martha, I should find Mr. Hawthorne,' he repeated. 'I don't have any other relatives and Mr. Hawthorne was my uncle's friend.'
'How'd you get all the way out here from Los Angeles?'
Christopher paused, apparently hoping to avoid an answer that might get him in trouble. But the only reasonable answer was the truth. 'I drove my uncle's car,' he answered.
'You drove from Los Angeles?' Asher said, surprised. 'How old are you, kid?'
'Fourteen,' Christopher answered. 'I didn't have any other way to get here.'
Asher shook his head in disbelief. 'How'd you get all this way without getting stopped by the cops?'
'I guess they're pretty busy with looters.'
'I guess so,' Asher said. 'Well, look, kid. I'm sorry you drove all the way out here for nothing, but Mr. Hawthorne won't be able to help anybody for quite a while.'
Christopher looked at Decker.
'In fact,' Asher continued. 'I'm going to have to find someone to take care of him.'
'But, I don't have anywhere else to go. Most of Aunt Martha's friends are dead and Mr. Hawthorne is… well,' Christopher paused to think. 'Can I just stay here for a while? Maybe I could help you take care of him.'
'I think that's a great idea!' Suzy chimed in, still fearing she'd be stuck with taking care of Decker. 'Let him stay.'
'Let him stay,' another voice repeated.
Asher, Suzy, and Christopher all turned toward the only other person in the room.
'Let him stay,' Decker said again.
Chapter 11
The Master's Promise
Three weeks later
The cool moisture of morning soaked slowly through the seat of Decker's jeans as he sat on the grass beside the grave of his family. Mindlessly he stared at the upturned soil, still numb from his loss. It would be spring before the surrounding grass would begin to encroach upon the settling mound of bare dirt.
Decker had put in an order for three grave stones but was told that it could take as long as a year and a half to get stones with names on them. Generic stones with 'Beloved Wife,' 'Beloved Father,' 'Beloved Daughter,' etc. and no date of birth could be had in half the time and at about one fourth the price of a personalized stone, delivery included. Someone else was offering four-week delivery on personalized grave makers made of reinforced plastic with a 'marble look.' Decker decided to wait for the real thing.
Still, some had it much worse. The dead who had no one to bury them had been laid by the thousands in mass graves, some with no markers at all. In the city of Washington the poor had tried to bury their dead on the Mall (the strip of park that runs from the Capital to the Lincoln Memorial), but were turned away by Park Police and National Guard. At length, some expressed their frustration and protest by leaving the dead on curbs with the garbage.
Among those who died were many celebrities of one sort or another: politicians, religious leaders, heads of state, a few actors and actresses. The U.S. lost twelve Senators, sixty-odd Congressmen, three Cabinet members, and the Vice President. It seemed that everyone had lost someone: wives, husbands, children, parents.
As the sun rose above the fence slats on Decker's right, the individual blades of grass released almost audible whispers as their moist coats of dew began to slowly evaporate into the morning air. Decker heard the sliding glass door open but did not raise his eyes from the ground to look.
Christopher Goodman approached Decker, stopping a few feet short. After a moment he realized that he
