them.
“Jay!” Kelly shouted. “Look at me!”
He kept his gaze skyward. “It’s incredible.”
“Look at me!”
A smile spread across Jay’s face.
“Jay, please.”
He stopped responding to her as the cloud continued to descend.
Kelly jumped off her tube, swam under Jay and flipped him out into the water. The ash cloud closed in on them. Its belly kissed the top of Kelly’s head, swept Jay’s hair up into it.
They looked at each other. How long would it let them breathe?
I want that baby, Jay thought. I want to grow old with Kelly. I want to get married and have a wedding out under a cool blue sky on a field of green grass. Just blue sky and lots of green, green grass. I want to watch our baby grow. I want to grow old. I want—
I want—
I want to live—
—his mouth underwater, nose just above the surface, his scalp felt like it was burning—
God, I just want your baby, he thought as he watched Kelly’s desperate, pleading eyes, her nostrils twitching as water splashed up into them.
Her eyes widened. She plunged under water.
She swam beneath the inner tubes, grabbed one of them, her fingers searching along the inside. She found the air nozzle. Pulled it to her lips. Bit into it past the metal pin, bit hard, the pain coming so close to making her suck in a mouthful of water, until she felt the nozzle give and a rush of bubbles tickle her lips, her nose, pouring over her face. She sucked in.
Stale. Rancid. She nearly gagged, but wouldn’t let herself. She forced her eyes open. Could hear the fizz of ash hitting the water’s surface. Her chest felt like it was on fire. She sucked in another mouthful of air. Was there any oxygen inside? But she had to breath it in, had to for as long as she could.
Where are you, Jay?
Jay had plunged into the water, but could see nothing in the murk.
God, I need air.
He couldn’t hold his breath any longer, he couldn’t.
God, he wished he could see his baby.
He heard the light fizz of ash pelt the river’s surface. Maybe it’d be all right. Maybe he could keep his face just above the river. Maybe there’d be enough air for him there.
And maybe the baby would be fine and they’d get married and he’d get a regular job and they’d get a regular house, and that would be okay now, because now he knew, now he knew, that
He couldn’t stand the pain in his lungs any longer. He had to breathe. He had to stand up. Maybe, maybe, just maybe…
He stood up. Raised his head above the water’s skin. Blinked river away from his eyes. For a moment, he could see. For a moment, he thought whatever had been there before was gone.
But only for a moment.
He heard it, saw it, felt it at the same time.
The water directly around him sizzled.
This is a test. God’s testing me to see if I’m worthy to have this baby.
Kelly reached out for Jay, wanting to touch him, touch something human, something warm and solid. Something…
Keep your mouth on the tube. Keep breathing.
But it tasted so awful, so dirty.
She felt Jay’s shoulder. Felt him tremble. Her eyes stung in the murky water and she could not see him. Couldn’t see anything. She squeezed his shoulder. Felt him shake. Her hand brushed across his neck, up his face.
At her touch, his head split apart.
She felt the ashes that filled it flow over her hand, sticky with blood and brain. It swirled around her fingers, lodged itself in her nails. She pushed Jay’s body away, scrambled backwards as best she could, her legs moving painfully slow in the dense water. It was all she could do not to pop up above the surface to scream and scream, all she could do to keep her mouth over the small air hole and keep sucking in that awful, dirty air.
She squeezed her eyes shut tight, waved her hand back and forth in the water’s current, trying to dislodge the bits of Jay that had dissolved in that cloud. She lifted her feet slightly to let the current carry her down-river. It was hard, though, to keep immersed in the water, the tug of the tube trying to lift her up and out.
She stayed under the river’s surface, taking small sips of air from the shrinking tube. There were five more tubes if she needed them. If she could stand it. Five more tubes, and her goddamn pink flamingo.
If the baby was a boy, she’d name it Jay.
She pumped her legs and moved with the current, hoping, hoping.
Groundskeeper Hank
I’ve been here a few years now. I know people think I’m dumb. I know I’m a little slow at figuring things out, but I get it eventually. And just because my voice is a little syrupy and thick, it doesn’t mean I’m ignorant. Just a little slow on account of being in the war.
The kids here are pretty nice to me. Some of them say, “Hi, Hank,” when they pass me by, and I’ve gotten to where I remember some of their names now. Others make fun of me. I know that, but they’re just kids, junior college kids, and it doesn’t really bother me like it used to. At least it shouldn’t. I know that.
I live close by in a halfway house, but I don’t like it much there. I don’t like the others who live there. There’s one fellow, he’s kind of nice, but the rest of them I’d just as soon do without. So I spend a lot of my time here in the dugout at night. It’s real peaceful and quiet for the most part. I like to sit here and have a smoke or two, drink a soda. They don’t let me have beer no more. Said it messes with the pills they give me, and I don’t want to make any more of a mess than I have to. I like looking across the baseball diamond, watching the sprinklers shine in the moonlight. You can hear crickets singing, too, and I like that.
I like the smell of the place, too. The smell of baseball gloves and cut grass and dirt. I have an aluminum bat I keep with me and sometimes I go out to the batter’s box and take a few swings at the air.
Sometimes, some of the kids will sneak on the field at night to drink beer and smoke weed. Sometimes they’ll make out in the middle of the field or in the bleachers. I don’t pay them much mind, and half the time, they don’t seem to know I’m even there. I’ve scared more than a few kids in the dugout, their pants down around their ankles, humping each other the way kids these days do. I don’t mean to scare them, but I don’t really feel like waiting for them to finish just so I can have a smoke, and all it usually takes is for me to clear my throat, and then they run the hell away like I’m some kind of ghost or something.
Some nights, the boys will come out here and give me a twenty dollar bill for keeping quiet when they have their initiations, but I’d probably keep quiet for just a ten.
The other night they brought out this kid wrapped in a dirty shag carpet. I could hear him trying to scream, but it wasn’t doing him much good. There were about ten of the boys, and they set him on the pitcher’s mound and all took turns throwing baseballs at him. Some of them could throw pretty darn hard, and I even winced at a few of the zingers that hit the carpet. He stopped screaming after a few of those.
