Drop by Drop

13

A generation was still alive that remembered the US Postal Service at its best. These men and women knew how to lick stamps and stick them on envelopes. They spelled “quick” with a qui rather than a kw and could construct declarative sentences. Without email they were not lost; handwritten letters began to flood into Washington, D.C. The great army of the Silver Foxes demanded the government reopen closed post offices, hire thousands of new postmen and get back to business.

In spite of all the obstacles created by the Change, America was determined to move forward.

Returning to his desk after a period of “convalescence,” Dwayne Nyeberger feared others might see his breakdown as a weakness. He became more of a martinet at the S&S than his father-in-law. He roamed the bank openly criticizing the employees, knowing they feared for their jobs because of the uncertainty of the times. He stood too close to female customers and insulted male customers to their faces. On the increasingly rare occasions when a beleaguered individual sought to apply for a loan, Dwayne accused them of being financially irresponsible.

If he had set out deliberately to ruin the Old Man’s business he could not have done a better job.

Shortly after lunch the president of the Sycamore and Staunton Mercantile Bank paid an unannounced visit to his daughter. She lived in a large white house in the symmetrical Federal style, set on a professionally landscaped lot in a desirable residential neighborhood. Patricia’s father had given the house to her as a wedding present, although he retained the deed. He also neglected to mention that the house was a bank foreclosure.

The wing the Nyebergers had added after Kirby was born looked like an ill-advised afterthought. So, Staunton thought, were the rest of the children.

No matter how many times he pushed the bell no one responded. In exasperation he took a brick from the border of the nearest flower bed and banged it repeatedly against the door.

That got results.

When she appeared, Patricia’s hair was tangled and her eyes were puffy from sleep. She served her father diluted grape drink in a jelly glass, with a plate of stale cookies. “The boys’ve eaten everything else,” she said wearily. “I haven’t had time to go to the store yet… I don’t know where the day goes…”

The glass was not clean; a faint corona of crumbs was embedded in dried saliva around the rim.

Staunton cleared his throat loudly to interrupt the spate of apologies. “Pat, sit down here and listen to me. We need to talk. Your husband is not happy at the bank. I’ve been speaking with some friends of mine and they’re willing… I mean they’ll… offer him a place in politics. It would be a high-profile position with one of the public service committees; a real plum that might lead to better things when all this ‘Change’ business gets sorted out. What do you say? Will you help me persuade him?”

As she always did, the Old Man’s daughter said yes to him.

In the vice president’s office later that day Dwayne Nyeberger told Staunton no. Emphatically, no. “You want to dump me on a committee of talking heads like some worn-out government flunky? I won’t do it! I’m going to stay right here in the S and S until the roof falls in. When I married Tricia you promised me a job for life and I’m damned well holding you to it!”

Staunton returned to his own office to consider his options.

An envelope with an official seal was waiting on his desk.

“The president of the United States wishes to inform you that the military reserves are being put on standby. The nearest garrison to you will be in Benning. All banks are to reenforce their security systems and notify the military authorities of any suspicious behavior.”

Staunton read the letter twice. “What the hell constitutes suspicious behavior?” he asked the stern faces gazing down at him from their portraits. “This damned thing’s been suspicious from the beginning!” He stomped out of his office and called across the lobby, “Miz Bea! Come in here and explain to me what in hell’s going on.”

She read the letter gravely, then handed it back to him. “At least somebody’s doing something.”

“We’re doing something, woman. I’m proud of this town. People are trying hard to keep going.”

“Most of them are,” she agreed. “What choice is there? Besides, after 9/11 the New Yorkers didn’t panic. They kept their heads and helped each other, we’ve all seen the films.”

“I’m surprised that a foreign country didn’t attack us then.”

“I don’t think we need to worry now,” she said reassuringly. “Other governments are no better than ours at dealing with the Change, they all have layers of entrenched bureaucracy. China’s not making its problems public and the Russians claim they have ‘everything under control,’ but the Swiss and Germans have admitted defeat. Like us, they’re just trying to maintain civil society.”

The young Nyebergers had become addicted to their new games and were going through the early stages of withdrawal after their machines failed. Their mother had been relieved to pack them off to school when the autumn came.

The school staff was frantically busy trying to adapt to the altered situation. No single aspect of education was without its problems. Even the check-in system had failed.

The young Nyebergers took advantage of the opportunity for permanent truancy.

Relieved of any adult oversight Sandy, Kirby and Buster Nyeberger, with Flub and Dub in tow, roamed widely. On an afternoon fragrant with burning leaves their energy carried them as far as RobBenn.

A couple of cars at one end of a parking lot designed for hundreds looked like castaways on a beach. Robert Bennett had done away with the expense of a security guard at the front gate. The sentry cabin was padlocked, as were the other gates in the high chain-link fence that embraced the complex.

The young Nyebergers followed the fence around the perimeter, searching for an easy way in. They had no plans but endless optimism. In such a large place there were bound to be opportunities for mischief.

An hour earlier Gerry Delmonico had left RobBenn for the last time. After weeks of putting it off, he had returned to collect a few personal items he had left behind. He found Robert Bennett still in the office, shuffling through papers. Good manners had compelled Gerry to say good-bye, but not before Bennett extracted one last service. “Before you go, take this swipe key to the laboratory wing and make sure all the doors are locked,” he ordered. “You never know when some cokehead will come looking for drugs.”

Gerry had nodded absentmindedly. His thoughts were concentrated on Gloria, their unborn baby and the increasingly uncertain future.

Buster Nyeberger stared at three stories of blank concrete unlike the rest of the complex, which displayed more glass than walls. “Hey, lookit this,” he called to Sandy. “Whaddaya think they got in there?”

Sandy scratched his head. Like all but one of his siblings he had a dense, scruffy mop of straw-colored thatch atop a pudgy face. “It’s a top-secret lavratory,” he ventured.

“Laboratory,” Kirby corrected. The nicest thing O. M. Staunton had ever said about his grandsons was, “They look like a tree full of young owls.” Kirby was the exception, an attractive youngster with angelic features and thickly lashed eyes. “Jimmy Deel’s in my class in school,” he told his brothers, “and he says they make stuff out here to store gunpowder in. His dad sells them hardware and stuff so he knows all about it. If we get hold of some gunpowder we can make terrific fireworks and stuff for Halloween.”

They headed for the nearest panel of chain link and began to climb.

The fence was no challenge to the young Nyebergers, who could swarm over obstacles of almost any description. All five made it without so much as a skinned knee. Their delight was compounded by the discovery of a small service door at the side, with the kind of lock they understood. Assiduous application of determined boyish muscle and a Swiss army knife were enough to do the trick.

The Nyebergers entered the laboratory wing alight with excitement. Their footsteps echoed on polished floors lined on either side by framed photographs. Robert Bennett in football gear, Robert Bennett graduating from university; Robert Bennett turning the first sod for RobBenn; Robert Bennett, almost invisible in a pack of dark-suited business leaders, meeting the president at the White House.

Buster dismissed the entire display with a single word of contempt. “Assholes.”

The boys went from one room to the next, but their search was thwarted by locked filing cabinets, books of technical jargon and storage closets stuffed to the ceiling with boxes. When they discovered several inoperative computers they hooted with laughter. “It’s no better than our junk,” Sandy sneered.

Then they hit the jackpot.

In a cornucopia of shameless bribes for good behavior—which never worked—the boys had once been given a child’s chemistry set. Only Kirby had shown any interest, though after the liquids were spilled and the powders scattered he abandoned it. In a large room at the end of the hall he recognized its adult version. “This is where they do the serious stuff!” he gleefully informed his brothers.

The laboratory was well organized. A double-width island of gray metal tables ran down the center of the room. It held both Bunsen and Fisher burners and a variety of glass test tubes and vials, as well as numerous bottles and jars. The latter were identified by labels that mostly resembled hieroglyphics. Tall stools were ranged around the tables. Shelves laden with more supplies and teetering piles of file folders covered the walls. In one corner stood a large glass water cooler on a metal tripod.

The older boys edged around the tables, reading the labels aloud to each other.

“Sodium something,” Sandy reported. “That’s just salt. You think they put it on their hamburgers?”

His brothers laughed.

On one of the highest shelves Buster spied a large glass container filled with what looked like water. Something floated inside. A shrunken head maybe? He climbed onto a stool in order to examine the label on the jar. “Phosphorus,” he called over his shoulder.

“That’s just what we need for the fireworks!” Kirby cried. “Let’s get it down!”

Everything was right with Evan Mulligan’s world. He was driving his new cart down a country lane, enjoying the autumn sunshine and the rhythm of trotting hooves. His chestnut mare, Rocket, was as content as he was. A brisk currying and brushing and a manger full of oats were waiting for her back in Sycamore River. Life was good.

Several weeks earlier Evan had ridden Rocket seven miles to meet Edgar Tilbury, who taught the youngster how to harness the mare and instructed him in driving a pony and trap.

“Don’t go too fast until you get the hang of it, and swing wide on the corners. Remember it’s a two-wheeled cart and you can turn it over pretty easy. As for driving, it’s like a telegraph, son. Those long reins in your hands telegraph your thoughts to your horse; she telegraphs hers back to you. Don’t pull at her or saw on her mouth, just talk to her through your fingers. Ask her to do something new and maybe she won’t like it at first. Horses don’t care much for change; I’m like that myself. Give her time, she’ll come ’round if you’re kind to her.”

Thanks to Rocket, Evan Mulligan felt independent. Many of his friends had their own cars, but the automobile had become problematic. Rocket was not problematic. She was warm and alive and carrying more life within her swelling belly.

“Rocket,” he said fondly. She flicked an ear back in response.

“You and me zooming through space all on our own. Next stop, Mars Colony. What d’ya think of that?”

A shadow passed overhead. Evan glanced up. A single-engine airplane was descending in the direction of Nolan’s Falls. One small silhouette in a wide sky that until recently had been crisscrossed with jet trails. Earlier in the century international terrorism had curtailed air travel, but with massively improved security measures it had been recovering—until the first passenger jet crashed after the onset of the Change. While the wreckage was still smoldering in a field outside of Cleveland the aeronautical world had changed.

Now the only passenger aircraft that dared fly were small private planes constructed with canvas and sizing and relying on human eyes for guidance.

No area of commerce was as vulnerable as the aircraft industry. The malfunctioning of computers was only part of the problem. Flight was one mode of transportation that dare not use improvised parts. Manufacturers were frantically retooling and retrofitting to replace polymeric components wherever possible. “We explored the whole world with ships and sails,” Evan informed the unseen pilot overhead, “and horses. Horses can take you almost anywhere if you’re not in a hurry.”

He was still young; he only viewed life from his own perspective. Evan was not much interested in airplanes, but he harbored a secret fantasy about being one of the first colonists on Mars.

If there was still a chance of going there; if They could stop the Change.

But maybe They caused the Change. And who was “They” anyway?

“Since the Change began Rob’s become paranoid,” Eleanor Bennett complained to her widowed mother, Katharine Richmond. “I mean it, Mom. He thinks the whole thing’s a plot against him personally.”

Because the dishwasher no longer worked the two women were doing a sinkful of dishes by hand. Mrs. Richmond allowed them to pile up when she was alone, and Nell did not often get time to spend with her mother. Rob’s silent but evident disapproval was an obstacle she rarely challenged. She felt guilty about it.

She was wearing her mother’s red-and-white–striped cotton apron in the kitchen of the apartment where she had announced her engagement to Rob with a lot of blushing and a Big Ring. The ring had impressed Nell’s father, who regretted he did not make enough money to give his pretty daughter the finer things in life. The things her beloved Dad had taught her to expect as her due.

“Businesses are switching to wood products these days,” Nell continued as she dried the teak salad bowl. “If RobBenn controlled the timber rights to Daggett’s Woods we’d be set for life. I suspect Rob knows what strings to pull to make it happen, but he’s focused on what is rather than what could be. He’d never listen to me anyway, he’s convinced I have no head for business.”

Nell’s mother sighed and made sympathetic noises; urged her daughter to change her hairstyle and do more home cooking. “Take home some of my cookbooks,” she suggested. “Nothing improves a man’s mood like coming home to the smell of muffins baking.”

“Muffins baking,” Nell muttered under her breath as she left the apartment. “She has no idea.” Wasn’t there an old song about the road getting lonelier and tougher? Nell understood perfectly. Especially the lonely part.

Was Rob lonely too? He must be, he had no gift for making friends. She decided to make one more effort to reach out to him. She didn’t call it “one final effort,” though in the back of her mind she knew it was.

Thankfully her car was still operable. She drove to the Golden Peacock to make a dinner reservation for that evening. Another reconciliation dinner.

Over the years Rob had become increasingly detached from their marriage. Hoping to sever the umbilical connection between her husband and his work, Nell had booked reservations in one restaurant after another. She knew that Rob liked fine dining. Used to like fine dining.

Before the Change Rob had always brought at least one AllCom with him whenever they went out together, as well as a laptop in its case. The moment they sat down he would begin talking, texting, answering emails. Sorry, Cookie, I have to take this call. Send this memo, look up these stats. Sorry, Cookie, sorry.

He wasn’t sorry. He scarcely knew she was there.

All but the old metal AllComs were useless now, and laptops of every age were being thrown away. Nell hoped that without them dinner would be different at the Golden Peacock. If only half of what the new restaurant advertised was true it would be hard to resist the atmosphere. The owners offered Edwardian luxury to create a sense of the past; the safe, pre-Change past. Private booths with lush upholstery and heavy curtains that could be drawn to suit the mood of the diners. Mood music, requested in advance, played by a string quartet. A six-page menu and the best wine list in the state.

For weeks Nell had been dropping hints about the Golden Peacock until finally Rob shouted at her, “For fuck’s sake, get us a reservation at the damned place and stop going on about it!” His voice was so loud the Irish setters had fled the room.

He was at the breaking point: Nell knew it even if he didn’t. Her pity was as great as her love had been, and more tender.