TELEVISION WOULD HAVE BEEN PALLIATIVE. TELEVISION would have stunned them, entertained them, informed them or helped them forget. Instead: the three of them sitting around a television that showed them nothing, the pleasant orchestra of the rain against skylight, roof, deck, canvas umbrella, treetop, and the clatter of Rose—“I can do it by myself!”—in the kitchen, and then the chemical scent of her cake from a box, puffing up in the gas oven.
“We need to fill the bathtubs.” Amanda wasn’t sure what was required. She was guessing.
“Fill the bathtubs?” Clay took it for a figure of speech.
She lowered her voice. “In case—the water.”
“Does the water not run if the power goes out?” Clay had no idea.
It did not. The next day, or the day after that, certainly the day following that one, some residents of the uppermost apartments in Manhattan would fall into the delirium that presaged their eventual dehydration. “I think that’s right. An electric pump fills the reservoir. So if the power goes, the water does too.” G. H. marveled that their power still held on. He credited the well-made little house, even though he knew that had nothing to do with it.
“Do you think the power is going to go out?” Clay thought the day—the smell of yellow sponge, the percussion of the rain—seemed almost unnervingly normal.
“It goes out in storms, doesn’t it? Like, downed branches? And if there’s something wrong in the city. And then that noise, whatever that was? I think we’re lucky that it’s still on, but maybe we shouldn’t push our luck.” Amanda looked at her husband. “Go!”
Clay got up and went to do as entreated, without mentioning the fact that they weren’t his tubs and it wasn’t his water.
Amanda leaned forward in her seat, toward G. H. across from her. “There’s no thunder. No lightning, even. Just rain.”
“I didn’t really think it was thunder anyway.”
“So what was it?” She was whispering because she did not want Rose to hear. She did not think the girl stupid, she just thought she might protect her.
“I wish I knew.”
“What are we doing?”
“I’m waiting for the cake your daughter is baking.”
“Should we leave?” She looked at the older man like he was the father she had never had, the one she could trust for sound advice. “Wouldn’t we be better—safer—at home, in the city, around other people?”
“I don’t know.”
“I would feel better if I just knew what was happening.” Amanda looked toward the hall, could hear the plash of water in the bathtub. These words were not true, but she did not know that.
Clay returned, wiping hands on shorts. “That’s done.”
“There’s a tub downstairs. I’ll do the same.” G. H. nodded his thanks.
“So there’s that.” Amanda was trying to convince herself. “We have some water. And we don’t even need it. Maybe we won’t at all.”
“Better to be prepared,” Clay agreed.
“Do you think we should go home?” Amanda looked at her husband.
“Or we can just go back to town tomorrow? Or go for the first time,” G. H. corrected himself.
“I’m sorry.” Clay put his hands on his knees. The gesture was sheepish.
“What?” Amanda asked.
“I should have— I heard the noise and I came back, I was worried. But! I didn’t see any cars.” Clay did not tell them about the woman. He wondered if she was out in the rain.
“I thought you were— I didn’t know what had happened to you.”
G. H. was understanding. “You see no cars a lot of the time. It depends on the time of year, I guess. But it’s quiet. That’s why we moved here in the first place.”
“I think we should just sit tight.” Clay didn’t want to go back onto those confounding roads.
“How can you say that?” Amanda asked. Parenthood required pretending bravado, derring-do, courage, conviction. It was just instinct, it was just love.
“It’s pouring. Maybe it’s not the best idea to trek out in a storm.”
“Fine. But tomorrow.” Amanda was prompting him.
“We’ll go to town,” Clay said. “Then we can—decide. If the power is out in the city maybe we should wait things out.”
“Here?” They did have the lease. That didn’t seem to matter as much. Amanda would prepare to demonstrate her faith. She’d pack up their things, be ready to leave. It was a statement of purpose.
“Tomorrow. Clay, you and me, we’ll go in the morning. I know the way.” G. H. didn’t believe Clay’s story, and he was right not to. “Then we’ll see where we are after that. If there’s power, if there’s a problem, what that noise was. We’ll know more, and once we know more, we can decide the best thing to do.” He looked up at the girl approaching the adults. G. H. felt the same urge Amanda had. “It smells delicious in here.” He said it jauntily but meant it sincerely.
“It just needs to cool before I frost it.”
“It’s done already?” Amanda tried to determine the time. “We should save it for after dinner.”
“I made layers, so it bakes faster. Two little cakes instead of one big one. I wish I had things to decorate it. Sprinkles and stuff.”
“You might want to look in the pantry. Go ask Mrs. Washington to show you where she keeps all the baking things. I wouldn’t be surprised if we had some supplies on hand.” The girl was nothing like his daughter, but naturally that was who he thought of.
“I should get something together for dinner.” Clay thought it atonement for his earlier failure. He’d filled the tubs, he’d feed them dinner, he’d prove his value. “Rose, before you get into the cake decorating, let’s tidy up the kitchen.”
“Where’s Archie?” Amanda wanted the children out of sight but could not get them out of mind.
Clay shrugged. “Maybe he’s napping.”
“I should get him up.” There was that danger, she knew, in napping too late—the grogginess nothing would dispel. As a toddler, he’d wake with his face creased from the bedding, red from the exertion of rest, grumpy and unable to do more than pout for at least ten minutes. She offered G. H. an “Excuse me,” then went to the boy’s door. Amanda knocked, because teenagers needed the respect of that first (she’d seen some things), then pushed the door open, saying his name.
The boy did not stir, did not seem to register her presence.
“Archie?” She could see his shape, twisted in the blankets. “Honey, are you sleeping?”
He said nothing, if he heard her, so Amanda pulled the covers from his face, revealing his hair, in glorious disarray, tendrils this way and that like the roots of an old tree. She smoothed his locks, a palm on his forehead by reflex. Was he warm from fever or warm from slumber? “Archie?”
He opened his eyes, not blinking; asleep and then not. He looked at his mother, but she did not come into focus.
“Archie? Are you feeling okay?”
He exhaled slowly, a long and tremulous breath. He did not know where he was, he did not understand what was happening. He sat up, this movement abrupt too. He opened his mouth, not to speak, but to move his jaw, which hurt, or of which he was aware, in some way that seemed new or different or wrong. “I don’t know.”
“What do you mean, you don’t know?” She pulled the duvet back, revealing his thin frame, releasing the radiant heat of his body, so powerful she could feel it without laying hands on him. “Archie?”
He made a sound, like a hum. He leaned forward and vomited onto his own lap.