GLENDA THORNDIKE’S ALARM RANG at seven in the morning, but through the fog of her sleep she thought it must have gone off early, because when she opened her eyes it was still dark outside. Then it all came back to her. The shroud. Her body tensed. She reached for Gerry’s side of the bed and, even though it was cold and empty, she left her hand there for a long time.
At last she pulled it away. As she pushed her covers off, she felt a distinct chill in the house. The house should have been warm on a June morning. She should have heard cardinals outside her window—oh, how she loved the song of the cardinal. But it felt like the beginning of winter.
She maneuvered her feet into her slippers—sturdy Cree moccasins Gerry had bought for her last Christmas—pulled on her housecoat, and walked to the window. She drew the sheers aside and looked upward. The sky roiled, stitching itself together in an ever-thickening patchwork of green, light in some places, dark in others, like the smoke from a genie’s bottle—magical and impossible, terrible yet wondrous. She weakened in fear.
She could make out the woods behind the house, and saw a deer nibbling the grass. The deer didn’t seem bothered by the shroud. But the birds. Where were the birds? The feeder should have been Grand Central Station at this time in the morning.
She walked to her dresser and lifted her fone. An expensive device. Gerry had one too. Rented units, because how often did they speak to each other on an interlunar basis? She pressed the automatic redial and the fone beeped through the digits of his number. As usual she got the same infuriating message: Interlunar communications were currently unavailable, they had technicians working on the problem, and they hoped to have service restored shortly. Then she heard a new addition to the message. “Due to the length of the service interruption, AT&T Interlunar will be sending each of its valued customers a twenty-five-dollar gift certificate, redeemable at any Hutton-Lewis Beauty Spa location.” She clicked off in anger. She didn’t want a beauty spa. She wanted her husband.
Missed him.
Had to say she was sorry.
Loved him after all, and wanted him back.
She kicked off her moccasins, let her nightgown drop, peeled off her underthings, walked to the en suite washroom, and got in the shower. She felt as if she were taking a shower in the middle of the night. She washed her hair and body, then got out, dried off, and wrapped a towel turban-style around her hair. She walked into the bedroom naked, and tried the fone again—couldn’t help it—hoping against hope that this would be the minute, the second, the precise moment when the techies at AT&T Interlunar would work their magic and restore her service. But it was nada, nyet, impossible—then the offer of a twenty-five-dollar gift certificate to a Hutton-Lewis Spa.
She clicked off.
She got into her nursing home uniform, blow-dried her hair, and went to wake Jake and Hanna for their third to last day of school.
Jake was out of bed in seconds, happy and excited. He ran to the front window and threw open the curtains. He looked up at the sky. He sank to his knees, as if praying to God, lifted his hands to his cheeks, and said, “Wow,” his voice suffused with a soft and quavering reverence. “It’s gotten a lot thicker overnight, hasn’t it, Mom? Isn’t it cool?”
“Jake, it’s not cool.”
“It’s cool, Mom. I don’t care what you say.”
“Go pour some cornflakes. And go easy on the milk. We have to make it last.”
“I’m going to turn on the TV and see if there’s anything new.”
“There won’t be anything new. Just eat your cornflakes and get ready. You always have to scramble for the bus.”
She continued down the hall and went into Hanna’s room. Hanna had a poster of Beethoven on the wall. An electronic piano rested on a stand below it, and Glenda saw that Hanna’s music was turned to the “Moonlight Sonata.” Hanna’s clarinet sat on its bell next to the piano. Hanna slept deeply. Glenda shook her daughter, who opened her eyes and turned her head. She looked at Glenda as if she were still in a dream, and made an unverbalized noise that was meant to acknowledge her mother in a nonchalant and uninterested way, as if Glenda were the most boring and annoying spectacle in the world. Then she turned over, closed her eyes again, and slipped back into oblivion.
“Hanna, come on. The bus is going to be here soon. You need a shower. Your hair’s a mess.”
“I’ll wear a scarf around my head.”
“Hanna, you need to wash your hair. You should try and get into these habits before you go to college.”
“One more minute?” Hanna bargained.
“Your voice sounds a little rough.”
“I need my puffer.”
And as if she had just now remembered she was afflicted with chronic asthma, Hanna reached out her long, skinny arm so that it double-jointed backward, fumbled for her bronchodilator, put the mouthpiece to her mouth in a greedy gesture, and gave herself three good blasts. Glenda made a mental note. Had to get more. Hanna was running out. But where was the money? And that thing in the sky. Plus the pills. And that thing in the sky. Hanna sat up and coughed—coughed long and hard like she did every morning. With that thing still in the sky.
“That’s it, honey. Get it all up. Then get into the shower. You know the steam does you good.”
“One more minute?” Hanna said between coughs.
“You’ve had a minute.”
“That didn’t count. Give me five more minutes.”
“Let’s not make the bus wait this morning. Come on. Out of bed.” She gripped Hanna’s ankles, playing with her like she was a kid, even though she was sixteen. How did her little Hanna grow so tall? Just like her father. Hanna tried to pull her legs away, but it made her laugh and she finally sat up. She looked around the room, and at last out the window.
“Is it ever dark.”
“I know.”
“I wish Daddy was here. He never should have gone to the Moon.”
“Your dad’s had a rough year.”
“Yes, but he should have taken us with him.”
“The voucher was his from a long time ago. And he needed some time alone.”
“I’ve never been to the Moon. Half the kids in my class have already gone. Why don’t we get to go to the Moon?”
“You know the answer. Get into the shower. And don’t forget to take your asthma pill.”
“I’ve only got two left.”
“I’ll pop by the pharmacy after work.”
“Is Dad going to get a new job?”
“He’s going to worry about that when he gets back.”
“How’s he going to get back, now that the Tarsalans—”
“Hanna, let’s live a day at a time. The bus is going to be here in forty-five minutes.”
She left her daughter and went into the kitchen.
The kitchen windows were big, and the presence of that thing in the sky made itself felt in the hairs on the back of her neck. She lifted Hanna’s pill bottle from the windowsill. Like a good boy, Jake was crunching down his cornflakes. She willed there to be more than two pills in Hanna’s bottle, but willing things was so much magical thinking and, sure enough, only two remained.
She then checked the cupboards for food. Canned stew, soup, vegetables, fruits, and tomato sauce lined the shelves. How long was this thing going to last, and was food going to be a problem, and was she letting her imagination run away with her, like she always did?
She opened the fridge. Stocked full of stuff. But she needed more. People were hoarding, and the grocery stores around Old Hill couldn’t keep up. She heard Hanna getting into the shower. Only where was she going to get the money to buy more groceries? And the fuel cell in the car needed recharging. And the car’s software was due for an update, and how was she going to pay for that? She took a few breaths, trying to calm herself. If only she could get a few more hours at the nursing home; they just might make ends meet if she had more shifts at Cedarvale.
The phone rang, not the interlunar one but the regular one, the one spelled with “ph.” She hurried over, thinking she might miraculously receive information about Gerry, but when she turned on the vidscreen, she saw Louise’s face, sharp, crystal-clear—uncanny what a good transmitting set would do. She was sure Louise saw nothing but a blur.
“Glenda?”
“Hi, Louise.”
“Can you fix your contrast? I can hardly see you.”
Crappy Home Tech brand, fifteen years old; no wonder Louise couldn’t see her. She was sick of having crappy things and living in a crappy house. She pressed the appropriate function key.
“Is that better?”
“You need a new set.”
“Where are you calling from?”
“Trunk Bay.”
“Oh. You’re down there.”
“Have you heard from Gerry yet?”
“No. AT&T Interlunar is still working on the problem.”
“Neil wanted me to phone you. To see how you were doing. Is it dark there yet?”
“You can’t see open sky anymore. The last of it disappeared a few days ago.”
“It’s worrisome, isn’t it?”
“Does Neil have anything to say about it?”
Because surely her genius brother-in-law would save them from all this.
“The Secret Service came for him yesterday,” said Louise. “I imagine he’s been in meetings ever since.”
“Oh … so he’s going to …”
“They’ve drafted him for it.”
“And does he have any ideas … I mean … about what to do?”
“He’s confident he can get rid of it in as little as two weeks. You know Neil.”
“So you think it’ll be over in two weeks?” Her shoulders eased in relief.
“That’s the timetable Neil’s given himself. And you know Neil. How are the kids, by the way? How’s Hanna’s asthma?”
“It always gets worse this time of the year. All the pollen.”
“And Jake’s okay?”
“Jake’s fine. He’s loving all this … this craziness. He thinks it’s cool.”
“Did they give you more hours at the nursing home yet?”
She looked away. “The lady who was supposed to leave might not leave now.”
“Oh … because if you need a little help … and I don’t want you to think of it as charity … but with Gerry stuck on the Moon … Neil and I just thought … you know, if you needed a little extra help to tide you over, we’d be happy to …”
Glenda’s lower lip stiffened. “No … I think I can manage.” Glenda, just cave in, swallow your pride, you need the money. “I have a little put away for emergencies.” Lies, lies, lies.
“And you’ve got enough to pay for Hanna’s medicine?”
“Oh, yes … of course.” Shift away from your own neediness, Glenda. Focus on kids. “How are the girls, Louise?”
“We’re always worried about Morgan.”
“Morgan’s a sweetheart.”
“I just wish she’d learn how to read. She’s ten years old. She should know how to read by now.”
“Kids have their own schedules for that kind of thing.”
“Glenda … if you get into trouble … or if this thing goes on for any length of time and you need some help, just call us. Don’t be proud. I can’t stand the thought of you and your kids going without.”
“We’ll be fine, Louise. Really we will.”
But as she disconnected the call, she felt worried again. Why did she have this senseless pride? Why was it so important for her to show Neil and Louise that she and Gerry could make a go of it, and that they could cope in the face of adversity? She pushed these thoughts from her mind, as they were the same old ones she always had, nothing new. Better to take a positive outlook; this whole thing was going to blow over, she was going to get more hours at the nursing home, Gerry was going to come home from the Moon and find a great job, and they would work it out and have the same kind of picture-book marriage Louise and Neil did.
But in the meantime …
In the meantime.
She went back to the cupboard and looked at the food. She had a vision. Of a green world turning brown. Of food disappearing. Of massive famine.
Surely it wouldn’t come to that.
But if it did …
She walked to the basement door, opened it, went downstairs, glanced around at the junk, and spied Jake’s old toy box, red and yellow, made of chipboard, with a clown face painted on the front. The basement light went on as she passed the sensor. She lifted the antique, rolled-up maps, the ones Gerry had collected over the years—not because he used them, just because he liked them—opened the toy box, and saw a lot of action figures, toy vehicles, and a toy xylophone. She emptied the toys on the floor, took the box upstairs, and placed it on the counter.
“That’s my toy box,” said Jake.
“Do you mind if I use it?”
“What do you need it for?”
“I’m going to bury some treasure. You can help, if you get ready in time.”
“Mom, we don’t have any treasure. We’re broke.”
“I think we should bury some food.”
“Why?”
“Just in case we need it.”
“Why don’t we keep the food in the cupboard, where it belongs?”
“Because I think we should have a backup cache.”
She took cans and jars of nonperishable food from the cupboard and placed them in the toy box. She glanced over her shoulder and saw Jake staring at her, his cornflakes forgotten, a hint of fear tracing apprehension on his smooth young face.
“Why bury food?” he asked.
“Just in case things get bad.”
“Things won’t get bad, Mom. You just have to believe that they won’t.”
“You sound like your father.”
“You don’t have to bury food.”
“I’m the mother. It’s my job to look after you. And I take the job seriously.”
“But why bury food?”
“Because I don’t want anybody coming into the house and stealing it.”
“Why would they steal it?”
“Jake, how many times do I have to tell you? There are bad people in the world. And if bad people get desperate, they become extra bad. If this shroud lasts any length of time, everything’s going to stop growing and food’s going to run out. You think anything’s going to grow with that thing up in the sky? Plants need light to grow. Two weeks of total darkness, and that’s it, there goes next year’s crop.”
“Uncle Neil will talk to the president before that happens.”
“If you need me, I’ll be in the backyard.”
She finished stocking the toy box with jarred and canned foods, and was surprised by how heavy it was once she lifted it. She went out the back door and ventured into the yard. The green sheet of the shroud mottled its way from horizon to horizon. A few clouds floated beneath it. The green was so dark in spots that it verged on black. A raccoon lumbered by at the end of the yard and disappeared into the bushes, all mixed up about night and day.
She carried the box into the woods and found a spot among the sycamores. The leaves on the trees rustled in a cool breeze—too cool for this time of the year. How strange the trees looked, silhouetted against that green sky. She put the box down, walked back to the toolshed, and got the spade. She carried it to the spot between the sycamores, broke the earth, and dug.
The earth smelled rich with living things. She dug some more and, in digging, knew she had made an admission to herself. This wasn’t like the regular and small disasters that befell people on a daily basis, making their lives miserable for a while, then finally drifting away like a bad dream. This was the Apocalypse. And she wanted food for when the Apocalypse finally came.
She arrived for her short morning shift at the Cedarvale Nursing Home and Long-Term Care Facility an hour later. Old people played chess in the hallways, the lights were up bright, and the inmates were dressed in sweaters or jackets and enjoying themselves, as if the shroud were cause for celebration. She nodded a polite hello to the elderly volunteers in the information kiosk, passed the coffee stand, continued down the hall to Section H, climbed the stairs, and finally reached the Palliative Care Department, where people went to die. She waved to Elma and Karen, two nurse-receptionists, but they were too busy with the phones and didn’t notice her pass. Didn’t matter. Had to speak to her supervisor, and speak to him fast.
She found Whit, a tall black man, at his desk going over the master schedule.
“You too?” he said.
“Pardon?”
“Everybody’s asking for time off.”
“No … I don’t want time off. If you need me to work a few extra hours …”
“I just might.” He motioned out the window. “Everybody’s concerned about the weather.”
She looked out the window and saw the shroud moving across the sky like a green shadow.
“You knew my husband was stuck on the Moon?”
“You were saying.”
“And that the university let him go?”
“That’s tough. I’m sorry about that, Glenda.”
“It’s just that I’m … I’m running a bit short. And Hanna’s got her asthma prescription to fill. And I don’t know what the policy is, but I just thought if I could … if you could give me an advance on my pay. Just to tide me over the next couple of days.”
She hated this, begging for money. But better she beg Whit than Neil and Louise. Whit looked to one side and his forehead creased. He took a deep breath and sighed, then glanced up at her with sympathetic brown eyes.
“It’s all automatic, Glenda. Payroll won’t even accept hours worked—not from me, not from any supervisor—till the Thursday after the pay period ends.”
Her lips tightened in irritation. “And there’s not some special form you can e-mail them?”
“You have nothing in the bank?”
“I live paycheck to paycheck, Whit. That’s the way it is.”
“How much do you need?”
“Enough to buy Hanna’s medicine and some extra food.”
“Will two hundred dollars do?”
“I was hoping for three.”
“I could make three.” He took out his wallet.
She was disarmed by Whit’s generosity. “Whit, I can’t take your money.”
He withdrew a touch-sensitive cash chit, keyed in the appropriate amount, and handed it over. “I don’t want your kids suffering, Glenda. You can pay me back whenever. But if you’re looking for groceries, you may have to go all the way to Raleigh. Dee was telling me there’s nothing around here. The shelves are bare. People are hoarding.”
“So I heard. I plan to make the trip after work.”
“Then take my money, and think nothing of it.”