Chapter 21
TWENTY-ONE
Michael Duart’s “town hall”—his term—is in the gym, where most of the social events have been held, but this meeting doesn’t have the same indifferent amiability to it. As I walk in with Mattie—Ruby and Phoebe stayed behind with Daniel, and Sam and Kyle are going to meet us there—I feel the tension like an electric hum in the air. People are starting to feel angry, and they want answers.
Mattie looks around for Kyle—I haven’t asked her about that relationship, but I have the maternal gut instinct that something is going on, or at least could be—while I glance around for Sam. Something in me judders to a shocked halt when I see him in earnest conversation with none other than Nicole Stratton, their heads bent close together, Sam gesturing with what looks from across the room like anxious determination.
It’s so incongruous, so weird , that for a second I just stare. Was I aware they knew each other? I knew Sam knew Ben from basketball, but Nicole? Why would they talk to each other like this, urgently and secretively?
Mattie heads off to join Kyle, leaving me alone, wondering where to go. I’ve been at the NBSRC for three months now, but I still haven’t grown close to anyone. Mattie has a circle of girls she hangs out with; even Ruby has made a few buddies. Sam’s got his basketball guys along with Kyle, and Daniel talks regularly with Tom; I’ve seen Tom clap him on the shoulder, smiling and nodding.
As for me? I make chitchat with the other kitchen workers during my shift, and I sometimes exchange barbs or jokes with Nicole, but that’s it. I won’t be sad to leave here, I think suddenly, and then I wonder why I’m thinking that way, almost as if I’m about to go.
Michael Duart comes to the front of the gym, and I take a seat in one of the folding chairs by myself. Mattie is sitting with Kyle, and Sam and Nicole have both disappeared. I can’t make sense of that, and I’m not sure I want to. I focus on Michael Duart, and his so-called spin.
He starts off by welcoming us all as if we’re at a dinner party or a corporate meeting, or maybe a cross between the two, introducing himself and his “team”—that’s when I see that William Stratton is sitting at the top table, flashing everyone a toothy smile, and the sight of him makes me miss some of Duart’s smooth-sounding intro, but I pay attention when he talks about radiation levels, and how we all need to stay at the NBSRC for “the foreseeable future.”
That’s his plan? And are the radiation levels really that bad? I’m filled with both unease and doubt. If they’re that bad, why aren’t we in the underground complex that’s meant to be the big draw of this place, where we can definitely be safe?
Just then, someone asks that question out loud. His voice is strident without being aggressive, but Michael Duart’s mouth purses like he’s annoyed.
“The underground complex isn’t yet ready for habitation,” he explains in a voice that I think is meant to sound careful but comes across as prim. “And you can be assured that we are monitoring radiation levels closely. At the moment, the entire North Bay area is at acceptable levels, but outside of this area…” He trails off ominously.
“So you think that might change?” someone else asks—a dark-haired woman, sounding anxious, her fingers knotted together.
“It is impossible to say. Of course, levels of radiation dissipate over time, so we are hopeful that in a few months, maybe a little longer, other regions nearby will be habitable again, including areas as close as Barrie.”
Barrie is just north of Toronto, about two hundred miles south of here, with a population of maybe one hundred fifty thousand. Or at least it was , but now? Barrie is less than one hundred miles from Toronto. Maybe everyone there has already died.
A murmur of speculation ripples through the crowd, and Duart holds up a hand to forestall any more questions. “The important thing to remember,” he states firmly, “is that the North Bay Survival and Resettlement Center is the safest place for all of you to be. It’s understandable that some of you might be feeling anxious or even suspicious about matters, especially in regard to recent events, and a few individuals’ flagrant disregard of our clearly set out rules.” He clears his throat. “These rules have been put in place for the safety of everyone at the Center, and for the efficient running of the site. As soon as we start relaxing rules, we could be dealing with a whole host of problems that could ultimately endanger everyone here, especially when you consider what the risks and consequences truly are.” He pauses for effect, his gaze moving slowly around the room as if to emphasize just what we’re up against—total mass destruction of civilization as we know it.
A few more questions are asked, but already these are humbler, almost apologetic. The mood has shifted, and Michael Duart’s smooth manner has won the day .
It’s only later, when we’re all back at the house, that I find out more.
“I think the radiation levels are fine all around here,” Sam confesses, sounding unhappy about it. “Guys in the warehouse crew are going out all the time to get stuff, and I know they’ve gone as far as the Georgian Bay, and Port McNicoll. That’s not that far from Barrie.”
“Why is he saying that, then?” Mattie demands.
“To keep us compliant,” I venture hesitantly. “If everyone’s afraid of radiation, they’re more likely to do what they’re told, aren’t they?”
“I don’t think he’s a bad guy,” Sam continues. “Duart, I mean. I just think he likes being in charge of this place. The next step…it’s a big one. It’s got to be scary, figuring out just what that is, and when and how to take it.”
“And what about the underground complex?” Mattie asks. “Do you think it’s really not fit for habitation yet?”
“It must be,” Kyle chimes in, surprising us, “because Duart and his guys are living in it. I see them come out in the morning when I’m heading to my shift.”
“So, are the radiation levels okay?” Mattie wonders aloud.
“Maybe it’s just a precaution,” Sam says with a shrug.
Or maybe Michael Duart wants to be behind a three-foot-wide steel door if anything kicks off. I certainly would.
The town hall meeting seems to have calmed down the general mood at least a little bit, and the mutters subside to murmurs without any more evictions or, really, behavior that could lead to evictions. And yet something has changed in me—shifted or hardened, I don’t know which, but there’s a growing part of me that doesn’t want to have killed an innocent man for a life of this.
I think of that man more than I’d like to; I took his photo from the truck when we first arrived, slipped it into my pocket without even considering what I was doing—or why. Now, months later, I find myself taking it out and studying it for clues, as if the faces of his family will somehow tell me what sort of man he was—or, really, he wasn’t.
I try to think back to that moment when I pulled the trigger, but it’s such a blur of adrenaline and fear that I find I can’t remember anything about it at all—I’m only remembering the last time I remembered, and so its shape becomes more damning every time I let my mind linger on it. Soon I’ll have convinced myself he was a saint.
One evening in November, just after we’ve had our first snow, a dusting of two inches that thankfully melted by mid-morning, I end up in the chapel, open for private prayer but only used for Sunday services; I’ve seen only a handful of people attending, including Tom and his family. The small sanctuary with its blue carpet—the same as in our house—smells of dust and old hymnals. I’m not sure why I’m there, only that I found my way without even knowing where I was going.
I come to sit in a wooden pew, and I take the crumpled photograph out of my pocket. I’m not going to cry; I feel too empty for that. The months stretch on in front of me, and I don’t see anything becoming different, at least not in a good way. There are a lot of things I’m not ready to think about—the time Mattie is spending with Kyle and what that might mean, Sam’s relationship with Nicole, whatever that is, and how unhappy he seems, his face set in discontented lines when no one is looking. Ruby, who is growing up without getting any bolder or louder, and Phoebe, a motherless child I’m learning to love and yet who will always be my responsibility, a prospect that daunts me.
And Daniel. Daniel, who now goes to bed right after dinner, and who seems as if he is drifting through his days, but who, last night, rolled over in bed and, without warning, held on to me tightly, burying his face in my hair. Neither of us said a word.
As I sit in that empty pew, I bow my head. I’m not sure if I’m praying or just being silent, but in any case no words come. Suddenly, I think of my father, his affable smile as he would proclaim in the manner of someone declaring a self-evident truth, “Alex, you’ve just got to trust. There’s nothing you can do about it anyway, so you might as well trust.”
I know, Dad, but trust what? And how?
I open my eyes and my gaze falls on a dusty Bible under the pew in front of me. I lean down to slide it out and let it fall open—to Psalm118, which I skim disinterestedly. Give thanks to the Lord, for He is good.
Yeah, right.
I leaf through a few more pages, and it isn’t until it falls open at Habakkuk that I realize that’s what I’ve been looking for all along. Did some former Sunday School self remember where it was? It’s a short book, only a few pages, and so it doesn’t take me long to find the verse the man I killed had written on an index card.
Though the fig tree does not bud and there are no grapes on the vines, though the olive crop fails and the fields produce no food, though there are no sheep in the pen and no cattle in the stalls, yet I will rejoice in the Lord, I will be joyful in God my Savior.
The Bible falls closed, nearly slipping out of my hand, as I bow my head and close my eyes. I don’t pray because I still have no words, no thoughts, no semblance of any coherent offering to a deity, or to anyone else for that matter. I don’t cry because I’m empty inside, too weary and numb to summon emotion of any kind. I simply sit there, my head bowed as the chapel stretches all around me, quiet and dusty and dark, and let the words reverberate through me, echoing emptily inside .
And yet…
And yet. And yet. And yet.
They are words of hope or maybe just defiance, words that can be so hard and yet necessary to say. And yet I can choose something different. Something hopeful. Something more than the NBSRC has to offer, even if at this moment I have no idea what that could possibly be. Even if so much in my life feels alarmingly precious, precarious, and fragile—my children. My husband .
And yet.
Is this the start of something? Is this when I find my resolve, steel my spine, and stride forward into something better? It doesn’t feel that way as I close the Bible and slip it back under the pew. I just feel as weary as I ever have, but I hold on to that flicker of something stronger as I leave the empty chapel, closing the door quietly behind me.
It’s dark and already below freezing, even though it isn’t much past six at night. Curfew was moved to seven o’clock during what had once been daylight savings—could we really mark time that way anymore?—ostensibly to conserve electricity. No one protested much; those mutters really have died out now. We’re all too afraid, or maybe we’re just too tired.
This, I think, is how dictatorships start. With the promise of safety, of a little bit of comfort, and everyone’s weary indifference to anything else.
And yet, as I walk through the quiet darkness back to my little house, those words continue to reverberate through me.
And yet. And yet. And yet I will give thanks, I will try, I will persevere, I will prevail. Admittedly, that is something of a loose paraphrase of a sacred text, but still. I feel it. I want it. Not just for myself, or, really, not for myself at all, but for Daniel, who is already asleep. For Sam, who seems so unhappy and still won’t look at me. For Mattie, who is defiantly making a life for herself, one that I’m pretty sure includes Kyle, who I’m also trying for. For Ruby, who in her own quiet way is incredibly strong. For Phoebe, the silent ghost-child I never expected to love.
For all of them, I want to make something of our lives, something more than this, something that isn’t this.
The realization fires through me, gives me even more of a sense of purpose. My stride quickens, my heart rate too. I have no idea what I’m planning, but, for the first time in a long while, it feels like something.
When I get back to the house, I let myself in quietly, not wanting to disturb Daniel, even though it’s just before seven at night, hardly late. Mattie flies toward me.
“Mom.” She sounds accusing, afraid, and angry all at once. So typically my daughter.
“What is it?” I ask, keeping my voice light.
“Mom, it’s serious,” she exclaims, like a reprimand. “Something’s happened. Something bad.”
She laces her fingers together, knuckles white. From behind her, Kyle hovers, pale-faced and as looking as anxious as I’ve ever seen him. For a second, I’m reminded of the pathetic little man-child we encountered nearly a year ago, in Corville, and yet he’s become so much more than that.
“What’s happened?” I ask. Even now, I’m still expecting some variation on a teenaged drama, which, considering the world we live in, is both foolish and naive. Maybe the only way of getting through moments like these is to not always expect the worst.
“It’s Sam,” Mattie says, and my stomach hollows out.
After the fights and booze fests in the warehouse, I can hardly bear to think what might have happened. “What…”
“Come on.” She tugs my hand, and I frown.
“Mattie, it’s after curfew. And what about Phoebe?—”
“She’s asleep, and Dad and Ruby are both here. Come on, Mom. This is serious . ”
With deepening apprehension, I let myself be tugged outside and along the road. I have no idea where we’re going, but it turns out it’s not that far—a narrower road, little more than an alley between two anonymous-looking buildings, heading toward the mess hall.
In the dark, it takes me a moment to adjust to what I’m seeing—two shapes, one crouched over another lying supine on the ground. The first is my son Sam, looking terrified. The second is William Stratton, looking dead.