Chapter Nine
Sela was trembling as she sat down and watched Ben until he and the young dog were out of sight. She didn’t want to look away
from him, to stop seeing those broad shoulders and the line of his back, the easy, fluid rhythm of his long, muscular legs.
She wanted to call him back, to have him close enough to once again smell the hot maleness of his skin, to touch him.
Holy shit. She couldn’t say she didn’t have any idea what had almost happened because she did, she wasn’t naive, but she’d never before
seen that almost violently hungry expression on a man’s face.
I need to get away from you.
Or . . . what?
He’d have kissed her, and she wasn’t sure they’d have stopped at kissing. She didn’t know if or why she would have put on the brakes, and how likely was it that he would have? Not very, and yet he’d managed to pull himself back into his shell and walk away before anything had gotten started.
Uncertainty seized her. What if he’d left because he didn’t want to get involved with her, and he’d thought she was about to make a suggestion that he’d have to turn down? Her cheeks
burned in retrospective humiliation. Maybe she’d misread his expression; not being naive didn’t mean she couldn’t be mistaken.
She’d never before inspired savage lust in a man, so what made her think something had suddenly changed and a man like Ben
Jernigan would want her?
Sex, yes; men went for casual sex. But what about wanting her, the person, who had nothing special about her? Had he thought she’d be needy, demanding more than he could give, and that
was why he’d bolted? She’d never done casual sex, because she couldn’t let herself be that vulnerable. Her instinct, always,
was to protect herself and attract as little attention as possible.
She gathered both tea glasses and took them inside, washed them in the cold pan of dishwater she prepared every morning. The
mundane chore gave her a little bit of distance, let her step back from what had and hadn’t happened with Ben. There was nothing
she could do to change it. If he was interested, he’d come back. If he wasn’t interested, she’d have to accept that and move
on.
The next morning Sela walked up the road to Carol’s house, for the morning ritual of listening to the nine a.m. radio broadcast. Sometimes she’d go early and have breakfast with them, which these days consisted of a cup of instant coffee
and whatever they’d settled on that day, maybe an apple with peanut butter. Mostly, though, she’d skip breakfast. She wasn’t
hungry early in the day, and she was always acutely aware that every bite they took today was a bite they wouldn’t have when
winter came.
As soon as Sela walked in the door, Carol looked at her, eyebrows raised, and said, “Ben Jernigan walked by yesterday afternoon.
Did you see him?”
“I did.” Helping herself to a cup and the instant coffee, she dipped, poured, and stirred. She still hadn’t told Carol about
the night of the aurora, and didn’t intend to. She might have misled herself about what sitting with Ben could have indicated,
but it was still a memory she cherished and didn’t want to share, or listen to Carol’s comments about Mr. Hot Body. “I was
sitting on the porch.”
“I wonder where he was going,” Carol continued, her tone sly. “He came back by in just a little while.”
Sela ignored Carol’s insinuation that he’d been going to her house. Well, he had, but for a different reason. “He told me the Livingstons, the old couple over near Covemont, needed checking
on. You know them, don’t you?”
“Sure. Jim and Mary Alice. How does he know them? I didn’t think he associated with anyone.”
“I don’t know. Anyway, Mary Alice is on a couple of medications and needs some help managing them and finding substitutions
for when she runs out. I thought after the radio broadcast I’d go by their house and find out exactly what she’s taking, then
talk to the Bouldins about it.” Pat and Helen Bouldin were the herbalist couple she’d met the day of the big cookout.
Carol looked disappointed that Sela didn’t have anything more interesting to say about Ben, but took up her ever-present notebook
and made a dated entry about the Livingstons. That way nothing was forgotten or overlooked.
Olivia came down the stairs and made a face at the breakfast offering, which today was some instant oatmeal, two packets divided
between three—or four—people, and dried prunes. She didn’t protest, though she took only one prune and very little oatmeal.
Barb wasn’t eating much either, but the uneaten oatmeal wouldn’t be thrown away; they’d stir hot water into the leftovers
for lunch. “We need some bread,” she announced. “Toast would be great.” Their ready-made bread supplies were gone, but they
had the ingredients to bake bread, they just hadn’t done it—again, saving supplies for harder times.
“I’ll make some pan biscuits tomorrow morning,” Barb promised. “It won’t be long until we’ll have to keep a fire going, and
we’ll have bread more often.” She smiled, looking inward. “I remember my mama baking bread in the cast-iron skillet, in the
fireplace. I’ve done it a time or two myself. I’m not the hand my mama was with bread, but I can get by.”
“Thanks!” Olivia said fervently, and bent to kiss Barb’s cheek. The older woman flushed with pleasure. Since the CME Barb
sometimes seemed lonely; though she and Carol were great friends, she had no family and the crisis had uprooted her from her
own home. Olivia’s casual gesture meant more than she could imagine, because it made Barb feel useful and treasured.
Sela made a mental note to see if she could trade something for some butter. Some of the people who owned cows were now milking
and churning, and trading the raw milk and fresh butter for other goods. She would stay busy, and not think about Ben.
Breakfast taken care of—or suffered through, in Olivia’s case—they got the radio and left the house, walking up the road to
the highway, then to the big field. They’d done this for the past nine mornings, to listen to the morning broadcast report.
That brief contact with what she now thought of as the “outside world” was a lifeline to them, giving them hope that while
modern normality was still perhaps months in the future, at least it still existed in small pockets. If it existed, it could
be built on, expanded. The news was never good, but some days it was worse than others. There was nothing they could do about
the problems in Knoxville and elsewhere, but it did give them a connection to the rest of the world. They needed that connection,
for as long as they could maintain it.
For the first few days after they began receiving the radio reports, mostly what they’d heard had been about widespread looting,
and a number of deaths due to the loss of electricity in hospitals and nursing homes. After that things had seemed to settle
down, though they were still critical. Sewage and trash buildup had quickly become an issue.
She could only be thankful they were a rural community; if things were that bad in Knoxville, what was it like in the large
cities, like New York and Chicago, with winter bearing down on them? The residents there couldn’t hunt and fish, and the food
supply had likely been used up in the first few days after the grid went down.
Yesterday’s news hadn’t been good at all. Even in Knoxville food was running critically short, which led to more rioting and
looting, as if riots would magically make food appear from thin air. There had been several home invasions, when desperate
people looking for food found undefended houses and forced their way in.
What was most frightening was the realization that most of these incidents were going unreported. The radio announcer could
report only what someone told him; there were no phone calls, no internet alerts, no police blotters. The Knoxville police
force had devolved to a skeleton crew, because most cops had been forced to stay at home to take care of their own families.
There was no one to handle mobs, chase burglars, or investigate break-ins.
Just yesterday Robert Keller, the announcer they’d listened to since the radio waves had settled down, had been in a panic
over a melee in the station parking lot. His voice cracked as he’d delivered the news he had, and he’d warned his listeners
that the generators wouldn’t last much longer, they were almost out of fuel. The other radio stations had already gone dark.
They either hadn’t enough fuel for their generators, or the operators had all fled—or the fuel had been stolen. Keller had
hung on longer than the others, but he was definitely harried and getting more harried. The stress in his voice was increasing
day by day.
Maybe it would be better to stop listening, Sela thought, and spare themselves the constant mental battering of bad news,
but she doubted anyone else would agree with her. Everyone seemed compelled to gather around every morning and listen. What
if there was information about the grid and when it might be repaired? What if something important had happened in the world,
something they really should know about—though how that news would get to a Knoxville radio station, Sela didn’t know.
There were plenty of other concerns. Right now the valley inhabitants were doing okay, but they were in a good time, with
good weather and supplies not yet running low. They were adjusting, coping, improvising. Sela was still mentally holding her
breath, because this good stretch couldn’t last. Someone would get sick, someone would get hurt, people would get in fights—they
were human, after all, and that’s what humans did.
One of Olivia’s friends called out to her and she said, “Here, Gran,” and handed off the radio to Carol before darting over
to join her small group. The kids wanted to hear the broadcast, but they also wanted to socialize.
At one minute till nine, Carol turned on the radio. They were all going by their wristwatches now, those who had them, but
they really had no way of knowing how accurate their watches were. Carol had set hers to the radio on the second day, but