Chapter Ten
Late October was normally a time for tourists, with roads clogged with traffic and crowded restaurants. The leaves were changing—red,
yellow, and orange amid the evergreens—the festivals were going on and the weather was thankfully turning cool. Previously,
October and early November were among the busiest times of the year, for Sela’s store and elsewhere in the valley.
Not this year. This year there was little or no traffic on the highway, because people seldom drove, using their precious
gasoline only when they had to. Usually there was no place to go, anyway: no doctor or dentist appointments to keep, no eating
out or going to movies. Mostly people walked or rode bicycles, though the community patrol they’d set up—which was still evolving—mostly
rode horses. Not everyone was an accomplished rider, though, and they either learned or walked. For the first couple of weeks
there had been a lot of sore butts and legs.
But, people being people and Southerners being generally gregarious anyway, the valley inhabitants had begun gathering in
their own neighborhoods in the late afternoon, and by the end of October the gatherings were a ritual. On the nicest of days,
those gatherings continued well into the evening. No one had planned them, they’d just happened organically. It had started
with a few neighbors hanging out in the road at the end of a long day, and had grown from there. In a matter of a couple of
weeks, there were small get-togethers all over the valley. They talked about food, power, and how damn dark it got at night.
The days were getting shorter, and many had adjusted their sleep patterns to conserve batteries and candles, going to bed
when it got dark and sleeping—or trying to—until the sun came up. That was going to be more and more difficult, as the nights
got longer.
They also talked about kids, movies, books, and knitting. It was a search for a touch of normal in an abnormal world.
There was more to survival than food and water. People needed people, a sense of community. They’d always had that here but
now it was growing stronger. Last week a kid from the far end of the road had brought his guitar out and strummed a country
song or two while others gathered around and listened. He was merely competent, but competent enough that listening wasn’t
painful. Sela didn’t exactly love country music but she was entranced anyway. It seemed as if it had been years since she’d
heard music, rather than a month. They said music had the power to soothe the savage breast, and while her breast wasn’t particularly
savage she definitely felt soothed, and she wasn’t alone. Everyone enjoyed the music.
Halloween was a particularly beautiful night, clear and mild, with bright stars overhead. A fire was going in a portable fire
pit, because despite the mildness there was something comforting about a fire. People had brought folding lawn chairs or camp
chairs to sit in, or put blankets on the ground. Inspired by the kid, Mike Kilgore also brought his guitar. The two amateur
musicians took turns and sometimes played together, their timing a bit off but who cared? People knew the songs and sometimes
sang a few lines.
This night there were close to thirty people standing or sitting in the middle of the road. Olivia and one of her friends
who had walked over to spend the night were sitting on a blanket with their legs drawn up and their fascinated gazes fixed
on the boy with the guitar. Sela thought the boy was perhaps a year younger than Olivia, but pickings were slim in the neighborhood
and hormones were hormones.
Sela, Carol, and Barb were in camp chairs set up in the middle of the crowd. Barb felt the cold more than they did, so she
was closer to the fire. Sela stretched out her legs and relished the moment of relaxation, because those moments were few
and far between.
Describing the past month as stressful was a massive understatement. She’d never expected to be in this situation, and neither
had anyone else in this gathering, but they were making the best of it. She no longer felt as if she was scrambling every
minute, trying to stay on top of the unknown and doubting her every decision. They had done okay, she and Carol and Barb,
in their marathon canning session and the extra supplies she’d gathered in her frantic shopping expedition.
The new normal was melding with the old normal. Sunday services had started up just last week, with the nearest church making
it clear that everyone was welcome. The preacher had gone to great lengths to make his sermon nondenominational. “God is God,”
he’d said at the beginning. “Everything else is us trying to organize things to our liking. I’m going to concentrate on the
God part, and y’all can argue in the parking lot.”
Most people had laughed, and simply enjoyed resuming services.
For now, with everything that had happened, with all that was still to come, the music made this moment beautiful. Sela sighed
as her mind eased. The music flowed over and through her, and thoughts of tomorrow faded away.
Carol suddenly grinned, slapped the arm of her chair, and jumped up. Weaving her way past the others, she reached the two
musicians and leaned down to whisper to Mike. He grinned, too, whispered a reply, and with a satisfied expression Carol positioned
herself between the two guitarists.
Olivia hissed, “Gran, no!” and covered her face with her hands in the teenage horror of being embarrassed by her elders. She
knew what was coming. Sela did, too, but unlike Olivia she enjoyed it whenever Carol belted out a song.
Carol was no Janis Joplin, but she did have a pretty decent voice and not a shy bone in her body. “Cry Baby” was one of her
favorites, and she did it justice, bending over to launch into the first notes. Mike knew the song, or at least parts of it,
and the kid did his best to follow along with the guitar licks but keeping it soft so Carol’s voice was in the forefront.
Some of the older people laughed and began joining in.
Barb whispered to Sela, “Your aunt is such an old hippie.” She said it with a smile.
“I know.” She looked again at Olivia, who still had her face buried in her hands. She was mortified, though her friend was
grinning and her foot was trying to keep up with the jerky rhythm of the song.
This was community, Sela thought as her aunt belted out an almost-Janis-like note, people supporting people, enjoying one
another’s company at the end of a long day, coming together in whatever ways they could. This was so much better than each
person going into their own homes to watch TV or play video games or read a book.
Maybe stories told around the campfire would come next. She could get into that—listening, of course, not as a storyteller.
The thought of performing in front of other people horrified her.
Unbidden she thought of Ben, up on the mountain all alone except for the dog he wouldn’t even name. She tried not to think about him and how she’d embarrassed herself, but no matter how busy she was or what she was doing, she couldn’t
keep her thoughts under control. She hadn’t seen him since he’d come to tell her about the Livingstons and she was pretty
sure he was now actively avoiding her, which deepened her humiliation. Evidently that didn’t matter because she was still
ambushed by the errant thoughts and longing she couldn’t control.
Worrying about him was pointless. Feeling her heart clench because he was alone was equally useless. He was more than capable
of taking care of himself, and being alone was what he wanted. But what if he got hurt, or sick? He wasn’t Superman, he wasn’t
invulnerable. What if—
Useless. She was wasting her time and energy. He’d made it very clear that he didn’t need anyone. He definitely didn’t need
her.
“Cry Baby” ended, but Carol didn’t return to her seat. She crooked a finger at Olivia and then at Sela. They both shook their
heads, Sela even more vehemently than Olivia.
“You know what I want next,” Carol said devilishly. “And God knows you both know all the words.”
Olivia’s friend elbowed her in the side. “Go on,” the girl said. “You can sing, I’ve heard you!” Reluctantly Olivia got up
and went to stand beside Carol. Her stomach twisting in stage fright, Sela didn’t move. Olivia mouthed Please! at her, and the others around them began encouraging her to get up. Within seconds, her refusal was drawing more attention
than singing in public ever could. She was making a spectacle of herself by digging in her heels. Reluctantly she stood and
headed toward Carol and Olivia. With a giggle, Barb heaved herself up and joined them.
How many times had she sung “Mercedes Benz” in Carol’s living room? When she was a kid, the song had been on a vinyl album
that Carol had played on a record player, before reluctantly succumbing first to a cassette tape and finally a CD. There might
even have been an eight-track tape in there, somewhere. “Mercedes Benz” was Carol’s all-time favorite song, and she was ruthless
in inflicting it on family and visitors alike.
At Carol’s lead, the four of them launched into the song, singing a capella. By the second line, a number of the older people
grouped around were enthusiastically joining in because the song was a lot easier than “Cry Baby.” All the younger folks—basically
anyone under thirty, with Olivia being the exception—were stumped, but entertained.
All through the crowd there was laughter, along with the voices loud and soft, talented and untalented. It seemed that everyone
had allowed the power of the music to wipe away their worries, for a while. The short song was over too soon.
Sela and Olivia returned to their seats, and so did a breathless Carol.
Barb remained standing, and began singing a very different type of song. She’d never been a Joplin fan the way Carol was.
She was, apparently, more into folk music. Joan Baez, maybe; Sela wasn’t sure. Barb had a surprisingly good voice, and her