15. Chapter 15
Chapter fifteen
Kate
Better than BOB? Oh, yeah, it sure was. Vibrators and imagination can only do so much, especially when you don’t have any experience to back it up. Until technology comes up with a fully animated, responsive android, there is absolutely no comparison.
If he’d invited me, I could have cheerfully climbed right back in that bed with him. But that wouldn’t be fair to the little girl who’d been riding out the storm alone, with only her pets for company. Now I am coming down from the hormonal high that went with really good sex — good for me, anyway. I have no idea how he felt about it.
I felt…I had no idea how I felt. Limp. Well used, not sore like most of the books said I would be. Bob is good for something, at least. But a battery operated boyfriend does nothing when you are emotional and wanting to be cuddled.
I make a face at him, pick up his underwear and throw them at him. “Better get dressed,” I say, in my best no-nonsense teacher voice. “You don’t want to get caught with it all hanging out if the fire department has to bust us out of here.”
The beast just laughs before carefully standing up, collecting his clothes and heading for the bathroom with only the slightest limp.
Oh, God! His hip. Had I hurt him? I’d been so preoccupied with what I was feeling — and I’d been feeling a lot, and it was amazing — I hadn’t even thought about pressure on his pelvis. “Are you all right?” I ask. “Did I hurt you?”
He pauses at the bathroom door. “Never better. This time was more about you than about me. Next time, we’ll try some variations. How about you?”
I think about making a snarky remark, but decide on the truth. “It was like nothing I’ve ever felt before. Will there be a next time?”
“Only if you want to,” he says gently. “But if you do, I would be happy to oblige.”
With that, he closes the bathroom door. I hear water running, and I suppose he was cleaning up. I look around the cubicle to see if there is anything that needs tidying up, since I’m not sure about leaving it. Cece is visible on the monitor, happily sharing snacks with her pets.
The weather map seems to show the storm center moving off toward the east. The street view displays a lot of storm debris on a glistening pavement below. People are coming out, checking their vehicles, picking up limbs, and doing after-storm assessment.
I do a little after-storm assessment of myself. Not sore, but somehow different. It is almost as if there was some sort of mystical portal and I’d come through it to the other side.
“Daddy? Miss Kate?” Cece’s voice brings me back to Kansas. “Did you check? Is the storm over?”
Charles comes back out of the bathroom, keyes the microphone and says, “It’s mostly over. We can all go out into the main area and have something to eat and stretch a bit. Would you like that?”
“Yes, please!” she says, nodding vigorously. “Gidget used her piddle pad, and it’s stinky!”
Charles keyes the mike off and sighs. “I didn’t think about the dog’s pee stinking,” he admits. “I thought the piddle pads would take care of it.”
I’m amused. He has the oddest gaps in his knowledge. “It’s good that you thought to put some in there. Otherwise, we might have a huge mess to clean up.”
We go out into the central part of the shelter. Charles un-dogged the latch to Cece’s pod and lets her out. The aroma that came out with the little girl isn’t horrible, but it definitely is there.
Charles looks at his daughter thoughtfully. “I think your bug-out room needs an upgrade, Cece. I planned for the cat, but it seems I didn’t plan well enough for Gidget.”
“Mr. Fluffy would like an upgrade, too,” Cece says. “I saw a video of a cat box that cleans and flushes itself. Could we get one of those?”
“I don’t see why not,” Charles says. “Are you going to be a sanitation engineer when you go to space?”
“What’s a sanitation engineer?” Cece asks, struggling with the unfamiliar words.
“It’s a person who puts in bathrooms and sinks,” I explain.
“Nope,” Cece says. “I’m gonna wear a space suit and climb around outside the spaceship so I can fix things and look at the stars up close.”
Charles and I exchange a look. It is both intimate and a little embarrassed, but also amused. We both know that Cece has only the smallest idea of what it meant to be an astronaut. But I am glad that he doesn’t quash her ambition. It says a lot about him that he would encourage her .
Right now, he wrinkles his nose at the odor emanating from Cece’s cozy nest. “I guess we’d better clean this up,” he says. “Didn’t the ventilator fans come on, Cece?”
“I dunno,” Cece says. “I was mostly asleep.”
I nip in and quietly fold the piddle pad in at the corners. It is thoroughly soaked. I look around for any other “mistakes”. The litter box has been used, but there are no other signs of pet messes.
Guilt gnaws at me. Cece had been in here, alone, with animals who had done their best to behave well, while you could not say that Charles and I had been behaving well. Warmth pools in my lower regions as well as shame.
I had been behaving like a high school bimbo in the backseat of a car while my charge was sleeping in a room with animal waste. I should have somehow been in the same room with her, looking after the child, not enjoying the skilled attentions of her father.
And oh, by the heavens, he was skilled! I’d always heard that you would get no pleasure from your first time, but he’d proven that wrong! A horrible part of me wanted to placate Cece with treats, books and toys, then grab her father and dash back to the other pod for a repeat session.
I give my sex-crazed inner self a firm mental slap, back out of the cubicle, and go in search of cleaning supplies. A low cabinet holds everything I need, including fresh kitty litter. Someone had done some planning, at least. Probably Manuela.
Angrily, I strip the sheets off the bed, dropping them in a heap in the central area.
“You don’t have to . . .” Charles starts to say.
I grit my teeth to keep from snarling. “If I don’t, then who will? Pet odor soaks into fabric, especially if it isn’t cleaned right away. What if the storm isn’t over? Do you want Cece to have to put up with this? I think, next time, Gidget needs to come in with us where she will have more room.”
“The staff. . .” Charles begins again, then stops as realization hits him.
I do my best to look amused and wise. “That’s right. I am the staff.”
“I forgot,” he says, sounding a little ashamed. “I’ll find something for us all to eat.”
By the time I have the linens changed on Cece’s bed, fresh litter in the cat box, and piddle pads put down in both cubicles for Gidget (just in case), Charles has found canned soda, chips, and cold luncheon packets for all of us.
Cece is happily telling a story about how her pod flew up in the sky and landed on the moon. “Is this green cheese, Miss Kate?” she asks, waving a small slice of cheddar.
“Nope,” I say, striving for light and cheerful. “That’s aged cheese, which is very good for little girls.”
“Ok,” she says. “Aiken Drum liked green cheese, but his pants were made of haggis, and that doesn’t sound like anything comfortable. What’s a haggis? Is it some kind of wild animal?”
“No,” Charles intervenes before I can think of a child friendly explanation for a dish cooked in a sheep’s stomach. “It’s a kind of oatmeal food that Scots are supposed to like.”
“EW!” Cece exclaims. “Pants made from runny oatmeal. YUCK!”
That makes us all laugh, and we quickly finish up our meal. Just as I stand up to clear away the debris, the network screen sounds the all clear. An announcer comes on, directing people to be careful of fallen electrical wiring and unstable buildings.
Charles opens the outer door, and we go up the steps. Into chaos.
I quickly shoo the cat and dog back into the shelter and close the door on them. One of the office desks is thrust through the wall between Charles’ office and bedroom doors. Late evening sunshine streams through the gap.
Cece clings to her father’s hand, staring around her with big eyes. “What happened, Daddy?”
Terror grips me, remembering the announcer’s cautions about unstable buildings.
“Wait here,” Charles says, transferring Cece’s grip over to me. “Let me take a look around before we do anything.”
I can see the living room, and it seems to be alright. My bedroom door and Cece’s are closed.
As we waited, my phone rings. I start. I don’t even remember putting it in my pocket. I pull it out and answer it.
“Katie!” James’ voice comes from the speakers. “Where have you been? I’ve been trying to call for hours. The weather announcers have been saying that some kind of mega storm went over KC, and that several of the taller buildings were sheared off.”
“We were in the storm shelter at the core of the Agri-Oil building,” I tell him. “I guess we don’t get cell reception there. We’ve just come out to look around, and things seem to be pretty much of a mess.” Or else Charles and I were too busy to pay attention. Another wave of guilt sweeps over me. “What about Mom and Dad?” I ask, feeling even worse that I’d not thought about them or James during the whole storm.
“Fine,” James says. “Busy playing shuffleboard in the Sunset Retirement Village’s shelter when I talked to them. Dad wanted to know about the wheat crop…he picks the weirdest times to be rational.”
My heart sinks. The winter wheat should have been ready for harvest in a week or two. Now, it is probably beaten into the ground by the storm. Farmers in the path of the storm would lose their crops. The price of wheat and bread would sky rocket .
“What about the drains and reservoirs?” I ask, hoping for some good news. “Are they holding out?”
“Looking good,” James replies. “That was one of the projects Dad planned. When the Old Man’s noodle works, it works well.”
Neither of us say what we already know, that we are slowly, inexorably, losing that fine inventor’s mind to the ravages of a neural disease. We are both quiet for a minute.
Cece tugs at my hand. “Is that Mr. James? Tell him I said hi.”
“Cece says hi,” I obediently echo.
Charles comes back down the hall, looking sober. Before my brother can reply, I add, “There’s Charles. Gotta go. Call if whatever.”
“Love you,” James says.
“Love you, too,” I reply and close the connection.
Charles scowls at me. “Who was that?”
“James,” I reply. The speed with which his frown smooths out is almost comical. “He was worried because I didn’t answer my phone.”
Charles smirks. A full-on, satisfied, proud of himself male smirk. Then he got hold of himself and asks, “Is everyone all right?”
“I think so. The wheat fields are flooded.”
“This is a problem?” Charles drops the smirk and looks puzzled.
I nearly sigh, but catch myself. It isn’t his fault that Charles deals more with the bank and industry end of farming.
“Yes,” I explain, “The first wheat crops would be just getting close to harvest. This storm is likely to have destroyed several fields.”
The penny drops. He gets it. “Meaning no wheat to harvest and loss of commodity sales. ”
“No hard wheat for bread,” I affirm. “There are stockpiles, but grain isn’t like gold. You can’t keep it forever.”
“Too right,” Charles agrees. “But you can’t eat gold.”
No telling where this conversation would have gone, but there comes a pounding from the stairwell door.
“Mr. Emory! Mr. Emory, are you there?”
Charles moves to the door, unlocks, and opens it. The day clerk from the front desk stands there. “What is it, Mr. Jeffers?”
“We got a hell of a mess, sir,” the clerk says without preamble. “A Pontiac came through the plate glass of level ten, and that’s put all the elevators out.”
“Anyone hurt?” Charles asks.
The clerk shakes his head. “Those safe rooms worked just like you hoped. We got everyone in and rode out the storm. But that darned car is a 1950s collector’s item made out of real metal, and it clipped one of the main columns. The fail-safes and redundancies are keeping us upright, and the fire extinguishers came on when some of the wiring caught, but we’re as wobbly as a kid’s loose tooth.”
“We’ll have to evacuate.” Charles’ voice takes on a decisive note.
“But where, sir?” The clerk spreads his hands in a gesture of hopelessness. “Most of the high-rises are in worse shape than our building, and the shelters are full.”
In seconds, Kate can see the decisiveness that had brought home Charles’ SEAL units time after time. “We’ll caravan to my country property,” he says. “It’s not far from Olathe, so we should be able to reach it in a day. Two at the most, if the roads or bridges are out.”
“We got nearly 3,000 people in the building, what with staff, regular residents, and guests,” Mr. Jeffers frets. “Not everybody has vehicles. ”
“We’ll use the shuttle buses, and commandeer anyone who doesn’t have a full car,” Charles directs.
“What about social distancing?” Now Mr. Jeffers wrings his hands. With that many people, it is a concern.
“I ordered several cases of masks,” Charles reminds him. “Did they make it?”
Mr. Jeffers nods.
“Then get everyone masked up. Make sure kids or old people aren’t put in with anyone who seems to be sick — tell off one of the shuttle buses for people who aren’t feeling well. Hop to it. If the building has gone unstable, we might not have long.”