The Journal: Cracked Earth (29 page)

What are we going to do when those six
hundred people start returning? At least they won’t want to come
back until spring. Maybe, just maybe, things will be back to normal
by then, or semi-normal, or partially normal, or some sort of
normal.

Who said normal is just a setting on the
dryer?

* * *

“I meant to tell you yesterday that I emptied
that first row of wood in the woodshed,” John said over coffee.

“That’s good to know. We are right on
schedule.” I explained how I had calculated my usage, and that each
row inside the shed should last one month. Our wood was in great
shape. Kindling was holding up too. This made me think we need to
do a mid-winter inventory. I had Jason check the gas level, the
chainsaw supplies in the barn, and the chickens’ feed. I had John
help me in the pantries. Mid-afternoon we had a conference to share
data.

“Jason, what are your totals?” I asked. I had
a pretty good idea, but this would also drive home a point about
conservation and about what we had.

“The two metal cans with chick feed are near
empty, and there are three bags each of feed and scratch.”

“Excellent! They’re using only one fifty
pound sack per month of each. Three more months will take us to
spring when they can start to forage again. What else?”

“It looks like there’s six gallons of
Bars-oil, and six large bottles of gas mix for the chainsaws. But,”
he hesitated, looking a bit sheepish, “one drum of gas is really
low, maybe fifteen gallons left. The other drum is still full.”

“We’re not too far off. I think we all
realize we will have to be real stingy on the gas, unless some
miracle happens that we can replenish the supply. Let’s not count
on it though. John, please share with Jason what we added up.”

“I still don’t know how or why you stocked
like you did, but I’m certainly not going to complain,” he said.
“Other than having at least four more months of wood for the stove,
we have thirty rolls of paper towels, nine filters for the water
filter on the washing machine, and seventy-four rolls of toilet
paper.” He chuckled, and then read the rest of the list.

I added, “Please remember, everything we’re
inventorying here might never be replaced. Ever. These are all
disposable stocks.” I looked at these two men in my life
appreciatively. “It’s been almost three months. I think we’re doing
really good. Especially since I had no idea how many of us there
would be.” I smiled at both of them, lingering on John. I think he
actually blushed.

“Next is the food,” I went on. “We’re in
really good shape there. So I think we should celebrate. What would
you like for dinner tonight?”

Without hesitation, they both said,
“Lasagna!” and we all had a good laugh.

* * *

JOURNAL ENTRY: January 31

Jason spent some time over at Don’s today. My
brother and his wife really prefer to be left alone, so I’m not
surprised that we haven’t seen much of them. I’m still glad Jason
went for a visit. I took Jacob for a sled ride, and gave John some
needed alone time.

The short road I live on is a half mile loop,
with both ends connecting to County Road 695. With very little
traffic, I’ve found it a very safe place to walk. With Jacob
sitting happily in the sled, I walked near the main road, though
not up to it. I wanted to stay out of sight from any possible
traffic.

Towing a nine year old up slopes was hard
work. Still, our walk lasted almost an hour as we stopped to listen
to the birds, or for me to catch my breath. We had a pleasant time
together, but I was glad to get back to the warmth of the
stove.

* * *

“Nancy was really excited about what she’s
going to plant this spring in their spot over here,” Jason said
when we got back home from his visit across the road.

“Here, as in
my
garden? They haven’t
even asked me if they can use that space again. I need that area
this year!” I exclaimed.

“Mom, you can’t hurt their feelings. They’re
not only neighbors, they’re family,” Jason admonished me.

“Aren’t I
their
family and neighbor?
What about
my
feelings?” I was stunned at my son’s attitude.
“They’ve never even said thank you for the three years I’ve allowed
them that 12x12 patch. For three years I’ve sacrificed what and how
much
I
want to plant so they could have something, and all
this time the only thing she plants at their place are flowers.
Considering the events of the past couple of months, they need to
adjust their priorities, and I need to plant more food!” I
declared.

I’m tired of being used.

Friday was the third of the food bank days. Only
twelve days since we started, and already things are bare and
running low. I try to remind myself that a healthy portion went to
the Stone Soup Kitchen and they are feeding most of the people.
Nobody is starving. The first box of food that was forced on me I
took to the Soup Kitchen. The second box I left with a grateful Bob
and Kathy. This next box I decided to divide between my two
neighbors, neither of which I’d seen come in to the food bank. It
was a good excuse to check on them.

John and I donned our snowshoes and loaded
the sled with a box filled with half of the supplies, then set out
for Doreen’s house to the north. There were no tracks—vehicle,
human, or animal— on the long, sloped driveway. No smoke rose from
the chimney. No sounds or movement could be heard or seen
whatsoever. When we got near the raised wooden porch I called out.
Somehow knowing there would be no answer, I remembered the only
other time I’d been here. A few years back Tufts had gone missing
for three days, and I was frantically combing the neighborhood for
him. I admired and envied the large wraparound redwood deck that
had a view of both the woods and the wooded drive that crossed our
mutual creek, but my arrival had been less than welcomed. I called
out a second time. We waited a little longer and there was still no
answer, no movement, no sounds.

“What now?” John asked, catching his breath
from the strenuous hike up the hill.

“I think we should try David and Jane on the
other side,” I suggested. “From the looks of it, Doreen must have
left here early on, but I know David has a generator and wood heat.
Chances are good they’re still here.”

My house sits on ten acres, Doreen’s is on
twenty acres to the north, and David’s is on twenty acres to the
south. The distance between my two bordering neighbors isn’t that
great, and it was slow going on snowshoes. The plow has been by
regularly, clearing only the road, not the driveways, and snowshoes
are a necessity. When we walked past our house it struck me how…
lived in
it looked. The drive was cleared of snow, there was
smoke curling out of the stove pipe chimney, and there was evidence
of Jacob’s snow angels everywhere.

Yes, it looked lived in… and happy.

David’s drive wasn’t steep like Doreen’s, but
it was just as long. I could see a heat signature waving around the
smoke stack, and then heard a dog barking inside.

“David! It’s me, Allexa, from next door,” I
called out knowing he had his shotgun already pointed at us.

“What do you want?” he asked with a muffled
voice from behind the closed door.

“We’ve only come to check on you and Jane. I
brought some supplies from town. Do you need any food?”

“Leave it there and go,” he demanded.

“No, David, I won’t do that. We’ve been
neighbors for eight years. You should know by now that I would do
you no harm. I just want to talk to both of you for a few minutes,
that’s all.” When I heard a chain scraping against the door, I
asked, “May we come closer?”

“Are you armed?” he asked.

“Of course we are, David, you know better
than that,” I replied. “You still have nothing to worry about from
us.”

He didn’t move and didn’t answer. “Do you
want this food or not? I can take it back to the food bank if you
don’t, and we won’t bother you and Jane again.”

We kept our hands visible, and soon he
lowered the shotgun. We walked closer and stopped fifteen feet from
the house. The smell kept me from going any further. Unwashed
bodies, cigarette smoke, wet dog, dog crap and dog piss.

“Stay here,” I whispered to John as I reached
for the box. It was light, but full. I took a deep breath and
ventured a few more steps to set the box down. When I stood, I
noticed the antenna tower behind the house.

“David, do you have a ham radio?”

“Yeah, but it don’t work. No gas for the
generator. It needs electricity to power up.”

“I could get you some gas, if you would let
us listen to some real news.”

Jane stepped up behind her husband. She
looked awful. I could see how thin she was even through all of the
layers of clothes that she wore to stay warm. Her hair was matted
and dirty and her movement sent a fresh waft of eye-watering smells
my way.

“Gas just to listen?” David asked warily.

“How long have you been without the
generator? What else does it run?”

“It runs everything, especially the well,”
Jane said. “We ran out of gas around Christmas. Siphoned some from
the car, but there wasn’t much there.”

“You’ve had no water for the past six weeks?”
I asked, astounded. “Why didn’t you ask for help, David? We’re
right next door!”

“Why would you help us? Besides, we got
along. We melted snow,” he answered, “Though it does take a long
time and it’s a lot of work.”

“Don’t I know it,” John muttered.

“Because we’re neighbors, that’s why! You got
an empty gas can? I’ll get you some gas and another box of food
from the pantry. We’ll talk about the radio when we come back.” I
tossed the empty can he handed me into the sled and we left.

When we were up on the road and out of
earshot, John said, “I don’t know if I can go in that house. The
smell…”

“I know, but I’ve got a plan.”

* * *

Back home, I took the other box of supplies
that we had split and added hand soap, shampoo and deodorant from
my own supplies.

“If we give it to them this way, they won’t
know that it didn’t come from the pantry,” I said in answer to
John’s questioning look. “Will you run into town and fill that gas
can?” I found my wallet with the extra gas ration tickets, pulled
out two that were printed with “two gallons” and signed it. “Four
gallons for now and more if this works out.”

John smiled. He says so much when he says
nothing. It tells me he trusts what I’m doing. I don’t know if he
realizes how much that means to me.

* * *

Two hours later we reloaded the sled with the
gas and the other box. Although we didn’t really need our snow
shoes for walking the road, we wore them anyway. David’s drive was
covered with several feet of snow. He won’t be driving out until
after meltdown.

When we approached the house, I called out
again. David opened the door immediately, and again we were
assaulted by the rank odor.

“I wasn’t sure you’d be back,” he said.

“Well, we had to get the gas from Fram’s.
There’s only four gallons here because gas is rationed.” I set the
can in the snow, and then picked up the box. “Here’s more food and
supplies. Since it looks like you won’t be driving out for a while,
I can get your share when I pick up mine, if you want me to do that
for you.”

“That would be great,” he said hesitantly.
“You want me to fire up the ham now?”

“No,” I told him. “Why don’t you use the
gennie to pump water? I’m sure that you and Jane would love to have
a hot shower, get cleaned up, have something to eat and run the
vacuum. We’ll come back tomorrow.” We turned to leave and I glanced
back. “Oh, and David? You’re welcome. Neighbors
do
help each
other.”

* * *

JOURNAL ENTRY: February 7

I waited until the afternoon to go next door
to give David and Jane more time to clean things up. Armed with
surgical masks sprayed with a touch of perfume, John and I made the
trek through the snow to go next door.

When I called out our arrival, it was a
different person that answered the door, so it seemed. David was
shaved, showered and had on clean clothes. He smiled when he opened
the door, though it faded quickly.

* * *

“Come on in, you won’t believe what I’ve been
hearing on the ham,” David said, opening the door wide. We put on
our masks and went inside. I had never been in their home before. A
small mud room blocked the main entrance from the weather, and led
into the living room, which held the woodstove, a now silent flat
screen TV, a couch with a floral sheet pulled over it, various end
tables, and the ham radio set up in a corner. Off to the left was
the small kitchen, made smaller by the battered table and two
mismatched chairs. A hallway was along the outside wall that led to
the bedrooms and bathroom. A pile of dishes was still soaking in
the crowded sink, otherwise the countertops were clear and
clean.

Jane emerged from one of the back rooms and
saw our masks on. There in front of me stood the woman I
remembered. Her shoulder length chestnut brown hair was clean and
brushed, and barely sweeping the dark pink sweater she wore. Her
weight loss was more obvious with how the clean jeans hung on her
hips. She no longer had the matted hair and vacant eyed look.

“What’s with the masks?” she asked.

“I wasn’t sure what we would find in here.
When I got close yesterday, it smelled pretty bad. It’s not my
intention to offend you, but we all do what we gotta do, ya know?
Besides, you probably don’t know about the flu epidemic in Moose
Creek. We just don’t want to take any chances.”