Bad Glass

I was surprised at our destination. I’m not sure what I was expecting—a small, smoky room, maybe, or some type of fortified bunker—but this was not even close. The room was light and airy. The far wall was nothing but glass, providing a view of Monroe Street directly outside. And the wall opposite was glass, too, panels of flawless mirror, reflecting the sun-dappled room. There was a bar bolted to the mirror, and I could imagine ballerinas stretching up and down its length, their pointed toes raised to the sky as they limbered up lithe, supple bodies.

A hint of rose lingered in the air. It was the last remnant of a fleeing ghost. A sense memory: powdered perfume over stale sweat.

“Taylor!”

There was an old, ratty sofa sitting in the corner of the room, facing out toward the massive window. Surrounded by stacks of books and a jumble of discarded clothing, it looked completely out of place on the barren expanse of hardwood floor. Like a pile of trash dropped into the middle of a perfectly manicured garden.

There was an old man struggling up from the low sofa. “Taylor!” he repeated, a wide smile on his face. “My darling girl!” The man was at least sixty-five years old. His hair was salt-and-pepper black, but his temples had faded to pure white. His wide smile was caught in a web of wrinkles, and there were thin lines radiating out from his joy-narrowed eyes.

“I saw you pass by outside,” he said, nodding toward the window. “But I thought you were going to just keep on walking. I thought you were going to give this old man a wide berth.”

Taylor shook her head. A bright smile spread across her face, and she broke into a trot, running up to the old man and sliding smoothly into his arms. I was surprised at the intimacy of the gesture.

In the hallway behind me, Mickey let out a disgusted grunt. Then he turned and left. I heard him scramble back off the windowsill and across the plank to the neighboring building.

“I see Mickey hasn’t changed,” Taylor said, backing out of the old man’s embrace. “Still pissed off … at everyone and everything.”

“Mostly at me, I think,” the man said. “I’m sure he thinks he could do a better job. Thankfully, no one in their right mind would follow where he wants to lead.”

The man noticed me standing on the far side of the room. He flashed a smile and nodded in my direction. “Why don’t you tell your friend to come over here, Taylor. This isn’t a peep show. He’s more than welcome.”

I approached slowly, and Taylor turned her wide smile my way. “Dean, this is Terry. He started up the Homestead. He’s done a lot for me. He … well, I guess he saved my life.”

“I don’t know about that,” the old man said with a smile. It was a relaxed, weary smile. He offered me his hand, and we shook. “It’s not like I did her any favors. She’s strong. I offered her a place to stay, but she more than paid her dues.”

“Modest as ever,” Taylor said. She turned away from the two of us, then crouched down and started to shuffle through the books on the floor. “Agricultural texts? Gardening? You’re still trying to start that farm?”

“That’s the dream,” Terry said. He let the words hang in the air for a second. Then an exhausted sigh escaped his lips. He gave me a nod—an apologetic dismissal—and retreated back to the sofa. Despite his slight frame, the sofa cushions sagged under his weight. It looked like the ratty old thing had reached its last couple of springs. “It’s not going to happen. Nobody’s interested. They’d rather scavenge than farm. Or get what they want from Mama Cass.”

“What happened?” Taylor asked. There was genuine concern in her voice. She sat down on the sofa’s armrest and focused all of her attention on Terry’s exhausted face.

“Nothing. Nothing happened. I figure this is just the way it works. There’s no movement, no change in our situation. The government isn’t opposing us anymore; they aren’t making progress with the city, and they aren’t trying to kick us out. And nothing we do seems to make a difference. The buildings still fall apart. People get tired and lonely. And on occasion they disappear. It’s only natural the Homestead should fall apart. What good is an organization—what good is society—if it can’t keep entropy at bay, if it can’t protect and unite its people?” Terry shook his head. Despite his dire words, the exhausted smile remained on his lips. “There were—what?—fifty people here when you left? There can’t be more than thirty now. Mickey wants to do more to keep them. He suggested a … a recruitment drive. He wants some type of paramilitary force. He wants to raid Mama Cass’s supplies!” He let out a short laugh. “Ha, he even wants to levy taxes!”

“But … the work you do. The support you give …”

“It’s not a bad thing,” Terry replied. “I’m still here. And I’ll help anyone who wants my help. I’ll give them structure, help them get their heads on straight. It’s just … no one seems to want that anymore.”