The End Is Now

Ray pulled onto Cardiff Drive, glanced at the envelope in the passenger seat to confirm that he was looking for eleven fifty-seven Cardiff. He slowed in front of Helen Anderson’s house. It was smaller than the others, with sloping roofs and an alpine feel to it. Two big trees blocked much of the front, and the gardens and shrubbery around it were lush to the point of being overgrown. Wondering what the hell he was doing, Ray turned in and rode up the long driveway.

He took a few whooshing breaths at her front door, shifted from foot to foot. Finally he reached up and rang the doorbell.

It occurred to him that it might not be Helen Anderson who answered. As far as he knew she wasn’t seeing anyone. (And if anyone would know such a thing, it was Ray, because he read everything he could find about her online.) But what if a friend, or a housekeeper answered?

A lock clattered; the door opened six inches until a chain inside snapped taut. Helen Anderson’s face appeared in the crack. She was barely as tall as his shoulder. He’d known she was five-four, but somehow hadn’t realized how small that was.

“Yes?” Her hair was short and unkempt. She was wearing no makeup. She was beautiful, her eyes the light gray of misty mountaintops.

“Miss Anderson, my name is Ray Parrot.” His tongue clicked off the roof of his dry mouth. “I—” Suddenly the words he’d rehearsed seemed foolish. I’m your biggest fan? He couldn’t say that. “I’ve come to see if you need help.”

Helen Anderson tilted her head. “Do I know you?”

“No—I’m an admirer of your work.”

Helen Anderson gently closed the door. Ray waited, hoping to hear the chain rattle so she could open it further. Instead, he heard receding footsteps.

He waited a few minutes, then headed down the steps, his face burning. He felt like such an idiot. Had he really thought Helen Anderson was going to swing her door open to a complete stranger, maybe invite him in for tea?

“Excuse me?”

Ray turned. Helen Anderson was on her stoop in a blue sweater and jeans.

“Yes?” He took a step toward her, paused. “I’m sorry. It was rude of me to show up on your doorstep like this.”

“No, I’m the rude one. As usual. I don’t need any help, but, thank you for asking. That was kind of you.”

Ray nodded. “You’re going to ride it out in your home?”

Helen smiled. It was not her dazzling Batgirl smile, but the saddest, most heartbreaking smile he’d ever seen. “Something like that.”

“You have enough food? Water?”

She closed her eyes for a second. “More than enough.”

“Well, good luck, then.”

When Ray got to the end of the driveway, he put the car in park and stared at Helen Anderson’s mailbox. What now? Try to get to Omaha, where his sister lived? The National Guard was shooting refugees on sight in Nebraska and the rest of the Midwest.

What had she meant by Something like that? It was a peculiar reply, especially paired with that sad smile. Ray wondered if she meant she was going to start drinking again. Helen Anderson was a recovered alcoholic, sober twenty years, a vocal supporter of Alcoholics Anonymous. Ray couldn’t blame her for falling off the wagon at this particular juncture. If he’d ever stopped drinking he’d be leaping off the wagon.

There was something about her answer, though. Something about her whole demeanor. She hadn’t been scared; she’d been sad.

Ray headed back up the driveway on foot.

This time when Helen opened the door, there was no chain.

Ray held up both hands, palms out. “I’m so sorry to bother you again, Miss Anderson, and feel free to slam this door in my face, but I’m worried that maybe you’re not all right.”

Helen raised her eyebrows. “Excuse me?”

“When we spoke a minute ago, you didn’t back away from the door like you were afraid to catch the virus from me. You just seemed sad.”

Helen swept a stray hair out of her face, folded her arms. “Well, Ray, I’ll let you in on a little secret. I am sad. I’ve been sad for a long time.”

Ray nodded slowly. “When I asked if you were going to ride this out at home, you said, ‘Something like that.’”

Helen half-turned, looked off into the trees. She was fifty-eight years old. Ray could see those years in the lines under her eyes, the loose skin under her chin.

“I came back to make sure you’re not going to hurt yourself.”

Batgirl’s eyes locked on his. “How could you possibly—” she stammered. “A complete stranger, at my door on this particular day, coming to see if I’m okay.” Helen pressed her forehead. “You could have come yesterday, or tomorrow. Even two hours from now.” She studied his face, shaking her head.

Finally, she swung the door open. “Come on in, Ray.”

His mind reeling, Ray followed Helen Anderson into her house, through a high-ceilinged living room, into a spacious kitchen with black marble countertops.