The End Is Now

The trains are still running on the coasts, in the population centers. There’s other news, too, but trains hearten me more than the woman who tells me that CDC teams are working across the country, or the guy who came all the way from Galveston who says that the ports are re-opening.

If there are trains, then there’s infrastructure. And if there’s infrastructure, then you and Casey probably have food and water.

We’re going to be all right.

* * *

Asset rides in a cattle car from L.A. to San Diego, and her fare costs more than mine. I pay it gladly; I won’t need the ammunition where I’m going. When I get off the train in my hometown, I can’t believe how quiet it is. The smell of the sea, the coolness of the air, the palm and coral trees swaying beside the streets.

No cars. No airplanes. Just pedestrians and a few carriage horses repurposed for dray.

I walk through the streets slowly, six miles home. From the bowl of the city up into the hills, where our house is. It takes two hours, and the idea of walking for only two hours and then stopping leaves me breathless with gratitude.

Our house was never fancy, never much by Southern Californian standards. Pricey enough—living in San Diego is anything but cheap—and not one of those modern stucco things with the red tile roofs that are all garage from the street.

It’s just a simple yellow ranch, overgrown with bougainvillea and bird of paradise. But it’s on top of a hill, and you can see clear to the next hill. There was a swimming pool in the back yard: From the front, I can see that you’ve tarped it, and I bet you’re using it as gray water. You were always provident.

I hitch Asset up to the queen palm by the front door, ease the cinches on her pack saddle, and put my key in the lock. I open the door.

You’re sitting on the sofa with a woman I don’t know, your arms draped over each other along the sofa back. Casey is curled up between you, leaning on the woman, her soft hair frizzed around her face. She’s holding a copy of The Black Stallion and the Girl, one of her favorite books. I can tell she’s been reading out loud to you, and I’m grateful that you’re keeping up with her education, even under the circumstances.

You jump out of the cushions and run to me while I stand frozen. Casey is a half step behind you, the book thudding unheeded to the carpet. You stop three feet away.

She flings herself into my arms.

Whatever we say, it’s meaningless. Just to hear the sound of each other’s voices. I crouch and she squeezes me breathless and we’re both crying, and you’re just looking at me, at the woman, at me.

I meet your gaze over Casey’s head, her sweet scent lifting me like helium. I want to hug you, squeeze you tight. I know . . . this is going to be more complicated.

I can’t blame you. It’s been almost a year. You’re no Penelope, and how could you have been sure that I was ever coming home? And these things are hard to do alone.

I can’t blame you. But I still do.

The woman says nothing. She comes to stand behind you and places a hesitant hand on your elbow. You let it remain.

“I brought a burro,” I tell Casey, long before I can bear to let her go. “Her name is Asset. You should run out and meet her.”

The door bangs behind her. I guess a burro is as good as a pony after all.

“Alyce,” you say.

You are weeping, those silent pearl-like tears that never robbed you of dignity. I, by contrast, am red-eyed and dripping.

“This is Claire,” you say, turning so you bridge the gap between us. “She’s from Hawaii. She was stranded.”

“I’m not angry,” I say. “But it’s our house and our daughter.”

“Stay,” you say.

I look at Claire. She’s tall, good shoulders, laugh lines in olive skin. She nods.

It’s a different world, isn’t it? I don’t know her yet. I can’t judge.

I think of the stolen food and water that got me here. I think of hiding in the desert from those men.

You’ve never seen everything. Maybe I’ll like her if I give her half a chance. Casey does.

I realize I’ve been holding my breath and let it go.

“Fine, but I’m taking our bed.”

“I’ll change the sheets,” says Claire.