Emmanuelle

as told by Roberta Robbins

 J. Patrick Boland

                  For Miriam

Acknowledgments

Thanks to Nadiia Kolpak for the wonderful  cover illustration                    

Kevin Rader for legal advice

Cynthia Chesna and Don Baker for encouragement, friendship, and spreading the word

Thanks to my wife, Miriam, for her inspiration, words, and editorial insights

Preface

As I begin this, a hurricane approaches. A monster hurricane. It scares me: extreme forces completely out of my control. They say it’s how you deal with your fears that matters, and I don’t deal well. Sixteen years old and still I feel inadequate, still scared, out of control.

Perhaps it is a poor metaphor, the hurricane. I mean, at least this nonthinking, non-feeling force of nature has structure and direction. Me? I have a raging desire to write but no direction, no structure. A tropical depression. Sure, I have two books under my belt, and yes, I whined about this same issue in my last book, but this time it’s for real. This is serious. I may have to fall into a stream of consciousness mode for this book, and that’s scary. Much like a storm surge pushing debris and fish and dirt down a deserted street, my thoughts and ideas mingle in a murky muck, streamlets from overflowing gutters and fertilized yards rushing in, and all of it out of my control. 

I don’t know if I can do this.   

Better call on the “secular saint” of writers, who my friend Mackie worships, Kurt Vonnegut.  

                Saint Vonnegut, Saint Vonnegut, please come around,

                           A plot is lacking and needs to be found.

Chapter 1 - Time To Let Her Go

“I ran into Mrs. Fitt yesterday. Says she’s going to put up a gravestone for Molly.” 

“What? Why?” 

“It’s been two years, Roberta,” Mom says putting away the last of the dishes. “She needs some closure.” 

“But, Mom…” I can’t tell her about Molly communicating with me through the Ouija Board or the mysterious texts or the double rainbows Molly sent me as signs. “Is it really necessary?” 

“Mrs. Fitt thinks so.” Mom turns and looks at me with concern. “And it’s time you let her go, too, Roberta.” 

That will never happen. 

It’s the summer between ninth and tenth grades. And as usual, it’s starting out to be another boring summer in Lowman: no movie theaters, bookstores, decent restaurants, few friends. Ugh. And, did I mention, I’m a lesbian living in the most ultraconservative two square miles on the planet? 

A car door slams outside. 

“Sounds like your dad’s finally home.” 

Dad looks particularly upbeat when he enters the kitchen. 

“Why so late?” Mom asks. 

“Was interviewing the new foreman for the mill.” Dad is the manager of the sawmill a half-mile away. “He’ll be moving here with his daughter in a couple of weeks.” 

“No wife?” asks Mom. 

“No.” Dad plops down next to me at the table with the beer he just poured. “I think the daughter is about your age, Roberta. Maybe a little younger. Name’s Emmanuelle.” 

Ding! A text message. 

“Gotta go. Bengy and Latisha are here.” 

“Where are you…?” 

“I told you, Mom. We’re going to Orangeville for a movie.” 

“Oh… uh…” 

I don’t wait for any more questions but hurry out to Bengy’s car. “Hey, you two. Let’s go. I need a change of channels, inspiration, something!” 

“Problem with a new book?” asks Latisha. 

Before I can tell her I have no new book, Bengy says, “Here,” handing me an open beer, “liquid inspiration.” 

“God, don’t let my parents catch you giving me a beer!” I laugh and take a sip of the semi-cold brew and hand it back; I’m not really fond of the stuff. “So, you’re OK to drive?” I ask. 

“Promise.” 

The fifteen mile stretch to Orangeville is a lonely, desolate two-lane. I watch the few houses and farms dotted here and there next to the road whiz by from the back seat. The glow of the setting sun to my left is blazing an old tin sign on the side of an ancient barn. Bengy and Latisha hold hands beside the gear shift. Sweet. 

Latisha leans over and turns down the music. “You heard from Daisy, Roberta?” 

“She texted me a couple of times after they moved,” I answer over the road noise. "She’s trying to sound upbeat, but I think she misses us.” Our wild Japanese-American friend, one of the “Sisters of Sanity,” moved back to Brooklyn after school finished. It never made sense to me why she and her family ever moved to Lowman to open a restaurant. 

“I guess Brooklyn didn’t look so bad after all,” Bengy chuckles. 

“And I haven’t heard a word from Molly since January.” 

Silence. 

Several miles later, “You don’t still think she was really contacting you, do you, Roberta? I mean, it’s been years since she disappeared.” 

I grit my teeth. 

“Not that we think you’re lying or anything,” Bengy jumps in. “You know… you’re a writer. Writers make up things. Maybe it just seems…” 

“Stop it. Change the subject. I know what I know.” 

“Sorry.” 

“Sorry.” 

My best friend Molly did disappear, completely vanished. There was no sign of foul play, no note of explanation from her, no clues, just her footprints that stopped abruptly in a cow pasture. But she did communicate with me whenever I really needed her. I know what I know. And now, her mom wants to erect a gravestone for her. I guess it’s possible she’s gone, but I’m not willing to accept that, not yet. 

“Wanna ride through the park?” asks Bengy. 

“What about the movie?” I ask. 

“If you want, but to tell you the truth, I’m not all that interested in it,” answers Bengy. 

“But it’s already dark, Beng,” says Latisha. 

“Yeah…?” 

“Whatever,” Latisha and I say in unison. 

We ride through the park in almost total darkness. There are a few streetlights, and lights around the closed pavilion next to the river, but other than that, only the headlights of other cars cruising around. 

Bengy pulls the car into a drive that runs right up to the river - probably a boat launch - shuts off the car, then asks, “Anyone ready for a cold one?” 

I’m not a prude, and I don’t care who drinks so long as they’re not doing something stupid like driving drunk, but I don’t feel comfortable with this, not in a public park. “I’ll pass,” I say. 

“Just a sip,” Latisha says. 

We have the windows down, and the sound of the nearby river floods in on the already thick early summer air. The river looks black as night, but even in daylight, I know the deep waters are dark, dark brown with a faint yellow tea-like color from the abundant tannins. I remember this from happier days as a kid swimming with cousins at family reunions - this before everyone became too busy. And I remember the bitter taste of the water when it went up your nose… 

“Cop!” Latisha nearly shouts. Flashing blue lights appear from nowhere. 

“Act natural,” whispers Bengy. “Here, hide this.” Bengy reaches back without twisting his torso and hands me the open bottle. 

“What am I sup…?” Too late, a flashlight is headed our way and straight for Bengy’s window. I slip the can down between my feet as inconspicuously as I can and hope like hell my trembling doesn’t knock the bottle over. 

“Good evening, officer,” Bengy says and smiles politely. 

“Drivers license and registration,” the policeman says and scans the car with the flashlight. The light lingers on Latisha: she’s black, Bengy’s white, the cop - white. I’m scared now. Finally, the cop points the light at me. It’s blinding. “Y’all been drinking?” 

“No sir! Wouldn’t do that,” says Bengy from behind the light. "We belong to a Bible study group and were on our way home from church.” 

“On a Tuesday night?” asks the cop incredulously and returns the light to Latisha. Latisha is frozen, can’t speak. 

“Yes,” I answer. “Wednesdays are prayer meetings, Sundays are…” 

“Alright, alright,” says the cop interrupting my story. “I think it best you be getting on home,” he says and hands the documents back to Bengy. “All sorts of mischief goes on here after dark.” He shines the flashlight at Latisha one more time before returning to his car. 

“Asshole,” Latisha snarls. The policeman looks back - “Shit,” Latisha whispers - then gets in his car and drives away. After he’s out of sight, “Did you see the look he gave me?! Racist creep!” 

As we drive back through the deserted park, I remember James Looper, the dead school teacher, and how police had accosted him and his new boyfriend in this same park. “Hatred,” I say, “I’m sick of it too.” 

We drive halfway back in silence, then… 

“Will things ever change around here?” asks Latisha. “I swear, as soon as I graduate, I’m out of here.” 

“Guess you heard that that racist son of a bitch Congressman Floyd still stopped the hate crimes bill from passing,” I say. “And after we caught him making all those racial slurs at the damned Heritage Day thing.” 

“Is there nothing these guys can do that will get them in trouble?” says Bengy. 

“And I heard that the charges against Principal Ogre are going to be dropped, too,” I add. 

“White supremacist bitch,” says Latisha. 

“Bitch,” Bengy chimes in. 

“By the way,” I say as Bengy drives up to my house, “Dad says a girl about our age is moving here in a couple of weeks.” 

“Is she cool?” asks Bengy. 

“Don’t know anything about her other than her mother’s not coming. Nite,” I say and walk up to the back door. I notice Mrs. Fitt’s lights are still on. She hasn’t been able to sleep well since Molly disappeared and her husband left. Mom and Dad are still up, too. I slip in and go to my room. 

Lying on my bed thinking, I'm feeling agitated. If I had a book to work on perhaps all this crap wouldn’t bother me so much. At least I’d have something else to put my mind on. Maybe I need a hobby. Who am I kidding? I haven’t even used the baseball glove Molly left me. 

I pull out my phone and text the number Molly had used to communicate with me. I wait. No reply. I text again. Nothing. I drag out the Ouija board and ask if Molly is there. The board is lifeless. I even wiggle the planchette in hopes it will get moving, but it doesn’t. 

Maybe Mom is right. Maybe it is time to let her go. I pull the covers up over me, clothes and all. 

Chapter 2 - Cat Sitting With Vonnegut

Ding!

What? Who’s texting me so damn early? I barely slip back into unconsciousness when my phone dings again. Ughh. 

Mackie: Sorry to text so early. Just got word my brother is very ill. Ahn Lam and I leaving for west coast. Can you check in on Kim-Ly 2 times a day? Not sure when return.

I look at the time stamp. It’s 6:35. 

Me: No prob. Be safe.

Mackie: Thanx. Key under flower pot back door.

Mackie is a dear friend, a great guy, gentle, loving, a Vietnam vet. Mackie and Molly were very close. Ahn Lam is his girlfriend, a retired civil rights lawyer, a Vietnamese-American, an amazing strong woman. Kim-Ly is their cat. 

I go back to sleep and dream about Molly. She is on a bus, the flying bus from her dreams. She looks oblivious to the fact that she is rocketing away. The bus is lit, but outside it's pitch black. I try to call out to her but can’t. Then a distant glow appears and grows quickly into an all-encompassing presence. I shout, “Get off! Get off!” I grab her and struggle to pull her out of her seat, but she is immovable. I strain with all my strength, then… Klunk! The bedroom floor jolts me awake. First time in my life I’ve ever fallen out of bed. Might as well get up; not going to be able to get back to sleep. 

Coffee. Must have coffee. 

Dad is already up and having his first cup when I walk into the kitchen. “Am I still dreaming or is that my literary genius daughter up with the sun?” 

“Ha Ha,” I say and grab my own cup. 

“Why so early?” Dad asks. 

I explain that a dream woke me after Mackie’s text woke me. 

“So, how was the movie?” 

“Ehhh…” I say, not wanting to get into the whole cop thing. 

“Been meaning to ask you what you’re writing now.” 

“Nothing.” 

“Nothing?” 

“Nothing.” 

“Hmmm. OK, gotta run. Tell your mom I took out the garbage.” Dad starts for the door then turns. “Don’t worry, Roberta, the next book idea is just around the corner.” 

I manage a smile. Dad tries hard to be supportive. 

I realize I’m not ready to face the day and go back to bed. Kim-Ly, the cat, can wait until this afternoon. 

Five hours later I wake up. Same dreary mood. It’s only a little after noon, but I decide to go check on Kim-Ly. Why not? Nothing else to do.    

I walk the five or six small-town blocks to Mackie’s house via Main Street. The town is really quiet. I pass by the restaurant Daisy’s family owned, now closed. Pass the boarded-up old cleaners building on the corner where Molly had encountered Camilla and the flying bus - long story. Blah blah. Finally, I turn on Homestead Road and am at Mackie’s in a half block. 

They’ve left the TV on. I go to the back of the tiny house and find the key hiding beneath the flowerpot as promised. When I walk in, Kim-Ly is on the little kitchen table purring in circles, her tail straight up.    

“Hi, Kim-Ly. Did your parents leave you here all alone with this TV on and no way to turn it off?” I move toward the TV. A guy from the Weather Channel is talking about another tropical storm brewing. (Funny visual, a storm “brewing.”) TV announcer: “Warming waters in the oceans are creating conditions for the worst hurricane season on record. The second tropical storm of the season, Bradley, is threatening Venezuela, Trinidad, and Tobago…” 

I find the remote and flick the TV off. “Now where were we?” I reach for Kim-Ly who leaps from the table and in one bound is onto the bookshelf knocking a book to the floor. She’s arching her back and rubbing against the shelves as though to say, “Here, now you can pet me better.” 

I retrieve the book from the floor to reshelve it: Kurt Vonnegut’s Cat’s Cradle - the serendipity doesn’t escape me. Turns out Mackie and Ahn Lam have quite a lot of books and all organized by authors. Lot’s of Hemingway - I’m guessing these are Mackie’s, a couple by F. Scott Fitzgerald, J.D. Salinger, John Steinbeck, Tom Robbins, Toni Morrison, ah - Kurt Vonnegut. The Vonnegut collection is the largest of all the authors. I had read many of the other writers, but never Vonnegut. Of course, I knew of him, of his humanistic views, his humor, his weird-ass characters, his chain-smoking, but only secondhand - his books I mean. 

After a minute of petting, Kim-Ly jumps down and over to the well-worn recliner, circling and purring loudly and further decimating the seat with her claws. “Oh, you want me to join you?” I take the Vonnegut book over to Kim-Ly and slip into the chair next to her. 

The book’s not about cats at all. Duh. A cat’s cradle is a pattern you make in a game with string. But I don’t know this until page 165. But when I first open it, randomly, my eyes land on “‘Screw you, Jasper,’ said Castle mildly, 'and screw Mother’s Day and Christmas, too.'” That is my first clue that this is definitely not a sweet book about cats! But, of course not - it’s Vonnegut. 

Kim-Ly has curled up in my lap and sleeping soundly. I don’t want to wake her, so I open the book and read. 

Doesn’t take long to discover that the book is about someone writing a book, timely for me. And, like my writing, it’s in first-person central narrative style. The story is funny in a strange irreverent way. Just as I’m reading about this weird made-up religion called Bokononism, the doorbell rings. Delivery? 

I get up carefully, trying not to disturb Kim-Ly. The doorbell rings again as I open the door. 

“Hi, we’re here with some good news,” says one of the three middle-aged women smiling intensely at me. “Are your parents home?” 

Just then Kim-Ly jumps up wild-eyed, screeching a blood-curdling cry, and runs under the couch. I look back at the mild-tempered women standing in front of me, their smiles still in place. I take a breath to calm myself. Before I can speak, one of the other women asks, “Do you know where you’re going?” 

“Going? Well,” I say, “after cleaning the cat box and feeding the cat I’m going home.” 

“Uh,” stammers the woman but still smiling, “when you die - where are you going when you die?” 

“Are you from a funeral parlor or something?” 

“We’re here to warn you,” says another of the three, her smile having turned into a scrunched combination of concern and terror. “The end is near.” 

“The end?” I ask playing dumb. 

“Of the world!” the woman pleads. “Famines, fires, nuclear war, mass slaughter and destruction…” 

“We’re all going to die?” I choke on the words, theatrically, of course. “But, but, but…  my mom and dad are away, and I haven’t finished school, and…” I grab my phone and frantically place a call. “Grandma, quick, tell Mom and Dad to get home quick! The world is ending! We’re all getting slaughtered!!” I could get an Oscar for this. “Grandma? Grandma?! Are you OK? Grandma?!!!” I look at the three women who are holding on to each other for balance at this point. “My granny, I, I think she just had a heart attack!” I cry and quickly close the door. 

Hope I wasn’t too mean. 

“What the hell are you going on about, Roberta. Have you gone insane?” the voice in the phone says. 

“Sorry, Bengy. Just a practical joke,” I say and put the phone back in my pocket. Now, where was I? 

Chapter 3 - The World Comes To An End

I read a little more of Cat’s Cradle, then, realizing how late it’s getting, feed Kim-Ly, sift her litter box, and make my way to the door grabbing the book as I do. But before leaving I pause in front of the little altar Mackie and Ahn Lam made to Molly. 

Just a girl, but to me, she was a goddess. 

OK, my very best friend.

I leave by the back door being sure to lock it and hide the key. As I walk around the front of the house, I glance a piece of paper stuck behind the screen door, a scary looking pamphlet with the caption “The End Is Near.” Really? After my great performance, they still wanted to scare me some more? I crumple the pamphlet to toss in the next trash can I encounter.

Dad’s already home when I enter. “Cat’s Cradle?” he asks eyeing my book.

“Yeah. You know it?”

“Know it? It’s one of my favorite Vonnegut books!” he says and takes the book, flipping through the pages. “Bokononism, a religion based on harmless untruths,” he says and hands the book back to me. “I was big into Vonnegut in college,” he says wistfully. "By the way, I talked some more with Mr. Patterson and turns out his daughter is 15, almost your age. Maybe you’ll have another friend.” 

“Maybe.”

After dinner, I retire to my bedroom. First, I text Mackie to let him know Kim-Ly is OK. No reply. Then I settle back with Cat’s Cradle. What an odd story; what an odd cast of characters. A writer pursuing information from the family of one of the inventors of the atomic bomb finds himself on a strange island populated by people practicing a strange made-up and outlawed religion, then is selected president and is betrothed to the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen… But I give too much away. 

Next morning I see a text from Mackie waiting for me. Brother died. Very sad. So sudden. Will let you know our plans when I can. Thanks.  

After breakfast, I grab the Vonnegut book and take a leisurely walk toward Mackie’s. I don’t drive; I don’t want to drive - not yet, anyway. It’s a pretty early summer morning, not too hot, not yet humid. I decide to venture down some backroads, see what’s new in Lowman. As if! From Main, I turn back alongside the library then in a block turn right. Up ahead is the church where my first and only girlfriend’s dad preaches. Of course, it occurs to me that I have probably turned this way in the hope of glimpsing Angie who lives with her family in the next-door parsonage.  

I slow down a bit as I walk in front of the parsonage. No sign of Angie. But there is a large sign next to the road in front of the church announcing "Vacation Bible School Next Week!” I turn back toward Main. One short block later, hmmm, Pendar’s is just across the street - maybe I’ll stop in for a Coke. Never did get around to that second cup of sludge.

As I enter the old convenience store, there’s a young girl at the counter. I recognize her - Anna, Angie’s little sister.

“Hi, Anna.” She jumps and turns; she looks shocked. “I didn’t mean to scare you, Anna. Remember me? Roberta?”

“Y-yes. You’re th-the homo.” Anna looks down momentarily. “Dad says you’re g-g-going to hell.” 

“That’s what he says?” I’m not surprised that Reverend Clark would say this, but I’m surprised hearing it come from the mouth of a sweet little kid. 

“D-dad says it’s a s-sign of the end times, p-people lo-ving who they’re not sup-posed to. Doing bad th-things. He s-s-says they’re all g-going to get… burned up.” Anna starts to tear up as she says this. 

I reach for her and pull her close. She’s trembling.

“I d-don’t want to… burn up,” she sobs. 

“You? Why would a sweet girl like you burn up?” I ask trying to console her. 

“I-I’ve been b-bad.” Now she’s bawling. The old guys have stopped their incessant gossiping in the corner; Mr. Pendar steps away, embarrassed. “I, I… told a lie! I t-told Mom I f-finished my… breakfast, but I d-didn’t. I lied. N-ow I’m g-going to burn up!” 

“God wouldn’t do that to you.”

Anna abruptly pulls away, her face morphed into a scowl. “A-a-are you c-calling my d-dad a liar?” She grabs her candy bar and runs out. 

What a terrible thing to do to someone. Poor girl.

Mr. Pendar walks over, takes a few coins from the spare change saucer and deposits them in the cash register. “For her candy bar,” he mumbles and walks away. 

I don’t need the Coke anymore.

I retrieve the paper and yesterday’s mail as I walk up to the little cottage. Must have been in too big a hurry to cancel delivery. Front page: Tropical Storm Bradley Now A Category 3 Hurricane! Kim-Ly is waiting by the back door when I arrive. She’s definitely missing her peeps. I do my duties then text Mackie. 

Me: So sorry to hear about your brother, Mackie.

Mackie: Thanks. Younger, too. So it goes.

Me: BTW Kim-Ly is good, and I’ve discovered Kurt Vonnegut on your bookshelf!

Mackie: KV is god!  😉

(I think Mackie was cracking a joke as, I discovered later: Vonnegut described himself as an agnostic.)

I’m still trying to shake off the whole thing with little Anna when I sit down in the recliner. Kim-Ly immediately jumps in my lap and makes herself comfortable. I think I’ll finish Cat’s Cradle. That should take my mind off this superstitious fear-mongering crap. Where was I, oh yes, I find my place in the book: “To a Bokononist, only Man is sacred.” At least K.V. has a sense of humor about it all. 

I sit and read and read, undisturbed. I chuckle to myself, I remember in recollection, like a memory you have once your attention has come back to the “here and now.” The chuckles seem more like presently-heard echoes. 

I love the way Vonnegut pokes fun at religion without seeming to laugh at the ones who take comfort in it: “Truth was the enemy of the people because the truth was so terrible, so Bokonon (the creator of the religion named for him) made it his business to provide the people with better and better lies.” K.V.

And spoiler alert: the world does come to an end, but not by fire (or flood)! 

Chapter 4 - Magic That Works

Mackie and Ahn Lam returned after four days; I’m in the middle of Breakfast of Champions. 

“Ah!, Breakfast of Champions!” says Mackie.  

“Thinks himself a literary aficionado,” Ahn Lam teases.

“Well, like Kilgore Trout (a character in Breakfast of Champions) I want my tombstone to say: he tried,” Mackie answers. Ahn Lam half-smiles and kind of rolls her eyes. She had been too consumed with merely surviving then going to law school after the Vietnam War to get in much fiction reading.  

Mackie lets me box up the other Vonnegut books and take them home with me - I now have my summer project! That, and to at least start a new book. 

Next day

Ding!

Latisha: Doing anything?

Me: Not really.

Latisha: Got my license, and Mom just made oatmeal cookies. Interested?

Me: Absolutely!

Latisha: Right over.

Latisha and I saw each other every day when school was in, even lots on weekends. But since the beginning of summer, I barely see her. I think the last time was in the park that night a couple of weeks ago with Bengy. And that racist jerk cop. 

“Hey sister!” Latisha says as she walks in. 

“Hey, sister,” I answer. 

“The Sisters of Sanity” is what we called our little group of four that tried to undo eons of bigotry. How crazy is that? We should have called ourselves “the Crazy Bunch.” The Sisters of Sanity is also what I named the book I wrote about our endeavors.  

“Hey, wanna take these down to the creek?” I ask.

“Sure.”

“Follow me.” 

We head out the back of the house to the fence on the edge of the pasture. As we’re climbing over, Latisha asks, “Is this where Molly disappeared?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s just like you described it in your book about her.”

“You read it?” I ask.

“Hell yea-ah! My best friend, an author, I mean, how many people have best friends who are published writers?”        

“Well, self-published at this point. But that’s so cool” - I feel myself tearing up - “you read my book!” I’ve not told her about the Sisters of Sanity book as she’s a main character, and, well, you never know how people might like the way you portray them. I haven’t even shared it with my parents or anyone in Lowman for that matter. Maybe too controversial, white supremacists in a small southern town. Geez, I’m still a big wuss.  

“Here,” I say, and we stop a short distance into the field. “It was about here that she vanished.” Wild grasses have grown up since Molly had left her footprints in the wet dirt. 

Latisha sighs. “You know, I met her once. Wish I had gotten to know her better.”

“Well…,” I think better of what I’m about to say. “Come on. Creek’s in those woods ahead.”

We sit on my favorite rock in the cool shade next to the tiny creek and eat the oatmeal cookies Mrs. Williams had baked.

“Started writing your next book yet?” Latisha asks.

“No. Nothing happening. But I'm reading a lot.”

“Yeah?”

“Vonnegut. Kurt Vonnegut. I bet Mackie has everything he wrote.”

“What genre, you know - mystery, sci-fi, romance…?”

“Romance? Me? I wouldn’t know romance if it fell from the sky!” Latisha makes a sympathetic frown. “Hard to say what genre. He’s definitely got something to say about world conditions, religion - in a funny, irreverent sort of way. And there’s a bit of sci-fi. Weird guy. I like the way he writes and what he has to say.” 

The sugar in the cookies is starting to give me the jitters. I know better but bite into another one. Damn, it’s hard to stop.

“There’s something I need to tell you, Roberta. I’ve decided to go to a private school in New Jersey this fall.” 

“Wow. New Jersey?”

“It’s one of those engineering and hi-tech schools - stuff I’m interested in.”

“And it’s far from this little backward, bigoted dump.”

Latisha looks down momentarily. “I’m really going to miss you, Roberta.”

“What about Bengy?” I ask.

“He’s really upset.”

“I’m sad you’re leaving, too,” I say. “First Molly, then Daisy, now you.” I toss a rock into the nearly dried up creek. “Maybe I’ll get out of here one day,” I say, then against my better judgment, eat the last cookie. 

As we’re walking back, Latisha asks, “What about that new girl? Met her yet?”

“No. Dad says he’s going to have them over for dinner one night, maybe this week.”

We climb back over the fence. Mom’s home when we get to the house.

“Hi, Latisha,” Mom says. “You girls been at the creek?”

“Yes, ma’am,” says Latisha with her polite southern manners.

“Mrs. Williams made some of her legendary oatmeal cookies,” I say.

“That’s sweet,” says Mom. “By the way, Roberta, your dad just called, and the new mill foreman and his daughter are coming for dinner this evening. Say, you want to join us for dinner, Latisha?”

“Thanks, Mrs. Robbins. I’ve got church tonight.”

“Science is magic that works,” I blurt from my sugar-induced daze.

“What?” Latisha looks confused.

“‘Science is magic that works.' Something from Cat’s Cradle. Kurt Vonnegut.” 

Chapter 5 - The First Miracle

Mom got busy cooking for our company. I vacuum, put away books, clean the bathroom.

“Wear something nice, Roberta,” Mom calls from the kitchen. I’m still cleaning the toilet.

Dad arrives home at 5:45. “Smells good,” he says then goes to wash up.

Mom calls from the kitchen, “Royce, please fix that dripping faucet in the guest bathroom before the Pattersons get here.”

“Can’t. Needs a new washer. I’ll pick one up this weekend.”

It’s nearly time for the Pattersons to arrive. I’m in the kitchen setting the table last minute. Mom is pulling what I think is a roast from the oven. 

At 6:29 the doorbell rings.

“Welcome, Ted,” Dad says at the front door. “And you must be Emmanuelle. Come in, please.” 

I walk into the living room, and there, next to my dad, is the tallest man I’ve ever seen. Next to him, a smallish, thin creature in a man’s brown wool coat - it’s summer - and a classic black derby.

Mr. Patterson looks at me. “You must be Roberta. Roberta, this is my daughter, Emmanuelle.” 

The slight girl in men’s attire looks at me, but more, it feels like she looks through me. Her eyes are both piercing and warm though not seeming to be focused on anything. It is very disconcerting, not scary or anything, just so unlike any look I have ever seen that I am caught off guard, speechless. I feel dizzy.

I space out, for how long, I don’t know. Kurt Vonnegut pops into my mind. I am remembering how he was known for encouraging young writers. It’s summer; maybe I could round up a little money and go visit him. Surely he would appreciate a sixteen-year-old girl traveling by bus across the country to spare me some time. 

Emmanuelle.  

Where was I? Oh, yeah… those eyes… 

“Hi,” she says politely, with a gentle smile.

Mom has prepared a salad, potatoes, a veggie medley, and a roast. I notice that Emmanuelle, like me, avoids the roast. The adults talk about work, Lowman, the school. Nothing is said about the Patterson’s history, where they came from or how Mrs. Patterson left the picture.

All along Emmanuelle eats quietly with her black derby and wool coat on, and at one point goes to the bathroom.

That’s it. If Emmanuelle and I exchanged any other words, I don’t remember them.

After the Pattersons have left, I help clear the table then go to my room. OK, let’s Google Kurt Vonnegut; can’t believe I never thought of this before, to visit him. But I’m too late: 

Wikipedia: Kurt Vonnegut Jr. was an American writer. In a career spanning over 50 years, Vonnegut published 14 novels, three short story collections, five plays, and five works of non-fiction.

Born: November 11, 1922, Indianapolis, IN

Died: April 11, 2007, Manhattan, New York City, NY

Seemed like a good idea. Oh well.

After Mom has finished cleaning up and is turning off the lights, I hear her say to Dad, “So, you did fix that leaking faucet.” 

“Nope,” he says. “Like I said, I’ll get a washer and get on it this weekend.”

But the faucet didn’t leak anymore, nor would it ever leak again.

That was the first miracle.

Chapter 6 - The Second Miracle

Two days later.

“So, Roberta,” Mom says drinking her second cup of coffee, “one of your dad’s old friends is going to stay with us for a couple of days. He’s coming up from the coast to escape the hurricane.” This is the third hurricane of the season, Cynthia. She’s promising to be a tough one. 

“Where the hell’s he going to sleep?”

“Language.” I roll my eyes. “In your dad’s office on the couch. It’ll just be until the storm passes. And, so you know, he’s schizophrenic.”

 “What?! Are you sure this is a good idea?” I’m imagining a monster, someone with multiple personalities talking nonsense to himself constantly.

“He’s on medications, Roberta. It should be fine.”

“Why doesn’t he just get a hotel?”

“I think your dad is afraid that the stress of this hurricane, well, he thinks he could use our support.”

“And when’s he getting here?” I ask.   

“This afternoon, if traffic allows.”

“Wha…?!”

"Your dad’s coming home early. He’ll hang out with him over the weekend.”

I’m thinking I’m going to be hanging out a lot at Mackie’s. 

Around 4 o’clock Dad calls to say his friend, Mr. Edon, is running late: traffic is at a standstill on the interstate. The wind is really picking up here, too.

Finally, around 5:30 Dad walks in. “Was just finishing up some paperwork before the weekend.”

Then the doorbell rings. “That must be him.” Dad looks at me then shouts, “Change your shirt! Anything but red!” and hurries to the front door.

“Red triggers Mr. Edon,” Mom quickly explains. I go to my room to change shirts. 

Then through my bedroom door: “Hello, Adam,” says Dad. "You made it. You must be exhausted.”  

“Come in Adam,” says Mom. "Relax. I’ll get you a cold drink.” 

No words out of our visitor so far.

I hear them walk into the kitchen. Dad’s still talking while Mom is no doubt preparing Mr. Edon a drink. I could just stay in my room, pretend I’m not feeling well.

“Roberta,” calls Dad, “come say hello to Mr. Edon.”

Damn.

I take a deep breath, open my bedroom door and walk to the kitchen to meet the monster who has invaded our space. But instead, I find this quiet man sitting quietly at the kitchen table. He looks tired, scared, maybe. Not at all menacing.

“Mr. Edon,” I say and hold out my hand.

He smiles, extends his hand and answers, “Please, call me Adam.”

“Adam. Welcome to Lowman.” I think I detect a slight tremor in his hand.

“You must be hungry, Adam,” Mom says. “Is pasta OK?”

“That would be swell.”

Swell? Who says swell?

“Why don’t you and Royce make yourselves comfortable in the living room and I’ll get dinner started. Roberta, you want to set the table?”

This isn’t really a question.

From the kitchen, I can hear pieces of conversation. Mr. Edon is mostly responding in a monotone to Dad’s questions. Sounds like they must have grown up together but haven’t been in touch for a long time.  

“How long has it been since Lisa left, Adam?”

"Twelve years, maybe.”

“And you’ve been alone since then?”

“I had a dog for a while.”

pause

“You were in the Army?”

“Marines. Early medical retirement.”

pause

“Won’t be able to live in that house much longer,” says Mr. Edon unprompted.

“Why’s that, Adam?”

“Inter-coastal waterway. The water is getting higher and higher. Comes right into the yard at high tide now.”

“Could you sell your house and move?”

“Probably. If I sell it soon. Most people in the area don’t seem to have caught on to the changes yet.”

“You mean climate change?”

“Yes. They still think it’s a hoax. And I’m the crazy one.” 

Dad chuckles, then stifles it.

“Go tell them dinner’s ready, Roberta.”

Everyone’s really quiet during the meal. Mr. Edon seems very focused on his eating. I notice Mom and Dad exchanging glances. Don’t know what that means.

Finally, “Desert?” Mom asks.

“No thanks, Rita. I think I’ll go to bed if you don’t mind.” 

Mom apologizes for the poor accommodations, and Mr. Edon says he's sure it will be just “swell.”

I help Mom clean up then go to my room. The wind is really picking up.

Ding!

Latisha: That new girl. Does she wear a man’s coat and hat?

Me: Emmanuelle? Yes.

Latisha: I think she lives near me. Mom and I were hurrying home from the store when a dog ran out in front of us. We hit it hard. Drove back to see if it was dead and this girl is walking down the road with the dog walking alongside her. Weird!

The second miracle.

Chapter 7 - The Third Miracle

It rained all night. The wind woke me more than once, but finally, after midnight calmed down. 

Then after a few hours of sleep, the TV wakes me. I stare at the clock: it’s 4:20 AM! I peek out my bedroom door, and there’s Mr. Edon sitting by himself staring at an old black and white Turner Classics movie: Key Largo. I know this old classic from the 40’s: I’m a huge Bogart fan. These gangsters have taken over an old hotel while a hurricane rages outside. Must be TC’s theme for the day, hurricanes.  

Mr. Edon’s back is to me, but I can see his arm on the armrest of the chair - he’s trembling. And he’s muttering to himself. While the real weather may be subsiding, the movie hurricane is just kicking into high gear. Mr. Edon is getting more agitated by the second. No sign of Mom and Dad. Quick decision - I calmly walk into the living room, turn off the TV and say, “Good morning, Mr. Edon. Some coffee?” 

He has a frozen stare on his face which slowly melts into a hint of a forced smile, but his eyes still reveal the agitation behind them. “Couldn’t sleep. Coffee, yes, thank you.”

Mr. Edon follows me into the kitchen.

“I’m sorry I woke you,” he says in a low voice.

“Nah,” I say, “I couldn’t sleep.” Kind of true. “Do you like it strong?” I ask. 

“Please. Black, please.”

I pour two cups and sit with him at the table. I don’t know why I choose to join this troubled man at the kitchen table at 4:30 on a Saturday morning. I think I feel sorry for him. I think maybe he’s a misfit and a sweet-natured one at that. 

We sit very quietly at the table. It’s a little awkward but not as much as you might think.

“Did you know Dad as kids?” I ask.

“We were playmates for as long as I remember: grade school, high school, then your dad went off to college, and I joined the Marines.” There’s a long pause. Then, “Your dad mentioned you’re a writer. What’re you working on right now?”

“Nothing,” I answer. “Just waiting for the muse to come back from vacation or something,” I chuckle. My chuckle sounds fake.

Mr. Edon doesn’t see any humor in this but offers, “To everything a season.”

“What?”

“From the Byrds.”

“Birds?”

“Sorry. A musical group from the sixties. Actually, it’s from the Book of Ecclesiastes.” I must still look puzzled because he explains, “The Bible, Old Testament.”

“Oh.”

When Mr. Edon finishes his coffee, he slides the empty cup to me and thanks me. As he does, the sleeve of his robe slides up revealing very nasty scars across his left wrist. I divert my eyes pretending not to see. 

“I’m going to try to get some more shut-eye, Roberta. Thanks again for the coffee.”

I return to bed, too. The sun is still over an hour away from rising. I lie awake for a bit and think how sad it is that a gentle man like Mr. Edon felt the need to take his own life. It must be really hard living with schizophrenia.

Around 8:30 I’m awoken by my dad talking in the hallway. He’s saying something in a concerned, measured voice. It sounds something like, “It’s OK, Adam. It’s OK. You’re here in Lowman. Come, sit down.” I hear Mr. Edon mumbling. He sounds very agitated. “Where’s your medication, Adam?” More mumbling.

I wait to get up - let them sort all this. 

11:00, I wake up. Guess I fell back to sleep. Still raining. The house sounds quiet. I go into the living room. No one. “That you?” Mom calls from the kitchen. “Dad took Adam to see if he could get some more meds for him,” she says as I sit down.

“He was sounding kind of crazy,” I say.

“Wasn’t able to get his meds refilled before he left. Hurricane.”

Ding!

Daisy: Hey girlfriend. Making it through the hurricane?

Me: Hey! Yes just fine. Didn’t really get this far inland.

Daisy: Just checking. Looks bad on TV.

Me: When you moving back? 😀

Daisy: To cracker land? Ha!

Me: We sisters miss you.

Daisy: Yeah. Same. GTG.

“I’m going to my room and read, Mom.”

Looks like it’s you and me today, Mr. Vonnegut. You, and me, and Kilgore Trout, and Dwayne Hoover, and whatever odd characters you come up with. I grab Breakfast of Champions from my bedside table, fluff up my pillow, and begin. 

“Anyway,” said the driver, “they had so many books in Libertyville, they used books for toilet paper in the jail.” 

Strange book. A literalist might have a very hard time reading Vonnegut! But I love him: I love the freedom he takes with structure, time, perspective, and I especially like the way he inserts himself into scenes. Plus, he has the guts to tackle tough subjects like mental illness. Like in chapter 18, as the voice of the narrator, he wonders if he might have schizophrenia - kind of uncanny serendipity with Mr. Edon in the house: “I did not and do not know for certain that I have that disease. This much I knew and know: I was making myself hideously uncomfortable by not narrowing my attention to details of life which were immediately important, and by refusing to believe what my neighbors believed.” 

That last sentence had me going: “I was making myself hideously uncomfortable by…refusing to believe what my neighbors believed.” Story of my life! If I could just fit into the culture I was born into; if I could just accept all the religious doctrines of my neighbors; love the opposite sex; just be “normal.” And maybe the hardest obstacle for me: not being able to “narrow my attention to details of life which were immediately important.” Not that I really want to, but it sure would make life simpler! 

Then, further in Breakfast of Champions, a character explains what Truth is: “It’s some crazy thing my neighbor believes. If I want to make friends with him, I ask him what he believes. He tells me, and I say, ‘Yeah, yeah—ain’t it the truth?’”  

Seems so easy. Would solve everything: just agree with everyone.

That night, Mom makes steak for Mr. Edon. I can look agreeable without completely conforming to everything, can’t I? It’s baked potato and salad for me.  

Mr. Edon seems restrained; can’t tell if his meds have kicked in or if he’s just exercising great self-control.

After dinner, I help Mom clean up, then go to my room. Just a few more pages of Breakfast of Champions. Near the end, Vonnegut describes most people as “fully automatic boobs.” Could be tongue in cheek, could be sincere. Hard to tell, I guess.  

I finish the book.

“THE WAGES OF SIN IS DEATH! DEATH! HELLFIRE!”

I nearly fall out of bed. What the hell…

Sunday morning.

“That’s right, all you sinners, you’re goin’ to burn for eternity! Burn in the flaming pools of Hell!”

I cover my head, trying to drown it out, but that hateful yelling is reaching me even under the covers. I get up and walk into the living room, and there, as yesterday, Mr. Edon in front of the TV. This time, he is a lot more than a little agitated. 

“Yessir, it all began with that wicked Eve and the snake in the Garden. Disobeyed GOD, they did! And he cast them out. CAST THEM OUT! And he’ll do the same to YOU!”

I run into the living room. Mr. Edon's eyes are wide but blank. He is gripping the chair arms so hard his fingernails are ripping through the fabric.

“Mr. Edon.” No response. “Mr. Edon.” He continues to stare at the TV, his eyes fixed in terror.

Mom calls from their bedroom, “Turn that nonsense off, Roberta.”

Gladly!

Dad joins us in the living room. He looks at me, concerned, then speaks in soft tones to Mr. Edon, “Adam, it’s all OK.” At first, no response. “Adam.”

Mr. Edon turns his head slowly toward Dad. “I was cast out. They threw me out of my apartment complex, and now,” his eyes widen even further, “now they’re after me. They’re going to burn me.” His voice trails off; his head turns blankly back toward the dark TV. 

I hear the phone ring in the parents’ room. Mom answers, “No, Ted. No, no, we're up. Yes. Just a minute.” Mom calls out, “Ted wants to borrow a tarp. That house they’re renting is leaking badly.” “Terrible timing,” Dad says under his breath. “Sure. We have two.” “We have two, Ted. Sure, come on over.” Then, calling out to Dad, “He’s coming over.”

Even with the TV preacher gone, Mr. Edon is still clutching the chair, mumbling to himself about sinning, about burning in hell, being cast out.

“No one’s going to hurt you, Adam. You’re safe. You’re fine,” my dad assures.

“Burn in flaming pools. Disobeyed! DISOBEYED!!”

A few minutes later, Ding Dong!

“Oh, God, it’s Ted.”

“Come in,” I hear Mom call from the front door.

“Go get the tarps out of the utility closet, Roberta. Two blue tarps folded at the far end of the closet. Hurry.”

I search through the jumbled mess as quickly as I can, but to no avail.

“Sorry, Dad. I don’t see them.”

Dad hurries in, moves a couple of boxes, and there they are. “Here, take these to Mr. Patterson.”

I enter the living room with the tarps; Dad follows. It’s strangely quiet. And there holding Mr. Edon’s hand, Emmanuelle.

“Dad says thank you,” says the girl in her wet wool coat and derby. She smiles politely, takes the tarps, and leaves.

“Darndest thing, Royce,” says Mr. Edon, standing up calmly. “I was trapped in this swirling red smoke. I couldn’t breathe. I was sweating and coughing and… I was dying. Then, whoosh, a breeze blew through, blew away all the smoke and ash. It’s as if a burden has been lifted - a heavy burden I’ve been carrying around forever.”

That was the third miracle. 

Of course, at the time, I hadn’t realized these were miracles at all. It seems so obvious now.

Chapter 8 - Picnic On The Mound - The Fourth Miracle

So I have this reader in Hong Kong who has read my first two books, The Mis-Adventures of Molly Fitt, and The Sisters of Sanity and she keeps asking if Molly is going to come back. How on earth would I know? It’s not like I’m making this up.

But, I guess, unless you’re in the writer’s head, you don’t know if they’re making it up or not. Could be real. Could be fiction. Could be a mix. Could be that the characters or the story are so vivid to the writer that it’s hard for them to distinguish real from made up.     

But no matter real or made up, authors feel inspired to write, perhaps for reasons even they may not know. 

I don’t know.

But inspiration is an elusive phenomenon, one that visits on its own terms, in its own time. We say a jazz musician feels inspired and makes up an improvisation; an artist reads something or sees something or just feels something and is inspired to make up a painting; some well-meaning and gifted schizophrenic writer might hear voices that inspire them, then makes up a scenario or sonnet or a book or a tome or maybe even a scripture. “Inspiration.” Perhaps it’s all inspired. 

Maybe. But I don’t know.

But, I do know this: inspiration is a word, and the word doesn’t explain anything, and it sure doesn’t shed light on where these ideas and urges come from. That is a mystery. 

But I follow a train of thought that appeared out of nowhere. Back to the here and now.

Mr. Edon went home.

The hurricane died out as another one begins to form.

It’s Monday. I’ve no plans so decide to hang out with KV again. This time, Timequake. 

Just before noon, I hear Lowman’s only firetruck wailing in the distance. Later, Latisha texts me and tells me that there was a fire at Angie’s dad’s church, the one with the Vacation Bible School just starting. She knows about this because her younger cousin Alexis is attending. Here is the story her cousin told her, reconstructed:  

Around 11:30, about ten of the thirty or so Vacation Bible School attendees were in the kitchen of the educational building melting Paraffin wax to make candles. There’s a lot going on: kids running around, talking, cutting up. 

Some kid screamed "fire.” The paraffin wax, a highly combustible byproduct of the petroleum industry, had burst into flames and caught a nearby curtain on fire. Could have destroyed the entire church.  

An aside: I went to that church a few times when Angie and I were “girlfriend and girlfriend,” before her dad made her quit talking to me. I quit going after that: she was the only reason I went anyway. However, during those few times I did go I heard a bit of the sermons - you can’t block out everything. Some of it was rather political at times. Climate change was mentioned once. It wasn’t the main topic but rather a footnote in a sermon Angie’s dad called, “The Arrogance of Man.” And by “man” I assume he included women. I think his point was that God was in charge and no matter what we mere mortals did it didn’t affect “God’s plans.”  

Hmmm… convenient, don’t you think. And hang on, this has something to do with the Bible School fire. 

To me, it seems short-sighted on God’s part to give “man” free license to do anything including wrecking the planet, and irresponsible on “man’s” part to go about wrecking it. So, in keeping with the “it’s out of my control” idea, it doesn’t surprise me that the theme for Vacation Bible School is “Are These The Final Days?” (Scary-ass theme for a bunch of little kids!) And it seems apropos, really, that the petroleum industry that spawned paraffin wax is choking out the life of the planet and these kids, if not in the short term, eventually. 

Maybe that was God’s plan all along, for us to muck up the planet, cause the “Apocalypse.” Doesn’t make sense to me, but then, what do I know? 

I know the continued use of fossil fuels is wrecking the planet and humans are burning fossil fuels, not God.             

Back to the story: Teachers scrambled to get the kids to safety and extinguish the blaze. Meanwhile, someone called the Lowman volunteer fire department which arrived long after the fire was out - it’s a volunteer fire department after all. Mrs. Clark, the reverend’s wife, Angie’s mom, directed the other teachers to serve lunch in the picnic area in the backyard since the educational building reeked of smoke. 

As sandwiches were being passed out, who should walk by but Emmanuelle. And since the church had made many more sandwiches than needed, one of the teachers called Emmanuelle over and offered her lunch. Emmanuelle politely accepted the sandwich and sat down on a grassy knoll near the picnic tables to eat. 

Now one of the Bible school attendees was an emotionally challenged, very withdrawn little boy named Silas Shuler. Silas had not spoken for years, and no one knew why, though many suspected some sort of trauma. As soon as Emmanuelle sat down, shy little Silas got up from his seat next to the teacher, walked over to Emmanuelle, and sat down in front of her. Silas ate silently. But when he was through eating his sandwich, he began to talk to her - no one knows what about. Emmanuelle, reportedly, didn’t say a word but just smiled at the little boy and continued eating. 

“Mrs. Clark! Mrs. Clark! Silas can talk!” one of the kids shouted. Mrs. Clark ran out to investigate.

“Praise the Lord!” Mrs. Clark cried out falling to her knees.

“That girl cured Silas! She cured him!” said the little girl. By this time Emmanuelle had gone on her way.

“Now Chrissy, no one can cure someone but God.”

“But, she…”

“Chrissy! Now go in and get ready for this afternoon’s Bible class.”

End of conversation. 

There’s no explaining this in normal terms. It's what people of a religious persuasion would call a miracle. 

Turns out young Silas had a lot to say. He spoke of how his dad often beat his mom, administered cruel punishment to him and his older brother Nick, and mistreated animals on their farm. The dad, Carl Shuler, was one of the white supremacists who plotted against Mr. Looper. Mr. Shuler is a deacon in the church. 

Of course, it’s just a little kid’s word against a respected adult male citizen, and the good people of Lowman chose to sweep the news of abuse under the rug as though it never happened, as though they never heard of it. After a while, Silas clammed up, too. 

And word got around town about the miracle, about Emmanuelle. You’d think that everyone would be happy with Silas’s recovery… 

Chapter 9 - The Raptors

The day after the Vacation Bible School episode I get a strange email with an attachment. I read the text very skeptically and think hard about opening the attachment. The text reads: 

Hi, 16-year-old me.  

I am future you. And thanks to Missy, whom we stay in touch with all these years, I am able to communicate with you using an invention of hers. Now, before you delete this thinking it is a hoax that anyone could know about Missy the Magnificent and her transport device who read “The Mis-Adventures of Molly Fitt” or “Roberta Robbins and the Sisters of Sanity,” let me prove to you this is real, that I am you. Remember when we were on vacation in the Smokies? We were eight years old. Remember the girl in the next campsite and how you blushed when you first met her? Cindy was her name, I think. We never told anyone about her or our feelings. Of course you remember. Believe me now? 

I am writing you/me to encourage us to write because I know we were having a problem with writer’s block around this time. (I kept our diaries 😀.)  So, I’m going to be sending you various essays and short stories, things that you write later, maybe give you some ideas. Warning: some of the future dystopian stories like this first one are not fiction, I’m sorry to say.   

But the future is not entirely bleak: you do fall in love, and she is wonderful! I don’t want to spoil the experience for you by telling you her name, so, for now, I’ll call her Beth. Not that you could change anything, but it might feel too much like Vonnegut’s “Timequake” if you knew too much about your future. Yes, you still like KV, maybe not quite as much.  

I will tell you this: you meet “Beth” first year in college, and move to a cabin in the woods - very secluded. Yes, you change a lot.  

OK, I’d say “good luck,” but I already know our outcome! 

Bert  (that’s the name you go by now) 

The first attachment: 

October 22, 2037       True story.     

Time, time, time…

Things have changed so quickly. A few large corporations now control all internet content; or is it just one big corporation? Voting has become a gesture only the foolhardy participate in; it doesn’t make any difference. We’ve all had to adjust. But in our adjusting, we have been cautious to not lose our fire, our dreams, our compassion, our “compass.” 

Truth has become a scarce commodity, a deliberate casualty of this takeover. Out of fear or complacency, the masses looked the other way as the changes took place. What could anyone do, anyway? 

To this end, some brave individuals have created secret depositories in the deep web to preserve the writings of great thinkers and leaders of the past. Very risky business. For instance, the words of Martin Luther King, Jr.: “Nothing in the world is more dangerous than sincere ignorance and conscientious stupidity” would be considered treasonous now. Gone is the annual day to celebrate his dream of equality. The powers-that-be never outlawed the day, they just stealthily began removing all mention of Dr. King from the web, books, etc. Of course, there is the monument in DC to him that couldn’t easily be removed. But after the Mega-McDonalds restaurant and playground was built right in front of it, it became almost invisible. Martin Luther King, Jr. died trying to erase bigotry. But all his efforts have been undone, much of it in the name of God. 

Martin Luther King, Jr. died trying to erase bigotry. And over the years after his death, laws were passed granting more racial and gender equality and rights for gays. But that has all but been undone, much of it in the name of God.

And perhaps the biggest threat of all, climate change, a battle we might have won when I was young, is long past correcting. Another “act of God.” 

It was getting pretty bad by the time I finished high school in 2020. But after my first year in college, the writing was clearly on the wall: life on the planet was not going to continue as before. There was already an exodus of people from coastal regions and the Deep South, shortages of food and water, and increasing extreme weather events. A college degree seemed as useless as a screen door on a submarine. So Beth and I left college and headed for the hills, off the grid. 

Living is not easy, but Beth balances me, grounds me, gives me a reason for living. Besides the difficulties of living off the grid, we are always on the lookout for marauding bands of religious zealots, particularly the end-of-timers (EOT’s) that roam the countryside. 

You can tell EOT’s a mile away: they seem lost, confused, and often staring into the sky: they’re still waiting for the rapture. Beth calls them “the Raptors,” and like the birds of prey, the human Raptors are always scrounging for food and scouring for prey. In their case, the “prey” is converts. And if “conversion” isn’t possible, so the stories go, these roving bands of religious fanatics leave a trail of carnage.  

After breakfast one morning, Beth and I are lounging and reading when we’re startled by scraggly faces peering through our single front window, four or five of them, all with that disheveled, hungry look. Raptors. Before I can get to the lock on the door, Beth steps in front of me and opens it. She has no fear. 

“Yes?” she asks.

A tall freakish man steps forward. He’s wearing a tattered tie; his mannerisms are that of a used-car salesman. 

“May he hasten his return. Good morrow, Sister.” The EOT’s have taken to using archaic speech. “We come as messengers of the Messiah. Repent for the time of reckoning is at hand.” The others chime in, “Turn from your evil ways.”

“What do you want?” Beth asks.

“Want? Why…” he stops mid-sentence, eyeing me. “Your sister?” he asks, nodding in my direction.       

“What do you want?” Beth asks again.

“Who am I to want anything? It is only the master’s will I choose.”

“Leave.”

“Only the master’s will,” he says, and the others move forward as if cued.

I lunge for the door, but too late, the burly EOT leader has pushed his way in, snarling. 

“Bastard!” Beth screams at him. The others wince and cower, not him; he marches right into our little cabin. The others follow.

The leader scans the room and seeing only one bed in the one-room cabin shouts accusingly, “You are not sisters at all, you’re a couple of sodomites!”      

The other Raptors jerk their attention forward, becoming instantly agitated. I mentally make an inventory of the cabin to identify objects that might be used as weapons. The only thing that comes to mind is the ax out back, and the Raptors are between me and the only exit. Then Beth says something that completely takes me by surprise:

“Please, forgive my rudeness. Sit and have some tea, and let’s hear what you have to say.”

I look at her, puzzled; she completely ignores me. The leader continues to stand, obviously contemplating the offer. 

“If there is a chance for your salvation, we shall join you.” He sits at the table then gestures to the others who follow suit and sit on various chairs in the small room. 

Beth motions to the remaining chair at the table. “Sit, Bert. I’ll be right back with the tea.” I sit, too bewildered to think of another plan, but scared out of my mind to be across from this monster. 

The head Raptor stares at me through steely eyes. “You know that our Messiah,” the others join in, “may he hasten his return - will arrive in the sky any day now - may he hasten his return. If you are to join him on that glorious day,” he continued, “you will have to turn from your evil ways.” At this, the other Raptors seem to gloat in unison, “Turn from your evil ways.”

I look down at my hands folded on the table. I can think of nothing to say.

“Why must you go against our Lord’s plan?” He’s raising his voice. “Why must you disobey the laws of Nature when God has provided men for you.”      

I return my focus to this lecherous creep sitting across from me. Beth silently motions for me to keep my cool.

The monster continues, “Why did you choose this path of abomination?”

“Choose this path? I was made this way!”  

The Raptors explode in laughter.   

“‘Homosexuality is an abomination; they shall surely be put to death; their blood is upon them!' Leviticus 20:13!” shouts the creep across from me.

My blood is boiling. “Do you like pork?” I ask. The goon looks confused. “Do you like pork?”

“Yes, but…”

“Leviticus, chapter 11,” I interrupt him. “And the pig is unclean to you. You shall not eat of their flesh.”        

The ghoul raises his hand, points his finger at me, spittle in the corner of his mouth. But before he can speak, Beth walks over with tea.

“Here you go,” she says cheerfully, handing everyone a cup. “And for you,” she says handing me a cup, “coffee.”

The group of End-of-Timers is agitated, angry, but take their tea.

“We are happy you have come to our little cabin,” says Beth. What is she up to?! “We don’t get many visitors out here, and particularly not sanctified people like yourselves.” The leader looks on suspiciously while the rest of the group seems to be relaxing into this new mood Beth has set. Whatever she’s up to, she’s not going to be able to talk them out of their mission: convert or die.

“We are only doing the Messiah’s will, may he hasten his return. We take no glory in our works. we only…” He continues to speak about their mission and the end-of-days, the rapture, Armageddon, but the more he talks, the more his head bobs. The whole group is bobbing: they’re all drifting off to sleep!

“Poppy and Valerian root,” sighs Beth. “Can’t beat it for sleep.”

“You are soooo clever, Babe. But now what do we do with them?”

“Already thought of it,” Beth says beaming. “Help me clear out the armoire.” The “armoire” is what we call the really large cabinet Beth made from salvaged wood.

"Teleport them?” I ask.

“You got it!” One of the Raptors squirms. “Better hurry.”

We quickly dump our clothes and drag the intruders over one by one. Luckily, with a scarcity of food, the EOT's are thin and relatively light. Still, the cabinet barely contains them all.

“Here, lean against the door while I get the phone,” says Beth.

Beth retrieves the phone, charged thanks to the solar cells we brought along and dials up the teleport app that Missy developed years ago. 

“OK,” Beth says, “Around 500 BC should do it. Let’s see how they like living in the time of Moses!”

This was the first of numerous writings “Bert” sent me.

Chapter 10 - Trapped In The Amber Of This Moment

“Carl Shuler came by the mill today,” Dad groans, walking in from work. “He threatened Ted Patterson. Told him he better keep ‘that witch’ away from his family.” 

“Emmanuelle? You’re kidding!” I say. 

“He claims that Emmanuelle possessed his son Silas with the devil or some crap. These su-per-sti-tious…” 

“Assholes!” I blurt. 

“Everyone knows he’s in the Klan and probably had something to do with that gay teacher’s murder,” Dad adds. "He should be locked up, not running around threatening people.” 

I feel a surge of pride: my dad has come a long way in his thinking in a very short time! 

“And the boy’s still talking?” asks Mom. 

Dad laughs, “I think that’s the problem; he won’t shut up. And some of the things he’s telling, well, let’s say Carl is not happy.” 

“You think the Patterson girl really could have had something to do with the kid speaking?” Mom asks. 

“Like a miracle? C’mon,” Dad taunts. 

“Or put him at ease or… I don’t know,” Mom sighs. 

Just then: Ding! 

Latisha: Want to take a drive with me?

Me: Sure.

Latisha: On my way.

Ten minutes later, Latisha arrives. I meet her at her car. 

“I forgot you could drive,“ I say. 

“Yeah, can’t depend on Bengy anymore. You know.” 

“So, where are we going?” I ask. 

“Mom wanted me to deliver some cookies she baked to Aunt Lola in the country.” 

We’re heading east out of town, the setting sun to our backs. The light is golden. Farms of different sizes spot the countryside. Some have pastures full of cows chomping down their last food for the day. Others are full of crops. The low sun catches an old tin roof on an ancient barn glowing it a fiery orange. A little boy is playing fetch with a collie in the front yard of the farmhouse next to it. 

“Heard any more about the new girl Emmanuelle and the Shuler boy?” I ask. 

“No, but I can tell you, some of my relatives, the more religious ones, are wondering if she isn’t some sort of messenger of God or something.” 

We turn onto a bumpy dirt road. 

“Just a little bit further,” Latisha assures. 

The houses have dwindled away. Now there is only field after field of corn and cotton. Many of these fields were once painstakingly farmed by black slaves. Then after emancipation, many stayed on to eek out a meager living sharecropping. But nowadays, big corporations have taken over a good deal of the farms.  

As I’m watching the light fade over this timeless land, thinking of all the people who have worked it for decades… 

Boom! Pa-lop, pa-lop, pa-lop, pa-lop.

“Oh, jeez - I think I just ran over a nail,” Latisha sighs, bringing the car to a stop. “You know how to change a tire?” 

“Piece of cake,” I say, though the closest I’ve gotten to changing one was watching Dad change one on a vacation several years ago. 

We get out, open the trunk, and remove the spare and kit. The road is flat and empty and stretches into infinity. Latisha and I fumble with the tire jack and determine how it works, then examine the car for where to place it. As we’re deliberating… 

“Car coming,” says Latisha. 

I look back. The lights look huge and high above the road. This is no puny car. We hurry off the road. A mammoth pickup truck trailing clouds of dust passes. A prominent Confederate flag waves from the antenna.   

“I’ve seen that truck before!” I gasp. 

“The Shuler farm!” Latisha nearly screams. “It’s a half mile from my aunt’s!” 

Carl Shuler, the Klansman, the same man that threatened Emmanuelle’s dad, the man we got into trouble when we solved the murder of James Looper, the gay teacher. 

The truck slows, stops, and begins to back up. I grab the tire iron. The truck stops and the door opens. We brace ourselves. A man steps out. 

A young man. 

Nick Shuler. 

I never really met Nick, but I had seen him before and knew lots about him: forced by his dad to accuse his teacher, James Looper, of sexual assault; lives with his family even though in his twenties; a closeted gay man. 

Did this gay man turn bigot? Is he out for revenge for the humiliation we, the “Sisters of Sanity,” caused his dad? He approaches slowly. 

“Trouble, ladies?’ he asks. 

“No! And we don’t want any,” I say. “Just take your Confederate flag and get out of here.” 

Nick averts his eyes to his feet. “Sorry - it’s my - my dad’s truck.” 

“So you just…?” Latisha starts to ask. 

“Just thought you might want some help.” 

“No, I’m sorry, Nick,” I say. 

Nick looks up; his eyes are red and moist. “You both know what it’s like living here. It’s a slow suffocation.” He then moves quietly over to Latisha’s car, picks up the tire iron, and without saying another word begins changing the flat. We watch, not as helpless girls, but as grateful humans who have never changed a tire before. 

It’s nearly dark when Nick finishes. The first stars are just emerging above us.    

“How about some cookies?” Latisha asks. 

“Sure,” Nick says and smiles. 

After a couple of cookies, Nick opens up. “It’s not entirely my dad’s fault he’s like he is. He’s a product of generations of scared men, men who think they have to prove their masculinity, who feel inferior, really. Why else would anyone act like he does?” 

“Your little brother said your dad is abusive to your family,” says Latisha. 

Nick turns his head. 

“Why don’t you leave?” I ask. “Just get the hell out of Dodge?”  

“He is abusive. That’s why I can’t leave. Who else is going to protect Mom and Silas?” He begins to cry again. “He began to beat Silas when he was really young. Said he wanted to make sure Silas didn’t turn out like me.” 

“Gay?” I ask.  

Nick nods. “That’s why Silas shut down - he was terrified of Dad.” 

“But now he’s talking again,” says Latisha. 

“Even more reason to watch out for him: Dad is livid.” Nick takes another bite of cookie.  

Nick’s phone rings. “Yes. Just in front of the old Berry place. Sorry, I’ll be right there. Oh. OK. You sure?” Nick hangs up, obviously perturbed. “Quick, he’s on his way! Wants to trade cars. You have to get out of here, fast!” 

Headlights appear on the road ahead. I feel like I’m watching a very scary horror movie, and I’m the hapless victim. My feet feel glued to the ground. Latisha shoves me to the car. “Get in!” she shouts. 

I look back at Nick. “Thanks, friend,” I say. We drive off and pass Carl Shuler. He stares in our direction and continues toward Nick who is still standing outside the truck. “Slow down, Tish.” I look back as Carl Shuler steps in front of his headlights and slaps Nick to the ground. The image is forever burned into my memory. 

We are helpless to help. 

In a couple of weeks I will read Slaughterhouse-Five, and something I read then will stick with me and seem very apropos for the way I feel right now. One of the citizens of Tralfamadore will say to Billy Pilgrim: “Well, here we are, Mr. Pilgrim, trapped in the amber of this moment.”  

Chapter 11 - A Birthday Gift For Molly 

A second email from future me arrives: 

Diary posting, December 22, 2037                        

Today is Molly’s birthday. 

Every year since her disappearance over twenty years ago, I have spent her birthdays quietly, rehashing all the memories, wondering whatever happened to her. Today I decided to write an ending to her story as a gift to her, an “ending” she would appreciate. I am also writing this hoping it will help me let her go. 

So, Molly, consider this a birthday present, a fabrication, an adventure, a gift of love, a Tralfamadorian-like non-ending to your story.

…..

Molly Fitt was a strange girl.

A misfit.

Strange things happened to her, and around her.

She was a couple of years older than me, and I adored her. Then during her fifteenth summer, or was it sixteenth, she vanished into thin air. 

 If Molly ever read the previous sentence, she would probably ask, “Why do people call it ’thin’ air? Unless you’re in a dust storm or smog or something, it’s just ‘air.’” That was her inquisitive mind.

Molly disappeared in a pasture behind my house. No goodbye; no explanation. So here’s what could have happened, thanks for the inspiration, Mr. Vonnegut. 

Molly’s panic, her disorientation, her fear began to subside a few steps into the muddy cow pasture; above her, a faint whirring. An overwhelming sense of calm swept through her as she embraced her destiny. Looking up at the large puffy cloud, she knew it was time: they had finally come for her. She smiled. No residual fear. 

The whoosh up into the belly of the spaceship was so fast and gentle that Molly didn’t have time to consider her fear of heights. Once inside, she was surrounded by a violet glow and the soft whir of the spaceship. 

“We meet again!” squeaked a voice from behind her.           

Molly turned. There stood a creature about four feet tall with a head as large as a beach ball, droopy sad eyes, pink skin, and completely naked. Molly stared motionless and slack-jawed.

“Sorry,” said the extraterrestrial. Then, speaking into the air, “Computer, Chi-hua-hua,” and like that, the creature morphed into a tiny Chihuahua.  

“Little Bit?” asked Molly.

“Better? Or I can take any other form you choose.”

"So, you’re the Smarties-crazed alien who took over Mrs. Miller’s little dog and forced me to help you when you crash-landed!”

“The same!” said the creature in Chihuahua form. 

“Did you run out of fuel again?”

“No, no,” the alien chuckled. "But thanks again for helping me when I did. By the way, I loved the way your friend wrote about our adventure in her book.”     

“Book?”

“Roberta Robbins’ book.”

“Really? Roberta wrote a book?”

“‘The Mis-Adventures of Molly Fitt.' Oh, right, you're stuck in this single time-dimension paradigm. This happens, as you say, ‘later.’ We become famous all over the universe, with a little marketing help from me, of course.”

“So, you’re a time-traveler, too?”

“No, not exactly. Like Tralfamadorians, we see all time happening at the same time.” 

“Ha! I suspected time was like that! But what the hell are Tralfama…?”     

“Not a sci-fi fan I take it. Tralfamadore is the planet Kurt Vonnegut invented. ‘Slaughterhouse-Five?'” I stare back at him puzzled. “We Lucasians are big sci-fi fans!” 

“Lucasians?”

“Lucasia is the planet I’m from. We renamed it after George Lucas. Huge ’Star War’ fans!” The little dog jumped up and down with excitement. 

The alien then calmed himself and cleared his throat seemingly gathering his thoughts. “Molly, my real name is Raj-raj, and the reason I’m here… our civilization needs you.”

“You’re abducting me?!?

“No, no, just inviting you. Look, Molly, Lucasia is in trouble. Though we are an extremely advanced, highly intelligent culture, we’ve become complacent; we’ve lost our sense of curiosity. And a civilization will shrivel up and die without curiosity! You would be an inspiration to us, Molly,” Raj-raj pleaded. “Besides, on Earth, your intellectual curiosity is wasted. We, however, we need you.” 

“But I haven’t even finished high school!”

The alien-Chihuahua grinned broadly. “We don’t need someone with all the answers; we need someone who’s still asking the big questions! And, on Lucasia, if you wanted, you could use our advanced technologies and libraries to explore those questions like the ones you used to ask your science teacher.”      

“You know about my science teacher?”

“I read the Molly book, remember? Anyway, I could tell you were different from the other Earthlings.” Molly rolled her eyes at the outdated sci-fi reference to humans. “Would you do it, Molly?” Raj-raj looked at her with doleful puppy eyes. "Pretty please?” 

Molly stood silently for a long time. She thought about how miserable her life had become in Lowman. She thought about her mother and father, now separated - they’d find other partners soon enough. She thought about Roberta. The time-traveling alien did say she would publish: maybe she’d turn out alright.

“Can I return, if I want to?”

“Why, sure! IF you want to.”

“And could I communicate with people back here on Earth?” The words sounded really strange to Molly as she said them, “back on Earth.” It gave her a feeling of being untethered, drifting in a very uncertain world of possibilities. 

“Sure, yes, if, well, thing is, to be truthful, our connections to Earth are spotty. Solar flares, maybe? But you can always try.”

“And you're sure you’re not some kind of perv?” Molly said half-teasing.

“Gosh, no. We got rid of all the pervs when we got rid of all the politicians.”

“OK. I’m in!” said Molly.

The Chihuahua-alien grinned and did a flip before ordering, “Computer, home!”

Because of the Lucasian technological advances in space travel, the spaceship arrived on the planet in minutes, or what seemed like minutes to Molly. The whirring sound slowed, then, BUMP. “Sorry,” said Molly’s host who had already morphed back into his Lucasian form. 

A marching band, of sorts, met Molly as she exited the craft. “Beach Boys?” Molly asked, bewildered.

”Yes,” beamed Raj-raj. “We wanted you to feel right at home!” 

“Nice try," Molly thought. 

The scene was a bit overwhelming - a sea of what looked like pinkish balloons waving their little arms and shouting in a squeaky little voices.  

As though reading her mind, Raj-raj handed Molly what appeared to be sunglasses. “Here,” he said, “this must all seem very strange. If you’d rather see Lucasians as human, just say ‘human’ or any other form, animal, plant, whatever, and that is how they will appear.” 

Molly placed the glasses on. “Human,” she said, and instantly the throng turned into more familiar looking humanoid creatures. She could tell from their expressions that they were indeed very happy she was there. “Carrot,” she said, just for the hell of it, then belly laughed as the multitude became a sea of orange with green tassels atop their heads. “Toaster!” And on and on. Finally, Molly removed her glasses to review her huge welcoming party - funny as they looked, they did seem so sincerely glad to see her. 

After a proper introduction to the citizens of Lucasia, Raj-raj led Molly to a large building in the middle of a square in the middle of settlement.  

“This will be your residence and headquarters: the Kilgore Trout Institute of Science Fiction. Till now it has been a repository for sci-fi books and other media, and a place for lectures by traveling sci-fi authors. But now! Now that we have you, we will change the name to the Kilgore Trout Institute of Un-Learning.”

“But the books and all…?”

“They can stay if you like, Director Fitt.”

Hmmm, Molly thought, this could be cool.

Raj-raj continued, “Science fiction was seen as a way to counteract the complacency that comes with our very long lifespans, to stimulate imagination, expand our minds. But after a while, Lucasians just began repeating the stories to each other, and repeating what you’ve read or heard does not expand anything. The missing element here is curiosity.”

“Sounds like science fiction had become like a religion,” Molly said.

Raj-raj cocked his enormous head as if to say he’d never considered that.

So after resting and getting settled in, Molly began to meet with curious Lucasians. One after another they lined up. Some had been told by friends they were know-it-alls and needed to get a grip; others had spent time investigating “religions of the universe” and had developed a crusty fanaticism - these were the hardest to deal with and were often accompanied by concerned friends and relatives; then there were those just curious. But all of them, whether there by their own choice or not, expressed real gratitude for Molly’s opinions and insights, something quite new to her. And Molly was careful not to try to change anyone’s ideas or beliefs, only to challenge them. 

Typical conversations might go like this:

Lucasian: Why is it that I, the smartest person on Lucasia, am not appreciated for my deep thoughts? 

Molly: And by what means is it that you create these deep thoughts of yours?

Lucasian: Our scientists are the smartest in the world. They have determined the edges of the universe.

Molly: But what past that? 

Lucasian: One day I want to write a book.

Molly: So, what are you waiting for?

Lucasian: My life is a boring cycle of waking and sleeping.

Molly: Are you certain you are awake now? 

Molly gained a lot of satisfaction from these interactions with Lucasians. But over time, a hole in her heart began to gnaw at her. Something very important was missing in her life: love. She never expected to find romantic love in Lowman, a world even more alien to her than this strange world. But now, a young woman, she felt a strong desire for physical connection. She grew despondent. 

Raj-raj being ever-vigilant, noticed the change in Molly and one day…

Molly had stepped outside on the steps of the Kilgore Trout Institute of Un-Learning building to take a lunch break. In between sips of the Coke that the Lucasians had synthesized for her, she spotted a very unusual creature walking across the square toward her. It appeared to be a handsome young man - a HUMAN young man. Oh, I’ve left my species-morphing goggles on, Molly thought, but then realized she wasn’t wearing them.

Raj-raj introduced the new inhabitant, “Molly, this is Stan, your new assistant.”

And so life took a new turn for Molly, and she continued as director of the Kilgore Trout Institute of Un-Learning for a very long time - in human terms.

And Molly was content. AND still curious.

Chapter 12

In Memory Of Molly Fitt 

I woke up very sad. 

After reading about Molly’s imagined life in Lucasia, I dreamt of her all night. I saw her in a world that suited her, with a romantic partner that she never even dared dream of. But instead of being happy for her, I feel sad: I wasn’t there. 

I miss her terribly. 

“Ready for coffee, Roberta?” Mom calls from the kitchen. I drag myself out of bed. 

“I saw Mrs. Fitt yesterday. She’s placing a marker for Molly at the cemetery on Saturday. There’ll be a little service, too. Want to go?” 

 I gulp some more sludge. So much for “and she lived happily ever after.” 

….. 

Saturday morning Mom and I ride to the cemetery. I hate this place. Too many stories with bad endings. There’s a cloth-covered monument right next to James Looper’s grave. Way too weird! If it hadn’t been for Molly’s curiosity about the suspicious death of this gay teacher, the “Sisters of Sanity” might have never got involved and solved it. And now she - or at least a stone with her name on it - will be right next to his for… 

“C’mon, Roberta.” Mom’s voice brings me back to the present. 

There’s a small group gathered in the open air: Mackie and Ah-Lam; Anthony, the mentally-challenged artist that Molly secretly helped; Latisha and her parents; Bengy - alone; Mr. Carter, the science teacher; Mr. Johnson, the school janitor; Mr. Kaiser, the ex-principal; and Rev. Lou, James Looper’s surviving lover. Mrs. Fitt, who is standing with a man I don’t recognize, steps forward and removes the cloth covering the marker. It reads: 

In Memory of Molly Fitt, A Beloved Child, An Inquisitive Soul, A Dear Friend, One Of A Kind. 

I begin to weep uncontrollably as I read “a dear friend.” There are no dates. It’s like she’s timeless. I cry more with that thought. Then I feel a hand on my shoulder. Mom? I turn. No, it’s creepy Rev. Clark touching me as he walks up to the gravestone. I shudder out loud. People turn and look - I don’t care: he shouldn’t be here, the homophobic, bigoted asshole. 

And Mrs. Fitt has asked him to speak!? Why?! He talks about all kinds of crap that has nothing at all to do with Molly. Talks as though she’s dead and has gone on to “a better place.” How she will be missed! He wouldn’t have given her the time of day when she was around, and if he had said a kind word to her it would have been phony blah blah blah, come to church, blah blah blah. 

Finally, he’s done blathering. He asks everyone to bow their heads. 

Instead, I find myself walking to the front of the group, completely ignoring Rev. Clark’s directions.            

“Reverend Clark speaks as though he knew Molly.” The group looks up, startled. My friends smile. "He didn’t. He speaks as though she shared his vision of the world and God. She didn’t. Molly did not live by fear - she lived by love. Molly did not have all the answers as Reverend Clark claims to, but she did have plenty of damned good questions. And Molly inspired us, her real friends, to push for a deeper understanding of what we could understand, and for an appreciation for what is beyond our human understanding. 

“And what I probably loved most about Molly was she respected and cared for everyone regardless of their color, religion, or sexual preference. Everyone. Even me!” 

As I begin to walk through the dumbfounded group, I hear an “Amen,” then another and another and another. I look up through blurry eyes - there are her real friends - Latisha, Bengy, Ahn-Lam, Mackie, Anthony - all crying. Others, too: Lou, Mr. Johnson, Mr. Kaiser, Mr. Carter. It's more than I can take. I run to Mom. “I’m proud of you,” she whispers and holds me close. “Proud of you for standing up for yourself and for Molly. And proud of you for cutting through all the mumbo jumbo crap.” 

Latisha and the others walk by on their way to their cars and pat me on the back. Bengy, who had hung back, was last. His eyes are red, his cheeks still wet. “Want a ride, Molly?” I grab him and hold him tight. “Please,” I say. 

But before we leave, I take one last look at Molly’s marker. Rev. Lou is removing a stone from his lover, James Looper’s tombstone and placing it on Molly’s. What a sweet, sweet gesture.  

As Bengy and I start out of the cemetery, we pass an above ground crypt as tall as a person with an epitaph inscribed on the front. 

“Slow down, Bengy.” 

I read aloud: 

"Remember Man as you go by

As you are now so once was I

As I am now, so shall you be

Prepare yourself to follow me”   

Bengy shakes his head and says, “Kind of creepy if you ask me.” 

“Yeah, I agree. OK, go on.” But as we drive past the ancient structure, I shout, “Stop.” 

“Damn!, Roberta You scared me!” 

From behind the crypt walks Emmanuelle smiling and extending her thumb as if hitchhiking. I motion to her and she slips into the back seat. “Don’t you just love old graveyards?” she asks. 

“Emmanuelle, this is my friend Bengy,” I say trying to appear cool. 

“Sweet,” Emmanuelle says. “But just call me ‘E.’” 

On the short drive back into town Bengy asks, “So, what do you think of Lowman, E?” 

Emmanuelle seems not to hear the question at first, then, “Hard to say,” she finally answers. 

“Turn right here, please,” Emmanuelle directs as we enter the town limits. Bengy turns. “I know you’re curious about the Vacation Bible School thing,” Emmanuelle offers out of the blue. "There’s nothing to tell, really. The kid couldn’t talk, now he can. This is it,” she says pointing at the weathered little house where she and her dad live. 

Bengy stops the car. 

I’m thinking about how out of place she must feel in this close-minded little town, no friends. “Want to hang out sometime?” I ask. 

Emmanuelle turns as she steps out the car. “I’d love to!” she beams. “Thanks for the ride.” 

And as she reaches to close the car door I see it: in the middle of her palm, clear as day, a dark scar the size of… a large spike! 

Chapter 13

Still The Sun Comes Out 

I’m sitting at the kitchen table with my laptop, staring at the two attachments from my future self when Mom walks in. 

“Looks like Daryl may turn this way after all,” Mom says.

I close the laptop - I’m not about to share these emails with anyone. “Daryl?” I ask.

“The next hurricane! A big one! Where have you been?” Mom’s looking in cabinets and the refrigerator as she speaks. "I’m heading to Orangeville to pick up food and emergency supplies - just in case. Wanna come?” 

I’ve got nothing else to do and join her in the car.

“When are you going to get your driver’s license?” Mom asks while pulling out onto the street.

“Don’t know.”

We turn onto Main Street, quiet as usual. As we’re approaching Town Hall, I spot Emmanuelle walking. I can’t see her face, but it has to be her - who else wears a coat in summer, or a derby, anytime? Just as we pass Town Hall I look back to wave. It happens so quickly that I’m not even sure I’m seeing what I’m seeing: as Emmanuelle walks past the building and the old maple that has been dead for over a year, the tree sprouts leaves. She doesn’t even seem to notice. 

I gasp.

Mom asks what’s going on. I don’t answer for fear of sounding crazy. Maybe it was my eyes playing tricks on me. But a lot of unexplainable things have happened around Emmanuelle since she moved to Lowman: first, the bathroom faucet fix; then the dog’s immediate recovery after being hit; Mr. Edon’s sudden cure; Nick’s little brother speaking for the first time in years. Now, this. If what I think just happened did happen, this is the fifth miracle. 

Hmmm, could be a book in it. Of course, nobody would believe me.  

Mom pulls into the Sav-Mor parking lot. It’s packed - seems everyone has the idea of stocking up for Daryl.

I push the cart while Mom shovels in supplies. We’re heading down the canned goods aisle. There’s a baby in the next aisle over screaming its head off. Very irritating, that and the whiny singer over the intercom that seems to be captive of a two-note melody. We’re middle of the aisle when I see someone in a man’s wool coat and a black derby pass at the end of the aisle. It has to be Emmanuelle, though not possible as we just saw her walking in Lowman. A second later, the baby stops crying.

I speed up.

“Hey,” Mom nearly shouts, “slow down.”

I round the corner of the aisle - no Emmanuelle.

Mom is collecting cereals and coffee. I’m doing my best to ignore the awful screeching overhead that passes for music. Then I see Emmanuelle crossing between aisles ahead. She pauses, looking up at the intercom speaker. Immediately it changes to some cool classic rock. She moves on. I leave the cart and run ahead. She’s not there. She’s nowhere in the store.

When we return to the car, there’s a flier on the windshield, passenger side. No other car in the lot has one on their windshield. It reads:

Sorry I couldn’t stop and say hello. 

In a hurry. See you after Daryl passes?   - E

I fold the note and stick it in my pocket.

“What was that? Some tree trimming guy or something?”

“Nothing.” No need to get into all this with Mom.

The sky is already heavy with clouds and the wind picking up. We pull into a gas station. The prices are sky high due to the previous hurricane knocking out some oil refineries on the gulf coast. God help us if Daryl knocks out more. 

…..

Daryl hits the next day - not straight on, thank God. But the coastal areas take a beating, again. Dad texts Mr. Edon and all he gets back is, “I’m fine.” The wind, the rain, I’m stuck in the house for days. Nothing to do but read - not able to write, ugh. And I text with Latisha, but I keep Emmanuelle’s activities to myself, for now.  

We lose power for a couple of hours. No big deal. But the trees next to the house are a big concern.The large pecan could easily drop humongous limbs on the house, and it’s not hard to imagine one of the pines popping in two and slamming through the living room. 

But no need to worry about things over which you have no control. Right?

So for the next few days, I read. I finish Timequake, not my favorite KV book so far. The premise is really interesting though, and I can see why future me compared it to my reading my own future writing: in Timequake everyone in the world is thrust ten years in the past and have to relive those ten years with no ability to change anything they do. Ughh. 

I begin Slaughterhouse-Five next, probably Vonnegut’s most famous work. An unhinged main character, Billy Pilgrim - right up my alley! 

Sunday morning. I take a break from reading and search the TV channels; maybe there are some old cartoons on. Before I know it, this televangelist guy is screaming, “These hurricanes are God’s punishment for our iniquity!” Right, so our actions do affect the climate! I’m chuckling at my joke when Dad yells from the bedroom, “Turn that damn thing off!” 

After lunch Dad begins clearing away brush strewn around the yard. It could have been a lot worse, he says: a tree had fallen onto a trailer in the country killing a young mom and her infant. Death is more intimate in a small town like Lowman: everybody knows everybody, the names have faces and histories.

Still, the sun comes out.  

Chapter 14

The Buddha On The Road 

“There she is! There she is! Cursed homo! Get her!”    

The mob turns and rushes toward me. I can barely stand let alone move through this hurricane gale. The gang overtakes me. 

“Grab her!” one old guy screams through the howling wind. “She’s the cause of all this! She’s the reason for the hurricanes! It's God’s wrath. Banish the devil!” 

“Banish the devil! Banish the devil!”  

Hands tighten around my throat. I can’t breathe. 

"God be praised!” 

“God be praised! God be praised! God be praised…”    

I wake in a sweat. 

Jeez, I’m having some weirdass dreams.  

….. 

After coffee I text Latisha: 

Me: Doing anything?

Latisha: Out of town. Visiting new school.

I text Bengy: 

Me: Up for a drive?

Nothing. Guess he’s not up. 

It’s too pretty a day to stay inside with my dreary thoughts, so I pull out the old bike and decide to take a ride out in the country to see my old friend, Anthony. Anyone who read my Molly book remembers that Anthony is a terrific artist and human being. He lives in a trailer outside of town and makes art with found objects.  

My bike is covered with dirt and cobwebs - I can’t remember the last time I rode it. I decide to take the backroads to Homestead Road. The air is not yet hot and the light soft. I pedal leisurely, letting my mind air out, trying to shake off that horrible dream. I turn on to the street that parallels Main and pass the back of what was Daisy’s restaurant and first headquarters of the Sisters of Sanity. Bluejays are squawking in a tree in the lot to my right. I pass by the barbecue joint.  

There's a sudden flash to my left. I swerve to the right nearly hitting a utility pole. A car whizzes by, its tailwind so strong and close I feel it on my neck. I fall into a mound of bagged garbage, shaken but not hurt. I look up. A figure in a man’s wool coat and black derby is crossing the road toward me. 

“Here,” Emmanuelle says in a soft, clear voice and extends a hand. I can’t help noticing that discoloration in her palm again.  

“Thanks,” I say and untangle myself from my bike. “That was close.” 

“Yes,” says Emmanuelle. “Barely slowed down when they came to the stop sign.” 

“Want to get something at Pendar’s?” I ask. 

“Do they have coffee?” 

“Yes, well, sort of,” I laugh. Her gentle demeanor is disarming, comforting. 

We quietly walk the remaining small-town blocks, me rolling my bike, she walking between me and the road.   

Pendar’s is already populated with the old geezers that hang out and churn over the latest gossip. As we walk in, the conversations immediately stop. Small town, no secrets, everyone has heard about this strange new girl, at least about her "curing the Shuler boy.” And then, there’s me, the resident homo. 

“Morning, Roberta. Coke?” 

“Two coffees, please, Mr. Pendar.” 

Mr. Pendar looks shocked at my ordering coffee. 

“Cream and sugar?” 

“Black,” I answer, then turn to Emmanuelle. 

“Black,” she says. I smile. 

Mr. Pendar returns with two styrofoam cups filled with a dark, muddy brown fluid. There’s a strange blackish foam residual clinging to the white styrofoam just above the liquid. I reach for money. 

“No charge. End of the pot.” Then Mr. Pendar turns to Emmanuelle. “You must be the daughter of the new mill foreman.” 

“Yes, sir,” Emmanuelle responds politely. “Emmanuelle.”  

Mr. Pendar extends his hand to shake. “Welcome to Lowman,” he says.  

Emmanuelle hesitates then returns the gesture, palm down. “Thank you,” she says, then replaces her hand in her coat pocket. 

I grab the coffees. “Follow me,” I say and lead Emmanuelle out the back door. Between Pendar’s and the Alien Welcome Center is an old worn wooden bench. “Will this do?” We sit with our dark brown liquids. 

“You’re probably wondering what that heap of wood and sheet metal is,” I say and realize I’m a little on edge. “No one ever pays the dollar to see it, but it is Lowman’s contribution to roadside attractions: The Alien Welcome Center.” 

Emmanuelle doesn’t seem interested in the least. 

“I’m glad I ran into you,” she says. 

“Better you than that damn car,” I joke. She laughs. 

“You seem like someone I can trust,” Emmanuelle says, looking directly into my eyes. Again, it seems like she is looking right through me. I feel momentarily disoriented. This is not romantic; it’s something else.  

“What was that about at the Sav-Mor?” I ask. 

Emmanuelle chuckles. “Funny name, isn’t it?” 

“Yeah, but, just ten minutes before…” 

“Roberta, I have no control over any of this.” 

“You mean…” 

“Things happen. Like some character in a book, I find myself here and there, doing whatever the writer decides. Sometimes it seems a bit random, but what can you do?” 

“No control?” 

Emmanuelle just shrugs. Sounds like something right out of a Kurt Vonnegut story. 

“And your palm,” I say. 

“Palms,” Emmanuelle answers and shows me both her hands. “Birthmarks,” she says, then removes her derby. I move closer. Circling her hairline, I’m not lying, is a ring of what appear to be puncture wounds. 

“Birthmarks?” I ask. 

She nods and replaces her derby. 

“OK. I want to know everything, I mean, it can’t be a coincidence these birthmarks, the miracles…” She just shrugs again. 

Emmanuelle sips her coffee, sighs, then says, “OK, my life story in a nutshell. I was born in a small mid-western town. Smaller than Lowman. It was a dark and stormy night…” 

I laugh. 

“No, really. Like the inventor Nikola Tesla, I was born during an electrical storm. My mom went into labor about 11:00 PM. My dad got her in the car and began driving to the nearest hospital some fifty miles away. 

“According to Dad, the wind was fierce and the rain blinding. Lightning was crackling all around. He was no more than ten miles down this country road when a lightning strike downed a large tree next to the road. It fell directly onto the car, crushing in the top.  

“The next thing my dad remembered was waking up in a dimly lit room with his forehead bleeding. An older man was standing over my mom. She was in bad shape. It turns out the old man had been a medic in the Navy, no experience with female anatomy, mind you, but they decided it was imperative to try to save the baby right then. 

“And they did: I was born.” 

“And your mom?” 

 “She died.” 

“I’m sorry,” I say. 

“But lucky that we wrecked just outside the bar.” 

“The bar?” 

“Manny’s Tavern. Manny was the old man who delivered me in his apartment above the bar. Emmanuel Zawadzki.” 

“And I would have thought you were born in some stable on Christmas day, or something,” I chuckle. 

“No,” Emmanuelle laughs, “in a bar at midnight on July 10th - same birthday as Nikola Tesla, by the way.”

…..

I Google Nikola Tesla that evening. He was an eccentric genius often getting his futuristic inventions in flashes of intuition. A real oddball. And like Emmanuelle said, he was born during an electrical storm around midnight on July 10th. But the thing that intrigued me most was something Tesla's mom said. After the midwife declared the lightning a bad omen, that the child would be a child of darkness, Tesla’s mom replied: “No. He will be a child of light.” 

Chapter 15

There’s Room For All Of Us 

I get another email from future me: 

January 4, 2038        True Story

Rap Rap Rap! 

We jump. After that roving band of EOT’s, we are very nervous about visitors. Beth motions to be quiet and walks over to the edge of the curtain and peeks behind the window. 

“It’s a young man, 16, maybe.”

“What about in the woods?”

Beth doesn’t answer but moves to the door and asks through the closed door, “What do you want?” 

“Water. Food. If you please,” the young boy answers in a soft tone.

Beth looks at me. I shrug. “Who is with you?” Beth asks.

“No one.”

I motion my consent. Beth opens the door. There stands a scraggly, but nice-looking young man, dirty and in clothes that haven’t seen soap in months. 

“I’m so sorry to bother you,” he says, looking at his feet. “My name is Michael and I, well, I guess I got lost a ways back.” 

“Turn out your pockets, please,” directs Beth. She’s checking for weapons. Only a bit of dirt falls from his grubby pant’s pockets. “Come in.”

Michael walks in, nods to me, looks around the apartment. “Nice place,” he says politely.

“My name is Roberta; this is Beth. Have a seat, and I’ll get you some water and something to eat.” It could be a trap, but I don’t get that kind of vibe from him. He takes off his jacket as he sits down and I can’t help noticing the welts that protruding from a hole in his shirt. He’s been beaten. Or whipped. Beth sees them, too.

“So, where were you headed when you got lost, Michael?” asks Beth.

“Was just going, uh, for a walk. You know, nice weather for this time of year.”

“And you got lost?”

“Yeah,” he says looking away. I set his water in front of him.

“And your back?” asks Beth. She can be very direct.

Michael shuffles in his chair. “My back?”

“The welts.”

Michael looks toward the door. He seems very nervous.

“You’ve got nothing to worry about here, Michael,” Beth says reassuringly. “We’re not going to hurt you.”

“You’re not one of them? End-of-times people?”

“Absolutely not,” Beth says. The boy sighs, his shoulders fall, his expression softens.

“They whipped me,” he swallows a cry. “For weeks the clan my family belongs to kept me tied up in a shed, and many times a day came and shouted, ‘Do you believe now?'”

“Believe?” I ask, knowing full well what he’s talking about.

“The rapture, floating up to meet Jesus in the sky.”

“And you don’t believe this?” Beth asks.

“Even if I did, I’m afraid of heights!” our young visitor exclaims. I can see Beth trying not to smile. “Besides,” Michael is fighting back tears, “I have asthma; how am I going to breathe?!” The young man begins to sob. “But it doesn’t matter, anyway; I could never be raptured: I’m gay.” 

I set his sandwich in front of him. He stares at it then clasps his hands in prayer. Seconds later he’s devouring the sandwich.

“You must have been starving,” I say then make him another.

After he’s finished that one he says, “I guess I should be moving on, huh?” 

Beth looks at me. I know what she’s thinking; I nod. “Michael, why don’t you stay with us for a while. Give yourself some time to regain your strength, sort things out.”

Michael begins to cry again. Beth puts her arm around him. “I want to believe. I do,” he sobs. “It’s just, well, some things don’t make any sense to me. Never have. Besides all the floating up stuff, why would God make me this way then condemn me? I just don’t get it. Does God hate me?”

“What does your heart say?” asks Beth.           

Michael doesn’t answer immediately. Then, smiling says, “How could he?”

“How could he?” I agree.       

“After a Raptor once told my younger brother he was going to Hell for not believing like him, I asked him how it was he didn’t seem bothered by it. He told me something I’ll never forget. He said, ‘There’s room for all of us.’”Chapter 16

The Writer And The Wardrobe 

It’s midday. I’m walking up Main. There, across from the pharmacy is a man standing next to a car painted up with Bible verses and slogans like ”the end is near.” In one hand is what appears to be a Bible; in the other is a megaphone through which he’s shouting, “Repent! Repent! You’re all going to Hell! Repent! Repent!” 

Has Lowman become a Mecca for lunatics? 

Call me crazy, but after reading about Michael’s escape from the Raptors, I can’t resist walking over to the screaming stranger. He pauses his tirade and turns to me. 

“Hi,” I say. “Welcome to Lowman. What brings you here?”  

He looks perplexed. “I came in from the interstate for throat lozenges,” he says. 

“Oh, OK,” I say. “Have a nice day.” I turn as if to walk away. He’s still standing, staring. “By the way,” I ask, “when is the end of the world? Just want to get it on my calendar.” 

“July 10,” he says with no hesitation. E’s birthday, by the way. 

“This year?” 

“This year.” 

“Thanks,” I say cheerily and skip - yes, skip - away.  

Idiot! 

Now, where was I going? It doesn't matter. 

Now, where was I going? It doesn’t matter. For a few minutes, I was Billy Pilgrim (Slaughterhouse-Five). I had seen the future, twenty years from now, anyway, and the world doesn’t end this year.  

Idiot. 

….. 

Sunday evening.

Mackie: Any chance you would want to house sit again for a few days? Going to see sister-in-law. She’s having a rough time. Ahn Lam is volunteering on the coast. Cleanup. 

Me: Absolutely!

What else am I going to do? Besides, Mackie’s old recliner is comfortable, and Kim-Ly is always good company.

I arrive at Mackie’s around 10:30 Monday morning. He’s left already. Kim-Ly acts as though she hasn’t had company in days. Mackie has left some food for me - all vegetarian. Sweet man. He also knows my love of junk food. Very sweet man: chips, Cheese-Its, Snickers… There are exotic teas, too - Ahn Lam, for sure. I’m not much of a tea drinker, but today I imagine I’m in a five-star hotel in some distant exotic location and serve myself tea and crumpets. Well, Cheese-Its, really.

After Kim-Ly curls up and settles down, I return to Billy Pilgrim, the time-tripping protagonist of Slaughterhouse-Five. He’s totally unstuck in time and space moving from one period of his life to another, never knowing from one minute to another where or when he’s going to find himself. 

The more I read Vonnegut, the more I appreciate his propensity to break the rules of writing. Maybe that is part of the reason he was so popular in the sixties and seventies. 

I read up on his life, his humanism, his social commentary, his views on religion and politics. He was born in Indiana in 1922, was a teacher and lecturer, enlisted in the army and survived the firebombing of Dresden, taught at the University of Iowa’s Writers Workshop from 1965 to 1967. And so on. 

If I could only time-travel like Billy Pilgrim, I’d go back to meet Vonnegut. It might inspire me just to talk to him. Who knows, he might even have some suggestions for me as a budding young writer. Then it dawns on me: I can time-travel! Missy’s app! I look up from my book. There’s Mackie’s wardrobe, the same one that he and Molly used to return to Vietnam! With the correct time and map coordinates, I could indeed travel back to meet the great author. Wouldn’t Mackie be jealous!

I text Missy, the young carnie friend who invented the transport app and ask for any suggestions. Her reply is: 1) download the updated app, 2) return from the same location as that is where the temporary hotspot is created, and 3) try not to change history!

After seeing an article online about a term paper Vonnegut assigned at the Writers Workshop on November 30, 1965, I choose that day to show up. Further searches reveal the location of the class and the meet times. I Google-map the campus and determine the exact coordinates of the building I need - luckily it still stands. I debate for a moment to tell someone like Latisha what I’m doing - just in case - but decide against it. OK, I’m set. And very nervous. 

I start to envision all the things that could go wrong like getting lost on a strange campus, getting arrested for something though I can’t imagine for what, phone battery dying. Do I really want to do this? And how would I approach this great writer? Not as another writer; that would be way too presumptive of me. No, maybe as a would-be writer or a fan. Just to meet him would be great. Who knows, maybe he’d rub off on me like osmosis or something. Woman-up, Roberta! An artist has to take chances.  

OK. It’s about 12:30 and I need to be back around 5:00 to feed Kim-Ly. Five hours should be way more than enough time. Now to clean out Mackie’s wardrobe and be on my way. This is it. 

….. 

It’s dark and smelling of must, this tight space I find myself in. A closet, no doubt. I can hear voices beyond the darkness - young voices - laughing and moving. I bump into a door handle in the dark and slowly open the closet door. A group of twenty-somethings walk by in the long hallway running in front of me. The girls are wearing mini skirts and boots with hair in beehives, or Jackie Onassis flipped bobs, and the boys are wearing sweater vests and khaki pants with mop-top hairstyles. I didn’t think about fashion styles! 

I enter the flow of students, trying unsuccessfully to blend in. I know the room number, and it’s on this floor. Here. I peer in through the window. There he is, a tall man with curving shoulders in a dark cardigan sweater over an open white shirt, dark trousers, and smoking a cigarette through a long black cigarette holder. He’s laughing while drawing a diagram on the chalkboard. 

Finally, he hands out pieces of paper, and the students make for the door. I quickly hide behind a bookshelf in the hallway and watch as the students pass knowing that some of them are going to soon be famous. In fact, I have probably read some of the books they haven’t even dreamed of writing yet. 

Then Vonnegut exits the room carrying a weathered leather satchel. I hesitate; I’m nervous. I follow him out the building. OK. I take a deep breath and make my move, but a group of students joins him talking animatedly. I follow at a safe distance. 

Ah-ha. The group turns into a bar. Should have known. There’s no way I’m going to pass for legal age, so I wait on a bench across the street. 

And I wait. 

I look totally out of place - out of time, really. No females are wearing their hair like mine, and jeans were not in fashion yet. Plus I am wearing a tee shirt, and it’s late November in Iowa! It’s frickin’ cold and getting colder by the minute. 

I ask someone walking by for the time. 4:30, they say and look at me like a space alien or something. 

I wait some more. 

5:15. OK. I’m freezing. It’s getting dark. Kim-Ly needs feeding. I tried - time to go home. 

Just as I get up, out walks Vonnegut. I cross the street and catch up with him. It’s now or… 

“Are you following me?” he asks, not even turning around. 

I’m embarrassed. “Uh, I… I…” 

The man I have grown to admire, no, worship, turns and faces me. I feel light-headed. 

“Yes, sir. I just, uh wanted to meet you. I wanted to tell you how much I enjoy your books.” Vonnegut smiles warmly. I begin to relax. 

“Really?” he asks. “How does someone like yourself even know my books? Not in your school, I’m sure.” 

I can’t tell him that my dad and Mackie are huge fans, that he becomes a legend: because he hasn’t yet. 

“I’m an avid reader,” I say. “And a would-be-writer.” I’m almost embarrassed to say that. 

Vonnegut stops walking and looks directly at me and smiles. God, I hope he’s not going to make fun of me. “That’s great!” he says with warm enthusiasm. “What have you written? 

I tell him about the Molly book and the Sisters of Sanity. “Good,” he says. “That’s good. To be a good writer you need to feel somehow slightly marginal, somehow slightly off-balanced all the time.” That feels very reassuring. “By the way, you don’t look as though you’re from around here. You’re not a time-traveler, are you?” Vonnegut laughs himself into a wheeze. 

I laugh, too. “Like Billy Pilgrim!” 

“Billy Pilgrim…?” 

Shit! It’s 1965: he hasn’t published Slaughterhouse-Five yet. In fact, he’s still writing it! “Uh, a friend of mine,” I stutter. 

“Billy Pilgrim,” he says again and pulls out a notebook. As he writes, he mumbles, “Billy Pilgrim… I like it. Great name.”

I can’t believe what is happening here, time spinning back on itself, me affecting a great work of literature. I finally know what people mean when they say they were deeply humbled by something. I feel both elated and very grateful.

“It was very nice meeting you,” Vonnegut says, then looks at me as though waiting for my name.

“Roberta Robbins.”

“Roberta, please visit me anytime,” he says and turns to leave. “I’m expecting great things from you.”

I stand transfixed as Kurt Vonnegut walks away. “Great things from me!” I couldn’t be happier if the frickin’ Pope had just blessed me. Then it hits me - it’s nearly dark. I’ve got to get back!

I hurry back to the lecture building and run up to the door. It’s locked! I run around to a side door: locked. The entire building is locked up, and I am standing in a strange place in a strange time with no warm clothing and not a penny on me.

Now what?  

Chapter 17

Awestruck 

Damn, it’s cold! Here I am in shorts and a tee shirt in Iowa, at night, in late November - what was I thinking?! 

OK. I have got to get into this building and my temporary hotspot, the cleaning closet. If I were Vonnegut, I might pretend I’m someone else writing this and insert myself into the story to solve the problem, unlock a door or something, but I’m not. Break a window? Right: end up in a 1960’s jail. Ask for help? Who? Can’t call anyone: no cell towers.  

I’m stuck, and no one knows I’m here. 

Just then the door to the building opens and a student loaded with books leaves. I quickly sneak in before the door can fully close. Maybe there is someone else writing this! The building seems completely empty. I find the closet - God, I hope it’s not locked. No. OK, phone, app, GO! 

….. 

Kim-Ly is purring loudly as I step out of the wardrobe in Mackie’s house. It’s almost dark out. My cellphone comes to life: 5 voicemails. Damn.  

#1: “Roberta, it’s your dad. He’s had an accident. Call home.” 

#2 “Where are you. This is serious.” 

#3. a hang-up 

#4. “Went by Mackie’s, called your friends. We’re on the way to the hospital.” 

#5. another hang-up 

Shit! I call Mom - no answer. I call Latisha - no answer. I call Bengy - he’s on his way to pick me up. I quickly feed Kim-Ly, then Bengy honks. Wow. Things can change on a dime. 

I get in the car, and Bengy speeds away. “Your mom’s frantic. Your dad had an accident at the sawmill. A stack of lumber fell on him, and, well…” 

“Is he dead?!” 

“No, I don’t think so, but it’s serious. He’s in the hospital. Orangeville.” 

We’re there in fifteen minutes. Bengy lets me off at the entrance then goes to park the car. I can’t believe this is happening. One minute I’m having the experience of my life meeting Kurt Vonnegut, the next thing I know… I can’t bear to think about it. 

The receptionist tells me the room number. I find the elevator, and within minutes I’m in the sterile somber atmosphere of a hospital hall. I hate this. I get my bearings - Dad’s room is down the hallway to the left. I can’t help looking in the other rooms as I pass the open doors. Damn, it’s depressing. 

Dad’s room. I enter with great apprehension. Mom is sitting next to an unconscious Dad, his head all bandaged up. She looks up at me, her eyes pleading, it seems. I move toward her. Reverend Clark is standing next to the hospital bed with his hand on Dad’s shoulder. He doesn’t acknowledge my presence. “Yea though we walk through the shadow of death…” Blah, blah, blah. Sorry. I just know it doesn’t mean much to Dad and nothing to me. It’s rather intrusive, Reverend Clark’s little ceremony. Then the gravity of the situation sinks in: Clark thinks Dad is dying. 

I feel helpless. Mom says nothing but holds my hand. She’s been crying. 

There’s a movement at the door. It’s Mr. Patterson and Emmanuelle. They stand quietly in the doorway then Mr. Patterson walks over to Mom and touches her on the shoulder. Reverend Clark says nothing to them but eyes Emmanuelle with a weird distrustful look.  

She walks over to the hospital bed, totally ignores Reverend Clark as he continues to quote scripture and pray, and touches Dad on the foot through the blankets. Immediately, he inhales deeply then opens his eyes. After a second or two he smiles then asks, “What’s up?” 

Instead of relief or joy, Reverend Clark looks at Emmanuelle with the most hateful, creepy look I’ve ever seen outside of a Bosch painting. 

Bengy walks in and stands against the wall. 

“Dear,” my mom says and reaches her hand toward Emmanuelle. 

Emmanuelle only smiles and walks out the room. 

“She’s got the gift,” Mr. Patterson says softly to Mom and follows his daughter out. 

“Praise God,” says Reverend Clark. “Let’s bow our heads in prayer and thank the Lord.” But Mom and Dad keep staring towards the door, awestruck. 

Another miracle.   

Chapter 18

Damn, Damn, Damn! 

“Marx wasn’t putting down religion when he said it was the opiate of the people. He meant that in the era when rich people used opium to ease their pain and poor people couldn’t afford it, they needed something that would make them feel better, and religious belief really did that.”  - Kurt Vonnegut

….. 

Dad is released from the hospital the next day. The doctors say his injuries must not have been as bad as they thought; Reverend Clark says it was “evidence of God’s healing powers”; but word about town is that Emmanuelle cured him. To some she is an angel; to others, a witch.

Latisha texts me a couple of days later: 

Latisha: Some of the folks at my grandma’s church have started showing up at the Patterson’s house wanting healing.

Me: Really? And?

Latisha: They say they’ve seen miracles. I wasn’t there. Is she really some saint or something?

Me: She says not.

Latisha: How’s your dad?    

Me: He’s still doing great. Went back to work.

Mom and Dad seem like converts, too - they can’t stop talking about Emmanuelle. 

….. 

Ahn Lam came home, so there’s no need to take care of Kim-Ly. Mackie returns tomorrow. I can’t wait to tell him about my visit with his hero. 

Speaking of Vonnegut, I returned to reading Slaughterhouse-Five and the bombing of Dresden. When I opened the book I half-expected to read an acknowledgment to me, but no. However, every time I read the name “Billy Pilgrim” I smile and wonder if he  would have come up with the name anyway? Hard to say: time-travel creates so many puzzles and loops. 

But now, when I read Vonnegut, I have a face and a voice to go with the story - it’s like he’s reading to me. And, I have his encouragement with me always: “I’m expecting great things from you.” 

Sunday morning.

Ding.

Mackie: I’m back! Wanna have brunch with Ahn Lam and me?

ME: Sure. When?

Mackie: Now! 😀

Me: Sure.

Mackie: Eggs and cheese?

Me: Yes. Not vegan.

Mackie: Come on!

Me: OK. Right over.

I take the backroads avoiding Main Street and the people leaving church. When I arrive, Kim-Ly is on the table strutting and purring obviously happy to see me. 

“Come in, Roberta. And thank you so much for watching Kim-Ly.” 

“Get her off the table, Mackie, and give it a good wipe,” Ahn Lam orders from the kitchen. “Hi, Roberta. Have a seat.” 

I sit. Ahn Lam enters with a pot of hot tea. “How’s your dad? Roberta?” she asks. 

“Nearly died, I heard,” says Mackie. 

“Yes, but he seems perfectly OK, now.” 

“And is it true what people are saying, that that new girl cured him?” Ahn Lam asks as she pours tea. 

“Well, the doctors have no other solution for it. I was there, and when Emmanuelle touched his foot, he woke up.” 

“Maybe he wasn’t as bad off as the doctors thought,” suggests Mackie. 

“Or,” says Ahn Lam, “maybe she’s an avatar.” 

“I’ve heard the word before, but…” 

“An incarnation of God on earth, like Krishna, Buddha…” 

“Jesus?” 

“Sure,” answers Ahn Lam.  

“It’s all nonsense, religion.” Mackie shakes his head. “All the prayer in the world didn’t help my brother.” 

“I’m so sorry,” I say.  

“Still, they keep praying.” Mackie chokes. “At least… at least he wasn’t scared; he wasn’t scared to die.” His eyes begin to tear. “I guess that’s something. You know, the last thing he said before they took him into the operating room was ‘If I don’t make it, I know where I’m going.’” 

“Who’s to say?” I say. 

“Yes,” says Mackie. “Who’s to say? Tried to convert me a few times. I wasn’t as nice to him as I could have been.” Mackie stifles a sob. “I’m sure he meant well. And like you said, who’s to say.” 

“How’s your sister-in-law?” 

“She’s hanging in there. Their church is giving her a lot of support. Turns out my brother Larry was very active in that church. I never knew.” 

“Yeah?” 

“On this last visit, there was a service to unveil a plaque in memory of him. There were hundreds of people at the there. Hundreds! There’s something to be said for that kind of community.” 

“Yes,” I say. 

“Who’s hungry?’ asks Ahn Lam. 

“Starving!” says Mackie. Ahn Lam heads into the kitchen. “Did anything else exciting happen while I was away?” 

“Besides Jesus returning?” I say, he laughs. “Well…” I can hardly contain myself, "I met your hero, Kurt Vonnegut.”

“What?” asks Mackie.

“Time traveled through your wardrobe,” I answer.

“That explains the clothes on the couch,” Ahn Lam shouts from the kitchen. 

“Oh yeah, sorry. But yes, I met him and it was great! Short, but great.”

“Damn,” says Mackie nearly beside himself. “Dish!” 

“Well… Iowa is cold in late November; people dress really weird in the mid-sixties…” 

“I mean about Vonnegut!”  

“Oh yeah,” I tease. "Vonnegut. Well, he said he was expecting great things from me.” 

“Damn!” 

“And, turns out I gave him the name Billy Pilgrim.” 

“Huh?!” 

I explain what happened, that I forgot what year it was and blurted Pilgrim’s name before Vonnegut had even thought of it. “The rest is history,” I say. 

“Damn! That is the coolest thing I have ever heard! Damn, damn, damn!” Chapter 19

Archangel Michael 

According to the Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change, global climate change is indisputable and most of the global warming over the past 50 years is very likely due to anthropogenic greenhouse gas increases. Models and other evidence show that it is virtually certain that continued greenhouse gas emissions at or above current rates would cause further warming and induce many changes in the global climate system during the 21st century. Moreover, these changes would very likely be greater than those observed during the 20th century.

…..

Warning: this doesn’t end well.

March 27, 2038        Diary Entry

By 2038 the climate has changed so drastically that coastal cities have disappeared triggering huge migrations inland. People clash over dwindling resources. Some, like Beth and me, find solace and, hopefully, safety, far from the crowded metro areas. But even with a little land and a trickle of a stream, the climate is so unpredictable that survival depends on planning ahead, storing water, canning. 

But perhaps the most significant change, though, is in the people. Besides scrambling for necessities, world populations have continued to polarize along the lines of wealth and religion. The wealthy have cloistered themselves in fortified communities guarded by humanoid robots. As for religion, many continue to die as one belief system pits itself against another, and the Raptors, or “End-of-timers,” are some of the most vicious of them all.   

The Raptors, those numerous clans who claim to be fundamentalist Christians and believe in the “end times,” seem hellbent on bringing the “rapture” about by fulfilling their own prophesy: starting wars, ruining the climate, and so on. When year after year the world doesn’t end, factions begin fighting factions, each one’s leader declaring themselves the true interpreter of “the Word.” 

Michael has been with us nearly three months after he escaped from a Raptor clan, the Enders sect. Enders are an extreme group with rigid rules like rising before sunrise for prayer, daily reading of the group’s “religious” materials, abstinence from alcohol and recreational drugs, and of course, complete allegiance to the leader of the sect. Science is considered to be heresy and the study of it, or even the mention of it, is strictly forbidden. Michael was beaten many times just for showing curiosity in science. As for marriage, marriages must be sanctioned by the leader; these are, of course, heterosexual matchups only. When Michael showed no interest in girls, the elder Enders became very suspicious.  

Michael is gay.

Just a few days ago, Michael is out back near the edge of the woods working on the windmill, our primary source of electricity; Beth is out front digging the garden; I’m in the house working on a new story. I look up out the front window and see a gang of rough-looking Raptors, I presume, marching up the dirt road. Beth is so focused on the garden, her back to them, that she doesn’t even notice them until they are about twenty feet away.

I start to scream, then think better of it. Beth is obviously startled but keeps her cool. I slowly raise the window to hear what’s going on. I can only catch a few words. Then Beth stiffens - I know she’s afraid. “I’ve not seen anybody that matches that description,” I hear her say. 

Michael! It’s a Raptor mob, and they’re searching for Michael! I’ve got to warn him. Maybe I can slip out the back, but no, there’s a clearing between the house and where Michael is working, they’d see me for sure.

The leader then motions to the house and begins to walk toward it. The others follow. Beth is looking frantically at the window, then turns quickly toward the clearing in the back of the house. She looks horrified. Michael! She’s trying to signal to him to go back, but it’s too late, the others have also seen him. 

I run to the back window just as Michael disappears into the woods. The Raptors are right behind him. The leader reaches into his coat. A gun! He and the others disappear into the woods. Seconds go by. Then…

The most devastating, loneliest, cruelest, world-shattering, heart-wrenching sound I ever heard: a single gunshot. 

No one exits the woods. Beth races determinedly toward the trees. I run out and grab her. “No,” I say, “there’s nothing you can do.” I lead her back into the cabin and lock the doors and close the windows. 

After about an hour, no sign of the Raptors, we search for Michael. About twenty yards into the woods, a blood-soaked patch of ground and signs of dragging: they’ve hauled him off. We scour the woods but find no sign of our friend.

These so-called religious people couldn’t see an angel when he was standing right in front of them.

Chapter 20

Revive  Us Agian 

I finished Slaughterhouse-Five this morning. Could have finished it days ago, but when I’m really enjoying a read, I slow down the inevitable - I hate saying goodbye to the characters. 

Of course, Billy Pilgrim didn’t have to worry about saying goodbye to “characters” as he was revisiting them all the time in his time-traveling. Me, I’m still pretty much stuck here in the first quarter of the twentieth-century, except for the rare wardrobe escape.

…..

That last email from my future self really shook me up. If the world gets that crazy, what’s the point? And innocent young Michael, a victim of crazed fanatics, I can’t help seeing the similarities with Emmanuelle. Not that anyone has done anything to hurt her - yet. But the talk is mounting, rumors of witchcraft and devil-possession. All dangerous nonsense. 

And to make matters even weirder, the newest tropical depression has been named Emmanuelle. I kid you not!

Well, I might not have been able to help future Michael, but I sure as hell can stand up for Emmanuelle. Maybe we can combat these fanatics like the Sisters of Sanity fought the white supremacists. Then I remember: Daisy’s gone, Bengy and Latisha have broken up, and besides, Latisha is leaving. But Latisha and I could at least give Emmanuelle some moral support. I text Latisha: 

Me: Free?

Latisha: Sure. What’s up?

ME: Wanna pick me up?

Latisha: OK

I like that about Latisha, she’s up for hanging out no matter, though, when I tell her it’s to go to Emmanuelle’s house she might not be so up. I think she’s still a little scared of her.

About fifteen minutes later, Latisha arrives - with Emmanuelle. 

“Hey,” I say. 

“Hey,” Latisha answers. “I was just leaving the house when Emmanuelle showed up. And here we are.”

I can tell by Latisha’s smile she has warmed up to Emmanuelle. “Yeah,” Latisha says, “I was pulling out into the road, and there she was.”

“Here I am,” Emmanuelle echoes warmly.

“Want some coffee?’ I ask.

“Thought you wanted to go somewhere,” Latisha says.

“Changed my mind,” I say. “Hey, E, did you hear, looks like they’ve named a tropical depression after you.”

“Yeah. Unfortunate, huh?” she laughs.

“Gonna be a big one, too,” says Latisha. "Can you believe there are still people around here who claim that climate change is fake?”

“Crazy,” says Emmanuelle.

I pour the coffee and bring out some store-bought cookies. It almost feels like the old Sanity Sisters, the three of us.

Then, over coffee Latisha says to Emmanuelle, “Grandma said to tell you she is still doing well and to thank you again.” Emmanuelle smiles but says nothing.

“Your grandmother?” I ask.

“We were in the IGA the other day,” Latisha says. "I was helping her do some grocery shopping when she had this terrible asthma attack. Don’t know what set it off. It was so bad that she could barely make it to a chair. Then in walks Emmanuelle and says hello to us, and just like that, Grandma’s breathing returned to normal.” 

We turn toward Emmanuelle.

“All the world’s a stage, and all of us schmucks, merely players,” quotes Emmanuelle. “I’ve got nothing to do with it other than playing my part - a part I didn’t write.” 

“Whatever,” I say. “Tish’s grandma’s not the only person you’ve helped,” I point out. “Like little Silas Shuler. And do you get any thanks? No. Just bad-mouthing by a bunch of closed-minded, tiny-brained fanatics. It makes me mad!”

“I guess they’re just playing their parts, too,” Emmanuelle says calmly.

“Ignorant,” I mumble.

“Well, my grandmother loves you,” says Latisha, "and she asked me to invite you to her church’s revival. It’s going on this week. You can come, too, Roberta.”

“I’m not much for church,” says Emmanuelle.

“God, me neither!” I say.

“OK, but so you know, it’s not like most churches you may have gone to. Lot’s of singing and dancing. And the guest speaker is Reverend Lou.”

“Lou?” I pause. “Hmmm… maybe…” Except for seeing him briefly at Molly’s marker ceremony, I hadn’t seen Lou since the “Heritage Day” event when his dad shot him. “OK, a gay, biracial minister, and music…  I’m in.”

“In that case, me too,” says Emmanuelle.

“Great. Tomorrow night?”

“Sure.”

“OK.”

“I’ll pick you up around 6:30,” says Latisha.

…..

Wednesday night. Latisha picks up Emmanuelle then me as promised. We drive out into the country a bit - the same direction that we took to go to Latisha’s aunt that we never got to. It's a little after 7:00 and the sun is setting. We arrive at the little country church surrounded by a grove of pecan trees. There doesn’t seem to be an official parking area, so we park under a large tree.

As we enter the church we’re greeted with the sounds of singing and clapping; incandescent lights envelop the congregation in a soft yellow-white glow; it’s a very warm feeling. And everyone’s standing and singing, accompanied by lively piano and drums. The assembly is entirely black other than Emmanuelle and me and a man I see near the back of the church who, on further investigation I realize is Nick Shuler! I elbow Latisha and motion toward Nick. He is singing along, too, though not as animated as the rest. He sees us and smiles. A woman waves at us from across the church as we walk down the aisle. Latisha leans towards me, “My grandmother.”

We take a seat near the middle of the church just as the singing is ending.

Reverend Lou walks up to the podium. “Welcome to the third night of our revival week, members of the Pecan Grove Baptist Church, and dear visitors,” he looks in our direction and smiles. “My name is Lou Smith, pastor of the Lowman Church of Reconciliation. This week we are discussing the Beatitudes - the Sermon on the Mount. And tonight’s talk focuses on this Beatitude: Blessed are the meek: for they shall inherit the earth. 

“Now some of you might interpret the word meek as weak. I’m not talking about that. I’m not talking about rolling over, giving up, being a punching bag. No. I’m talking about being humble.

“Humble enough to appreciate people who are different from us; humble enough to accept other’s when they have different concepts of God; humble enough to realize we don’t know it all. My brothers and sisters, humility takes great strength.”

“Amen.” 

“We are all children of God!” 

“Amen.” 

“And God is great.”

“Amen.”

“And God is love.”

“Amen.”

“Our God is inclusive.”

“Amen.”

“Our God is…”

Just then the door of the church swings open. Reverend Lou retains a gentle smile and continues, “Our God is…”  Loud gasps ring out. The entire congregation turns its attention to the back of the church. 

“Welcome Mr. Shuler,” Reverend Lou says.

It’s Carl Shuler, and he’s marching over to where his son Nick is sitting - and he’s carrying a gun! A few congregates move as though to interfere, but when Shuler aims the gun straight at them, they retreat. Nick stands; he has the expression of a deer caught in headlights. His dad slaps him across the face then marches him to the rear of the church. He stops suddenly and glares at the three of us, Latisha, Emmanuelle, and me. It’s a very threatening look. A shiver runs up my spine; I go numb; pictures of recent shootings in churches flash through my mind. Then Shuler turns and leaves dragging Nick behind him.

The pianist breaks the silence, and the congregation joins in singing: “Revive us again…” 

Chapter 21

Antisocial Media 

I call the police station after we leave the church. No answer. I call the next day and tell Chief Smith what happened, that Carl Shuler came into the church with a gun. He asks if Shuler fired it. I say no. He asks did he threaten anyone. I tell him not verbally. Then Chief Smith says, “He’s got a permit to carry a gun. What’s the problem?” 

I flip him off through the phone instead of saying what I want to say. 

Then Bengy texts: 

Bengy: Did you see what the Southern Fundamentalist Church has posted on its Facebook page?   

Me: I don’t do Facebook.

Bengy: You should take a look. Scary.

The Southern Fundamentalist Church is Reverend Clark’s church. I know some people like social media, I don’t. Nevertheless, I’m really curious and look up the SFC page. 

I can’t believe what I’m seeing. In the Public Posts, the first post is from another preacher: People of all faiths who are the moral majority must stand up and let their voices be heard: LGBT materials have no place in our classrooms. Another: Islamic rapist get away scott free! Another: Fight for southern Christian values. Another: Christian coal miners need our support. Fight the eco-nazis. And on and on. 

Hate, hate, hate. 

But that was almost nothing compared to what Reverend Clark himself posted in a segment called “God’s Plan for You”: 

The Time of the Anti-Christ

The Bible warns of false prophets showing up in the latter days. It says that they will fool many and lead them away from salvation. That time is NOW! This is a time of deceptions (Matthew 24:11), and even God-fearing, church-going Christians are not immune from being deceived. (Matthew 24:24.) 

In our very midst, there is one among us who claims to heal, not in the name of the Lord. No. She does it for vain glory. Nor does she keep the company of righteous people. No. She prefers the company of sodomites and rabble-rousers. She is a troublemaker and minion of the fallen angel!      

Do not be fooled righteous brethren of Lowman. Stay vigilant. We must drive this wickedness out of our community. We must protect our children, our values, and our way of life.

Reverend Clark

My blood is boiling. I group text Latisha and Emmanuelle a link to the Facebook page. They respond: 

Latisha: Sick! Really sick! So am I the rabble-rouser? 

Me: Absolutely!

Latisha: He’s not seen anything yet! BTW, my grandmother is fighting mad about what happened at the church.

Me: I called the police. Nothing.

Latisha: So much for protecting us from evil!

Me: Really!

Latisha: Grandma says church might start using guards.

Me: Can’t blame them. What about Nick?

Latisha: I’ve heard nothing. Poor guy.  

Me: I think we three need to watch out for each other. Could get dangerous.

Emmanuelle: Hey, you two. Dangerous? Really?

Latisha: Yes. KKK, religious right… Tell you more later.

Me: Lunch? 

Latish: Sure. My place? 1:00?

Me: Sure.

Emmanuelle: Sure. 

….. 

Mrs. Williams greets us at the door. An engineer who worked in solar energy development like her husband, she was laid off recently when the new administration canceled many federal projects. This is the first time I’ve been in their house. It’s nice: large open rooms, nice big kitchen, a den that could be called a library with hundreds of books.  

Mrs. Williams joins us for sandwiches. I get the feeling she’s very curious about Emmanuelle. She asks about her background, where Emmanuelle grew up. Emmanuelle tells her what she told me, including that she was born on July 10 in a severe electrical storm. Mrs. Williams’ eyes light up. 

“You know that’s Nikola Tesla’s birthday, too. And the electrical storm…”  

“Yes,” says Emmanuelle. 

Mrs. Williams smiles and leans in. “I’ve heard about some of the healing you’ve done, Emmanuelle,” Mrs. Williams says. Emmanuelle says nothing. “You know, Tesla had what you might call a strong spiritual side, too. Claimed his ideas for inventions came in flashes of intuition. Perhaps you have more in common with Tesla than you know.” Mrs. Williams smiles and gets up from the table. “I’ll leave you girls alone.” 

“Thanks for the sandwiches,” I say.  

“For a scientist, my mom’s really into that metaphysical stuff.” 

“I think she’s cool,” I say. 

“Yes,” says Emmanuelle. “So, Latisha, you mentioned the KKK. What’s up with that?” 

“They burned a cross in our front yard once. Scared us to death. My little sister hasn’t been the same since.” 

Knock! Knock! Knock!

“Huh?” Latisha looks puzzled, walks to the front door. “Yes?” 

“Is Emmanuelle Patterson here?” I recognize Chief Smith’s voice. 

“Uh, yes,” Latisha answers then opens the door halfway. "What do you want?”  

Emmanuelle walks to the front door. 

“Emmanuelle Patterson?” Chief Smith asks. 

“Yes.” 

“We have a complaint from Reverend Clark that you were seen outside the church earlier, just minutes before a water pipe burst and flooded the sanctuary.” 

“I did cut across the grounds about an hour ago walking over here.” 

“And did you vandalize the church property?” 

“I never set foot in the church.” 

“That’s not what I’m asking,” Chief Smith says. “Did you cause in any manner the plumbing in the Southern Fundamentalist Church to burst?” 

Emmanuelle takes a breath, then calmly says, “I can’t be sure.”  

Chapter 22

Flesh Eaters 

He who eats My flesh and drinks My blood has eternal life, and I will raise him up on the last day.    Jesus, John 6:54

….. 

I wake the next day from a very restless night. I dreamed of being chased through the dark by zombies. Way off in the distance the sun was rising. I ran as fast as I could toward it, but the zombies were gaining and multiplying, now grabbing at my clothes. Then I realized in my dream: this is a dream! and woke myself. 

I’ve got to stop eating right before going to bed. 

….. 

Chief Smith doesn’t arrest Emmanuelle. How could he? Under what charge - witchcraft? Still, gossip spreads - as it always does in Lowman - that this strange new girl somehow flooded Reverend Clark’s church. 

Idiots. 

They all want scapegoats. The tropical storm now brewing in the Atlantic promises to be the deadliest hurricane ever, and they say it has nothing to do with humans polluting the atmosphere. They say it’s God’s doing?  

Even God is made a scapegoat! 

Blame, blame, blame. 

….. 

Dad came home for lunch today - something he occasionally does. 

“Mr. Patterson told me this morning they will be leaving town end of the summer,” Dad says. "Too much trouble with his daughter.” 

“The trouble is with the people of this stupid town,” I say. 

“I agree,” Dad says. 

“That’s really too bad,” Mom says. “They seem like such nice people.” 

I text Emmanuelle. 

Me: Is it true you’re going to move?

Emmanuelle: Looks like it.

Me: Damn. Pendars in fifteen minutes?

Emmanuelle: OK.

I don’t know how a Coke is going to make me feel better, but walking couldn’t hurt, and I need to check in with E. 

I walk up Main Street hoping I’ll run into Reverend Clark or one of the busybodies around town that I suspect are spreading these rumors about Emmanuelle. I’d love to give them a piece of my mind. But nobody. However, I see fliers posted on utility poles announcing a barbecue picnic at the Fundamentalist Church this Sunday - a fundraiser to help buy new carpet for the sanctuary. “Pork, beef, chicken. All are welcome” - yeah, right! Vegetarians, too? The church also claims gays are welcome, but what they don’t tell you it’s so they can try to “reprogram” them. 

Idiots. 

Pendar's. Gathering place of old guys for decades. Source for Cokes, black sludge (coffee), Smarties… The old worn floor creeks as I walk in. There standing at the counter, Anna. She’s handing Mr. Pendar some fliers for the barbecue. 

“Y-yes, every-b-b-body can c-come. Th-this Sunday after ch-church.” 

“Sure, Anna. Leave me a couple, and I’ll post them,” Mr. Pendar says warmly, then sees me. “Hi, Roberta.” 

Anna glares at me. Then the front door opens; Anna’s glare melts. Do I detect a smile? I turn, it’s Emmanuelle. Anna stays frozen in place, a big smile on her face. 

“You’re the new girl, right?” Anna says. No stutter. Emmanuelle nods. “I heard what you did for Silas. Thanks. Here, please come to our barbecue.” 

“Thank you,” Emmanuelle says, taking the flier. 

Anna smiles broadly then leaves. I raise my eyebrows as if to say, “Another miracle?” Emmanuelle just shrugs.  

“What’ll it be?” Mr. Pendar asks. “Two more cups of coffee?” 

“We-e-ell,” I’m remembering the awful cups of brown swamp water we got, “how about a Coke. Emmanuelle?” 

“Sure.” 

“Two Cokes it is,” says Mr. Pendar, then reaching for the colas says to Emmanuelle, “By the way, as far as I’m concerned, you’re an angel, young lady. First, young Silas, now Anna. I saw. I say it’s time these church types get off their frickin’, excuse my French, high horses,” Mr. Pendar is getting more worked up than I’ve ever seen before. “No charge,” he says as he hands us the Cokes. 

We head out back. It’s a beautiful day. Not too hot for mid-summer, not yet, anyway. We sit on the worn bench beneath the enormous old pecan tree and sip our Cokes. 

“So… do you have to leave?” I ask. “I was just starting to get to know you - a little bit, anyway.” 

“It’s a curse, this, this, whatever it is. I mean, I truly like helping people, nothing makes me happier, but for once I’d like to be normal. Just plain Jane, not ‘Emmanuelle the miracle worker!’” 

“And where you lived before?” 

“The same everywhere. It was OK until I started school, but a six-year-old who cures her classmates’ illnesses? It was impossible for Dad and me to live normal lives, so we moved from town to town, Dad picking up any work where he could. If I knew how to, I would turn this off just to make it easier for him.” 

“Do you believe in reincarnation?” I ask. 

“Not really. I don’t know. Could be, I guess. You?” 

“Nah. Same as you. Could be.” We sit silently for a few minutes. “So many things we don’t understand,” I say. 

“You got that right.” Emmanuelle puts her Coke down. “Not use to the sugar rush,” she says. 

“Yeah - it’s an acquired thing.” 

We sit and chat about things, religion especially, and how some people could see her as a threat. 

“By the way,” I say, "Dad knows a plumber who told him that the plumbing in that church is really ancient and rusted. The nerve of Rev. Clark to say you had something to do with it.” 

Emmanuelle says nothing. 

“Do your birthmarks ever bother you? I mean, can you feel them?” 

“No. Most of the time I’m not even aware of them. But they do help make a great halloween costume with a white tunic and fake beard.” We laugh. 

“I really like that about you, E., you can poke fun at yourself. So many people…” 

“Take themselves too seriously?” 

“Yeah.” I take another sip of Coke. “So, are you really going to the church barbecue?” 

“I don’t think so,” she chuckles. "They’d probably eat me alive.” 

Chapter 23

Everything’s Got To Eat 

December 20, 2038      Diary Entry

First snow we’ve seen in years. Beautiful fluffy powder. The large evergreens across the valley stand majestically, their snow-laden bows resembling old men’s beards. The light is a silvery gray.

Beth and I are sitting in our warm little cabin sipping tea. We don’t actually own the cabin, we found it. After the Regime outlawed same-sex relationships, Beth and I fled into the hills in search of a place to hide away, and, if possible, be happy. When we happened on the cabin, it was a falling down wooden structure with an old barn, also falling down. I would have continued searching, but Beth saw the potential in this ramshackle piece of property miles away from anyone. It was Spring and plenty warm, so we camped out in the forest bordering the property. Every day Beth patched the cabin with wood borrowed from the old barn, and when the cabin was livable, she built a little woodshed with the remaining barn wood. A stream nearby, a sunny spot of land for a garden - we were set. 

“I’ll be right back,” says Beth putting on her heavy coat. “Gotta get some more wood from the shed.” Minutes later she screams. I rush out in my bare feet. Beth is leaning over a puddle of blood. As I get closer I can see the scrawny little rabbit kicking and writhing; its winter coat matted in blood. “A wild dog,” Beth says through her sobs. “Ran off when I came out.”

Neither of us can bare to see anything suffer; maybe that’s why we’re both long-time vegetarians.

“We have to put it out of its misery,” Beth says.

I know she’s right, yet, how, who - God what an ordeal. The rabbit is writhing; its eyes are two glazed-over orbs of sheer panic. It’s too much.

“Fetch me my old sweater from the closet, Hon,” Beth says. I retrieve it. Beth covers the shivering rabbit with it, then takes a large rock, quickly lifts it over her head, and with one decisive move, it’s over.

We kneel there quietly for a minute. “We should bury it,” I say. 

“No,” Beth says as she uncovers the now-still rabbit. “Leave it here. The dog. Everything’s got to eat.”Chapter 24

Silas Is Missing 

“Silas Shuler is missing,” Mom says as I walk in the kitchen. 

“Huh?” 

“You know, the little Shuler boy…” 

“I know who he is. What do you mean he’s missing? Has he been kidnapped?” 

“No one knows.” 

“I’ll bet that asshole father of his has done something!” 

“Language, Roberta. Yeah, you’re probably right.” 

“How long?” 

“Well, I got a text from Mrs. Wannamaker just now, and she says he’s been missing since yesterday. Was supposedly at a sleepover at  the Olivers and disappeared during the night.” 

“Could have run away,” I say. “Wouldn’t blame him a bit.” 

“Nor would I with an asshole father like that!” 

“Mom!” We both laugh.

Silas’s disappearance makes the local news that night. Newscaster says that there was no evidence of foul play, that perhaps Silas knew his kidnapper - if he had been kidnapped. There’s a short video clip of Mrs. Shuler pleading with anyone who has information on her son to please call the police department. All the while Carl Shuler fidgets silently behind her. 

Next day. 

Bengy: Long time no sea. See.

Me: ’Sup?

Bengy: You heard about Nick’s brother?

Me: Yeah. 

Bengy: What do you think?

Me: Don’t know.

Bengy: Mom says Rev Clark thinks E has something to do with it.

Me: That’s Crazy!

Bengy: Yeah. Are you free today?

Me: Sure. You OK?

Bengy: Not really.

Me: Latisha?

Bengy: Yeah.

Me: Pendars? Coke?

Bengy: Ice cream. I’ll pick you up.

Lowman really needs another place to hang out! 

….. 

“Did Clark really blame Emmanuelle for Silas disappearing?” I ask. We’re sitting on the bench in the back of Pendar’s. 

“Says nothing like this happened in Lowman before she came.” 

“Excuse me! Maybe not disappearing kids, but we’ve had murders, domestic violence, plenty of petty theft.” 

“True, that. And why are they picking on Emmanuelle?” 

“'What people don’t understand, they fear. Or worship.' Alice Walker, I think.” 

“Mom ran into Mrs. Shuler the other day in the IGA. Mom thinks she was trying to avoid her. Says even though Mrs. Shuler had on a ton of makeup she could still see bruises.” 

“I’m not surprised.” I shake my head in disgust. “I’d leave the asshole.” 

“I used to be mean, you know, before my accident.” 

“Not that mean. And look at you now.” 

Bengy begins to tear up. “I’m so glad you’re here,” he chokes up. “I’ve been feeling just awful, and no one to talk to.” 

“I know the feeling. Dish, friend.” 

“It’s like Latisha has forgotten what we had, or at least what I thought we had. She just breaks up with me, doesn’t call or text anymore.” He sighs heavily. "I never had a girlfriend before, Roberta.” 

“Makes two of us,” I say. “Well, Angie sort of. Anyway, I think I kind of know what you’re going through. You know, Latisha’s probably just trying to get a little distance between you two because she’s going away to school.” 

“I’ll say! New Jersey!” 

“I’m talking about emotional distance. She’s a driven girl; probably doesn’t think she could concentrate well if you two were still a thing.” 

Silence. 

“You know, we’re never going to find girlfriends as long as we live in this stupid town.” Bengy sighs. 

“Yep.” 

Ding!

Emmanuelle: There’re some weird guys outside my house.

Me: How many?

Emmanuelle: 4 or 5, maybe more.

Me: Have you called the police?

Emmanuelle: Yes, but no one showed up.

Me: Your dad?

Emmanuelle: Tried but no response.

Me: Doors locked?

Emmanuelle: Yes.

Me: Stay put. Bengy and I are on our way.

“Do you remember where Emmanuelle lives?” I ask Bengy. 

“Absolutely.” 

“Let’s go.” 

When we get to the Patterson house, several men are leaning against a car in front. One of the men is Reverend Clark. One is Carl Shuler. We park next to them and walk right over. I can see Emmanuelle watching from behind a curtain. 

“Hello Roberta, Bengy,” says Reverend Clark. 

“What’s the problem?” I ask.  

“Problem? No problem. Was such nice day that me and several of the deacons thought we’d go for a walk.” The word “walk” comes out “wa-a-awk.” 

“Oh really? And you just happened to stop in front of the Pattersons?” 

“Pattersons?” one of the deacons is playing dumb. I know the guy - he’s the father of the kid whose sleepover Silas was at. 

“Are you harassing this family?” Bengy asks the creeps. 

“Look, son,” Shuler sneers, “I think you need to think about what you’re saying and who you’re saying it to.” 

“And,” Reverend Clark chimes in, “what company you’re keeping!” Reverend Clark motions my way. 

“It’s none of your damn business who I hang with!” Bengy shouts back. “Unless you fakers have completely taken over the government, it’s still a free country!” 

A car races up just as Shuler lunges at Bengy. Dad and Mr. Patterson jump out.

“Is there a problem, gentlemen?” Dad asks politely but firmly. 

“What the hell’s going on here?!” Mr. Patterson demands.

“Look, Royce,” Reverend Clark says to Dad, completely ignoring Mr. Patterson, “there’s a young boy missing, and, well, there’s talk that this Patterson girl might have something to do with it.”

Mr. Patterson clinches his fists and steps toward Clark, but Dad stops him.   

“We’re just staking the place out,” says the Clark. “Looking for suspicious activity.” 

“Get the fuck off my property! NOW!” shouts Mr. Patterson. 

Just then Chief Smith drives up, gets out, and saunters over. “Gentlemen?” he asks. 

“We want to search this house,” says Clark, “to make sure Silas isn’t inside.” 

“What?!” screams Mr. Patterson. 

Carl Shuler jumps in, “People have seen the little Jew hanging around Silas. Doing some hocus-pocus on him, I betcha.” 

“Witchcraft,” says one of the heretofore silent deacons. 

“Why you…!!”  

Chief Smith interrupts Mr. Patterson, “You got a warrant?”  

“No,” says Reverend Clark. 

“Then I suggest you move along.” 

“Look, Chief, we can’t let some…” 

“Move along.” 

The church gang reluctantly walk to their cars and drive off. 

“Could you keep an eye on the house for us, Chief?” asks Mr. Patterson. 

“Oh, I don’t think that’ll be necessary. They’re good ole boys. They’ll calm down in a bit.” 

“They’re threatening my daughter!” Mr. Patterson screams. 

“Couldn’t you just drive by every once in a while?” Dad asks. 

“Look, Royce. It’s only me and that lame Barney Fife of a deputy. But… I’ll see what I can do,” Chief says and leaves. 

Mr. Patterson shakes Dad’s hand and hurries into the house. 

“Thanks, Dad,” I say. 

“Thugs. A bunch of superstitious thugs,” Dad says and walks back to his car. “Get on home, Roberta.” 

“How do you figure that guy thinks Emmanuelle is Jewish?” Bengy asks.        

I point to the front door. “A mezuzah.” 

Chapter 25

Oh My God! 

Emmanuelle: I’m alright.

Me: You’re not safe!

Emmanuelle: But what can I do?

After the creepy “deacon gang” staked out her house and basically accused her of kidnapping, Emmanuelle refuses to come outside. And every day, all day long, the same vehicles, mostly big trucks, drive by her house slowing to a stop in front. Even for Lowman standards, this is bad. 

Several days after Silas’s disappearance, word is the FBI has been contacted, and people have started search parties in the woods and countryside around town. 

….. 

Friday. 

Mom and Dad are taking off for the coast for the weekend after Dad gets off work. With a storm brewing in the Atlantic, it’s a pretty stupid time to go to the beach, if you ask me. Mom thinks so, too. 

“I don’t mind a little rain,” Dad says. “Besides, the hurricane isn’t expected to get that close to us. If the trajectory changes, we’ll come home.” 

“Couldn’t you just wait a week or two?” 

“Your mom and I have always spent our anniversaries at the same hotel for years, Roberta. It’s tradition.” 

“OK,” I concede. 

“Don’t worry,” Dad says. “And if you have any problems…” 

“Text you.” 

….. 

The house is really quiet now. I turn on the TV. Nothing. Start to text but realize I have nothing to say. Besides, Latisha already said she’d keep an eye on Emmanuelle. OK, a cup of tea and some reading, except I’m not really in the mood to start a new book. Instead, I decide to read a little more of Vonnegut’s bio online. 

Anybody who knows Kurt Vonnegut’s history knows he became very successful as a writer after Slaughterhouse-Five. He went on to write another dozen books. Altogether he wrote 14 novels, 123 stories, seven plays, and a few other works. He was amazing: survived the firebombing of Dresden, the suicide of his mother, death of his sister and then his wife, and still, he kept writing. 

Besides dealing with his own depression, Vonnegut wrote about how desperate many feel. In Timequake: “Let us be perfectly frank for a change. For practically everybody, the end of the world can’t come soon enough.” Also in Timequake, he quotes the science fiction writer Kilgore Trout, one of Vonnegut’s reappearing characters, as saying: “Being alive is a crock of shit.” 

And still, he wrote.

In the comfort of my room, I am reflecting on the state of the world near the end of the first quarter of this new millennium. There has never been so much division amongst people. Religions are fighting religions. The wealthy are getting richer while the rest can hardly make it. Global warming has nearly passed the point of no return. Nuclear war seem almost imminent. What’s the point of writing? Who has the desire to read with the world in such disarray? Why art when much of the world is struggling just to survive?

And still, Vonnegut wrote; would that I could. 

….. 

“We’ve met before, haven’t we? You look familiar.” 

“Yes.” 

“Up and coming writer, right?” 

“Thank you, sir. I'm trying.” 

“If you’re writing, you’re a writer.” 

“But not a good one, I’m afraid. Do you have any advice for me?” 

“Tell the truth.” He must notice my puzzled look. “My breakthrough came when I decided not to write a story about war, but simply tell the truth.” 

“Yes,” I say. I'm going to have to chew on that. “Can I talk to you about a more personal issue?” 

“Shoot.” 

“I know you are a humanist, and, well, I am having a terrible time dealing with super-religious people in my community.” 

“As a humanist, I’ve never tried to talk anybody out of religion.” He smiles. "As far as I’m concerned, God is a shorthand for everything. I mean, we sure as hell know something very important is going on—we just don’t know what it is.”

“Exactly!”

“Of course, as a writer you’re on par with the Creator of the Universe!” 

I laugh. He pats my shoulder.

“By the way, thanks again for the name, ‘Billy Pilgrim.’ Perfect!” says the aging Kurt Vonnegut.

…..

I roll over and reach for my phone. It’s Saturday morning. News feed: Emmanuelle has intensified overnight. Trajectory is uncertain at this time. 

Ding.

Latisha: Turn on channel 10 now!

I hurry into the empty den in the empty house and turn on the TV. There, under a cloudy gray sky, in front of the Lowman Fundamentalist Church is Reverend Clark, Carl Shuler, and about a dozen others giving a news conference - at 10:30 in the morning! Reverend Clark speaks: 

“A young boy is missing, Silas Shuler. We believe this is the work of the Devil!”  

The crowd behind him shouts “Amen.”  

“This may be the Devil working though outsiders, people who don’t belong to our community.”  

More “amens.”  

“If anyone has information on this young man’s disappearance, please come forward. With God’s help, we will find Silas Shuler!”  

“Amen!” 

The camera pulls back. The banners behind the group read “Save Silas,” “These Are The End Times,” and “False Prophets Are Among Us.” 

The reporter asks, “And what about the rumors of Silas being a victim of child abuse?” 

“Nonsense! Liberal anti-discipline nonsense! No more questions.”    

What year is this? What millennium? What planet? Has someone opened the doors to the insane asylum? 

Naggingly, in the upper righthand corner of the TV screen, a weather radar with the caption: “Hurricane Emmanuelle now a Category 3.” 

Oh my God!

Chapter 26

Warning From The Future 

January 1, 2039            

Warning: Things are about to change drastically for you!

(In case you’re wondering, I kept our journal.) 

Chapter 27

The Wait 

Sunday morning.               

Ding!

Latisha: KKK burned a cross in front of E’s house last night. 

Me: Damn. She OK? 

Latisha: I think so. 

Me: I’ll text her. 

Latisha: Good. BTW, we may be evacuating - hurricane.

Me: Later.

I text Emmanuelle: 

Me: I heard about KKK. How are you hanging?

E: Bad choice of words! I’m scared. They could have burned down the house. No fire department or police showed up.  

Me: Damn.

Emmanuelle: And they painted a swastika on the house and smashed our mezuzah.

Me: Frikin neo-nazis. Do you want to stay here?

E: No. But thanks. 

Me: What about the hurricane? You going to evacuate?

E: No gasoline.

Me: Shelter?

E: If we need to. I Googled and there are two - the high school and the basement of the Lowman Fundamentalist Church. Not the church! Would rather die. 

Coffee. Then, Ding! 

Dad: Coming home today. Weather getting bad. 

Me: Hurry.

Dad: Yeah. You were right, not the smartest time to drive to the coast.

Even this far inland the wind is really strong, and the clouds are heavy. I check my weather app: 

Hurricane Emmanuelle grew in strength as it closed in on the Bahamas last night. If the latest model forecasts are to be believed, this will be the most powerful hurricane on record. As of the 8 a.m. CDT advisory from the National Hurricane Center, Hurricane Emmanuelle was located about 65 miles east-southeast of Daytona Beach and moving at 19 mph.    

Emmanuelle is already a Category 4 hurricane with sustained winds of up to 150 mph. The Hurricane Center has said Emmanuelle could grow into a Category 5 in the next few hours, the strongest category.  

Damn!

I Google “Category 5 hurricane”: Catastrophic damage will occur: A high percentage of framed homes will be destroyed, with total roof failure and wall collapse. Fallen trees and power poles will isolate residential areas. Power outages will last for weeks to possibly months. Most of the area will be uninhabited for weeks or months. 

Damn! Damn!

Why the hell did Mom and Dad have to go this weekend? 

I grab a cup of coffee and move to the den; maybe there’s more news about the hurricane on cable. UGGGGH! Preaching! Oh yeah, it’s Sunday morning. Before I can flip the channel: 

“The Bible says that the wages of sin is death. DEATH!” Why do they always have to scream? “And I tell you, these hurricanes are a sign of God’s wrath!” Not global warming, heaven forbid! “GOD’S HAD ENOUGH!” He yells this so loud that you can hear the spit spewing. “Homosexuality, secular liberalism, government handouts, false prophets - these are the end times folks, MAKE NO DOUBT ABOUT IT!” 

Click.

This is making me crazy. I pace the room. What is this world coming to?! I need someone to talk to. I need to get out of this frickin' house. 

Me: Please come pick me up.

Bengy: Are you crazy? It’s about to storm.

Me: I’ve got to get out of the house.

Bengy: OK.

Bengy arrives ten minutes later.  

“Thanks for coming, Beng. Would you drive me to the cemetery?” 

“You are crazy!” He shakes his head. “You know it’s going to start raining any minute.” 

“We won’t stay long,” I say. 

“Is this a Molly thing?” 

“Uhh… Maybe.” Of course it is though I hadn’t actually acknowledged it to myself. Molly was always my touchstone, my rock. And now that’s all there is of her, a granite marker. I am feeling terribly vulnerable, alone, helpless. And it doesn’t help that the wind is tossing the car around like some Tonka toy. 

“I didn’t see your parents’ car at your house,” Bengy says. 

“Mom and Dad decided to go to the coast this weekend.” 

“You’ve got to be kidding. You know, this one’s going to be a bitch,” Bengy says. “Got all your devices charged up?” 

“That’s the least of my worries.” 

The cemetery looks eerily different in this pre-storm grayness. The granite gravestones almost disappear in the dull, metallic light. I had been in this cemetery once before as a storm approached, an electrical storm. It was nearly midnight, and Molly and I had come in search of a notebook that Bengy and his thug friends had hidden from me. (He was really different back then.) But this approaching storm has a different feel. It’s like a swirling crazed unstoppable mutant monster barreling down, threatening our homes and our very existence. And once it hits there’s no escape, no assurance of safety. 

The only people safe from this storm, I imagine, are all those people around me buried under the safety of six feet of dirt. 

I pass James Looper’s gravestone next to Molly’s marker. There are six smooth stones placed in a straight line, evenly spaced. Lou, no doubt. Then, the same on Molly’s marker. I swipe them off. “She’s not dead!” I scream inside, then stop myself from crying and replace the stones. All I really want is for Molly to tell me everything is going to be alright and she’s not here. 

And everything’s not alright. 

“We should go before it starts raining,” Bengy says and gently touches my shoulder. Once we’re in the car, “Almost forgot to tell you, Mom said the preacher was all fired up today. Said he railed about devils and Christ-killers.” 

“‘Christ killers!' He’s talking about Jews, you know.” 

“I know.” 

“Emmanuelle.” 

“Exactly.” 

“The goddamn assholes. There should be a hell just for them.” 

As we drive back into town, it begins to rain. I imagine Mom and Dad driving back in this as though riding the crest of a huge wave trying to get home before the storm crashes in. 

“Your parents getting back soon?” 

“God, I hope so.” 

Chapter 28

Here We Go 

Sunday afternoon. 

Mom: Traffic is horrible. Interstate is a parking lot. Don’t know when we will get home.

I’m really nervous for them. Not only is this is a fast-moving storm, but it has shifted direction quickly and is heading straight for us. I feel helpless. 

I turn on the TV for news of the hurricane. Instead: “In an astonishing order, the administration has banned the federal Centers for Disease Control and Prevention from using seven words — including ‘fetus,’ ‘transgender,’ ‘diversity’ and ‘science-based' — in any documents used to prepare the agency’s budget.” My God, we’re rolling ever faster to that dystopia “Bert” describes!  

Click.

Weather Channel: “Hurricane Emmanuelle has increased to a Category 5 and now moving at 24 miles an hour, unheard of for this latitude. Emmanuelle could make landfall near Savannah, Georgia as early as this evening. This is by far the most dangerous storm to ever hit the United States. The governor of Georgia has issued mandatory evacuation orders for much of the state, and the governors of the Carolinas are expected to follow suit in the next few hours.”

They’re showing video from the Bahamas. I’ve never seen such destruction. Whole islands were completely demolished. Of course, there’s no power, and cell towers have been knocked down. 

Ding!I

Mackie: Your folks back yet?

Me: No. On their way.

Mackie: We’re going to stay with friends. Want to go?

Me: Thanks. No. 

Mackie: OK. But looks like everybody who has gas is leaving town. We filled up right before they ran out. 

Me. Damn. 

Mackie: You sure?

Me: Yes. Be safe.

Mackie: You too.

I think about the two shelters, the church and the school, but I just can’t leave with Mom and Dad on the road. 

I don’t want to watch TV anymore. I try to read - can’t concentrate. Can’t go outside. I know I shouldn’t do this, but I raid the liquor cabinet. Just a shot or two of bourbon will settle my nerves. I sit back in the recliner and take a sip and feel the warmth wash over me. I slip into the realization that there’s nothing I can do but wait.

Ding!

Dad: We’re getting off the interstate to try to find a place to wait out storm. No gas. Be ready to find shelter if you need to.

Me: Where will you go?

Dad: Don’t know yet. Your mom’s looking online now.

Me: Let me know.

Dad: OK. You too.

OK, just a little more bourbon. 

…..

Crash!

I jump up and run to the window - the wind is blowing rain sideways. A tree limb has just fallen in the driveway. I flick the TV remote: nothing. The power is out. I check my cellphone. 6:13 AM. “AM?!” I slept through the night?! I check my messages. Nothing. Where’s Mom and Dad? What am I supposed to do? Do I have enough food? Should I get to a shelter? How? 

I put the bottle of bourbon back exactly where it came from.

I text Latisha. Nothing. I text Bengy. Nothing. I look closer at my phone: there are no bars - the cell towers must be down. How did this happen so fast?!

Crash! Another limb. The wind reminds me of the sound effects of an old horror movie, or maybe the old Humphrey Bogart movie, Key Largo; only there’s no one here to ride out the storm with.  

OK, think. What can I do to minimize damage to the house? What? I look out the front window. The rain is so fierce I can’t even see the houses across the street. A trash can tumbles across our front yard. There’s nothing to do - it’s too late.

This is bad. I’m trapped!

What’s the safest room in the house? The bathroom. I run to it and climb in the tub, but there’s a window next to me, and a large pecan just outside. No. I run to the guest bathroom in the middle of the house. Ours is an old wooden frame house. I can hear the old boards creaking all around me. 

I pull my legs up under my chin and wait. 

Bump! Bump! Bump! Bump!

I think of leaving a note, just in case, but I don’t dare get up. I shudder at the thought of my parents somewhere out there in all this.  

Bump! Bump! Bump! Bump!

I wonder how long this house will hold up; how I will meet my end. 

Bump! Bump! Bump! Bump! Bump! Bump!

The bumping sound creeps into my awareness. It’s a sound too regular to be the slamming of a tree limb. I imagine I hear my name screaming in the wind. Roberta! 

Bump! Bump! Bump! Bump! Bump! Bump! Bump!

That’s not tree limbs. Mom and Dad? Geez, I never unlocked the doors. It could be… I run to the sound, to the front door. 

“BENGY!!”    

Chapter 29

Refuge 

“Bengy!” I yell over the howling wind. The slanting rain instantly soaks me.    

“You’ve got to get out of here!” he screams and grabs my arm. 

I hesitate - my laptop, my writing - then remember it’s backed-up in the cloud. Phone in my pocket. No time for retrieving toiletries. I slam the door behind me and scramble to Bengy’s car.  

Once inside the car, “How did you know I was here?” I shout. 

“I didn’t, but with your parents away, I had to be sure. OK, cross your fingers!” He turns the car around, slowly. You can feel the drag of the rising water on the tires. “I had to make several detours on the way over,” Bengy shouts over the storm. “Lots of trees down. Remember the big maple next to Town Hall? Down. And the boarded up old cleaners? Roof's gone.” Just then something flies across the street in front of our windshield. Bengy swerves. “Not sure what that was,” he shouts. It’s hard to see anything through the wall of rain, especially since the sun is hardly up. I can’t even tell what street we’re on. 

“You’re crazy nice for risking your life to come get me!” 

“Save that for after we’re safe. OK, the church is just ahead.” 

“No! The school. I don’t want to be stuck with those creeps at the…” 

“The school is blocks away!” Bengy protests. 

“Please!” 

Bengy continues through the deluge, turns blindly, then slams on the brakes. “Powerline down. Hang on!” He maneuvers the car around, drives back a block and turns. “More than one way to…” then stops again. 

“Why are you stopping? The school’s just there.” 

“Look!” Bengy is pointing at the old school building. “Roof’s gone. No cars. I’m afraid it’s the church.”     

“Geez!” 

We begin the three block drive back to the church. Longest three blocks I’ve ever ridden. The only cars we pass are stalled on the side of the road - don’t know where their people are. Spindly pines bend to the point of breaking; a trash can rolls through a side street; cars stand trapped in driveways with hoods and roofs smashed in by falling limbs. God, I hope Mom and Dad are OK.    

Just ahead, a river of water rushes across the intersection. There’s nowhere to turn around. “Hold on,” cries Bengy and guns it into the middle of the water. Then, a sickly sputtering, the car shakes, a red light flickers on, we’ve stalled. Bengy tries to crank the car. Absolutely not happening. 

Bengy turns to me and says, “Sorry, Roberta. We’re gonna have to walk the last block.” 

I nod my resignation. 

Bengy pushes on his door and is only able to open it about an inch or two. Mucky water rushes in. “Try yours,” he calls out. I can’t even budge it that much. “OK,” he says, then turns the ignition key. “Windows!” he says, “Ready?” I nod. He opens both windows. The sound is terrifying; the rain is stinging. We squeeze out of our windows, tumbling into the dark street swamp.   

I stumble to my feet and steady myself on the car. My right shoulder would be hurting right now if the other senses weren’t completely overshadowing the pain. My clothes are totally soaked. A film encases my face. I can hardly open my eyes for the sideways rain. I look for Bengy. There, at the front of the car now. He’s steadying himself as he reaches out to me. “C’mon,” I think he says. We hold on to each other and plod across soggy turf toward the church.   

The wind seems to be getting even stronger. We are struggling, leaning into it like the ridiculous weather announcers on cable news, except that they have escape routes close at hand, we have another half block until safety. If the rain wasn’t so dense we’d be able to make out the steeple of the church by now, but instead, we see only gray blobs and swaying silvery-greens -  we could be just about anywhere from what we are able to make out. 

Then I hear it. I look at Bengy - he hears it too. A roar. And it’s getting louder. The sky is quickly turning dark. God, it's just as people have described it: a large train, and it's bearing down on us. There's only one thing it can be. 

The mind will pull some crazy shit to escape reality. Of all things to cross my mind at a time like this: I am Dorothy from The Wizard of Oz. 

“THERE!” screams Bengy, pointing at what I am already focused on, a developing funnel on the other side of the church and moving toward us.  

I scream into the mayhem. The funnel is snaking lower, lower. We rush toward the church and toward the scariest nightmare I could never have imagined. It seems the tail of the tornado has touched down a few blocks away judging from the smashing sounds. The wind is a wall pushing us back - it’s the church or nothing. 

Bengy reaches the side door of the church before me. I see him fumbling - God, I hope they haven’t locked it. The door gives. He frantically motions to me. I stumble on the first step but pick myself up and rush into the sanctuary. 

Blam! The door slams itself shut. But we are not out of danger - this is all above ground. Bengy looks around confused. I remember, the entrance to the basement is down the hall and on the left. Bengy follows. Down the stairs we go. The tornado is tearing at the steeple above. Dust or plaster or something is raining down on us as we push into the basement. 

In front of us, in the dim flickering light, a sea of horrified people, people of all colors, perhaps different beliefs. People. People stripped of all superficiality and brought to a common ground. 

And our shared world is crumbling above us.  

Chapter 30

Sanctuary 

The crowded church basement resembles a bomb shelter from an old WWII movie. The lights are flickering, powered by a generator, no doubt. Nearly every inch is populated by anxious human beings, some milling about, some huddling. 

Crash!                  

Everyone instinctually ducks in unison as the steeple crashes through the roof of the church sanctuary above. I imagine it is like the Dresden slaughterhouse, perhaps, but instead of fire and bombs raining down, torrents of wind and rain and church steeple debris. Soon water will be seeping in under the door behind me.  

The adults are quickly trying to regain composure, comforting children. Then, from my vantage point, I see a terrifying face, a scowling Carl Shuler. I grab Bengy’s hand and hurry down into the safety of the crowd and to the far side of the crammed room. 

Everywhere kids are crying, parents soothing, young couples clutching, people with worried looks, perhaps worrying about loved ones, perhaps worrying about their possessions, their pets. Bengy’s mom has found him and is hugging him. I, on the other hand, though surrounded by the people I grew up with, stand alone, dripping wet in the stale air of the Lowman Fundamentalist Church basement. Purgatory. No, Hell. 

Other than the crying kids, it is surprisingly quiet in here. Most everyone is speaking in soft tones, almost as if they don’t want to rouse the attention of Mother Nature. She, on the other hand, is sounding her fury.  

“CLOSE THE DOOR!” someone shouts. 

I gaze up at the stairway: there stands Mr. Patterson completely drenched with the appearance of a madman. “Emmanuelle! Emmanuelle!!” he screams. Just then he sees me. “Roberta!” He’s frantic. “Have you seen Emmanuelle? Is she with you?” 

“No, Mr. Patterson, I haven’t seen her.” 

He steadies himself against the stair railing. “I can’t find her!” 

“Oh, God!” 

“I told her I’d be right back; had an emergency at the mill. I took a shortcut back but the road was washed out. When I got home, a tree had fallen onto the house, and she was gone.” He catches his breath. “When I saw the school was shut up, I figured she was here.” Now he’s sobbing. I don’t dare tell him what she told me, that she would rather die than come to this church. “I’ve gotta go find her,” he says abruptly, then turns back to the door. Before anyone can stop him he is opening the door; water begins rushing in. 

“CLOSE IT!!” someone yells as people rush to block the deluge. 

“MY SON! WHAT HAS SHE DONE WITH MY SON?!” Carl Shuler screams from the foot of the stairs, his hands clenched into fists, his eyes wide with rage. “She’s the cause of this! God is punishing us for her witchcraft and her homo friends!”   

Mr. Patterson is still clutching at the door when Shuler reaches up over the steps and grabs his leg, yanking him down the stairs.  

“Jesus-killer!” shouts Shuler and pounces on E’s dad. “What has she done with my son? What has she done with SILAS?!” 

Just then, from a cubby hidden beneath the staircase… 

“Dad! Stop! PLEASE STOP!!” 

A hush washes over the crowd. 

“Silas!” 

“NO!” Little Anna screams and grabs the young Shuler boy. “Don’t! He’ll hurt you again,” she pleads. Silas stops, then runs to Anna. 

  Carl Shuler stares, one bloody fist still in the air above Mr. Patterson. All eyes are on him. 

“He killed her, didn’t he?” Silas sobs and points at his dad. “He killed my friend!”    

Chapter 31

They Know Not What They Do 

“Forgive them for they know not what they do.” Jesus of Nazareth 

….. 

“YOU KILLED MY FRIEND!” cries Silas Shuler. 

“God killed her!” pleads Carl Shuler over the motionless Mr. Patterson. “All this is the wrath of God!”     

“‘Wrath of God?’” Bengy screams. “You wouldn’t know God if she were staring you in the face!” 

Shuler lunges at Bengy; Silas shrieks; Bengy ducks; then out of the crowd Nick Shuler rushes forward and grabs his dad from behind. “No more, you bully! No more!” 

“Stop it!” shouts Reverend Clark, who up to this point has looked on silently. 

“You hurt him, Mr. Shuler!” shouts Anna. “You hurt Silas so I hid him here in the basement so you wouldn’t get him.” Anna turns to her dad. “I snuck him sandwiches,” she says, “‘cause his dad would have killed him!” 

Carl Shuler stands quietly in the stairwell. Mr. Patterson weeps inches away.     

….. 

Hours later, the wind and rain subside. Some of the stronger adults clear a path from the stairwell to the outside door. The water in the sanctuary is halfway to my knees, the roof is gone, and the steeple has found a good resting spot in the middle of the church. Looks like God didn’t show any favoritism. 

When I step outside it is like the post-firebombing scene from Slaughterhouse-Five, I imagine, except that the leveling of landscape and buildings is the result of wind, not fire. Just walking down the church steps is an ordeal with stained glass once depicting Bible scenes now strewn all around.  

Mr. Patterson immediately takes off in search for Emmanuelle. Bengy and I join him as do Nick Shuler and a few members of the Pecan Grove Baptist Church; the others race home to see what is left of their possessions.The search party fans out across our little town, but we're not very hopeful, considering the destruction. However, here and there a dog shows its face; perhaps E could have also found shelter. It’s possible. 

Mr. Patterson, Bengy, Nick, and I head toward Main calling Emmanuelle’s name as we go. We pass Bengy’s small brick house. A fallen tree has barely missed the roof. Others are not so fortunate. I look across Main Street. Pendars, the old wooden convenient store that hosted old geezers for decades and supplied colas and such is gone. Nothing but rubble, piles of boards and glass. The countertop peaks out from beneath a pile of shingles. And behind it, the large pecan tree lies across the road like a fallen soldier, its roots, a gnarled dome of fingerlike roots resembling torn ligaments. There's no sign of the Alien Welcome Center. I walk a few yards beyond, I am scared to look, but there is Mackie and Ahn-Lam’s little cottage, intact. I breathe a sigh of relief. 

Our search party heads up Main toward the school. It’s possible that E found a way into the building and a safe spot to hide. I imagine her under one of the science lab counters, perhaps trapped in a cubbyhole, but safe. 

“Downed power line,” Nick calls out. We move to the other side of the street. 

We are approaching the corner of Main and School Road. All along this part of Main were antebellum styled three-story houses. Rubble now. A tattered Confederate battle flag clings to a tree ripped from its roots. And so it goes. 

We turn the corner. The street between us and the school building is deep in water. We wade around the edge stepping over limbs and around floating debris. The old gym off to the left, the one where Molly rescued me from those horrible middle schoolers, where she saved Bengy’s life, in ruins. Just a partial cinderblock structure. Good riddance.  

There’s no sign of anyone at the school. The roof of the old two-story structure has caved into the second story. Not a good sign. We venture around to the back. The bleachers for the baseball diamond are still intact, but the diamond itself is a muddy lake. As we walk around to a back door, Chief Smith drives up, his lights twirling. 

He gets out the car and walks solemnly over. “Mr. Patterson, could you come with me?” 

“Is it Emmanuelle? Is she hurt?” 

Chief looks down at his feet. “Better you just come with me,” he says. 

The rest of us pile in, too. 

“Emmanuelle,” Mr. Patterson sighs and begins to weep. 

Chapter 32

Emmanuelle 

When Billy Pilgrim asked the Tralfamadorians why they had chosen him, they replied, "Why you? Why us for that matter? Why anything? Because this moment simply is.” 

…..        

With Molly, there was no closure: no note, no body. With Emmanuelle, the door slammed shut. 

Chief Smith raced through town, the siren blaring. Why? There was no hurry. “I’m sorry, Mr. Patterson,” was all he said as he drove up to the rubble that had been the Patterson house. That’s all. But there was nothing he could have said to prepare any of us for what we were seeing: mournful neighbors standing next to a mound of broken boards and glass, a ladder positioned against a lone tree as though to retrieve an escaped cat, no firetruck, no ambulance. There was no rescue to be made. 

People lowered their eyes as we exited the police car. Mr. Patterson gazed up into the tree, then fell to his knees crying. Bengy reached over to me to steady himself. There, high in the solitary tree beside the remains of the Patterson house, Emmanuelle, her arms outstretched between limbs. Gone was her derby, her famous wool coat in tatters. She looked like Jesus himself. But she wasn’t. She was just a misunderstood girl, born under strange circumstances, who meant only good to those she met. A victim, perhaps, of fear - fear parading as piety. 

“I should have known,” Mr. Patterson cried out, “the last place she would have gone to was that damn church.”  

Chapter 33

Aftermath 

It was tornadoes that spun off the hurricane that did the most damage. Portions of Lowman were completely destroyed; other areas sustained only minor damage if any. Downtown businesses were hit the hardest. The upper story of the brick pharmacy was strewn across Main; the old cleaners, damaged beyond repair; Ott’s Hardware, roof blown off and all the inventory ruined; and so on. 

Some of the property owners rebuilt - good for the sawmill. The Lowman Fundamentalist Church replaced the stained glass windows with frosted glass, replaced the carpet again, and repaired their roof but never replaced the steeple. Others decided it was time to move on. 

One of those people who moved on was Nick Shuler. A nice guy in a suffocating little town, he should have moved years ago. He found a new life and a new love far away in a city more accepting of him. 

But within a year of Nick moving away, Silas was found hanging in the family barn. Too gentle a spirit to cope with the violence around him, he took his own life. If only the so-called good people of Lowman had stepped in, confronted his dad. But no. 

And Carl Shuler was never convicted of anything, of course. 

Latisha moved to New Jersey and graduated valedictorian in her prestigious private high school. After interning with SpaceX, she got her doctorate in Aeronautical Sciences, took a position with NASA, and made huge advances in space travel. 

Bengy, Bengy coped. After high school, he enrolled in a nearby tech school and learned welding. As far as I know, he never left Lowman. 

….. 

I really wish I could have made this a happy ending for everyone, but to quote Kurt Vonnegut: “Here was the thing about control over the characters I had created: I could only guide their movements approximately since they were such big animals.” 

Not that I made this up or anything. 

It took me a while to figure out what my next book would be, but at least I knew I would write again - my future self said as much - though I would never write about my hometown of Lowman again. 

And in case you’re wondering, whoever “you” might be, I never heard from Molly again. 

Addendum 1: Kurt Vonnegut 

Kurt Vonnegut was an American author best known for the novels Cat's Cradle, Slaughterhouse-Five and Breakfast of Champions.

He was born in Indianapolis, Indiana on November 11, 1922, and is considered one of the most influential American novelists of the twentieth century. Vonnegut is known for his satirical literary style, pointed social commentary, humor, long sentences with little punctuation, as well as using science-fiction elements in much of his work.

Despite his success, Vonnegut struggled with depression for years, and attempted suicide in 1984.

Kurt Vonnegut died on April 11, 2007, at the age of 84, as a result of head injuries sustained in a fall at his home in New York a few weeks earlier.

Addendum 2 - Nicola Tesla

Nikola Tesla was a Serbian-American inventor, born at midnight in the middle of an electrical storm on July 10, 1866. He was an electrical engineer, mechanical engineer, physicist, and futurist. Tesla obtained nearly 300 patents for his inventions. Some of his inventions include radio, alternating current, the Tesla coil, X-ray, fluorescent tube, and wireless remote control. He also worked on the wireless transmission of electricity.

Tesla was said to have had a photographic memory and memorized complete books. He spoke eight languages. Many of his inventions came to him in flashes of intuition, completely worked out. 

On 7 January 1943, at the age of 86, Tesla died alone in Room 3327 of the New York Hotel. His body was later found by maid Alice Monaghan after she had entered Tesla's room, ignoring the "do not disturb" sign that Tesla had placed on his door two days earlier.       Copyright

Emmanuelle

Copyright © 2018 by J. Patrick Boland. All rights reserved.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination. 

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