The trip was a failure. The hospital no longer possessed insulin or substitutes for insulin. Like the pharmacies, the hospital had purchased its supplies in small quantities, and was dependent on weekly or bi-weekly deliveries from jobbers in the large cities. Its insulin had already gone to meet the demand in its own community. Further, the hospital’s auxiliary generator was operated only during the evening hours, for emergency operations, and for a few minutes each hour on the hour to supply power for WSMF. It was necessary to conserve fuel, and unless the generator ran continuously it was inadequate for refrigeration.
Bouncing back to Fort Repose in the Model-A, Dan grumbled, “The place we should have built up stockpiles was out in the country, like Timucuan County. Stockpiles weren’t going to be of much use in the cities because after The Day there weren’t going to be any cities left. But where were the stockpiles? In the cities, of course. It was easier.”
So Lavinia McGovern, after forty-eight hours in coma, died.
Alice Cooksey was at her bedside after midnight on the ninth day, when Lavinia died. Lavinia’s husband and daughter, both exhausted from the effort to keep the house in some sort of order, slept.
Alice did not awaken them, or anybody, until morning. She kept vigil alone, dozing on a chaise. Nothing could help Lavinia, but everybody needed sleep.
Alice brought the news to the Bragg house in the morning. A fire blazed in the dining room, which smelled pleasantly of bacon and coffee. Randy, Helen, the children, and Dan Gunn were at breakfast—a breakfast exactly like one they would have eaten ten days before, with one important exception. There was orange juice, freshly squeezed, fresh eggs from the Henrys’ yard, bacon, coffee. There was no toast, because there was no bread. Randy already was beginning to miss bread, and he wondered why he had not thought to buy flour. By the time Helen had put flour on their list the shelves were bare of it.
He suspected that the older housewives of Fort Repose, remembering a time when people baked their own bread instead of buying it packaged, sliced, with vitamins re-injected, had cleaned the stores out of flour on The Day. He resolved, when he could, to trade for flour. It would be June before they could look forward to corn bread from Preacher Henry’s crop.
Alice had bicycled from the McGovern house. Before she closed the Western Union office, Florence Wechek had salvaged the messenger’s bicycle. It was a valuable possession. Now that all their remaining gasoline was pooled to operate one car, the bicycle was primary transportation for Alice and Florence.
Alice was for the first time in her life dressed in slacks, a necessity for bicycling. She accepted coffee and told of Lavinia’s death. Bill McGovern and Elizabeth, she said, were taking it well, but they didn’t know what to do with the body. They needed help with the burial.
“I’ll go to see Bubba Offenhaus right away,” Dan said, “and try to arrange for burial. I’ve got to talk to Bubba anyway. I can’t seem to impress upon him the importance of burying the dead as quickly as possible. He suddenly seems to hate his profession.”
“That’s not like Bubba,” Alice Cooksey said. “Bubba always bragged that he was the most efficient undertaker in Florida. He used to say, ‘When the retireds started coming to Fort Repose, they found a mortuary with all modern conveniences.’ “
“That’s the trouble,” Dan said. “Bubba abhors unorthodox funerals. He almost wept when I insisted that the poor devils who died in the fire be buried at once in a single grave. We had to use a bulldozer, you know. Bubba claims Repose-in-Peace Park is ruined for good.”
Randy had been silent since Alice brought the news. Now he spoke, as if he had been holding silent debate with himself, and had finally reached a conclusion. “They’ll have to live here.”
Helen set down her coffee cup. “Who’ll have to live here?”
“We’ll have to ask Lib and Bill McGovern to stay with us.”
“But we don’t have room! And how will we feed them?”
Randy was puzzled and disturbed. He had never thought of Helen as a selfish woman, and yet obviously she didn’t want the McGoverns. “We really have plenty of room,” he said. “There’s still an empty bedroom upstairs. Bill can have it, and Lib can sleep with you.”
“With me?”
He could see that Helen was angry. “Well, you have twin beds in your room, Helen. But if you seriously object, Bill can sleep in my apartment—there’s an extra couch—and Lib can have the room.”
“After all, it’s your house,” Helen said.
“As a matter of fact, Helen, the house is half Mark’s, which makes it half yours. So the decision is yours as well as mine. Lib and Bill have no water and no heat and not much food left because almost all their food reserve was in their freezer. They don’t even have a fireplace. They’ve been cooking and boiling water on a charcoal grill in the Florida room.”
Helen shrugged and said, “Well, I guess you’ll have to ask them. Elizabeth can sleep with me. But I hope it isn’t a permanent arrangement. After all, our food supply is limited.”
“It is limited,” Randy said, “and it’s going to get worse. Whether the McGoverns are here or not, we’re all going to have to scrounge for food pretty quick.”
Dan rose and said, “I’d better get going.”
Randy followed him. He had cultivated the habit of leaving his .45 automatic on the hall table and pocketing it as he left the house, as a man would put on his hat. Since he never wore a hat, and never before had carried a gun except in the Army, he still had to make a conscious effort to remember.
When they were in the car Randy said, “That was a strange way for Helen to behave. Don’t know what’s eating her.”
“Not at all strange,” Dan said. “Just human. She’s jealous.”
“That’s ridiculous!”
“No. Helen is a fiercely protective woman—protective of her children. With Mark gone, you and the house are her security and the children’s security. She doesn’t want to share you and your protection. Matter of self-preservation, not infatuation.”
“I see,” Randy said, “or at least I think I see.”
They drove up to the front of the McGovern house. Randy said, “It’s pointless for both of us to go in. Nothing you can do here. While you get Bubba Offenhaus, I’ll tell them they’re going to move and get them going.”
“Right,” Dan said. “Economy of effort and forces. Always a good rule of war.”
Randy walked to the house, wondering a bit about himself. Without being conscious of it, he had begun to give orders in the past few days. Even to the Admiral he had given orders. He had assumed leadership in the tiny community bound together by the water pipes leading from the artesian well. Since no one had seemed to resent it, he guessed it had been the proper thing to do. It was like—well, it wasn’t the same, but it was something like commanding a platoon. When you had the responsibility you also had the right to command.
The McGovern house was damp and it was chilly. It retained the cold of night. Lib, wearing corduroy jodhpurs and a heavy blue turtleneck sweater, greeted him at the door. She said, “I heard the jalopy and I knew it was you. Thanks for coming, Randy.”
She held out her hands to him and he kissed her. Her hands felt cold and when he looked down at them he saw that her fingernails, always so carefully kept, were broken and crusted with dirt. Still she was dry-eyed and calm. Whatever tears she had had for her mother were already shed. Randy said, “Alice told us. We’re all terribly sorry, darling.” He knew it sounded insincere, and it was. With so many dead—so many friends for whom he had as yet not had time even for thought—the death of one woman, whom he did not admire overmuch and with whom he had never been and could not be close, was a triviality. With perhaps half the country’s population dead, death itself, unless it took someone close and dear, was trivial.
She said, “Come on in and talk to Dad. He’s worried about how we’re going to bury her.”
“We’re arranging that,” Randy said, and followed her into the
house.
Bill McGovern sat in the living room, staring out on the river. He had not bothered to dress, or shave.
Over his pajamas and robe he had pulled a topcoat. Randy turned to Lib. “Have either of you had any breakfast?”
She shook her head, no.
Bill spoke without turning his head. “Hello, Randy. I’m not much of a success, am I, in time of crisis? I can’t feed my daughter, or myself, or even bury my wife. I wish I had enough guts to swim out into the channel and sink.”
“That can’t help Lavinia and wouldn’t help Elizabeth, or anybody. You and Lib are going to live with me. Things will be better.”
“Randy, I’m not going to impose myself on you. I might as well face it. I’m finished. You know, I’m over sixty. And do you know what the worst thing is? Central Tool and Plate. I spent my whole life building it up. What is it now? Chances are, just a mess of twisted and burned metal. Junk. So there goes my life and what good am I? I can’t start over. Central Tool and Plate is junk and I’m junk.”
Randy stepped over and stood between Bill and the cracked window, so as to look into his face.
“You might as well stop feeling sorry for yourself,” he said. “You’re going to have to start over. Either that or die. You have to face it.”
Lib touched her father’s shoulder. “Come on, Dad.”
Bill didn’t move, or reply.
Randy felt anger inside him. “You want to know what good you are? That means what good you are to somebody else, not to yourself, doesn’t it? If you’re no good to anybody else I guess you’d better take the long swim. You know something about machinery, don’t you?”
McGovern pushed himself in his chair. “I know as much about machine tools as any man in America.”
“I didn’t say machine tools. I said machinery. Batteries, gasoline engines, simple stuff like that.”
“I didn’t start at Central Tool as president, or board chairman. I started in the shop, working with my hands. Sure, I know about machinery.”
“That’s fine. You can help Malachai and Admiral Hazzard. We’ve taken the batteries out of my car, and the admiral’s car, and hooked them on to the Admiral’s shortwave set so we can find out what cooks around the world. Only it doesn’t work right—something’s wrong with the circuit—and the batteries are fading and I don’t know how we can charge ‘em.”
“Very simple,” said Bill. “Power takeoff from the Model-A. It’ll work so long as you have gas.”
“Fine,” Randy said. “That’s your first job, Bill, helping Malachai.”
“Malachai? Isn’t he the brother of our cleaning woman, Missouri? Your yardman?”
“That’s him. First-class mechanic.”
Bill McGovern smiled. “So I’ll be mechanic, second class?”
“That’s right.”
Bill rose. “All right. It’s a deal. I’ll dress, and then—” He stopped. “Oh, Lord, I forgot. Poor Lavinia. Randy, what am I going to do about her—” he hesitated as if the word were crude but he could find no other—“body?”
“We’re attending to that,” Randy said. “Dan Gunn has gone up to get Bubba Offenhaus. I hope Bubba will handle the burial. Meanwhile, I think you and Lib better start packing. We’ll have to make three or four trips, I guess. How much gas have you got in your car?”
Lib said, “A couple of gallons, I think.”
“That’ll be enough to make the move, and you won’t need the car after that. We can use the battery for Sam Hazzard’s shortwave set.”
While they packed, Randy prowled the house searching for useful items. In a kitchen cupboard he discovered an old, pitted iron pot of tremendous capacity, and, forgetting the presence of death in the house, whooped with delight.
Lib raced into the kitchen, demanding a reason for the shouting. He hefted the pot. “I’ll bet it’ll hold two gallons,” he said. “What a find!”
“It’s just an old pot Mother bought when we were in New England one summer. An antique. She thought it would look wonderful with a plant. It looked awful.”
“It’ll look beautiful hanging in the dining-room fireplace,” Randy said, “filled with stew.”
The old pot was the most useful object—indeed it was one of the few useful objects—he found in the McGovern house.
Twenty minutes later Dan Gunn returned, alone and worried. “Bubba Offenhaus,” he said, “can’t help us. Bubba would like to bury himself. He’s got dysentery. Running at both ends. He and Kitty were certain it was radiation poisoning. Symptoms are pretty much alike, you know. Both of them were in panic. He’ll get over it in a few days, but that’s not helping us now.”
Randy said, “So what do we do?”
Dan looked at Bill McGovern, fully dressed now but still unwashed and unshaven, for there was no water in the house except a jug, for drinking, that Randy had brought to them the day before. Dan said, “I think that’s up to you to decide, Bill.”
“What is thereto decide?” Bill asked.
“Whether to bury your wife here or in the cemetery. You don’t have a plot in Repose-in-Peace but I’m sure Bubba won’t mind. Anyway, there’s nothing he can do about it, and you can settle with him later.”
Bill McGovern turned to his daughter. “What do you say, Elizabeth?”
“Well, of course I think Mother deserves a proper funeral in a cemetery. It seems like the least we can do for her. And yet—” She turned to Randy. “You don’t agree, do you, Randy?”
Randy was glad that she asked. Intervening in this private and personal matter was brutal but necessary. “No, I don’t agree. It’s six miles to the cemetery. We’d have to make the trip in two cars because of the—because of Lavinia. That’s twenty-four miles’ worth of gasoline, round trip, and we can’t afford it. We will have to bury Lavinia here, on the grounds.”
“But how—” Lib began.
“Where do you keep the shovels, Bill?”
“There’s a tool shed back of the garage.”
While handing a shovel to Dan, and selecting one for himself, Randy examined the other tools. There was a new ax. It would be very useful. There were pitchforks, edgers, a scythe, a wheelbarrow. He would bring Malachai over before dark and they would divvy up the McGovern tools. In everything he did, now, he found he looked into the needs of the future.
Between house and river, a crescent-shaped azalea bed flanked the west border of the McGovern property. The bitter-blue grass had been carefully tended, and the bed was shaded from afternoon’s hot sun by a live oak older than Fort Repose. Looking around, Randy could find no spot more suitable for a grave. He stepped off six feet and marked a rectangle within the crescent. He and Dan began to dig.
After a few minutes Randy removed his sweater. This was no easy job. Dan stopped and inspected his hands. He said, “I’m getting ditchdigger’s hands. Very bad for a surgeon.” They continued to dig, steadily, until it was awkward working from the surface. Randy stepped into the deepening grave. They had made a discovery. A grave designed to accommodate one person must be dug by one person alone.
When Randy paused, winded, Bill McGovern stopped down and took the shovel, saying, “I’ll spell you.”
From above, Lib watched. Presently she said, “That’s enough for you, Dad. Remember the blood pressure. I don’t want to lose you too.” She stepped into the hole and relieved him of the shovel. After he climbed out, panting and white-faced, she thrust the shovel savagely into the sand. As she dug, her stature increased in Randy’s eyes. She was like a fine sword, slender and flexible, but steel; a woman of courage. It was not gentlemanly, but Randy allowed her to dig, recognizing that physical effort was an outlet for her emotions. When her pace slowed he dropped into the hole and took the shovel. “That’s enough. Dan and I will finish. You and your father had better go back to the house and get on with your packing.”
“You don’t want us to help you carry her out, do you?”
“I think it would be better if you didn’t.”
&nbs
p; Dan reached down and lifted her out of the hole.
When the grave was finished, they wrapped Lavinia’s emaciated body in her bedsheets, Her coffin was an electric blanket and her hearse a wheelbarrow. They lowered her into the five-foot hole and packed in the sand and loam afterwards, leaving an insignificant mound. Randy knew that when spring came the mound would flatten with the rains, the grass would swiftly cover it, and by June it would have disappeared entirely.
Randy called the McGoverns. There was no service, no spoken word. They all stood silent for a moment and then Bill McGovern said, “We don’t even have a wooden marker for her, or a sliver of stone, do we?”
“We could take something out of the house,” Randy suggested, “a statue or a vase or something.”
“It isn’t necessary,” Lib said. “The house is my mother’s monument.”
This of course was true. They turned from the grave and back to their work.
That evening Bill McGovern, with some eagerness, walked to the Henrys’ house and talked to Malachai. Together they went along the riverbank to Sam Hazzard’s house and conferred with him on a plan for supplying power for the Admiral’s shortwave receiver.
Dan Gunn drove to Fort Repose to visit the homeless, some of them sick or burned, lodged in the school. Randy and Lib McGovern sat alone on the front porch steps, Lib’s elbows on her knees, her chin supported by her hands, Randy’s arms encircling her shoulders. She was speaking of her mother. “I’m sure she never really comprehended what happened on The Day, or ever could. Perhaps I am only rationalizing, but I think her death was an act of mercy.”
Randy heard someone running up the driveway and then he saw the figure and recognized Ben Franklin. “Ben!” he called. “What’s the matter?”
Ben stopped, out of breath, and said, “Something’s happened at Miss Wechek’s!”
Randy rose, ready to get his pistol. “What happened?”
“I don’t know. I was just walking by her house and I heard somebody scream. I think Miss Wechek. Then I heard her crying.”
Randy said, “We’d better take a look, Lib. You stay here, Ben.”