Alone Read online

  rows and rows of books.

  We pass the children’s section

  where I spent hours

  making crafts and singing along

  at Sandman Story Time.

  We pass a bank of computers, all dark

  and an entire section of CDs, DVDs

  and recorded books. Worthless

  without power.

  In the main section, eastern light

  from a big bank of windows

  illuminates the stacks.

  I walk down rows, reading labels

  on ends of shelves.

  Fiction goes on forever, and then

  magazines and newspapers.

  Finally, nonfiction, but everything’s

  organized by random topics and

  numbers on spines don’t make sense.

  How am I ever going to find a book

  about how to light a fire?

  “Okay, George. We’re going to have to go

  row by row and check every shelf.

  I’ll start over here and you start over there

  and let me know if you find something.”

  George wags his tail and follows me.

  Books about knitting and crocheting.

  Gardening and building birdhouses.

  Sailing and travel. History and politics.

  Finally, a small section on camping.

  No books about lighting fires in woodstoves

  but one with a chapter about building and

  extinguishing campfires.

  I tuck it under my arm and head for Teen Fiction.

  George trots along beside me.

  We browse novels until we’re armed

  with enough reading to last several weeks.

  Jandy Nelson. John Green. Elana K. Arnold.

  Jason Reynolds. Laurie Halse Anderson.

  In a state of emergency, there’s no limit

  on the books we can borrow.

  Outside the service door, we surprise

  a feral cat sniffing around the bike trailer.

  Her angry hiss startles me and

  I jump and drop my books.

  George tells her who’s boss and she dashes off.

  We load up our treasure and head for home.

  Thank You, Laura Ingalls Wilder

  I won’t take survival for granted

  and I have no intention of being stuck

  in a Long Winter with no fuel.

  My driving improves

  (I still wear my helmet

  and seat belt every time).

  I fill the van with firewood

  from neighbors’ yards.

  Unload it into high stacks

  on the front porch and around

  the side of the house.

  I read the camping book cover to cover

  and practice building fires in the stove.

  I scavenge a case of matches from the store

  and seal the boxes in plastic baggies.

  They have to stay dry no matter what.

  I debate driving east

  out of town

  looking for others

  or the edge of the evacuation.

  But how would I get gas?

  What if I ended up stranded and lost somewhere?

  I remember all the Little House stories

  where people took chances in winter

  and almost perished in the cold.

  I could die in a blizzard far from home.

  Dad’s voice echoes in my head.

  Stay put.

  Stay put.

  Stay put.

  Five and a Half Months

  Occasionally

  on the crank radio

  I pick up a signal

  from a town

  in a state far away

  but more often than not

  all I find is static.

  When I do find a station

  I listen for any mention

  of the imminent threat

  or any plans

  to end the evacuation

  but I never learn anything

  beyond what I heard

  that very first week.

  Often I lie in the dark

  at night, wondering

  if what I am hearing

  is prerecorded.

  Nothing ever sounds

  current or specific.

  When I let the radio fade

  the night noises mix

  with the static in my head.

  My ears strain against

  the silence, hungry.

  Darwin

  Trapped

  in the corner

  of an alley

  between a garage

  and a dumpster

  a rabbit shrinks

  trying to be as small

  as possible.

  Three dogs

  bark and growl.

  I ride briskly in the

  opposite direction

  but I can still

  hear the rabbit

  when it

  screams.

  Winter Storm

  Freezing rain and wind

  take the last of the leaves

  still clinging to the trees.

  Snowstorms shriek all night

  and the house shudders.

  I push and drag my mattress

  into the front room.

  Snuggle with George

  under layers of quilts

  warm and cozy by

  the woodstove.

  We keep other doors

  in the house closed

  to contain the warmth.

  I melt snow to wash.

  Use bottled water

  to drink and cook.

  I treat myself

  to hot cocoa

  in my stepmother’s

  favorite blue mug.

  To Pass the Time

  I play solitaire like my grandma does

  with cards spread across the ironing board

  lowered down in front of the recliner.

  I sketch portraits of George.

  I read library books.

  I ask Trivial Pursuit questions and try to guess the answers

  before I flip the cards over to see if I am correct.

  I pull out Dad’s chessboard and play against myself

  rotating the board at each turn.

  I watch the snow pile up in the yard

  and marvel at the magic

  winter still works on the world.

  Winter Refugees

  Wherever my parents are

  and whether or not

  they know by now

  that I was left behind

  there is surely

  no hope of rescue

  while winter is in full force.

  Roads will be impassable

  and airports abandoned.

  “We’re ghosts, George.

  Ghosts in a twenty-first

  century ghost town.”

  Short Days, Long Nights

  Following each storm

  the sun emerges and

  melts the snow enough

  to make venturing out possible.

  I need to save gas and

  I’m afraid of driving on icy roads

  so we explore the town on foot.

  Check neighboring houses.

  Look for food and firewood.

  Mostly, though, days are cold and dim.

  We sleep a lot.

  Conserve batteries and propane.

  Even though I think we have plenty

  to last until the roads melt and clear

  I feel superstitious taking

  anything for granted.

  I read all the library books I borrowed.

  I invent a new card game using

  three decks and a pair of dice.

  It takes several days to win.

  I browse the books on my parents’ bookshelves.

  Read about how to tune a piano.

  What really caused the breaku
p of the Beatles.

  The history of Czechoslovakian theater design.

  I study Jennifer’s field guides.

  Choose my favorite wildflowers.

  Imagine hiking across a meadow with my family.

  I fantasize picnics on mountainsides.

  Make imaginary deviled eggs.

  Sprinkle dill and paprika.

  Top each one with a caper.

  I can taste them on my tongue and

  feel warm granite under me.

  But I learn to be cautious with my fantasies.

  They can lead to an ache that begins

  deep in my body, fills my torso, and crawls

  down my limbs until I can no longer

  feel my hands or feet.

  Sometimes longing

  combines with despair

  and leaks from the

  marrow of my bones

  swirls into my blood

  permeates my muscles

  invades my entire body.

  When that happens

  it takes all my strength

  to crawl into bed

  and curl up

  wondering

  if I can make it

  through another

  frozen day, still

  alone.

  Christmas

  I drag boxes of ornaments

  up from the basement.

  Hang shiny balls along curtain rods.

  Light the Swedish Christmas candles.

  Watch heat from the flames rise.

  Little wooden angels spin around in a circle.

  I choose more books from the library

  and a watercolor kit from the craft section

  of the local drugstore.

  Wrap them.

  Decorate with ribbons and holly.

  I find a special rawhide bone for George

  and tie a big bow around it.

  I make Christmas dinner:

  turkey soup

  canned cranberry relish

  canned squash

  boxed cornbread stuffing with dried apricots

  canned apple pie filling

  After dinner, we open our presents.

  Sing Christmas carols.

  “Silent Night” makes me cry

  so we switch to

  “Santa Claus Is Coming to Town.”

  We sit by the fire.

  George gnaws his bone.

  I paint his portrait.

  Think about a holy family

  alone in a strange land

  wondering

  what their future holds.

  Trust

  Each day

  I brush snow off the front porch.

  Lay out a row of sunflower seeds.

  I sit still and quiet at one end of the porch.

  Squirrel comes down from his nest

  in the cottonwood tree.

  Collects each seed

  one by one.

  As the days pass

  I make the row closer and closer to me.

  One day

  the row leads right to a seed

  in the palm of my hand.

  Squirrel gathers the seeds

  runs back and forth up the tree

  to deliver his treasures.

  When he reaches my hand

  he pauses.

  Grabs the seed.

  Is up the tree again

  before I can blink.

  Every morning after that

  he comes right to me.

  Eats breakfast out of my hand.

  Snow Falls, Melts, Falls Again

  The woodpile grows smaller

  on the side of the house.

  I teach myself “Clementine”

  and “You Are My Sunshine”

  on Dad’s ukulele.

  I sing songs to myself.

  Tell George stories

  about handsome dogs and

  brave girls.

  Making Art

  I spend one whole afternoon

  searching through magazines

  and catalogs for images of people.

  Use my art knife to cut out photographs.

  Combine them into different bodies.

  Different settings. Different families.

  Shellac them onto card stock

  and fragments of broken glass.

  I hang the installation from the chandelier

  over the dining room table.

  Air currents move the families

  slightly on their strings

  but they never tangle

  or cross or meet.

  One Morning

  I unlock the front door.

  Let George out.

  A spot of color on the ground.

  A bright purple crocus peeks

  out of the muddy snow.

  Over the next days, more crocuses

  holler up from their winter beds.

  We count and greet each one.

  Then yellow daffodils

  followed by a rainbow of tulips

  up and down the street.

  By the time the irises

  send up their spiky stalks

  spring is official and

  a new sense of hope

  blooms in my heart.

  Peril

  (n.) grave risk; exposure to injury, loss, or destruction; danger

  Menace

  I pedal my bike down the dry-enough road.

  Steer around places still coated with icy mud.

  Avoid potholes.

  We’re heading to Bullseye.

  Need new shoes and jeans

  to replace the ones I’ve outgrown.

  Dog food, propane, lantern mantles.

  George lopes alongside.

  Nose in air, sniffing spring.

  Around the corner

  behind the post office

  George freezes.

  Growls low and deep.

  “What is it, buddy?”

  I wheel around.

  Come back where he has halted.

  Fur on the back of his neck

  stands straight up.

  A car door slams.

  Wait—a car door slams?

  Incomprehensible.

  Dismount. Turn in circles.

  Look for an explanation.

  Something crashes.

  Metal hits metal.

  I cry out.

  Run toward Main Street and

  the certain presence of other humans.

  Almost to the corner.

  Explosion of breaking glass stops me hard.

  A cry of pain.

  Is this the imminent threat?

  A man’s angry voice.

  “Keep whining about how tired you are

  and next time I won’t just break your nose.”

  I stay frozen with George silent beside me.

  The same angry voice barks orders.

  “Let’s go! Come on, move it!

  Back that truck up here and get it loaded.

  We gotta be over the border by dark.”

  Gears grind.

  The beep-beep-beep of a truck in reverse

  echoes off buildings.

  Other men’s voices rumble.

  Shout to each other.

  Metal hits metal again.

  “Let’s go! Let’s go!

  Pick up the pace, you morons.”

  Angry Voice is closer.

  I move into shadows.

  George follows.

  We slip down the alley.

  I grab a bit of muddy clothesline.

  Tie George to the fence.

  He whines but I tell him to shush.

  He sits down.

  Cocks his head.

  I inch around the side of the building.

  Men shout.

  Call to one another.

  I peer over a windowsill

  into the appliance store.

  See across the showroom and out

  through the display windows

  to the street bey
ond.

  Angry Voice has a shaved head.

  Mirrored sunglasses.

  Combat boots.

  His scalp is tattooed

  with a skull tangled in thorns.

  Other men push heavy appliances

  through broken display windows

  to a moving truck on the sidewalk.

  Their heads are also shaved.

  Ink stains their arms.

  They aren’t careful.

  They shove and stack appliances.

  Cram as much as possible

  into the truck.

  Throw smaller items

  into the bed of a pickup

  parked in the street.

  Blood gushes from one man’s nose

  but he keeps working.

  More glass breaks.

  Two men come out of the Antique Attic

  with a cash register.

  Add it to the rest.

  Angry Voice shouts from the sidewalk.

  Points up the block.

  “You two—head over to the pawnshop.

  Grab anything we can fence

  or sell for scrap.

  But no serial numbers!”

  The men run.

  Chains on their boots rattle.

  I crouch down beneath the window.

  Hide behind an air-conditioning unit.

  I am sure they can hear my heart

  sledgehammering my ribs.

  I stay still.

  On the One Hand

  These men are not government or military.

  Not a rescue squad.

  They remind me of rioters

  I saw on the Internet.

  What did he mean by fence?

  And why no serial numbers?

  When they finish looting the street

  will they start on neighborhoods?

  On the Other Hand

  They also remind me of the pastors

  at the megachurch. The ones with

  Carhartt work clothes and hipster tattoos.

  Shaved heads don’t necessarily equal danger.

  These are the first people I’ve seen in months.

  They have the power to get me out of here.

  They might have cell phones I can use.

  Give me a ride to an evacuation center.

  Then again, it seems like they’re breaking the law.

  If they know I’ve seen them stealing

  they might not help me at all.

  If they turn out to be dangerous,

  I have no protection against them.

  If they’re creeps as well as thieves

  I could be in much deeper trouble

  than I can ever escape.

  Can’t Think Straight

  Think.

  Think.

  Think.