The Mammoth Book of Apocalyptic SF - Mike Ashley [128]
The cold is bad, but there hasn't been any snow either. Not a dusting. Last year's drought hasn't shown any signs of surrender, leaf ess trees and sorry brown grass bending under a slicing north wind. With my big important voice, I announce, "Winter is Death." Lola thinks that's a bit much, but I believe what I say. If you can't migrate or hibernate, there's nothing to eat here but leftovers from last summer and fall. If this cold didn't pass, we would eventually perish. But of course winter is just a season, and not a very big one at that. My wife smiles and promises me another spring followed by a long hot summer. "Because the air is still filled with ... what is that stuff called ... ?"
"Carbon dioxide."
"I don't know why I can't remember that," she says.
Lola's a simple, practical girl. That's why.
"Carbon what?" she asks.
With my important voice, I repeat the words.
"I love you," she says.
"I love you," I say.
Lola stands at the warming stove, wearing two sweaters and stirring our oatmeal. In ways I could never be, she is happy. Smiling for no obvious reason, she asks what I'm planning for my day.
"You remember," I say.
"Tell me again."
"Run the meat into town."
"I forgot," she claims, her stirring picking up speed.
But really, she isn't that simple. What she forgets can be a message, not a mistake. Like here: Butcher Jack wants the meat. But he has three daughters too, all in their teens. Some nights Lola lies awake, scared that I'll leave her for some young gal who gives me babies. If not Butcher Jack's kids, then there's dozens of single ladies living in that hated town - fertile sluts talking about Christ but not meaning it, their spoiled easy lives giving them time to paint their faces and cover their bodies with fancy clothes meant to do nothing but draw a man's eyes. She hates my trips to town. We need them, and she doesn't dare stop me. But even an insensitive husband would pick up on these feelings, and I'm not the insensitive type.
Eating breakfast, I ask what we need. What can I bring her?
Two different questions, those are.
Her wish list is shorter than usual.
She mentions dried apples and bug-free flour and oats and maybe cloth that she can use to make new clothes and wool yarn if I can manage it. Then she pauses, staring at the table between us, saying nothing but in a very important way.
"What's wrong?"
She shakes her head. But instead of lying, she admits that she gets scared when I leave for long.
"Scared of what?"
Lola looks at me.
"I always come home," I remind her. Of course maybe I won't make it tonight, but by tomorrow I'll be sitting here again. And she'll have me until spring, if we get enough supplies for all our smoked meat.
"I know you'll be back," she claims. Then a moment later, she mentions, "The butcher shouldn't take long."
"I have old friends to see," I remind her.
She nods.
"Rituals," I add.
One ritual makes her smile.
"Come with me," I tell her.
But that will never happen. Even the suggestion brings up old feelings, and as her face stiffens, she says, "I wouldn't be welcome."
"It's been years."
"And what's changed?"
"Well," I say. "It's not like people will talk ugly to your face."
Heat flows into those gorgeous eyes. The sources of pain aren't worth repeating. We know the history, and just by bringing it up, I make certain that she'll stay behind. With a nod, Lola admits that we need supplies, but at least I won't be doing this chore again next month. "Get everything you can today," she implores. "Whatever we need, and maybe a present for me. All right? Then come home as fast as possible."
Maybe my wife doesn't know the ingredients of the air. But better than me, she remembers why we even bother