The Mammoth Book of Apocalyptic SF - Mike Ashley [149]
"Won't be there," I promised.
He nodded and climbed back on the bike and kicked it twice and left again -a wiry little man vanishing into a fresh cloud of dust.
Exhausted, I returned to the porch. To Lola. But the only affection and understanding that I got were from the licking, panting mutts at her feet.
"What?" I asked.
She turned and went inside.
I followed, again asking, "What?"
Cleaning up the kitchen was important just then. Lola started pushing plates into cupboards and sorting the silverware and cups, and I watched until I didn't think there was any chance that she would volunteer her thoughts. So I took a shot, saying, "You think I should go."
Her response wasn't to agree with me. Because saying, "Yes," wouldn't say half enough. Instead it was important to throw a handful of knives into the wrong drawer and then turn, lifting a china plate over her head as if ready to bust it. We have very good dishes in our household - fine work from Germany and England, some of it older than the old farmhouse that we took over for ourselves. Maybe that's why she held her hand. Or maybe she wasn't all that upset but it was important to get my attention before saying, "She was your mother."
"I think I know that."
Lola bit her bottom lip. Then she offered up a few words that must have lived inside her for years, never mentioned and never even suspected by the man who slept with her every night. "She was your best parent, Noah. So yes, I think that mean old bitch deserves to have you at her funeral."
Leaning against the nearest wall, I asked, "What do you mean? My best parent how?"
"Your father left you. Your mother didn't. Your father could have taken you but he chose not to."
"Life on the road? He didn't want to put me at risk."
"And for that matter, why the hell did he leave in the first place?" If anger was a race, Lola was in the lead now. "He wasn't banished. He wasn't even shunned."
"He would have been," I said.
"Shunning isn't death," she pointed out. "How many years did my family live in that miserable town, not one Believer offering us anything more than some secret whispered words?"
Never in my marriage did I feel like hitting Lola.
That was the nearest that I've ever been, and there was still a good gap between the urge and the deed. But my hands closed, and I was breathing hard with my heart pounding, doing nothing else while she watched me.
"What else?" I finally managed.
"Your mom stayed. Believe me, she would have talked your father into taking you, if that's what she wanted. But she thought it was best for her and for you that you stayed behind. And bad as she was as a parent and a human being, she probably did her very best. Which is enough reason for you to go into town and do the service like she wanted. Make yourself believe she's really dead, and then you can do whatever you want to the bitch's grave. But come back to me afterwards. All right, Noah? Will you do all that for me?"
Clear-headed, full of purposeful rage, I hurry back to the mayor's house. My mind is made up. I'm ready to announce what I know, or at least tell people what I think I know. Most won't believe me. Stubborn, unimaginative souls will dismiss my words, declaring that I am misinformed or crazy or both. But even if the entire town laughs at my madness, the idea will start chewing at them: what if I am right? What if the odd old lady bears some responsibility in the murder of billions? And what if her family not only knows about it but by one route or another approves of what she did?
Yet coming through the front door, I discover May and her father standing before a very happy audience. I expected them to be in the adjacent room, the door closed. I didn't imagine dozens of people laughing