Something strange happened this month: I missed my 12 Short Stories deadline.
There have been many things changing in my life, and I’ve realized that there are a few things I will need to put less energy into. That doesn’t mean I won’t write anymore, but that I may write less, or may just focus on longer pieces. That being said, I did write something, it just didn’t meet the word count.
So here is one more story. It’s not a story about politics, it’s a story about human nature and human feelings.
———
The war is over, or at least that is what they say. But how do you stop such a thing once it is started?
Charles sighed when I asked him, “You act as if you don’t understand politics.”
“I don’t,” I scratched a sliver of paint off the window with a razor, “I’m not even sure we should be doing this.”
“They said we could remove the blackout paint,” Charles swiped an even curl of latex to the ground. It fell among the budding roses, an artificial petal.
“But there are still soldiers overseas,” I dared a longer scratch. The paint seemed unwilling under my razor.
Charles continued his work, revealing an even square of window, “All the neighbors are doing it.”
I pressed harder on my blade, my unspoken words falling with the chips of paint. It will kill me if we have to repaint this window. If we have to live another year in darkness.
I went inside when my fingers started to hurt. The sun cast streaks of light onto the hardwood like the contrails of many airplanes. They had just started flying last week, the vibrations of their engines making the rose trellis shudder. I went into the kitchen.
A loaf of bread sat on the counter. “Things will be okay,” I told myself, “They wouldn’t give us bread if we were still at war.” I untwisted the tie, not to eat, but to smell the tang of the yeast. If I closed my eyes, I was in a bakery, I was in two-years past. I was innocent in a way I could no longer imagine.
Reluctance clung to me as I placed a slice in the toaster. Charles liked it cut into strips, then dipped into soft boiled egg. I looked at the news while it toasted.
Even with the Third Treaty signed, there were daily attacks. Explosives were placed in bottles and tossed into buildings. Envelopes were opened with a shower of powdery anthrax. Strange gasses filled the subway tunnel, burning eyes and lungs.
The war was over, but people still died from it.
Over the tick of the toaster, I could hear the distant wail of a siren. It grew louder, the sound sharpening into a crispness that announced it was on our street.
I moved back into the front room. All I could see of Charles was his knuckles and his blade. I put an eye up to clear spot of glass. An ambulance pulled up to the curb. A uniformed man approached my neighbor’s door. Charles stopped scraping the window, then turned and headed down our driveway.
I waited for him by the roses, inspecting the buds for the tell-tale stripe of color. That little stripe meant that in one short week they would have bloomed. I could imagine cupping them in my hands, the silk of each petal, the prickle of the thorns.
Charles returned, “Another suicide. I just don’t understand it.”
He wouldn’t.
“The paramedic said it was about control,” Charles picked up his razor blade.
“Control?”
“Yes, they pick when and how they die instead of getting killed by the war,” he resumed scraping paint.
Was that why? I always thought they were just like me, that they sensed the city around them, a vast night cathedral lit with votives. Every time something was taken away from us, each time we were given restrictions, another candle went out.
“Insane,” Charles scraped harder.
He was right, it was crazy to think that. Instead, I went inside and dialed the number posted next to the phone. The ringtone purred in my ear, then there was a click.
“Telehelp, this is Sean.”
“Um, I don’t know how this works,” I twisted the cord of the phone around my index finger.
“It’s very simple, Miss. You call us and talk to us. Would you like to tell me how you’re feeling?”
I bit my lip. There was a bit of dried skin on it and I worried it off with my teeth, “Um.”
Sean didn’t say anything in response to my hesitation, but I knew he was there from the soft whistle of breath into the receiver.
I waited until I had swallowed the skin before speaking, “The windows.”
“Yes?”
“I want to talk about the windows.”
“What’s your name, Miss?” I could hear the scratch of a pen on paper.
“Jane.”
“Alright Jane, what about the windows?”
“Did you notice when they had us cover them, that there was more crime?” I wrapped the phone cord around each finger.
“That isn’t what caused the increase in crime,” Sean cleared his throat, “Crime increased because of wartime deprivations.”
Blood rushed to my cheeks, “But before, there were eyes on the street. We could see each other, watch out for each other.”
“Because of the war, there is more poverty. Heads of households are coming home in boxes, leaving behind children with one less parent, one less wage earner. Those who don’t have to fight are privileged,” Sean’s voice took on an edge, “You sound like you’re doing well for yourself.”
“Because I’m not dead?”
“Jane,” Sean huffed my name in a sigh, “That is not what I meant. You have to focus on the things you are thankful for.”
“No, no I don’t. Things aren’t working and I can’t - no, I won’t ignore it.”
“You feel a loss of control, it’s understandable.”
“Control.” There was that word again. “Yes, as much as a fox feels a lack of control when she is smoked out of her den,” I took a deep breath, “So tell me, who is wrong? The fox or the person who lit the fire.” I set the receiver back on the hook. I supposed I could have slammed it into place, but I knew it wouldn’t do any good.
Sean believed everything he told me, but I had to wonder how often he left his house. I had been foolish enough to go into the heart of the city, and what I saw had left me shaken.
Trash overflowed from dumpsters unemptied since the beginning of the war. The sidewalks, once full of people, stood nearly empty. Only those who had no choice or no other place to go were outside, and above them loomed the great skyscrapers, their windows blackened from storefront to penthouse.
A man appeared with a dog on a leash. He walked with urgency, refusing to meet my eyes. At the corner stood a man with a sign. “Sorry, no music,” it read.
I had heard before that in revolutions, music changes, but the sound of this war was silence. Don’t speak. Don’t sing. And heaven forbid anyone from shouting.
Feeling chilled, I put a pot on the stove with an inch of water at the bottom. Charles joined me, black specks across the front of his shirt. “Were you on the phone?” He wiped his forehead.
“Yes,” I took the eggs out of the refrigerator.
“I keep forgetting that we’re allowed to make calls,” Charles turned on the kitchen sink, “Who did you call?”
“I tried that new hotline,” I put two eggs in the pot.
“Was it any good?” Charles dried his hands.
“No, the man who answered seemed to have a poor sense of reality,” I stuck a lid on the pot.
Charles chuckled.
“I haven’t heard you laugh in a year,” I adjusted the heat.
Charles leaned against the counter, “Things are getting back to normal.”
I hope.
“How is the window?”
“It’s transparently window-like,” he picked up a piece of toast and crunched into it.
“That was fast.”
“Took a devil of a lot more work to get it off than to put it on,” he dismissed the crumbs on his shirt with a flick, “Do you want to go somewhere?”
“Always,” I opened the sack of bread, “As Descartes said, ‘Action may not always bring happiness, but without action there is no happiness.’”
The timer rang. Charles watched me load another piece of toast into the toaster and remove the eggs from the pot.
“I mean vacation. Like someplace tropical where parrots sit on our shoulders while we ride zip lines,” he retrieved two plates from the cupboard.
I put an egg on each plate, “What if we get stuck there?”
“We won’t. The war is over.”
I put the strips of toast on his plate and handed it to him, “I don’t trust anyone. We could end up in a hotel with blacked out windows. Don’t you remember when the war first started? There were those people in that one hotel. They wouldn’t let them leave their rooms.”
“That was in enemy territory. We won’t go anywhere that wasn’t an ally, or at least neutral.”
“What if they cancel flights again? And do you know how many of those people died?” My hands trembled so much that my egg slid off my plate.
Charles frowned at me, “What about Descartes?”
“He’s dead too. Only lived to 53.”
“Did he find happiness?” Charles looked at my egg.
I looked at it too, “I don’t know.”