Devolution: A Firsthand Account of the Rainier Sasquatch Massacre

Chapter 15

There’s no more lying. To each other, to ourselves. No more denying what they are and what they want.

I haven’t written for two days and so much has happened. I’m trying to keep everything in order in my head. It’s like I’ve lived a year.

After Vincent left, we spent the rest of the day trying to repair our houses. I wondered to Mostar if we, the three of us, shouldn’t just focus on making more sharpened stakes. If they were hostile, and clearly the rocks had proven that, shouldn’t security be our most important priority?

She said, “You’re right,” but followed up with, “broken glass is a security issue. If we don’t clean it up, if someone gets cut and needs stitches…” She also pointed out the need for sealing up the spaces left by broken windows. “We can’t have anyone catching a chill. We’ll need them strong and healthy when they come around.” And before I could ask, she answered, “They will, Katie. Trust me. They’re on the line… no… fence. That’s the American term. They’re all on the fence right now, waffling because of Vincent’s heroic gesture. But they’ll need us soon enough. And we’ll need them.”

There it was again.

Need.

I didn’t ask what would make them come around. I figured I’d know soon enough.

As far as our house is concerned, the master bedroom had to be abandoned. The rock that hit our balcony door pushed the safety glass right out of its frame. Even if we put the mattress and box spring up against the opening there’s no practical way to seal up all the drafts. Better to move them into my office. Move all our toiletries to the guest bathroom down the hall, keep the master bedroom door shut all the time.

The same goes for Dan’s office, which he actually sees as a plus. “More energy efficient.” That’s his rationale. “Two rooms we don’t have to heat.” He’s programmed the system to shut their air ducts. Amazing you can do that. Smart house. He showed me how many amps we’re saving. “Which can all go toward the garden.”

I pretended to share his optimism, his enthusiasm. I didn’t tell him how it feels like a retreat. One more step back. First, they took the forest. Then they took the night. Then a couple rooms in our own house. How many more steps back do we have?

The house told us one of the solar panels was offline. Not cracked, their flexible makeup is shatter-proof. It was just a loose wire connection that could be fixed from the balcony. Still, the idea of Dan out there with his back to the woods. Just one well-aimed rock. I stayed with him the whole time, facing the trees, looking for any movement. Nothing happened. No rocks, no sounds. At least the fog might have given us some cover. That was what I hoped even though it was starting to burn off. Vincent was right. I wondered where he was by now, how far he’d gotten. It was hard to focus on what I was doing. Tired. Achy. But so much to do!

The village took a lot of hits. Back windows smashed. A few balcony doors fractured. Same with the kitchen doors. Safety glass. Fissured but intact. Reinhardt’s took a hit, but unlike our balcony, it was still in the frame. Even the door itself worked, although Dan thought it might be dangerous to use it. He came up with the idea of closing the drapes and setting the kitchen table against it. Reinhardt got lucky. There’s no way to seal off the kitchen. That potential heat loss makes me grateful that the living room window-wall is also paneled with safety glass. Ours now looks like an asymmetric checkerboard, panes intact, others “fogged” with cracks.

None of the other houses were hit on their inward-facing windows. Did that have to do with being seen? The Perkins-Forsters all hid right behind their front door. Bobbi sheltered in the downstairs bathroom. Who knows what the Durants did. Mostar warned us not to waste any time trying to check on them. She’d sheltered in her workshop before running over to check on us. We, I, was the only one standing right in front of an upstairs window. They must have seen me, targeted me.

That moment during the compost fight, when the large female, Alpha, locked eyes on me…

Stop it. Stick to recording what happened.

While Dan helped Reinhardt, Mostar and I went over to see what we could do for the Perkins-Forsters. That car alarm we’d heard last night? That was their Nissan Leaf. Right on the roof, right up and over the house. How much strength does it take to hurl a stone the size of a medicine ball?

At least their master balcony doors were intact, which prompted them to turn the whole bed up against it. They’ll all be sleeping in that room from now on. Palomino’s room was a disaster. Multiple rocks. Window glass mixed with mirror shards. I tried not to think about the stone chunk in the middle of her pillow.

No cleanup there, just abandoned. Another retreat.

Effie must have seen the way Pal was looking at me, the way she held my hand when we came in. “Do you want to stay here for a bit, help Pal move some of her stuff into our room?” I was going to agree, especially when I saw her eyes brighten. But Mostar killed that idea with, “We haven’t stopped by Bobbi’s yet.”

“Bobbi’s.” I just realized that now. Not “the Boothes’.”

Effie gave a resigned, “Oh, of course.” And as I turned to leave, Pal refused to let go. “Would you like to come along?” I asked her, then up to Effie, “Is that okay?”

“By all means,” that was Carmen stepping in, “we can take care of this.” There was something in her face, all of their faces, including Bobbi’s when we came over.

She was in her kitchen, Band-Aids covering her right thumb and forefinger. A rock had gone through the window above her sink. She’d cut herself trying to fish a few fragments out of the drain. “Can’t have them clogging the garbage disposal.”

I noticed the room smelled like chardonnay and some of the pieces on the floor were olive green. Did the rock knock a bottle over, or had she done it herself in a frustrated fit? She looked listless, bleary-eyed. The room’s smell masked if she’d been drinking. I started to regret bringing Palomino along, but seeing her seemed to energize Bobbi. “Oh hi, Pal!” And she jumped up to open the freezer.

“I’ve been saving these.” She came out with an ice cube tray of toothpicks poked through cellophane. “The last of the lavender berry lemonade pops.” Palomino took one with a smile. “Please,” she said, proudly holding out the tray for us. “All from our garden.” Summer, that’s what it tastes like. I savored every lick. Mostar, on the other hand, crunched through hers with one bite, thanked her quickly for the “extra sugar ration,” then asked for a broom and dustpan.

As Mostar swept the kitchen floor, I asked if I could get to work on anything upstairs. Bobbi said it didn’t matter. “I’ll be sleeping on the couch until Vincent gets back.”

“Are you sure?” Mostar called from the kitchen. “Maybe you’d like to stay with me?”

“That’s very kind.” Bobbi smiled and glanced through the living room window. “But I’d hate for him to come home to an empty house.”

I didn’t like the idea either, but not for the same reason as Mostar. She was all about security. I was about emotion. The look on Bobbi’s face, the same as Pal and her parents. I got it now. A longing.

Need.

“Bobbi, are you still up for having that community dinner in the Common House tonight?”

Three people looked at me like I was crazy. Nothing to do but press on.

“Just… you know… to remind ourselves, each other that… well… we got us.” I couldn’t believe I’d actually said that phrase. We got us.

When I was little, Dad bought us the DVDs of the old Muppet Show. And in one of the episodes, when that guy, Dom DeLuise, I think, is trying to comfort Miss Piggy about something, he says, “You’re here, I’m here. Us is here,” and when she repeats “Us is here?” he doubles down with a song: “We Got Us.”[29] That was our song, our family anthem, and though I’d tried to forget it since the divorce, it was now playing at full volume in my head.

“We…,” I blathered nervously, “…we’ve been pooling resources, right? Food, skills… but there’s another resource…,” directly to Mostar, “…and I know we blew it off in the beginning because we had to handle the practical stuff… and we still do… But we can’t forget… we need…”

“Comfort.” Mostar came forward with a look I recognized as contrition. “You’re right, Katie, we need that as much as sharpened sticks.” She reached up to wrap her arms around myself and Bobbi. Pal completed our little huddle, grabbing my hand while clinging to the waist of a trembling, sniffling Mrs. Boothe. “Togetherness, belonging…” Mostar repeated, with a hint of whimsical fascination, “We got us.”

Of all the ironies. Wouldn’t Yvette, the old Yvette, have just died for a moment like this? And we tried! The first thing after breaking our circle was to march, all four of us, right next door to invite them. Naturally we got no response. The doorbell rang without answer. The methodical, eternal zzzzzps of the elliptical never ceased. I even coaxed Bobbi (who I figured had the least emotional baggage with them) to shout through the door about community and healing and everything they’d preached at the first emergency meeting.

Oh well.

At least the rest of the village agreed, and it couldn’t have felt more comforting. Food, wine, and friends… and more wine. Everyone brought a bottle, all of us talking about how “every calorie counts.” Even Pal had a few sips from her little glass, prompting an approving “How French” from Reinhardt.

The food, portion-wise, was nowhere near what we’d eaten our first night. Anyone in normal circumstances would have looked at our puny dishes as appetizers. It was so gratifying that everyone wasn’t just obeying the rationing guidelines, but doing it enthusiastically. To quote Carmen, “El hambre es la mejor salsa.” Hunger is the best sauce!

Hunger aside, her egg frittata was delicious. Brilliant idea mixing in ground-up veggie bacon. So much better than ours, which was essentially just scrambled eggs with salt and pepper.

And hunger had nothing to do with enjoying Mostar’s dish. It was legitimately scrumptious. She calls them “siege fries”—deep-fried sticks of compressed dough. I noticed that Bobbi didn’t eat much of her share; either she didn’t like them or, maybe, it was Mostar’s comment about “the best substitute for potatoes.” Does she still feel bad? That feels like a hundred years ago. Anyway, she gave the bulk of her fries to Pal. “You’ll probably like these more than what I brought.”

She didn’t have to bring anything. We’d agreed on that at her house. But she’d whipped up another noodle soup. It was thicker, darker, and rougher than her soba. She explained that she’d tried to make naengmyeon but apologized for using too much arrowroot starch. I don’t think anyone cared. I didn’t. For the first time since the eruption, I felt the bliss of a full stomach!

And it was also an entertaining dish, because when I looked over at Pal and exclaimed, “Oh look, worm soup!” the whole conversation shifted to eating bugs. Effie asked if we’d had any chance to dig for garden worms, which jump-started Carmen on a Washington Post story about the insect element of the real “paleo diet.”

Dan brought up the time he’d tried a dish of fried crickets at this restaurant in Santa Monica. (I’d been there and politely declined to partake.)

Effie asked if anyone had heard about cricket flour, and Bobbi joked, or not, that she’d consider cheating on her veganism for a dish of grubs. “Some curry powder, or soy sauce…”

“Or Vegeta,” I added, to Mostar’s approving nod.

That really got Dan going. “We should totally try it! Wash them good, cook them, all that protein! There’s gotta be, like, tons of grubs under all those rotted logs out there.” He glanced out at the dark window, then at the suddenly cooling faces. One step too far, mentioning the woods. I felt bad for Dan. He blew it and he knew it. Under the table, I supportively pressed my knee against his.

He tried to recover though, adding, “Obviously not now, tomorrow, when it’s light and…”

And it was Reinhardt, of all people, who rescued the mood of the group.

“While we’re all clearly eager to become orthodox insectivores”—he patted Dan’s back—“might I suggest making do with…”

Like a magician, he made a dramatic gesture of approaching the small Common House freezer, waving his hands in the air, then opening the door to reveal six pints of, I’m not kidding, ice cream!

We all stared. I think Dan even said, “Whoa…”

I just stuttered. “Waitwhat… where?” I’d gone through every inch of his kitchen!

“My apologies.” Reinhardt raised his hands in mock surrender. “I hope you’ll forgive the prevarication of concealing this cache in my inner sanctum.”

“A freezer in your bedroom?” Mostar chuckled with a shake of the head.

“Decadent, I admit,” Reinhardt began, scooping the containers out in one arm, “and empty now, I assure you.” He placed them all in a ceremonious line down the center of the table. Halo Top ice cream!

Oh, the cravings I’ve been having!

For a second, we just ogled it, like treasure hunters opening the pirate’s chest. I don’t think anyone has run out of frozen desserts by this point. I mean, it’s only been a week and a half since the eruption. But the psychology of rationing, I get it now. I understand what Mostar was trying to tell me about our country, and why we were all so grateful for Reinhardt’s gesture. For just this moment, we could go back to normal, to have as much as we wanted, to feel American again.

I’m not sure if anyone thought about it that deeply, but when Carmen said, “What, no cookie dough!” we all broke into laughter. It felt so good to laugh.

Reinhardt, doling out bowls and spoons, invited us all to dig in. Dan scooped out a gluttonous chunk of sea salt caramel, then, bypassing the bowl, shoved the whole thing in his mouth, and moaned what I think is the word “sploosh” (a reference to his favorite show, Archer). Nobody seemed to mind. Bobbi even joked, “You must really like the protein.” I don’t know if she meant Halo’s extra grams of protein or… something else, go Bobbi.

Pal, with eyes now half the size of her face, glanced at her parents for permission, then practically leapt onto the pancake and waffle. My favorite. I wasn’t greedy though, a few scoops at the bottom were more than enough.

Oh my God! You forget. Even though I’d been having a sweet ration since this began, a spoonful of agave or honey, or some of Mostar’s real brown sugar. It’s not the same. The surprise! That cold mix of cream, ice, and sweetener cocktail: sugar, stevia, and what, heaven?

“Not having any?” I looked over to see Dan offering the mint chip pint to Reinhardt. Sitting back in his chair, hands on his belly, he shook his head. “I’ve had enough.” And for a second, he looked genuinely chagrined. “I’ve been hoarding these for too long, intending to engulf them alone.”

“And in one sitting,” added Carmen, which made us all laugh again. Reinhardt too. Pink cheeked, he took the jibe in stride with a theatrical bow.

Still laughing, he gripped his wineglass and, to my utter surprise, pointed it toward me. “Our hostess!”

“We got us!” added Mostar, which prompted a chorus of “We got us!”

I felt my eyes sting, my throat tighten, as everyone burst out into spontaneous applause.

And only when the applause died, in that first moment of silence as we drank, did we hear the cries outside.