Drop by Drop

16

Edgar Tilbury did not visit his rural mailbox every day. He was superstitious about it. If he went to the mailbox too often he believed it would encourage more mail. Earlier in life when he was running a successful business he had endured unrelenting communication; constant bombardment from people who wanted something from him and wanted it now.

In retirement he preferred quiet.

His tin mailbox with its red metal flag stood on a dangerously leaning wooden post at the end of the laneway. On a cold morning Tilbury ambled down to the mailbox to see if anything worth reading had arrived. A single envelope awaited him. Not brown like a government envelope, or windowed like missives from the bank. This one was plain white with no return address.

“Personal letter,” Tilbury informed a mockingbird sitting on the rail fence beside the laneway. Creosote had been liberally applied to the fence at one time to protect the wood, but now was nothing more than a stain on the earth.

The mockingbird cocked its head. Man and bird were old acquaintances. Sometimes it would imitate his out-of-tune whistle, but today it had nothing to say.

Recognizing the handwriting—an unusual combination of printed and cursive—Tilbury glanced at the postmark. The official stamp was smudged but still legible.

The mockingbird turned its head and precisely rearranged a single wing feather.

Tilbury examined the postmark more closely. When he rubbed it with his forefinger the red ink smeared.

“‘Neither rain nor snow nor dark of night…’” he remarked. “Something will keep the postal authorities from their appointed rounds, and damned soon too, if ink is going to dissolve on paper. Better read this while I still can; find out when she wants to come. Fly on off, bird. There’ll be seeds in the feeder later.”

Half an hour later Edgar Tilbury emerged from his house and went to the barn some distance behind it, perched on the rim of a hill near the rear of the property. He had more work to do on the coach he was building for Shay Mulligan, a custom design that was presenting him with several challenges. If Shay and his son, Evan, were not such engaging people he would have refused the commission, but Tilbury could not say no to people he liked—which was why he thought it best to avoid people.

Shay had been confident he could find a team to pull the carriage. “Several of my customers have retired hunters and event horses whose teenage riders grew up. They might be happy to sell their animals to a good home. But what about a harness for them?”

“Ordered a set for you from a fellow over in Coldbrook, the man who made a set for your son. Grumbled a bit; don’t think he really wanted to get back into leatherwork.”

“Is he retired in the same way you are?”

Tilbury gave him a lopsided smile. “Trying to be, but these days anyone with a practical skill’s in high demand. Notice how the definition of practical has changed? Time was, people liked to live next door to a cyber nerd in case the home PC crashed. Now they want to live next door to a plumber.”

“My nextdoor neighbor’s an industrial chemist,” said Shay.

“Any use to you?”

“Nope. And he’s out of a job too. I’m thinking of offering him one driving the new carriage. Could you find time to show him the ropes?”

“Nobody finds time, son,” stated Edgar Tilbury.

The Change was relentless.

The nation’s trucking industry made every effort to keep business going; millions of tons of merchandise needed to be delivered every day. A percentage of high-performance tires was still intact, though no one could forecast how long they would last. Unfortunately the trucks themselves had been dispatched through a complex network based on computers.

Meanwhile another official missive arrived on Staunton’s desk. “The United States government plans to withdraw all paper money in future. Coins will be minted in denominations from one dollar to five hundred dollars, and distributed throughout the banking system. You will be notified of the date in due course.”

The Old Man didn’t need to ask Bea to explain this one; he already knew. As usual, Frank Auerbach had heard first, and shared more details.

The Sycamore Seed reported, “The Change has destroyed the insulators in machines employed by the US Treasury to stamp out coins, but an enterprising federal employee has tracked down several nineteenth-century stamping machines that used cotton and silk for insulation. They are being rushed into service while new ones of the same model are manufactured.”

An unanticipated consequence of the return to coinage would be a boost to the leather industry. Even before paper bills were withdrawn, designers were promoting masculine handbags with reinforced leather bottoms.

When the petroleum naphtha in newspaper ink dissolved, the effect on paper stock was equally catastrophic. The national dailies claimed to have discovered acceptable substitutes, but the public did not agree with them. India red was made of ferrous oxide, a reddish substance that came off on everything it touched and often left the text unreadable. In Sycamore River only the Seed retained a customer base: diehards who felt that even red news was better than none.

Against the odds the printed word struggled to survive.

Eleanor Bennett closed her office in December. No real estate was moving anyway; coming to work was only a face-saving exercise. She went in to collect her mail—there wasn’t any—then checked the newspaper dispenser in front of the bank in hopes of some snippet of heartening news. She wasn’t ready to go back to the apartment and make small talk with her mother.

The smeared headlines did not improve her state of mind.

Plus ça change, Nell said to herself, plus c’est la même chose.

She dumped the paper into the nearest trash can and walked the short distance to Bill’s Bar and Grill in the lane behind the Williams’s insurance agency. Fortunately Bill’s was open. Many businesses in town had closed. Shuttered, boarded-up, deserted. It was getting hard to find a nice café or cozy coffee shop.

In normal times the wife of Robert Bennett never would have gone to a place like Bill’s.

She paused at the heavy glass door, then pushed it open.

The dimly lit interior of Bill’s Bar and Grill had been a welcome relief to Jack after the icy glare of the street. He usually carried a pair of aviator sunglasses with him, a habit born of necessity in the Middle East, but today he forgot them.

Getting careless, he warned himself. Better keep the old senses sharp.

The last time Jack was there the place had been almost empty. This afternoon quite a few people were at the bar or sitting in the booths. A number of changes added up to an entirely new look. Much of the illumination came from scores of strategically placed candles. The barstools were padded with folded blankets. Imitation leather upholstery in the booths had been replaced by two-seater couches and plump cushions.

Jack caught the bartender’s eye. “I like your new décor, Bill.”

Burdick grinned. “Y’know, I kinda like it myself. We had to replace the old fixtures because of the Change, so I said hell with it and went out and bought this stuff. Quaint is in.”

A voice from one of the booths called, “Jack Reece!” Gerry Delmonico raised an arm and beckoned to him. “Come on over. We just dropped in for a hot meal; join us.”

“I don’t want to intrude.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, sit down.”

They were examining the limited menu chalked on a blackboard when Gerry exclaimed, “Look who just came in! Muffin, you remember her, you met at the funeral.”

Eleanor Bennett stood just inside the front door, gazing uncertainly around the room.

Jack stood up and went over to her. “Are you waiting for anybody?”

“No, I’m here by myself.”

“Have a meal with us, then,” he urged.

Since the disaster at RobBenn not everyone had treated Bennett’s widow so warmly. She sensed hostile eyes following her on the street and tried to tell herself they were her imagination.

While Nell seated herself in the booth Jack and Gerry went to the bar to place the orders. First a round of drinks: craft beer for the men and a vodka sour for Nell, which she requested “plain, no fruit.” Fruit in drinks reminded her too much of Panama City.

“Orange juice okay for you, Muffin?” Gerry asked his wife.

While the women waited for their drinks Nell said, “Your husband calls you Muffin. Mine used to call me Cookie. There must be something Freudian about that.”

Gloria laughed. “It means they were both weaned too early.”

The food was not fancy, but it was delicious. Marla, Burdick’s sister-in-law, prepared it in the kitchen behind the dining area. At Jack’s suggestion the party ordered two baskets of fried chicken with double hot chili fries. Bill added a large pitcher of ice water. “Trust me,” he said. “You’ll thank me later.”

Nell began picking through the basket with her fork. “There aren’t any wings in here.”

“Buffalo wings with hot sauce?”

“No, just plain fried chicken wings.”

“Who eats those?”

“I do; I learned it from my grandmother. My father’s mother came from a large family and I adored her when I was little. Nana preferred the wings because when she was growing up there were no arguments over them. She used to say, ‘If you’ll eat the wings or the neck you’ll never leave the table hungry.’”

“When you think about it, we’re all made up of bits and pieces,” Gloria remarked. “Part of what makes us us comes from people who were gone before we were born.”

“My kids aren’t much like either of us,” said Nell, “but they’re great. I don’t know what I’d do without them.”

“Are you homeschooling them now? A lot of people are.”

Nell shook her head. “Mine are staying in school whether they want to or not. Children need consistency and rules to make them feel secure; that’s how I was raised.”

Jack helped himself to a handful of fries. “Me too, but I’m a born rule breaker.”

Nell said, “All rules, or just some?”

He was about to give a glib answer when her level gaze stopped him. “Only the unimportant ones,” he replied. There was a discernible thread of sexual tension between them. He wondered if she could feel it; he certainly could.

Whoa, boy, Jack warned himself, don’t go there. A new widow, vulnerable as hell. That’s not your style.

Gloria wondered, “Who knows what the important rules are? There was a time we thought we did, but the laws of nature are breaking down.”

“What are your thoughts on the Change, Gerry?” asked Nell.

He put down a well-gnawed drumstick. “Recently there’s been speculation in the scientific community about a universal solvent, but I know a thing or two about containers. By its very definition no container could hold a universal solvent without being dissolved itself. It’s only a myth, like the alchemist’s stone that’s supposed to turn lead into gold.”

“I’ve always believed myths have a seed of truth in them.”

Jack agreed with Nell. “We humans aren’t clever enough to create something out of nothing.” He ate a handful of fries and quickly took a drink of water. Setting down the glass, he said, “We haven’t done that this time either. Any item is either a solid, liquid or gas depending on how tightly its molecules are bound together. The petrochemicals used in plastic contain hydrocarbons, which means they’re composed of carbon, oxygen and hydrogen. Perhaps there’s a variation on the universal solvent: a factor we don’t know about. Maybe Factor X only dissolves the molecules connecting matter in hydrocarbons.”

Gerry sat back and folded his arms. “That’s not it.”

“In theory it could be.”

“No chance, Jack, for one irrefutable reason. There would have to be some almighty profit involved to incentivize developing your ‘Factor X.’ The Change is all about loss, not profit.”

Another round of drinks and a second pitcher of ice water were ordered.

Gloria said, “If scientists all over the world aren’t able to find the answer, what makes you two men think you can?”

“They’re on the inside looking out,” Jack replied. “We’re on the outside looking in. The view’s better from here. I’m half-afraid there really isn’t an answer, though. Maybe it’s like a black hole. Or maybe an unknown agency is extracting hydrocarbons for a purpose we can’t begin to imagine.”

“An agency—you mean like the CIA?”

“No, Gloria, this would be beyond even them.”

Gerry was looking more skeptical by the minute. “You think little green men from Mars are robbing us? Why? To prevent our continuing with the plans for a Martian settlement? Come on, Jack, get real.”

“Did you never read Sherlock Holmes? ‘When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.’”

None of them admitted to wanting dessert, but when a dessert menu was proffered all four made selections. It was the only graceful way to conclude a debate that could not be won.

While they waited, Jack swirled water rings on the tabletop with his fingertips. Watching the patterns they made. Teasing out his words before he spoke. “There’s something about this…” he began. The others looked at him. “Something to do with the sun.… At one time cultures all over the world worshipped Old Sol.”

“The ancients may have discovered that the sun had powers beyond light and heat,” Nell interjected. “I’ve been reading a thought-provoking book on archaeology. We don’t understand the calculations behind the construction of Newgrange in Ireland or the Great Pyramid in Egypt, but obviously the builders thought they could make the sun work for them in some way.”

Jack grinned approval. “That’s the kind of thinking we need! Let’s explore this. In America everything changed with 9/11, but in Egypt the pivotal point was 2011. The Arab Spring was like a starter’s pistol going off. The fractured tribalism that undermined the Middle East for so long came boiling to the surface. Iran’s deep pockets had been funding terrorism for decades, then all at once everyone was getting into the act.

“Now the barbarians are no longer at the gates, they’re sitting on top of the walls and giving the orders. And their roots—their wisdom, if you will—go back beyond the dawn of history. Let’s suppose their scientists—and don’t kid yourselves, they have some brilliant minds on their side—have discovered a selective ‘universal solvent’ that’s activated through solar power. It’s like being the only ones to have nuclear weapons. They can focus it on whatever they choose and hold the world to ransom if they want to.”

“That’s quite a hypothesis,” said Gerry, “but I’d have to see definitive proof. I don’t believe in anything that can’t be verified through the five senses.”

Gloria gave his arm a fond squeeze. “My husband is the original Doubting Thomas; that’s what makes him so good at his job.”

“Good at my former job, you mean. It ended with—” Gerry bit off the words. “I’m sorry, Nell, I didn’t mean…”

“It’s all right,” she assured him. “What happened at RobBenn affected the whole town. Don’t think you have to censor your words because I’m here.”

“You’re very brave.”

“No, I’m not, I’m realistic. Talking about it hurts less than not talking about it; sort of ‘the elephant in the room’ syndrome. If I try to pretend it never happened I think about it all the time. Does anyone else want some of this chocolate cake?” Nell interrupted herself brightly. “It’s delicious, but I don’t think I can eat the whole slice. Bill’s very generous with his portions, isn’t he?”

Undeterred, Jack returned to the principal topic. “Remember that the rise of ISIS in 2014 caused former enemies to join forces to combat the scourge. The geopolitical map of the world was redrawn. Traditional protocols and methods of warfare were thrown out the window. The Kremlin even opened a Department of New Threats, something like the Cyber Command George Bush authorized after 9/11. I’m reminded of H. G. Wells’s novel The War of the Worlds and the science fiction it inspired.”

Gerry said, “I stopped reading science fiction when I was twelve.”

“You’ve missed a lot, then. The best writers of speculative fiction have proved to be the prophets of a new age, miles ahead of hard science. They foresaw that mankind needed a common enemy in order to unite—and now we have one.”

“Perhaps, but I’m not convinced about the uniting part. We’re very much a tribal species.”

Which started a new debate.

Eventually the last cup of coffee was consumed and the four prepared to leave. “It’ll be getting dark soon,” said Gerry. “Do either of you need a ride home?”

“Thanks,” Nell replied, “but I’m living within walking distance now.”

“Come on, you shouldn’t pass up the chance of an inaugural ride.”

Jack raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean, inaugural ride?”

“Something special’s waiting at the end of the lane. Come see for yourselves.”