The Final Day (After, #3)(15)
“All right, help me get up, eggs and grits, something to stick to your ribs.”
John never could figure out the Southern obsession with grits, but when one has gone through a starving time, the memory lingers.
“Did I hear grits?”
The two looked back to see Forrest coming out of the guest room, pulling up his suspenders over his shoulder, deftly doing so with his one hand.
John stood up, helped Makala get to her feet, pushed a few more split pieces of hickory into the stove to ensure a good, long, hot fire, and closed the door. A moment later, Makala had the iron skillet resting atop the woodstove. She’d also set an old-fashioned percolating coffeepot filled with water—which was again coming out of a faucet tap thanks to the electrical pump that soaked up a significant part of the town’s electricity but again provided safe, clean running water to most homes and another item of the past—ready to put in some chicory roots and an herbal concoction.
“Oh, damn it, wait a minute.” Forrest sighed at the sight of the coffee percolator and disappeared back into the guest room.
They both knew he had some, the scent of it as seductive as any perfume, and both of them had silently hoped he still had some left. Etiquette was never to ask people if they had a secret stash of some precious item like chocolate, honey, coffee, or cigarettes. One waited to be offered, and while visiting with John and Makala, coffee—wherever it had come from—was part of breakfast again. After the meal, Forrest would step outside, at Makala’s orders, to enjoy his one cigarette, Makala keeping a watchful eye on John so that he didn’t break his vow to Jennifer.
Forrest returned, and in his open hand he held out four small plastic K-Cups—hazelnut, no less—fully caffeinated.
Makala all but snatched them from his hand. Along with rare .22 bullets and silver coins, the once ubiquitous K-Cups had become a cherished trade item, the coffee within still fresh even three years later.
Makala carefully cut each one open, not letting a single grain fall to the floor, and emptied them into the percolator before putting it on the stove.
“Now tell me you got some of those creamer cups and packets of sugar, and life will be complete,” John interjected, breaking a golden rule of good manners. Forrest smiled, reached into his pant pocket, and produced three of the creamer cups as well.
“Sorry, but sugar is out.”
“Apologies for asking,” John replied, but Forrest smiled. “Who’d have thought those darn things would one day be worth so much?”
Within minutes, the grits were simmering atop the stove, and heaven of heavens, the scent of coffee brewing filled the room. The sound of the coffee percolating was a flashback to childhood, cold winter mornings, still dark outside, coming down to the kitchen, his father nearly finished with breakfast, letting John have a few sips of the warm brew before bundling up to take the train over to the gas plant in Harrison. It was a breakfast sound that disappeared with the advent of the Mr. Coffee machines, a sound he still missed, and all the other nuances of that time and place: his father’s insistence on heavy cream and to hell with the cholesterol count, fresh bacon at least three times a week, or even the dreaded winter breakfast for kids—hot oatmeal—with a slab of butter and perhaps a sprinkling of cinnamon.
There was something about the quiet of breakfast time that triggered such nostalgia for John, particularly on a cold day—the sky a sparkling blue, the freshly fallen snow reflecting the morning light, the trees, especially the pines, still blanketed from the storm just passed.
John helped to set the table, appealing to Makala to get off her feet while he placed a single egg on each plate, doled out the grits, and then carefully poured cups of coffee for each, as a proper host shorting himself slightly while making sure the provider of such largesse had an extra gulp in his cup.
Sitting, they joined hands, John reaching over to touch Forrest’s empty left sleeve, said grace, and then wordlessly dug in, savoring each bite.
Meal done, there was several minutes of silence, each one enjoying their cup of coffee while gazing out the window, until Forrest finally stirred.
“Time to get going.”
John nodded, helping Makala to clear the table and clean the dishes in a pot of hot water that had been set atop the woodstove. Even now, after three years, people were still falling ill because of the lack of hot running water. The Saturday-night bath was again a nineteenth-century ritual of heating water on the stove and standing in an old washtub, soap again a mixture of lard and wood ash and crushed mint leaves to at least create some kind of pleasant scent.
John pulled on a tattered snowmobile suit that hung loosely on his lanky frame, followed by ski mask and gloves, and hoisted his emergency travel pack stuffed with winter survival gear, including a small tent, dry clothes rolled up inside a plastic bag, some dried beef jerky, and matches with a twisted-up piece of birch bark packed in a waterproof container. He picked up his M1 Carbine, which had become his preferred weapon, checking to make sure it was cleared, holstered a Glock, and waited for Forrest to suit up in the guest room.
Makala looked at him anxiously. It was still all so ironic. They were only traveling twenty miles up over the Mount Mitchell range and down to where Forrest’s community had decided to remain even though there was plenty of vacant housing in Asheville and right here in Black Mountain and Montreat. John had argued repeatedly with Forrest before winter closed in to move, but Forrest always rebuffed him, that he and his friends preferred to stay on the land that had once been their home; none of them were cut out for what he still sarcastically called “city folk,” and he did have the logical point that by staying north of the mountains, his community kept an eye on the northern flank of their world.