Vox(91)

“You need to go,” Jackie says. “Right the hell now.” When I try to protest, she puts a hand to my belly. “You know you do, Jeanie.”

She’s right, of course. Jackie’s always been right about some things. She takes me in her arms, now lithe and sinewy from physical work, and in the hug I feel everything. Gratitude. Pride. Forgiveness. No more bubble around me.

“Go on, girl. Your man is waiting,” she says, and breaks the embrace.

My man.

It seems too soon to think of Lorenzo as my man, as my lover. But I feel his hand on the small of my back as he leads me toward the farmhouse. The gesture is so simple, and complex at the same time. Part of me wants to turn back, run toward the fresh mound of earth where Patrick is buried, but I don’t. I stay with Lorenzo and gather the kids, telling them to start packing.

Maybe, though, a small piece of me will remain here at this farm. To keep Patrick company.

Chris Poe shook his head when I asked him what happened downtown. I insisted, though. It’s nice to be able to insist once again, even if the information I demanded was hard to hear.

Life throws little ironies at us. So the fact that Morgan LeBron, the incompetent little shit I took care of only a few days ago, was the cause of Patrick’s death held less surprise than it might have.

“I wasn’t inside,” Poe said, his eyes studying some lump of clay between his shoes. “And Dr.—Patrick—came running out the side door like a wild boar that smells fresh blood.”

I nodded, letting him know it was okay to keep going.

“Yeah.” Poe ground his boot into the clay, swiveling the toe until there wasn’t anything left but dust. “All I heard was ‘Lockdown! Lockdown!’ and something about Morgan’s memo. Well, that’s not true.” Another clay ball suffered under the toe of Poe’s left boot. “I heard shots. You know how they always have those guys on the roof of the White House? The ones no one ever sees?”

“I know.”

“Well, I guess that’s who fired. I don’t know any more to tell you, Dr. McClellan.”

“Jean,” I said, taking his hand. “Jean is fine.”

He turned to leave, shoulders low and fists shoved deep in his pockets. Then he looked back. “I do know one more thing, Jean. When your husband took that bullet, I swear he was smiling.”

“Thanks,” I said. “That’s good enough for me.”

And it still is.





EIGHTY




Canada was warm all through June and July while we waded through the red tape and waited as six passport applications wormed their way around Montreal offices. I would have liked to stay, if only through the summer months. Something about the lakes and rivers as heat-drenched days morphed into cool, calm nights was soothing. But home called, and French never came easily to me. Also, I needed to see my mother.

The south coast of Italy, by contrast, is anything but calm. Tourists have invaded our sleepy town, and more will come in August. Still, it’s the place I want to be.

Lorenzo has been working on his project day and night since we arrived on Monday. He says he’ll have the serum ready by the weekend, thanks to the notes Poe stole from his office back in Washington. He’s promised to take the kids hiking on Capri when he’s finished. He’s good with them, I think, and Steven, although leery at first, has grown to treat him like an older brother.

I’ll take that.

We’ve kept up with the news since we crossed the border from Maine into Canada, and then the Atlantic from Canada to here.

The radios and televisions came to life again; the presses started to roll out newspapers. Women marched in silence until their wrists and words were freed. Jackie seems to be at the head of every march. She writes that, when she’s ready, she’ll visit us.

I don’t think we’ll return to the States right away, not even now that my second country has returned to what it should have been for the past year, not even now that a new president has taken the keys from the old one, stating in the simplest of terms that he will never see America repeat the damage it wreaked over the past twelve months. With the first eleven men in the line of succession, well, not quite what they were before their own aphasia serum went to work, the charge of rebuilding went to, of all people, the secretary of health and human services. A funny thing, really, when I think that might have been Patrick’s next job.

Jackie’s also volunteering as a campaign coordinator. Her letter from last week told me all about the midterm elections, how Congress will be back to normal—maybe even better—with all the women running for office. Imagine, Jeanie, she wrote. Twenty-five percent in the Senate and the House. Twenty-five! You should come back and get in on it.

Maybe next year, I wrote back. And I meant it.

For now, though, Jackie has my financial and moral support. I’m not ready to get into politics, not just yet. The boys love the sun and air of Italy, Sonia’s second language is on its way to being as expressive as her first, and everyone is excited about the baby coming.

Also, I enjoy watching the women here. They talk with their hands and their bodies and their souls, and they sing.





Vox


Christina Dalcher





A Conversation with Christina Dalcher