Devolution: A Firsthand Account of the Rainier Sasquatch Massacre(58)

“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.”* 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.”