Survivor Song(4)

Paul waddles through the house into the kitchen and drops the bags on the table. Upon returning to the front room, he overexaggerates his heavy breathing.

Natalie steps into his path, grinning in the dark. “Way to go, Muscles.”

“I can’t see shit. Can’t we open the windows or turn on a light?”

“Radio said bright light could possibly attract infected animals or people.”

“I know, but they mean at night.”

“I’d rather play it safe.”

“I get it, but put it on just until I get all the groceries in.”

Natalie whips out her phone, turns on the flashlight app, and shines it in his face. “Your eyes will adjust.” She means it as a joke. It doesn’t sound like a joke.

“Thanks, yeah, that’s much better.”

He wipes his eyes and Natalie leans in for a gentle hug and a peck on the cheek. Natalie is only a disputed three-quarters of an inch shorter than Paul’s five-nine [though he inaccurately claims five-ten]. Pre-pregnancy, they were within five pounds of each other’s weight, though those numbers are secrets they keep from each other.

Paul doesn’t return the hug with his arms but he presses his prickly cheek against hers.

She asks, “You okay?”

“Not really. It was nuts. The parking lot was full, cars parked on the islands and right up against the closed stores and restaurants. Most people are trying to help each other out, but not all. No one knows what they’re doing or what’s going on. When I was leaving the supermarket, on the other side of the parking lot, there was shouting, and someone shot somebody I think—I didn’t see it, but I heard the shots—and then there were a bunch of soldiers surrounding whoever it was on the ground. Then everyone was yelling, and people started grabbing and pushing, and there were more shots. Scariest thing I’ve ever seen. We’re so—it’s just not good. I think we’re in big trouble.”

Natalie’s face flushes, as his tremulous, muted voice is as horrifying as what he’s saying. Her pale skin turns red easily, a built-in Geiger counter measuring the gamut of emotions and/or [much to the pleasure and amusement of her friends] amount of alcohol consumed. Giving up drinking during the pregnancy isn’t as difficult as she anticipated it would be, but right now she could go for a glass—or a bottle—of white wine.

What he says next is an echo of a conversation from ten days ago: “We should’ve driven to your parents’ place as soon as it started getting bad. We should go now.”

That night Paul stormed into the bathroom without knocking. Natalie was standing in front of the mirror, rubbing lotion on the dry patches of her arms, and for some odd reason she couldn’t help but feel like he caught her doing something she shouldn’t have been doing. He said, “We should go. We really should go. Drive down to your parents’,” and he said it like a child dazed after waking from a nightmare.

That night, she said, “Paul.” She said his name and then she stopped, watched him fidget, and waited for him to calm himself down. When he was properly sheepish, she said, “We’re not driving to Florida. My doctor is here. I talked to her earlier today and she said things were going to be okay. We’re going to have the baby here.”

Now, she says, “Paul. We can’t.”

“Why not?”

“We’re under a federal quarantine. They won’t let us leave.”

“We need to try.”

“So are we going to, what, drive down 95 and into Rhode Island, just like that?” Natalie isn’t arguing with him. She really isn’t. She agrees they are indeed in big trouble and they can’t stay. She doesn’t want to stay and she doesn’t want to go to an emergency shelter or an overburdened [they said overrun] hospital. She’s arguing with Paul in the hope one of them will stumble upon a solution.

“We can’t stay here, Natalie. We have to try something.”

He puts his hands inside hers. She squeezes.

She says, “What if they arrest us? We might get separated. You were just telling me how crazy it was at Star Market. Do you think it’s any better on the highways or at the state borders?”

“We’ll find some open back roads.”

Yes, back roads. Natalie nods, but says, “Maybe we’re at the worst point now—”

“I didn’t even tell you there was a fox staggering in the middle of the Washington Corner intersection like it was drunk—”

“—the quarantine will help get the spread of the illness under control—”

“—and it fucking dove right at my front tire.”

“—everyone will be all right as long as we don’t . . .”

Natalie continues talking even though there’s the unmistakable sound of footsteps on their gravel driveway. Her ears are attuned to it. She’s lived in the house long enough to know the difference between the sustained crunch and mash of car tires, the light, maracalike patter of squirrels and cats, the allegro rush of paws from the neighbor’s dog, a goofy Rhodesian ridgeback the size of a small horse [a shooting star of a thought: Where are her neighbors and Casey the dog? Did they leave before the quarantine?], and the percussive gait of a person.

The steps are hurried, quickly approaching the house, yet the rhythm is all wrong. The rhythm is broken. There’s a grinding lunge, a lurch, two heavy steps, then a hitching correction, and a stagger, and a drag. Someone or something crashes into the propped open gate and bellows out three loud barks.