Cotton Crossing

  SCENARIO 4 (4) ACTIVATION COMMENCE.

  It asked if he was sure. He typed POSITIVE COMMENCE and the keycode, again.

  The cursor blinked. The machines thought about it for a few seconds. Abe’s palms were not merely damp, now. They were flat-out dripping, and there was an obstruction in his throat. He loved America, and he loved his wife, and now his job shoveling shit had turned into making sure nobody would spit on the corpse of the former…and that the latter would never see the world crumble from under them.

  It asked again if he was really, really, really sure, no takebacks and no second chances. Once he did this, he would have to go downstairs and watch the boards until Hank Johnston came on deck for the next twelve-hour shift. Poor Hank was probably chewing Tums by the dozen now instead of getting some sleep. He was a faithful subordinate who had no idea things were already fuckered beyond repair.

  Abe Jackson, the most clandestine motherfucker in the Umbrella, confirmed. He exhaled, hard.

  He pressed the return key.

  Five minutes later the papers were locked in his safe; Abe stood, straightening his tie, and glanced around his office. At home there was the gun safe, and black-haired Sienna sleeping peacefully in their married bed. She wouldn’t wake up when he crept into the bedroom, or when the world stopped spinning. It was the last labor of love he would perform before blowing his own brains out.

  He couldn’t wait.

  A Normal Monday

  Satisfaction, Ginny often thought, was crossing things off a to-do-list, even a purely internal one. Yoga pants, check. Big thick comfy socks, check. Finally getting her hair out of braids: checkity-check-check.

  There was her phone, right on her nightstand, still plugged in. And lo, what to her wondering eyes should appear but four separate messages from her mother, in varying states of concern. Ginny traipsed downstairs to the kitchen and plugged her electric kettle in, splashed enough filtered water for a decent cuppa, and thumbed through her texts as well. Sally Urtins had a birthday coming up, the main branch was putting together a “celebration” for her. They wanted everyone to contribute to pizza. Ginny rolled her eyes, scrolling through everyone’s responses to that suggestion. Nobody was brave enough to say hell no. Even Sally herself probably didn’t want the folderol, but Bobbie Evrard—the branch head—loved any excuse to squeeze cash out of her employees for “events” that mostly served to feed her need to swan around and commit atrocious acts of small talk upon unwilling subordinates.

  Briefly, Gin contemplated calling in sick on Thursday. She headed for the kitchen. Opened the refrigerator, viewed its contents critically, sighed and closed it when the kettle chirruped at her. The first thing she was going to do when she moved back to real civilization was order decent takeout every day for a week. Each meal from a different continent, and she’d eat every single one with chopsticks to boot.

  Her phone began to buzz, and the Beastie Boys began to scream about how you had to fight for your right. Another sigh welled up, but she hit the “talk” icon and plastered a smile on her face to make sure her tone would be just right. “Hi, Mom. I forgot my phone at home, and I work on Sundays.”

  “There you are!” Mom sounded distinctly un-chill. “Have you seen the news?”

  How would I? “I just got home. What the hell?”

  “Something’s happened. In New York.” Breathless movement—Mom was probably carrying the cordless into the kitchen, cupping the mouthpiece secretively.

  The bottom dropped out of Ginny’s stomach. “Are you guys okay?”

  “We’re upstate, with Flo. She’s turning into a pumpkin, oy! And glowing, too.”

  In other words, when are YOU going to make us a grandchild, Virginia? They didn’t even care that Bill had run off with that secretary, because Flo was about to squeeze a pup through and there would be a hefty chunk of alimony by the time Dad’s lawyers finished with the sap who had married the favorite daughter. “I’ll bet.” Did you just call to try to make me feel guilty?

  Well, to be honest, the guilt would happen pretty naturally. Yesterday’s Saturday was Sabbath, but Ginny worked all day. And her parents loved her, there was no question about that.

  “But it’s the city, Virgie.” Her mother’s voice hit the high sharp pitch of gossipy excitement. “They closed all the bridges yesterday, can you imagine? We were lucky to get out, but if Flo goes into labor we won’t be able to use Dr Schneider—”

  We. As if anyone but Flo would need medical attention. Of course, Mom would probably act like she did. Ginny gathered the rest of her patience for the day and hoped it would be enough. “They closed what bridge?” Did you call to give me a traffic report?

  “All of them! Haven’t you seen the news?”

  “I don’t have cable, Mom.” Or a television. And I’ve been at work, remember? Librarian was an honorable vocation, but a Mills girl was supposed to marry well. So far, Ginny was 0-2. “Why did they close all the…Jesus. All of them?”

  “All. Staten’s closed, anything past Brooklyn—you can’t get there, unless you swim. Jersey’s full of National Guard. The bridges are shut down, nobody’s flying into JFK or Albany.” Disaster was almost as good as gossip. “Or out.”

  “I heard there were demonstrations or something.” Driving home, she’d only listened to half a news report before flipping the dial to find something that wasn’t country, Bible-thumping, or more country.

  There wasn’t much.

  “Virgie.” Almost hyperventilating. Now Mom would be waving one hand, her sterling-silver charm bracelet jingling unless she was in pearls today. “No demonstration. Something’s going on. They have helicopters. There’s National Guard in Manhattan, of all places, although it probably will do more good a little north of there. But, listen, honey.”

  “Hm?” Her tea was almost done. Ginny swirled the bag—cinnamon tea, no caffeine because it was past 3pm and she didn’t want to be up half the night. What could be happening that they’d close all the bridges, for God’s sake?

  Her mother had already moved on. “When are you coming to visit next? You’ll have to take a train, since Albany is closed. But we can get you a ticket.”

  There it was. Drop everything and run across several states to play fetch and carry for Mom’s vapors. “Is Flo there, Mom?” Listening to her sister complain would get her off the hook for a while.

  “She’s sleeping.” Mom tch-tch’d, almost a tongue-click but not quite. “I just thought it would be such a nice surprise for her, and since we’re already in Saratoga there’s plenty of room.”

  “I’ll see if I can get some time off work.” There. That was graceful, and noncommittal.

  “Maybe I should call your boss—”

  Oh, hell no. “That would be unprofessional, Mother. Is Dad there?”

  “He’s at the golf course. It’s Sunday.” A faint sniff. “And in this weather.”

  I’m sure he’s in the clubhouse with a Scotch. Ginny made another noncommittal noise. It was nice and sunny here, but Saratoga was probably seeing some winter already. So, Mom was uneasy, and wanted someone around to unload her anxiety on. It couldn’t be Flo, since she was the holy one right now, and Dad had prudently taken himself out of range. “You must be worried, with everything going on.”

  “Me? Oh, it’s in God’s hands.” But that pulled the cork from the dam, and for the next half hour it was a cavalcade of what-ifs, and-sos, and but I told them, I saids. Ginny’s tea cooled, she opened her laptop on the kitchen counter and started looking at the news. Something about protests against a pharmaceutical company and some unrelated traffic jams was all she could find. It wasn’t like Mom to be hyperbolic about that. Closing all the bridges wasn’t on any of the news sites.

  Weird.

  But Mom was getting older, and with Flo unquestionably the star of the current drama, she would be wanting someone’s undivided attention. The retirement of a queen bee was a protracted affair, and Mom was still not reconciled to it. So Ginny made all the right
noises, listened, soothed, and hung up an hour later with burning eyes and a crick in her back from leaning on the counter, as well as a hypoglycemic headache and a growling stomach.

  “There,” she told her phone. “My weekly duty, done.”

  Just one more reason to get a hotel room when she went to see the eventual spawning. Flo might even be glad to see her. Eventually. Once the fuss died down.

  After all, it was Ginny who’d caught Bill and the secretary in flagrante delicto. And true to form, she was the one Flo blamed. You just never want me to be happy, her older sister had screamed at her that long-ago night. You never! You never!

  It was usual. Flo knew she could yell at Ginny all she wanted, and her sister would still be there. At least, that’s what Ginny wanted to think about the whole thing. It was a sign of a strong sororal relationship.

  Yeah. Maybe avoiding the birth would be a good thing?

  Ginny sighed and went looking for a box of cereal, hoping the milk in the fridge was still good.

  * * *

  Monday morning dawned clear and crisp, Indian summer hanging on with teeth and toenails. Ginny shuffled out to her patio—a rectangle of pebbled concrete, looking over a weedy back yard she paid Stevie Prince from the duplex at the mouth of the cul-de-sac a few dollars or so to mow when it got ragged in summer. The McCoys had a sprinkler, but Ginny didn’t bother. All her potted plants were trimmed or brought in for the winter; there was no cheerful row of geraniums with leaves as big as her hand, no flashes of red peeking out of the terracotta strawberry jar with its open cups on its sides. Her hanging tomato planter was a mass of yellowing foliage she would have to clean out. They didn’t bother to compost in this part of the world; she couldn’t bring herself to start a heap here and possibly argue with the McCoys over what they would no doubt consider a garbage pile visible through the four-foot chainlink fence.

  She wrapped her fingers securely around her mug and yawned, enjoying the slanted, still-warm sunshine. At least this part of the country had reasonable rent, and she’d lucked into the duplex. It was a daily drive to Lewiston, but the crime rate was low, the roof was secure, the heat pump worked just fine, and though she sometimes heard faint bumps from next door when the kids were really rambunctious she didn’t hear them breathing all the time the way she would in a city apartment. The air was better, too, unless you went down to the river where the lone textile mill was still operating. Probably at a loss, to be a tax break for whatever company had bought and closed all the others. It was an article of faith out here in Cotton Crossing that the mills had been stolen by jobs in China, but they were fiercely anti-union here, too.

  Which didn’t make a lot of sense, but what in small-town America did? It was the hometown of “working against your own interests,” that was for damn sure.

  Monday morning had become her new favorite thing. Everyone else was at work, and she had a quiet neighborhood, almost all her own. Taking the half-Sundays, with Monday and Tuesday off, meant she had more than a weekend, plus the extra pay from working when nobody else wanted to was extremely welcome. All things considered, she was a lucky duck.

  She took another sip, finding her tea had cooled to that perfect temperature—hot enough to warm all the way down, but not scalding. The only blot on a marvelous sunny autumn morning crisp enough to need her bathrobe and slippers as well as yoga pants and a pajama top was a steady thopping noise.

  No, several steady thoppings, in different areas. Helicopters. Ginny frowned, shading her eyes; her tea caressed the air above it with thin steam-tendrils. Maybe the base near Lewiston was doing maneuvers?

  She watched the metal birds swoop and circle. There were at least three she could see, but the noise said more were about, rising and falling in waves. Why on earth did they need so many?

  Taxpayer money wasted like a mofo, right there. She sighed. Any red-blooded American librarian took a dim view of the military-industrial complex. Although, to be charitable, maybe the helicopters were all for firefighting in the summer? The forests here weren’t old-growth, but any wood would burn.

  Her phone spoke up, vibrating against the countertop inside. The Beastie Boys, again. Putting that ringtone on had saved her sanity. It wasn’t that she didn’t love them, it really wasn’t.

  It was just that sometimes, every once in a while, she was tired of being a disappointment.

  Later, she would wonder why she didn’t turn around and run for the phone. But this was a normal Monday, and her mother was calling early. Maybe the baby had started to drop, or something. By the time Ginny got inside, it had kicked over to voicemail. She scooped up her phone and weighed it in her free hand. Finally, she closed the patio door, sighed, and called her mother back.

  There was no answer. Just the muffled sound of helicopters from outside.

  Trained for This

  It was cheaper to shop in Lewiston, but the gas to get there cost more and Lee never liked wasting time in transit, either. So it was Landy’s for milk, turning in his washed bottles for the deposit because pennies didn’t grow on trees, and thank God the store was grandfathered out of compliance with the dry laws. Driving over the county line just for a six-pack wasn’t worth it.

  There were few things about the Crossing Lee liked more than having some convenient beer. He didn’t usually come into Landy’s on Tuesdays, because it was Military Day, and he hated showing his ID to get a discount. Everyone knew he’d been in the Army, and everyone knew he didn’t like to talk about it, which was blood in the damn water.

  He stood on ancient black-and-white linoleum in front of the cold case, looking at his options—when a man didn’t drink often, he could get a bit choosey—and knowing he was going to probably get some of the fancy beer in brown bottles. A shadow fell across the case, and the bottom of his stomach dropped and surged at once, a wave over the side of a wallowing rowboat.

  It was the library girl, and he was seeing her in jeans for the first time. A pale pinkish top showed under her black North Face jacket, and her hair was pulled messily back. Free of the professional shell of a skirt and blazer, she was even prettier, if such a thing was possible. Her hiking boots were only borderline functional, but she was a city girl, and probably didn’t know that.

  She caught the quick movement of his head and glanced up at him. “Hello there.” The smile lighting her face was made brighter by the dark rings under those dark eyes. She looked like she hadn’t had much sleep, and her milk-fair complexion was the type to show it.

  She was actually talking to him. In public. Instead of being trapped behind the library desk where she had to make nice with every customer. Were they called customers at the library? He didn’t know.

  And, Lord have mercy, she continued. “How are the Westerns treating you?” Her shoulders turned toward him, as if she really wanted to know. Those big dark eyes, interested and bright.

  “Uh,” he managed. “Uh, fine.” This close he could see the gold hoops back in her ears, and her necklace was one of those invisible chains with a small crystal nestling a bit below the notch between her collarbones. Maybe it was even a real diamond. “Hi.”

  “Hi.” Her smile widened. Those teeth, the kind you saw in toothpaste commercials. “I don’t want to trouble you if you’d prefer not to talk, but maybe you could help me?”

  Does she need to know what type of beer to buy? He floundered for a moment, and his mouth opened. Had he brushed his own teeth this morning? He damn well couldn’t remember. “Sure. Anything.” His cheeks were hot. Too hot. Was he blushing?

  Fluorescents buzzed overhead, and the cooler breathed a slightly sour chill over both of them. She shifted her weight—without the heels she wore at the library, she was a little shorter, and stood differently. “How do you pronounce your last name? I keep thinking I’m saying it wrong.”

  “Oh. Quartine. Rhymes with brain.” His mouth kept going. Was he mumbling? He couldn’t tell. He also had the severe, overpowering urge to check if his fly was zipped. “Surprised
you asked, ma’am.”

  “I just wanted to pronounce it correctly. Since you’re a regular.” She held one of the ancient wire baskets for those who didn’t want to push one of the anemic carts around, and there was a lot of leafy green in it. Tomatoes, too. A glass quart of milk. Maybe she was one of those nuts-and-berries city girls—but no, there was a wrapped package from the meat counter in there, too.

  “Yeah.” That about finished up everything in Lee’s head. She was talking to him. He hadn’t felt this way since Marcie Fluegels had hit him with the dodgeball in fifth grade, right in the nuts. Breathless, flushed all over, and completely goddamn incoherent.

  The library girl kept examining him, expectant. He wasn’t throwing the conversational ball back, maybe. But what else was there to say? He racked his brains. Usually he was good under fire, he knew what to do next. He should have trained for this, but even his wildest dreams hadn’t included her starting up the talking.

  Well, his wildest dreams had involved other things, if he was absolutely honest, but…

  “You lookin’ for beer?” he managed, pointing at the case. Oh dear God and sonny Jesus, did I just say that?

  “Some decent white wine, actually, but I think I’m going to have to go with a hard lemonade or two.” Her smile faltered for a moment, came back. Was his expression normal? He sure the fuck hoped so. She leaned over to grab a four-pack of that hard lemonade stuff—well, girly drinks for girls, that was all right. “Thanks, Mr Quartine.” Pronouncing it carefully. “I’m glad I could ask you.”

  “Me too,” he managed.

  “See you Sunday.” Now the sunshine was back. She flat-out beamed at him, turned on her toes, and was gone down the back of the store, disappearing into the aisle that held cereal and other dry breakfast stuff.