Glimmering

“Oh Jackie Jackie, why’s it all happening? Why? Why—” that big arm shaking as it hugged Jackie close, the two of them huddled in the endless twilight, little Jackie and big Jule, together at the end of all things, as they had never thought to be.

Jack rose late the next day (he guessed it was late), went into the bathroom and threw up, poured water from an old pitcher to wash his face and clean the sink. He passed the blond girl’s bedroom and noted his grandmother in there with her, the two of them going through old clothes on the four-poster. When he got downstairs he sank into one of the Stickley chairs to catch his breath and stared up at the grandfather clock’s intricate face. Placid three-quarter moon peeking out from behind a beaming sun, dials showing high tide, low tide, the stars, the seasons, everything that could be calibrated by chime rods and winding drums, brass bobs, and golden slaves. Was there a dial there for Jackie Finnegan? For Jule? A clatter from down the hall drove him to the kitchen.

“Good morning, Jackie,” said Emma, smiling beside a window she had filled with mason jars full of dried beans, pasta, different-colored lentils. “You look like you spent the night with my husband.”

“I did,” whispered Jack, falling into another chair. “Remind me never to do it again.”

Emma laughed. Her eyes betrayed something else. Not anger or annoyance; a kind of habitual assessment as she gazed at Jack holding his head in his hands. He raised his eyes to her and saw there what she did: he looked sick. He wasn’t getting better. She was a doctor. She thought he was dying.

“Well.” Her lips pursed, and she returned his look, complicitous: we understand each other. “Jackie, I want to look at you later. Okay?”

He nodded, and Emma turned away, to place another jar upon the sill. Then Mrs. Iverson came in, shaking her head and frowning at Jack.

“Some people never learn, ” she announced. “At least Leonard isn’t here.”

She poured him coffee with real milk in it, more of Emma’s bounty, and Emma gave him some bread she’d baked, a little stale but rich with molasses and sunflower seeds.

“How come you can do this and we can’t?” Jack asked, misty-eyed with gratitude. “Grow all this stuff. Bake…”

Emma bustled around the room, swiping at countertops, checking cabinets, collecting spent jars and replacing them with what she’d brought: tea, flour, powdered milk, dried fruit.

“Because this is what women do,” she answered, mouth a little prim: Doctor Duck does not approve of strong drink. “Get food. Make sure everybody has enough to eat—”

“Perform brain surgery?”

“—perform brain surgery. Ugh, is this oatmeal? ” She glanced accusingly at Jack, who only shrugged. “The world doesn’t come to an end just because the phones are dead.”

“Emma, we haven’t had power for ages. And before that—”

“Neither have we. It doesn’t matter.” She dumped the oatmeal into a bowl of things destined for compost, handed it to Mrs. Iverson. “Jule Gardino, taking the fucking luxury of killing himself with alcohol—”

He was shocked to see how angry she was, jars rattling as she shoved them in the cupboard. “—it doesn’t all come screeching to a goddamn fucking halt.”

“You mean the world doesn’t come to an end, just because the world is coming to an end.”

Jack turned to see Jule filling the doorway. He was unshaven, his hair mussed; otherwise, he seemed unaffected by the night’s bout. Emma took a long breath, turned to a window. “Oh, Julie. Please spare me.”

“You know what your problem—”

“I’m going upstairs.” Emma shoved her hands into the pockets of her cardigan and crossed the room. She paused to kiss first the top of Jack’s head, then stood on tiptoe to kiss Jule’s chin. He twisted in the doorway to let her go by, his hand touching her ass as he winked at Jack. In the hall she turned and stared back at them.

“You know he’s killing himself?” she said to Jack, as though they were alone in the room. “You know he’s going to kill himself, one of these days?” Then disappeared down the corridor.

“Yeah, but not today,” Jule said cheerfully. “I’m not scheduled for today.”

He poured himself some coffee from the Thermos, went to the cupboard where liquor was kept and rummaged there until he found a bottle of Irish Mist. Jack watched silently as he poured some into his mug, then sat.

“Morning, Jackster. You look like shit.”

“Yeah, no lie.” The smell of whiskey floated up to him. “Christ, Jule, get that away from me before I puke.”

“You know what you’re problem is, Jackie? Pacing. You don’t pace yourself. It’s like the marathon—”

“I am not fucking interested in running a Jack Daniel’s marathon, especially with you. Okay?”

Jule whooped. “The Kip Keino of booze! Whoa baby, I’m breaking records here, Jackie!”

“Oh, shut up.” Jack shook his head. “Jesus Christ. This is like that time the door fell on me.”

Jule laughed. “Yeah! You got nine lives, Jackie.”

“Well, I’m probably running down to the last one.”