Carol Amen
THE LAST TESTAMENT
If I sound calm as I begin this, I’m not. Numb would be more like it. Drained, nearly hopeless. I’m writing to try to hold on to my sanity. It’s something to do, a discipline. I will make every effort to tell what happened, no matter how painful the telling is. I want this record to be accurate, and in sequence.
March 23. Tonight as I fixed dinner and wrestled with self-pity because Tom had phoned saying he’d be staying late in San Francisco, the entire Eastern Seaboard was wiped out.
I had the TV in the kitchen tuned to the evening news from New York. When the video went off there was a bright pop. Then the screen went dark.
I moved to jiggle the knobs, expecting the usual apology about “technical difficulties,” although now that I think of it, the sound was off, too. No static, no flickers — nothing.
Suddenly he picture came back, with an excited San Francisco announcer shouting, “Listen! Listen! We’re being attacked!” The man’s voice rose and broke.
“Radar sources confirm. Many Eastern cities have already been destroyed.”
The East, I thought, panic rising in my throat. My brother’s Atlanta home.
Mary Liz and Brad, our older children, stared with me at the television. If only Tom were here. Maybe he would tell us it was a stunt, some Orson Welles trick for audience reaction. But as I looked at the TV crew, I knew it was no prank.
The announcer was hysterical. Over and over we could hear, “Massive retaliation.” Was my brother’s family really gone?
Then came the same flash on the screen, only this time we could see it all around us. An eerie light coursed and flickered hideously.
“Tom,” I screamed. “Tom!” Was that San Francisco?
Scottie, almost three, began wailing as Mary Liz, Brad, and I ran outside. Brad, who’s twelve and very logical, questioned whether we should look south toward the intense light. At fourteen, Mary Liz seems infinitely older than I. She didn’t move her gaze for a second.
I thought it would be like a giant mushroom, but it was more of an inverted mountain. I stood transfixed as its funnel pulled life from the place my husband had been at three o’clock. “Tom. Oh, Tom,” I whispered.
Other explosions, more distant, erupted like visual echoes to the first. I think there were six or seven.
Scottie whimpered and clung to my legs. Automatically I picked him up, just as the ground trembled beneath us. Earthquake. Oh God, not that,too!
“Daddy will come to us.” I paused. “He will — if he can.”
We went inside. I held Scottie close. “Bad, get the transistor and turn it to the Civil Defense station. Somebody will tell us what’s happening.”
All my life I’ve heard that “should there be an actual alert” we would be given emergency instructions. Back and forth we twisted the dials on the little radio, straining for the sound of authority, someone in charge. Nothing.
I ached to talk to my mother. She used to console me when I had nightmares. I reached for the phone, but there was no dial tone. Our electricity was off also.
Brad spoke excitedly. “Mom, Mr. Halliday’s radio set! He’s got emergency power.”
In case Tom arrived, I left a note recording my intentions — to go over to Ab and Betty’s — and the date and time: March 23, 7:15 PM.
The scene at Halliday’s was like something from a bad movie. As the minutes and hours dragged by, more and more people arrived.
Ab was at his set and Betty darted in and out carrying terse bulletins. “Seattle gone.” Or, “Just raised Yuba City. All safe.” The brotherhood of “hams” was on duty — those that were alive.
We drank coffee, spoke inanely to one another, and tried to comfort the children. Around eleven, Ab took a break and staggered out. Betty hurried to stand beside him. I felt his eyes bore into my very soul. He and Tom fished together.
“San Francisco’s gone,” Ab said hoarsely. “The entire Bay Area. I can’t raise anyone there. We’re on the fringe. I’ve found only one ham closer to San Francisco than us. Sacramento is silent — utterly silent. Southern California, too. A fellow in Twain Harte thinks they hit Yosemite. The sky is black with splinters — trees and rocks coming down like rain. It must’ve been a mistake. There’s nothing strategic there.”
The room was deadly quiet. “We’re the lucky ones. Survivors. Folks I reached in northern California and Oregon. Rural areas. Small towns. Not near industrial or military installations. We may be cut off, but we’re not crippled or dead. We’re lucky.”
I gathered the children and came home. I thought of stories I’ve read where a woman had lost a beloved husband. Those women shrieked, tore their clothes. I felt every bit as deranged as any story heroine I ever read about.
My husband. Oh, Tom. The dearest human being in the world. My rock. I am raw. My insides ripped out without anesthetic.
For hours I sat in Tom’s chair by the window, trying to remember. I could almost see the flecks of amber in his eyes, feel the bristly little hairs that grew on the backs of his hands. Once I thought I caught his unique scent. But I couldn’t remember whether we had said, “I love you,” when he left at six that morning.
March 24. Parts of the day blurred. We ate. Washed dishes. Contacted friends. Feared the weather.
The sky is yellow and dark — almost like liquid instead of air. And hot. Nothing like normal for a northern coastal town in March. I am afraid. I would like to erase Ab’s words, “We’re the lucky ones.”
Brad and I decided that if by some miracle Tom is on his way home, we might need gas to drive to a safer place. We went down to our regular station.
A ripple of fear shot through me when I saw Slim perched on a stool by the pumps with a rifle across his knees, directing his son in filling the tank of a battered Chevy.
For a minute I considered driving away, but Slim came over and spoke politely. “Mornin’, missus. Your mister get home last night?”
“He’d planned to stay late in the city. We thought for awhile—” I took a firmer grip on the wheel. “It looks like he didn’t get out.”
I saw pairetarded son, along on his fishing trips. I used to begrudge, occasionally, that Tom spent precious time with this boy when his own children seldom saw him. Then I would feel guilty for my resentment.
“Gas, missus?”
“What are you charging?”
“It’s free to my regular customers,” Slim replied. “Don’t figure credit cards is much good now.”
“But I can pay. This is your business, not a charity.”
“I done some thinking’ last night, missus. Me and Teddy don’t need much. Food and a roof. When the gas is gone, we’ll plant a garden. Go fishin’.”
Brad leaned across the seat as Slim’s son unscrewed our gas cap.“Then how come you’ve got that rifle, Mr
“Jupeople here wantin’ fill-ups. Them that’s never seen the inside of this station,nor didn’t have the time of day for Teddy.”
My face burned and I chose my words carefully. “I’ll accept the gas, Slim, if you’ll let me have you and Teddy over for a meal. I want to repay you somehow.”