Part Four
THE NAVAROS
1
Don Navaro had seen the news footage coming out of cities like New York and Philadelphia, and he thought Rudy Cheng was a pretty sharp guy, seeing how the wind was blowing. It made sense to Don to come up with a contingency plan in case Wormwood or Yellowseed or whatever they were calling it came knocking at their doors. Bud Iverson was no slouch in the brains department either, so when the two of them got together to call a neighborhood meeting, Don was glad to be invited.
They had sipped Mrs. Cheng’s lemonade and iced tea, watched an army base overrun on TV, then turned the set off to discuss practical methods and strategies for dealing with the problem.
Don himself had a few ideas, which he shared with the group, then when the meeting was over he walked back home, cracked a beer, lit another cigarette and turned on the television to the same news coverage (yes, he nodded, there was the same screaming soldier on the same flimsy utility shed) and asked his wife Irene where the boys were.
“In Zack’s room, playing ninja turtles,” she replied, the smell of ground beef and onions filling the house.
“How about the baby?” he wondered, looking about the living room for a bundle of blankets.
“He fell asleep after his bottle, so I put him down in his crib,” Irene answered, her voice muffled and distracted; turned away from him.
Don put his feet up and sighed. He drank his beer and frowned at the television.
A silhouette appeared in the kitchen arch, a shadow caught in the corner of his eye. “You could go wake him up if you want,” she suggested, pulling his attention away from the screen. “He shouldn’t sleep much longer or he’ll fuss all night.” She made a face at the television. “He doesn’t need to listen to that though. Neither do you,” she added, hands on her hips. “You know how you get.”
“I know,” Don admitted, stubbing out his cigarette. He pointed the remote at the set, ground his molars, and the army base went away, replaced by a milky gray eye that gazed resentfully back at him. Restless, Don put down the recliner and got up to check on the baby.
His two older boys were bickering behind the door to Zack’s room, fighting over some colored piece of plastic that would be meaningless in a week or less. The nursery, however, was cool and quiet; a softly-padded oasis that pulled him in and whispered how much nicer it would be if he closed the door and locked it behind him. Just for a few minutes, until the sick, feverish feeling left his head.
Out the window, the last of the day’s sunlight was creeping slowly up the backyard fence. Don stared at it for a while through the soft, blue window sheers, then looked down at his four-month-old sleeping soundly in his crib. His son’s breathing was clear and regular; his expression peaceful, serene.
Don envied him that: to sleep without worries, untouched by dreams.
You know how you get, his wife’s voice reminded.
Yes, he knew. That was why his stomach always ached, always seemed to tie itself in knots, as if tensing for a blow. Why he started having night terrors and panic attacks after the birth of his first son, why he still had them despite the increasing medications his doctor had prescribed. He was a born worrier, a condition he’d inherited from his mother and one that kept him on constant edge about his job, his marriage, his children, his health and every other ripple which rocked his boat on any given day, be it large or small. He worried about driving his car, about having a panic attack while standing in line at the supermarket. He worried about terrorists and smallpox, overpopulation and global warming. He worried about the fact that half a million uncharted asteroids were whizzing about the Earth’s path, flirting with extinction. In short, he worried about everything. Every bad break or doomsday scenario that came rolling down the turnpike, be it real or imagined.
Not even his imagination, however, had been fertile enough to spawn Wormwood, which had become his latest preoccupation. The mother of all worries.
And there was no question in his mind that it was coming, spreading like a shroud across the land, yet up until now he had been holding out some hope that it might be stopped, neutralized somehow, or quarantined. That hope had since died, shriveling like an orange blossom under the heat of a blowtorch. He could even pinpoint the exact time and location of its death: that same afternoon at Rudy Cheng’s house, as they watched the army base overrun with the crazed victims of the plague.
If the United States Army couldn’t stop it, what chance did regular folks like they have? Oh they’d made plans, plans concerning foodstuffs, bottled water and guns, but Don was fairly certain that the army base had those things as well, for all the good it had done them.
All it took was one infected person within the perimeter and the game was over. Finished.
Still gazing into the crib, he reached down and gathered up the soft, malleable bundle. “C’mon, little guy,” he whispered, planting a kiss on his son’s head as he started to kick and fuss, less than thrilled to be woken.
Don held him and looked out the window. The sun was gone, slipped over the fence and gone while he was busy worrying. All that was left were some torn snatches caught high in the branches of the neighboring elm, and soon these would be gone as well.
Leaving him nothing but darkness and despair.
2
He watched them eat, wishing he could join them, but knowing he had work to do later, a father’s grim responsibility in the face of the coming terror.
“What’s the matter with you?” his wife wondered, a look of concern crossing her features when she saw he wasn’t eating, merely pushing food around with the tines of his fork.
He shrugged doggedly, the weight of his decision crushing him. “Not hungry, I guess.”
“Well you have to eat something,” she insisted, frowning at her casserole dish, as if it had somehow betrayed her. “You know what the doctor said; you’ll get sick if you don’t eat.”
He nodded, taking a bite to please her, holding it in a lump on his tongue, putting the lump back on his fork the minute she looked away, then lowering the fork back to his plate.
It bought him some time.
When Irene looked at his plate again, Zack and Chase were already drowsy; falling asleep in their chairs. She felt it herself and her eyes widened, recalling the risk of unpredictable mood swings and suicide — “a very slight risk”, the doctor assured her — that went hand in hand with her husband’s medication.
“What have you done?” she cried, standing up from the table, staggering, overturning her chair. The boys looked up at her, surprised and mildly interested, but in a detached sort of way, as if they were already dreaming.
Don rose from his chair and caught two and a half-year-old Chase before he fell. He lifted him to his shoulder and carried him back to his bedroom. By the time he got back, Irene was kneeling on the floor beside Zack, patting his flushed cheeks, trying to get him to wake up. She heard Don’s footsteps, the slight dip of the floorboards under his weight, and looked up, her eyes glassy and dazed. Panicked. “What did you do to us?” she demanded, her words an angry slur, a greasy handprint sliding down the wall.
“I put sleeping pills in the casserole,” he told her calmly, kneeling down to take Zack, “and in the milk.”
“Why?” she wanted to know, swaying as if caught in an oncoming current, a slow wall of mud. “Why?”
He gathered up four-year-old Zack, now a loose-jointed bundle of limbs, and looked at her. “Let me put him to bed first,” he told her, “then I’ll come back and explain everything to you.”