Fear had crept into their lives with the stealth and cunning of a lone mouse.
No chew marks victimizing the cardboard corners of cereal boxes or pounds of pasta.
No rat-tat-tat-tat of ungroomed nails scurrying after breakfast or between dinner and dessert. Just the occasional pellet of poop. Mostly left in the sink after the large chunks of food had been picked out and enjoyed. Tucked back behind the weighty fancy coffee maker, unseen, or posing as burnt grain of rice in the shadow of the burner. They say not to shit where you eat, but when the trail of cookie crumbs or empty high ball glasses are someone else’s problem. . . you just ask any ask housemaid. No one really looks at the drain trap when they empty it.
The soggy, unwanted scraps of chicken cartilage, the almost incinerated floret of broccoli, and the slimy strips of onion. It’s more appealing to think your partner burnt last week’s rice and once more neglected to clean up after themselves than to face the fact that your home has been infiltrated by a rodent. Once you acknowledge it then every grain of rice has to be looked at closer, just in case. The fear of the unknown, of disease, or worse, of knowing, will embed itself in the nervous system consuming you from the inside out. And until there is a tiny, lifeless body, there will be no respite.
~~~
Veronica laid in bed staring at the ceiling. Arms pinned to her side, straining her peripheral vision she tried to see Mark’s position on the bed. She could barely hear his breathing but knew from the rustle of the sheet that he was. With all the control she had, she exhaled. Her heart ached in her chest. For the first time in thirty-two years she felt that vital organ sitting there, like a rock, slightly off center, clenching tightly for dear life.
Three, Mark thought. He forced himself to steady his breathe. He couldn’t tell if she was breathing deeply in the lulls of sleep or if she was forcing long, shallow breaths. He only knew that was her third long exhale since they shut the lights off. His time as an active special forces officer had prepared his body for moments like this.
His lean muscles poised and at the ready. Available defense weapons in arms reach included the lamp Ronnie had picked out months before they had even found this house and the SureFire P2X he kept in his nightstand drawer. If necessary, in three movements Ronnie would be held against the bed — the weight of his cafe pressing down on her chest, his knee angled into her throat.
He would have enough time to open the drawer grab the flashlight and in one seamless motion have shattered his wife’ scull, blood and brain matter wedged into the grooves lining the rim. Mark shifted his weight between his hips. If he was going to need to move, move, move, he couldn’t allow his limbs to fall asleep. A chuckle ran through his mind, as if any part of him would be capable of sleep.
The section of sheets draped over Veronica’s knees moved. Her arms slid up the sides of her body forming a protective shield. Her instincts confirmed her fears. Two out of three ain’t bad, a man’s voice rumbled through her thoughts. Lynyrd Skynyrd or that portly fellow, Meat Loaf.
She ran the tip of her tongue over the inside of her lips, as if the answer was lying in wait. Five pink lines took life before her eyes, dancing to the tune of the song. Two pairs, and one lone line. Two test results reading the same way. Meat Loaf’s voice resonated throughout her thoughts, “now don’t be sad, ‘cause two out of three ain’t bad.” Yes, it was definitely Meat Loaf.
A burst of pain seared at her chest, pulling on that all but forgotten heart of her’s. Veronica stopped exhaling and made a small gasp for air. Mark’s muscles tensed against the sheet from the other side of the bed. She wondered if telling him about the tests would prolong her life or expedite her death. Her husband, no matter what action this Mark took, would make it fast. He would be humane.
Mark pulled his eyes shut tighter. His muscles gave way to the mattress. Ronnie had known of him in high school. She a small, delicate freshman with big dark eyes that glimmered in the sun. He an overgrown senior. Pushing 6’ 5” all the way back then. Wide as a refrigerator, and every bit as solid. Four broken windows, two broken doors, and a desk — though that one hadn’t been his fault. The desk was old and rickety to begin, long before Mark dropped into it.
He had a temper. Football helped. Later, the military. Mark kept his breathing light. Ronnie would have to have a weapon to come at him. Her arms were wrapped around her stomach. It was possible, he thought.
If she did make a move, he would end the woman who looked like his wife, his love, his Ronnie. It would be self preservation, it wouldn’t — couldn’t — be his wife that he saw. Mark relaxed his eyelids.
At his final return from active duty Ronnie had picked him up. The other wives stood off to the side in a huddle. Their eyes pointed at her like m4a1 carbines following the enemy. It was his birthday, and Ronnie holding no bars showed up completely dressed in wrapping paper and covered in bows. She stood there balancing a single slice of cake topped with streamers on a plastic plate. In her other arm was a large box, also wrapped in paper and a bow! That was his wife. Not this hard, steely woman next to him.
Mark woke up humming the tune of happy birthday. Veronica's pink nightgown bunched in his fist. His head was buried between her hair and her shoulder. Her head rested on top of his. Veronica stirred lightly. Even on the angle, they looked toward each other, their eyes meeting. A nod passed from one to the other. Veronica sat up slowly, swinging her legs to the floor.
Her toes wiggled against the fuzzy fabric as she slid them into her slippers. The bed creaked as she stood. Mark rolled over to his side. His palms pushed into the sockets of his eyes, rubbing them fervently. Veronica pressed her thumb against the small sensor on the wall. It flashed red, then green. Above it a plastic cover popped open. As the curved part of Veronica’s palm thrust the red button into the wall a red haze filled the room.
Veronica joined Mark at the foot of the bed. They held hands until the room was masked in red. The sound of pressurized air, similar to what Mark had experienced flying to and from the war, took over the room. It appeared to be swirling by, streams of red being pulled toward large vents that had opened up in the wall. As the last molecules of red haze disappeared into the vents, they slammed shut. For a moment there was no air whatsoever.
With lightening speed, Veronica and Mark stepped into their suits. The familiar pull of pressure cursed their lungs. Once their suits were on and secured, a low hiss filled the room, with it, a green steam. As it its way through the last pocket Veronica and Mark attached their face fields. Walking back over to the wall Veronica attached her tube to the red button; Mark had his own button near the corner to the right of Veronica’s where he also attached his tube. The button clicked and slid back. Both shields popped into place, sealed closed like human plastic containers. They smiled at each other as the green steam lead the way through their open bedroom door.
Her voice sounded congested through the speaker.
“And another night gotten through,” Mark added.
Neither moved for a moment, afraid to step into the unspoken truth as it clung desperately in the air around them. Veronica cleared her throat and followed the green steam into the hallway. Mark picking up the rear. Veronica headed for the kitchen to prepare their morning decontamination shakes while Mark took his favorite chair in the living room and turned on the television.
Rounded navy blue, amber, and royal purple squares, shaped like decorative pillows, danced on the screen in front of him. Someone had made a funny. Mark unmuted the television as the newscasters straightened up. Hints of laughter hiding along the edges of their faces, outlined by their suits. Veronica wanted to pick out her own color, but as a military family they were restricted to army green as the military person and beige for their partner. Only celebrities were allowed to choose their own color, as long as it was within the status-assigned hue.
Veronica joined him in the living room, a tray with two shakes and two tiny paper cups filled with pills. Sitting next to each other they pressed the feeding buttons on their chest. A straw lowered into each of their mouths like a football players mouth guard. They connected the straws from the sleeve of their suits to the top of the shake. A tray popped out, Veronica dumped the pills into Mark’s tray and then into her own.
After breakfast they disconnected themselves and headed to their enclosed backyard. Blue and red lights flashed from the yard next door. Roger was being held into the dirt. The top of a shovel poking out of a shallow hole. Mark straightened out, leaning forward he could see the fleshy pink of an arm. It glowed in the overcast of the day.
Before Veronica could see, Mark turned around looping his wife’s suited arms around his and led her in the house. He wondered if Maggie had made the first move, or if Roger had snapped giving into the promise of one vaccine per family. The door frame had barely started its cleansing process before Veronica turned around. Her mouth forming a silent “O” as she saw the scene next door. For a moment they stood there looking at each other through their plastic windows as the door popped closed behind him.
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