each other. There was a protracted period of silence as they took a couple of sips of coffee.
Suddenly, Mandy’s hands were shaking to the point that she was almost spilling her drink. She seemed to be looking for a way to broach a painful subject. Finally, she blurted out, “What are you going to do?”
“Do? Do about what?” asked Jackie.
“You know, when they come?” Tears welled up in Mandy’s eyes, and Jackie, now understanding the question, fought tears herself. What would she and Carl do about the children when the Enemy came? The Enemy had shown no mercy, even to children, throughout this war. There was no reason to believe things would change if they overran the capital.
“Carl and I continue to hope that something changes, but we’ve had to be realistic. Right now, all we can think of is to use the Option.” Both she and Mandy fully understood what the “Option” was. It was a small package containing two pills. Each package was age and weight specific. The first was a sedative, meant to take the edge off the emotions. It was to be followed, quickly, by the second. Within less than thirty minutes this pill would slow, and then stop, the heart. There was even an attractive pamphlet instructing parents how to give the pills to their children.
“How can you? It’s barbaric!” cried Mandy.
“Mandy, what the Enemy did to the men, women, and children of Kirkmont, and have done to every town and village since then is barbaric,” sobbed Jackie. “I really want to believe this nightmare is something I can wake up from in a few minutes, and discover I’d eaten something I shouldn’t have before I went to bed, but I don’t think that’s the case.” Jackie noticed she was fingering the gold locket around her neck. The locket was a gift from Carl, and contained pictures of both her parents. Fingering the locket had become a habit in the last several months. Maybe she was trying to somehow connect with them, wish they were here. No, not that, not now. She wished she and her family could go back to better times, and the locket could take them there, she reasoned.
“What about you and Glenn?”
“We can’t bring ourselves to talk about it.”
“We could have only a couple weeks. You have to know what you’re going to do.”
“We, we just….” Mandy was weeping inconsolably now. Jackie reached out and took her hand. They wept together.
Finally, Mandy said, “We are hoping the embassy can get us out. Our citizenship is still valid. They can only get a few people out each day, using the chopper pad at the embassy. Because we have a child, they are going to try to bump up our status. The problem is they only have a handful of staff left, we waited too long, and there are still a couple hundred or so Americans here. It’s so hard, because this is home, and we.…” Mandy’s words trailed off.
Jackie knew the rest. The families loved each other, they were best friends. They had even tried to leave the same day, three months ago. She also knew she had to change the topic for a while. “Let’s just walk in the gardens,” suggested Jackie. “I’ve cried so much lately, I’m surprised I’m not dehydrated.” With that comment, Mandy managed to smile a bit, and the two of them got up to walk the gardens.
The gardens were Jackie’s joy, her release. She and her mother had planned and redesigned them about the time Mandy and Glenn had moved in. The patio wrapped around a formal garden, with boxwoods framing flowers in geometric patterns. In the center was a large bronze sundial, which had aged to a great green patina over the years. Her mom had really wanted the formal look as a nod to the home’s historic past. Jackie had “won” with the other gardens; they were drifts of her favorite colors and plants. Rather than stiff patterns, these gardens followed the natural lay of the land.
The two women walked slowly through the gardens. Each cradled her coffee cup in her hands. From time to time, they would stop and sip their now lukewarm coffee. The conversation was more like it had been before the war got so close, about everything and nothing. As they talked, Jackie took a mental note of weeds to be pulled and flowers to be dead-headed to increase the blooms.
2:16 PM
Does he have to drone on so? thought Sam. It felt like he had been presenting all afternoon, even though it had only been about forty-five minutes. Did Richard Blankenship really enjoy the sound of his own voice that much? It was always Richard, never Rich, and when he introduced himself to you the first time, it was “Richard Arnold Blankenship the Fourth.” Behind his back, the team referred to him as King Richard the Fourth. He was thin, rather effeminate, with a thin reedy voice.
Richard was also intelligent and knew it; he delighted in shredding, verbally, anyone who disagreed with him. These daily departmental meetings were his form of mental combat. The purpose of the meetings was to determine what artifacts would be placed in the vault, in the hopes that something of their culture would survive past this war. The vault was located in the basement of the museum. These meetings, shortly after the war had begun, were fairly simple. There had been general agreement as to the major documents and artifacts. Now they were down to personal favorites, and very limited space.
Richard was arguing his case for two large vases. The vases were a matching set. Five feet tall, they were a deep emerald green, with delicate apple blossom flower patterns over an ornate gold-leaf geometric pattern. Sam had to admit they were beautiful, but she didn’t support the idea that they were reflective of the nation’s history.
Oops, Patrice Rant had just questioned “King Richard’s” provenance, and verbal war was now at hand. Sam knew this would set her up for a tongue-lashing when she presented. Richard had a “take no prisoners” policy when someone publicly embarrassed him. Although she was guiltless, Sam would pay a price for Patrice’s impudence.
Midway through Sam’s presentation, Richard interrupted with, “Oh, provenance, provenance, provenance, PROVENANCE, Ms. Carrolton-Logan! I just don’t see the provenance.” Then, in his most sarcastic, venomous tone, “Certainly you don’t expect us to accept some poor quality, grainy photograph as proof that this hideous clock graced the main mantel of the presidential residence, do you?” Before she could answer, he continued, “Letters from that nutcase wife of President Daniels don’t prove anything. She claimed to see the ghost of more than one president in her bedroom.” Then he continued, “She stole a pocket watch from the French ambassador and claimed it was a gift from the English. I wouldn’t trust her to tell me it snowed during the winter.”
It was true, Sam thought. The photo was of such poor quality, it could be almost any mantel clock on any mantel of any fireplace of the presidential residence. It was also true that Mrs. Daniels was the best source Sam had at the moment. But, another truth was that, for a couple of centuries, the curators of the National Museum of History and Art had accepted as fact the clock was a gift from a European country during the Daniels presidency, and had displayed it as such. The clock had fallen out of favor during a period of revisionist thought in the museum, and until now, there wasn’t enough proof to restore it to the presidential collection.
While Sam was considering her reply to Richard, he drooled, “Besides, it’s just plain awful. Could you have picked something more butt U-G-L-Y?” The remark caused a ripple of chuckles around the room.
Sam had to confess, it was ugly, at least by today’s standards. It was tall, almost too tall to really be a mantel clock. The overall height was just short of three feet. Most of the surface was gold leaf, with a large globe above the face of the clock, held up by four classical pillars entwined with olive branches. Male and female figurines were seated above the globe, she with her head resting on his shoulder.
