JON JEROME PERRY
THE DISPATCH
When I awoke on the Last Day, my father was boarding up the windows. The violent sound of his hammer smashing nails into the woodwork of our childhood home was an unpleasant way to begin the day. I sat at the edge of the bed and rubbed my groggy eyes. The three-paged letter I had written to Samantha sat on my desk, tidily arranged.
I got out of bed and walked downstairs to see what progress my father had made since the announcement. He was in the dining room at the front of the house, sealing the bay windows. Though I was grateful for his effort, we both knew it was futile.
I walked up behind him as he hammered away at the window frame, boarding the last of the three panes with plywood, shielding us from the golden light of fall, from the calm cul-de-sac and the semi-circle of dark, empty houses, some of which were also sealed. He must've known the thin boards did nothing. He must've known there was no hope for us. I decided not to remind him. I needed him on my side.
"Dad," I said, placing my hand on his shoulder. He wore his tie-dye shirt, his workman shirt, the one splotched with dried paint from all his years of domestic projects. He was steeped in sweat.
"Morning James," he said. He paused his hammering.
"Can I help?"
He placed the hammer on the window sill and wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. He sighed and turned around and leaned up against the boarded window, facing me. The room was nearly dark, though some light crept in through the front door, left ajar for the fresh air. We sat in silence for a moment, listening to the dawn chorus.
"I s'pose I could use help with the front door," he said. “In a little while. I need a break.”
"Right," I said. "We have a few hours.”
"That sounds about right."
"Where's Mom?"
"In our room, sorting through old photographs."
"Dad, Dad, something I need to ask.” I stared at the floor.
“I need to go out there," I said, tilting my head toward the open door. "Just for a little."
"Not a chance," he said.
"But Dad."
"But nothing."
"But I have to. I'll be quick, I promise."
"Lord, James," he said. "You make things very difficult sometimes, you know that?"
“I know, I know. It won’t happen again.”
"Why? Why on earth do you, all of a sudden, need to go out there, on today of all days?" he asked.
"For Sam," I said.
"A girl?" he said.
"Yeah, a girl,” I said, blushing. “So what. I wrote her a nice letter.”
“A girl!”
“I need to give it to her. She’s right up the street, on Cedar, where the road meets the lake. I can get there in fifteen minutes by bike, then fifteen minutes back."
"She’s been in your class for what, the last two years? And you decided to wait, almost literally, until the final hour?”
Annihilation makes the heart grow fonder.
He picked up the hammer from the window sill and faced the board, then peered over his shoulder. "Ask your mother," he said, and continued pounding nails into the wood, disrupting once again the serenity of the morning. I walked into the foyer and down the hall, toward their room, where my mom was organizing photographs chronologically.
#
"No no no no no."
"But Mom."
"Absolutely, positively no."
"But Mom I--"
"No."
"Okay."
"No is no, and that is that, Mister."
#
I returned to my room where the letter was. I placed it gently into my backpack and zipped it shut. Dad had since ceased his hammering. I considered escaping through my window, but it was thoroughly boarded, and they would immediately hear my attempt to tear the panel from its frame.
I tossed my backpack over my shoulder and crept toward the stairs. I peered down and listened for any sign of my parents, but the floor below was quiet. Stealthily, I tiptoed down the stairs. As I got to the base of the steps I looked first to my left, into the living room, and saw that it was empty. Then I looked to my right, to the foyer and then the dining room, where my dad had been working. From the bottom of the steps I could see the front door. It had not been boarded. It was left opened, only slightly, giving way to a sliver of yellow morning light.
Muffled voices sprang from the bedroom down the hall, my mother’s grave, my father’s stern. They were arguing. Arguing! On the Last Day! I listened to their voices and became certain of their location, and then I hurried toward the open front door, my backpack strapped tightly to my chest.
"I'll be back!" I screamed, and pulled open the door. I thought this fair warning was a kind gesture. Immediately, their footsteps rushed out of the bedroom and into the foyer behind me, the stomping of their bare feet on the wooden floor echoed through the house. My father huffed, my mother shrieked, and I darted into the calm air of my last morning. I grabbed my bicycle and rode off, away from the house. My mother shouted demands from the doorway. "I'll be back! I'll be right back!" I said, lazily tossing an arm in the air, as if to wave.
The street was desolate, the homes either abandoned or barricaded. The birds sang but wildly, in a cacophony. Bluebirds and warblers and pigeons all lined the wires and trees, having mended their differences in celebration of or resignation to the Last Day. I looked up at the sky, at the rolling clouds and rising sun, and I saw that it was unchanged.
I continued on, past the homes of family friends and friendly neighbors. The Humphreys left children's toys strewn about the yard; the Daltons draped the roof of their home in large sheets of aluminum foil; the Eisners had begun excavating a tremendous hole in their front yard, but, being one of the wiser families on the block, abandoned the project. I thought I saw the Eisners through their windows, dining joyfully on the back patio, but I didn't have time to stop and say hello.
When I got to Cedar, the main road, I saw that it was empty too. It was littered with paper and debris that danced across the pavement in the breeze. I headed north toward the lake, toward Samantha's house, listening to the strange song of the birds. The traffic lights were dead. The CVS on the corner was closed, its doors torn off the hinges and left thoughtlessly on the ground, its windows shattered, its shelves empty.
I didn't know what I would say to her, if anything. Everything was in the letter. If the reports were correct, she'd have about three hours. It wasn't long. It was long enough. I pedaled faster and faster. Sweat trickled from my forehead, down beneath my eyes. My shirt--a Moody Blues tee (she liked this shirt, I think)--stuck to me, so I fanned myself with a free hand.
Then I saw the lake. Samantha's house was close, on the corner three blocks up. I arrived at the corner and spotted her silver Civic parked in its spot beneath the basketball hoop.
I rode up to her curb and left my bike there, then gazed at the house I'd seen on so many hundred walks home, looking for some sign of her. I let the lake breeze cool me and dry some of my sweat. My heart was throbbing, so much so that my eyes pulsed in unison. But I was prepared--after all, everything was in the letter--and time, dwindling rapidly, propelled me forward, across the front lawn and up her stone walkway. The doors and windows of her home were methodically sealed with plates of metal, but not enough. As I stood on the stone stoop I heard a crackling sound above, like a clapping thunder, but when I gazed upward the sky remained unchanged.
I knocked on the sturdy metal door, at first with knuckles and then with my fists.. Nobody came. I heard nothing but the whistling lake wind and the birds. I knocked again and again, first with one hand, then with both. "Hello!" I shouted. "I'm a friend of Samantha's! Hello! Hello!" Then I stopped and waited patiently, my ear turned to the door.
A moment later, footsteps. After the footsteps, a voice: "Who's there?" It was a man’s voice.
"James. James Day. I go to school with Sam."
"Samantha," said the man through the door. "James Day."
"Yes."
"What do you want?"
"W-w-well, can I talk to Sam?"
The man paused. He whispered to someone. More footsteps.
"You can't," he said. "We're sealed."
"Oh," I said. "But, well, it's just, I have a letter. Maybe I can slide it somewhere?"
"James Day," he said. "A letter."
"Yes," I said.
"Well, James. If I pull on this panel here, maybe you can slide it through the opening between the frame and the metal. But that’s it."
"Okay, okay. Worth a try."
"When I pull, you push. Then you slide your letter through."
I unzipped the backpack and removed the letter which I'd folded neatly in thirds.
"But is she here?" I asked.
"Push" he said. "Are you pushing?"
I pushed as hard as I could, hoping to detach it from its frame. I saw a little light crack through the steel panel. I dropped the letter through.
"Got it," said the man, and the little opening snapped shut.
I stood on the porch with my hands in my pockets, my ear against the cold steel. I heard the sound of paper rustling from the other side. I gave the man some time to read what I had written, and then, minutes later, asked: "Is she there?" But no one answered. The man, it seemed, had gone away. I stood alone in the fall breeze, listening to the ring of chimes and the rustling leaves that blew in the wind. The breeze came and went, the chimes halting and resuming their calming tones. In other circumstances, I might have grown impatient.
But then there were more footsteps and then a soft clink of metal from the other side of the steel door.
"Hello?" I said. "Sir? Are you still there?"
"I read your letter," Samantha said. "It was very nice."
"Sam? Is that you?"
"It's me. It's me. You are very sweet. Your letter. I didn't know. Why didn't you say anything before? How I was I supposed to know?"
I placed my palms on the metal. My lips nearly touched the barricade.
"I was too nervous is all. But now that the world's ending."
She laughed. I laughed.
"Your letter. What a nice surprise. It made my day, my week, my month, my year, to hear all those nice things."
We laughed.
"If only I had known--"
"--don't worry about any of that," I said. "I just wanted you to know, y’know, before the last day."
We stood in a pregnant pause, having nothing more to say. What could I say? It was all in the letter. Everything was in the letter. I was better at expressing myself that way, in letters.
"Be safe," I said.
"You too, James."
"And if we make it, well, would you, I donno, maybe we could get coffee.”
"Yes," she said, giggling. "A coffee. I don't drink coffee, but a coffee it is."
We said goodbye. I crossed her lawn and retrieved my bike. I was beaming, I whizzed through the streets at a lightning pace. I was tireless, invincible. Above me, behind me, I heard a crackling in the sky like fireworks. I did not look. My shadow grew longer, the pavement grew brighter. I did not look. I neared home. I smiled ear to ear. I’d told her. My shadow grew longer. Then it quickly receded. It was coming, it was here. I grew warm. I did not look, but rode on, pedaling tirelessly, invincibly, and threw my arms into the air in celebration.
When I awoke on the Last Day, my father was boarding up the windows. The violent sound of his hammer smashing nails into the woodwork of our childhood home was an unpleasant way to begin the day. I sat at the edge of the bed and rubbed my groggy eyes. The three-paged letter I had written to Samantha sat on my desk, tidily arranged.
I got out of bed and walked downstairs to see what progress my father had made since the announcement. He was in the dining room at the front of the house, sealing the bay windows. Though I was grateful for his effort, we both knew it was futile.
I walked up behind him as he hammered away at the window frame, boarding the last of the three panes with plywood, shielding us from the golden light of fall, from the calm cul-de-sac and the semi-circle of dark, empty houses, some of which were also sealed. He must've known the thin boards did nothing. He must've known there was no hope for us. I decided not to remind him. I needed him on my side.
"Dad," I said, placing my hand on his shoulder. He wore his tie-dye shirt, his workman shirt, the one splotched with dried paint from all his years of domestic projects. He was steeped in sweat.
"Morning James," he said. He paused his hammering.
"Can I help?"
He placed the hammer on the window sill and wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. He sighed and turned around and leaned up against the boarded window, facing me. The room was nearly dark, though some light crept in through the front door, left ajar for the fresh air. We sat in silence for a moment, listening to the dawn chorus.
"I s'pose I could use help with the front door," he said. “In a little while. I need a break.”
"Right," I said. "We have a few hours.”
"That sounds about right."
"Where's Mom?"
"In our room, sorting through old photographs."
"Dad, Dad, something I need to ask.” I stared at the floor.
“I need to go out there," I said, tilting my head toward the open door. "Just for a little."
"Not a chance," he said.
"But Dad."
"But nothing."
"But I have to. I'll be quick, I promise."
"Lord, James," he said. "You make things very difficult sometimes, you know that?"
“I know, I know. It won’t happen again.”
"Why? Why on earth do you, all of a sudden, need to go out there, on today of all days?" he asked.
"For Sam," I said.
"A girl?" he said.
"Yeah, a girl,” I said, blushing. “So what. I wrote her a nice letter.”
“A girl!”
“I need to give it to her. She’s right up the street, on Cedar, where the road meets the lake. I can get there in fifteen minutes by bike, then fifteen minutes back."
"She’s been in your class for what, the last two years? And you decided to wait, almost literally, until the final hour?”
Annihilation makes the heart grow fonder.
He picked up the hammer from the window sill and faced the board, then peered over his shoulder. "Ask your mother," he said, and continued pounding nails into the wood, disrupting once again the serenity of the morning. I walked into the foyer and down the hall, toward their room, where my mom was organizing photographs chronologically.
#
"No no no no no."
"But Mom."
"Absolutely, positively no."
"But Mom I--"
"No."
"Okay."
"No is no, and that is that, Mister."
#
I returned to my room where the letter was. I placed it gently into my backpack and zipped it shut. Dad had since ceased his hammering. I considered escaping through my window, but it was thoroughly boarded, and they would immediately hear my attempt to tear the panel from its frame.
I tossed my backpack over my shoulder and crept toward the stairs. I peered down and listened for any sign of my parents, but the floor below was quiet. Stealthily, I tiptoed down the stairs. As I got to the base of the steps I looked first to my left, into the living room, and saw that it was empty. Then I looked to my right, to the foyer and then the dining room, where my dad had been working. From the bottom of the steps I could see the front door. It had not been boarded. It was left opened, only slightly, giving way to a sliver of yellow morning light.
Muffled voices sprang from the bedroom down the hall, my mother’s grave, my father’s stern. They were arguing. Arguing! On the Last Day! I listened to their voices and became certain of their location, and then I hurried toward the open front door, my backpack strapped tightly to my chest.
"I'll be back!" I screamed, and pulled open the door. I thought this fair warning was a kind gesture. Immediately, their footsteps rushed out of the bedroom and into the foyer behind me, the stomping of their bare feet on the wooden floor echoed through the house. My father huffed, my mother shrieked, and I darted into the calm air of my last morning. I grabbed my bicycle and rode off, away from the house. My mother shouted demands from the doorway. "I'll be back! I'll be right back!" I said, lazily tossing an arm in the air, as if to wave.
The street was desolate, the homes either abandoned or barricaded. The birds sang but wildly, in a cacophony. Bluebirds and warblers and pigeons all lined the wires and trees, having mended their differences in celebration of or resignation to the Last Day. I looked up at the sky, at the rolling clouds and rising sun, and I saw that it was unchanged.
I continued on, past the homes of family friends and friendly neighbors. The Humphreys left children's toys strewn about the yard; the Daltons draped the roof of their home in large sheets of aluminum foil; the Eisners had begun excavating a tremendous hole in their front yard, but, being one of the wiser families on the block, abandoned the project. I thought I saw the Eisners through their windows, dining joyfully on the back patio, but I didn't have time to stop and say hello.
When I got to Cedar, the main road, I saw that it was empty too. It was littered with paper and debris that danced across the pavement in the breeze. I headed north toward the lake, toward Samantha's house, listening to the strange song of the birds. The traffic lights were dead. The CVS on the corner was closed, its doors torn off the hinges and left thoughtlessly on the ground, its windows shattered, its shelves empty.
I didn't know what I would say to her, if anything. Everything was in the letter. If the reports were correct, she'd have about three hours. It wasn't long. It was long enough. I pedaled faster and faster. Sweat trickled from my forehead, down beneath my eyes. My shirt--a Moody Blues tee (she liked this shirt, I think)--stuck to me, so I fanned myself with a free hand.
Then I saw the lake. Samantha's house was close, on the corner three blocks up. I arrived at the corner and spotted her silver Civic parked in its spot beneath the basketball hoop.
I rode up to her curb and left my bike there, then gazed at the house I'd seen on so many hundred walks home, looking for some sign of her. I let the lake breeze cool me and dry some of my sweat. My heart was throbbing, so much so that my eyes pulsed in unison. But I was prepared--after all, everything was in the letter--and time, dwindling rapidly, propelled me forward, across the front lawn and up her stone walkway. The doors and windows of her home were methodically sealed with plates of metal, but not enough. As I stood on the stone stoop I heard a crackling sound above, like a clapping thunder, but when I gazed upward the sky remained unchanged.
I knocked on the sturdy metal door, at first with knuckles and then with my fists.. Nobody came. I heard nothing but the whistling lake wind and the birds. I knocked again and again, first with one hand, then with both. "Hello!" I shouted. "I'm a friend of Samantha's! Hello! Hello!" Then I stopped and waited patiently, my ear turned to the door.
A moment later, footsteps. After the footsteps, a voice: "Who's there?" It was a man’s voice.
"James. James Day. I go to school with Sam."
"Samantha," said the man through the door. "James Day."
"Yes."
"What do you want?"
"W-w-well, can I talk to Sam?"
The man paused. He whispered to someone. More footsteps.
"You can't," he said. "We're sealed."
"Oh," I said. "But, well, it's just, I have a letter. Maybe I can slide it somewhere?"
"James Day," he said. "A letter."
"Yes," I said.
"Well, James. If I pull on this panel here, maybe you can slide it through the opening between the frame and the metal. But that’s it."
"Okay, okay. Worth a try."
"When I pull, you push. Then you slide your letter through."
I unzipped the backpack and removed the letter which I'd folded neatly in thirds.
"But is she here?" I asked.
"Push" he said. "Are you pushing?"
I pushed as hard as I could, hoping to detach it from its frame. I saw a little light crack through the steel panel. I dropped the letter through.
"Got it," said the man, and the little opening snapped shut.
I stood on the porch with my hands in my pockets, my ear against the cold steel. I heard the sound of paper rustling from the other side. I gave the man some time to read what I had written, and then, minutes later, asked: "Is she there?" But no one answered. The man, it seemed, had gone away. I stood alone in the fall breeze, listening to the ring of chimes and the rustling leaves that blew in the wind. The breeze came and went, the chimes halting and resuming their calming tones. In other circumstances, I might have grown impatient.
But then there were more footsteps and then a soft clink of metal from the other side of the steel door.
"Hello?" I said. "Sir? Are you still there?"
"I read your letter," Samantha said. "It was very nice."
"Sam? Is that you?"
"It's me. It's me. You are very sweet. Your letter. I didn't know. Why didn't you say anything before? How I was I supposed to know?"
I placed my palms on the metal. My lips nearly touched the barricade.
"I was too nervous is all. But now that the world's ending."
She laughed. I laughed.
"Your letter. What a nice surprise. It made my day, my week, my month, my year, to hear all those nice things."
We laughed.
"If only I had known--"
"--don't worry about any of that," I said. "I just wanted you to know, y’know, before the last day."
We stood in a pregnant pause, having nothing more to say. What could I say? It was all in the letter. Everything was in the letter. I was better at expressing myself that way, in letters.
"Be safe," I said.
"You too, James."
"And if we make it, well, would you, I donno, maybe we could get coffee.”
"Yes," she said, giggling. "A coffee. I don't drink coffee, but a coffee it is."
We said goodbye. I crossed her lawn and retrieved my bike. I was beaming, I whizzed through the streets at a lightning pace. I was tireless, invincible. Above me, behind me, I heard a crackling in the sky like fireworks. I did not look. My shadow grew longer, the pavement grew brighter. I did not look. I neared home. I smiled ear to ear. I’d told her. My shadow grew longer. Then it quickly receded. It was coming, it was here. I grew warm. I did not look, but rode on, pedaling tirelessly, invincibly, and threw my arms into the air in celebration.
Jonathan Perry is a writer from Ohio.
