About Last Year's Lydia

Post 524:

It Didn’t Happen: A Novel (Working Title)

Chapter One: The Man Upstairs

            “They’re all waiting for me down there.”

            “Maybe it’s best we give it more time. You never said it would be first thing in the morning.”         

            “I know. Guess I just assumed.”

            “Sure. We all did.”

            “Weird how that works. Everyone thinking a thing.” A few more uncomfortable breaths. The converted barn that had been their home for the last six months was shrinking. There was an ominous cloud cover, probably something akin to the fog that hovered over the folks inside the Bastille or the Alamo, just before those places became more than just crappy old buildings.

            Something was impending, pushing down and slowly making the air harder to breathe.

            Just not the thing he predicted.

            As he was about to hazard another peek through the curtains, she put her arms around his waist, rubbing his stomach with calloused hands, pressing a pensive kiss to the back of his neck. She was just as concerned; perhaps more so. “Have you heard a message? Anything would be helpful.”

            Instinct almost pulled him away, but he his will and the long term desire for self-preservation won the moment. He was beyond exhausted. It was supposed to be over, but there they were. Still. He couldn’t run from the fortitude of her embrace. That embrace was about the only thing holding him up, physically and spiritually. Cinching him together with implacable love and faith. Perhaps, also, with a helping of her own desire for self-preservation.  

            “You know what’s funny?” he asked, tilting his head back take in more of her smell.

            “I’m surprised you’re finding anything funny just now.”

            “I’m hungry.”

            “Got to say, not the funniest thing I’ve ever heard.” She patted his stomach. It was flatter. That little layer of adipose natural to men in their thirties was a thing of the past.

            “You know what I mean. Never expected to be hungry again. Thought that was a worry relegated to the dustbin.”

            “It’s still early,” she said, looking at her watch as an alternative to looking outside. It was becoming her only line of defense, and the more she said it, the more she could sense her own desperation coming to the fore.

            Down below, they could hear the door slowly opening and closing. The deliberate nature of the entry made it obvious who was coming.

            “Are you up here, Paulson? Lydia? Did you go in the Storm?”

            She could feel his shoulders slump. He patted her hands and freed himself from her grasp, turning to face the stairs that led up to the loft. “Still here, Chet.”

            “Are y’all decent?”

            “C’mon up, little brother.”

            Chet plodded up the stairs and into their living space. There was no door to the loft; hence Chet’s apprehension. He’d walked in on Lydia in a state of undress some months back. It scared her half dead and managed to add a new trauma to his already severely scarred psyche. “Boy, I don’t know,” Chet said, mumbling with his hands burrowed somewhere between his shirt and overalls. “The Storm not coming’s got most everyone nervous as all hell.”

            “It’s still early,” Lydia snapped. Chet’s face went flush and he closed his eyes, shaking his head. Paulson tried not to avoiding flashing a chastising look at his wife.    He walked over to his brother and rubbed his golden buzz cut, kissing the spot where hair would never again grow. “Everything’s going to be all right, buddy. I’ll go out and talk to them. Say something reassuring.”

            “Boy, I don’t know,” Chet whispered, tears in his eyes. He was still smarting from Lydia’s hot tone.

            “Hey, pal,” Paulson said, holding Chet’s head level with both his hands. “Give me a sit-rep. Cut the bullshit, yeah soldier?”

            “Okay.”

            “Davis and his family?”

            “Stirred up. Confused but not crazy. Probably need watching.”

            “What about Ida Jean?”

            “Didn’t get eyes on. Everyone else is out there, save her. Maybe in her cabin, or maybe the Storm took her.”

            Chet’s report was delivered evenly. Given a thing to do, he was his old sturdy self. The one that had followed Paulson to Afghanistan to fight for code and country.

            “What about Elson?”

            “Normal, I’d say. Smoking his pipe like always when I walked by just now. Drawing in that journal. He’s hard one to read on a normal day.”

            “I understand. How about the Hood’s?”

            ‘They didn’t look happy.”

            Paulson turned momentarily and sighed at Lydia, still holding his brother’s face. “Those two are some bitter pills.”

            “I know. But more than the usual.”

            “Thanks Chet,” Paulson said, offering another quick hug. “Proud of you. You’re a good man.”

            “What are you going to—”  

            “Go on down. Say I’ll be out there in a few. Don’t worry. Things are gonna be just fine, pal.”

            It was obvious that Chet wanted to throw out another Boy I don’t know, but one last look at Lydia had him scooting for the stairs, tongue jammed against the back of his teeth.

            Paulson walked over to the bed and grabbed a flannel shirt hanging off the footboard. Lydia was standing rigidly in the center of the room, hands atop her head, ready to burst. If her state of mind was any sort of barometer for what he was going to have to face, things weren’t looking good.

            As much as he wanted to fight it, he knew it was coming the second his left eye started to twitch. He snapped his shirt almost to the top and wrestled his feet inside his boots, desperate to avoid looking at his wife. When he collapsed onto his back, she almost didn’t notice. There wasn’t the usual violent crash associated with one of his spells. No knocked over lamps or cracked knees. Just a soft landing and a few muted convulsions underneath a light poof of dust.

            Paulson James. How are things in Crazytown, Texas?

            “Where are we?”

            Complicated question, but you know that. Anyway—where does it look like?

            “Looks like the mountains,” James chattered, feeling a chill on his arms, wondering if the place or the sensation was really real. As many times as this happened, it was always the first thing he thought. “What’s with the fishing poles?” he asked, teeth still clattering together.

            I thought you might want to catch something. It’s like spiritual virtual reality. Add something more physically interactive, I thought. Just an idea. You used to like a little angling, I was told. I could see it. I can see it right now, actually. Ah. Let’s not get bogged down in space and time.

            Paulson glanced at his interlocutor with a disdainful smirk before scanning his surroundings. His feet were dangling off an old wooden bridge. There were snowcapped peaks on either side. Underneath an icy stream ran deep and steady, singing out a consistent low note. “You told me today was the day, Levi. What are we doing here?” Paulson figured on seeing his Messenger again, but not like this. Somewhere in the great beyond, burdens gone. Maybe God at the end of the table, doing a toast only God could come up with. A few of the saints and martyrs, sharing war stories.

            Don’t let your line run too far out.

            “Levi? Seriously. And what’s with the accent?”

            Biloxi, Mississippi. 1930s. Figured I’d try it out. Sort of a redneck musicality to it.

            “So weird.”

            Why? Because of the face? I’ll have you know that this is a composite of fourteen different Japanese action stars. Whipped it up myself. All very handsome men.

            “Not saying otherwise.” Paulson rubbed his eyes with his free hand, feeling a headache coming on that was real in any dimension.

            Look, there’s been a delay. This kind of stuff happens. Things you need to do yet.

            “Nobody’s going to listen to me back home. You can only predict the last day of the world once. People tend to lose faith after strike one.”

            Levi scratched his perfectly managed gray goatee and moved his pole around like a paintbrush, attempting to goad a fish toward the lure. He was dressed as he always was. A corduroy sport jacket and board shorts. On his feet he wore military combat boots with no socks or laces. He was the homeless guy who all the other homeless guys felt sorry for.

            You get more than one strike, Mr. James. Consult a history book. People have a capacity for gullibility that you fail to grasp.

            Paulson braced at the sound of Levi using the word gullibility. It made him feel like the charlatan he promised his people he wasn’t—the nutjob he prayed he hadn’t become.

            You’re getting mad. Easy, big guy. Integral or expendable as you are, I still have a pretty big checkmark in the seniority column. Hundreds of millennia. Don’t want to pull rank. Just a reminder.

            “What am I supposed to do? Is it ever going to actually happen? What do I say to those people?”

            Levi threw his rod into the river and turned squarely to Paulson.

            Just once. Just once I’d like for you to consider my feelings.

            “I’m supposed to feel sorry for a Emissary of God? You have powers. You get to hang out in Heaven. All the secrets are at your fingertips.”

            I can see in your soul. We’ve been over this. It’s almost automatic, but it’s not an automatic blessing, if you can follow. Just now—I had a good look. Dark. You are a classic narcissist. Projection. Deflection. It’s dawning on me—kind of a jerk, Paulson.

            “I don’t even know if you have feelings to hurt.”

            See that right there. You think because we operate on separate metaphysical planes of existence, you get to treat me like the “other.”

            “Enough, Levi. Tell me what I’m supposed to do.”

            No idea.

            Paulson’s face remained unchanged. Like he was waiting for the actual answer.

            I’m serious. You have to go back. That’s all I was told. Probably some unfinished business you need tending. Or not. Could just be a scheduling thing.

            Paulson took a swing at Levi. He hadn’t made an aggressive move since coming home from the war. Now here he was, fishing in an ontologically iffy setting, having a go at supernatural being.

            I’m gonna let you have that one.

            Levi disappeared and then reformed on Paulson’s other side, quick as Biblical Mercury.

            You need to get your emotions in check.

            “Sorry.” The apology came quick and humble. Levi’s little show of otherworldly power wasn’t done as an idle boast. Crazy as the thrift store ambassador was, he was also packing serious fire and brimstone. “Please. Just give me something I can tell them.”

            We’re gonna let you work it out for the next little bit. It’ll be good for your character. Little advice. Get things on track with Lydia. Happy wife, happy life. Little simplistic, but can’t hurt.

            Levi smiled and lit up a cigarette. After an overemphasized drag, he blew the smoke straight up and gave his charge a playful look, slicking back his greasy black hair.

            Paulson hands went stiff, like a person’s hands just before they start strangling someone. He shook them out and did his best not to roll his eyes. “Okay. I just wish—”

            It was warm in his ear. He could feel his eye still twitching but couldn’t see anything. Not long and he realized Lydia was whispering something soothing to him as he struggled between states. He hated that she had to watch. No matter how many times she tried to reassure him, he imagined it was like viewing a bad actor being possessed in some movie about closet exorcisms.

            The eye went back to stasis. His vision corrected itself to seeing the here and now. “How long?” he asked, throat cracking dry.

            “Ten. Maybe twenty seconds. I barely had time to get over here.”

            “So weird.”

            His wife got off the bed and yanked him up to his sitting position. They’d gone through the routine enough times for her to be versed. She placed a hand on his crotch.

            “Damn.”

            “It’s okay,” she returned, getting up to fetch some fresh underwear. “What’d he say?”

            Paulson held out his hand for new pants. Debriefing was hard enough and being covered in piss was just a little too much. “Said that we’re going to be here a little longer. Said that everyone would understand.”

            Lydia answered by smacking her husband dead in the face with a weaponized pair of jeans.

            “Ouch.”

            “Sorry if I’m not your biggest fan at the moment. We could have a riot on our hands.”

            “It’ll—”

            “Had to scream bloody murder at your brother so he wouldn’t see you go wherever it is you go.”

            “I’m—”

            “And we get these little pieces. All that, and how many times have I really let you have it?”

            “Well—”

            “Paulson,” she said, squaring up next to the bed, arms crossed like a little drill instructor.

            “Not many,” he conceded, stepping up to put on his fresh jeans. Levi’s. It was a reminder that he couldn’t tell her everything. Those were the rules. Whatever was happening, there were rules. “Not many, babe. You’ve been strong for me. Stronger than me.” James wasn’t just telling her what she wanted to hear. It was the truth. They’d been a power couple, on the rise in Texas business and society. She’d clawed her way to prominence at a leading commercial real estate concern, managing to forge a path through an old boys club, dignity intact. He’d broken through as a motivational speaker, sought by everyone with enough money to pay for his time: high-end corporations to national high school football conferences to international sales conventions. He could work a room. Thousands would sit enthralled, listening to practical advice like it had come from a stone tablet. Now his audience was less than a hundred—they listened to spiritual revelations more or less like it was what one did to better their day-to-day.

            Irony.

Chapter Two: Sentinels

            “Guess it didn’t quite work out how you wanted. That about sum it up?” Agent Jordy Phelps from the Bureau Alcohol Tobacco Firearms and Explosives hurled the question skyward with his usual high-pitched, incendiary tone, sweating through the backside of his skin-tight Wranglers. “I mean—it’s getting damn near noon time. If I’m the Lord—Lord knows I’m not—but if I’m the Lord, I’m not waiting half the day to lift off my chosen people. Just don’t seem to compute.” Phelphs squinted at the cresting Texas sun, pulling the brim of his cowboy hat level with his overgrown black eyebrows. “You ever gonna get to talking? Hell, man. Ain’t part of you happy?”

            The subject of the agent’s criticism was a man in his fifties named Theodore. He was the one everybody at the ATF field office called “The Lookout.” The man sat or stood in a wooden tower near the gate to the compound, watching the road and the edge of the property. He never spoke, save one word: “Blessings.” Other than that, you weren’t getting anything out of old Theo. He was a sentinel. He was one of those silly soldiers standing guard outside Buckingham. He was Idris Elba from Thor—that’s what Phelps liked to call him—Hamdoll—that’s how it came out of Phelps’ lips, anyway.

            A car door slammed closed behind and Phelps turned to see his boss getting off a call. Agent Wolf Becker looked at the junior agent and then up at the tower. “Has he said anything?” Becker asked, flat and authoritatively. He was the senior man at the Fort Worth ATF office. That put this problem square in his lap, but if any fed was built for it, he was the guy. Wolf Becker had the equanimity of a cup of water, at least to the casual observer. Whatever Phelps was—Becker was the opposite.

            “No, sir. Nothing after ‘Blessings.’ Hamdoll’s  doing his usual bit.” Becker tilted his head, watching Phelps as he talked. The young agent made strange movements with his right hand when he spoke. Pointing, waving, but generally having nothing to do with what he was saying. Becker had learned to ignore the habit. Generally.

            “Then what are you on about? I could hear you from inside the car.”

            “I was trying to establish—you know—establish a thing.”

            “Wow. It’s like you lifted it straight from the training manual.”

            Phelps pulled his hat down another inch and wiggled his free hand. “Well.”

            “In half a year the man has shown no crack in his will. Not a hint. He’s impervious on a microscopic level. What’s your reasoning for starting in today?”

            “Come on, Becker. You know. I ain’t stupid.”

            “Pretend I’m stupid.”

            “Today’s the day.”

            “Keep going.”

            “Well, if any of these wackos are going to become pervious, figured on it being right about now.”

            Becker didn’t much like Phelps. He was pretty sure the younger man was a born racist full of resentment at being under the command of a black academic.  Most agents were either ex-service or former local law enforcement. Wolf Becker had taken a different path. He did stint as a criminology professor before joining the bureau. Whatever the road, he was a highly effective investigator and one of the most level-headed brains ATF. All that said, he didn’t wholly disagree with Phelps. If the dam was going to break, today would be one you’d probably mark on your calendar.

            “It’s not inevitable,” whispered the head agent.

            “What’s that?” Phelps asked, spitting onto the gravel road.

            Becker walked toward the gate, away from his agent, staring at the man in “The Lookout.”

            “Guess I’ll leave you with your thoughts then,” Phelps said, overemphasizing his accent and kicking rocks as he made the way back to the car. “Taxpayers don’t pay me enough to be mindreading in this heat. I’ll be enjoying the A/C while you and the freak play the silent game.”

            It’s not inevitable, Becker thought, resting his arms on one of the rusty gate’s bars.

            That’s what everyone was thinking. The situation had tragedy written all over it. A big piece of private property in Texas with a herd of toe-the-line acolytes made anyone with a pulse go to one place: Waco. The head of the ATF was soiling himself on an hourly basis, afraid of another public relations catastrophe that would leave an indelible mark on the collective American conscience for all of time. The FBI was breathing down everybody’s throats. No surprise there. The Texas Rangers and local police knew the property and a lot of the people living on the compound. For the hometown badges, the investment was personal; they weren’t too keen on letting another group of folks go up in smoke. Blame would go to Becker and the federal task force, and at that point he wouldn’t be in any position to argue. He’d resign in shame and failure. A life dedicated to stopping bad things from happening would be forgotten by everyone he’d ever met, until the point where he’d forget it himself. God would be a refuge, but Dana would leave. Take the kids. Faith would dissipate. He’d start drinking. Harder this time. It was all laid out. The die was cast. It felt fated to everyone on his side of the gate.

            But not to him. He thought things might work out. Wherever his mind was, he knew he needed at least as much resolve as the man in the tower. Calm. Peace under fire. A sentinel. Easier said than done.

            The ATF man felt a vibration in his pocket and let out a sigh as he answered the call. “Hey there, Paulson,” he said, turning away from Theodore and the watchtower. “What do we do now, old buddy?”

Chapter Three: MRI

            The membership was gathered in the mess hall. It was the largest building on the property, right in the center, with all the surrounding structures radiating around it. Paulson James was smoking behind back wall, standing alone under a thick oak. He could hear the clamor emanating from inside. The sound of discontented hearts. The sound of his Lydia trying to quell their uncertainties using a temperamental, feedback-prone PA system. A bit like a crowd that’s been waiting in the rain all day after you tell them their favorite band isn’t showing up. The change was frightening. The membership was comprised of some of the most docile and benevolent people Paulson had ever met, save a few surly-ish outliers. Currently, they sounded like the Hell’s Angels riding a particularly strong crank high.

            Understandable. Their band didn’t show up—God being the band.

            “I don’t know what to do now. This isn’t the best time, Wolf. The day’s not even over yet.” James lit up a cigarette and smoked it down like it was his last, listening to unoriginal advice. Frankly, he expected better. “How long have we known each other?” Paulson asked, turning his back from the cafeteria. His eye started twitching. Standing in front of him, going in and out of focus, was Levi the Messenger. He was wearing shorts and had swapped his combat boots for the cowboy kind. The ensemble was topped off by an oversized Hawaiian shirt. The wardrobe was almost as arresting as his presence.

            You shouldn’t be talking to him. More important things to do.

            The words sounded squelched, like they were coming through an old car radio. Paulson was frozen in place, cigarette hanging by the little wet on the inside of his lip. Before he could respond, Levi was gone. “What the shit!?”

            “What’s wrong?” Agent Becker asked, voice full of genuine worry, fearing the worst.

            “He never comes here. I always go to him.”

            “Are you seeing the guy—the emissary character—is that what you’re talking about?”

            “Yeah. He just made an appearance. Right here. In Texas.”

            “So he’s gone?”

            “Yeah. Came and went. I don’t understand.”

            “That’s okay, PJ. Things get a little out of hand sometimes. What’ve we been talking about lately?”

            “We’ve been talking about a lot of things lately, Wolf.” The spiritual leader was taking fretful little steps in random patterns. Little figure eights. Flattened circles. Eccentric squares.

            “Do you trust me?” the agent asked.

            James turned around and was startled once again. “Holy crap!”

            “What?” Becker asked.

            “Everything’s fine. Keep the jackboots back. I’ll call later.”

            Paulson ended the call and gathered an exasperated breath. He tried to light up a smoke, but couldn’t stop shaking.

            “I’ll get that,” said Dr. Davis Dade, taking two steps forward to grab the lighter out of James’ hand. “Seems like you’re about to burst. And you shouldn’t be smoking.”

            “Don’t know if you noticed, Doc. Things—little bit crazy around here. They’re ready to tear me to pieces. The feds could be on the march. I’m seeing things. Oh, what’s that other thing? Right. We’re not in Heaven!”

            “Yeah,” the doctor said, putting his head down. Paulson could see the gaping bald spot toward the back of Dade’s scalp. The skin was red and looked irritated. Too much time in the sun. It made Paulson feel sad. Poor Davis. Lifted from a beautiful life of country clubs and never having to be outside for more than an hour. Now this; rashes and unfulfilled prophesies. “That’s sort of what I wanted to talk to you about,” the doctor said, gathering himself up to face his “leader.” Paulson studied Dade for the thousandth time. The doc was a weird little fella. His head was too big for his shoulders and his face was too small for his head. He once told Paulson that his incongruous looks helped spur him to great heights in the medical field. He figured money and success would make up for his aesthetic inadequacies. Something like a blind man being able to hear the notes better than someone with sight. Turned out, he was right. Dade’s wife Julie was a knockout. “Not that women go for money and security,” the doctor once joked with James.

            Paulson liked Dr. Davis Dade. He was mostly a self-aware type. A rich man able in the end to assess his boundaries and weaknesses with honesty. His short, slight build was kind of annoying; you couldn’t hear him when he was sneaking up—but that was hardly something to castigate a guy for.  

            “So what’s up?” Paulson asked, looking over Dade’s weird head to the cafeteria. There was still that lion’s den to contend with. “Why aren’t you back in there with the natives?”

            “Remember a couple months ago?” the doctor asked.

            “You’ll have to be more specific.” Paulson was acting aloof. More than usual. He lit another cigarette and scratched his dampening hair. The nerves and the driving sun were beginning to take their toll. “What happened two months ago, Doc?”

            “C’mon, PJ. The MRI.”

            “I don’t want to talk about that.”

            “Nobody wants to talk about their MRI.”

            “No—I mean—we already talked about it.” Paulson blew a stream of smoke over Dade’s patchy head. It was hard to shift focus from the red spot. It looked like a rash that would only spread. James thought about the irritation that was already spreading through the camp. It made him long for loneliness in a way he hadn’t felt for a long time.

            Dade cocked his chin up and crossed his arms, skinny legs stiff with newfound resolve. “I wasn’t honest.”

            “About what?”

            “About the MRI.”

            “We’re still talking about the damn scan? Move on, Davis.”       

            “I can’t.” The little doctor took a deep breath, walking through a cloud of Paulson’s smoke without flinching. “It wasn’t clean.”

            “What’s that mean—not clean?”    

            “You have a tumor. Pretty big one, actually.”

            “You’re kidding.”

            “I’m not, actually.”

            “Stop. This isn’t funny.”

            “Before you get too upset, try to understand.”

            Paulson took a half step and made like he was going to walk away, but he couldn’t let the conversation end there. “Let me understand. We snuck out of here in the middle of the night to get my noggin looked at—”

            “You wouldn’t stop about the headaches.”

            “To get my noggin looked at, just so you could lie to me about the results?”

            “You make it sound so simple.”

            “Sorry if my summation doesn’t square with your fragile sense of decorum.”

            “I can see you’re losing it. We should probably continue this later.”

            “Don’t lecture me about my temper, Doc.” James placed a hand on the little physician’s shoulder and gave enough of a squeeze to demonstrate his ire. “You know, I never used to have a temper. Not at all. Turns out, it might be the giant brain eating away at my gray matter.”

            “That’s not impossible.” Dade was bending from the pull of Paulson’s grip.

            “And everything that’s happened—all of this—could just be the hallucinations of a madman with a damn medical condition.”

            The doctor ripped himself away from Paulson and turned to face the gym. The clamor was only growing louder. “I figured it didn’t matter, PJ.”

            “Explain how that makes any sense.”

            “I knew it might kill you, but I figured we were supposed to be gone by then.”

            “Ain’t cutting it, Doc. First, you know damn well that a brain tumor can cause people to act weird—real weird. Second, you wouldn’t have come out here to tell me unless you felt guilty.”

            “I’ve always felt guilty, but I’ve always had faith. Still do. God could’ve put it there. The tumor is like an instrument.”

            “Oh God.” Paulson pulled his cigarette pack from his front pocket and chain-lit the next. “You sound crazy, Dade. You’re the kind that makes it easy for those assholes out there to call us a cult. I’m supposedly in charge, yet you’re giving me the creeps.”

            “Look, I know this is a lot to take in.”

            “Sure you do. We all have tough mornings.” Paulson barely finished the sentence. He buried his fist into Dade’s stomach and shoved him down into the wild grass like the doctor was nothing at all. “Shit,” he whispered, walking away while Dade rolled and writhed around, grasping for oxygen with terrible, grating gasps. “Shit,” James repeated, holding out his hand. “Stand up and calm down. You’ll get your breath back quicker.”

            The doctor abstained from hailing the physical as everything, so you resort to physical violence.

            “What!?” Paulson called out.

            There’s some sort of poetry in there, I think. Oh—outstanding leadership strategy. Maybe we picked the wrong guy after all.

            Holding the doctor up, James whipped around, expecting to see Levi. There was no one.

            “What?” Dade asked, confused by the sudden change in orientation.

            “Nothing,” Paulson said, pulling grass from his friend and doctor’s head. “I’m sorry for hitting you.”

            “It’s okay.”

            “No, it’s not okay. You’re a faithful guy, Davis. Sure your heart was in the right place. You’re going to have to explain to me exactly why a lie on that level seemed a good idea.”

            “I’m sorry.”

            “That’s great. But seriously. We’re going over the fine points. Good soul as I know you to be, it was a weird decision.”

            “A tumor doesn’t explain everything else that’s happened. Everything else that you did.”

            Paulson took a second to try to remember the entirety of the last six months. Davis had a point. A tumor didn’t explain the rest. Didn’t even come close. The doctor’s logic suddenly became forgivable, if not completely understandable.

            “The Storm’s still coming,” Dade said. “I know it is.”

            “Yeah,” James said, steadying his friend. “The Storm’s coming.”

Chapter Four: Last Year’s Lydia

            Lydia James sat behind her husband on the little mobile stage, watching him quell the membership. He’d entered through the back with a literal cloud over his head, smelling like a derelict pool hall, projecting little to none of his normal casual handsome cool. Nevertheless, he was once again doing his thing. The crowd had been close to riotous. Not now. She slipped away, picking up a few words here and there, mostly lost in herself.

            “The day ain’t over yet. And it’s no time to panic. That’s not what we do here. This is not a bunch of weirdoes. You guys and gals are some of the most accomplished and wonderful people I’ve ever met. Don’t go freaking out.”

            Lydia heard them chuckle. Paulson had probably flashed one of his self-effacing smiles their way. She couldn’t see. Instead, she looked down at her hands. They were covered with wear; blisters and callouses in the bends of her fingers. Layers of dirt underneath her trimmed fingernails. What would last year’s Lydia James say to the present day version? Last year’s Lydia. She almost laughed out loud at the thought.

            “We aren’t the same people that came here six months ago, but that doesn’t mean we’ve devolved. Am I right!?”

Last year’s Lydia would’ve snuck out the backdoor.