Disclaimer: Jericho wasn't/isn't mine.
Jake
I'm going home. Isn't that supposed to be a good thing? Something that makes you feel all contented and filled with expectation? Yeah, that must be for people with less on their consciences. Contented is the last thing I feel right now, and the only expectation I've got is that I'm going to hear a lot of angry words. We'll just add that to the dread of knowing that I may not get this money without begging. That means that I'm not getting the money because I don't beg. Especially not to him. I've got more pride than that. I hate that I even have to ask him because asking is way too close to begging. I shouldn't have even bothered. I mean I'm not even there yet, and he's already getting to me. Stupid voices in your head. Isn't that a sign that you're going crazy? What else does it make you when five years later you can still hear your father's voice dripping with disappointment pouring complaints and comparisons into your head?
Mom said she would work on him. That's the only hope I've got left. I've got to hope his affection for her is stronger than his disgust with me. This is so a lost cause. Because as much as I've always known that my dad loves my mom, nothing tops his disgust with me. It's been that way for ages, and it isn't going to change. It doesn't matter how much she hopes and prays and works on us both. But, this time, I'm desperate. I need this more than I've ever needed anything in this world. I need to start over. I have to make big changes. I have to get away from where I've trapped myself. This is the only way out that I can see. So, I'll ask, but I won't beg. And I'll talk myself into hoping that my Mom is capable of working a miracle. She's the only person I've ever met who could. If nothing else, it will make her happy that I've tried. I owe her that. Especially if things go the way I think they will, it might be the last chance I have to . . . well, I suck at goodbyes anyway.
So, I'll just blow through town and make the rounds. I'll see some people I should have treated better. I'll make my mother smile. Because when I leave this time, the odds are that I'm not coming back. She should have better than that. She deserves better than that. She deserves better than me. It's too late for me to give her better. I never have figured out how she can still look at me the way she does. It's like she sees someone there who is worthy of all the hope she keeps holding. It must be a mother thing. Shouldn't that kind of faith get a better return than this? So, I'll give her what I can - a visit, a plan, anything to let her know that I did try. She'll have that even if nothing ever comes of it – even if it ends up being the last thing I give her.
Gail
They are both so stubborn. How can two people who are so alike not recognize themselves in each other? How many years am I going to have to be in the middle of this - knowing things about them both that neither one would hear if I spoke them? Both of them are crazy, stubborn fools. How many more chances to make this right are they going to get before it is too late?
Nothing in all my years of being a mother has ever prepared me for the agony of what I felt watching that cloud on the horizon. There it was right where my boy was heading. I've watched him drive away so many times - each more painful than the last. Each one adding to a lifetime's worth of watching his father and him talk past each other without really hearing. Each time leaves me praying and hoping that he will come back home again. I always have to believe that he'll come back home again. I need him to come back home again. Tonight hasn't changed that. It has just made it that much more important that he come home to me – to us. I tried so hard to tell myself that this was an accident, a mistake, something that would be all cleared up come morning. Then Dale came, and my world collapsed. It wasn't an accident or a mistake. It was really the end of my life as I knew it. Only one thought went through my mind - I've lost him this time. I've never really believed that before, and the thought hit me so hard that I lost track of everything else. I even lost track of Dale. That little boy standing there had just heard his mother die, and I couldn't even conjure up a hug of comfort. A child that I could actually help was standing right there, and I was too caught up in the one I couldn't reach to do anything about it. By the time I shook it off, he was gone. That, more than anything else, woke me up.
Sitting here dwelling on the things that I couldn't fix and the people that I couldn't help was just going to keep me from fixing the things and helping the people that I could. So I did what I always do, I kept going. I held everything together that I could and supported everyone who needed help because being a rock is my job - even when the town is falling apart right in front of my eyes. Just when it seemed like everyone was past the point of being rational, I got a miracle. My boy was back - alive, trapped for the moment where I can keep an eye on him, and with something in his eyes looking back at me that I haven't seen for a long time. I did what I could do, let the rest go, and it came out all right. I always say I know that. Tonight, for a few moments in the living room, I saw how easy it is to lose that - to let your faith get covered over with your fears. Something tells me that this won't be the last time I face that particular temptation, but I'm going to have to remember. And looking between my son and his father, I realize that I'm going to have to let that go as well. It is between them. I can't fix their stubbornness or their determination to not hear each other; I can only be there for the both of them and trust for the rest to come with time.
Emily
He does not get to be here. Not now. Not just standing in the middle of the street like nothing ever happened. Not when I've finally gotten my life exactly the way I want it. He isn't supposed to be here. People who walk away and never look back are supposed to stay away. They aren't supposed to show up in the middle of a random street on a random day like nothing ever happened. My life makes sense now. Roger and I make sense now. We're settled. We have our house. We're getting married. Our life is going to be perfect. We're going to be perfect. He has no right to come back here and mess with that. I'm past it. Everything that happened is over and done and not available to be revisited. I don't want him here. Not even in passing. Because if he's here, I have to think about things that are supposed to be buried. I have to think about Chris. I have to think about stupid plans I had for my life when I was a kid and didn't know any better. He doesn't get to do this to me. If he ever did come back, it was supposed to be to explain to me. To apologize to me. Not to stand there like we were old friends from high school who happened to wander across each other. He doesn't get to do that.
"You love it," he says to me. Like it's okay for him to make comments on the kind of person I am. To suggest that I even care what he's been doing for the last five years. Because I don't. I don't care about anything that has to do with him except him getting out of town and out of my life again. That's all.
That noise was not good. Great. Now to top all the rest of this off I'm going to break down on the side of the road in the middle of the night in the middle of nowhere. That's just what I need. The birds are spread out on the road in all directions. They're all dead. There's no motion anywhere. It is just still. It's like I'm the only living thing out here. What happened? Flocks of birds do not just drop dead out of the sky. What's going on?
Woody
I'm not really supposed to be up on the roof. Mom says it is dangerous or something. It's not like I'm going to jump off of it. Maybe if I had a cape or a parachute. But not just by myself. I'm not stupid. I like it up here though. And Mom isn't going to catch me. She's busy inside watching the speech show on TV. All they ever do is talk and talk and talk. Dad always says I should learn to care about my country. What does watching a bunch of old guys listening to someone talk have to do with caring about my country? I already know all the words to the pledge of allegiance. I guess it's something you have to like to watch when you're a grown-up 'cause Mom and Dad and Deputy Bill always watch it. It'll take hours, so it's a perfect time to be up here. You can see really far away. And it's great for hide and seek because Sally will never come up here. She's too scared. She'll stand on the ground and complain that she can see me, but she can't tag me from way down there. There's a big cloud over there. Maybe it's going to storm, and we can sleep in the basement. That's fun. We get out the sleeping bags, and it is just like camping only without the bug bites. Well, we don't have a fire either, but it's still cool. That cloud doesn't look right. Something is wrong with it. It looks like it's trying to touch the ground or something. It's not the right shape for a tornado though. Those are supposed to look like those things that Mom uses to put the kool-aid in the old juice bottles. It's weird. I don't like it.
. . .
Mom started crying when she saw it. Then, she was screaming at me to get down from the roof. And she hugged me and Em so hard that I thought she was going to choke us. Dad said we all had to go see Mayor Green. I said I didn't want to, and he yelled at me to get in the car. Dad never yells. All the grown-ups are acting like they're scared of the creepy cloud, and that's scaring me. Grown-ups aren't supposed to get scared. Dad isn't supposed to get scared. Dad's brave. He's a policeman. He's supposed to make everything okay. But he's leaving us at Mrs. Green's. I like Mrs. Green, she usually gives us cookies, but I don't want Dad to leave. If he has to go make everybody else safe, who's going to take care of us?
Johnston
There he is standing in the kitchen as if he lives just the other side of town and stopped by to see his Mom on the way home from work. There's not a trace of guilt on that boy's face for the way he's made his mother worry. No. Why would he feel guilty? He would have to think something through enough to realize he isn't the sole entity in God's creation to do that. When I think of everything that boy could have done with his life, all those wasted talents, all that . . .Oh, why bother? He hasn't changed, and I've gone through this in my head enough times these last years to suffice for a dozen wayward children. But if he thinks that for one minute I'm going to let him waltz in here after five years, spend a few measely minutes with his mother, and waltz back out to go squander everything his grandfather left him on whatever hairbrained scheme he has going now, he's got another thing coming. That woman deserves a lot more from her child than some scattered phone calls that she thinks she needs to hide from me. And that man's memory deserves more than some punk who doesn't realize he's supposed to be an adult throwing away what was left him without a second thought. He couldn't even be bothered to come to the funeral. And I'm supposed to just hand that money over like it's a pack of chewing gum? For once in his life, that boy is going to have to listen to me. Because he can't have it. This time I'm in charge, and no amount of running away is going to fix that for him. So, he can straighten up and be a man, or he can go scampering back off into the sunset. But, if he does, he's doing it without that money. I've watched him waste more chances than anybody has a right to be given; I'm not going to hand him anything else to waste.
. . .
I've always known that a group of people is a skittish creature. Kind of like cows if you think about it - spook one and they all go running. I just never thought I'ld see it happen here. The questions are pouring in so fast it's hard to tell where one ends and another begins. I've got no answers to give them. None that are going to help this situation anyway. But I've got to do something. I can't let them panic. Once that starts, it's all over, if everything we knew about life isn't over already. If there's one thing being mayor for twenty-five years has taught me, it's that being the leader means you're the one that stays focused when everyone else is panicing. But what do you do when you've got nothing to give them? Ask them to have faith? Ask them to trust you? Ask them to go home and pretend that they aren't worried out of their minds about what might have happened to their children? Act like you aren't worried out of your mind about yours?
Bonnie
My entire life has been about this farm. I learned to count change working at the produce stand. I've spent my Saturday mornings baking pies for as long as I can remember. I don't know what it's like to get up in the morning and not go feed the chickens. I've never been away from this house for more than a couple of days in my entire life. Every memory I have of my parents is in this house. I can't remember them without this house. I can't leave here. I can't leave them. And that woman who knows nothing about anything is wandering around taking notes like this is just a place. A place with stuff on it that she doesn't even know the name of, but she'll take it anyway because it might be worth some money.
This isn't a place - this is my home. This is the only home I've ever known. Where are Stanley and I supposed to go? It's been the two of us against the world for so many years. We've always been a team - for as long as I can remember. We work the farm together, we run the stand together, and now he tries to shut me out? Why didn't he tell me? Why did he let me go on thinking everything was okay when it has to have been bad for a long time? Why didn't he give me a chance to help? That stuff she's tallying on her stupid little notepad isn't stuff. That's years of my parents' lives. That's years of Stanley working so hard to be my mom and my dad and my brother all rolled into one. I'm not a little kid. Why can't he see that? Why is he still trying to act like nothing is wrong? When is he going to talk to me? When they throw our clothes out into the yard? Will he tell me what's going on then? I swear if she walks past me with that stupid little smirk on her face one more time I'm going to crack her across the head with her briefcase. When is she going to leave? Will he even bother to talk to me then? Or is he still going to pretend? He's like a little kid. You can't just pretend the bad stuff isn't happening. That doesn't make it go away. That just makes it worse.
. . .
I know what that is. I've seen the pictures. It's like the illustration in the textbook just appeared in the sky in front of me. Does that mean the world is over? That we're all going to die? If it does, I'm glad it happened now - before they took the farm away. I'm glad it gets to end here - with us still home. Maybe we won't have to leave mom and dad after all.
Dale
She's never coming home. She's never coming back for me. She was already supposed to be home. Why wasn't she already home? Because of him? Because she would rather spend more time with him than come home to me? And now she's dead. Now I will never see her again because she wanted to go shack up in a hotel with some guy she's known for a couple of months.
Why didn't you come home Mom? Why weren't you where you were supposed to be? Why did you let him talk you into staying? Why did you leave me alone? I keep playing the tape over and over because I know that this is the last time I'm ever going to hear your voice. It's even appropriate - you over and over again telling me that you're not coming home. Because you're not. Is this even home without you here? Am I supposed to stay here without you? Am I supposed to pretend that it is okay to be here without you? I can't do this anymore. I can't sit here in this place. Where else am I supposed to go? This place was always where I felt safe. This is where I never got bullied or teased. This is the place where I was special. You made it that way. Without you here this place is just dark. It's just a stupid, overcrowded, cheap trailer for someone who can't afford a real house. The power's gone now. I told you this place was dark without you. I'm supposed to be too old to need someone to hug me. I'm supposed to be too old to need someone to tell me that everything is going to be okay. But I don't think I am. Who else is going to do that for me? Who else is going to care that I'm scared? Who else is going to care that I don't know what to do? Mrs. Green. She always let me stay there when I was too little to be alone, and you had to work late. Do you think she remembers?
. . .
I told you you left me alone. "I'm sorry." That's all I got. No hug. No comfort. She's not my mom. She's not you. I don't know where else to go. Why aren't you here to tell me? There's nobody else. Except . . . Mrs. Leigh. Maybe I can go there. Maybe I can do something there. The power's out. The freezer section is gonna go bad if somebody doesn't do something. Maybe she'll need my help. Maybe I can stay there for a while. Maybe I can stay busy enough that I won't have to think. Maybe I can pretend that it's just another shift at work and that you'll be back later. Because I can't do this. I'm not ready for this. I still need you. Why aren't you here?
Heather
I can see it, but I don't really believe that I'm seeing it. I mean there is no mistaking what that is - I've read too many books to not know what that is. It just can't be real. It just can't be here. What am I going to tell my kids? How am I going to keep them calm until we get back to town? How close is that? Do we even have time to make it back to town? Was that an accident? Was that an attack? Are there more of them coming? Should I be looking for a place to get the kids under cover?
. . .
My head is so foggy. Have I been sleeping? Did I take cold medicene last night? I can't be groggy on field trip day. Wait. We're already on the field trip. There was a mushroom cloud, and the bus ran into something. I force my eyes open, sit up, and perform the world's quickest head count. They're all here. I say something calming - I don't even know what it was, but it seemed to work. The bus driver isn't moving. I should check on him. Okay, I didn't know it was possible for your leg to hurt that much. It must be broken. I've never broken anything before. I sink into the seat too dizzy to make it to the driver. I can't pass out again. The kids need me conscious and calm. They're being so brave, but they don't really understand what is happening. We need help, but I can't leave them. Clearly, I wouldn't make it very far even if I could. I hate this, but I have to do it. I have to send my kids out into whatever it is that is going on out there.
. . .
They're back with some man I've never seen before. I'll take what I can get at this point. He looks like he knows what he's doing when he checks on the driver. That's a plus. Why isn't my head clearing? I don't even know what I've said to keep them calm. They're being so good. He's injured. That's not a plus. What if he can't get them help either? Ice pack? There's one in the first aid kit. I know there is. I checked it before we left this morning. Juice box straws? Is he going to do what I think he's going to do? Please, God, let it work. Please let her be okay.
. . .
The injured adults may not be able to get them through this. That's okay. I just have to make sure they know what to do to get themselves out of it. Just stay calm when you're talking to them and make sure the directions are simple. They're good at following directions. They'll be okay. They have to be.
. . .
They're fine. They're all fine, and they're back with their parents. I can stop worrying about them now. It might even be okay to pass out now, if I could forget what I saw back there. It'll be okay. It has to be. I got one miracle tonight – he's still sitting in the driver's seat. Maybe we'll all get a few more.
Gray
He is unbelievably incompetent. How can anyone be mayor for 25 years and not be better able to handle a crisis? That's probably what the problem is. He's been in charge for so long that he thinks he can just coast along and everyone will just drift with him. Well, if there was anyone in this town who didn't know it was high time for a change, they ought to know it now. Just look at him - standing there with maps and paperwork. Talking things over like he has got all the time in the world to handle things. Where's the action? Being a leader means getting things done. It does not mean sitting around having a dinner party discussion about the pros and cons of maybe taking action at some point down the road. If you can't make up your mind what to do and how to do it, it's high time for you to step aside and let someone who can take things over. That would be the honorable thing to do. That's what you would do if you cared about this town. You don't even see it. You just care about keeping the Green family name on the office door. You're tired of this job. Everyone can see that, and it is painfully clear that you don't have what it takes to accomplish things in a crisis. Well, I'm not just going to stand here and let you shunt me over to the side. There are things that need doing, and I'm going to get them done. Then, this town will see who it is they can really depend on when the chips are down.
. . .
Look at this! Sending firemen out to do the police department's job. They don't have the faintest idea what they're doing. Who knows where the police even are by now? Traipsing all over looking for your vagabond of a kid most likely. They need to be in town keeping things under control. People are scared. They're starting to panic. This nonsense with the gas station can't continue. These people are a couple of minutes away from a full blown riot, and you're still holed up in your office. Probably reading 60 year old crisis management manuals. The mayor's job is to be out here. The job requires you to be visible. It requires you to lead. It requires you to be responsible for these people. No, that's not doable for the mayor of Jericho. You're too busy doing nothing to be out here doing your job. Well, it's not going to be your job for long. Election or no election, someone new is going to step in and take up the slack. It's going to be me. And it's going to be right now.
Back to Jake Again
For one seemingly endless moment, I was back there again. It wasn't just a dream or a flashback this time. I was really there, and that little girl lying in front of me with empty eyes was really there. There was nothing to do. Except this little girl's eyes weren't empty - not yet. They were still alive, and they were begging me to help her, to save her. I couldn't let it happen. Not again. I had to do something. I had to stop it. I had to think of something. And suddenly, I was back in the school bus, and I knew what I had to do. And I actually did it. I did it right. And she wasn't dying. Not yet anyway.
All those kids were staring at me with sheer awe in their expressions. Has anybody ever looked at me like that before? Ever? How do you live up to that? They're all looking at me like I'm going to save them. Every one of them from the girl with the juice box straws in her throat to the semi-coherent school teacher in the front seat are looking at me like they trust me. That's a bad idea. They shouldn't do that. That never works out well for anyone. I've got to stay awake. I've got to drive this bus back to town, but I don't know how much longer I can keep it together. I don't even know if there's enough gas to get the bus all the way back. We need another plan - one that doesn't depend on me. That teacher isn't going to make it anywhere to get help on that leg. It's going to have to be the kids. That's no good. They were lucky to stumble across me the first time. Lucky? To find me? I must be getting loopier than I thought. Stay awake, stay awake, find something to focus on, you can do this. Does your left hand really make a letter L? How come I never noticed that? How is she managing to keep them all so calm?
. . .
I've never been happier to see the Welcome to Jericho sign in my life. I didn't know I was capable of being this happy to see the Welcome to Jericho sign. The kids will be fine. They have people to take care of them now - responsible people. She's still sitting there in the bus seat - refusing to get off until all the kids are with their parents. She's still looking at me like . . . like I don't even know what that look is. I just know she shouldn't be looking at me like that - whatever it is. People in this town always look at me like they're counting the seconds until my next stupid mistake. She must not be from around here because she's looking at me like someone's about to throw a medal ceremony in my honor. Someone will set her straight soon enough. But for now, it's . . .nice.
