Donald put Carrie's bags on the backseat of the truck while she spoke quietly to her aunt, her cousins and their children. He had arrived that morning in time for the funeral, they had buried Mrs Hanley in a family plot near to relatives Donald had never heard Carrie mention, the woman had been buried with her late husband's ashes and now Donald had come to take Carrie away from her family.
He'd delivered her a week earlier, she'd taken a small suitcase with her, Donald had suspected she might stay a while and so he'd told her in the car that morning that all she need do was write and he'd come and get her. The drive there a week ago had been tense, Carrie hadn't spoken much and Donald hadn't known what to offer by way of reassurance, he'd felt it best to just drive. When they'd got there the atmosphere hadn't lifted and he had had a small, quiet and tense lunch with Carrie and her aunt. He had not gone upstairs with his friend to see her mother- she was weak, drifting in and out of consciousness and so confined to her bedroom, Donald knew his being there would not help, so after lunch when Carrie had gone upstairs a second time he had sat downstairs in the dark and dusty parlor and waited a half hour before Carrie returned and told him he should leave. He left obediently and without questioning her, as much as he wanted to shield her from any hurt he knew it was out of his hands on this occasion.
She had not looked at him while they had been there that first day and she had not looked at him directly since he had arrived. He did not take offense, he knew from watching her at her mother's funeral that she was doing everything she could to keep herself together, if she burst she wouldn't burst until they were alone, until she was out of sight and he would be ready for it. He would be kind and reassure her she had done everything she could and he would hold onto her, it was all he could do.
Despite being calm and strong Donald had been forced to think about things that week on his own, after speaking to Tom he had thought about the relationship and how he would continue as long as Carrie wanted to. But that wasn't the issue that had forced itself into his head. That had always been the plan... He thought hard about the real life issue that morning at the funeral. The woman they were burying was younger than him. It was all very well saying that Mrs Hanley had always been sickly and inactive and that Donald had always been fit and well, but the reality of the situation was that he was seventy, Carrie still wasn't forty. Who would be there for her if he suddenly declined?
"I'll write," he heard Carrie tell the children in her softest voice, "it was nice to get to know you." She had said her goodbyes and kissed her relatives. Donald hadn't heard her tell her aunt or her cousins she'd write or keep in touch with them, but she had a soft spot for children and evidently found it easier to talk to them. He watched her approach the truck, and he got into the driver's seat and waited for her, he had said his quiet goodbyes and condolences earlier, it wasn't important, they didn't know or care who he was, he was just the driver, the good Samaritan. She wound down the window and waved a small wave to the obliviously happy children as they drove away.
Before the planet's deterioration had begun Kansas had already been known for its ghost towns, deserted dead places from a hundred years past, these towns had mainly been in the west, but now it seemed like most places were dead. Greeley was no exception, it was a dry and dusty town, if Donald hadn't known there were people there he would have assumed it was another empty shell like so many others they'd driven through to get there. They drove in silence with the windows rolled back up, shutting out the outside and other people's lives, the town was soon behind them and they travelled the empty roads with their thoughts.
Donald did not want to break the silence and be the one who made her cry by telling her she was brave or strong or good or anything, he may have been big and strong but he still didn't like conflict or upset. He remembered feeling useless forty odd years previously when Rachel's parents had died. His folks had been old when they'd had him, they had died peacefully years previously without knowing what was to happen to the people they left behind. Rachel's parents had died unexpectedly in a horrible and devastating flood, taking their house, all her childhood mementoes, her possessions and her memories with them. He'd been thirty one, but had felt much younger, he hadn't known what to say to the pregnant girl to make her feel safe or happy again, telling her he loved her and he would look after her had not done anything for Rachel and he knew it would do nothing for Carrie either.
"Murph came home for a couple of days," he broke the silence, "she made you a card," he told her quietly and he swallowed as he focused on the empty road ahead of him rather than look down.
"That's sweet," Carrie whispered as she looked out of the window and did not look up at him.
"It's in the dash," he reached over and unclicked the glove compartment on her side, Carrie looked down and took out the card, she smiled at it sadly. Murph had made the card from pressed flowers that must have been fifty years old, they were bright purple with green leaves, the teenager had painted them carefully, restoring colour to their dull petals and leaves.
'Dear Carrie, We are all thinking of you. Hope to see you soon, love Murph.'
"It's lovely," she said quietly and she put it back and then wiped her eyes with the back of her hand and held in her feelings.
"She wouldn't let Tom sign it," Donald told her and Carrie laughed a little and sniffed again, "told him to make his own."
"I'll have to write and thank her," Carrie said quietly.
Donald was quiet again and they both sat in silence for a good forty minutes of the drive. Donald wondered just how much talking Carrie had had to do with all her extended relations, she seemed exhausted and content not to talk. At least, he hoped that's what it was, and that Tom hadn't been right in calling her an emotional cripple.
A couple of silent hours had past since they'd left Greeley, and despite it being a midsummer afternoon the sky began to get darker, it happened rather gradually and neither of them noticed until the cloud was very close behind them. It had been a long time since Donald had driven out of town, the dust storms that hit them back home were bad but the house was sturdy and the surrounding farmland with its tall crops was a kind of cushion. In the town the roads were protected by blocks of buildings, so when they were out in the truck it never felt terribly exposed. Out on the open road though, with nothing in the empty fields around them, no hills and the trees on either side of the road that had once been there to shield drivers from harsh winds now just a handful of bare white sticks, the cloud was harsher, more dangerous. It was why no one travelled. They'd been hit twice the week before, but both times they'd been driving into it so they'd seen with time. With no one on the roads Donald hadn't checked his mirror for some time.
He pulled over and parked up. The road was littered with thin branches, if there had been a living town nearby the roads would be clear, dry wood was always in demand, someone would have picked it up.
Carrie opened the glove compartment once more and handed Donald the mask and goggles that were underneath the pressed flowers. "Looks like it might hit pretty hard," Donald said quietly as he looked over his shoulder through the back window and at the empty road.
"The truck's a good shape," Carrie said quietly, there was no way to know at what wind speed the dust would hit them and whether they'd be ok, but she was on automatic, optimistic in the face of danger out of habit, she would never tell a student if she felt they were in trouble, she would smile and lie.
"We're weighed down too," Donald said equally pointlessly, he was like her, talked the talk, walked the walk but inside he had no idea. They put their masks on and seconds later the cloud hit them loudly, powerfully, the truck jolted momentarily but it seemed only marginally worse than what they were used to. However, when the first bit of something, whatever it was, hit the roof Carrie jumped a little and her breathing changed. Dust was usually just dust, but this storm cloud came with extras, the bits of dead wood on the road from the last of the trees were being thrown up by the cloud, they hit the truck hard, the sound was like colossal hail stones throwing themselves at every window from every angle. The noise and the reverberation through the truck continued for what seemed like a stupidly long amount of time, Carrie's breathing became more and more rapid as the debris continued to clatter and clunk onto the roof and the backdoor. Donald knew that rapid breathing when the air was thick with grime was not an option so he controlled his fear as he had done for the past forty years, but even in the noise from outside he could hear Carrie's panic, out of the corner of his eye Donald had seen her body tense with each new noise that hit the truck, he reached and held her hand in her lap, there was no point talking, there was not enough air and they were both behind their masks. She held his hand tightly in both of hers and did not let go until the cloud passed.
Donald knew it wasn't just the dust that was fully responsible for her shaking and her ragged breathing, no matter how terrifying it was nothing could be more draining than what she had been through in the last week. She would tell him about it, he knew she would, but she was physically and emotionally exhausted, he would take her home, she would sleep and she would talk to him the next day.
After it had passed Carrie let go of him, he returned his hand silently to his lap to wait it out, it would take more than ten minutes for this dirt to settle, but Carrie took off her goggles and mask then unclipped the seatbelt. Donald pulled his own mask and goggles off, "Honey, don't," he said quickly and he reached for her and held her arm tightly before she could open the passenger door.
Carrie looked up at him, her eyes were tinged red from tears and her nose was pink, she had been crying beneath her mask but now she smiled sadly at him and she shook her head. "I- I wasn't going to," she managed to say and her smile faltered as she looked up at his face, the concern that she hadn't seen for a week but what seemed like years. She breathed painfully and she moved towards him and put her arms around him, he held onto her. He'd thought she was going to open the door and walk out into the dust filled air, to breathe it in and kill herself slowly… But she had taken her belt off so she could reach across the divide and embrace him.
Donald held her gently, as best he could, he wished the gearstick and the raised glove box between them wasn't there so he could comfort her properly. He put his hand on her face, "I'm so sorry, sweetheart," he said softly as he brushed her hair around her ear. He left it at that, he couldn't think of any lies to tell her that would help in the situation.
"It's ok," she whispered back, he let go of her a little and she put her own hand up on his face affectionately, and she smiled a small smile as she traced her fingers over an eyebrow, her fingers were feather light on him and she didn't look into his eyes, only at the details of his kind, concerned face, "l- I'm just glad it's over now." He nodded and his face moved beneath her fingers, she looked down at the eyes of the old man, sometimes green, sometimes amber, she moved her face to his and kissed him. She kissed him deeply, holding him as tightly as she could while reaching across the car to him, she kissed gratefully for all he'd done and breathlessly simply because they were alive. Donald kissed back and held onto her arms as they held onto him, he was glad that her sadness had not taken her over, he was relieved she had not been going to do what he had suddenly feared, and in a small way he wasn't completely surprised at her behavior. It was human nature, the need to be close to someone living after a funeral. "Thank you," she breathed shakily at his face, "for coming to get me, and- and for taking me," she let go of him a little and Donald was able to take of his own seatbelt for comfort, she smiled and blushed as he looked up at her and they held hands across the raised glove-box in the central divide of the truck.
"Were you ok, without a car?"
She smiled, grateful for his mundane questions. She nodded, "they had an old station wagon in the garage, I went out in it a couple of times to pick some things up, but I didn't really need to leave," she said softly, "Jemima and Russell, my cousins, they look after both of them, looked after," she corrected, "my aunt's kids," she explained quietly and pointlessly.
Donald held her hands softly, rubbed his thumbs gently over the backs of her small hands, "We'll get you home," he said gently, "And you get some sleep." She nodded again and she swallowed and he looked up at her. Her face broke a little and she cried quietly, looking down at the armrest between them, their hands still resting on it.
"I'm so, I just feel so tired," she whispered as she let go of his hands and wiped her eyes. She tried to steady her breathing and she choked a little. She took his handkerchief and dried her eyes with it, clearing her throat too. She shook her head, "it was awful," she admitted in a quiet voice, "All these people looking at me everyday as though- as though I'd deserted her… Donald, I- I never wanted her to leave in the first place," she looked up at him pleadingly and covered her eyes and cried still. "And those kids in that awful place," she shook and wept, "why did she go away?" she whispered painfully.
"Sweetheart," he reached across the lumpy armrest, shifted, knelt a little in his seat and reached for her arms, "don't, don't be upset by them, your mom didn't feel that way," he assured her, "I'm so sorry she left you, but it wasn't your fault it wasn't because of you," he told her firmly as he held her arms, stroked them gently.
"I know," she whispered as she looked up at him, "I know," she nodded, "it- it's so stupid getting worked up about it," she shook her head, "but, but I can't help it," her voice shuddered, "I lived with her, with mom and dad my whole life," she stressed painfully, "I- I did feel angry with her for leaving," she whispered and he listened sympathetically, "but, but I couldn't have gone with her and- and she never even asked me to," she swallowed and tried to steady her breathing.
"You wrote, you visited," he told her gently, "you can't pick your parents," he smiled a little, briefly, he touched her face, "but you do learn from them, even if it's just learning what not to do."
"If- if something happened to you, I- I'd be there, for Murph, for Tom, if they wanted anything, needed anything at all," she stressed painfully, he was startled by this, but before he could think of how to react, she moved up in her seat too, put her arms around him. He held her tightly. Though her words had stung with the reality they did not speak he was grateful for them. "But nothing is going to happen," she stressed, a promise, not a request or a plea, a firm statement.
It was half past seven that evening when they eventually arrived back at her door. They had had to make a few stops thanks to the weather and throughout they made small insignificant talk and had not spoken so seriously again since the first storm. Carrie had slept in the car, her exhaustion becoming too much for her after her emotions had come bursting out of her. The journey had not been too hard, just long and tiring. They'd eaten the sandwiches and the last of the box of raisins that he had brought with him, he'd packed them in the car at four that morning, the drive there had been a painless and methodical five and a half hours, coming back hadn't been so easy, all in all it had been a very long day.
Carrie looked up at her house, the dust was piled on the porch, she usually swept it each day, it would have spent the last week working its way under the frame and into the house… She thought about the years in that house, her childhood, her adolescence, her young teaching days, teaching alongside her parents, marking books with them over the dinner table quietly, sensibly, eating dull and uninspiring meals, but being content knowing her days at school would be full of the lively chatter and enthusiasm of children. She thought about her parents' retirement and the two years they had had before her father had died, she'd looked after them, tried her best to look after her mom. She'd driven her mom to Greeley, to see her sister, to visit and then she hadn't come back, and since then Carrie had been on her own, three years now, on her own in the old house.
Her life came jumbled and in flashes in the seconds that she looked out of the truck window, but she knew in an instant that she did not want to be left in there on her own. She looked up at Donald and her eyes must have spoken for her, or maybe it was the tense breathing, the slight rattle in her throat that had come on from her day of exhausting emotion. Donald started the engine again. "We'll come back tomorrow," he offered, "the farm will be warm," he simplified and said what she wanted to hear, it was a summer evening, everywhere was warm, but the farm didn't hold a hundred memories of her dead family, she nodded and he pulled away.
Tom was in the kitchen when they arrived, he stood and looked at them both as they entered, Carrie looking smaller, older than she usually did and his grandfather carrying her bags. "Carrie's going to stay the night," Donald told him simply and Tom nodded.
"Of course," he said quietly, their guest looked up at him with an anxious face, not one he'd seen before, he moved to her, "can- do you need anything? Are you hungry?" he offered, she smiled a crumpled smile of relief and shook her head, "just say, if you do," he told her quietly and she nodded this time. "I'm real sorry," he said gently and he touched her arm, "for your loss, Carrie."
Carrie looked up at him in touched surprise and she touched his arm too, "thank you, Tom," she managed quietly.
"Tom, take these bags upstairs, would you?" Donald asked him as he closed the doors "I'm going to make some tea, do you want one?" he asked his grandson.
Tom shook his head as he stood with the bags at the foot of the stair, "No thanks, I- I'm actually just going over to Lois's," he told them, "it's Bobby's birthday." Donald looked at the table and noticed the gift, wrapped in brown paper that his grandson had painted with red spots.
"What did you get him?" Carrie asked and Tom smiled,
"I made him something, I mean, well- here," Tom said and he put the bags back down and walked to the table, "it's his name, for his bedroom door, or- or just to display, I don't know, I guess it's an ornament," he explained, the parcel was tied with string and he unwrapped it despite their protestations that it looked so good, he took out his carving and set it down on the table.
"Tom," Carrie looked at it in awe, "it's beautiful," she said in surprise.
"Thanks," he smiled, "well, I always liked craft lessons, didn't I?"
The carved name was beautifully made, each perfectly carved letter had been stained with dye or paint a subtle, natural colour and the wood was polished cleaner than anything Carrie could ever remember seeing.
"When did you learn to do this sort of thing?" she asked him and she looked up at Donald, "did you know he could do this?" Donald shook his head.
"I guess I taught myself," he shrugged, "there's a lot of waiting, being a farmer. Between checking on everything I mean, I usually have something on me, bits of scrap wood. This is the first time I really tried though."
"It looks great, Tom," Donald rubbed the boy's shoulder, "it's a really personal thing," he laughed a little, looking down at the carved name, "you know what I mean. It's special. Really thoughtful."
Tom wrapped it back up carefully and then moved back to the bags, "I'm glad you think it's good," he said quietly, "but if you want one doing, it'll cost you," he grinned and Donald laughed as his grandson took the bags upstairs.
"He's so like my brother Michael," Donald said quietly and he smiled and shook his head, he looked proudly at the wrapped parcel, "that's just the kind of thing he'd do. Except Tom's is better of course!"
"He's really serious about the Dixons," Carrie said quietly, "I hope they appreciate him."
Donald looked down at her, he smiled gratefully as he put the kettle on the stove. "Me too," he agreed. Tom returned and picked up his parcel, he said goodbye to his grandfather and he moved to Carrie, bent and hugged her a little, kissed her cheek in what he hoped would be a comforting fashion.
"Maybe see you tomorrow morning," he said, "It's summer, I start early," he smiled, "you just rest and let us look after you," he told her.
"Tell Bobby, Happy Birthday from his teacher and there's only nine weeks left to do his homework," she said quietly.
"I will," he promised and he left.
Donald made two cups of tea and put them down on the table, "I'm not going to lie, it feels like the middle of the night- and he's off to a kid's party!" Carrie smiled tiredly herself and walked to the table, she smelled the tea and looked down at it curiously. "It's peppermint," he told her, "it's good for settling stomachs and minds," he said quietly, "We'll drink these, then go to bed. There's nothing shameful about going to bed at eight pm on a summer's eve," he smiled a little, "fuck it," he said quietly as he looked at the tired and drawn face across the table, "let's take them upstairs, I am exhausted."
Carrie smiled gratefully and he went to the wall by the door and turned the lights off. They walked upstairs, Donald led the way carrying both teas but he paused in the hallway at the top of the stairs. He looked at her in the dim light, he raised an eyebrow and looked down at her, "should we take bets on where Tom has put your bags?" he said quietly and Carrie looked up and down the hall, they were not outside any of the doors so they must have been inside a room, but which? "Spare room?" Donald guessed but Carrie shook her head.
"Murph's room," she guessed, "Tom wouldn't want me in with all his old stuff."
They walked to Murph's door and she opened it, there was no sign of her things, only Murph's things, as they always had been and always would be. They closed the door on it and walked instead to Tom's old room, the spare room as it had become. Carrie switched the light on, there was nothing in there either even though all of Tom's things seemed to have been tidied away and it was relatively clear, she looked up at Donald in surprise and her already pale face seemed to whiten further as she felt a lump in her throat. They walked to Donald's bedroom at the end of the hall and sure enough Carrie's bags were by the dresser. "Donald," Carrie said his name in a rather stressful tone, "What- what does Tom think- I, I mean," she stumbled over words and he put the teas town on the bedside table and switched the lamp on.
"Honey," he said gently and he touched her arms, she began to tear up, "don't, don't get upset," he whispered gently and he picked up a clean handkerchief from his dresser and gave it to her, she held it tightly, he smiled softly at her and even laughed a little, "don't get upset," he smiled, "you're so exhausted, Carrie."
"He- I don't want to- to disturb your- your family," she whispered and she held the hanky to her face.
She was so tired, so wracked with emotions that she was getting upset when there was nothing to be upset about. "Honey, Tom's twenty," he said gently, "he's not a kid. He likes you being here, you know that," he said quietly.
Carrie looked down at her bags on the floor and felt confused and tired, she wiped her eyes with the handkerchief, "Does- does he think we- we're like a couple?" she spoke to the bags on the floor despite Donald standing close to her with his arms around her.
"A couple of weirdoes," Donald said gently and she looked up at him in concern but he smiled and she laughed a little through her tears. "I've spoken to him," he admitted, "we talked about it last week."
"About us?" she whispered. Donald nodded.
"He asked," he said gently, "I told him I didn't know how to label it. That you don't want a boyfriend, just a good friend."
Carrie felt her heart beat hard in her chest as she listened to him and looked up at him, "but- the bags," she started quietly and Donald looked down at the bags and raised his eyebrows.
"He's not dumb," Donald admitted, "he can see we're close." He looked at her and shook his head, "he put the bags in here, we didn't... So really," he tried, "what we can take from this is that whatever we want to do, Carrie, no one will be offended, no one will be surprised and no one will care."
She looked at him and felt calmer, she knew he was right, she nodded. "I- all my clothes are dirty," she told him, "do you have a T-shirt I could borrow?"
"of course," he said gently and he let go of her and walked to the chest of drawers beneath his bookcase and found her something to wear.