Power Hour #3

The kettle shrieked, but Harold did not care; he had become far too accustomed to unpleasant noises. He was rereading a yellowed newspaper. The corners had turned upwards and the folds had browned. Harold knew each page like an old diary. He was never talented at writing, so he had long ago resigned himself to other people’s words. He didn’t particularly like the style of writing. Always grumbled about one writer in the editorial section.

“Who are you trying to convince?” he yelled at the paper. “Not like you ever changed anything. Not like any newspaper ever changed anything.”

But the newspaper was always there, sitting on his hand-me-down ottoman. It was fact, unchangeable. His memories would disappear when he opened his eyes. Always blamed his failing memory on his age. He liked to call himself a rusty blade. He turned the page with a huff. And the kettle yelled some more.

“All right, shut up,” Harold spoke.

His hips decayed from many years of marching. He leaned forward out of his rocking chair, hands on his knees. Slowly, he brought himself upright. A long plume of steam encircled his stove.

“Ok, ok, I’ll be right there.”

He turned off the rusty knobs and the kettle quieted. When he first met his wife Dotty, he faked that he enjoyed coffee. On their first date, she suggested to go to the local coffee shop. She would always decide where to go. She ordered for him that day, paid the bill too. He couldn’t reject her smile or her drink. Ever since she died, he had to drink coffee every morning. Still doesn’t like it. But she did, and he smiled at the memory.

He dumped packets of stale sugar and artificial milk in. The coffee looked like liquid caramel, his favorite candy. He smacked his lips at the first taste.
“Dotty would give me such a look if she saw me now. She’d say that real men took their coffee black. Well, I can do what I want to do now.”
Harold looked out the window to his backyard. His wife and son’s graves stood covered in ash and grime.

“I should clean those sometime.” He knew he couldn’t; the air outside was too toxic. After years of drinking sugar flavored coffee, he had grown a belly. His old hazmat suit was a somber decoration in his closet, nothing more. When he was mailed the suit from the government, Dotty gave her usual frown and tilted head. She said it was just paranoia. His son, James, thought it was the coolest thing. He’d put his own tiny suit on all the time, indoors or outdoors. He liked to take the family umbrella and pretend it was a giant gun. Harold didn’t like his son pretending to play with guns. Didn’t want James to ever get comfortable around them. Dotty grew up with three brothers. Always interrupted Harold when he would move to give James another toy. She said boys will be boys and will always want to play with guns. He’d pretend to fight her a bit, but he’d always cave in when she flashed her smile.
Harold smelled the recycled air and cringes. He remembers the day he sealed the doors and windows. It was the day after Dotty and James died. He didn’t know what else to do, so he did as what the papers said to do. They said to be safe, that it was too dangerous outside, that the people just need to wait out the war, that it will all be over soon. The writers probably knew they were lying. Harold went out to the store to pick up the sealants and air purifiers exactly twenty years ago. Harold marked down every day on an calendar in pencil. At the end of every year, Harold would take one of Dotty’s old erasers and wipe off all his marks. Then he would start again. He liked to throw himself a little party every five years. He’d crack out some cans of peas and some dried beef and some powdered beer and treat himself to a rare feast. Harold sipped some more coffee, pinky out because James thought it looked goofy. Harold thought it looked goofy too, like his hand had a frozen spasm. It was his daily chuckle to himself.
Harold returned to his paper. He was at the sports section now.

“I remember watching this game, lost twenty bucks. Threw my beer at the t.v. waste of some good booze.” The stain was still on the carpet. He tried to wash it out, but he stopped. Thought it would be a nice reminder about some normalcy that day.
“Heh, I was always a crap gambler.”

He flipped some more pages and got to where the real estate section used to be. Instead, the newspaper had dedicated the whole section to war updates. Harold glazed over this part.
“Not like reading it is going to change anything.”

Some writers wrote like it was a movie script. Some writers wrote matter of fact, just relaying the daily details. Some writers wrote like it was gospel. Harold thought they were the silliest. Trying to convert up to the very end. The editors must not have cared anymore.

Finally, he got to the obituaries. This was the biggest section in the paper. Dotty read this section first. She always worried, always worried all the time. She would trace the names down each column, hoping she wouldn’t see one she recognized. When she’d find a name, Dotty would quiver a bit. When she found some more names she knew, she’d shake harder. She’d try so hard not to cry in front of James. Dotty would go into her room to read, so James wouldn’t see. But James was smart. He knew his mother needed a hug. So he would sneak in and crawl onto her lap. She’d say to him to go to your room. She’d say it once, then she’d get back to reading. And James would stay there, nestled in her lap, whispering “Momma, don’t cry.”

Harold got to the last page of the paper. He pretended to read the other columns, pretended to distract himself. But he got to the middle of the last column. Harold stopped. He took his index finger and felt the names of his wife and son. Felt the texture of the paper. Felt each line of text around their names. Didn’t read, he had memorized each word. Harold placed his hands on his knees. And he remembered the day his wife and son died.