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A Constant Sun

When the sun stopped appearing, the neighbors became hysterical. Everyone was, but Bethesda was especially so. Since Bethesda lived alone, Sherry invited her for Christmas dinner.

While we ate, she talked about the world coming to an end. Sherry and I listened in silence. She pointed to a variety of reasons: the economy, our president, the mental state of kids these days and the disappearance of the sun. "I'm worried there will be a blight on this land soon" was the way she put it.

"What’s that over there?" Bethesda said. It was the first time she came into our house. We had been living here for only a few months.
"That’s our family altar," I said.
"Oh? What does it do?"
"It’s supposed to protect our family from evil spirits," I said.
"Oh does it? I don’t think it’s going to do you any good when the blight comes." She kept using this word, blight.
"I don’t really believe in it but it’s a Chinese tradition. My dad had one and my grandfather before him."
"Well, I can respect that but if you don’t believe in it, why do you have it? Listen Ken, when the blight comes —"
I stood up and pushed my chair in. She stopped talking. "I’m sorry Bethesda, but I’m going to have to ask you to leave."
Sherry looked up from her plate. Her fork was still and there was a piece of sweet yam at the end of it. I glanced at Sherry for confirmation but she didn't say anything.
"Let me walk you to the door. It was nice having you over," I said.
"Beth…" Sherry said.

No one noticed anything wrong when it first began. It started out as overcast. It was normal for winter. When it carried through spring, people began to wonder. Then came summer and after that winter again. After Christmas was over, it was a full year of overcast. Spring came and left for the second time. The world did not end as Bethesda had said it would. But, when the overcast ended and there was only darkness, the city began to leave the street lights on at all hours. It was the same everywhere.

Sherry had our baby in April. We named her Abbeline after her grandmother. After Abbeline's second birthday, everyone took to calling her Apple because her cheeks were always red. "It’s not roscea you silly," her grandmother said while pointing a crooked finger at me. "They’re apples." At the time, Sherry and I laughed.

"There’s so much potential in you," I said while I held her in my lap. She was crying so I gave her her bottle. The milk was enriched with vitamin D and had been warmed Sherry, on a pot of hot water above the stove, before she left for work. By then, we had shifted our schedules so we could take turns taking care of her. When Sherry was gone, I wondered if all these things I said were still true.

When they realized that the sun would not be coming back soon, the streetlights were turned off during the daytime (an old concept) to ration energy. The year after, they began to build the wind farms. Like wild mushrooms, they stretched from the existing ones in Rio Vista and the Altamont Pass to our city. In the end, when they stopped, the wind farms covered the entire county.

Sherry and I went on a day trip in the summer. We were hiking up Mt. Diablo with Apple on her fifth birthday. We were camping. Sherry and I held her hand and made our way up the mountain. Our flashlights swung against the path. Though we could not see the turbines we could hear and feel them all around us. They made a dull throbbing sound, like a plane that never lands, and the air pressed against our ears in slow undulating waves. Some of the more sensitive people in town were driven mad. Crime went up and there was an exodus of people moving south.

The police found Sherry at the gas station. When they called, I asked Bethesda if she could look after Apple for the night. I had somewhere urgent I needed to be, I said. When she asked, I told her what the police had told me over the phone. It was the first time I had knocked on her door since Christmas dinner six years ago. Once in a while, we’d exchange smiles when we saw each other; I left for work at the same time she came home from church. There were a lot of people going now and the pews were always full. They were all afraid.
"Where are you going papa?" Apple said.
"I'm going to pick your mom up from work. Her car broke down," I said.
Bethesda crossed herself as she took Apple's hand and led her inside.

The gas pump was still in the car when I drove up. "You sure?" the police officer said when I stepped through the tape perimeter. The driver side window was smashed in. "Yes."

There was blood everywhere: in the front of the car, the windshield, parts of the backseat and headrest. The broken glass looked like rubies. Her purse was gone. The cuffs on her shirt were torn. It was where she wore the cuff-links with our initials that morning; they were gone too. Her hair hung around the sides of her face and I could not see it. There was a hole in the place I use to kiss behind her ear. Her neck was spotless.

Four squad cars and an ambulance were scattered around the scene like the unmoored fishing boats we use to see while driving along the San Joaquin River. Whoever robbed and killed her had retreated into the night.

It existed everywhere and through all hours.

My skin had grown pale. So did Apple’s. So did everyone else's. No one in our neighborhood noticed. It was only when we looked at old photos that we could tell. When the photos began to fade, we couldn’t tell anymore.

At 12, Apple entered middle school and didn’t want to be called Apple anymore. She wanted to be Abbeline again. Her cheeks were no longer red and her grandmother was no longer around to say otherwise. At the same time, patches of white began to show up in my hair. I joked that it would be easy to pick me out from a crowd now.

As I watched her grow in the years after Sherry, I worried that Abbeline would develop rickets. A lot of the kids at school were showing signs: they walked with bowled legs, had oddly shaped wrists that appeared broken but were not. Instead of simple bruises, falls resulted in broken bones and fractures. Leg braces became common. Along with cod liver oil, Abbeline and I took vitamin and calcium tablets everyday. We were both fine. After the funeral, she never asked about her mom. I suppose she was too young to understand. She had only faint memories of Sherry. She had no memories at all of sunlight. We had been living normally up until then. And we lived normally after.

The house was quiet. The lights and TV are off; I am use to seeing their glow in the living room when I come home from work. I guessed she was in her room.

She was asleep with the lights on when I opened the door. I placed my file folder on the bookshelf and sat down on her bed. She didn’t notice me or she chose not to.
"What’s wrong sweetie? You’re sleeping early tonight," I said. The areas below her eyes are red. "Were you crying?"
She shook her head. I squeezed her shoulder bone.
"We watched a movie in Japanese class today," she said.
"What was it called?"
"A Scene At The Sea."
"I’ve seen that one before. It’s about surfing."
"It was so sad."
"Is that why you’re feeling down?"
"No."
"Why? What’s wrong?"
"I couldn’t read the subtitles. I couldn’t read anything that Ms. Sanzaki wrote on the board. It started earlier this week. I think I’m going blind."
I give Abbeline a tissue and she blew her nose. I sigh in order to hide a laugh.
"That’s alright sweetie. You probably just need a pair of glasses. It’s normal. Here, try these on."
She sat up and moved her hair behind her ear lobes. It reminded me of Sherry. It was something Sherry always did before sitting down to talk.

I slid my glasses onto Abbeline's face. My black frames looked like a masquerade mask on top of her small features. I picked up the TV remote and turned the TV on, setting it so that the closed captioning would show. There was an old documentary about animals in Western Australia — koalas and wallabies. Abbeline blinked a few times and moved her eyes in a wide arc around the room. "How is it now?"
"It’s still blurry, but a little better."
"See. It’s nothing to cry over. Silly. I guess your prescription isn’t quite the same as mine, so we’ll have to get you your own pair."
"My prescription?"
"The difference in what we can see."
She took my glasses off and handed them back.
"You can keep them for this week and take them to school with you. Just use them whenever you think you need them. I’ll set them next to the lamp sweetie." I pulled the blanket over her shoulders and got up to turn off the light. "Just come down if you feel hungry."

On the way downstairs, I thought about Sherry. If she was here, she would sit with me on the edge of Abbeline’s bed and we’d talk about things. She’d want to laugh too. It’d remind us of when we were kids.

We’d talk about our childhood again like we use to. I remember the first time I told her I loved her. We went to the top of Mt. Diablo and I shouted it down into the valley. We watched the sunset, made love in the tent and told ourselves we'd wake up for the sunrise.

Yes, the sunlight. We would talk about that too: how it signaled the cold and returned in the morning to warm us. How it silhouetted her shoulders and neck as she leaned over her Rolleiflex when she opened the tent to take a picture of it. Her blanket was falling off her shoulders. "What are you doing?" I said.
"Waiting."
I got up on and kissed her in the place behind her earlobe.
"How much do you love me?"
"More than the sun."

And this was true.

As constant as the sun was.

Kylie from the Qld Working Sheepdog Association shows a sheeppup to children – Australia Day, Southbank, Brisbane, Queensland, Australia 070126-2


Image by David Jackmanson
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