By: Nolan Yasa
At the dining table that evening, she strikes a match and lights the candles, casting a magical glow over the space. Large-paned windows surround a rectangular table on three sides continuously until the table meets the slender kitchen. The sun is withdrawing its light beyond the horizon and the orange light fills the dozen windows. The smell of candle scented ocean air begins to roam the space making reminisce of the waves crashing near the NASA launch site. Such a room is warm enough to comfort the old and discomfort the young. The TV in the living room has not been alerted to any regional falling debris since three o’clock three nights ago.
Outside are plains of grass, then fields of flowers, plants, fruits, and corn for miles, interrupted by distant trees an inch tall with subtle farmhouses half as tall as the trees. Outside, the perfect American home is a pristine, clean, with a bright driveway that seems as new as the home. The roof is reinforced with steel with a high-tech absorption system. A standard black mailbox on a wooden square pole still stands a hundred years later. On the corner of the mailbox, the number reads, “2026,” signifying the year the mailbox was built. Beside the red flag are white squares and black numbering, “143”, each number taking its own square. Inside the dark mailbox:
From: NASA, Space Agency and Shared Services Center,
300 E Street SW, Washington, DC 20546.
To: Willbut Xion, 143 Maiden Ave, Willsburrow, TX 77324.
Subject: Administrative Matters, URGENT REQUEST
Dated: 04/01/2165
Lights are dimmed to comfort, “Hurry now, or the food will go cold,” the caretaker hastily says.
“I am biding my time,” the old voice croaks. “Can’t you see I’m slow to my feet these days?”
“I’ll fix you a hot tea,” she says as a clanking noise emanates from the upper cabinet. “Oh, and what interesting news do I have to tell you, Mr. Xion. Just the other day, the program to send the 55th Company to clean up space debris was cancelled. People have always been saying it’s too risky; their standing up to them must’ve done the trick. The daily pages even said there was just too much debris for a Cyber Accela Unit to predict all the Kessler movement and no spacecraft can fix it. So, even if they automated it to replace the debris crew, what could they do? And tomorrow will be three decades since the 54th ended disastrously. It really is unnecessary, won’t they ever learn?” She sighs and finishes her pour.
She continues as the tea makes its way to the table, “All it has ever been is a big hot mess, just craters and innocent lives are lost,” she exclaims. A porcelain teacup and saucer exhibit a blue fluted design on their very edges. Faded blue flowers emerge to surround the cup’s bareness as it clatters onto the white, smoothed, unfinished wooden table.
The man feels a slight pain in his head. “Ms. Loiry,” Mr. Xion requests, “could you bring over the wares, please?”
She takes her glance to the table and makes a turn that fluffs her light blue plaid dress and her curly blonde hair along, “Oh, Sweet Je-”, an awkward pause fills the room, “It must have slipped my mind. I’ll get one right away.” She moves for the drawer and grabs the fork and butter knife, which had been washed earlier for lunch. It has white handles that widen the grip. Described on it are the letters U.S.A, a flag after, then a picture of a full moon further along.
She hands the utensils to the man, “These wares are good,” Mr. Xion notes. “I love the design on them. They must be new. Did they come by mail?”
Her straight white teeth recede behind her lips, “Well, they’re your favorite, dear. You had them for a long time, you know?”
The old eyes remain fixed on the utensils, “They’re very well taken care of, you do a fine job,” Mr. Xion compliments, not realizing his mistake. He smiles as his wrinkled hands grasp the utensils and begin to dig into the gravy mashed potatoes. The smell of the meatloaf and asparagus complements each other.
The caretaker begins to tend to the countertop that is centered in the kitchen. The countertops are made of solid brown birch butcher block. Surrounding the walls and supporting these counters are smooth sage green wooden cabinets. She takes the remaining stainless steel mixing bowls and cooking utensils from the table and places them in the sink. A tranquil quietness is interrupted by the clatter, “Not so long ago now,” Ms. Loiry begins to say, “my friend had a devastating incident for her sister’s child, but what could you do? I hear most debris these days doesn’t disintegrate enough. I’m sure enough it’s the small ones starting to knock off the large abandoned station docks out of orbit.”
She clears the table, grabbing the clean rag and solvent. And with a swirling action, the top appears to be no more sleek after each sweep. The fork in the wrinkled hands pauses, “Was it Artemis VII that began to build those things?” Mr. Xion ponders intensely.
“I believe it was when SpaceX sent its first Starship to Mars, dear,” she answers.
“Oh, that takes me back to when my grandfather used to tell me all those stories.”
“And look where we are now,” her angst begins to show. “All the countries, I tell you! They all started to go when they found out what was there! They weren’t thinking too hard, now maybe a century until it’s all done with it. We should stay with God and Jesus. Just like they intended. Why anywhere else really? Not since those greedy enterprises entered the role, even Victor Glovik knew,” her rag flips and continues at a slower pace at the same spot.
“Hm, times have changed, that’s for sure,” speaks the hoarse voice as he leans back to the wooden seven-spindle cherry bowback chair that has shaped his behind over the years. Amongst the wooden crackle, his spine makes a pop slightly resembling it. The feeble fingers grasp the teacup handles and saucer and inch it closer to the edge of the oak table for easier access.
The rag slows to a stop, unmoving for a large period of time, “Oh, oh my, just how terrible it is now,” she cries. “Why, just a week ago, her son passed away in the hospital. It was on the south point of Lake Willburrow near the play area of the state park, near the water’s edge.” The windows behind the chair turn red as the sun glimmers away. The garden can be seen as less attended, and plants that never get their day’s water start to fade away. “Yes, this is the fifth time a debris struck and caused an incident in this town involving someone’s li-” A loud clank follows as the shattering of porcelain interrupts her.
At once, she makes her way for the broom and dustpan, “Are you alright, dear?” She hurries to the mess.
The sharp pain in the right side of his head near his ears fades. His eyes snap open, blinking quickly, “Oh, s- s- sorry,” the man slowly stutters. “I don’t know what happened. It must have been my old hands, but my head hurts, miss.”
“Then you must head to your bed.” A long silence follows as she unhurriedly cleans up the mess, slower than usual in her duties.
“This is not regular,” he says, feeling apologetic for the caregiver. “I must be getting old. Oh, right, did I get any mail this month? You never mentioned, I must’ve forg-” A large memory flashes his mind, and a large pain ensues, which he keeps silent. A large guilt lingers like winter clothing fallen past thin ice into cold water. His clothes sag with sadness.
“Quiet now, your head must be hurting. Body getting too old,” she evades, dodging the question. She starts to soak up the tea.
The man does not follow the demand, “I’m certain there’s something they could do, if it’s for the better good than doing nothing. If something weren’t to be done, I’d continue to be haunted by my past.” A long silence trails, and the cricket’s chirp never comes.
The old man gets up carefully, leaving the table on the opposing side of the chair where he dropped the cup. He steers his way, each step accompanied by his rough, tough palms gliding along the side of the tables at intervals, applying pressure to keep himself upright. For a long while, his vague silhouette appears at each pane window. He switches his hands mid-way to his right as he reaches the kitchen countertop. His face, with disheartened lips and eyelids too dejected and old to completely uplift, falls past his shoulders. His shoulders slump further forward over his body. His behind slowly descends into total darkness and void as he passes the corridor with edges of old decorative ribbed moldings. At each corner are squares of outgoing floral design. On his desk, a white envelope lies perfectly aligned and flat to the clean, dark, finished wood. For the first time, the man puts himself to bed alone.
The next morning, he flips the TV on as he remains slumped in his cold, hard bed. The large bold text reads on the banner, “NASA continues the launch, 55th Company will re-continue plans to push debris to the sun.” A faint audio from the TV, “A call last night from former President Willbur Xion aids in critical decisions and today marks three decades since. . .” The house falls silent, and the caregiver’s shoes don’t appear in the foyer that morning. He prays heavily, as did the Mission Control Center, for the success of breaking through the heavy debris barrier that doomed the 54th Company.