EPILOG
Roaring Creek, Cayo District, Belize
Errol pulled the mausoleum doors closed, fed the stainless steel chain through the handles and secured it with an invisible-hasp, stainless lock. He stood for a moment, hands on his hips, contemplating the structure, thinking a thousand thoughts. He had just installed two brass plaques inside. A finishing tool and what was left of his industrial strength epoxy lay on the step beside him. He rattled the handles symbolically. Errol would never need to open those doors again.
Chromy would never have to go back to Dogshit Diggin’s or whatever the real name of his hometown in Appalachia was. Jeff, unwelcome in Oklahoma, would never have to worry about where he’d end his days. Both had found eternal rest alongside Tahoe’s parents. It had taken a year, but Errol finally got around to affixing nameplates to their niches.
The house was Errol’s now, a going-away present from Tahoe, but he wouldn’t be living in it for much longer. He had been accepted at the University of the Caribbean Law School in Kingston, Jamaica. He picked up his materials and meandered toward the house, Archimedes at his heels.
Yucca Mountain, Nevada
“Poe! John Poe!”
“Yo!” He took off his safety helmet and wiped his sweaty, bald head. He had just emerged from four miles inside the multi-billion dollar tunnel that purported to guarantee safe storage for spent nuclear fuel for untold millennia to come. Tunnel? It was more like a Mammoth Cave that didn’t know when to stop — one of the largest engineering projects in human history.
“Mail call!”
The courier began to hand him an envelope, then drew it back. “You got a chick in Venezuela?”
“None of your damned business! Gimme that!” He walked outside, opened the envelope and saw the international money order for $6300. It was his quarterly share of the income from the shamefully successful enterprise. He smiled, shoved the check back in the envelope, tucked it in his rear pocket, and leaned on the rampart railing, nibbling at his mustache. As he stared out at the painted mountains in the distance, increasingly golden as the sun got lower in the sky, he could almost smell the pedestrian food of the Laguna, taste the Belikin beer, hear the click of the billiard balls, feel himself being swept up into the lusty, ignorant arguments of his fellow expatriates, and feel the gentle touch of Tilda’s hand on his own. He looked back fondly on having been dubbed “Claymore” by that wacky bunch of Americans. The money here at Yucca Mountain was real good but, maybe someday, who knows? Oh, hell.
George Washington English Language School
Caracas, Venezuela
Dear Daddy and Tahoe:
I just love it here but I’ll be glad to get home. My Spanish is so good now that I bet I could teach it back in Portsmouth. I have a little trouble with geometry, and that bothers me because I know how good you are at that, Daddy. But Collette is a big help. She’s my new roommate and she’s real good at math. Here’s a picture of me and her holding hands. I don’t usually hold girls’ hands, (no, I’m not holding boys’ hands, either, because they’re all dorks at this school) but this is a special case. Collette has leprosy. Can you believe that? But she’s taking medicine and it’s getting better — not like back when you were young. And, don’t worry — leprosy is the least contagious of all contagious diseases. Did you know that?