Welcome to the Greenhouse (21 page)

The front door had been left open, not to greet the arriving exterminators but in the forlorn hope that the invader might depart of its own volition. Not much chance of that, Lissa knew. Chilopoda favored surroundings that were dark and damp. Eying the family compound and the looming, nearby trees, she sighed. If people were going to live in the woods in this day and age…

As they entered the basement the house’s proximity lights flicked on. A good sign. It meant that their quarry wasn’t moving. Gun barrel held parallel to the floor, she was first down the stairs. The basement was filled with the usual inconsequential detritus of single-family living: crates of goods meant to be given away that would remain in place forever, a couple of old electric bikes, lawn furniture, the home O
₂
reducer that allowed residents to move freely about the sealed building without having to don face masks, heavy-duty gardening gear, and more.

A sound made her raise her left hand sharply in warning.

Whispering into her mask, she pointed toward a far, unilluminated corner. Gustafson nodded and, without waiting, started toward it.

“I’ll take care of it, Lissa. You just…”

“No! Flanking movement or…!”

Too late.

The six-foot long centipede burst from its hiding place to leap straight at her startled companion. Its modern Amazonian ancestors had jumped into the air to catch and feed on bats. This oxygen-charged contemporary monster had no difficulty getting high enough off the ground to go straight for Gustafson’s throat. If it got its powerful mandibles into his neck above his shirt and below his helmet and started probing with the poison claws that protruded from its back end…

She raised her gun and fired without thinking.

Guts and goo sprayed everywhere as the pumper blew the monster in two. Still it wasn’t finished. As both halves twitched and jerked independently, she approached them with care. Two more shots shattered first the dangerous anterior claws and then the head containing the powerful, snapping mandibles.

Turning, she found her partner on the ground, seated against a trunk still holding his weapon and staring. Walking over to him, she bent slightly as she extended a hand to help him up.

“I…,” he didn’t look at her, “I’m sorry, Lissa. It came out so fast that I…”

She cut him off curtly. “Forget it. First encounter with a chilopoda, no need for excuses.”

He stared at her. “You warned me. You said they were fast. The class manual talks about their quickness. But I didn’t…” His voice trailed away.

She gave him a reassuring pat on the back. “Like I said, forget it. Visuals and words in a manual are one thing. Having it jump you in a basement is a little different. They make a tiger seem slow and an insurgent unarmed. Next time you’ll be ready.”

He nodded somberly, and they climbed the stairs. The basement was a mess, but that was a job for a city or private cleanup crew. Back in the truck she kept expecting to be assigned another job as soon as they reported in that they had successfully completed this one. Surprisingly, the officer on duty seemed inclined to keep his word. The bugband stayed silent.

As a chastened Gustafson headed the truck back toward the military base on the outskirts of the city she leaned forward to have a look at the sky through the windshield. Overcast, as always. The usual tepid rain on tap for the evening. Other than that the weather report was promising. Temperatures in the low nineties and humidity down to seventy-five percent. Things were a lot worse the closer one got to the now nearly uninhabitable tropics, she knew. The tech journals were full of reports of new threats emerging from the depths of the impenetrable Amazon. Ten-foot carnivorous beetles. Deadlier scorpions. Six-inch long fire ants…

Home and business owners might fret over giant centipedes and spiders with three-foot leg spans, but as a military-trained specialist she worried far more about the ants. All ants. Not because they were prolific and not because they could bite and sting, but because they cooperated. Cooperation could lead to bigger problems than any sting. In terms of sheer numbers, the ants had always been the most successful species on the planet. Let them acquire a little of the always paranoid Gustafson’s hypothetical intelligence to go with their new size and…

She checked the weather a last time. Atmospheric oxygen was up to forty-one percent give or take a few decimals. It was continuing its steady rise, as it had over the preceding decades. How big would the bugs get if it reached forty-five percent? Or fifty? How would the fire brigades cope with the increasingly ferocious firestorms that had made wooden building construction a relic of the past?

Rolling down her window she removed her mask and stuck her head outside, into the lugubrious wind. Gustafson gave her a look

but said nothing and stayed with his driving. Overhead and unseen, another giant dragonfly dropped lower, sized up the potential prey, and shot away. A human was still too big for it to take down. But if its kind kept growing…

Lissa inhaled deeply of the thick, moist air. It filled her lungs, the oxygen boost reinvigorating her after the confrontation in the basement. Drink of it too much and she would start feeling giddy. There were benefits to the increased oxygen concentration. Athletes, at least while performing in air-conditioned venues, had accomplished remarkable feats. Humanity was adapting to the changed climate. It had always done so. It would continue to do so. And in a radically changed North America, at least, the military would ensure that it would be able to do so.

As an exterminator non-com charged with keeping her city safe, her only fear was that something else just might be adapting a little faster.

I know I am but summer to your heart,
And not the full four seasons of the year

—Edna St. Vincent Millay

Unfortunately, it was another spectacular summer day.

Marion woke early, sensing the heat trying to elbow its way past the drawn shades. She didn’t bother checking the forecast; she could already feel the sweat of the coming day on the back of her neck. Her clock was keeping time, so that must mean the air conditioner was on the fritz again. At least it wasn’t another greenout.

She lifted a corner of the shade and peered out. The sun was besieging the neighborhood. On the sidewalk outside her house stood a young man. What was his name again? Marion wondered, her mind still wrapped in post-dawn murk. Mark? Jim? Fernando? None of those names seemed to fit. Bob? Stan? Sigfried? No. It certainly wasn’t Andre. Doug? Maybe. Shoot. Perhaps after she drained her first cup of coffee the name would find its way into the daylight side of her mind.

Problem was, not only was there a maybe Doug outside, there was no joe inside. Marion wasn’t in the mood to spoon, not before her first coffee anyway, so she snuck out the back way. The alley was free of summer loves, hallelujah. She cut through backyards and scaled a fence, grabbing as much shade as possible, and made it the three blocks to Bunny’s Java Den without incident.

She paid for her iced coffee, slapping it against her forehead even before she sat down at a table in the far corner. The Den smelled worse than a high school locker room, all pent-up sweat beneath rigid, un-laundered clothes. It always took a minute for the stink to fade into the furniture.

Just as Marion took her first long swig of the frosty brew, she noticed a young man, stranger, watching her.

He was standing by the bulletin board, coffee in hand… watching.

A familiar smile, but unique in its own way. It made Marion excited, sad, and just plain tired. She smiled back in that order, but he came over anyway.

“Mind if I join you? There aren’t any empty tables.”

It wasn’t true, so she said, “Please do.”

“My name’s Alan.”

Arthur. Andrew. Anthony… She thought hard… No Alan.

Alan the First.

Well that was something.

He was attractive, naturally. Dark curly hair, boyish dimples, decent build. The usual setup. She never grew tired of that first surge of energy, even if the energy was at a lower wattage than it used to be. It was still special. It was still spine-tingling. The thought that they would have a summer of romance and fun, of freedom, before reality took over again. Only it never did. Not anymore. It was always drop-dead hot, day in, day out, no matter if there was a beach umbrella or ski scene on the calendar. These days, the boys of summer were always underfoot.

“I’m Marion,” she said dreamily, determined to enjoy the ride before the tires went flat.

“Maid Marion!”

She laughed at the joke, as she always did. They always said it with such joy, such innocence.

“You have a nice smile,” he said. “Your eyes sort of dance around.”

“Thanks.”

“Do you like to dance?

” What a transition. “Sure, I like to dance.”

“Maybe we should go dancing some time then.” “

Awful hot for hoofing. I work up a lather just tapping my foot to the music.”

“Let’s go somewhere and cool off then. How about the beach?”

“I like to go swimming, especially since the global mean temperature has been so historically above average.”

“I’ll pick you up. Can I have your number?”

“Here you go.” A couple of years ago Marion had cards printed up with her name and phone number on them. She got a discount when she ordered a box of five hundred. A real time-saver.

Alan the First studied the card, beaming, then tucked it into his shirt pocket, patting it with pride.

They kept chatting as they downed their coffees, Marion fading out as the words automatically tumbled from her. She tried to focus on Alan, wanting to relish these first moments of hormonal discovery, but the intensity of the initial attraction was leavened by an equally acute feeling of déjà vu. A disconnect. Like she was watching a movie.

A date movie. A quirky love story, about a girl and her summer love.

That afternoon, Marion climbed into her air-cooled, hydromatic swimming suit with the viewing window where it counted and met Alan as he pulled up in his streamlined rust bucket. He was just dressed in trunks and a white muscle T-shirt.

“Nice suit,” said Alan, nodding approvingly.

“It’s air-cooled, and hydromatic.”

“Where did you buy it?”

“Over at the mall.”

“I like the scenery in your viewing port,” he said playfully.

“Thanks,” she replied, blushing.

They drove to Lake Failin, surf music shaking their top-down ride as they wove around the buckled asphalt on the highway. Marion felt happy and young and free again. It was summertime. Livin’ was easy. Dyin’ wasn’t as hard as it used to be. When they reached the beach, Marion noticed that the parking lot didn’t appear to be as close to the water as it used to be either.

Alan spotted it, too. “I wonder why they decided to move the parking lot so far back?”

Marion didn’t say anything as they walked hand in hand onto the beach.

“Where exactly is the water?” Alan asked, looking for it, hand cupped above his eyes.

“I dunno. It was here the last time I went for a dip.”

In the distance, dissolute half-dressed figures shuffled around in uncertain groups.

“I bet that’s where the water is,” said Marion. “Let’s go see.”

On the lifeguard stand, a blond, burned teen was screaming into a bullhorn. “Riptide! Riptide! Everyone out of the water! Everyone out!”

Marion and Alan ignored the warnings and strolled together across the sand, sidestepping floundering fish and seaweed salads. The fish that no longer flopped put up a stench. Marion could feel the broken snail shells and jagged rocks even through her flip-flops.

It was a long hike, but finally they reached the water’s edge. Nobody was actually swimming, since the water was only ankle-deep, but a few members of the small fry set were splashing around in the brine. The water smelled like a musty basement.

“I didn’t really feel much like swimming anyway,” said Marion as her hydromatic suit clicked into overdrive, cool water rushing over her shoulders.

“Let’s get some ice cream instead,” Alan said cheerily.

Marion liked his attitude. Anecdotally speaking, swimming was one of the most dangerous activities on the summertime hit parade, right behind Jarts. Marion realized it didn’t matter if the lake was drying up or not. It was summer and there was love in the air. A love that would never wither, as long as the weather stayed torrid anyway.

At the snack shack, another smiling boy of summer was stationed at the counter with a slushee. Ken? Ben?

“Friend of yours?” Alan asked.

“Oh, just someone I know from work,” Marion lied. Stan? Can’t swing a dead fish without hitting one of them, she thought.

They sat on a bench and attacked their ice cream, she peppermint bon bon, he Neapolitan. She wondered what that said about his character. Only good things. He was flexible and willing to look at other people’s points of view. He wasn’t stuck in a rut. He was adventurous.

“The only thing sweeter than this cone is you,” said Alan, offering her a lick.

“Oh, you’re a dear.”

“Prettiest girl on the beach.”

“Oh my.”

“I can’t believe we found each other.”

“I certainly never expected it.”

But Marion expected it all, including, at date’s end:

“Will I see you again?”

Talk about a no-brainer.

So they did, and after their third date, Marion dropped a pair of ice cubes down her shirt and called it a day. The fall issue of
Flair
magazine had just arrived, and she hopped into bed and began to browse through its stylish pages.

“Fifteen Top Makeup Tips for Hiding Skin Cancer Scars”

“Heat Stroke CAN Make You Look Younger” “Summer Fling or the Real Thing?”

That last one was a quiz. Maybe it was too early, but Marion wanted to see where Alan stood, clinging to the possibility that he might be more than he appeared to be.

And about thirty more head-scratchers.

Marion tried to give herself the benefit of the doubt, but couldn’t imagine many of those negatives flipping to affirmatives anytime soon. She expected the sweet-as-ice-cream phase to plod on for some time.

Her score of twenty put her firmly in the Major Fling category. She wasn’t surprised, although she always fostered hopes that her latest summer love, the airy confection of the world of romance, would turn out to be something more filling.

How many dates were left in this fling? It was hard to tell. You couldn’t judge anything by the weather. The summer swelters were a life sentence.

Their next date, at the municipal go-kart track, was romantic as hell. As they took a break from the races and shared a Yoo-hoo, she quizzed him.

“What’s your last name, Alan?”

“I like it when you say my first name.”

Birth date?

“Younger than you think, old enough to know better!” Hobbies.

“Seeing you, babe.”

Three favorite things.

“Marion, Marion, Marion.”

Around and around and around they went.

Can’t beat a twenty with those answers, Marion thought, leaning into a turn. Major Fling confirmed.

After they had a post-racing snack at Bunny’s, Marion asked her summer love to turn down a side street, which took them past the camp, not far from her house.

“Stop here,” she said.

“What’s wrong?”

“Thank you for a lovely day.” She kissed him quick as she opened her door.

“I don’t understand.”

“I can walk home from here. It’s just around the corner.”

“But why didn’t you let me drop you off there? It’s getting dark out.”

“Because you need to be here.”

He looked like he didn’t know his last name.

“Here”
she said, pointing at the grouping of tents in the vacant lot.

She touched his cheek, trying to wash the confusion from his face.

“Just walk over there and see what you find. Talk to the people.”

“Are you dumping me?”

“Trust me.”

“Can I see you again?”

“I don’t think there’s any doubt about that.”

She left him then, glancing over her shoulder as he exited his heap and cautiously approached the camp.

Soon, he would understand.

Back home, the guilts got Marion even before she kicked off her Vans. She didn’t enjoy tommy-gunning a summer love at the knees, but in the long run, for her sanity’s sake, it was the only way to fly.

More remorse as she headed upstairs, wondering what Alan would find, knowing that she had only visited the camp that one time. Which was one time more than she could handle. Which was why she had never gone back. Nobody could blame her for not going back, after what she saw. What she saw nobody should have to see, even someone who had seen it all.

Up in the guest room window, Marion regarded the night. She could see the lights of the camp from here, hurricane lamps on poles. A few shadows moved about, too far to make out any details. The details didn’t matter; it was the big picture that told the real story. Safer just to look at the big picture, too. Didn’t get your hands dirty that way. Didn’t get your heart mussed up.

In the distance, a sign of lightning. Not a bolt, just a flash on the bellies of dark clouds. Marion grew hopeful at the prospect of a cool front strong enough to break summer’s back. Could it really be possible? Marion could scarcely remember the last time it rained. It was during Craig; on their first date they had taken a walk in the wet stuff. But that was eons ago.

All night Marion kept a vigil as the storm moved in. It began to sprinkle, then when the rain went steady she rushed outside and danced the Frug in her front yard. A boom of thunder sent her scurrying back inside. She followed the rest of the action from her bed, watching in wonder as the storm rolled through town. When the worst had passed, she slept, feeling a cool, rain-soaked breeze wash over her.

In the morning, though, the heat was on her again like a tiger. It crawled in her open window and was at her throat before she could react. Groggy, she fought her way to the window and slammed it down to the sill. She shut her eyes, the heat trying to get at her through the pane. Was the rain just a dream? she wondered.

Marion thought about the boys of summer, in the camp. They were still in her heart, every one of them. She wondered if they survived the storm, if their love saw them through. Those tents couldn’t hold their own against a gale.

It’s not a dumping ground, she kept telling herself as she bravely went to the front door, pushing her way into the stifling air. It’s a camp. A convention. A Happening.

Marion expected to find a boy of summer on her stoop, and was oddly disappointed when not only the stoop but the street was unoccupied.

When she arrived at the camp, she felt relieved at the sight of an intact collection of multicolored tents of all sizes and configurations arranged like the streets of a town. The camp had rode out the storm, but there didn’t seem to be anybody around.

Maybe they’ve had enough of me, she fretted. Maybe I’ve been taking them for granted for too long. Maybe they decided to get another girl. Wiping the sweat from her upper lip, she was chilled by the thought. An endless summer without a summer love. What kind of life would that be? But maybe, she thought, if I no longer had a summer love, I would find a love that would last forever. But the boys of summer had been part of her life so long that it was hard to imagine loving any other way.