The Seventh Day

 

DAY 1 :

           Luke Paddington, known as "Luke Skywatcher" to his friends, adjusted the fine tuning dials of his telescope, and turned his Mets cap backwards so that the bill wouldn't get in his way.

           It was a chilly night, late September, and gooseflesh rose on his arms and legs as an early autumn breeze wafted through the back yard. It would be getting colder quickly now, and he lamented that soon he would need to bundle up in order to come out here and do his star gazing. As for tonight, he was dressed in just denim jeans and a T-shirt. The T-shirt had a picture of Einstein on it—probably his most famous portrait—the one with him sticking his tongue out, eyes wide.

           Luke rubbed his arms with his hands, hoping the friction would do the trick, but the heat only lasted for a moment, and then up came the gooseflesh again. He tried to ignore the chills that racked him, and focused on his view of the moon. Oh, it was a special one tonight: what the newsman had called a harvest moon. It was impossibly huge, and colored an eerie shade of orange. To Luke, it was sheer beauty. Some fourteen-year-olds ogled pictures of bikini clad women. Luke ogled the heavens. Not that he didn't enjoy the chicks as much as the next guy, but there was just something about being out here alone at night. Just him and his scope. It was the closest he had come to magic.

           Luke focused in on a particularly fascinating crater, and pictured little moon men, hopping up and down, in their low gravity world, leaving footprints that never faded, that never got dusted over. Sure, it was a far out fantasy, but what happened next completely blew his mind, and the collective mind of the Earth, because that was when Pluto exploded.

           At first Luke thought that the sudden flash of light in the corner of his eye was an airplane exploding. And that thought was immediately replaced with the inexpressible fear of nuclear warfare. Had North Korea finally gone crackers and launched the big one? It all seemed plausible when he examined the skies. They were lighting up like the Fourth of July, albeit in a far off corner. But it was like he had always pictured, or seen in his nightmares. A big flash, followed by several smaller, less luminous flashes.

           And then, before he could contemplate the thought of insanely destructive bombs any longer, the light disappeared, or rather, faded, leaving the afterimage fresh in Luke's frightened eyes.

           He stood there for a moment, staring into the maw of the heavens, slowly regaining his normal vision, and for the first time, he noticed that his knees were shaking. The same way they had shaken the time he kissed Gloria Grossbeak on the lips.

           He cracked his knuckles, and took a deep breath, trying to shake off the fear, but his knees went right on knocking. So he ignored them and swung the telescope in the general direction of the explosion, and looked through the viewfinder. He could see nothing but dark sky, and a few random stars.

           He thought of training the telescope back onto the moon for another look, but suddenly the moon wasn't sheer beauty anymore. It now seemed alien and cold. Somehow sinister. He tore his eyes away, and turned his baseball cap back around the right way. It was time to pack up and go inside. Whatever had just happened had spoiled his mood. It had sullied the magic.

* * *

           It didn't take long for Luke to know that something was wrong when he entered the living room, his right arm weighted down with the telescope. The looks on his parents' faces said more than words ever could. In fact, for a moment, he even forgot about the explosion—or whatever it had been.

           His father, Kerry, wore a look of focused concern, and his mother, Julia, wore one of befuddled shock. They were both literally sitting on the edge of their seats, staring, rapt, at the news anchor on the television. A full bowl of microwave popcorn sat, ignored, on a far off corner of the couch. A bottle of beer, likewise ignored, swayed from Kerry's long fingers.

           "—believed to have been Pluto. Experts at a New Mexico solarium reported the blast just minutes ago. Of course, there is still speculation on whether—"

           "What's going on?" Luke said, leaning the telescope against the recliner.

           His mother said, "Shhh" and waved a distracted hand at him. She pointed to the TV with the other hand. His father took a slow pull from his longneck bottle, filled his mouth until his cheeks bellowed, and then swallowed slowly and deliberately. Luke saw his Adam's apple fall and then rise in perfect time. It reminded him of an ice cube sinking down into a glass of water, and then bobbing back up to the surface.

           His father then stifled a burp with the back of his hand, letting the air out in a slow hiss. "Sit down, son." He pointed to the recliner. "Something like this doesn't happen often."

           Luke did as he was told, and focused his attention on the news anchor, who was standing outside. A breeze was blowing his perfectly quaffed hair into wild swirls. He was looking up at the sky. He held a finger to his ear.

           "We're getting word now of confirmation. The explosion was indeed that of the planet Pluto, our farthest neighbor. The cause of the blast is still yet unknown, but astronomers are already working on unraveling this most odd of mysteries. We will keep you updated as details filter in. Back to you, Phil."

           For the next twenty minutes, they watched as several astronomers, physicists, and people who didn't know a nebula from a hole in the ground tried to explain just what had caused the sudden explosion, so many miles away. The people varied in education, status, and age, but the net result was the same in every case: no one seemed to know what the hell was going on.

DAY 2 :

           Ogden Hammersmith hadn't heard anything about Pluto exploding. For that matter, he hadn't heard about the war in Iraq or even of the Twin Towers collapsing.

           The reason for this was very simple: the only time Ogden came into contact with a newspaper was when he fished a few out of the garbage and used them for blankets. And TV—forget it.

           Ogden had been living in Branford Park for the last seven years. Ever since his wife had left him, and he had lost his job down at the feed n'seed. Hell, when he found out that he couldn't hold on to a woman, or even hold on to a job as a manure jockey, he gave up. On everything.

           It didn't take long for the little money he had to run out, what with him spending it on booze and a baggy of pot now and then. Even one bottle and a little pinch of the green stuff could cost a pretty penny. Mind-fucker-uppers didn't come cheap.

           Within a month of his downward spiral, he was spending the majority of his time in Branford Park, feeding the birds bread, letting his hair and beard go wild, and changing his clothes an average of once a week. And a month after that, he was eating the bread himself, and using the empty bag to store the spare change that he begged off of people that were nice enough to throw him a quarter or dime. And a bench that was built in the memory of John T. Nordstrom (whoever the hell that was) became his home during the day and his bed at night.

           It was during that second month that he started noticing the fear in the eyes of those that passed him by. Especially the children. Their eyes were like saucers as they stared and gripped their parent's arm a little tighter. But the dogs were the worst. Ogden had always been an animal person, and the animals, especially dogs, instinctively trusted him. He would calm the fiercest of beasts, turning a wary growl into a greedy face lick. But now they maintained their growls, even deepened them. And barked. They all barked at him. It made him want to cry.

           And now it had been seven years in the park. To him, it felt like a lifetime. He could barely even remember the guys at work, and his wife, well, it was another time altogether. Eons ago.

           Ogden was thinking about his wife, as he so often did, and absently stroking his gray speckled beard when the flash in the sky—the second one in two days (he had been fast asleep for the Pluto blast)—caught his attention.

           At first, he thought it might be fireworks. Was the fair in town? They had always done fireworks on Saturday, the last night. But, was it Saturday? He didn't know. It was easy to lose track of the days when nothing mattered. The dreaded Monday meant nothing to him, and the celebrated weekend was equally meaningless. Even night and day lost its continuity. Sometimes he would wake up at dawn, only to realize, after awhile, that it was really dusk.

           But it was dark when the explosion happened. He knew that much. And, by gum, it didn't much look like fireworks anymore. It had none of the floral structure, or any structure at all. In fact, it looked more like when that damn shuttle had exploded. The Challenger, it was, back in the 80s. He had watched them play that clip over and over on the news. One piece going this way, one going that way. And then he had heard the tasteless jokes at work: What does NASA stand for? Need Another Seven Astronauts. And: How did they know that Christa McCoullagh had dandruff? Because they found her "head and shoulders" on the beach. The jokes had made him feel sour and disgusted, but he had laughed anyway. He was spineless that way.

           His eyes were glued to the sky now, taking in everything, like a frightened child. A little chill went up his spine, and he shivered involuntarily as he watched the increasing disorder among the stars.

           And then, after maybe thirty seconds, it was over, and the sky darkened again. It was like someone had turned off a bright lamp, and the afterimages flashed in Ogden's vision, turning blue first, then green. He looked around to see if anyone else had witnessed what he had just seen. No one was there, except for a squirrel that looked at him, and then quickly scuttled up a tree. Scared of me. Just like all the rest, he thought.

           After a moment, Ogden began to wonder if he had hallucinated the whole thing. After all, isn't that what bums did? Hallucinate, and then piss in their pants? Well, at least his trousers were dry.

           Ogden then laid back down on his bench—the one he shared with the ghost of the late great John T. Nordstrom—and stared up at the starry sky. It was like any other night now. No flashes. Nothing amiss. He closed his eyes, and never knew that he had witnessed the total destruction of the planet Neptune.

DAY 3:

           The horse, known as "Apples" to his owner, reached his nose through a small square in the wire fence, and nibbled on some tall wild grass that was growing there. He often sampled this lush growth when his oats were gone, as the interior of his pen was mostly churned up mud, and a few useless rocks.

           He was alone, and had been for months now. Formerly he had been penned up with a beautiful black mare, but she had since died of natural causes. Apples still mourned for her daily, and thought of her most poignantly on nights like this. Cool, clear nights like tonight. Nights where the air felt crisp, and the mud felt cold and good against the hooves. It was on nights like this that they would chase each other around the pen, playing games and flirting in their animal way. Yes, he missed her dearly. More than his owner could have ever expected. He cried in his own tearless way, and felt the depression and loss just as strongly as a human mourning a deceased mate. Sometimes more strongly.

           He was thinking of her high pitched whinny and her dark, oil well eyes as he chewed the grass with his enormous yellowed teeth. It was terrible to be alone like this, and he was thinking of how he might lay down on his side and have a nap for a spell. And maybe he would dream of her. He often did. In the dreams he was happy again. Alive again.

           Apples swallowed a large mass of grass cud, shivered violently and looked up to the sky. A small whinny escaped him. It was a starry night like so much of the summer had been so far, and, in his animal way, he pondered the nature of the universe (as much as a horse can.) And just before he was about to lower his head for a final sniff of grass, perhaps one more bite, he saw a bright flash. It startled him greatly, but not as greatly as it had last night. And certainly not as greatly as the night before that. Then, he had run around the pen, nervously, crying out, and kicking his food trough. Now he only stared at the strange light in the sky with a slight fear that was more curiosity than fright. He whinnied once, as if in protest, and then watched as the light once again faded to darkness.

           He would get used to the flashes, he supposed. The same way he had gotten used to the mare being gone. He wouldn't like it, but he would cope.

           Apples stomped one front hoof into the ground three times just to feel the mud, and then he folded his legs under and sat down. In just a few minutes he was fast asleep, and dreaming. Above him, far above him, millions of pieces of rock that were once Uranus soared through space, hurtling to unknown corners of the universe.

DAY 4 :

           Tia Jergins pulled Tommy Gratiot on top of her. They were on the beach, and she could feel her body deepening the indentation in the sand from the heft of his weight.

           "I'm serious, Tommy. If we don't do it now, we might never get to. Do you want to die without ever having sex? Because that's what's going to happen if you chicken out."

           "I'm not chickening out," Tommy said, brushing some sand off of his elbow. "I just think you're jumping to conclusions, that's all. Just because—"

           "They're all exploding. All in a row," Tia said, her voice wavering with emotion. "It's going to happen again. Tonight."

           "You don't know that."

           "I do know that." Now the tears were coming. "Tonight is Saturn. And then Mars, or whatever the fuck planet comes next—"

           "Jupiter," Tommy said quietly.

           "Jupiter. Whatever. And then pretty soon it's going to be us! Why can't you just admit it?!" She wiped the tears from her cheeks with the back of her hand, and started tugging at his shirt, lifting it off of him. "Now, do it, Tommy. Just do it. I want to know what it's like." She was heaving now, crying audibly. "Don't you?"

           Tommy reluctantly let her take off his shirt, and watched as she went straight for his belt next. He let her unbuckle it, knowing that he would give in to her, and still uncertain how he felt about it. But, he was getting aroused anyway. It was hard not to, even in these circumstances.

           "Of course I do," he said. "But we should wait. Tia, c'mon..."

           "Wait?!! Tommy, this is the only chance we're going to get." She slipped her own shirt over her head and tossed it to the sand. "The only one."

           And as if to prove her point, just then the sky lit up in a brilliant spray of light. It was still a shock, though they had both known in their guts that it was coming soon.

           They both paused, and looked up, taking in the spectacle with something like fear sprinkled with a primal awe. They watched, rapt, as the planet Saturn, burst apart, exploding outward like a gargantuan grenade. And then, after a long moment, the sky returned to normal. Dark and starry once again.

           "Now do you believe me?" Tia said, but there was really no need for an answer. Tommy shuffled out of his pants, and helped Tia with hers. And then they became one on the sand, with the rush of the ocean waves crashing behind them. And it was so wonderful that for the briefest of moments they both forgot about what was happening "up there," and what would almost certainly be happening "down here" within the week. It seemed it was just them, alone in the universe. A universe that was eternal and indestructible. Nothing like the one that they now knew.

DAY 5 :

           Ethel Jones lit the last candle in the series of twenty that she had positioned around the altar that she had constructed in her living room. The wavering light created an eerie glow that partially illuminated the two-foot-high cross in front of her. The cross was made from two pieces of scrap wood that she had found in the garage. She had bound them together with a spool of thick green yarn and a single nail, driven neatly through the center.

           Propped up against the lower portion of the cross was a picture of Jesus that had once belonged to her mother. Ethel looked into the calm eyes, and tried to transfer that peace to her own fretting mind.

           It would only be two more nights now. Tonight would be Jupiter, then Mars, and then... well.. then it would be Kingdom Come, Thy Will Be Done.

           Ethel closed her eyes, and tried to think of a hymn. None came to her, so she began to hum "Silent Night." And that would be nice... If tonight was a silent night. Of course, it was possible. Anything was possible. Sure, those news guys were saying that time was running out, but what did they know? They were just a bunch of clueless, scared folks. Just people, like everybody else. And when it came right down to it, people didn't know jack squat.

           When "Silent Night" started to get repetitive, Ethel trailed off, and opened her eyes. What now? The rosary, she supposed. She was reaching for the string of beads when, all of a sudden, her window lit up like daytime.

           Jupiter, she mused, and was somewhat surprised that she felt more resignation than fear. Jupiter is no more. She stared up at the glowing window pane; the beads dangled from her hand. The explosions were getting brighter now—closer. She supposed tomorrow night would really be something. A real humdinger, as they used to say when she was a girl. A real doozy.

           Soon, the brightness faded, and the candles once again shed the only light. It flickered and created moving shadows on the wall.

           Ethel began reciting the rosary, counting the beads, one by one.

DAY 6 :

           Ronny Tiller, retarded since his birth sixteen years before, sat on the roof, just outside his second-story bedroom window. He often came out here at night and sat on the shingles, to contemplate the night sky—which, in Ronny-speak, meant, "Look up at the sparkles." Had his parents known that he did this, risking life and limb, they would have had a collective conniption fit.

           Ronny worked on opening a small package of peanut butter crackers, working at it with his long dirty fingernails. It would take him a few minutes—it always did—but he would get it eventually. And then he would shove them into his mouth one by one, until his cheeks swelled up like Louie Armstrong. Then he would chew the whole mass, spraying orange crumbs all over his clothes and the roof. It was a routine with him. And routines were good for Ronny, because that meant he didn't have to think.

           To say that Ronny was aware of the recent situation in space would be half true—well, maybe a quarter true. He knew about the "lights in the sky" and how they had "sparkled extra bright" this week. And he knew, in some far off peripheral way, that people had been "extra worried." But he really had no understanding of the implications. In fact, his main concern lately—what really had him preoccupied—was finding out what was inside of a golf-ball. He had been chipping away at a range ball that he had found in the woods with a sharp stone for the better part of a week now, only succeeding in making a few small dents in the cover. He suspected that if he ever got to the center he might find a gumball, or possibly a Tootsie Roll.

           The cellophane wrapper of the crackers finally broke free, and Ronny started in on the business of packing them all in his mouth. He chewed with his mouth open, as always (a habit his mother thought was utterly disgusting, but would never say so).

           As he sat there chewing, his mind a blank slate, he ran one hand through his hair, sprinkling it with crumbs in the process. With his other hand he felt for the lump in his front pocket—the golf-ball. Still there.

           The ingredients of a thought started to collect in Ronny's brain, and he was about to form some type of mental picture (it was always a slow and often fruitless process) when the inevitable happened: The fantastic burst of light in the sky.

           Ronny chewed just a little bit slower, and his eyes widened just a bit, taking in the spectacular view. The "star show" was a real good one tonight. The explosion went on for a full minute or more, shooting pieces of rock in every direction. Then, as had been the status quo, the light faded, returning the sky to its former state.

           A tremendously goofy smile burst onto Ronny's face (the teeth were flecked with countless orange cracker bits), and he began to clap wildly. After a moment, he stopped and raised his fists in the air like an Olympic champion. Oh yes, the "star show" was real good.

DAY 7 :

           The world waits in a hum of anxiety. People all over the globe, billions of them, have rented out space in their minds to the one emotion that has always been lurking around every corner, around every bend: fear.

           Many stand outside and raise their eyes to the heavens, but some stay indoors, cowering in fear or plastered on cheap whiskey. But whether young, old, inside, outside, drunk, or sober, they all wait. What else can they do?

* * *

           A boy named Luke "Skywatcher" Paddington fine tunes his telescope, and scans the skies for anomalies. His fingers tremble as he works the dials. He wonders what Einstein would make of all this. Perhaps, soon he will get the chance to ask him.

* * *

           A bum named Ogden Hammersmith wakes suddenly and sits up on his park bench. He strokes his beard, and notices that everything seems a little too quiet. Something doesn't feel quite right. He ponders: Perhaps it has something to do with the flashes he has been seeing at night—something amiss in the natural balance of things. Before he has time to think about it in any detail, he falls back asleep right there, sitting up.

* * *

           A horse named Apples sniffs the air, and senses an electric quality to it. He rears up on his back legs, and paws at the air with his front feet. A nervous whinny escapes him, and his beautiful bulbous black eyes roll wildly in their sockets, taking on an eerie spooked look. He comes back down to all fours, but only for a moment before he repeats it all again.

* * *

           A girl named Tia Jergins holds tightly onto the hand of her boyfriend, Tommy Gratiot. Both palms are cold and clammy, and they make a squelching sound whenever one of them squeezes. Tia is crying again, and Tommy feels like it, but wants to be tough and strong for her. After awhile, they get tired of standing, and get some lawn chairs out of the garage, never once letting go of each other's hand. Then they sit, and wait.

* * *

           An elderly woman named Ethel Jones is alone in her house, reading her Bible aloud. Candles burn. When she comes to a passage that seems pertinent, she increases the volume of her voice. Between words, she purses her thin lips in concentration. The effect is that of a television evangelist. She goes on and on. She will read the entire book like this, if there is time.

* * *

           A retarded teenager named Ronny Tiller is more confused tonight than usual. His parents are acting funny, and he doesn't know why. So, with a look of pained concentration, he chips away at his golf-ball, and, lo and behold, it finally cracks! But, to his disappointment, there is no gum or candy inside... just rubber.

           It starts with a screeching loud whistle. Like the "train" in all those stories of destructive tornados. This sound increases in intensity until it is all but unbearable. People everywhere cover their ears, but their eyes open wide... for a light is also coming.

           The light is bright—brighter than the sun—but somehow, it doesn't hurt the eyes. In fact, it does the opposite. It is like a visual salve. And now the whistling abates—it turns to beautiful music, played by instruments never imagined.

           They don't notice it at first. The pattern. But as everything closes in on them at a terrific speed, it starts to become clear. Just what is becoming clear is impossibly perplexing, and laughingly obvious all at once. It is the mystery. That unobtainable answer that is always just beyond reach. The answer to what it all means and the answer to why.

           It is like a form of telepathy when it all starts to sink in. Every human sense revels in the majesty, and yearns for more, even as it is sated. And then, as if providing an infant with milk, more is given. The hollow void is finally being filled. Satisfaction escalates in every human soul as each is filled with all that is true.

           They begin to laugh. All of them. Six billion of them. Even the Ronny Tillers of the world are finally "getting it." It all makes such blessed sense.

           And they are ready to move on. They no longer fear death because death is an illusion. A gateway. Just a dream. It is clear.

           And annihilation of the planet lingers in the air, but there will be other worlds—an infinity of them. There always has been. And as they all watch the skies, the end of the Earth arrives like a warm spring zephyr after a long hard winter.