SOILS DEPARTMENT

Edna twirls the twisted phone cord, tries to subdue the stubborn coils—this is even worse than untangling her own graying braid. She promises herself she won’t let her nerves stop her this time. How on earth can this cord be so tangled up when it’s barely ever used? The greasy, dusty surface of the heavy phone is off-putting. It isn’t easy to touch it, let alone pick it up. But this reluctance can be overcome by the application of will. She needs to make the call. No more excuses. 

Dirt encroaches, despite her vigilance. She always vacuums whenever the electricity comes back on. Of course, those intervals are less frequent now. But she sweeps and mops daily, wipes down cracks, and kneels to scrub, at least she does so when there’s enough water in the reservoir. She’s exhausted, and her efforts are increasingly risible. She can’t escape seeing it, the earth, the way the water and land keep expanding, intent on taking everything back. Here it is, pooling in the corners, dust motes in the air, heavy muddy wetness in the corners where the floor meets the wall. Already the sloping floor at the far end is brown, glistening, nearly bubbling. 

She’s held it at bay as long as she can. Now, with her choices dwindled down to nothing, just her in this room, with this old telephone, she’s as ready as she’ll ever be. The receiver activates muscle memory with its heavy plastic density. She can’t recall the last time she touched it, let alone used it, but its familiarity is a comfort. This phone has been here for who knows how long. She remembers the way it used to be: wait until the rates go down, excruciatingly mindful of the cost of each call as it travels through phone lines strung along the earth. Birds sometimes perched on those lines. When did the birds go away? 

And now, dialing each number: a deliberate act carrying its own gravitas, requiring strength in the finger and the hand; the clear circular dial with its round cutouts spinning back to neutral resting position every time. At this rate, she thinks, she’ll be under the earth before she can even finish dialing the damn number. But she perseveres, flexing her fingers. Ten numbers, digits. One for each finger. Done. 

Still, she can’t quite believe it when she hears the ringing in her ear. This antique device works, retaining its viability long past its prime. Surely there is a lesson to be learned here. She gives an audible snort, startling herself. Once an English teacher, always an English teacher. Next she’ll be explaining metaphor to an imaginary class. And she’ll have to tell them what anthropomorphizing means, and make them use it in a sentence. She flinches when the woman’s voice comes on the line, sounding young and uncertain. Are they making children dispatchers these days? No, it’s just that everyone sounds young to her now.

The connection crackles. 

“Hello? Are you there?” There’s too much shrillness in her voice. She means to keep her composure. “I need assistance here. The dirt, it just keeps coming. So much dirt.”

“Ma’am, I’d like to ask you to remain calm. Let me transfer you to the Soils Department. That’s who you need to talk to.”

“Please help me! I can’t hold it back any longer. I’m alone here. I’m afraid I’m going to be buried alive.”

“Ma’am, I can promise you someone will take your information so that our responders can assist. Please hold.”

Edna is begging this stranger for help when the line goes into a muzak rendition of “Somewhere over the Rainbow.” She wonders what fresh hell awaits. Will anyone actually come? What will happen? Her mind flashes with images of weary, thin-faced travelers, past and present. So many years ago, lecturing eighth graders about The Great Dust Bowl, her class squirming with their well-worn copies of The Grapes of Wrath, only one or two students who really listened or were moved. Those students are old now. If they’re even still alive. If only they had known. Then her mind shifts, grasping for candor, especially at this late date. Clarity. “They”—whoever “they” were—had known. We, not they. We’d all known, really. And, well, voila—the current situation: the dirt.

If they—someone, anyway—do come to rescue her, where will they take her? She pictures rows of unyielding cots, lines for the restroom, metal bowls of thin gruel, bickering with fellow refugees. After all, so many are already displaced. Does she really want to consign herself to a prison? What’s the point? No place is safe now. And this is her home, no matter how imperfect, dirt or no dirt. It’s just a matter of time, and not much time, for that matter, before it’s all over. No government agency can stop what has so decisively been put in motion.

The muzak goes on. Edna waits. She’s connected to the right number, and help will be on its way. Or they’ll triage her situation, or something. But then what? This phone call is a mistake. The heavy, greasy receiver is weighing down her shoulder, her neck, probably leaving marks on her blouse. This isn’t good, not good at all. She’s always loved Somewhere over the Rainbow, but now she’s starting to hate it. She’s perspiring heavily. 

Edna pictures her mother, telling her to stand up straight, saying, ‘you’re embarrassing me.’ She pictures her older brother, saying that only babies cry. She pictures her father, putting a bandaid on her knee, saying, ‘that’s my brave girl.’ She pictures her husband, saying, ‘you’ve never really needed me,’ as he walks away for the final time. She pictures her son, standing squarely with his new wife, making his choice clear.

And then it happens. A click, and a man’s voice.

“Soils Department.”

Edna lets the receiver fall back heavily into its base. She’ll proceed, as she has always done, alone. Scared, sure—but facing her fear. She hears the ominous cracking as the outside wall buckles. She straightens her shoulders and pats the phone, her last unexpected companion. She clasps her hands over her belly, and has a brief flash of the memory of her baby kicking. She hears her own voice, taking care of herself, calm and strong. “That’s my brave girl.”