The Earthquake of ‘59

Read by Benjamin Ellis Fine

People don’t think much about earthquakes in North Carolina. Hurricanes, sure. Floods, landslides, lightning strikes, even hailstorms. But when the floors in Liz’s Lewisville living room begin to vibrate, sending her collection of ceramic Santa Claus figurines trembling to the edges of their glass display case, Liz thinks of earthquakes.

A chasm opens in her mind, revealing a hidden jewel of a treasured memory. Mine as well take it out and give it a good polish.

Liz places her hand on the back of the sofa, fingers the nubs of the fern green afghan draped over its center cushions. Behind her eyelids she is seventeen. High school is over. Class of ’59. She’s made her way on the Greyhound from North Carolina to the northwest corner of Wyoming. She sticks out her thumb, the way she was told. Jean is the first woman she’s seen drive a truck. Jean, who will get her the job at the hospital, who will train her, who shows her where to go for a bite to eat, where to buy grass, what radio station to tune into, who offers her the couch on her screened in porch for the summer. Jean picks her up.

Liz sits on the sofa in Lewisville, relaxing back into to that night, mid-August. She and Jean return home from the bar. ‘Remember,’ Jean teases her as they walk up the gravel driveway, ‘remember when you told me you didn’t really like the taste of beer?’ Their laughter is an accompaniment to the night creature sounds. There’s a letter in the mailbox, poking out. It’s postmarked NC and she knows it’s from Tom. He is saying if she doesn’t come back, it’s over. She can consider it done. Wendy Mayer is ready to take her place. If she would just stop playing nurse out West, then they could get busy living already. How strange, some names always stick, even if the people never do.

Liz takes the letter and walks behind the house, into the darkness between the porch and the line of trees. She can’t see the pines, but she can smell them, smell the dirt, smell the lake, smell her own tears. She can smell Jean too, the Laramies on her breath and the orange oil she rubs into her skin. Jean puts her hand at the back of Liz’s elbow, then feels her way up the forearm until she finds an open palm. She places her lighter there. A flame spits out, illuminating one face to the other. They are closer than they thought. Liz holds up the paper to the flame. His words now a lantern for two sets of lips to find each other in the middle of Yellowstone.

And then the whole earth moves.
The hills and the woodlands roar out.
Branches snap and birds oscillate overhead.
This is what a decision made on my own feels like, Liz thinks.
Jean grabs her and pulls her down to the pine needle blanket of the ground.
Jean covers Liz with her own body.
They stay like this until it’s still.

The Santa Claus figurines cease moving in unison, like they’ve refrozen at the North Pole after a trip around the world. Silence, now that Tom has turned the truck’s diesel engine off in the driveway. Liz watches him climb down from his rig. She stands and spritzes the orange-scented air freshener on her way to the kitchen. Tom will be expecting dinner.