Chapter 5

Ten minutes later...

We really didn’t get far at all when we heard a call out on CB from someone calling herself “Dizzy Lizzie,” asking others if they’ve “seen my aunts.” When she was asked about them, she exactly described Sandy and Lauren, which definitely perked up our ears. Evidently, the use of CB radio to track down loved ones had picked up with the disruption of cellular phone service. Since we had CB, it wasn’t difficult to respond.

“Dizzy Lizzie, were your aunts married to your Uncle Judah?” I dangled the bait.

“Yes, my Aunts Sandy and Lauren were his wives,” the very worried voice on the other end told me.

“Dizzy Lizzie, this is Pecan Sandy and...,” Sandy turned to Lauren.

“Lost Lauren,” Lauren added, “and this is our new man...”

“Roman Candle,” I chuckled as I said that part.

“You’re my aunties, Aunts Sandy and Lauren? This is my new uncle?” Lizzie asked her.

“Well, we were teachers at Harry Truman High School,” Sandy narrowed it down, “Roman Candle used to be a student there.”

“Where are you?” I asked her now.

“I’m at Congregation Baruch Yisrael. There’s a few of us here, all finding rides to other places, since this town ain’t safe anymore. We’re just waiting for friends and family to pick us up. It’s a synagogue, but most of the people here aren’t even Jewish. Just refugees of all kinds. I’m literally sitting here with a Muslim girl and a Lutheran pastor’s daughter. We’ve been holding up here for a couple of weeks now. We’ve been having interfaith services, too,” Lizzie answered.

“Well, wait for us, because we’re definitely coming to find you. We’re not going to leave you there. Don’t give up. We all want you with us,” I reassured her.

I didn’t add about the hope of adding her to the harem. Maybe it would happen, maybe it wouldn’t. I wouldn’t die in any case. Odds were, Lizzie would see the benefits of being my third wife as her long-term career plan. It wasn’t as if she was university bound anymore. School was out forever, in some sense, even if not literally, universally true in all particulars.

“My friends might want to tag along. They’re worried sick that nobody is coming for them,” Lizzie added now.

“I’m game for that. How about you ladies?” I turned to my new wives.

“You’re the man of the house. Or RV in this case,” Sandy told me.

“What she said. I wouldn’t mind more sister-wives,” Lauren let the cat out of the bag.

“Well, I can’t speak for Rani and Kristin, but I would love to be the third wife. It’s a lot better retirement plan than becoming a useless old woman begging for scraps and daydreaming about back when she lived in an air-conditioned house with a fridge, stove, shower, etc. I don’t know how bad things are gonna get, not exactly, but it’s not looking good so far, is it? I’ve heard rumors about who rules Kansas City and I don’t like my chances there as a Jewess, I can say that much,” Lizzie replied with a combination of humor and dry wit.

“Well, I doubt that they’re Nazis, so if you’re a pretty young Jewess, they might not kill you,” I observed, “but the second worst option ain’t exactly a Sunday picnic.”

“You mean rape. Yeah, I’ll pass on that. Marriage beats the hell out of that, including the plural kind,” Lizzie agreed, even as we drove closer to the synagogue.

It was fortunate that we weren’t too far away, as it turned out. We parked as we reached the synagogue and all three of us climbed out of the RV in a hurry. There were only two people outside in the parking lot, two men, one older or middle-aged and one substantially younger. To my surprise, both men were armed, the older guy with a pump shotgun and the youth with an AR-15. The older guy was bald and had a neatly trimmed beard and a yarmulke on his head, suggesting that he was Jewish. He wore a sweater and gray slacks with his collars on display. The younger man wore black jeans, a khaki T-shirt, leather boots, and a brown bomber jacket. He had a goatee and brown skin, though his racial or ethnic origins were unclear.

“Welcome to our little refugee camp, for lack of a better phrase. I’m Rabbi Isaac Mankowitz. This is Indra Ramadevi. He’s originally from Mumbai. He’s Hindu, but you’d have to ask him how devout he is. He wears leather, as you can see. Since I’m not kosher, I can’t really judge too much,” the older guy told us.

“Reform?” I asked him.

“Yeah, Reform. I take it seriously, but it’s not as strict as some other traditions. Again, I can’t say much about him without knowing too many facts or pretending to be stricter than he. You’re Lizzie’s aunts, is that right? This must be your husband?” the rabbi continued as he led us to the door, “we’re on guard duty, by the way. Can’t be too careful. Next shift comes up in two hours. New sentries. Mac Quinlan and Barry Wright. We lose people now and then and have to adjust, but we also gain people at times.”

“And we don’t know how much longer we can hold on with present provisions, I’m afraid. We don’t know how long the power will last. We don’t know how long our canned goods will last, either. The loss of power would mean the loss of refrigeration and our CB radio set, among other things. We don’t know how long our medicines will last. We have a clinic here, too, so that could be a real issue. For the record, I’ve been stricter about meat eating in the past, but lately, we don’t have much of a choice, so why worry about leather if I’m already eating beef?” Indra broke his silence, “and to think, I was in law school when this whole deal broke out.”

“I see. Well, I’m Roman Danek, and yes, these are my wives ... and former teachers, Sandy Levinson and Lauren Franco. They are Lizzie’s aunts by marriage. Basically her new uncle, I guess. Long story on that,” I smiled as we went inside the synagogue.

“Danek. Polish?” Rabbi Mankowitz asked me.

“Ten-four. Lauren’s Italian, so that makes two Catholics. Nominally at least. Sandy is Assyrian, I might add. Quite the multicultural apocalypse. Lizzie said that some of them are waiting for people to collect them. Not just herself, that is,” I observed now as we walked through the building toward Lizzie’s location.

“Yes, that’s true enough, though fewer folks than used to arrive, I fear,” Indra admitted now, clearly unsure what to do about that.

Sure enough, there were a number of people seated in the dining area of the synagogue, eating some fruit salad or something along those lines. One of them rose as soon as she recognized my new wives, rushing to embrace both of them. She had chestnut curls, dark green eyes, freckles, milky skin, and a rather bright smile as she pushed back her bangs. She wore a plain green blouse with a red plaid skirt that reached her knees, perhaps a bit more modest than anything that she might have worn outside of the synagogue.

Her companions were even more demure, one of them wearing a long, black dress with a hijab and the other a lengthy sundress. The former’s hair wasn’t visible, of course, but I could see rich brown eyes along with a darker olive complexion. The latter had sandy hair, hazel eyes, and a farmer’s tan. Everything about her screamed “Midwest farmer stock.” It wasn’t rocket science who she might be. Both of the other two girls smiled at me, even as Lizzie now put her arms around me.