The Crest

The morning broke monochromatic as Ben and Lenore walked the streets of Old Portland City. Like pilgrims in a fairy tale, they held hands as they strolled, a small gesture from a couple trying to learn the fundamentals of intimacy. They tried to sober up from the night before, attempting to recall if they’d said anything too disconcerting to regret. They could think of none. They walked on.

Lenore invited him to dinner at her house. He comprehended what that meant, in these dangerous times, it entailed a kind of commitment, but he didn’t care. He loved the skinny girl. He wanted to be with her when their two years on the Crest ended. That is, if they made it through. Throughout time, peril always enhanced the passion of the moment; it created an urgency to love. It was no different with this couple.

“You okay with this?” she asked Ben.

“Fine, you?” he replied.

“Mom and Dad are traditional. You know they won’t say much. They speak Spanish,” she divulged.

“I won’t do anything embarrassing, I promise.”

She smiled. “But you better eat, and I mean a lot. My mom likes to cook.”

“I’ll do my best.”

They walked the broken-down alleyways. This was southeast Portland, and like most of the city, barred from the enclave, left to fend for itself. Fending was what they did well; they were the connoisseurs of fending. Urban survival by another name, their subsistence was different from digging camas roots out in the wilds; here one required quick thinking, memory, scavenging, speed, and negotiation.

“We couldn’t get out. This was where we ended up, before the walls came up around the enclave. We made the best of our situation,” she said.

“You do whatever it takes,” he said.

“My father is not well, he needs insulin. He and my brother sometimes fight off the gangs, the stores are empty. You know the story.”

Ben and Lenore veered away from the gangs lingering on the corners, like wolves defending an elk carcass, stripped clean of its flesh. They stayed out of the homeless shanty towns as best they could.

“These were the neighborhoods left behind,” she said.

They proceeded out to Centennial, past the old cinder cone called Mt. Tabor. The city park was a barren expanse with hundreds of camps, their campfires radiated in the fog of the early morning. They walked along Division Street, full of abandoned coffee shops, derelict cannabis dispensaries, and ransacked mom-and-pop convenience stores. They saw run-down craftsman and American foursquare homes with their clapboard siding, cube shapes and full porches, their screen doors flapping in the early morning wind.

At 162nd Street they turned left up to a burnt-out city park and made another left on Market Street. There at the top of a rise overlooking the old city. Ben stopped and kissed Lenore.

“I’ve been wanting to do that for a long time,” he said.

“And I’ve been waiting for you to do that for a long time,” she joked.

They embraced a while longer, finding the intimacy they craved in a world turned upside down.

“This will probably be our last time together for a while. I mean until the attack is over,” he said.

“I guess so.”

“After this is all over, I’ll help take care of you and your family. I know that sounds weird, probably patronizing even.”

“Not weird, not patronizing, you’d simply be part of the family. We need all the help we can get, but hey, look at the neighborhood where we live. It’s a hovel. You can’t fix this place.”

They continued. “That’s our home over there, it’s not much to look at. And remember to eat a lot,” Lenore said.

“Don’t worry.” He squeezed her hand to ease her tension.

They entered the mobile home park called the Villa Serena. Their arrival initiated an intense excitement in the house. Lenore hugged her mother, father, and younger sister. The mother embraced the young man, she looked him in the eye and immediately assessed his worth.

“Es guapo.” He is handsome, the mother said.

“Oh madre, no lo embarras.” Oh, mother don’t embarrass him.

She touched his biceps and smiled. Fuerte también. Strong too.

Ben smiled. “No worries. She’s just being a mom.”

The mother whispered to her daughter. “Does he take care of you up there on that wall?”

“We watch each other’s backs. We’re soldiers, Mom.”

“You’ve lost weight, my dear,” the mother said.

“The food is not so good up there. Mostly the synthetic corporate crap.”

“Well let me cook you up a proper breakfast.”

“That would be great, mama.”

“I’m so afraid for you up there my dear. I hear rumors.”

“You and Papa and brother must prepare, stockpile food and find some ammunition.”

“You scare me, daughter.”

“Maybe nothing will happen, but you should be ready.”

While the others talked, the mother performed the most hallowed ritual of devotion she knew, she cooked. The daughter brought home a special guest, her guest, that was all that mattered. The miracle of the family revealed once more; the strength of the mother unbounded, her home the oasis in a dystopian desert of life. Nothing mattered more now than the precious minutes with a cherished daughter.

The cuisine soon took on a religious fervor. She chopped the tomatoes, chilis, and onions with precision. Pots of black beans, tripe, and chicken were set to boil. Soon an aroma of frying corn tortillas spread into the next room, it was the smell of home, of family, of love. Within an hour and a half, the spread was ready. The family gathered around a small round table while the mother said grace.

“Eat, eat,” the mother said.

“I will. Thank you, thank you.” Ben repeated his words, he was the nervous one now. Lenore laughed.

They began with chilaquiles consisting of quartered and fried tortillas covered with green salsa, cheese, and cream elegantly dripped across the top.

The mother returned to the kitchen, brought out a steaming pot of menudo and ladled it into everyone’s bowls. To finish, she brought a steaming plate of migas, tortilla chips cooked in eggs and salsa. She covered the migas with refried beans and more cheese and tomatoes.

The family ate and laughed. The parents gave worldly advice to the pair; they spoke of love for their daughter. And then Lenore began to cry.

“I can’t bear to leave you all.”

“We will always be here for you daughter,” the mother cried now.

“You have raised me and given me everything, but what have I given you?”

“You have given us your love, your grace, and your joy. I could not be a prouder father.” Now the whole family began to shed tears.

“It saddens me to see you up on that cruel wall, but I am gladdened to know that this young man is looking out for you,” the mother said.

“You need not worry,” Ben said.

“Brother, you need to help papa find his insulin.”

“I will, I’ve already got some leads.”

“Thank you, brother, for taking care of mother and father.”

Lenore saw the strain on her brother’s face. It fell on her sixteen-year-old sibling to scrounge for the needs of the family.

The morning blended into the afternoon, and the afternoon into the evening. Then, the pair began their long walk back to the Crest.