Wimbledon, Kentucky Read online

  Contents

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Join the Collective!

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Join the Collective

  About the Author

  COPYRIGHT

  COPYRIGHT © 2016 H. CLAIRE Taylor

  www.hclairetaylor.com

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

  ISBN: 0615965288

  ISBN-13: 978-0615965284

  Thank you to Julia, John, and my writing group.

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  CHAPTER ONE

  IT HADN’T YET WARMED UP in Kentucky, which was odd. It was August.

  It had always warmed up before, but not this time. In fact, the whole earth was downright chilly. The children lost interest in snowballs, snowmen, and sledding, and people only grew paler and paler. Many scientists, with their backs against the wall, eventually blamed global warming, clinging tightly to their theory and creating new theories to nurse the dying one back to health. Inevitably, the cold, pale people decided they hated scientists.

  Humble little Wimbledon, Kentucky, never thought it’d be known for anything special, mostly because there was nothing special about it. It wasn’t even slightly interesting. The most interesting thing that had happened in years was the mysterious yawning epidemic of ’92, which had started when Jeffrey Hamford told a small group of townsfolk about his hogs’ new habit of rolling in the mud before they ate, then eating for a while until almost all the slop was gone, then rolling in the mud once more before going back to check the trough for remnants and how very unusual that was for a set of hogs to take a break from rolling in the mud to check for remnants…

  The yawns caught from person to person, as yawns tend to, until the whole town was in on it, shooting yawns back and forth around Main Street like a pinball machine. It carried on for days, and no one really noticed when it stopped.

  But Wimbledon was now the place where people first realized that there’d been no summer, and after they’d realized it, they all felt a bit silly for taking so long to figure it out.

  The people of Wimbledon told the people of Hopshire, the next town over, and though the Hopshirites claimed they’d already figured it out way before the Wimbledonians, they hadn’t. They just didn’t want to feel silly by admitting that those damn Wimbledonians had caught on to it before they had.

  All of Hopshire shared the same trepidation when they heard the news. They agreed at the town hall meeting, where they frequently came to resolutions about the feelings of the town as a whole, that hearing the news felt like finding out you’d been stalked for the past six months without knowing who was doing it or why it was being done.

  When the news spread south, all the Texans felt rather embarrassed; they should have been the first to miss the warm weather. When the news spread west, the Californians rejoiced in thinking how much this might help the polar bear population.

  Once the Internet had become saturated enough with the news that the major networks began reporting on it, the federal government became aware of the situation, and the White House issued a statement that claimed it’d seen this coming for months and blamed it on Americans for being fiscally irresponsible. When Americans protested, the White House recanted its statement, instead issuing an official Statement of Resentment to the Chinese for preventing warm weather, to which the Chinese responded, “We were just about to do the same thing to you!” Secretly, the Chinese wondered why they hadn’t missed summer before the Americans had mentioned it, and the Chinese government began mass-producing propaganda claiming that it was because of the increasing body heat produced by overpopulation. It quickly passed legislation for a full restriction on childbirth.

  One of the Wimbledonians had a cousin living in Australia who he called to tell about the missed summer. The cousin was alarmed, and decided to get the word out. She started with all the media outlets, but all she got was an “Oy! It’s still wintah heeah, mate!”

  The Europeans said it was probably because of the poverty in Africa—oh no, they weren’t blaming Africa; they made that clear with the multi-artist benefit concert. They were blaming Americans for being so stingy. Had America taxed its citizens more, it could have spent more on African aid, and things would have warmed up, saving the hardworking pop artists the trouble of adding philanthropy to their already exhausting schedules.

  The North Africans had noticed the lack of warm weather as soon as the cold had set in. It wasn’t supposed to be cold where they lived. Ever. They’d been politely mentioning it to the Europeans since the first snow, but the Europeans dismissed it as tribal superstition and increased their financial aid toward North African educational facilities.

  The Scandinavians heard about it last of all, and they just laughed. Misery loves company.

  Then Russia blamed America, and America blamed China again, and China blamed Tibet, and Tibet shrugged it off. But Israel blamed Palestine, and Palestine blamed Great Britain, and Great Britain blamed France, and France blamed America, and America blamed Russia, and Russia blamed Germany, and Germany wondered if maybe everyone was right to blame them, but then decided to blame Iran instead. Iran blamed Iraq, and Iraq blamed the Western World, but just when the Western World was debating whether to blame Iraq, Afghanistan, or Islam, they had an idea. Surely this idea would be much more productive than throwing around the blame.

  It was Canada, of all places, that came up with the idea and called for a convention of world leaders in Montreal. The sequestered leaders spent three cold weeks behind closed doors until an agreement was reached that Canada was a bad place to hold an international summit during a prolonged winter. It was another two weeks before they came to a decision about the climate change, and that decision was to be announced internationally at 7:00 p.m., Mountain time. That meant 9:00 p.m. Wimbledon time.

  The Wimbledonians had developed great pride in the fact that they had been the first to draw attention to this international crisis. Never mind that the Hopshirites had managed to take credit for it for almost three full weeks before the truth came out that the epicenter of the discovery actually lay in Wimbledon. The Hopshirites had been suspiciously absent from commenting on their lie as of late, though. In fact, they’d been suspiciously absent from most everything since the day when the folks who lived in the heart of Wimbledon had seen all those military vehicles cruising west towards Hopshire.

  But once the truth was cleared up, Wimbledon was finally able to claim its proper celebrity status. The city council had passed a law that required all televisions to be turned on and set to a twenty-four-hour news s
tation at all times to follow the hoopla. And finally, after weeks of international cooperation and deliberation, there was an announcement to be made at 9:00 p.m., Wimbledon time.

  Many families, like the Sapphires, had even scheduled viewing parties. The leaders of the world were going to bring back summer, and to celebrate, the Sapphire family made a nice summery spread of hot dogs and piña coladas. Everyone was already tipsy and bloated by the time the press conference began, and they remembered why hot dogs and piña coladas weren’t supposed to be eaten when it was cold outside and you were just sitting around inside.

  All the chairs of the Sapphire house had been gathered into the living room to accommodate the large turnout. Everyone in town had wanted an invite to the Sapphires’ event, since it was during one of their dinner party conversations that the terrible lack of summer was first noticed. The Sapphires had become local celebrities since that had happened, and their house was now the place to be in town, their dinner invitations some of the most coveted in all of Kentucky. Everyone wanted to be at the next dinner party, in case lightning struck twice and another great discovery surfaced during polite conversation.

  Laurel Sapphire sat on the couch, chatting with Melanie Johnston, who bounced her small baby on her lap.

  “Weeks?” Laurel asks. “You really haven’t heard from anyone in the Hopshire school district in that long?”

  Melanie nodded gravely. “We just can’t get in touch with anyone over there. You know, I ran into Jack Knowles the other day, and he said he’d tried to rally some support from Hopshire for—oh, I can’t even remember what he was protesting—but when he drove toward their Main Street, there was nothing but barricades and mean-looking men in camo.”

  “Maybe there was just a flash flood up ahead that they were keeping people away from. Maybe they were just some hunters in their gear.” But Laurel didn’t buy her own story. Georgina, who worked at the salon with Laurel, had heard similar stories whispered lately, and didn’t hesitate to perpetuate the dissemination of information to anyone who would listen. All the stories pointed to one thing: no one in Hopshire had been heard from in weeks.

  “Turn it up!” barked Bill Sapphire at his wife. Laurel jerked away from her conversation with Melanie, fumbled with the remote control, found the volume button, and cranked it up so loud that the Johnstons’ little baby started to cry. Cooper Johnston shot his wife a look so mean that she jumped up from her seat next to Laurel and ran from the room, carrying the crying baby with her; she’d just have to miss the announcement.

  On the TV, the White House press secretary approached the podium.

  Camera flashes lit up his face as he adjusted the mic. He cleared his throat and gave the country what it was waiting for.

  “After much deliberation, the great nations of the world have reached a milestone decision. This is the first decision in this history of the world that has been unanimously agreed upon by all countries involved…”

  Laurel Sapphire held her breath. She couldn’t believe she’d been partly responsible for raising awareness to the only issue that all the leaders of the world could agree upon. She’d never thought such a thing was possible, but apparently it was, and that buoyed her faith in humanity.

  “…We’d like to think we know what is and isn’t within the control of mankind, and it has been agreed upon that this situation is a direct effect of human carelessness. But which humans? This is a simpler question to answer than it seems. It has been resolved by all the leaders of all the nations in the world that this is only a problem because someone recognized it to be, and had it never been recognized, then it never would have become the international crisis that it is today. Therefore, we rest all the responsibility for this lack of warmth upon the shoulders of Wimbledon, Kentucky. New intelligence has made it clear that it was in fact in Wimbledon, not Hopshire, that the discovery originated. The problem was created by them, and now the nations of the world are going to stand firm in holding the people of Wimbledon accountable for solving and correcting this problem. We are prepared to use appropriate force, if necessary, to ensure that this issue is resolved in a timely manner. Thank you. No questions, please.”

  No one breathed in the Sapphire living room. The Johnstons’ baby could be heard crying in the front yard. Laurel wanted to shake the baby silent and then have a good cry herself.

  None of the guests made eye contact with Mr. and Mrs. Sapphire, instead scooting out of the house as fast as they could. Bill and Laurel didn’t even bother lifting their eyes from the ground, recognizing their new status as Untouchables.

  As soon as the door closed behind the last anxious guest, Laurel turned to her husband, looking for comfort. “Oh, Bill. What are we going to do?”

  “What are you going to do, you mean,” he grumbled. “I never even wanted to have those damned dinner parties.”

  Laurel’s sense of betrayal launched her into an attack. “As I remember it, it was you who made the first comment about the weather, was it not?” Laurel didn’t give him a chance to respond. “If I’m not mistaken, it was you who said you were sick of snow.”

  Bill’s mouth opened and closed again with nothing coming out. Laurel thought he looked like a ventriloquist dummy. More so than usual, even. However, she couldn’t recall ever having seen a dummy with a gut like Bill’s.

  “Well, if Rick hadn’t followed my comment by mentioning that it was August twentieth, no one would have made the connection. You can’t blame me for saying I was sick of snow!”

  The raised voices disturbed the youngest Sapphire, Trevor, who had slept through the entire press conference but was now awake. He stood at the top of the stairs, looking down at the entry hall where his parents were standing rigid, toe-to-toe. Laurel was the first to notice Trevor there, and snapped, “Shut up!” at Bill when he tried to keep arguing.

  Laurel turned her attention back to Trevor. “What’s wrong, honey?”

  “Where did everyone go?”

  “They all had to go home.”

  Trevor wiped the sleepiness out of his eyes, and Bill bitterly wondered if Trevor did abhorrently cute things like that intentionally. “Is it going to be summer soon, Mommy?”

  “Yes, Trev Trev, real soon. Don’t worry, we’ll make sure summer comes back.”

  “Please, Mommy, please…. ” Trevor began to cry, still trying to speak between the sobs. “Please make summer come back! I miss it, Mommy. I miss summer!”

  He ran down the stairs and threw himself into his mother, who caught him and hugged him tightly while casting her husband a reproachful stare that said, “Look, Bill. Now Trevor’s crying, and it’s somehow your fault for not agreeing with me.”

  Although Bill couldn’t figure out why it would be his fault that Trevor was crying about summer, Bill knew he couldn’t win when Laurel played the Trevor’s-crying-and-it’s-your-fault card.

  Laurel turned her attention back to her crying little boy and rubbed his back. “Don’t worry, honey. Summer will come back, even if it takes Mommy and Daddy finding it and dragging it back here. Right, Bill?”

  Bill sighed. He’d lost to Laurel again. It was times like these when he began to understand why some men knocked their wives around a little bit. Never winning was extremely frustrating; it made it hard to be a good sport. Had it not been for the fact that he was pretty sure that bit of crazy buried deep down in Laurel would come out and beat him right back (and harder), he might have considered violence. But he knew what he was dealing with.

  “Right, Laurel. We’ll bring back summer, even if we have to strangle it with our bare hands until it’s unconscious, bind it, tie it to the back of a truck, and then drag it through the streets back to Wimbledon.”

  * * *

  “We’ll just have to have another dinner party,” Laurel Sapphire said as she and her husband lay in bed that night.

  Bill wasn’t yet asleep when his wife spoke, but he was already in that in-between place where his mind was running amok, putting together odd, unr
elated ideas to create something that made a whole lot of sense to his semiconscious mind. When Laurel spoke, he was considering the practicalities of using a train to go rabbit hunting.

  Yes, we could have a dinner party on the train and eat the rabbits we caught.

  But then he realized where he was and what she was actually talking about, and the idea of another dinner party somehow made less sense to him than his mind’s little fantasy.

  “You’re nuts, woman.”

  “No, I’m not!”

  “Go to bed.”

  “I will not!”

  Bill rolled over to find his wife sitting up in bed. Had she not even lain down yet?

  Dear God, what time is it? How long have I been dreaming of rabbits and trains?

  He looked past Laurel at the clock to see that he’d only been in bed about ten minutes. Well, it had been that kind of day.

  She flicked on the bedside lamp, and he knew he was stuck now; a dialogue had begun whether he liked it or not.

  “You know,” she said, “I’m not a scientist.”

  He knew that just fine. She once asked him why people called water “H2O” when the word “water” didn’t have any Hs or Os in it. No, she was no scientist. She was only a hairdresser, and he’d been begging her to get a real job since they first started dating back in community college, before she’d dropped out, that is. But she wouldn’t, so he was left to provide for the family virtually on his own…not that being a bus driver really brought home much money.

  “Where are you going with this, Laurel?”

  “Well, it’s just that this whole thing seems a little too complicated for us. You know, Melanie Johnston teaches sixth grade science, and Bret Hammersmith majored in biology for a few years in college. They would know a lot more about this winter thing than you or I would. So, I was thinking that we could have another dinner party and see if we can pick their brains.”