Everyone at church had read the prophecies; they knew the Days of
Abomination were coming. But still they’d teased Dad, they’d laughed
at him. Tonight he would be vindicated.
After dinner, Dad studied Isaiah for hours. At around ten he closed
his Bible and turned on the TV. The television was new. Aunt Angie’s
husband worked for a satellite-TV company, and he’d offered Dad a
deal on a subscription. No one had believed it when Dad said yes, but
in retrospect it was entirely characteristic for my father to move, in the
space of a day, from no TV or radio to full-blown cable. I sometimes
wondered if Dad allowed the television that year, specifically, because
he knew it would all disappear on January 1. Perhaps he did it to give
us a little taste of the world, before it was swept away.
Dad’s favorite program was The Honeymooners, and that night
there was a special, with episodes playing back to back. We watched,
waiting for The End. I checked the clock every few minutes from ten
until eleven, then every few seconds until midnight. Even Dad, who
was rarely stirred by anything outside himself, glanced often at the
clock.
11:59.
I held my breath. One more minute, I thought, before everything is
gone.
Then it was 12:00. The TV was still buzzing, its lights dancing across
the carpet. I wondered if our clock was fast. I went to the kitchen and
turned on the tap. We had water. Dad stayed still, his eyes on the
screen. I returned to the couch.
12:05.
How long would it take for the electricity to fail? Was there a reserve
somewhere that was keeping it going these few extra minutes?
The black-and-white specters of Ralph and Alice Kramden argued
over a meatloaf.
12:10.
I waited for the screen to flicker and die. I was trying to take it all in,
this last, luxurious moment—of sharp yellow light, of warm air flowing
from the heater. I was experiencing nostalgia for the life I’d had before,
which I would lose at any second, when the world turned and began to
devour itself.