Helpless by Barbara Gowdy

lights go out.
    “Oh, my God,” Wanda says.
    The businessman across from Celia jerks awake. In the stumpy flame from his candle his face is ancient.
    “The whole city, it went poof!” Wanda says.
    “What?” the businessman says.
    “Looks like a power failure,” Celia tells him.
    “Maybe is the terrorists!” Wanda gasps.
    “I think it’s too many air conditioners,” Celia says, although she’s feeling a twist of unease.
    The man slides a cell phone out of his jacket pocket. Celia picks up a candle from the nearest table and heads for the bar to use the phone there.
    “Forgot to charge the damn thing,” the man mutters.
    Celia gets a speeded-up busy signal. She tries again, but now there’s no dial tone.
    “This calls for a Manhattan!” the man declares. He slaps the table and turns to Wanda.
    Wanda remains at the window. “Not one single light,” she says.
    “I’m going home,” Celia announces.
    The man comes to his feet. “I’d wait if I were you,” he says. By grasping the backs of chairs he’s making his own way to the bar. “Driving’ll be chaos. Hell on wheels.”
    N ANCY POKES her head out her kitchen window. “Ah, jeez,” she says. She thinks it’s her fault. Just as she turned on her air conditioner the electricity went off…in the entire neighbourhood, from what she can see.
    “I HAVE a battery-powered fluorescent lantern,” Mika tells Rachel. “Also a windup radio. We’ll be able to find out what the story is out there.”
    He is heading toward the stairwell, Rachel illuminating his path with her penlight.
    “You better have it,” she says about the light.
    “I’m okay,” he says. “You just keep guiding me.”
    He takes a step down. The dogs follow. He orders them back upstairs, but Osmo squeezes by on his right side. Then Happy tries to go through his legs, and he trips. His head hits the wall. He reels, makes a grab for the railing and misses. He tumbles to the floor.
    “Mika!” Rachel cries.
    No answer, not a sound.
    She races down the stairs, calling his name. She drops to her knees. His eyes are closed. He isn’t moving. She shakes his shoulder. The dogs lick his face. The penlight slips from her hand and rolls away.
    In total darkness she scrambles up the stairs. She gets to the kitchen phone and presses what she thinks is 9—1—1. Nothing happens. She drops the phone and runs outside.
    At the bottom of the porch steps she bumps into someone. A man.
    “Hey,” he says, catching her arm. “What’s going on in there?”
    “I need to phone nine-one-one!” she cries.
    “Are you hurt?”
    “No! Mika, he fell! I think he’s dead!” She starts sobbing.
    “It’s okay,” he says. “I have a phone in my car. Come on. We’ll phone.”

Chapter Eleven
    T HE DRIVING ISN’T bad. It’s the pedestrians you’ve got to watch out for. All the way up Yonge Street gangs of teenagers are strolling into traffic, slapping hoods. There’s a lot of excited shouting and hooting. Not having a car radio, Celia still doesn’t know what happened but it seems unlikely there’s been a terrorist attack.
    And yet she can’t shake her anxiety. She has to keep telling herself that Rachel is with Mika, and nobody is better prepared for disaster than Mika with his gas generator and windup radio and his boxes of candles and batteries. Right now, he and Rachel will be out on the porch. It’s a clear night…they’ll be looking up at the stars.
    She holds on to this picture until she turns off Parliament and sees the police cars. She pulls over, slamming her foot on the accelerator instead of the brake and mounting the curb. She gets out. Kicks off her high heels. People are in the lane, people with flashlights. A plank of light falls alongside her.
    Two policemen stand in the middle of Mika’s living room. They blind her, then lower their beams. Mika is on thesofa. He holds a towel to his head. Seeing her, he opens his mouth.
    “Are you Celia Fox?” the nearest policeman