Apocalypse for Beginners (2 page)

The furniture (included in the rent) consisted of a rickety table, four chairs, a set of dented appliances and a couch that, with no TV in sight, was the epitome of pointlessness.

Hope assured me that they been there for less than seventy-two hours, yet every corner of the place was piled high with an inordinate supply of food: sacks of flour, bags of ramen, containers full of water or cooking oil, canned food of every description. In fact, the only non-edible item was a small stack of
Teach Yourself Russian at Home
(volumes 8, 14 and 17), to which Hope now delicately added the volume she had been reading at the municipal stadium.

“Thirsty?”

I nodded. While she poured me a glass of water I scanned the pet shop looking for adjoining rooms. There were none, except for an oddly spacious bathroom—no doubt the former Lizards’ Lair. But where did they sleep? Hope second-guessed me and pointed to the couch.

“It folds out. I sleep in the bathtub, with the door shut. It’s impossible to get any sleep within ten feet of my mother.”

“She snores?”

“No. She talks in her sleep.”

“Really?”

I took a sip of water. It tasted suspiciously metallic.

“So, what does she say?”

Hope seemed annoyed by the question and began to chew at her thumbnail.

“No idea. Stuff in Assyrian.”

“Assyrian?”

“Assyrian or Aramaic—who knows? I have no clue about dead languages.”

She chewed off a sliver of fingernail and spat it out.

“People in my family are polyglots.”

“I can see that,” I said, pointing my foot at the Russian handbooks.

“I also started to learn German, but I had to abandon my books in Yarmouth. They wouldn’t fit in the car.”

“Abandon?”

“Yes. We left in the middle of the night because …”

She sighed.

“Okay. I might as well start at the beginning.”

Mary Hope Juliet Randall, called Hope, was the youngest member of a family that, for an indeterminate number of generations—some put the number at seven—had been afflicted by a serious obsession with the end of the world.

The Randins, a family with vaguely Acadian roots, had been deported by the British in 1755. They landed in Maryland, adopted the name Randall—though without giving in to assimilation—and eventually returned to Nova Scotia, where they spent the ensuing decades squatting barren patches of peat bog.

In fact, the family obsession with the apocalypse might reasonably be traced back to that geopolitical trauma. Indeed, wouldn’t it be expected, or even inevitable, for a line of exiled farmers to be somewhat sensitive about urban sprawl, major disasters and the natural course of history? Yet there was no consensus around this theory, and certain genealogists favoured the hypothesis of a congenital condition due to inbreeding (the Randalls were confirmed homebodies).

One thing, however, was certain: the same symptoms recurred with choreographic precision from one generation to the next. So, at puberty, every Randall was super-naturally made privy to the details of the end of the world—the date, the time, the exact form it would take.

As a rule, the vision came at night. Actually, it wasn’t exactly a vision, which could have been dismissed as a mere nightmare. No. The Randalls tuned in to the apocalypse on a visceral level. They felt the patter of rain and the burn of shrapnel on their skin, they suffocated in the fires, tasted the ash, heard the screams, smelled the stink of rotting corpses.

The Randalls called this phenomenon the “Night-time Revelation,” the “Light,” the “Prediction,” or, more often than not, the “Spell from Hell.”

Every Randall was apprised of a different date, which in no way made it easier for them to be taken seriously. What’s more, a Randall who outlived his or her end of the world would then experience a mental breakdown and an inclination to damage public property. The story would usually end in an asylum or suchlike.

Indeed, the Randall family tree could be used in a course on the history of psychiatry in North America over the past one hundred and fifty years, from the cold shower to the lobotomy, occupational therapy, the straitjacket and lithium, right through to deinstitutionalization.

Case No. 1: Harry Randall Truman, the patriarch, lost his mind in the fall of 1835, shortly after the passage of Halley’s comet. He prophesied the return of Moses aboard an incandescent whaler, and subsequently burned down the barn of the Presbyterian pastor. The neighbours wrestled
him to the ground, tied him up and shipped him off to the Halifax Mental Asylum, where he lived out his days in the wing reserved for pyromaniacs and other sociopaths.

Case No. 37: Gary Randall holed up for fifteen years in a plywood shack that boasted a window through which he would greet any psychotherapist (a rare bird) with a few volleys of his 12-gauge shotgun. They found him clutching his firearm one morning after the temperature had dropped to 40 below—stiff, blue and completely divested of his obsession.

Case No. 53: Henry Randall Jr., Hope’s grandfather and a veteran of the Depression, behaved more constructively. He channelled his anxiety into founding the Minoritarian Reform Church of the Seventh Ruminant, a para-Christian sect that predicted Armageddon would take place on June 12, 1977. As good a way as any to kill time. The church existed until the aforementioned date, after which Henry killed himself by gulping down a fistful of roofing nails.

And so it went with Gary Randall, Harry Randall, Harriet Randall, Hanna Randall, Henry Randall, Randolph Randall, Handy Randall, Hans Randall, Hank Randall, Annabel Thibodeau (née Randall), Henryette Leblanc Randall, Hattie Randall, Pattie Randall and so on, while the planet persisted in spinning around like a bad joke.

Ann Randall was born in Yarmouth in March 1954, on the same day that the Americans tested a new hydrogen bomb in the Marshall Islands.

She was a quiet young girl, stunningly and precociously beautiful, whose gift for languages was phenomenal. At the age of ten she had a full command of English and French and was learning Latin from an old Vulgate stolen from the church sacristy, an autodidactic theft to which the priest turned a blind eye.

Her lonely childhood was spent between a father kept busy presiding over the Minoritarian Reform Church of the Seventh Ruminant, and a disturbed mother, whom Ann lost when she was twelve years old. That summer the poor woman, exhausted from waiting for a firestorm that never materialized, swallowed the entire contents of the family medicine cabinet: pills, cough syrup and bandages. After her stomach had been pumped, she was sent to Halifax for emergency psychiatric treatment—and never came back.

On September 1, 1966, at dawn, after two days of cramps and migraines, Ann Randall, still shaken by her mother’s confinement, woke up sweating so profusely that the sheets clung to her body. Off Yarmouth, the rumbling of a storm could be heard.

From that moment Ann knew—and would never for an instant forget—that the end of the world would take place in the summer of 1989.

She was struck at once by the vision’s lack of detail. The summer of 1989? That was all? Yet her cousins had assured her that not only would she be informed of the exact date of the end of the world (down to the minute) but that she would be presented with explicit images, tactile sensations, smells. She had been promised a revelation in CinemaScope, but all she received was a blurred and poorly framed slide.

Sitting up in her bed, she became aware of another event—one that was wet, sticky and unmistakable. She slid three fingers between her thighs and they came back stained with brownish blood. Her Spell from Hell was sealed.

Ann went to school for another few years, earning consistently high marks, but she dropped out in Grade 12 without giving any reason. And actually, no one asked. She took a job at the municipal library (comprising a few bookcases in the basement of the town hall), where she shelved books and polished her Latin.

When she was eighteen Ann had a fleeting affair with a court clerk and became pregnant. It was, of course, an accident; procreation among the Randalls was always purely accidental. The circumstances of this particular nocturnal episode remained hazy, but according to local
legend, the
act
was committed after closing time in the children’s book aisle. The gossip was that Ann had been looking for trouble.

The clerk, a family man and an upright citizen, stayed out of sight and left Ann to deal on her own with public opinion and the tiny carbon copy of his genetic code.

The pregnancy set an entire series of fuses popping in Ann Randall’s brain, which was immediately subjected to waves of apocalyptic anxiety and uncontrollable manias. For example, she earmarked half of the library’s annual budget for the purchase of an extravagant collection of ancient texts: bibles in Aramaic, Hebrew and Greek, a facsimile of the Dead Sea Scrolls, the Epic of Gilgamesh, the Enûma Eliš and the Book of the Dead. She never bothered going home any more, instead spending her nights in the town hall basement studying the dead languages of Mesopotamia and eating ramen noodles.

After several months, completely worn out, she tried to end it all by swallowing a bottle of Aspirin, which resulted in severe liver damage. The examination at the hospital brought to light, first, the drug poisoning, then the psychotic episodes, and, finally, the existence of the fetus. Three diagnoses for the price of one.

She was referred to an obstetrician, who sent her on to a social worker, who entrusted her to a psychologist, who in turn transferred her to a psychiatrist, so that she eventually
went home with a hefty prescription of 250 mg of clozapine, to be taken every morning with orange juice, along with a tablet of doxylamine for nausea.

Now that the psychotic episodes had stopped, Ann could resume her tasks at the library. Everything appeared to be under control. She floated in a state of euphoria, swelling at the midriff, shelving books, stamping cards. It was through this veil of medication that Hope came into the world, three weeks early (punctuality was undeniably on the wane for the Randalls).

Grandfather Henry came to the nursery, answering the call for help and stayed just long enough to take a quick look at the baby and declare that her name would be Mary Hope Juliet.

Mary Hope Juliet—airdropped into a cuckoo’s nest.

As an infant, Hope was perceptive and independent-minded. She rarely cried and refused the breast very early on. She had not inherited her mother’s fragile beauty, but there was an undeniable gracefulness in her figure and her gestures. Her hair was straight and unruly, and the freckles that blossomed on her face during the heat wave of 1977 rounded out the impression of a little girl who
had been abandoned in the heart of the Amazonian jungle.

The years went by. Ann shelved books and followed her prescribed dosage. Hope attended the elementary school across the street. She had few friends, and family visits were rare. The Randalls gathered at the funeral parlour every two months or so, each time an aunt or a cousin succumbed to her or his personal apocalypse, and such evenings were just about the only social life they had.

All in all, it was a life that held no surprises.

Things began to fall apart the day that Ann quit her job at the library, taking with her the collection of bibles (whose removal, as it happened, went quite unnoticed). She found a job as a cashier at Sobeys, and set about hoarding considerable quantities of food—enough to keep a large family self-sufficient for many months.

This food-related disorder was governed by a disturbing logic: Ann refused to buy fresh fruit and vegetables, that is, food whose value was necessarily ephemeral. She thought in terms of calories per cubic metre, protein and nutritional benefit. Above all, no perishables. She came home from Sobeys with enormous provisions: five-pound bags of rice, ten-pound sacks of potatoes, four cans each of red beans and stewed tomatoes, twenty cans each of tuna in oil, pears, peaches, peas. And ramen—hundreds of packets of ramen that she stored in every available space.

When her daughter asked her what the purpose was of all these supplies, Ann Randall answered mysteriously, “To barter, when the Chinese show up.”

Hope was only eight and a half but already found her mother’s sense of humour suspect.

After a few relatively uneventful years, Social Services reactivated the Ann Randall file. A routine visit had made clear that something about this family was not quite right. Specifically, aside from the legal guardian’s psychiatric history, here she was, storing packets of ramen and tins of sardines by the thousands. Suspicious.

Fortunately, Hope was on the alert. Whenever a social worker threatened to drop in on them, Hope would scrub the floor, pour a litre of bleach into the toilet bowl and fill a pretty wicker basket with apples and oranges. In this carefully prepared environment, Ann Randall managed to look almost ordinary.

The stratagem was repeated every six months, and Hope gradually learned to create an illusion of normalcy. She soon grasped that certain details appeared fishy, especially their not owning a television, which served not merely as another home appliance but as proof of one’s
allegiance to society. So Hope went out scavenging and came back with someone’s discarded old black-and-white Zenith. The bottom part of the screen was dead, but as long as the set stayed turned off it did the trick.

As soon as the TV was installed in the dining room, the social workers’ attitude shifted. They took note of this positive sign and their visits became less frequent. Between inspections, however, the television had to be stowed away. Ann Randall would not tolerate an apparatus that caused retinal cancer and rotted the brain.

The arrival of the television represented a turning point in Hope’s life. Until then, the only source of information available in the house had been her mother’s bible collection. Hope had read the King James version once, without skipping a single page, and that was enough, thank you very much.