Forty Signs of Rain (7 page)

“Wait, call that ‘power generation.’ ”

“ ‘Power generation,’ okay, ‘such that any savings in environmental mitigation in participating countries as determined by IPCC ratings will be credited equally to the U.S. rating, and not less than fifty million dollars per year in savings is to be earmarked specifically for the construction of more such climate-neutral power plants; and not less than fifty million dollars per year in savings is to be earmarked specifically for the construction of so-called “carbon sinks,” meaning any environmental engineering project designed to capture and sequester atmospheric carbon dioxide safely, in forests, peat beds, oceans, or other locations—’ ”

“Yeah, hey you know carbon sinks are
so
crucial, scrubbing CO
₂
out of the air may eventually turn out to be our only option, so maybe we should reverse those two clauses. Make carbon sinks come first and the climate-neutral power plants second in that paragraph.”

“You think?”

“Yes. Definitely. Carbon sinks could be the only way that our kids, and about a thousand years’ worth of kids actually, can save themselves from living in Swamp World. From living their whole lives on Venus.”

“Or should we say Washington, D.C.”

“Please.”

“Okay, those are flip-flopped then. So that’s that paragraph, now, hmm, that’s it for text. I guess the next question is, what can we offer Winston and his gang to get them to accept this version.”

“Get Winston’s people to give you their list of riders, and then pick the two least offensive ones and tell them they’re the most we could get Phil to accept, but only if they accept our changes first.”

“But will they go for that?”

“No, but—wait—Joe?”

Charlie didn’t see Joe anywhere. He ducked to be able to see under the climbing structure to the other side. No Joe.

“Hey Roy let me call you back okay? I gotta find Joe he’s wandered off.”

“Okay, give me a buzz.”

Charlie clicked off and yanked the earplug out of his ear, jammed it in his pocket.

“JOE!”

He looked around at the West Indian nannies—none of them were watching, none of them would meet his eye. No help there. He jogged south to be able to see farther around the back of the fire station. Ah ha! There was Joe, trundling full speed for Wisconsin Avenue.

“JOE! STOP!”

That was as loud as Charlie could shout. He saw that Joe had indeed heard him, and had redoubled the speed of his diaper-waddle toward the busy street.

Charlie took off in a sprint after him. “JOE!” he shouted as he pelted over the grass. “STOP! JOE! STOP RIGHT THERE!” He didn’t believe that Joe would stop, but possibly he would try to go even faster, and fall.

No such luck. Joe was in stride now, running like a duck trying to escape something without taking flight. He was on the sidewalk next to the fire station, and had a clear shot at Wisconsin, where trucks and cars zipped by as always.

Charlie closed in, cleared the fire station, saw big trucks bearing down. By the time he caught up to Joe he was so close to the edge that Charlie had to grab him by the back of his shirt and lift him off his feet, whirling him around in a broad circle through the air, back onto Charlie as they both fell in a heap on the sidewalk.

“Ow!” Joe howled.

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING!” Charlie shouted in his face. “WHAT ARE YOU DOING? DON’T EVER DO THAT AGAIN!”

Joe, amazed, stopped howling for a moment. He stared at his father, face crimson. Then he recommenced howling.

Charlie shifted into a cross-legged position, hefted the crying boy into his lap. He was shaking, his heart was pounding; he could feel it tripping away madly in his hands and chest. In an old reflex he put his thumb to the other wrist and watched the seconds pass on his watch for fifteen seconds. Multiply by four. Impossible. One hundred and eighty beats a minute. Surely that was impossible. Sweat was pouring out of all his skin at once. He was gasping.

The parade of trucks and cars continued to roar by, inches away. Wisconsin Avenue was a major truck route from the Beltway into the city. Most of the trucks entirely filled the right lane, from curb to lane line; and most were moving at about forty miles an hour.

“Why do you
do
that,” Charlie whispered into his boy’s hair. Suddenly he was filled with fear, and some kind of dread or despair. “It’s just crazy.”

“Ow,” Joe said.

Big shuddering sighs racked them both.

Charlie’s phone rang. He clicked it on and held an earplug to his ear.

“Hello?”

“Hi love.”

“Oh hi hon!”

“What’s wrong?”

“Oh nothing, nothing. I’ve just been chasing Joe around. We’re at the park.”

“Wow, you must be cooking. Isn’t it the hottest part of the day?”

“Yeah it is, almost, but we’ve been having fun so we stayed. We’re about to head back now.”

“Okay, I won’t keep you. I just wanted to check if we had any plans for next weekend.”

“None that I know of.”

“Okay, good. Because I had an interesting thing happen this morning, I met a bunch of people downstairs, new to the building.
They’re like Tibetans, I think, only they live on an island. They’ve taken the office space downstairs that the travel agency used to have.”

“That’s nice dear.”

“Yes. I’m going to have lunch with them, and if it seems like a good idea I might ask them over for dinner sometime, if you don’t mind.”

“No, that’s fine snooks. Whatever you like. It sounds interesting.”

“Great, okay. I’m going to go meet them soon, I’ll tell you about it.”

“Okay good.”

“Okay bye dove.”

“Bye love, talk to you.”

Charlie clicked off.

After ten giant breaths he stood, lifting Joe in his arms. Joe buried his face in Charlie’s neck. Shakily Charlie retraced their course. It was somewhere between fifty and a hundred yards. Rivulets of sweat ran down his ribs, and off his forehead into his eyes. He wiped them against Joe’s shirt. Joe was sweaty too. When he reached their stuff Charlie swung Joe around, down into his backpack. For once Joe did not resist. “Sowy Da,” he said, and fell asleep as Charlie swung him onto his back.

Charlie took off walking. Joe’s head rested against his neck, a sensation that had always pleased him before. Sometimes the child would even suckle the tendon there. Now it was like the touch of some meaning so great that he couldn’t bear it, a huge cloudy aura of danger and love. He started to cry, wiped his eyes and shook it off as if shaking away a nightmare. Hostages to fortune, he thought. You get married, have kids, you give up such hostages to fortune. No avoiding it, no help for it. It’s just the price you pay for such love. His son was a complete maniac and it only made him love him more.

He walked hard for most of an hour, through all the neighborhoods he had come to know so well in his years of lonely Mr. Momhood. The vestiges of an older way of life lay under the trees like a network of ley lines: rail beds, canal systems, Indian trails, even deer trails, all could be discerned. Charlie walked them sightlessly. The ductile world drooped around him in the heat. Sweat lubricated his every move.

Slowly he regained his sense of normalcy. Just an ordinary day with Joe and Da.

The residential streets of Bethesda and Chevy Chase were in many ways quite beautiful. It had mostly to do with the immense trees, and the grass underfoot. Green everywhere. On a weekday afternoon like this, there was almost no one to be seen. The slight hilliness was just right for walking. Tall old hardwoods gave some relief from the heat; above them the sky was an incandescent white. The trees were undoubtedly second or even third growth, there couldn’t be many old-growth hardwoods anywhere east of the Mississippi. Still they were old trees, and tall. Charlie had never shifted out of his California consciousness, in which open landscapes were the norm and the desire, so that on the one hand he found the omnipresent forest claustrophobic—he pined for a pineless view—while on the other hand it remained always exotic and compelling, even slightly ominous or spooky. The dapple of leaves at every level, from the ground to the highest canopy, was a perpetual revelation to him; nothing in his home ground or in his bookish sense of forests had prepared him for this vast and delicate venation of the air. On the other hand he longed for a view of distant mountains as if for oxygen itself. On this day especially he felt stifled and gasping.

His phone beeped again, and he pulled the earplug out of his pocket and stuck it in his ear, clicked the set on.

“Hello.”

“Hey Charlie I don’t want to bug you, but are you and Joe okay?”

“Oh yeah, thanks Roy. Thanks for checking back in, I forgot to call you.”

“So you found him.”

“Yeah I found him, but I had to stop him from running into traffic, and he was upset and I forgot to call back.”

“Hey that’s okay. It’s just that I was wondering, you know, if you could finish off this draft with me.”

“I guess.” Charlie sighed. “To tell the truth, Roy boy, I’m not so sure how well this work-at-home thing is going for me these days.”

“Oh you’re doing fine. You’re Phil’s gold standard. But look, if now isn’t a good time …”

“No no, Joe’s asleep on my back. It’s fine. I’m still just kind of freaked out.”

“Sure, I can imagine. Listen we can do it later, although I must say we do need to get this thing staffed out soon or else Phil might get caught short. Dr. Strangelove”—this was their name for the President’s science advisor—“has been asking to see our draft too.”

“I know, okay talk to me. I can tell you what I think anyway.”

So for a while as he walked he listened to Roy read sentences from his draft, and then discussed with him the whys and wherefores, and possible revisions. Roy had been Phil’s chief of staff ever since Wade Norton hit the road and became an advisor in absentia, and after his years of staffing for the House Resources Committee (called the Environment Committee until the Gingrich Congress renamed it), he was deeply knowledgeable, and sharp too; one of Charlie’s favorite people. And Charlie himself was so steeped now in the climate bill that he could see it all in his head, indeed it helped him now just to hear it, without the print before him to distract him. As if someone were telling him a bedtime story.

Eventually, however, some question of Roy’s couldn’t be resolved without the text before him. “Sorry. I’ll call you back when I get home.”

“Okay but don’t forget, we need to get this finished.”

“I won’t.”

They clicked off.

His walk home took him south, down the west edge of the Bethesda Metro district, an urban neighborhood of restaurants and apartment blocks, all ringing the hole in the ground out of which people and money fountained so prodigiously, changing everything: streets rerouted, neighborhoods redeveloped, a whole clutch of skyscrapers bursting up through the canopy and establishing another purely urban zone in the endless hardwood forest.

He stopped in at Second Story Books, the biggest and best of the area’s several used bookstores. It was a matter of habit only; he had visited it so often with Joe asleep on his back that he had memorized the
stock, and was reduced to checking the hidden books in the inner rows, or alphabetizing sections that he liked. No one in the supremely arrogant and slovenly shop cared what he did there. It was soothing in that sense.

Finally he gave up trying to pretend he felt normal, and walked past the auto dealer and home. There it was a tough call whether to take the baby backpack off and hope not to wake Joe prematurely, or just to keep him on his back and work from the bench he had put by his desk for this very purpose. The discomfort of Joe’s weight was more than compensated for by the quiet, and so as usual he kept Joe snoozing on his back.

When he had his material open, and had read up on tidal power generation cost/benefit figures from the UN study on same, he called Roy back, and they got the job finished. The revised draft was ready for Phil to review, and in a pinch could be shown to Senator Winston or Dr. Strangelove.

“Thanks Charlie. That looks good.”

“I like it too. It’ll be interesting to see what Phil says about it. I wonder if we’re hanging him too far out there.”

“I think he’ll be okay, but I wonder what Winston’s staff will say.”

“They’ll have a cow.”

“It’s true. They’re worse than Winston himself. A bunch of Sir Humphreys if I ever saw one.”

“I don’t know, I think they’re just fundamentalist know-nothings.”

“True, but we’ll show them.”

“I hope.”

“Charles my man, you’re sounding tired. I suppose the Joe is about to wake up.”

“Yeah.”

“Unrelenting eh?”

“Yeah.”

“But you are the man, you are the greatest Mr. Mom inside the Beltway!”

Charlie laughed. “And all that competition.”

Roy laughed too, pleased to be able to cheer Charlie up. “Well it’s an accomplishment anyway.”

“That’s nice of you to say. Most people don’t notice. It’s just something weird that I do.”

“Well that’s true too. But people don’t know what it entails.”

“No they don’t. The only ones who know are real moms, but they don’t think I count.”

“You’d think they’d be the ones who would.”

“Well, in a way they’re right. There’s no reason me doing it should be anything special. It may just be me wanting some strokes. It’s turned out to be harder than I thought it would be. A real psychic shock.”

“Because …”

“Well, I was thirty-eight when Nick arrived, and I had been doing exactly what I wanted ever since I was eighteen. Twenty years of white male American freedom, just like what you have, young man, and then Nick arrived and suddenly I was at the command of a speechless mad tyrant. I mean, think about it. Tonight you can go wherever you want to, go out and have some fun, right?”

“That’s right, I’m going to go to a party for some new folks at Brookings, supposed to be wild.”

“All right, don’t rub it in. Because I’m going to be in the same room I’ve been in every night for the past seven years, more or less.”

“So by now you’re used to it, right?”