Odds Against Tomorrow (35 page)

Sweet jumping Jesus, get me out of here.

“Everything all right, Ms. Eppler?” said Large Keith. He was standing in the gate, his arms crossed in front of his sequoia chest, keeping an eye on the neighbors. His titanic dome gleamed in the sunlight, slippery with perspiration. “You need me to go in?”

Behind him she could see that the couple from down the block—David and his wife with the overbite, what the heck was the poor girl’s name?—were sauntering over. She stepped outside the gate.

“Andrea and I have been worried about him,” said David, waving. “He still only comes out at night. We watch him from our house. You know, just to make certain he doesn’t get into any trouble.”

“He’s fine,” she said. “Same as always.”

“Could you tell him the offer still stands?” said Andrea. “Our shack isn’t finished yet, but we’d really love to have him over sometime. I mean, once he’s ready.”

“I’ll tell him.”

“The Tildas are having a party tomorrow,” said David. “Everyone’s going to be there. We’d like very much to see him.”

She nodded. “I’ll stop by when we’re done here. I have the PV modules.” She could see the relief on their faces.

Once they’d returned to their hut and were safely out of earshot, she informed Large Keith that Mitchell was missing.

“This kind of thing?” Keith shook his head. “It’s not sustainable. No man can live like this.”

“I don’t know what to do.”

“Want me to unload the supplies?”

“Maybe we should wait,” she said. “I mean, maybe the best—”

They were interrupted by a skitter of falling gravel, then three loud
plunks
as something bounced off the top of the perimeter wall, then off the roof of the limousine, and landed in the dirt. Jane looked up. There was nothing to see except a thin plume of dust where the object had skimmed the top of the wall. They ran around to the other side of the limousine. On the ground lay a fat metal bolt.

“Mother Mary.”

“The roof,” said Large Keith. “I’m coming this time. That could’ve killed one of us.”

“Keith? Stay here.”

He gave her a long, cold, squinty stare, the kind of look he must have used to traumatize the offensive tackle at the line of scrimmage.

“Please. You know how he feels about visitors.”

She ran back through the arbor, fumbled the keys, dropped them in the dirt, picked them up, turned them in the lock. She sprinted across the atrium, through the creaking turnstile, up the stairs—
thwap-thwap, thwap-thwap, thwap-thwap
—to the third floor. Then—of
course,
why hadn’t she thought of it before?—she walked to the back of the building, where she ascended the final half flight of steep metal stairs. She pushed with all her weight on the security bar. The heavy steel door burst open, and she was in the open air. And there on the blacktop, facing her, was a filthy bearded man with curly hair that danced mazurkas off his head in every direction. He was shirtless, his chest a dull brown, his arms nicked and blemished like someone who has run through brambles. Of course he probably
had
run through brambles. He probably did every time he went for a night marsh soak. He was wearing only dirty green slacks and a pair of black boots. She recognized the boots, of course. They were Mountainsiders. She’d given them to him.

Every month she had scrutinized him for signs of impending madness. There were signs, starting with the beard (which looked more feral than ever, a chaotic blizzard), but until now they hadn’t added up to anything verifiable—or certifiable. Mitchell didn’t rant about pantheism or spirit liberation, he didn’t wear energy bracelets or anti-EMF diadems, and he hadn’t sworn off soap or toothpaste (though deodorant, based on anecdotal evidence, appeared to have fallen out of favor). But the jury was still deliberating. She was the jury.

“Jane?” said Mitchell.

“I was worried.”

“Why?”

He was holding a hammer. She noticed now the white PVC tubes, the power drill, the open toolbox with its contents disgorged around it like a split belly, the boxes of nails and screws—and bolts.

“What are you doing?”

“Trying to improve the rain catchment system,” he said. “What’s wrong with you?”

“Nothing. I was just … annoyed. I couldn’t find you.”

Mitchell put down the hammer and put his hand on her collarbone. He smelled awful. Like a wild animal.

“Jane. How many times do I have to tell you.”

“I know.”

“I’m fine.”

“Great. But you need to take a shower. I know you’re not in modern society anymore, but this is crazy hobo territory.”

“Actually that’s what I’m doing up here.” He smiled faintly, from a faraway place, and lowered his arm. “The gutters catch the rainwater, it drains through the PVC into barrels on the ground. I’ll warm the water with the solar heater. And then I can take a hot shower.”

“Well,” said Jane. “That’s neat.”

“Isn’t it?”

“I have the stuff you wanted.”

“Thanks. I’ll help Keith unload.”

“I also got you a present. You can open it after you take your first shower.”

“Hm. I think I know what it is. Hey, did Tibor and Rikki write?”

“There’s a package in the car. Also the guy from
The Wall Street Journal
keeps calling. Did you ever read his article?”

“I don’t read articles.”

“Well now he has a book deal. A kind of biography. It begins with his memories of you in college. The day of Seattle and all that.”

“Convenient.”

“He’s a nice guy. Smart. But he does want you to sit for an interview, or several. He says if you don’t, he’ll be forced to imagine things from your perspective so that he can put the reader inside your head.”

“Is that supposed to be a threat?”

Jane shrugged. “Look, I don’t care. What should I tell him?”

“He can talk to you or my parents, or even Charnoble. But I don’t want to hear about it again.”

“I have one other message for you.”

“Who?”

She smiled uneasily.

“Did you give them the spiel? Off the grid, no interviews, no donations—”

“No.”

“What? Why not?”

“The message is from Elsa Bruner.”

“Elsa Bruner.”

“She called Future Days.”

Mitchell recoiled. His mouth underwent a violent contortion. It was like he had seen a ghost.

“She’s
alive
?”

Jane told him about Elsa’s recovery, her decision to undergo open-heart surgery to implant an automatic cardiac defibrillator—a device that carried a number of risks, but seemed necessary given the alternative. There were three months of physical therapy, during which she had begun to study for the LSAT.

“Absurd. She didn’t even finish college. You’re lying. This isn’t nice.”

“But she’s been accepted. Stanford.”

The look on Mitchell’s face was a mixture of befuddlement and high skepticism. At least that’s what she guessed. The beard blocked everything. It was like the perimeter wall. It not only kept you out, it kept you from getting too close.

“I can’t believe it.”

“I don’t think she would lie about it.”

“I can’t believe she’s alive.”

“She’s going to study environmental law.”

“It doesn’t sound like the Elsa Bruner I knew.”

“She’s not the Elsa Bruner you knew.”

“I don’t want to see her.”

“You have about three months to think about it. She has a summer job downtown at some environmental law firm. Not far from Future Days, in fact.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“She’d like to visit you.”

“Enough.”

“Fine. But she wanted you to have this.” Jane pulled a crinkled envelope from her back pocket. Mitchell’s name was written on the front in Elsa’s neat, girlish script. The envelope smelled like smoke.

“The letter,” said Mitchell, and his eyes got very wide behind his whiskers.

He tore it open with such force that the envelope fell out of his hand and the breeze carried it skidding toward the edge of the roof. He stepped on the envelope finally, hard, and opened it more carefully. It contained a postcard. It was one of those cheap promotional postcards they gave away for free at restaurant cash registers. This one was from a crappy Korean dive in midtown, Chosan Galbi. Mitchell was looking at the note with disgust. He showed it to Jane. It read “By the time you get this, I’ll be a futurist.” It was in Mitchell’s handwriting, with his signature. Only Elsa had crossed out Mitchell’s name and signed her own.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” said Mitchell.

Since he seemed to be addressing himself and not Jane, she thought it best not to answer.

*   *   *

Downstairs, Large Keith had already carried the supplies and the crate of vegetables into the atrium. Mitchell handed Jane the envelope containing his monthly update to his parents and his supplies list for the following month. Jane gave him the Zukors’ care package and the mirror.

“Business good?”

“Business,” said Jane, trying not to laugh, “is
quite
good.”

“And the recovery?”

“It’s going great, actually. Even some of the subway lines are coming back.”

“I imagine only the old IRT lines, right? And none of the outer boroughs.”

“Yeah. Just the old IRT lines.”

“And the water supply—do you still have boil water advisories?”

“Mm.”

“And I bet the insurance claims aren’t being processed quickly, so you have uninhabited, structurally unsound buildings all over. And the side streets, especially outside of Manhattan, are probably still riddled with cracks and craters and holes.”

“OK, yeah, there’s work to be done. Glad you haven’t lost your powers of divination.”

“I had an idea for you. New slogan.”

“Let’s hear it.”

“Future Days: because the future is not quite what it used to be.”

“You still have it,” said Jane, and she smiled as if she meant it.

The sun shifted, and Mitchell seemed to squint.

“It was nice to see you,” he said. His voice got quieter. “Always is.”

She tried to read his expression, but it was impossible behind the tangles of hair. All she could make out with any clarity were his eyes. They were as sharp as ever, like the points of swords.

“Mitchell.”

“Yeah.”

She paused. “Aren’t you lonely?”

Mitchell kicked the gravel. “I’m alone. I’ve been alone for six months. But that’s not the same thing as lonely.”

“There are a lot of people outside who want to meet you.”

“Mm. Are there more?”

“Sorry?”

“More settlers. I mean other than Hank and those two kids—Ronald and Cassie? And that other family from Randall’s. The Motas.”

She had suspected it before; there had been signs, though it seemed too preposterous. But now she was certain: he had no idea. None. He hadn’t left the property for months, at least not during the day, and at night he only sneaked across the street to the marsh, which was hidden from most of the neighborhood. “Can’t you see them?” she said. “From the windows?”

“The windows look out to the marsh. Then the sea.”

“From the roof, then?”

“I just started on the roof this morning.” He lowered his eyes, breaking eye contact. “I guess I haven’t looked down just yet.”

“Well,” she said, “maybe you should.”

They said their goodbyes, and she left the property. She didn’t have time to linger. There was a full staff meeting at the office in three hours, and she had to make the rest of the deliveries. There were David and Andrea with the overbite, Hank Cho, and Ronnie and Cassie. Then there were the Motas, the Wachtels, the Herreras, the Chopras, the Reburns, the Castillos, the Mendozas, the Tildas, Dr. Valentine and his children, Sara Watson with the squint eye, Andy Nguyan, Brian Petersen, Amy Macias, Stuart and Lacey, Sissie and her daughter, Larry Rocha, Dennis and Rodney Archer, the LaGarde brothers, and the camp of runaways, whose names she never remembered except for their leader, the one with the eye tattoos, who went by Lizard, or Zard. Even if she kept chitchat to a minimum and made her rounds as quickly as possible, she would no doubt be delayed by the newest settlers. She had seen them even on the drive over—they were still arriving, more every day. They walked in from Brooklyn and Queens, lugging camping backpacks like mules, ducking under the unmanned police barricades that separated the rest of the city from the Dead Zone. And they were building: hackneyed, unprofessional, ramshackle homes with mismatched walls and askew floors straight out of Dr. Seuss. But the disorderliness seemed welcomed, if not intentional.

The whole place was a mess—a sprawling, chaotic, giddy mess—but for a brief moment, as Large Keith opened the door to the armored limousine and the refrigerated air wafted into her face, it occurred to her that there
was
something intoxicating about this new way of life in the Flatlands. Their little experiment in self-sufficiency might even end up succeeding. Ticonderoga failed, sure, but hadn’t mankind done it before—started from scratch? And this time it would be easier. They were cheating, after all, with Future Days providing the essentials, and a bit more besides. New nonprofits were chipping in—the Easties, We’re All Mitchell Zukor, New Americans for a New America. For a passing moment, as Jane took one final look at the high entryway of the grand old bank building surmounted by its silly granite eagle, she felt that she would like to live in the Flatlands herself one day. She felt that she wanted to live in the Flatlands rather desperately.

Large Keith slammed the door. The cold darkness of the limousine enclosed her, the seat gave gently beneath her, and her thoughts turned to that afternoon’s meeting. It was an important meeting. They were going to make final hiring decisions for the new class of Cassandras, review the new ad campaign, announce the second quarter earning reports, and set profit goals for the third quarter. A fortune was at stake. She buzzed Keith.

“Ms. Eppler?”

“Let’s move this along,” she said.

“Ms. Eppler? Everything all right back there?”

No, she thought. Everything is not right, not at all.