Songs for the End of the World

by Saleema Nawaz

  “So you did it,” he said, nodding at the name tag on her lab coat. “You’re a doctor.” Through her clear nitrile glove, he noticed a wedding band on her finger. “And married.”

  She nodded. “Nine years, no kids. He’s a doctor, too. And you’re going bald.”

  “Just a little.” He put his hat back on. He could feel his back sweating. “Your patients are lucky to have you looking after them,” he said. There was something wonderful and strange about speaking with her. He almost felt like he was twenty years old again, or that he had never stopped being twenty years old.

  “Oh, I’m not involved with the patients,” said Keisha, ignoring the gallantry. “I’m here for research.”

  “The cutting edge,” he said. “That’s awesome.”

  Her brow furrowed as though she was trying to figure out if he was joking. “Well, I’m looking at rates of resistance and survival in the patients here.”

  He spread out his hands. “I actually came up because I saw you on television. I wanted to apologize for being a jerk back then. What was it, nineteen years ago? You didn’t deserve that.”

  “You’re not sick, I hope?” Keisha sounded mollified.

  “Not yet,” he said. She raised an eyebrow but he didn’t elaborate. “Just on a shift outside, like I said.”

  “Well, if you were sick, this is the best hospital.”

  “Good to know.” Elliot felt the conversation coming to a natural close as Keisha glanced back to the laboratory doors behind her. “So, listen, I’m sorry again. I’ve been feeling bad about what happened.”

  “It’s okay,” she said. “I haven’t spent the past nineteen years being upset with you. I got over it.” She looked puzzled for a second, and Elliot remembered that expression from when he broke up with her—just before tears began filming her eyes and he’d felt that shameful uptick of pride that he had actually made someone love him. “I don’t know how exactly, but I did.”

  “I’ll bet it was easy,” he said.

  “Probably,” agreed Keisha, but there was a smile in her eyes. “Okay, I’ve got to go. Tell the press I’ll be down later.”

  “I will,” said Elliot. “Thanks.”

  He turned and headed back down the staircase. When he got outside, he waved at the journalists as though he was actually the one they’d been waiting for, and a few of them laughed. The sun glinted off the roofs of passing cars, and Elliot felt restored and exhilarated, as though Keisha herself had examined him with her strong, practical hands and given him a clean bill of health.

  * * *

  That evening, Elliot drove over to the unmarked building where the surviving students from his kung fu school had continued to gather on their own. Graham, a real estate broker, had found the place: an unrented loft space in a converted industrial building where renovations had been completed shortly before the outbreak.

  Elliot waved a greeting to the others and stayed in his corner. After class, people would go online to talk and exchange news via group chat or private message. But for now, they maintained the unplanned silence with which their meetings had begun, as well as a vast distance from one another—more than was strictly necessary for doing the forms, but still in clear contravention of the new social distancing ordinances that forbade non-essential gatherings outside of a family milieu. Tonight’s secret assembly included sixteen men and women of all levels, though most were kung fu students of long standing whose practice had knit into their identity. The weekly session was only a fraction of the regular training regimen that many of them were used to. Of his core group of friends from the school, Elliot was the only survivor, but of the cohort just behind them were Mina, Tariq, Jason, Sahir, Nalin, Hannah, and Brett. The rest he was getting to know little by little over the group chat.

  One of the black belt students moved to the front and led them through a brief warm-up before the group moved through the forms in loose synchronization. Crane, snake, tiger. Resilience, speed, and strength. They’d shortened a standard two-hour class to about forty-five minutes, dispensing with sparring and all of the usual interaction that ARAMIS had rendered dangerous. The point of the gathering was to carry forward their practice, to remember their friends, the master, and all they’d learned. At the end of the session, the leader always read out a roll call of their lost members. But even before their names were spoken aloud, Elliot was thinking of Jejo, Cam, Lucas, Declan, Teresa, Paloma, Felix. The master and his wife. And he knew he wasn’t the only one.

  Afterwards, everyone shrugged their sweaty shoulders back into their coats where they’d dropped them, and held up gloved hands in farewell.

  Outside, the city looked like it had been cleared for a film shoot. Most of the other cars on the road were police cruisers or ambulances. Elliot had heard from his friends on the evening shift that enforcing the new curfew was surprisingly easy. People wanted to stay inside after dark just as much as the authorities wanted them off the streets.

  With two minutes to spare before nine, Elliot let himself into his building. Even with the makeshift decorating he’d carried out during his quarantine, his apartment had a spare, provisional feel, eased only by its slight messiness. One corner was full of boxes from Sarah’s apartment that she’d sent over before leaving on her trip in mid-October. She’d packed in a mad rush. A few boxes were labelled MISC., STUFF, and ODDS ’N’ ENDS. Right up until he’d seen her off at the marina, both of them putting on a brave face for Noah, he was sure she was going to change her mind. After all, the last time they’d ducked into a restaurant without first checking the online reviews, she’d been nearly too agitated to sit down. And when she’d considered switching mobile providers, they’d discussed it on and off for weeks before she announced she’d rather just keep her old phone and contract. It had been a long time since his sister had made such a big decision on her own. The step forward made him feel proud, uneasy, and a little bereft.

  He opened a beer just before his parents called. In the midst of all the life-and-death situations he now saw daily on the job, he thought about them more than he’d expected. There were profound bonds of all kinds and of every sort, but parents and children, brothers and sisters, husbands and wives—they were the only ones acknowledged by the hospital in a time of crisis. This was the small circle of people who could visit a dying patient in isolation, who could legally accept the perilous risks of love and family.

  “Hi guys,” he said, picking up. His parents never called him separately, only at the same time on different extensions of the landline in the house where he’d grown up, as though he were a group project for which they were each determined to do exactly half of the work.

  “We’re worried about you, Ell,” said Gretchen, once they had dispensed with greetings. Talking about ARAMIS no longer required a preamble. “It must be a living nightmare in the city.”

  “Anytime you want to come home,” said Frank.

  “Thanks, Dad.”

  With Sarah away, the three of them had been talking more than they had in years. She’d thrown the family balance into disarray, and now they were tilting into new angles and relations to one another. Though his parents had at first been alarmed by the departure of his sister and nephew on an ocean voyage with the writer and self-styled pandemic expert Owen Grant, their opposition was softening with each passing day of rising death tolls on land.

  “I’ll admit it now,” said Gretchen. “I’m relieved they’re out of harm’s way.”

  “I just hope she knows what she’s getting herself into,” said Frank. “We’re sure this isn’t another hippie brainwashing group?” It was a point he raised almost every time they spoke.

  “Sarah’s the one who got herself and Noah on that boat,” Elliot repeated. “It was all her idea.”

  “Well, Owen Grant is a decent writer,” said Gretchen, as though making a concession. “Even if he’s a total cad. He was a perfect monster t
o Rachel. I don’t know how she’ll ever trust anyone again.”

  “I just hope he’s a decent sailor,” said Elliot.

  “Sarah can handle herself,” said Gretchen. “Did you see the new photo? Captain Noah?”

  “Yes, he looks like a natural,” said Elliot.

  Sarah had put them all on the same group email to share photos of her son on the boat, and his parents called after every new message to discuss Noah as if he were a celebrity in whom they shared a common interest. In the latest photo, Elliot’s nephew was standing at the helm of Buona Fortuna, one hand on the wheel.

  “So she’s helping this fellow Owen write his weblog or whatever,” said Frank, once again retreading previous conversational territory. “Though I can’t figure out why anyone wants to hear what he has to say about viruses.”

  “Everyone’s an expert these days,” said Gretchen, sighing. “Have you seen Keelan on television, Elliot? He’s been on all the networks, talking up a storm about rule utilitarianism and crisis management. The department is all in an uproar about it. Half of us are appalled and the rest are jealous.” She sniffed. “But at least he’s not a novelist.”

  “He might as well be,” said Frank. “It’s all very speculative.”

  “Is he saying anything so very wrong?” asked Elliot.

  “What isn’t he saying?” countered his father. “He’ll talk to anyone about anything.”

  “The problem,” said Gretchen, “is that he’s advocating for a calm and collected acceptance of additional policing, instead of warning against the encroachment of civil liberties. First it’s voluntary quarantining, then it’ll be mandatory. Then they’ll be shooting people who step out of line. That’s the real danger.”

  In his twenties, Elliot would have taken his mother’s remark as a personal affront, but now he was merely irritated, if not surprised, by her vehemence. “Mom, that’s completely unfair.”

  Frank made a thoughtful sound. “Is it possible Keelan takes a less dim view of human nature than you do, dear?”

  “That’s funny, coming from you,” Gretchen snapped back. “People are fine. But the state always works to preserve its own authority. First through economic factors, then through violence.”

  Elliot knew his mother was trying to pull him into the fray, but he didn’t feel up to it and said his goodbyes. He had a feeling his parents would be continuing the conversation without him.

  He felt grateful for their new routine. Elliot had seen more than a few stories on the news about estranged families reuniting during the pandemic crisis. Adopted children seeking out their birth parents. Birth parents reaching out to their children. Runaways coming home. Even exes reconciling, though he found that type of reunion to be the most wrong-headed and improbable of them all.

  Elliot finished his beer and rinsed out the bottle. He was happy his parents were still together, that they had that kind of easy companionship. He wished he lived in a place big enough to have a dog. Then again, Noah was allergic. Elliot wondered if that was a gene Noah had inherited from his biological father, whoever that might be.

  He turned off the overhead light. In a window across the way, he could see a candle burning in a small shrine, with clementines, bananas, and orange flowers laid out around a framed photograph of an older woman. A Day of the Dead altar.

  He opened his computer and unwrapped a mini Kit Kat. He thought about the research centre where he’d donated sperm in college, and the bizarre resentment he’d felt after breaking up with Keisha. He’d wanted to drive away from his own life then, too—and the donations had paid what felt at the time like a fortune. He’d bought his Impala and enjoyed the freedom that came with a car that was wholly his own. But he wondered now if the donations had been about more than the money. If they were about feeling some simple sense of purpose, something tangible, away from the swirling mists of academia. And maybe, in retrospect, there had been a little perversity in the decision: the knowledge that it would horrify Gretchen and Frank. He didn’t think the research project had had anything to do with artificial insemination, but then again, he didn’t really remember what he’d signed.

  He googled Lansdowne research subjects sperm donation, but he didn’t find anything. Then he looked up medical research Western Massachusetts sperm donor fertility, and still nothing. He checked how long frozen sperm could remain viable and then shut off the computer.

  He opened another beer.

  * * *

  Russ was donning his protective gear at the start of their shift. “Every day some new demotion from actual police work.” He slipped on his gloves and snapped a face mask on over his scowl. “Next, we’ll be changing bedpans.”

  They were still assigned to Methodist Morningside, where so many health care workers had developed the illness that they were running with a skeleton staff. The mobile units were practical for initial screenings, but at a certain point the very sick needed to be admitted to hospital for treatment. With every new wave of infection, Elliot, like his parents, felt a fresh relief that his sister and nephew had set sail on their trip.

  “Cheer up,” he said to his partner. “It’s our last day.”

  Their current assignment was to enforce order at the intake desk at Emergency. It turned out that families facing the life-threatening illness of a loved one didn’t always follow the posted regulations regarding not asking the staff about wait times. In most cases, the mere presence of uniformed officers in the waiting room was enough to encourage calm. But their secondary duty was to help ensure the submission of insurance information, as families in extremis were also sloppy at completing paperwork. Elliot knew his mother would take a dim view of armed officers becoming involved in the bureaucratic enforcement of capitalism. He wasn’t crazy about it himself.

  Russ grimaced as he directed patients to the stack of clipboards on the counter. “You know, I thought I was okay with maybe being killed in the line of duty,” he said, “but this is a whole other story.”

  Elliot adjusted his face mask, which had begun to slip down his nose. “Just follow the protocols and we should be fine.” He said the same thing every day, and every day his partner failed to be comforted.

  “Bullshit,” said Russ. “I know what happened to Bryce. I’m praying we get moved to curfew duty next.”

  “He’s not dead yet,” said Elliot, though Bryce’s wife had texted to say her husband had taken a turn for the worse. “He could be back at work next week.”

  As soon as their shift was over, Russ bolted for the doors. “Let’s ride,” he said, twirling the keys to the patrol car around a finger.

  “Clock-watcher,” said Elliot. “I’ll catch up in five minutes.”

  He followed the signs around to the main entrance, where he paused to adjust his mask. He took his hat off and rubbed his head. He always began sweating the instant he started moving around inside.

  His detour panned out when he spotted Keisha crossing the lobby. He’d seen her a few times during his week at the hospital, and she often stopped to chat for a minute or two. He wondered if she felt as he did, that it was a balm to see someone from days gone by.

  “How goes the battle?” he asked. He could read the stress of the past two months in the lines on her brow. Keisha had come under fire, first for the panic that arose after she released the photo of ARAMIS Girl, and then for the nationwide rash of hate crimes against Asian Americans that followed. So far, Methodist Morningside had stood behind her, but he could only imagine how devastated she must be.

  “It’s going okay,” said Keisha. “We’re working on developing a new drug with a few international labs.”

  They paused while a couple with two children burst into the lobby, looking frantic. The little girl was carrying a battered Elmo doll and the mother was crying. Elliot stepped forward and redirected them to the emergency triage at the Children’s Pavilion.

  “You know,
” said Keisha, “this is one of the most infectious places on the planet right now. Just walking through here could make you sick.”

  “I’m not worried.”

  “Then you’re an idiot.” She shook her head. “It’s so weird to be seeing you all the time now,” she said. “Come on, let’s not stand here.” He followed her out a side door leading to a small loading zone. A No Smoking sign the size of a shopping cart was mounted on the wall. “I feel better talking outside. Fewer germs.”

  “I thought this was the best hospital.” He flinched as the door slammed shut behind them.

  “Well, it is,” said Keisha. “A prognosis here is better than anywhere else. We have protocols and we know how to use them. We’ve drilled. We have isolation rooms with separate ventilation. And we have more respirators than staff at this point.” She looked proud but defensive. “We’ve had the most cases but also the most survivors.”

  “It’s heroic, what you’re doing,” he said, and meant it. “Oh, hey. Here. A parting gift.” He reached into his pocket and handed her a mini box of Milk Duds, their gloved fingertips briefly touching along the side of the package. “After today, with any luck, I’ll be on curfew duty.”

  “I’m sorry you got assigned here,” she said, slipping the candy into her lab coat. “We’ve had a few of your guys admitted, as I’m sure you know.”

  “I’m not worried,” he said again, raising his voice a little to be heard over a passing ambulance with its siren blaring.

  “Is this some sort of male invincibility complex? Because if so, spare me.”

  “Not at all,” said Elliot. “Right before this rotation, I did seven weeks of quarantine relief. And before that, I was in quarantine myself.”