Songs for the End of the World

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Songs for the End of the World Page 29

by Saleema Nawaz


  It was a letter that never seemed to be finished, nor ever quite enough. Its tone veered problematically close to antagonistic here and there, especially in the mentions of Dory, but short of scratching out whole sections, Keelan wasn’t sure how to make it more palatable. The sensible solution would have been to forego the attempt, but it was too late for that. It was a strange impulse that had set him writing, but it might take a stronger one to stop.

  He shuffled the pages back in order, leaving the half-finished one on the top of the pile. Then he quickly sent an email to Edith, asking her to drop by with the materials the next day, and responded to a few more media inquiries.

  The timer on the stove dinged and Keelan returned to the kitchen. Using a pot-holder, he removed the pizza to a cutting board, where he divided it into four slices using his biggest knife. Then he put all four pieces on a large plate, poured three tall glasses of tap water, and—setting everything on a tray next to a roll of paper towel—brought it into the living room.

  He turned on the news. He was momentarily confused by the image of a crowded football game until the field gave way to a clip of a full classroom, then a busy shopping mall, and a large-yet-peaceful protest scene, with people carrying signs reading NO FRACKING and PLANET BEFORE PROFITS.

  “The ARAMIS crisis has made images like these a thing of the past in cities across the U.S., from New York and Miami to Austin and L.A.,” the announcer was intoning. “Regular life is on hiatus for millions these days. Public gatherings are still restricted. Schools, by and large, are closed. Most offices are allowing employees to work from home, and many businesses have either temporarily shut down or closed altogether. The only places that are still bustling are the hospitals, many of which are full to overflowing.”

  Keelan lifted a piece of pizza to his mouth and took a bite. The cheese, still hot, stuck to the roof of his mouth. “Mmmm,” he said, chewing. He only noticed he was making a sound when he was forced to turn up the volume on the TV. This was how people became loners.

  The program cut to a shot of a reporter in front of a hospital in downtown Boston, motioning to the busy ambulance bay. She wore a beige trench coat and a pair of tortoiseshell glasses that reminded Keelan of Dory.

  “As hospitals become crisis centres for the virus, other patients are wondering if the hospital is still a safe place for procedures and recovery.” The reporter held out a microphone to a pregnant woman in a wheelchair being brought through the front doors, who admitted she had some qualms about delivering her baby in a place where there were at least four hundred confirmed ARAMIS cases.

  “I’m sure they’re doing their best,” the woman said. “I’d go somewhere else if I could, but what choice do I have?” The indignation of her husband was palpable even in his stance behind the wheelchair. Keelan reached for the remote and pressed the mute button before he began to speak.

  He moved on to the second glass of water. There was an almost criminal amount of sodium in these frozen pizzas. He ought to have his blood pressure checked, but he didn’t suppose doctors were much concerned with routine exams anymore.

  “Dark days ahead,” he said aloud. As the program cut to the next segment, he unmuted the television. A female guest introduced as a virologist was gesturing to several blown-up images of the ARAMIS virus rendered in blue and red and taped to a whiteboard. Keelan wondered if the real pathogen had a colour and made a mental note to look it up.

  Dr. Delille was speaking on location from a university laboratory in New York City. She had an open lab coat and a mass of shoulder-length black braids that framed her face. “The antivirals we’ve been relying on are only partially effective.” Her tone was matter-of-fact. “We also have to expect that the virus will continue to mutate.”

  Only a microphone was visible in the shot, as though the reporter holding it was disinclined to get any closer. “So we have no medical defence against ARAMIS?”

  Dr. Delille’s voice became emphatic. “Far from it. We have a network of top research labs all across the world working on the problem simultaneously. My team has been trying to see if we can pinpoint any natural immunity to the virus. That could give us a new starting point for a vaccine.”

  “Do you think there’s any reason to be optimistic at this point?”

  “Well, epidemiologists have noticed the progress of the virus has been quite erratic.” Keelan observed how calm the doctor was in front of the camera, almost as though she didn’t notice it was there. “It might have to do with different hospital equipment and protocols, or it may be related to protective immunity or resistance in certain segments of the general population. That’s what we’re looking into.”

  The off-screen reporter capped it off. “A word of hope from the front lines of science. Now let’s take a look at the reported worldwide cases so far.”

  An infographic flashed on the screen. Colour-coded clusters of dots indicated confirmed cases, and large red circles marred Europe, China, Vietnam, and Hong Kong. Zooming in on North America, the major cities south of Columbus were inundated with overlapping red dots, and bigger cities north of the Mason–Dixon line appeared in various shades of high-alert orange. In Canada, the west coast was heavily implicated, with a few smaller dots in the east.

  Keelan put down the empty glass and slid the tray further away on the table. Settling back against the couch cushions, he considered getting up to pour himself some whisky from the amber bottle beckoning from the sideboard. One of his students had given it to him at the start of term, in a bribe so brazen Keelan had almost considered declining it. Instead, he’d satisfied himself with a raised eyebrow and a reproving thanks. It was ten-year-old single malt from Jura, after all. But the temptation reminded Keelan of the last time he’d indulged, and the headache he’d endured throughout the next day’s departmental meeting. Now that Gretchen was no longer Chair, the meetings could drag on forever. He had to acknowledge she’d been a worthy successor, though she’d followed his own fifteen-year term with a mere four. The new Chair was long-winded, unpredictable, and in the Dean’s pocket.

  “Now’s the time to look sharp,” said Keelan. “No messing about.” He thought about the end of the world and reasoned that drunkenness was an appropriate response. But this, right now, was merely a crisis. He reached for the third glass of water.

  There was a clip of a memorial service with all the mourners wearing face masks, a convention that had not yet made its way to Lansdowne. A Jacksonville family had lost a mother, father, and aunt, and all five children were still hospitalized. Keelan’s eyes began to close.

  A funeral director was talking about adapting mourning rituals to suit pandemic protocols. “It’s really about showing respect to our loved ones,” he was saying. “They wouldn’t want their last rites to become a source of infection for their nearest and dearest.” Keelan opened his eyes and saw that the man on television looked afraid.

  He remained on the couch watching the news until all the lights and the television abruptly shut off. Then he groped for the flashlight on the table in the hall and lit his way up to bed.

  * * *

  The next morning, Keelan awoke late and in a panic, until he checked his watch and remembered classes were suspended. He had been dreaming of Julia again. The time she’d had the flu when she was a teenager and the fever had stripped away some of her toughness, and how his anxiety had done the same for him. She’d stayed home from school and he’d taken the whole week off—the first week of vacation he’d taken since Annie’s death three years earlier—and the two of them had played Scrabble and read books and she’d even talked to him a little about her life, which had become a mystery to him. Or rather, once she’d started telling him about her life, he’d realized he knew nothing about it. Something could only really be a mystery if it had ever occurred to you to be curious about it. That week Julia had talked a great deal about her friend Leah, at first tentatively, and then wi
th such intensity that Keelan began to deflect the conversations, confused by what he’d worried was some type of unhealthy obsession with the girl. Back then, he’d thought everything to do with Julia’s emerging identity was connected to losing her mother—it was the lack of feminine influence manifesting in a misplaced need for female intimacy.

  Julia had been such a good girl, so uncomplaining and diligent at school. She had never sulked or raged the way that he had heard other teenagers did. Or, he wondered now, had she sensed he wouldn’t have been there to listen if she had? Keelan felt a sob rising, which shocked him. It was a curse of old age, this late-breaking sentimentality. This wanting to go back to Julia’s adolescence—a time that he could barely remember. And why should he cherish it, when it seemed to bring Julia, and certainly Dory, so much pain?

  He turned over onto his side, away from the window, then grabbed a pillow and covered his eyes. The map from last night’s newscast kept coming back to him: the pulsing orange and red dots of Miami, Savannah, Austin, Los Angeles. Though it had started in New York, cities in the south were having a harder time containing it, which gave him an uneasy Yankee smugness he wasn’t proud of. Boston, for whatever reason, was still amber. Lansdowne wasn’t even on the map.

  It was so sad, really. He wasn’t sure if the tears threatening to spill over were for Julia or for the world, or for fear of ARAMIS. No matter what he said on the news about the importance of cooperative principles and natural empathy, he did not really think that the human race would come through with flying colours. Not ethically. People with power would fear losing it, fuelling unwarranted instances of panic that would no doubt be distorted out of all proportion by the media. At a certain point, all governments traded in utilitarianism, and surviving a pandemic would become a numbers game, with the penalties and restrictions that went along with protectionism. There might not be witch hunts and persecutions like during the Black Death, but there would certainly be civic unrest and related reprisals. Harsh legislation to deal with disorder, a spreading-too-thin of police resources, the breakdown of law enforcement. Vigilantism. The inevitability of roving looters was an idea implanted in his brain by Hollywood, but he knew it had taken root in the collective imagination all the same. Maybe he ought to buy a gun.

  Keelan kicked at the sheets until his feet poked out the end. He always woke up sweating these days, even though it was November. Anxiety made him overheat. It was insane for Julia to stay in New York City through the ARAMIS crisis. There was no way of isolating oneself in a metropolis of that size. And Julia and Dory had no car. They relied on public transportation to get everywhere.

  He sat up and pulled off his shirt—a dress shirt, he realized, now soaked and wrinkled—and threw it on the floor into a pile of dirty laundry.

  “I’ll go get her,” he said aloud, “and bring her here.” The cooler air of the room soothed him, lightening his mood. He felt as though he were shedding a layer of dead skin. “Both of them.”

  With his new resolve, the structure of the day settled into an intelligible form. He needed to get supplies for the house, and some gas, some snacks, a map. He ought to leave before it got to be too late, although he needed to time his arrival to avoid rush hour in the city, which he’d heard had worsened since people began avoiding public transit. He got up and dressed quickly, in the first items he took out of the closet. It was the beginning of each day that was starting to become tenuous, shaky. Ever since classes had been cancelled, Keelan worried his mental energies were dissipating under the stress of the pandemic. He was watching too much television, thinking too much about the past. In short, he was feeling his age. He was not exactly frightened of losing his routine, but it was the type of small setback he wanted to get out in front of. He could feel deterioration lurking like a coded disease in his DNA. Maybe it was the kind of thing he could write about: The New Rituals of Normalcy in a Time of Crisis.

  On his way downstairs, Keelan paused, startled by the sound of voices in the living room. He remembered his fleeting, treacherous thought about the potential necessity of buying a gun. Hollywood narratives. Perhaps history wasn’t bound to repeat—it was only the stories they told about it that they were doomed to re-enact. Human beings were always looking for a script.

  But no, it was only the television.

  “Power’s back on,” he noted, then cringed as a hint of an echo returned from the ceiling over the stairwell, like an affirmation of his solitude. On…on…on…

  In the kitchen, he put on the coffee and poured himself a bowl of cereal. He thought he could get most of what he needed at the gas station down the road. Officially, he knew there were advisories in place against travelling to or from any city already in a state of emergency, or what the government had lately dubbed “pre-emergency.” But it was unclear to Keelan if these were being enforced. There had been nothing on the news so far about roadblocks into New York City. Then his eyes lit up. “Not yet,” he said aloud. “That’s why now is best. Get out ahead.”

  He stood in the doorway of the kitchen, bowl in hand, calculating the length of the drive. The last time he had driven to the city was before Julia was born, when Annie was still working as an art dealer, though he had visited by train in the years that followed. He moved to the desk and checked the Amtrak website, but rail service had been suspended along all of the major corridors.

  Glancing away from the computer, his eyes fell on the never-ending letter to Julia. He picked up his pen. There was always more to say.

  Quickly—

  Forgive an old man his self-pitying missives and his paltry grievances. The latest on television (you’d be revolted to know that I watch it compulsively, like any ordinary vain person, now that I expect to see myself on it) is that they fear a major power failure on the East Coast. Or so they claim. Now that I’ve seen how the news is made (out of people like me!), I am far from reassured by what I hear. Doubtless there are conspiracy theories springing up on either side, but I’m not quite savvy enough with the world wide web to bother finding out what they are. Probably something to do with suppressing information to avoid a large-scale panic. Certainly the power here in Lansdowne has been on the fritz. (And before Dory accuses me of discriminating against Germans with the use of that phrase, let me assure you that the origins of the expression have never been determined.)

  You know, I’m beginning to enjoy opining on camera—perhaps you’ll say this doesn’t surprise you. With a competent host who can muster a flare of curiosity in his eyes, it isn’t so different from the classroom. But don’t think I’m too much of an egoist to realize that my new-found celebrity is in itself a desperate sign of the times. When philosophers are on the evening news, you can be sure society is in crisis.

  He put down the pen. He ought to call before driving all the way down there. He could give her the letter in person; save the postage.

  He dialled her number, but there was a strange nothingness on the other end—no ringing, no beep, no out-of-order message. He double-checked the number in the back of his address book, and the second time it rang. After twelve rings, an answering service picked up and Keelan left a message.

  “Julia, this is your father. I’m hoping to see you very soon.” He paused, wondering if he should broach his whole plan. He decided, instead, that it was better to reduce anticipatory objections. Then he worried he was leaving too long of a silence. “Give my love to Dory and the baby. The baby-on-the-way, that is.”

  He picked up the pen again to add a postscript.

  My dear,

  In case I don’t make it to you and in case I ought to have asked before, I just want you to know that when you announced your good news via e-card I was genuinely curious as to who is carrying your baby, be it you or Dory. If I said little, it was from delicacy, not from lack of affection or concern. There are oceans of debate as to what is or is not a legitimate or polite question, these days. (For instance, whose
egg was used? And whose sperm?) It’s likely best if I wade in slowly, don’t you agree? There is nothing I want less than to inadvertently insult you, or especially Dory, whom history has shown may be less inclined to forgive my shortcomings. I am delighted to reflect that when I arrive in New York City I will see one of you with the glow of motherhood, and I hope you believe me when I say that any response to the above questions will overjoy me.

  It was possible, he had to acknowledge, that they would not want to come back with him. Dory, he knew, was quite the workhorse at her publishing company, and Julia would probably defer to her. It was the safety of their unborn child that he had to press to his advantage.

  He hoped it was Julia carrying the baby. He had felt prehistoric even thinking it (where was the ledger where he could get credit for this silent self-shaming?), but it was something he wanted for her: motherhood, and the physicality of it. Annie had carried Julia with such humour and laughing grace that it made him bristle with indignation to hear people talk about childbearing like it was all stretch marks and spider veins. But Dory would tell him—they both would, wouldn’t they?—that motherhood was more than pregnancy. It started afterwards. It was like the difference between a wedding and a marriage. Everybody knew that. And thank God there were no adoptive mothers around to hear his offensive and hurtful comments that implied that they were somehow different, lesser, left out. Keelan wondered if his own voice had come to be the vicious conscience in the minds of his negligent students in the way that Dory’s had become, in his, the soundtrack of all that was mean, querulous, and condemning.

 

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