His mother only cocked an eyebrow. “Unless you’ve been thinking that you’d rather be with your family at a time like this. Otherwise, we can just wait until you go.”
Elliot said nothing, not wanting to admit just how far he had come around to her point of view.
“Sarah didn’t wait,” said Frank, oblivious to the silent standoff. “She left months ago. Quite rightly, in my opinion.”
“Yes, but that’s New York City, dear.” Gretchen tilted her head in the way that meant she was waiting for the other person to catch up. “This is Lansdowne.”
“You say that, but just wait until Candace from up the street is smashing in our door because she hears we have the last jar of peanut butter in Massachusetts.”
“Don’t be absurd,” said Gretchen, her voice flat. “We don’t have any peanut butter.”
Since coming out of quarantine, Elliot had found himself watching his parents with an eye to their growing frailty and inimitable quirks. His father was a bit thinner, his mother more slumped. They remained the moral and intellectual beacons that had dominated his childhood, but here and there the signal was interrupted by ambivalence and bickering. It didn’t help that the memories of Keelan dying in his arms were still so fresh—the oily sheen of his sweat, the grotesquely purpling skin, the guttural rasp of each hard-fought breath. And, worst of all, the faltering awareness that had seemed to return at the end to his pale blue eyes: a silent, anguished plea to be saved from drowning on dry land. The images came unbidden to Elliot during second helpings of Frank’s brisket, while watching British murder mysteries with Gretchen, and in the middle of the night, no matter whether he was sleepless or dreaming. His parents were basically the same age as Keelan. How long would they be able to carry on without him? And what if his sudden concern only masked a more palpable dread of seeing his beloved city brought low?
He clicked through a few news stories online, including one headlined ARAMIS: THE REVENGE OF SMALL-TOWN AMERICA? Apparently, pundits all over the country were calling for a return to a simpler way of life, as infections in major cities kept doubling and tripling, especially among children. Hospitals full of comatose kids, and yet somehow the best idea on the table was to flee to the boonies. But even in Lansdowne, Elliot had driven past shuttered businesses and empty schoolyards. He found it unsettling, the way the media seemed determined to turn every issue into something divisive, group against group.
“It’s just a matter of time,” said Frank, turning on the fan as a spot of something on the burner began to smoke. “People are starting to get sick here. We’ve already lost Keelan.”
There was a tremor in Gretchen’s chin. “I heard Rachel’s in the hospital, too. A neighbour is taking care of her little boy, and they won’t let him visit in case he catches it.” She added some milk to her cup. “It’s possible that we can do more good where we are.” Then she locked eyes with Elliot. “What do you think? Are we terrible people if we pick up and leave?”
Things were truly dire if his mother was deigning to ask his advice. “It’s not for me to say,” Elliot said as he glanced down at his phone, buzzing with a text from Jake, a rookie on his squad. Hit the panic button. Can’t buy a fake LV on Canal for love or money today. They’d joked that when the last hawker abandoned Canal Street, it was time to get out. He erased the text and turned off his phone.
“If you ask me,” said Frank, “the sooner we leave, the better. Like tomorrow.”
How quickly a place of retreat could become yet another risk to flee, Elliot thought. The last three and a half weeks in Lansdowne had been a physical relief, a gradual melting-away of the months of stress carried in his back and shoulders. Before he’d left, the city had started to smell, as though every day were garbage day. All the municipal services were understaffed. The snow and cold had come on like a mercy to stifle the pervading smell of rot that reeked like an admission of guilt from the core of North American capitalism. Then there was all the usual violence and exploitation that never seemed to go away, even during an unfolding global tragedy. He’d heard of fake antivirals being sold on street corners and opportunistic thieves ransacking the homes of those who had fled. The cumulative effect was like a sped-up eon of erosion on his crumbling faith in humanity. These days, when Frank used an example from the news to illustrate the brutality of man against man, Elliot could scarcely muster the energy to disagree with him.
“Now that you mention it,” Gretchen said, taking a sip of her coffee, “Keelan’s daughter approached me at the supermarket yesterday. She said she’d like to join us at the cabin if we decide to go.”
Elliot lowered his laptop screen. So Julia and Dory had come to Lansdowne, after all. He hadn’t heard a word from them since he emailed Julia about her father. He’d explained where he’d parked his car then mailed her the keys so she could drive her family out of the city, as per her father’s wishes.
“She brought up the cabin?” Frank turned off the burner and tipped the porridge into a bowl. “That’s very forward.”
“She said they have a Winnebago full of supplies Keelan had been stockpiling. They’re just looking for somewhere to go.”
“They have a house on wheels. They could go anywhere.”
“Not really, Frank.” She gave him a sharp look. “There are travel advisories, blocked roads. And she has a newborn baby.”
“Oh, I know, I know.” His father waved a hand as he rummaged in a drawer for another spoon. “But babies are very portable, from what I’ve heard.”
“Humph.” His mother looked over in his direction. “Elliot? What do you say?”
His elbow jumped on the table, narrowly missing his coffee cup. His reflexes had been on high alert for so long that they were starting to revolt. The other night, when the wind tipped over a metal garbage can, he’d made it halfway to the bedroom door, gun in hand, before waking and remembering that, for the moment at least, he was safe.
“What does it have to do with me?”
“Weren’t you paying attention? It’s Keelan’s daughter. Julia. She wants to bring her family to the cabin. That includes Dory.”
Elliot felt his lips go numb. “I’m surprised you’re bothering to consult me. You love Dory.”
“Yes,” said Gretchen, looking as if she was forcing herself to repress a sigh. “But you’re our son. Didn’t you once tell me that entitled you to preferential treatment?”
“I—I didn’t think you were listening.”
“Well, I was. So?”
“Do what you want,” he said. “I’m over it.”
“Good. I will.” His mother was never one for reading between the lines if she knew she wouldn’t like what she’d find there.
Elliot refreshed his inbox to see if there was a new email from Sarah, but he had no unread messages. He tuned out his parents as he scrolled down to check the date of her last communication. Sometimes he worried he was developing the same anxiety she’d battled for years. If she didn’t write every twenty-four hours or so, he found himself imagining their boat capsizing in a rogue wave. He knew from Sarah this was called “catastrophizing.” Worse, he was beginning to realize how easily concern could transform into paralysis—every course of action was potentially fraught with moral and mortal perils, waiting only for an anxious mind to bring them to light.
Before long, his parents were finishing breakfast and Gretchen was arguing they had a responsibility to take in as many people as they could. “If we can’t trust the state to do it, we have to take care of each other,” she said.
“Well, it’s the lifeboat dilemma, dear,” replied Frank. “How many can our poor cabin support?”
“It has more beds than we need, as you know perfectly well. And the food will be plenty, by the sounds of what they’re bringing. We’ll have to do our share, too.”
“Indeed, we will,” said Frank. “From each according to her abilities. To each
according to his needs.”
Gretchen tapped her fingers on the counter. “Doesn’t that sound like fun, Elliot?”
“More than you know, Mom.”
She got up and began sorting the mail, which they had let amass in great slippery piles of bills, flyers, food delivery menus.
“Here’s one for you, Elliot,” she said, holding out a white envelope. “Did you think to have your mail forwarded? That’s clever of you. I was going to mention it.”
He reached out to take it from her. “I didn’t, actually.”
“Maybe someone from back in the day then? An old friend from school.”
Elliot turned the envelope over in his hands. It looked official, not personal. The logo on the return address—Genosys Family Resources—seemed familiar. “I haven’t lived here in over fifteen years.”
The phone rang, and his father answered it.
“It’s Julia,” said Frank, covering the receiver. “What should I tell her?”
Gretchen turned to Elliot. “It’s up to you,” she said. “But we leave tomorrow.”
* * *
Elliot stood on the doorstep of Keelan’s home, listening to the muted peal of the doorbell echoing inside the old Queen Anne house and looking at his own car parked in the driveway. He’d driven Keelan’s Volvo straight from the hospital to a high-tech car wash, where he’d used his police discount for an electrostatically charged aerosol decontamination of the vehicle. It had occurred to him on his drive out to Lansdowne that, in spite of the expensive cleaning, the car seemed unchanged besides a faint smell of disinfectant. The very business of living required a certain amount of trust.
Dory flung open the door. She was wearing a striped dress with a red belt, and her eyes behind her glasses were liquid green and staring at the sight of him. Her face, even half-covered by a mask, was comforting in a visceral way that caught him off guard. He’d told his mother he wanted to meet with Dory before deciding whether or not to invite her to the cabin. Now he wondered if he’d made a mistake.
“Elliot.” It was almost a whisper. “You’re here.” Then she was peering past him down the deserted street. “Is your mom with you?” she said, seeming flustered.
“Just me,” he said, standing well back from her even though he too was wearing his personal protective gear.
“I’m sorry Julia cornered her like that,” said Dory. She stood aside to let him in then locked the door. “We thought the bereaved daughter might make a better ask than the maligned ex-wife.”
“I haven’t maligned you.”
“Well, that’s something. Why don’t we sit down?” Dory motioned for Elliot to follow, then strode across the foyer and down the hall in a pair of high-heeled shoes.
“How many times do I have to tell you?” called a voice from upstairs that he recognized as Julia’s. “It took my mother years to convince my dad to refinish the floors. She would die if she saw you doing that.”
“Your mother’s already dead,” Dory shouted up in response. Elliot had a sudden memory of one of their first dates, when Dory had cackled at an off-colour joke about puppy mills.
He followed her into the living room to a set of plump flowered sofas. She sat on one, and he sat across from her on the other. Between them on the rug lay a few stuffed animals and other baby toys.
“So you’re a mom now,” he said, after a pause. “By a sperm donor…?”
“How else? A close personal relationship with Zeus?” Dory pushed a lock of her dark bob behind her ear. “It’s someone we know, someone who works for me.” She waved her hand. “He signed everything. It’s all in order.”
“Isn’t that unethical? If he’s your employee, I mean?”
She shrugged. “Probably.” A laugh escaped from them both and, as their eyes met in amusement, it was as though no time had passed. How had he forgotten that it was her very wickedness he had loved? She crossed one leg over the other. “But I wasn’t about to order it off the internet. Kyle is smart, good-looking. Gay. It’s all good.”
“If you say so.” Elliot shifted slightly on the couch. “I hope you’ve been careful about this place.”
“We paid for a fumigation before coming. And a cleaning service.” Dory smoothed the nap of her dress across her knees. “Even though the hospital told Julia they think Keelan probably caught the virus in New York. But how would they know?”
The topic seemed to make her antsy. She stood up and went into the kitchen, her footsteps clacking against the tiles. He watched as she pulled open a cupboard and stared inside. Even in three-inch stilettos, she had to crane her neck to see the top shelf.
“Pop-Tarts or a granola bar?” she offered.
“I guess Keelan didn’t do much cooking.”
Dory shook her head. “Didn’t seem to.” She ripped open a package and slid out a Pop-Tart. “Julia told me we have you to thank for getting us here.” She reached up a hand to remove her mask. “I admit I’m still a little fuzzy on the details.”
Elliot nodded. “I’m just the messenger, really. I made a promise to Keelan.”
Knowing it was hospital protocol to destroy the personal effects of ARAMIS patients, he’d snuck Keelan’s letters to Julia out in his knapsack. Since it wasn’t safe to put them in the mail, he’d sent her digital images of each page. “Did Julia get the photos of his letters? She never wrote back to my email.”
Dory took a bite of the pastry then pulled a face. “Julia has been pretty messed up over everything,” she said, wandering back to the living room. “Especially the letters. Talk about a guilt trip from beyond the grave.” She chewed slowly then swallowed. “Obviously, I know that wasn’t your intention. Or Keelan’s. But somehow even his apology has screwed things up for us.”
Elliot looked away towards an end table and picked up a framed photograph of a pale woman with long dark hair. She had a winsome but vague smile, as though the photographer had captured her in a moment of distraction. Julia’s mother, probably. “Grief can make people behave badly,” he said.
Dory toed a rubber giraffe on the rug. “All these years I told her she didn’t owe him anything.” The toy squeaked as its neck bent in two, then again as Dory released it and the head bounced free. “When people let you down, you have to cut them loose.”
“Thanks a lot.”
“God, Elliot. When will you learn that not everything is about you?” Before he had a chance to respond, Dory strode to the bottom of the stairs. “Jules,” she called. “Come down here already and say hi to your predecessor. It’s the least you could do after stealing me away from him.”
Elliot felt his face getting hot. He didn’t look at Dory but he could almost hear her grinning. She loved to put people on the spot.
Dory sat back down. “So let me give you the lowdown. Julia is Mama and I’m Mommy, and Mama has an elaborate chart for feeding and sleeping that is clearly at odds with reality.”
Julia came downstairs, frowning at a handheld video baby monitor. “I heard that.”
“Look who’s here,” said Dory.
Julia moved closer. She was vaguely hippie-ish in a cotton printed top and stretchy gaucho pants. “It’s been a long time,” she said. Her eyes moved over him without meeting his gaze. “I don’t even know what to say. I guess I should start with thank you. For everything you did for my father, and us.”
Elliot stood up. “Of course,” he said, confused. It seemed Julia didn’t want her wife to know she had paid him a visit. “Congratulations on the baby. I’m really happy for you both.”
“Thanks,” said Julia, with a bit more warmth. He noticed her eyes were listless and bloodshot.
“Is the baby asleep?” he asked. “Should we be quiet?”
Julia glanced down at the monitor then back at Dory. “Still awake.”
“There’s not much point in tiptoeing around her,” said Dory. “This baby
seems determined never to sleep.”
“That doesn’t mean you need to be louder than usual,” said Julia. “You’ve got to quit it with those shoes.”
Elliot thought by now Julia would have realized there was no point in fighting with Dory, because Dory actually enjoyed it. It had been the worst part of their marriage, and Elliot had felt wounded by every harsh word that came out of his own mouth.
But Dory sidestepped the accusation. “Do you want to see her?” she asked him. “She’s awake, anyway.”
“Sure.”
“She’s probably gone to sleep now that nobody’s looking,” said Dory, the sound of her shoes dulling at last on the carpet as she led the way upstairs. “Maybe she just wanted some privacy.”
Julia sounded sour as she trailed behind her wife. “Have you noticed that all of your childrearing suggestions involve some degree of neglect?” To Elliot, over her shoulder, she said, “Dory keeps hoping that doing nothing will turn out to be the elusive parenting secret everyone else has somehow overlooked.”
He again felt the edge of animosity between them and was surprised that it worried him. He fumbled to change the subject as they reached the landing. “What’s your daughter’s name?” he asked.
“Shhh,” murmured Dory, pushing open a door at the top of the stairs. “Look.”
Elliot crowded into the doorway with both women to gaze down at the crib. The baby was finally asleep, her limbs splayed like a starfish. She looked perfect, like the chubby babies in diaper commercials, and her perfection seemed at odds with the kind of world into which she’d been born. Her tiny chest was rising and falling, her head stretched back to reveal bits of lint stuck in the folds of flesh around her neck. Then Dory reached out to clasp Julia’s hand, and Julia closed her eyes and leaned into her wife. The gesture seemed alien to the Dory he’d been married to, and, inexplicably, it soothed him. He felt a wave of love for the child, around whom three practical and prickly adults were standing by helplessly, peaceably. For the first time in months, something relaxed inside him.
Songs for the End of the World Page 35
