In her autobiography, Helen had described the alcoholic years after Batgirl was cancelled in great detail. It hadn’t been pretty. “Don’t do that.” He thought for minute. Where could he get sedatives?
Then it hit him. He stood. “This is Beverly Hills. Every other house on this street probably has Xanax in the medicine cabinet. I’ll go door to door. I’ll break into the houses where no one answers.”
Helen nodded, still wiping her eyes. She struggled to her feet, weaving as if they were on the deck of a ship. “God, I’m so sorry. I was such a sweet girl, before I moved to LA. Before Batgirl.” Her gray eyes were bright with tears. “The fame does something to you. Even the little bit I had; it burned a hole right through me. All the actors I know who made it are fucked up beyond belief. None of them made it through whole.”
She stepped close to Ray; he instinctively wrapped his arms around her. She pressed close, resting her cheek on his shoulder, her hands against his chest. Her breath was sour with last night’s tequila, but to Ray it was the sweetest perfume. He closed his eyes, reveled in her warmth.
When her lips touched his, he was so startled he flinched.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t—” Helen said.
Ray leaned in and kissed her back.
Helen turned her head aside, whispered, “Make love to me. I want to be touched. I want to feel normal for a little while.”
• • • •
Back in high school, when Batgirl was a popular prime time TV show, Ray had read A Tale of Two Cities in English class. Mr. Patel made a big deal out of the opening line of the novel, and that line was the only thing Ray remembered about the book. The line was: It was the best of times, it was the worst of times. Laying in Helen Anderson’s bed, with her sleeping beside him, that line was a perfect description of how Ray felt.
He couldn’t shake a tinge of guilt, as if he were cheating on Eileen. That guilt was pillowed by a soaring sense of joy; sparks of awe, magic, and wonder as he studied Helen’s sleeping profile in the early morning light. That joy was wrapped in a ball of terror and dread, as the reality of what lay outside Helen’s front door crept along in the back of Ray’s mind. They hadn’t been outside in five days, but the radio reports were enough. His terror looped right back to concern for Eileen. She’d cheated on him, she’d left him, but part of him still loved her, still worried.
Helen opened one eye. “Stop staring,” she sang sleepily.
“Sorry.” He lay back and stared up at the ceiling, thinking about Eileen. Odds were she had it by now. The thought rattled Ray, but in the last radio report, between seventy and eighty percent of Los Angeles residents had the disease, so yes, there was a good chance his wife was frozen, was dying. Maybe she and Justin both had it.
“What’s the matter?” Helen asked.
Ray looked at her, questioning, then realized there was a tear on his cheek. He wiped it with the back of his hand. “I was just thinking about my wife. My ex-wife, I guess. I was wondering how she’s doing, whether she’s . . . you know.”
Helen put a hand on his arm. “You’re a good soul. I have a grown son in Houston, and all I’m thinking about is how to get more Xanax.”
Ray reached up, took her hand in his. “You’ve done a lot of good in the world.”
Helen laughed harshly. “Yeah. I was in a bad TV show.”
“It wasn’t bad, and anyway, that’s not what I’m talking about. What about all the money you raised for autism research?”
Helen sighed, shook her head, but didn’t argue.
“I can’t stand the thought that Eileen might be like these people. All alone. Dying.” He rose up on his elbow. “Would you mind if I . . .”
Helen stiffened. “You want to go to her?”
“Just to make sure she’s all right.”
“And what if she isn’t? Will you stay with her?”
Ray hadn’t thought that far ahead. “I’m staying with you. If that’s what you want.”
“Of course it’s what I want. You’re my guardian angel, remember?” She leaned over and kissed his nose. “If I was married and my husband ditched me while this hell was breaking loose, he could be bleeding to death on my doorstep and I wouldn’t bring him a Band-Aid.” She gave a little one-shouldered shrug. “But that’s just me.”
Ray wished he could feel that way; it was all Eileen deserved. But he couldn’t. They’d spent twenty-two years together, and even if the in-jokes and silly banter had faded over the last five, they’d always watched out for each other. The more he thought about it, the more urgently he needed to check on her.
He turned and kissed Helen. “I’ll be back in two hours. Three at the most.”
“Would—” she paused. “Can I come with you?”
She was safer inside, but Ray could see this meant a lot to her. It meant they were together, not two strangers waiting out a storm together.
• • • •
There were bodies everywhere. In the street, on sidewalks, on lawns, in driveways. In cars, both parked and wrecked.
Ray hit the brake as a teenaged boy lurched out from behind a delivery truck, right in front of the car. The boy’s arms were raised, his head nodding, eyes wild with terror.
“I’m sorry,” Ray shouted through the raised windows. “There’s nothing we can do. I’m so sorry.” He inched the car forward. “Please, get out of our way. Move, please.” The boy set his hands on the hood of Helen’s Prius, opened his mouth, trying to speak. With each jerk of his head he began to sink, his legs freezing up. Ray turned to look behind him, backed up until the boy slid to the street. He steered around him.
Helen had her hands over her eyes. “This is terrible. These poor people.”
“Why are there so many in the streets?” Ray asked as he steered around a woman in a bathrobe. He was fairly sure she was still breathing, but he avoided looking at her as he passed. He didn’t want to see her eyes tracking them.
“They don’t want to die alone,” Helen said, her voice slurred. She’d gone through half of the tequila bottle since they’d left her house. There were tears on her cheeks. “Once they start nodding, they’re not afraid to catch it any longer, they’re afraid to be alone, with no one to help them. So they run outside.”
Head down, Helen held her hands on either side of her eyes to shield her from picking up glimpses of the accident victims in her peripheral vision as Ray inched along. He wished he could look away as well.
Helen shook two Xanax into her hand and washed them down with tequila. He’d have to locate more pills before too long.
As he turned onto Walter’s street, he spotted a boy standing on a lawn, a baseball mitt on one hand. Ray slowed. The boy just stood there.
“Christ. Look at that.” Helen pointed out her window at a man clutching a push lawn mower, one foot back as if he were walking. Only he wasn’t walking.
On the lawn beyond, Ray spotted two older people sitting on a stoop. Across the street a man stood beside his car, a garden hose in one hand, the nozzle pointing at his truck as if he was washing it. No water came from the hose.
As they passed Walter’s house, Ray expected to see Walter sitting frozen beside Lauren on their porch, but Lauren was alone.
Ray drove on. “Someone posed those people,” he said. It was like an elaborate art exhibit, a still-life of Saturday in the neighborhood. Back when the nodding virus was nothing but an item on the evening news, one of the early reports had a doctor demonstrating how victims of the virus would stay in any position you put them in, like living mannequins. When you were infected, your muscles worked just fine; you just couldn’t tell them what to do.
“This is horrible,” Helen said.
“It is.”
They passed a woman with short red hair kneeling over a flower bed; Ray flinched, certain for an instant it was Eileen, but they were still two blocks from their house.
Eileen’s minivan was in the driveway. Ray pulled in behind it, his heart racing.
It felt s
trange to knock on his own door, but he did.
The door swung open. Eileen took him in, recognizing him instantly, even wearing a surgical mask. She seemed surprised, but maybe not overly-so. As she pushed the screen door open she noticed Helen, and froze. She studied Helen, her eyebrows clenched in confusion.
“What is this?” she finally asked.
Ray grasped the screen door, opened it the rest of the way. “I came to make sure you’re all right.”
“Is that Batgirl?” There was a familiar hint of disdain in her tone. “What is this?”
Helen stepped toward the doorway, stumbled, caught the door jamb to keep from falling. “No. It’s not fucking Batgirl. My name is Helen Anderson.”
Eileen recoiled.
“Oops,” Helen said. “Seems I’ve had a bit too much to drink. Or not enough. Opinions vary.”
Eileen looked up at Ray, wide-eyed, confused.
“Are you all right? If so, we’ll leave you alone.” Ray caught a glimpse into the living room. Justin was sitting on the couch, perfectly still.
“Am I all right? Let’s see.” Eileen looked up. “I’d have to say no. But thanks for asking. I’d invite you in, but that wouldn’t be a good idea. In fact even with those masks it’s probably not a good idea for you to be talking to—” She trailed off, let the breath bleed slowly out of her in a long sigh.
She was looking at Helen, surprised anew at Helen’s presence, in the flesh, at her door. It did take some getting used to.
Was she bothered by Helen being here with Ray? All of Ray’s petty revenge fantasies had melted away at the sight of Justin. Eileen had been exposed; unless she was one of the two or three percent of people who were naturally immune to the virus, she was going to catch it, too.
Eileen went on looking at Helen, who was clinging to the door jamb, trying to remain upright, her shoulder length golden blonde hair rising and falling with each nod of her head.
“Oh, Helen,” Ray whispered. He grasped her shoulders, gently turned her to face him.
Her face was stiff, her lips pulled back in terror. “My Xanax. Keep giving me my Xanax. Please.”
Ray put his arms around her. “I will. I’ll take good care of you. I promise. I’m so sorry.”
The last words she spoke came out garbled, but Ray understood. “Thank you. My guardian. Angel.”
“Bring her in.” Eileen held the screen door open.
Ray led Helen inside, put her in the big chair he’d always sat in when they watched TV. He knelt beside her for a long time, patting her knee, whispering whatever soothing words came to him as he cried.
It was ironic, that Helen had gotten sick here of all places. He would carry her to the car and take her home at some point, but for the moment his only concern was making her as comfortable as possible.
Eventually Helen’s nodding slowed, then stopped, and she was still.
Ray stood, brushed her hair back into place.
He turned, and the first thing he saw was Justin on the couch, his hands in his lap.
Ray nodded to him. “Justin.” He was going to leave it at that—a polite acknowledgment and nothing more, but even Justin deserved more, given the circumstances. “I’m sorry.”
Eileen handed him a glass of ginger ale. “If I get it before you, I want to be outside, in the backyard. Would you do that for me?”
“Of course.”
Eileen turned to look at Helen. “I’m happy for you. I was afraid you were going through this all alone. The thought of it just about killed me.”
“I appreciate that.” Ray was glad to be leaving things on good terms with Eileen, but offered nothing more. Helen was right there in the room, and she was in hell right now.
“Thank you for coming to check on me. You’re a good man.” She nodded. “You deserved better than me. And you found her, in the end.”
Ray nodded. He felt uncomfortable talking about this with Eileen; he cast about the room, looking for a way to change the subject.
A wonderful idea came to him. He went to Helen, lifted her. “I want to show you something.”
He carried her into his collectibles room, turned three hundred sixty degrees so she could see everything, then set her in the recliner. It was the only seat in the room, so Ray stood.
“I know you’re ambivalent about Batgirl. I wish you weren’t. I wish you could feel proud of what you did.”
Ray surveyed the objects in the room, seeing children’s toys. Brightly-colored junk.
“This makes me look pretty obsessive, doesn’t it?” He rested a hand on Helen’s shoulder, hoping it was reassuring to feel someone’s touch, hoping she wasn’t cringing inside. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have shown you this.”
“Let me get you some water.” He went to the kitchen to get some ice water, gave Eileen, who was sitting on the couch beside Justin, what he hoped was a comforting smile as he passed.
He found straws in the back of the pantry. Then he remembered: Xanax. It was the one thing Helen had asked him to do for her. Her purse was on the front stoop, where she must have dropped it.
“Here you go.” He slid a Xanax tablet onto her tongue, put the straw in her mouth. Her lips closed on it, her mouth suddenly coming alive. She drank three hard pulls, then went still again. It was a frightening reminder that she was still completely alert, able to respond, even though her nervous system wasn’t allowing her to initiate any movements of her own.
What must it be like? How did it feel? A sour dread ran through Ray as he realized he might find out for himself. With every hour that ticked by, it grew a little more likely that he was one of the very lucky few, but there was no guarantee.
“Ray,” Eileen screamed from the living room.
Ray flinched at the urgency in her voice. “I’ll be right back.”
Eileen’s head was bobbing, her tight red curls bouncing. Ray hurried over, knelt and took her hand.
“My poor Eileen. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” He kissed her hand. Justin watched him, probably jealous as Ray comforted his estranged wife.
“I’ll be right back.” He set Eileen’s hand in her lap, and went to get Helen. It would be simpler if they were all in the same room. Ray had read about caring for victims of the nodding virus; soon he’d be changing wet and soiled clothes—even Justin’s.
From her position in the recliner, the only way to lift Helen was to take her wrists and draw her forward until she fell into his arms. With her face pressed into his shoulder he carried her back to his TV chair, cradled the back of her head as he set her into it.
When she was settled, he kissed her cheek.
Straightening, he surveyed his silent charges. All of their eyes were on him. As he took a few steps, their eyes followed.
He wanted to say something, but found himself at a loss. What could he say to an audience of his ex-wife, her lover, and his newfound love? There were things he’d like to say to each of them individually, but nothing he wanted to say to all of them together.
Eileen had asked to be outside. In the week he’d spent at Helen’s house, she’d spent a good deal of time in her backyard, so he guessed she would like that as well. He couldn’t care less what Justin liked.
One by one, he carried them out to the padded lawn chairs on the back patio.
Justin had wet himself, so first Ray had to change him. He did his best to mask his disgust as he tugged off Justin’s wet underpants.
It was a nice day, with a light breeze, the sun occasionally eclipsed by clouds. Ray sat beside Helen, trying to ignore his pounding heart, his sweaty palms. If he developed the virus there would be no one to take care of them.
“I’m not much of a cook,” he said aloud, mostly because the silence made him feel terribly alone, reminded him that most everyone on Earth was either dead or dying. “I guess since all we have to eat is canned food, that doesn’t matter.”
He’d positioned Helen with her hands and elbows resting on the arms of her chair, as if she was about to spring int
o action.
For a moment, against all logic, it looked as if Helen was springing into action. Then Ray realized she wasn’t moving—he was. His neck was.
As his heart pounded wildly, he willed himself to face this bravely. “I have it. I guess we all knew it was only a matter of time.” He lifted his gaze to Eileen, struggling to keep his eyes on her as his head bobbed violently. “Eileen, we had twenty-two good years. I’m grateful for those.”
Then he turned to Helen, tried to chuckle, but it came out as a gargling choke. “I’ve only known you for a week, Helen, but I—” He was going to say he would never forget it, but he was going to be dead in a few days. He was going to sit there until he died of thirst, but first he would have to watch Eileen and Helen die.
His chest hitched as his heart found another gear. All along, he thought he’d been facing the truth head-on, but deep down he’d always believed he’d be one of the lucky three percent.
“Shit.” The words were garbled beyond recognition.
Soon the nodding slowed, and stopped, and Ray was still.
He’d made a mistake, sitting beside Helen. He couldn’t look at her. Out of the corner of his eye he could see the merest shadow of her profile. That was all.
A fly landed on his hand. Its legs flitted along on his skin, and he felt it as acutely as ever, but he couldn’t move his hand, not even the slightest flinch to shoo it away. His chest rose and fell, rose and fell; he couldn’t speed up his breathing or slow it down, couldn’t take a deeper or shallower breath.
A wave of claustrophobic terror hit him; he wanted to scream, to flail his arms, to run from this silent lawn party, but his body remained perfectly still, breathed in and out.
Eileen was watching him. He gazed back at her. What was she thinking? Did she regret her affair with Justin? Was she wishing it was just the two of them here? She looked up, maybe into the branches of the palm trees deeper in their backyard, or maybe watching a bird fly by, envying its freedom.
He looked to his left, toward Helen, straining to see as much of her as possible, but still saw only a ghostly outline. She was there, though. If he had to die in this terrible way, in his wildest dreams, he couldn’t have guessed he would die beside Batgirl.
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