“You misunderstand me, sir. There’s nothing in the unit anymore. Your account is closed and that unit is now occupied by a new renter.”
“Where’s my stuff, then?”
“Sir, I’m sorry to have to inform you that the items in the storage were auctioned.”
“Auctioned to who?”
“Sir, I cannot give you that information even if I had it, which I do not.”
He sat in the kitchen, blinking slowly.
“Sir, when nonpayment occurs the contents of the storage are auctioned off.”
“They got everything?”
“Sir, this is what I’m telling you. The whole unit is auctioned as a single item. What they do with the contents after that is up to them.”
“Christ,” he said.
“Sir, I’m sorry to have to give you this unsettling information.”
“Unsettling? Shit.”
“Sir, we made every attempt to contact you.”
“I’m sure you did,” he said. His voice was quiet now, slowing down. A weak thing. A dead bird. “When did the auction take place?” he said.
“Two weeks ago.”
“Christ. Is the stuff still in it?”
“Sir, the items sold at auction are required to be immediately removed from the unit upon payment by the winning bidder.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means they removed everything from the unit so it could be utilized by a new renter.”
Keith was quiet.
“I’m sorry, sir,” the man said. “Would you like the number of the collection agency?”
“Yeah, I guess so.”
He was given the number and he wrote it down on an envelope and the call ended. The room reentered its silence. He sat there at the kitchen table. There were no thoughts now, only a deep well of regret as if the entirety of his life had slipped away from him and what remained was not even a shell or a husk but something akin to a spindrift of thin and insubstantial and sifted dust.
“Well, Quinn,” he said to the empty room. “Here I am. What now?”
He stood again and returned to the stack of mail and looked for the termite inspection report but did not find it, instead bringing the mail to the table and proceeding to open each envelope and sorting the contents into piles. There were no bills he had not paid apart from the mini storage and a handful of magazine subscriptions that were Barb’s and these he threw into the trash pile and finally he stood and gathered that pile and dumped the whole of it into one of the two identical plastic trash bins and then lifted both and carried them through the doorway into the garage, clicking the button that opened the big door there and then waiting as that blank white square rattled open at last.
He ducked underneath when it was high enough to do so and stepped around the rental car to the trash bin outside and opened it and dumped each of the smaller plastic bins into its mouth. The heat outside a respite to the temperature of the garage but still blazing. The sun moving into the west but what did that matter now?
His phone buzzed in his pocket and he looked at the screen. It was Barb and he realized that in calling her moments before he had given her his new phone number. Shit. He sighed audibly and flipped open the phone to answer the call.
“Did you get the storage unit squared away?” she said.
“No,” he said. “You could have told me that’s what you did. Christ, Barb.”
“Don’t get mad at me,” she said.
“I’m not.”
“Yes, you are.”
He sighed again but said nothing.
“Where did you think everything went?” she said.
“The garage, Barb. I thought everything was in the garage.”
“This whole time you never looked in the garage?”
He was silent. It sounded absurd and indeed it was.
“You need to call the storage,” she said.
“I know that.”
“And I left some of Quinn’s stuff in there for you too. It’s in a box by the door.”
“What? What did you say?”
“I said that some of Quinn’s stuff is in the storage by the door.”
He was silent for a moment. Then he said, “What kind of stuff?”
“I don’t know. Stuff I thought you’d want. Quinn’s schoolwork that I was saving. And some photo albums.”
“Her schoolwork was in the storage?”
“Yeah, it’s in there in a box by the door. Don’t you want it?”
He was silent now, breathing, trying to breathe, the sun blazing upon his head. The construction at the end of the cul-de-sac long since complete for the day. No sound from the vacant lot. Nicole appeared from across the street, already jogging in his direction. “Barb,” he said into the phone.
“What?”
Then there was no air, only a terrible sense of void, of absence.
“What, Keith? What?” her voice came through the speaker, increasingly distant as he moved the phone away from his ear with a motion so slow it was almost imperceptible and then clicked it closed and stood there unmoving. A sense of sinking, of falling, flooded through him all at once.
“Captain Keith,” Nicole said, arrived now, panting.
“Hey,” he said.
“My dad’s out on another trip,” she said.
“OK.”
“My mom said you’d want to know.”
“Listen, I need to go in,” he said.
“They had a big fight,” she said, apparently ignoring him. “Your name was part of it.”
He looked down at her. She was smiling, although he did not know why. “That’s not good,” he said.
“Anyway, I guess my dad was mad that you had dinner over here. He probably wanted to meet you because you’re so famous. Anyway, he yelled a lot. Not as loud as my mom, though. She can yell really loud.”
The tractors were silent in the field but at some point the workmen had moved the sofa to the edge of the space at last so that it rested very near the sidewalk, looking like a bloated park bench, and he stood watching it as if it might move back to its more familiar location of its own accord but it did not do so. What was happening now? How had his life come to such fragments?
After a moment, his phone began to vibrate in his pocket again and he did not look at it and after a time it too was quiet once again. He looked down at the little girl who stood at his feet, a girl who reminded him in odd moments of Quinn, and saw her mouth moving but could not hear her and he looked up then, at the flat blue of the sky as it fell slowly toward the darker gloaming of twilight and then across the street to Jennifer’s house and again up to the end of the cul-de-sac and the field where the two tractors stood unmoving. My god. The world fading all around him or no not even that: the world steady and continuing ever and always and he the one dissolving into some endless and incomprehensible eventide.
“Anyway, my mom said you’d want to know that,” Nicole was saying, her voice rising slowly from that mute and soundless eclipse.
“Christ,” he said.
“You shouldn’t say that.”
“What?” he said suddenly, his eyes returning to her.
“You shouldn’t say that.”
He stood blinking, staring at her without comprehension.
“Were you even listening?” she asked him at last. “One-two-three, eyes on me.”
“I was listening.”
“What’s the last thing you heard me say?”
“What?”
“The last thing you heard me say is ‘what’? I didn’t even say that.”
“I’m going back inside now,” he said, but when he turned back toward the house again he was met by the huge and staggeringly empty rectangle of the open garage door and he froze again there, unmoving. He did not want to reenter that terrible vacancy. That much was certain.
“Do you want me to tell my mom something?”
He turned to her once more. “What do you mean?”
“She’ll ask me wh
at you said.”
He looked across the street at Jennifer’s house again, realizing now that the little girl was asking him something and expected an answer and then wondering if he should answer her at all. Behind him the empty garage continued to loom out at him like some enormous well of gravity that had somehow managed to draw everything into a crushing void that was the cardinality of an empty set. How could he have been so stupid?
“So what do you want to tell her?” Nicole asked him.
He looked down at her and as he did so his phone once again began to buzz in his pocket. This time he looked at the screen. It was not Barb this time; instead, it was Jim Mullins calling from his JSC office. Christ. This too? He knew he should answer it but could not fathom talking to the office now so he waited for the call to ring through to voice mail as he watched the little screen that held his name.
“Anything?” Nicole said. She looked exasperated, hands on her hips and staring up at him.
“Tell her …,” he began, then stopped and looked at the two white plastic trash bins he had brought outside to dump, both of which flanked him now. Empty. Erased. “Tell her I’m sorry,” he said at last.
Nicole cocked her head sideways. “Sorry for what?” she said.
“Just sorry.”
“That’s weird.” She looked disappointed.
“Yes, it’s weird,” he said. Then he added, “Probably.”
“Well, OK.” She looked back at her house for a moment. If there was a signal from some quadrant there he did not see it. “I have to go,” she said. “Bye.”
She turned and ran to the sidewalk, looked up and down the cul-de-sac with ceremony lest some car come barreling down the asphalt, and then ran the rest of the way to her front door. He could hear her shout, “Mom!” as she opened the door and then it closed and what transpired therein he was not privy to and never would be.
He stood for a long time, staring off toward the street, the two white plastic trash bins on either side of him, as if waiting for something or someone to arrive but there was no traffic in the cul-de-sac. The twilight was approaching and he remained there until the sun reached the tops of the houses that stood on the ridge to the west and until the empty lot, now partially filled by the promise of construction, grew into a field of daggerlike shadows and then darkened and until the sky burned chrome and alizarin and then all at once flickered out and until all that remained were the uncountable pinpoints of light flickering against an atmosphere that ringed a further darkness that was the true color of the universe and ever would be. He did not know how long he stood there but he knew he was indeed waiting for someone, waiting with a gasping and terrible hope that verged on despair. He could not bring himself to reenter the empty house. Not now. Indeed in that moment he felt as if he would never be able to enter the empty house again, suspended between distal points so far away that their sources could no longer be ascertained. He stood there until at last the silhouette of the now-familiar figure rounded the corner of Riverside and entered the long bight of the cul-de-sac: the short, steady gait and the dark appendage of the telescope protruding up above him like a compass needle gone awry.
Sixteen
“What if the comet is actually coming?” Keith said.
Peter did not stop looking through the telescope. One hand reached up to the fine-focus control, turning it carefully and then hovering there, frozen. “This is real question you ask?” Peter said.
“Well, yeah,” Keith said.
“I do not know how to answer this question.”
Keith remained sitting for a moment and then rose and stood near the telescope. “Let’s have a look,” he said.
Peter stepped back from the eyepiece and Keith leaned in and pressed his eye to it and reached up to the focus control and turned it carefully and then turned it back again. A blurry disc. “So what’s this?” he said.
“M81,” Peter said. “A galaxy. Simple to find. Simple to see.”
“M81,” he repeated. He waited for Peter to resume speaking and when he did not he said, “Aren’t you going to tell me some story about it?”
“Why did you ask me about comet before?” Peter said.
“I don’t know. I guess I was thinking about it.”
“Yes,” Peter said, “it is something to be thinking about.”
The image in the circle of the telescope’s lens was an insubstantial blur of color. “I don’t know. What else is there to talk about?” he said.
“Yes, this is something,” Peter said. “You know more about these things than I do, I think.”
“I don’t know anything about it at all.”
“I mean about what might happen. They would send something into space to stop it maybe. Or missile. The technology parts of this you know about more than I do.”
“Yeah, my knowledge of that stuff doesn’t amount to much.”
“You know though how this works. NASA and government. Space agencies and how they work together.”
“Lots of meetings,” he said. “That’s how they work.”
“Yes, I know something of meetings,” Peter said. “This was so even at Golosiiv. Meetings and then meetings to make sure we have enough meetings. Never ending.”
“That’s how the world works.”
“We had Dr. Vanekov at least. He was one to move things forward. Meeting too long. This is what I decide. Next item.”
“That’s good.”
“Yes, good for meetings. Less good for those who are not agreeing with decisions. The scientists are angry sometimes. No, not angry. Wrong word.”
“Frustrated?”
“Yes, that,” Peter said. “Frustrated. Good word for this.”
Peter’s first words to him that evening had been to ask him for help moving the sofa back to its place in the center of the field and the simplicity of the request had done much to dispel his misery. They went immediately to the behemoth and hefted it across the bare dirt to the center between the two tractors and then dropped it roughly to the earth again, both of them collapsing into it simultaneously. Even the short walk had left them both winded and they sat there for a time in silence, having shared no words apart from the initial brief exchange. The two tractors flanked them on the north and south sides as if walls for some strange, open-air observatory, the big machines dim and blocky in the reflected light from the streetlamps at the end of the cul-de-sac. The simple act served to clear away the sickening feeling that had settled upon him and he realized that perhaps for the first time in his life he had grown to value human companionship and that the overarching feeling that had come to dominate his endless days and nights in the cul-de-sac was loneliness.
They had set the sofa facing west, directly away from the end of the cul-de-sac so that their backs were to the neighborhood. He wondered why they had not situated the sofa in that direction from the beginning as it created a sense of solitude simply by its geography: the flat open space before the more distant darkness of the oak trees, the cinderblock wall of the next neighborhood all cut into silhouette from glowing backyards and, above them, occasional squares of lit windows that hung suspended in the warm summer night. The stars spun over everything as they did forever and always, although the view above them was no longer familiar. Cassiopeia, the constellation that remained the most recognizable to him, was visible now only if he craned his neck to the right. Instead there was a large and mostly unintelligible sky before him.
He had not yet asked Peter what constellations and astronomical features lay in his new view but realized with some surprise that he was actually looking forward to doing so. He wondered if this was a mark of how far his mind had slipped, that he sat on a sofa in the dark and sought distraction in the names of the distant stars and did so with little care for the work he might have been doing. There was a time when he at least would have thought of angles and distances and energy and light. At least that. But now he felt content simply looking up into the sky and listening to Peter’s discourse. The stars patt
erned in a way he would never truly understand but which was magnificent in its beauty. The distinction might have troubled him, but at the moment he did not feel troubled at all.
They talked at some length about Golosiiv again, about the kind of work Peter had done, about the landscape outside Kiev: horse-drawn carts and fields tilled by hand, lines of men and women bent over their work, each swinging the blade of a hoe and walking slowly backward in an ancient rhythm.
“Sounds brutal,” Keith said.
“But so beautiful,” Peter said. “Not like this.” He pointed over Keith’s shoulder at the cul-de-sac and then turned his hand and waved it generally around, encompassing everything around them. “So beautiful I cannot even describe. You would need being poet.”
Keith said nothing. He opened another beer and then settled back into the sofa. Peter took a moment to relight his pipe and puffed at it, the coal glowing red as he sucked at the smoke and then fading as Peter held and then exhaled.
“Where do you buy that?” Keith said.
“The smoke? From my nephew. He is … how do I say … kind of bad.”
“Kind of bad?”
“Mmm … I’m not clear. He does things that would be bad to talk about. Maybe not to talk about them, I think. That was not good English sentence. I apologize.”
“OK,” he said, chuckling. “Probably not a question I should ask anyway.”
“No, this is fine to ask question. I am not clear.” He paused a moment. “Some of my family, the young boys from my wife’s brother, they are like Mafia. They buy and sell sometimes things that are not for buying and selling. It was this way in Ukraine so this is what they know to do here.”
“At least they found a way to make money.”
“Yes, maybe true. I worry police will take them away.”
“What are we talking about here? Serious stuff?”
“I am not sure. They are seventeen and nineteen, the two of them. They have money to buy cars and fancy clothes. Too much money for little boys. I think this will not end well for them.”
“Maybe they’ll be fine.”
“Maybe,” Peter said. “They are stupid boys. They come to America and go back to what they are doing in Ukraine. This makes no sense to me.”
The Infinite Tides Page 29
