Coming of Age at the End of Days

by Alice LaPlante

  “Seeing those embryos was amazing,” Anna admits. She thinks, this is what her parents saw, eighteen years ago. They looked at her under a microscope, counted her cells, measured the thickness of her membrane, looked at the evenness of her cleavage plane, and chose her out of all her potential brothers and sisters. For qualities that have nothing to do with her future virtues or vices. Survival of the fittest.

  To be chosen. I was the chosen one. “We’re so close to playing God, don’t you think?” she asks him. “Perhaps too close?”

  “I leave the bioethics to the boys with the big degrees,” he says. “I have a mission, I just don’t want to fuck that up. God picked me, and I’m humbled by that, and that’s enough for me.”

  Anna can’t believe she once thought him an important man. She tells herself, I am gathering information.

  He doesn’t look humble as he gulps down the last of his beer and stands up. “I’m going to go check on the cows, make sure everything’s locked up,” he says.

  He’s almost out the door when he turns and asks. “Want to come? I’ll show you my prize animal, the one I’m pretty sure is going to be the answer to the Third Temple Commission’s prayers.”

  “I thought that was Betsy,” Anna says.

  “She’s the dame. I’m talking about the sire. I’m pulling so much semen from this bull, and it’s pure gold. A single ejaculation can service hundreds of Betsys. I’m fairly sure he’s the one.”

  Anna nods. She doesn’t really want to leave the warm, brightly lit room. It reminds her of evenings spent with her parents, doing her homework at her father’s PC, him at his laptop, Anna’s mother at her piano. The sight of lit computer screens as comforting as home fires. It feels safe here. She tells herself again, I am gathering information.

  Fred Wilson hands her a large green coat that looks like it came from an army surplus store. “Put this on, it’ll be cold in the stables.” It reaches Anna’s knees and well over her knuckles but she’s grateful for its warmth when they head out the back door. The veil of low-hanging clouds from earlier in the evening is gone. It is bitterly cold and the heavens are clearer than Anna has ever seen. She thought she’d gotten used to the expanse of sky and the proximity of the stars over the past few nights, but it hits her anew. A curtain of stars down to the horizon. Because the house is slightly elevated, some stars even appear to hang below them. She follows Fred Wilson down the hill to the outbuildings, past the laboratory, through several stiles.

  The cow barn is long and high, running about thirty feet wide and about two hundred feet long. Perhaps twenty cows in total. The floor is raised. Bright fluorescent lights overhead. The warm air feels balmy after the outdoors. Anna takes the coat off, hangs it over a railing.

  “The winters here are pretty brutal,” Fred Wilson says. “This year we’ve been lucky, because of the weather, they’re getting much more fresh air and exercise than they generally would in winter. It’s good for them.”

  Anna had expected a strong, and unpleasant, smell. But it’s surprisingly benign, mostly an earthy mixture of hay and dirt. But she hadn’t realized cows were so noisy. In addition to the occasional moo she hears a constant murmuring. Some breathy whistling. The barn is a warm, dry haven filled with the sounds of contented creatures.

  “What a blessed place,” Anna says, and she means it. She’d spend all her time here if she lived on the farm.

  Fred is moving from stall to stall, speaking to the cows, patting their rumps. Some seem indifferent, but many move their dull large faces toward him, and low in response.

  “They like you,” Anna says.

  “They’re creatures of habit,” says Fred. “If someone doesn’t come in at 9:30 to check on them, they notice.”

  “They want to be tucked in,” Anna says.

  “Exactly,” he says, smiling.

  “If no one came to do it?”

  “They’d be agitated in the morning. We’d certainly notice a difference. And you don’t want to agitate cows. You want to keep them calm. Everything goes smoother that way.”

  He checks in with every cow, lying or standing, and then comes back to Anna.

  “Now this way,” he says. “We keep our bull separate. We’re not really worried about trouble. Our cows have very gentle temperaments—they’re bred for that in addition to color. But it’s best to be safe.” He continues to pat cows on the rump or the head as they pass stalls.

  “Do they sleep at night?” Anna asks.

  “Mostly they lie and eat. They need more calories the colder it gets, so I’ll feed them again at 3:30 in the morning.”

  “When do you sleep?”

  “In the middle of the day, I grab a few hours,” he says. “And then again after dinner, until Israel starts calling. A rancher’s life is not a particularly fun one. I’d typically be going to sleep right after I checked on the cows, without my . . . uninvited . . . guests.” His smile doesn’t quite take the sting out of his words.

  As he leads the way into a separate enclosure, with a separate lock, Anna is startled to hear voices. Male and female. “I thought only you and your wife stayed on the ranch,” Anna says.

  “That’s true,” he says. “But cattle are social animals. They get lonely without companionship. The cows have each other, but the bull is alone. I leave the radio on for him.

  The majesty of the creature takes Anna’s breath away. The sheer bulk of his broad back. The flabs of flesh overhanging his haunches. His large muscled hindquarters, massive low-hanging sexual organs. His grandiose stupidity. I exist, his physical presence seems to say, and I take up exactly as much space and air as I require. No excuses. Anna would love to be as stoic and unapologetic about her own existence.

  Fred is talking about the expense of keeping his ranch operational. “All in all, it’s quite costly.” His voice drones on. The space is enclosed enough for Anna to smell his breath. Sweet, like her father’s late in the evenings. Sweetness from the beer. Anna’s father. A hidden life, not what he seemed. Or rather, Anna just hadn’t fully recognized all the ingredients that went into that complex mix.

  Anna realizes Fred is talking and tries to pay attention. But her mind is on her father.

  “I tried Red Angus, but went with French Limousin cattle for their ability to survive harsh climes,” Fred is saying. He has turned into the bore he was when he first appeared at Reverend Michael’s church. He’s now talking about the various breeds. The room is getting hot. “I made a good choice, as it turned out.” The space is so small both he and the bull are literally breathing down Anna’s neck. She feels uncomfortable, the rampant sexuality of the bull combined with Fred’s closeness. He moves even closer and Anna begins to look for the exit when Fred’s cell phone rings.

  He reaches into his pocket, pushes a button. “Hello?” His eyes move to Anna as he says, “Yes, that’s me.” He then listens for what seems to Anna like a long time. She starts getting nervous. “We’re on Rural Route 3,” he says. “It’s complicated. Best I email you directions from the airport. Yes. Well, I was wondering what to do . . . All right, see you soon.” He hangs up. His face is stern. “That was your teacher,The one you stole a car from.” Anna feels herself flushing.

  “What’s going to happen?” she asks.

  “You’re lucky. She convinced the cops that it was all in the family. That she was your guardian.” Fred Wilson gives a short laugh. “I can’t believe the nerve of you kids. She’s about to board a flight. They’ll be here later tonight.”

  Anna is surprised to find herself frightened, not of what Ms. Thadeous will do, but what she thinks of her, Anna. The one thing Anna can do is pray that Jim Fulson won’t be accompanying Ms. Thadeous to witness her disgrace.

  “I forgot your coat in the cow barn,” she says abruptly.

  Fred Wilson shrugs. “Don’t stray,” he says, and heads back to the house. Anna waits, then lets he
rself out the door. The moon has risen and she easily traces her way back to the first building where they had found Fred Wilson that day. The door is unlocked. Anna pushes into the room and turns on the light. The brightness blinds her momentarily, then she walks over to the line of freezers. There are four total: long low boxes that give off a faint humming sound. She traces her finger along the top of the closest one. It is cold to the touch. Her hands are shaking. She bends over and follows the power cord to a large, industrial-looking electrical box. All four freezers are plugged into it. One by one, Anna deliberately pulls out the plugs. One. Two. Three. The fourth one offers some resistance, but finally gives. The humming ceases. For good measure, Anna opens the doors of each case as well. The cold air wafts into her face.

  Her job done there, Anna goes in search of the generator. Anna finds her way back to the cow barn, searches in the corners, then in every stall. Eventually she tries the door leading to the bull pen, wanting another look at the majestic creature, but the door is locked. Fred must have done that on his way back to the house. Going back into the barn, Anna hesitates. She is beginning to feel strange. Something is coming; she can feel it. Anna waits, and when the aura starts tinting the walls and ceilings with her lovely familiar friend vermillion she smiles. And then the buzzing and the smells intertwine and Anna is lying flat on the floor and her arms and legs are moving independently of each other as she flails out in every direction.

  She makes a superhuman effort and rolls over. Her face is right next to a cow’s pen, and the cow is emitting erratic deep grumbling noises in its throat. Then she flips onto her back again, and the cow is leaning over her. She sees its quizzical eyes, and all the metallic equipment in the room begins rattling and the roof undulates and as if in slow motion a window bursts and shards of glass fly. Anna hides her face in her arms to shield her eyes, then tries to get up on her knees and then stand, but is knocked to the floor as the shaking intensifies and she hears another explosion of glass. The cows are agitated, bumping against each other, panicking, their lows and moans getting louder and more frantic. And the rumbling becomes a kind of a roar, and then the ceiling above Anna starts to buckle and she finally knows.

  “An earthquake,” she manages to say. “A big one.” And she hears her father’s voice telling her to forget the Triangle of Life, forget trying to get outside, do what you can: duck, cover, and hold on. Amidst the shaking and the shuddering Anna crawls to the metal water trough in the corner of the room and with the last of her strength tips it over and gets under it. Anna is soaked but she is enclosed and then she is gone.

  53

  ANNA’S NEVER BEEN THIS COLD. But the night is so clear, and the stars so numerous and close, she doesn’t mind. Her arms and legs won’t obey her commands, and she lies, wet and chilled, looking up at the stars, a different kind of desolation, beautiful. And then Ms. Thadeous is gazing down at her. Taking off her coat and wrapping it around her. Anna hears words. A trough. She was lucky. In the distance, the noise of a helicopter reminds Anna that other humans inhabit this planet.

  Jim . . .

  His voice. His hand holding Anna’s. “You’re a one-woman destructive force,” he says. “Did you conjure up this improbable earthquake on your own?”

  “What about the cows?”

  Jim Fulson shakes his head. “Not much chance that any of them survived. Or if they did, they’ll be put out of their misery. This whole place is trashed. The epicenter was just five miles from here. A 7.1. Big even by California standards. But virtually unheard of here.”

  He is continuing, talking about luck and about the sparsely populated region and no lives lost as far as they know.

  “Lars?”

  “So I come after the cows?” Lars is there, too, his voice expressing concern. He leans over and places a warm hand against Anna’s brow. “The house managed to remain standing,” he says. “Fred Wilson is okay. But his lab and all his specimens have been destroyed.”

  A man in uniform is taking notes. He looks bewildered.

  “I’ll need names and addresses,” he says. “We’ll need responsible adults, your legal guardians since your parents are . . . apparently unavailable.”

  “My aunt and uncle in Columbus,” Anna says. “Where I’ll be. Five more months.”

  “And after that?” asks Jim Fulson. He is still holding tight to Anna’s hand.

  “God only knows,” Anna says. “But alive.”

  Epilogue

  TWO YEARS, TEN MONTHS HAVE passed, so quickly that Anna has trouble comprehending it. She feels like the same old Anna. But people treat her differently now. Like the adult she is. Now she lives in the Pacific Northwest. In Port Townsend, a remote peninsula on the Puget Sound outside Seattle. She works for the state, taking care of elderly shut-ins. Sometimes that means just sitting and holding hands with them, like sweethearts.

  Jim works on the boats of rich men. They get by financially. They more than get by in many ways. Anna doesn’t like talking about it. Too much happiness is frightening. Don’t look it in the face, or at least, not often.

  Anna thinks of her mother often. But I’m not ashamed of getting more than I deserve, for how else would I learn what I do deserve? Unlike her mother, Anna feels shame at getting so much. She certainly doesn’t need more. Where would she store a surplus of happiness? She spends what she has, possesses no residual when she lies down at night.

  Jim Fulson never told Anna what happened between him and Ms. Thadeous. Just that she needed to do something big, something bigger than Sunnyvale High. She went to Africa as a volunteer, to fight AIDS on the Manzini-Mbabane Corridor. And Jim Fulson waited until January, waited until Anna had been eighteen for eight months, then followed her up to Seattle, the farthest Anna could get from Sunnyvale and remain on the same coast. Jim Fulson chose Anna. Anna herself had no choice, she never had. She never looks back.

  Sometimes Anna goes into the state park on the edge of Port Townsend and sits on the cement battlements built during World War II in preparation for an attack from the west, from the Japanese, another long-awaited battle that never occurred. She dangles her legs over the Pacific, throws rocks into the surf from the cliffs above. Around two hundred yards away is a huge abandoned cistern. Where a tiny pebble dropped in reverberates with the power of a small bomb.

  Jim Fulson still doesn’t understand Anna’s faith, but he tolerates it. For her part, she doesn’t trouble him with her thoughts on the subject. She doesn’t go to church, attends no formal services. All that is unnecessary.

  Lars has a large congregation in New Mexico, in the high desert outside of Albuquerque. He is a force to be reckoned with, both politically and socially. Anna hasn’t spoken to him. He has no more use for her, nor she for him.

  Anna’s headaches, the seizures, are not as bad anymore. When the aura appears, she takes 400 mg of Neurontin. This seems to forestall all but the very worst attacks. She refused to take the drugs for a long time, these fits being her closest connection to her past, to that wonderful and terrible year. She takes the Neurontin for Jim, and forgoes the falling, and the pain and ecstasy that would otherwise follow. Anna’s highs and lows are now muted, contained.

  A red calf was born in Israel. Not of Fred Wilson’s stock, a fluke from a farm near Haifa. Fred Wilson disappeared into history.

  Today is a sultry Monday in the beginning of September. An early chill. Each leaf that falls from each tree a reminder of little deaths. Anna had always loved autumn but never knew why. The early shrouding of day. The melancholy breathing of the wind. Summer limping to a close. Lars explained it to her all those years ago why it thrilled rather than saddened her.

  There shall be no more death, neither sorrow, nor crying, neither shall there be any more pain: for the former things are passed away.

  Decline is good. Such things signal He is close. It is cause for gratefulness. For ecstasy, even. For I am passionately in love with death
. Some things never change.

  The visions continue. They occur during the most serious seizures, the ones the Neurontin can’t stop. Anna tells no one.

  They are glorious.

  Acknowledgments

  MY THANKS TO MY BELOVED writing group and everyone else who read early drafts of this book and provided me with valuable feedback. As always, all my love to Sarah and David, who both inspire me and keep me sane. To Victoria Skurnick, friend and agent extraordinaire at Levine, Greenberg, and Rostan. And to the team at Grove Atlantic who made this a much better book than it would have otherwise been: Corinna Barsan, Elisabeth Schmitz, Morgan Entrekin, and Briony Everroad.