China Lake

by Meg Gardiner

  I rubbed my forehead. This smelled like leaderless resistance, the paramilitary strategy fashioned by rightist Christian Patriots and antigovernment militias. The theory held that ‘‘resistance groups’’ shouldn’t train a combat force, but should create tactical cells, small groups that planned and acted in isolation, on their own initiative. There was to be no chain of command, and thus no way to kill the Hydra by cutting off one head. Terror would be the gift that kept on giving.

  My suspicions deepened when I checked out the Web site’s ‘‘Links’’ section. I skimmed through The Christian Guide to Small Arms, patriot manifestos, and conspiracy babblings, crossing onto the turf of the loners, the outsiders, the digital screamers, a territory of inchoate rage and belief in the rectifying power of kerosene mixed with ammonium nitrate fertilizer. It made sickening reading.

  The Remnant was planning something. But what, and when? I wondered if the church really advocated leaderless resistance. The strategy was not solely defensive. It granted cells the freedom to attack at will.

  I logged off. Sat for a minute, my anxieties twisting and tautening. Thought, Screw it; this isn’t helping anything.

  I headed across the lawn and knocked on Nikki’s kitchen door. She was home, having shut her art gallery for the week. She was sitting at the butcher block table, answering sympathy cards, looking wan in a bright, oversize Big Dog T-shirt that stretched across her belly. Bare of the elaborate silver jewelry she loved to wear, she seemed silent. I missed the ting of her bracelets.

  I said, ‘‘How about taking a walk on the beach?’’

  At Arroyo Burro we walked barefoot on the wet sand, below a tall cliff. The waves ran cold across our ankles. A lone surfer sculpted turns on a glittering curl of water. The day looked polished, pure blue, and for a long while we were silent.

  My worries about the Remnant refocused, from the elusive what to the confounding why. Why had they developed a hysterical cosmology? Was it grievance or gullibility? Were their lives so dull that they couldn’t get their kicks from line dancing or whitewater rafting, but had to declare themselves the focal point of destiny?

  Nikki said, ‘‘Mom hated the beach; did you know? She grew up on a tropical island, lived here twenty-five years, and could not abide the very idea of sand.’’

  She smiled as she said it. We began reminiscing about Claudine, remembering her quirks and wit, her lack of bitterness after contracting AIDS, during a late-life relationship with an old flame from Haiti. Eventually Nikki began replaying the funeral, in detail. I knew she needed to hold on to it. But when she began talking about the protesters I fell quiet. She looked at me.

  ‘‘You’re awfully far away. Something going on?’’

  I started to shake my head, but she pointed at my hands—the cuts—and raised an eyebrow. ‘‘Dish it. I could use the distraction.’’

  She listened with amazement and consternation. ‘‘Does Tabitha have spiders loose in her head? Male bashing during a divorce I could see, but joining a sect that says her man is Satan’s toady—that’s extreme.’’

  The Remnant’s antimilitary slant, I said, was one thing that must have drawn her to the group. Another was Pastor Pete’s theory about end-time hoaxes.

  Tabitha’s mother, SueJudi Roebuck, had belonged to a church that expected the Rapture to occur on Pentecost 2000. When it didn’t, her ecstasy shattered into despair. Feeling betrayed and spiritually un-moored, she spiraled into a depression from which she never escaped. To Tabitha, a diabolical plot must have seemed a compelling explanation for her mother’s despondency.

  ‘‘But Peter Wyoming has inverted reality,’’ I said. ‘‘The fact that the world hasn’t ended means that it’s about to. Complete normality proves the existence of a demonic conspiracy.’’

  ‘‘They’re paranoid, Ev. That’s how paranoids think.’’

  ‘‘Absence of evidence equals proof. The silence howls at them.’’

  ‘‘Silence doesn’t always mean inaction, though. Ever hear the term ‘cover-up’? And don’t be so quick to dismiss conspiracy theorists. They question authority, and that’s good. You want people doubting government spinmeisters and slick corporate mouthpieces.’’

  ‘‘The voice crying in the wilderness.’’

  ‘‘You got it. Peter Wyoming may sound whack, saying anthrax inoculations are part of the devil’s end-game, but don’t take the Pentagon at face value. You really think troops are just being protected against tomorrow’s holy man with a missile launcher and a vial of spores? In the fifties the CIA experimented on GIs with LSD. And the army sprayed bacteria into the air over San Francisco, they said to see how effective biological warfare would be. Right. Warfare by whom, against whom? It was American citizens who got sick.’’ She pursed her lips. ‘‘Pastor Pete didn’t invent Black Ops.’’

  She got this streak from her late father, a Marxist professor of politics. No matter how distracted or bereaved she was, I could always count on Nikki to back-hand the conventional wisdom. It was one of her most endearing traits.

  ‘‘Besides, paranoia gets the blood flowing and lets little people feel larger than life,’’ she said. ‘‘Imagine how important Tabitha must feel—expecting a global cataclysm to detonate, with her new tribe at ground zero.’’

  ‘‘Armageddon’s a real confidence booster. I never looked at it that way.’’

  ‘‘The Apocalypse. When you think about it, it’s a thrilling thought.’’

  Taken aback, I stopped walking.

  She said, ‘‘ ‘The present sky and earth are destined for fire, and are only being reserved until Judgment Day so that all sinners may be destroyed.’ ’’

  ‘‘Honey, sit down and put your head between your knees.’’

  ‘‘Therefore . . . ‘What we are waiting for is what he promised: the new heavens and new earth, the place where righteousness will be at home.’ ’’ Sly look. ‘‘My pop wrote a book on concepts of utopia. Destined for Fire. Atheist perspective, but he got the title from the Bible.’’

  She turned and walked back toward me. ‘‘Evan, the end of days doesn’t mean the demolition of Earth—it means the overthrow of the world order. The New Jerusalem, that’s a synonym for Up the Revolution, baby. We’re talking about the dawning of an age where justice rules, and where there’s no poverty, no suffering, no death. And that, you’d better believe, is one powerful idea.’’

  I waited a beat. ‘‘Presuming you’re a true believer.’’

  ‘‘When it’s your apocalypse, you’re always the true believer. That’s the point. And everybody you hate is gone, toasted in the cleansing fire.’’

  Water licked her ankles and retreated. ‘‘But the Apocalypse isn’t about payback; it’s about hope. It says no matter how rotten things get, God’s gonna win in the end. Good is stronger than evil.’’ She paused, holding her hands out. ‘‘So, what are you afraid of?’’

  She had me. But to drive home the point she set hands on hips and said with comic exaggeration, ‘‘Don’t you love Jesus, girl?’’

  Her brown eyes pinned me. She expected a serious answer. All my snappy comebacks wilted unsaid, and I looked down at the sand.

  After a few seconds she waved a hand dismissively and started walking again. ‘‘Aw, you just can’t see the bright side because you spent so much time creating catastrophes for your book.’’

  My novel Lithium Sunset was set in a bleak future after a world war. A totalitarian army had conquered the heroine’s people. Survivors on both sides had suffered flash burns and genetic damage in the thermonuclear exchange. Mutation and ritual suicide were commonplace.

  ‘‘Mass destruction without purpose—that’s a pop culture apocalypse, Ev.’’

  ‘‘Oh, cut me to the bone.’’

  ‘‘Your radioactive prairie has survivors, though. Your novel isn’t about annihilation; it’s about tenacity. Yeah, the characters are screwed up, they drink too much and listen to goddamned Patsy Cline music, but they hang in and keep on fighti
ng. You like to write about people who have their back up against it. Nine hundred megatons of bomb craters across the landscape, that’s just backstory.’’

  I smiled. It was good to hear spirit in her voice.

  ‘‘Face it, woman—sci-fi lets you imagine whole new worlds, and that’s the buzz. ‘In the beginning, God thought—Hot shit! What’ll I cook up today?’ Quite a kick, huh? You love possibility and creation. You’re just too dark-minded to realize it.’’

  ‘‘So, I’m the Gloomy Gus here, and the Remnant are the real optimists?’’

  ‘‘Ironic, isn’t it.’’

  I put an arm around her shoulders.

  She said, ‘‘Of course, Pop’s favorite quote was from Pascal—‘Men never do evil so completely and cheerfully as when they do it from religious conviction.’ Watch out for the event that convinces the Remnant it’s now. They’ll be joyful when they pull the trigger.’’

  And, like that, she took a juddering breath and started crying. After a minute she said, ‘‘Mom should be here, tossing in some choice comments.’’ She rubbed her eyes roughly with the back of her hand. ‘‘God sure lets the dog turds fly against the fan sometimes.’’

  We rounded a point. To our stupefaction, ahead on the sand, surrounded by beachcombers, civil engineers, and a television news crew, was the whale. It dominated the beach, rising like a cartilaginous gray pudding, ringed by kelp and barking dogs.

  A moment later the wind shifted. The stench hit, pungent and greasy, and the next thing I knew Nikki was bent over, throwing up. When she straightened again she said, ‘‘The Apocalypse is upon Santa Barbara. Live at five, on CNN.’’

  At three I walked Luke home from school. Back home we sat on the lawn eating a snack, with sunlight speckling our shoulders through the greenery, and I broke the news.

  ‘‘I have to tell you something important. Your mom has moved back to Santa Barbara.’’

  He stopped sipping from his juice box and looked at me, brown eyes huge.

  ‘‘She’s living at your grandma’s old house, up in the mountains.’’

  He sat as still as glass, his colt’s legs sticking out from his baggy shorts, looking as if he had heard something growling in the bushes. ‘‘Is Dad going to live there too?’’

  ‘‘No, he’s still moving to China Lake. They aren’t getting back together, bud.’’

  Seeing a thousand-yard stare on a six-year-old is deeply disconcerting. I rubbed his shoulder, trying to bring him back. Slowly his lips parted and he said, ‘‘But she won’t let me bring Teddy. I can’t go there.’’

  ‘‘What?’’

  The juice box dropped from his hands and dribbled onto the grass. He began kneading his fingers together. ‘‘She doesn’t like my bear because he has Dad’s patch sewed on him. The skull makes her mad.’’

  It was true; Tabitha hated Brian’s squadron patch, a death’s-head with red eyes and a dagger clenched in its teeth. But I didn’t understand what Luke was saying. His neck and shoulders were rigid, his fingers working painfully. His mind was grinding at an idea I couldn’t reach.

  ‘‘She won’t let Teddy come, and I can’t leave him here by himself. Don’t make me stay at her house.’’

  ‘‘No, Luke—oh, sweetheart, no.’’ I pulled him into my arms. ‘‘You aren’t going to her house. You’re staying with me until I take you to your dad’s.’’

  Evan, you dumb ass. I held him, feeling his fingers continue to writhe, wanting to kick myself.

  He said, ‘‘Promise?’’

  ‘‘Cross my heart.’’

  But he had trouble believing it. He made me repeat the promise, insisting that I add ‘‘hope to die’’ and ‘‘stick a needle in my eye.’’ And a while later, when I looked out the kitchen window, I saw him heading for the flower beds, carrying a handful of LEGO astronauts and a croquet mallet.

  I phoned my brother again, this time reaching him at the base airfield. He answered the phone smartly. ‘‘Delaney.’’

  ‘‘Hi, bro.’’

  ‘‘Ev! Is my little man ready to move to China Lake?’’

  He started describing his new house, Luke’s room, the school, and telling me how the town had grown. We had lived in China Lake as teenagers, when our father was stationed at the naval base doing weapons research.

  ‘‘It’s cosmopolitan,’’ he said. ‘‘It has traffic lights. Bet you can’t wait to get back.’’

  ‘‘Don’t need to; I relive high school every time I open the oven.’’

  I would rather have pounded tacks into my tongue than tell him. But some things I do straight: drink, sex, bad news.

  ‘‘Brian—Tabitha’s in Santa Barbara. I’ve seen her, and she as much as said she wants Luke.’’

  Flat quiet on the line. ‘‘Not gonna happen. Next.’’ Another pause. ‘‘What else? You’re tweaked—I can hear it. Something’s squirrelly.’’

  ‘‘She’s got religion, and I mean in the worst way.’’

  Five seconds of silence. ‘‘Fuck me.’’

  I could hear men’s voices in the background, and the scratch of aircraft engines. ‘‘I’ll have to talk about this later. I have a briefing,’’ he said. ‘‘Listen. She doesn’t see him, she doesn’t speak to him, she doesn’t touch him. Understand?’’

  ‘‘Absolutely.’’

  ‘‘And, Evan . . .’’

  ‘‘Yeah?’’

  Loud talk behind him, as a jet took off. ‘‘How does she look?’’

  What could I expect? He had loved her a long time. I said, ‘‘She looks reborn.’’

  4

  The book festival kicked off that Wednesday, under harlequin-bright banners fluttering on lampposts along State Street. The city cooed about it with restrained zest. Enthusiasm would have seemed crass to Santa Barbarans, who cultivate casualness as exactingly as the Japanese cultivate bonsai trees. Still, I expected the festival to be an antidote to my anxieties, a glass of emotional champagne. I was scheduled to read and sign copies of my novel at Beowulf’s Books, and let me tell you, applause makes me feel like a goddess. A mini Festival of Evan—bring it on.

  Beowulf’s lacked chain-store slickness. The staff favored berets and clogs, and the front counter was plastered with flyers promoting candlelight marches to save various outcast groups. ‘‘Liberate California’s Ferrets,’’ notably. The front window contained a crop of science-fiction titles, with a sign saying, MEET AUTHORS HERE.

  Inside the door, a table displayed copies of my book, Lithium Sunset. I stood admiring it. The cover showed the heroine’s strong face, a shattered landscape, and my name. I breathed in and felt famous.

  At the back of the store I saw Beowulf’s coffee bar, scene of the showdown between the ferrets and Priscilla Gaul. Observing me, an elderly woman approached. It was Anita Krebs, the owner.

  ‘‘The security firm wanted to install TV cameras to catch the thief. Orwellians. Completely unnecessary— Pip and Oliver caught that sneak red-handed. So to speak,’’ she said. ‘‘How are you, dear girl?’’

  Anita had a reputation as a peppery iconoclast. A leathery woman with a skullcap of white hair, she wore pendulous turquoise jewelry and an extravagance of fuchsia lipstick. She took my arm and led me toward some chairs set up for the reading.

  ‘‘I delved into your novel again last night. It really is marvelous. Your concept so intrigues me, that tyranny forces its opponents toward both tactical ingenuity and aesthetic rigidity.’’

  That sounded ostentatious, but I was pleased that she had looked beyond the plot, about the girl warrior who fights bug-eyed mutants.

  ‘‘And the male character’s eroticism—well! I quite fancied him.’’ She gestured to the chairs. ‘‘Good luck. Sell a lot of books.’’

  I was pumped, ready to go, and after she introduced me I read the scene where heroine meets hero. They’re in a seedy tavern; she’s a disillusioned guerrilla, he’s a member of the resistance. She rebuffs him. He suffers brutal injury saving her life. The scene
had heat, in the form of sexual tension and homicide, and I gave it all I had.

  The audience liked it. Bookworms, fans of the genre, and my neighbors, they clustered afterward at a table where I sat to sign their copies. I acted charming and witty, and as other purchasers came along I floated through the afternoon in an expanding bubble of self-regard. When Nikki walked in, I thought it was the exclamation point on the day. She had on chartreuse maternity overalls, bright camouflage for her grief, yet she raised a camera and started snapping flash photos, saying, ‘‘Lord, oh, Lord, it’s really you. Evan Delaney. I want to have your baby. After this one, I mean—this one belongs to Stephen King.’’

  I felt cool.

  It was just after she left, however, that the line formed. A young woman wearing fatigue shorts, a tank top, and a daisy in her hair—Lara Croft meets Joan Baez—came forward clutching Lithium Sunset to her breast.

  She said, ‘‘I don’t know how you did it. It’s like Rowan’’—the heroine—‘‘is me. It’s like you know my heart and my entire life.’’

  This far exceeded the praise I’d been getting. I hoped she meant the heroine’s can-do spirit, not her psychokinetic powers or her training in explosives. ‘‘Thanks.’’

  She said, ‘‘I mean, I’m freaking. I totally, totally love this book. You’re writing a sequel, right? Because Rowan rescues her lover, I know it. She has to.’’

  The woman behind her, wearing shorts and a rude sunburn, said, ‘‘I want to know what planet the story takes place on.’’

  ‘‘Kansas,’’ I said.

  Daisy-hair turned to the woman. ‘‘What planet? Do you even know what the novel is about?’’