by R. O. Kwon
PHILIP NEWHALL
ETTA MYGATT
LUCIUS ALBIG
PHILA HOYT
JOHN LYALL
MILES EVANS
ELIHU GILL
SYBIL BUEL
J. D. STILES
FRANTZ BOYD
LORING ALLEN
GAIL FAUST
PHILA FALTIX
JULIET LUNT
34.
WILL
I stayed up through much of the night, not getting in bed until the curtain edges had lightened with morning. By noon, she still hadn’t called. The extended silence, though, left me less anxious than I’d felt, not more. Much as I might want to talk, I’d lost that right months ago. She’d been home all along, in L.A. I could imagine Phoebe lazing poolside, beneath a hat brim’s flopping petal. If her phone rattled, she ignored it. Ripe oranges plopped. I’d have a birthday soon, I realized. It was in less than a week. The last time, I’d had trouble convincing Phoebe I didn’t want a celebration: no big gathering, I said. No barhopping expedition. She thought awhile, then proposed I at least take a short trip. I asked what she had in mind.
Rolling to face me, she said, What about Coney Island?
Oh, so you want to go to Coney Island.
You’ll love it.
I drove us down to the lowest tip of Brooklyn. I was put off, at first: its kitsch, the noise. Then, I had a couple of beers. She led me to pinball and tilt-a-whirls, to a sideshow stall. We spun in teacups. Toddlers squalled; clowns tottered past on painted, salt-glazed stilts. Street acrobats flung up agile legs. Ignoring the fall chill, girls on the beach lolled in bikinis, flat bared stomachs shining like mirrors to the sun. Night fell, and Phoebe and I split blini and horseradish-infused vodka. The plucked flesh of rose petals strewed the tablecloth. She tapped out the birthday song on the inside of my thigh. In the past, I hadn’t understood what made people flag birthdays, let alone with parties—celebrating death’s advent, I thought. Meanwhile, glittering Coney Island was what I’d wanted. I hadn’t known, but she had. This time, I waited. The phone didn’t ring until late in the morning with my mother’s hello, barely audible.
Is this a good time for you, Will?
It is.
We talked, and she told me she’d started a new job. It was one, then two, three, four; then five; then six o’clock. The doorbell rang. In a rush, I dropped my glass, but it was Leigh, looking uncertain. You don’t like birthdays, fine, she said. She held out a round tin, fingernails polished red. But even you have to like a fresh rhubarb tart.
It isn’t a good time, I should have explained, but I asked if she wanted to come in. When Phoebe moved out last spring, I’d run into Leigh again, at Exhibit; since then, we’d shared a bed often enough that she might have expected to see me once I’d returned to Noxhurst. It’s been hectic, with school, I said, pouring the cask-strength bourbon I knew she liked. Ice slid in the glass. I meant to call, but I’ve had a lot going on.
No, I figured. I just thought you could use a treat.
I crouched to clean the gin I’d spilled. The glass had broken into several clean shards. Still, I wiped around the spot in case I missed a piece, and I thought of Phoebe, yes, but I was also recalling an earthquake I’d lived through when I was five, six. I’d squatted beneath the dining-room table while plates leaped from the shelves, white fragments like giant teeth gnashing toward us. With my mother’s arms around me, I felt how frightened she was, her breaths fast, but she’d sung to me, an upbeat Bizet tune with improvised English lyrics. She kept singing, heroic, to help me be less fearful, until the convulsions stopped. If I’d truly believed life began at minute zero—
What is it? Leigh said.
It’s nothing.
I waited until she left, then I tried one last call. Phoebe’s father’s house was listed; he, too, had a landline. He picked up, to my surprise. I’d all but forgotten that dialing a phone could result in a live conversation. I asked for Phoebe. She’s at Edwards, he said.
No, she isn’t, I almost said. Instead, I ended the call. I had no reason to trust him. He’d introduced them in the first place.
When his office opened in the morning, I went to see Dean Pasch, the head of my hall. I waited; I looked out the window at a girl sporting a cowboy hat. She sat on the courtyard’s split-rail fence, talking with someone who, as I watched, pushed his hand beneath the back of her shirt. He moved up in slow circles. His forearm bulged from the girl’s spine, distending ribbed cloth until he exposed a tall swath of freckled skin. She should have stopped him. If I could forget about Phoebe, I’d spirit the girl away from here. To a ranch, I thought, out West, with no neighbors for miles. We’d raise a passel of freckled children, bringing them up on Plato, sunlight, and backyard peaches. I was called into Pasch’s office. I hadn’t seen him since the previous fall, when he’d helped with a hitch in my scholarship funding, but he saluted me by name. He asked what he might do for me.
* * *
–
The doorbell chimed the next morning. It’s Phoebe, I thought, pulling on clothes, but this time I opened the door to four people. The president of Edwards, Pasch, and two people I didn’t recognize. Federal agents, they said. Fitz and Hugh. They swept past me, into the hall. It sounded like a carnival act, topping the playbill: the famed traveling duo. With such names, they couldn’t be serious. The woman agent, Fitz or Hugh, said I should take a seat. If I kept standing, I’d obstruct the investigation. I hesitated.
Sit down, she said.
I let Pasch lead me to the futon. President Wright joined us. More strangers piled in, filling the small apartment. With Pasch, in his office, I’d explained that Phoebe couldn’t have bombed the clinics. In fact, I’d heard she was home, in California. But it didn’t seem to be the case. Well, she could be anywhere. I didn’t want to make wild claims. She wasn’t here, though, at school. If she was with Jejah, she might be in trouble. I had no specifics. This will sound trivial, I said, but Phoebe wouldn’t let a birthday pass without getting in touch. She’d at least have sent a note.
It doesn’t sound trivial, Pasch had said.
The strangers packed books into bins. Photos, too. The laptop. Puerh tea, then a half-eaten gochujang tin. I’d tried advertising the living-room space, but I hadn’t found an applicant I liked. I should have moved, but she loved this place. She’d picked it out while I was in Beijing. I couldn’t have left, not if she might return. Instead, I continued paying the doubled rent. Now, I watched people upend the place, a life I’d kept intact.
In the bathroom, an agent opened the cabinet. I saw him shift toiletries into a bin, and then I was at the sink, as well. He’d taken Phoebe’s lip balm, the black plastic lid like a button. I fished it from the box. I heard the agent tell me to put it down. But there had to be a limit. While I recognized the lip balm wasn’t mine, it also wasn’t his. When he tried to grab it, I dodged past him. I began to run, though I wasn’t sure where I’d go. I was flat-footed; I had no shoes on. Phoebe had prohibited shoes inside the apartment: think of where those soles have been, she’d said, citing bacilli, dog shit, public-bathroom tiles, until I shared the bias, but now I couldn’t run.
I hadn’t crossed the living room before I was jerked back, a hand seizing my wrist. It tried to prize out the balm. I flailed; my heel hit something soft, and then I fell.
35.
JOHN LEAL
He’d lain down with his followers in the clearing. Birds darted left, then right, stitching a hole. The blue expanse might have been a colossal rip in the partition between the group and His plan. If only, he thought. If God had been that visible, His objectives so plain. Instead, even with him, God fell silent until John Leal had to fill in the absence: to speak, like this, in His place.
I know, he said, that you want me to tell you what comes next. That you might feel confused, even frightened. The truth is—but he paused. He sat up, look
ing into the open, perturbed faces. The truth. They’d each come to him broken, desperate for healing. Since pain takes changing forms, he tried to be what his people needed. In short, he’d reshaped himself in his disciples’ image. He picked up a handful of dirt. The soft, fine soil, silted from Christ’s blood. He glanced at the sky, now emptied. With a sigh, he upended his hand. The hole was left unsewn. The truth is—
36.
PHOEBE
While I look for the Lord, I’ve found Him. If I lift a stone, I’ll see Him beneath it. Cut a tree open, and I’ll have Him again. I’ve thought so often, Phoebe said, of the idea that longing should be allowed the chance to find its object. Since desire pleads to have more, I’ll inhabit that space. It’s a privilege to have loved: with each loss, I’ve gained practice in the divine. I haven’t given up loving my mother just because she died. If she’d taken a trip, the love wouldn’t end. It’s not so different, except that I haven’t known when, and if, she’ll return. But the Lord moves in the rifts. He fills the void. To the extent that I can be present with a want of the Lord, I’ll be with Him, too.
37.
WILL
Growing up, I watched people try to ruin their own lives. In Carmenita, kids melted skin with polluted tattoos. They’d drive while high, headlamps unlit, in pursuit of invisibility. Haile Nichol, a friend’s cousin, had been dancing with lit sparklers in her mouth when she tripped. One slid down her throat. She died spitting light. Shooting potato guns, vandalizing police cars, they drag-raced in gullies and picked fights with giants—they, I’d have said, but here I was, in jail, sitting chained to a metal table: a child of Carmenita, bona fide. My head throbbed. I’d hit it, falling, when I ran. I still hadn’t been allowed a phone call. The door opened with a click, then Fitz and Hugh walked in.
It turned out the man was Hugh; the woman, Fitz. Sitting first, eyes bright, Fitz leaned forward. I shouldn’t ask how you’re feeling, she said. Because, well, you did kick Agent Hugh in the stomach while tainting federal evidence, and that’s just in the past six hours. You’re in trouble, Will, but even so, I don’t want you in pain. Would you like medical attention?
I didn’t respond. I was afraid to ask if I could have the phone call I should have been allowed. If I wasn’t getting that call, I didn’t know what else I’d be denied, which basic rights I’d find withdrawn. Fitz said that she’d also studied at Edwards. Ten years before I had. Was that surprising? It was how she’d met President Wright. They’d stayed in touch. She talked about life as a scholarship student, how long it had taken to adjust from Biloxi to Noxhurst. It was a fishing town, Biloxi. Down South. Tourists loved it. I couldn’t listen; I had blood singing in my ears, but then she used Phoebe’s name.
—Phoebe, the religious fanatics who might be behind the biggest attack on U.S. soil since 9/11, an act, to use plain English, of terrorism. Still, we appreciate what you did, telling Pasch what you suspected. That’s good, Will. If Phoebe belongs to a group of terrorists—
But she’s not a terrorist, I said.
Go on.
Though I’d intended to stay quiet, this was too big a mistake, one I could fix. She wouldn’t risk hurting people, I said. He might have kept Phoebe with him; she could be captive, even, but if I thought she was involved—
I stopped, but she nodded, calm. If you thought she helped with the clinic bombings, you wouldn’t have said a thing, she said. I get it. I have people I love, too, but what’s worrying me is the prospect of additional bombs. Will, I don’t believe they’d plan to stop at five. If I thought like them, I’d keep going. I’d aim at glory. I bet you would, too. More lives might well be at risk. You could save them.
I kept silent. The room then slowed, pitching. Lights brightened, and a hand lifted my head, slanting it until Hugh’s broad face sprang into sight. He looked mild, almost solicitous, even as his hand crashed down again. Panic flared; my head swung left. Dazed, blind, I heard Fitz’s voice whistling through.
Will, here’s a secret I shouldn’t tell you. We’ve received hundreds of tips, paranoid citizens pointing fingers in every direction. I’ve heard earfuls about hijab-clothed Muslim neighbors. Sufis. Jehovah’s Witnesses. The town socialist. It’s a problem, to be honest. Do you think we’re all here because you had a hunch about an old girlfriend who’s gone missing? No. We’d want physical evidence. Film, for instance. Security-camera stills from the clinic showing each Jejah person’s face. Each, perhaps, but Phoebe’s. I’ve learned a lot about this cult, but not like you did. Will, if you think Phoebe’s not involved in the attacks, I’m inclined to think you’re right. But if you believe what you’re telling us, don’t you want to help find them?
The side of my face tickled. I touched it: I was bleeding. Once, in a Noxhurst club, Phoebe had straddled a mechanical bull, violating the posted rules by having it dialed to the highest setting. Torso flinging back and forth, she’d swung a hand high. When thrown, she yelled, as though in pain, and I pushed through the crowd to find Phoebe sitting up, a jean-leg rolled. Blood curled down the injured limb, like a prize ribbon. Let’s do it again, she said.
I told Fitz I wanted to help. I was allowed a phone at last, so I dialed Paul. He sent a friend, Piero Neri, as counsel, but that wasn’t why I gave in. Not to placate Hugh, nor to avoid jail, prosecution. I wanted to be right about Phoebe; Fitz made it possible. If you believe what you’re telling us, she’d said.
Fitz requested every detail I had. Begin with how you met, she said. I’ll figure out what’s relevant. I was hoarse, throat stinging, by the time she said I could go home. She’d be in touch. Until then, she said, you’ll have to stop trying to contact Phoebe. It’s important. Will, I’m being a friend to you. I’m asking you to promise.
* * *
–
During the following week, while I attended classes and counted baccalà fillets, I was always waiting until I could resume the real life I had online, staring into the laptop I’d borrowed, a glass ball of potential news. I held gin in my left hand; with the right, I kept clicking. One evening, I read about a Noxhurst mosque that had just been vandalized, a U.S. flag painted on the lawn, pipe bombs lobbed through its windows. Most of the ill-assembled pipes had fizzled without exploding, but a single bomb had erupted in the mosque’s front hall. Some local bigot, people assumed. Since no one plausible had claimed responsibility for the clinic bombings, anti-Muslim sentiment was running high.
I showed up ahead of time to my next shift at Michelangelo’s. Finding Paul, I asked if he had questions about how I’d ended up in jail. He was inspecting shellfish deliveries. Without looking up, he said, So, the kid thinks I want to quiz him. Couple hours in jail, ta-da, you think it makes you fascinating. What am I, the fucking paparazzi?
He slit open a box of live crayfish, and I said I thought he should be kept apprised of what I’d done. Since I work here, I said.
I’ve told you bozos, he said, I’m up to date with all that needs knowing about you. You’ve got a secret that affects this place, if it’s my business, then I’ll be up to date. But this, first off, it’s no secret, and also I don’t give a shit.
Hand-sized, a spot of red throbbed past, the new hostess’s zodiac tattoo. It veiled the side of her neck. The last girl had quit in less than a month. I pushed ahead, telling Paul that maybe he should give a shit, since it was possible I’d dated a girl who, well, if any of this became public knowledge, guests might—but before I could finish, he slapped the bar top, his rings clinking zinc. The crayfish he’d pulled out lifted its petaled tail; he took it up by its midsection, dropped it in the box.
Kendall, I tell you I’ve got no questions, it means I’ve got no questions, he said. You think you know a thing I don’t? Let me tell you what happened the month those towers fell, when a pack of drunk kids chased the wife with a pistol, yelling, Muslim, go home. The wife’s from fucking Sevilla, she’s no Muslim, just because she likes to tan in the salons these kids think
they’ll decide who belongs. I don’t give a fuck what you do outside this place. Got it? But what I do care about, what makes this laissez-faire ass of mine pinch tight, I care so much, is that I’ve worked in this business since I was knee-high to a shitball, but you think I’d set you up with Piero with no clue what I’m doing. You think I’m stupid?
No, I said.
Is that right?
I don’t think you’re stupid.
Bravo, kid, he said. He patted my face, his palm brine-scented. Go be useful. Tell Joel I’ll come in to talk in five.
When I returned to the dining room, Paul was in high spirits, gossiping about the new hire, who, he professed, had worked in fetish porn films. I’m almost certain, he said. It’s possible it makes this girl a more skillful hostess, but then again it’s possible it doesn’t, so you’ll have to watch the girl extra close, Kendall. He was riffing about challenging sexual positions when I interrupted him.
Paul, you don’t mean this, I said.
He chuckled, glancing at his phone. What’s that? he asked.
I appreciate what you said about, I’m grateful—Piero helped, Paul, but the way everyone here talks about women, I don’t think it’s respectful. They keep quitting.
Tilting back on his heels, Paul smiled. I thought I was about to lose the job; instead, he said, It’s cute. The child’s speaking up. I’ll give you a tip, though. If you’re hoping to wipe down that soul of yours, do it on your own time. Don’t fucking waste mine.
* * *
–
One night, months ago, I’d called Phoebe, and she kept answering, but without saying a word. I heard what sounded like static; I strained to recognize faint, mingled voices. I thought I could make out Phoebe’s, and I was frantic to think she might be injured, trying to respond but unable to talk. I hollered, asking anyone to tell me what was going on. But it was just Phoebe’s hip, picking up. I had the idea, at last, of calling others: Julian, Liesl, until I had Phoebe on the line again. What were you so worried about? she asked, laughing. Oh, Will. You’re a lunatic. I’m fine, you poor thing. I’ll be home in a little while.
