Deadout

by Jon McGoran

The conference was as uneventful as expected. I stopped on my way home from work to get Nola some flowers, organic, from a co-op in West Philly. Seemed like maybe I should. But when I got home, the apartment was empty. A note on the fridge said, “Had to go out. Be home later.”

  I ate dinner by myself, canned chili and toast, then caught up on some stupid TV I had been missing. Nola came home around ten, and it wasn’t until she walked in that I realized I didn’t know whether or not I was supposed to ask her where she’d been.

  “Hey,” I said.

  “Hey,” she replied, sighing. Then she looked over my shoulder and smiled. “You got me flowers.”

  She came over and put her arms around my neck and squeezed, burying her head against mine. I reached up and hugged her, awkwardly because of the angle. She held on for a few seconds, then a few seconds longer. Her breath sounded congested, and I wondered if she was hiding tears. I wondered if, without those flowers, we would have been breaking up.

  12

  The next day, when I got home from work, Nola was waiting for me with a sparkle in her eye.

  “Hey,” I said tentatively. “How’s it going?”

  “Great,” she said, coming up and giving me a hug. The place smelled of garlicky greens and baked ziti. She came away from the hug, but held my arms, pulling me toward the dinner table. “I got a call from Moose today,” she said, almost singing it.

  “How’s he doing?”

  She came up close and put her hands against my chest, looking up into my eyes. “He got me a job.”

  “What? That’s … great.”

  “It’s only a few weeks, but it sounds perfect, working on a vegetable farm. And the money is actually pretty decent.”

  “That’s excellent. Where is it?”

  Her eye twitched when I said it. “It’s up there. On Martha’s Vineyard.”

  “Oh.” I knew I was supposed to have some sort of reaction, but I didn’t know what that reaction was supposed to be. She was leaving, but she wasn’t breaking up with me. I didn’t know if I was supposed to be angry or sad or happy for her.

  “The bee thing is getting serious, so they need people to hand-pollinate the spring crops.”

  “Hmm,” I said, because “Oh” didn’t seem adequate. “When do you start?”

  She winced. “This weekend.”

  Now I was stumped. “Oh,” I said.

  * * *

  We ate dinner quietly, not talking about her new job or anything else. Several times, she reached across the table to squeeze my hand, and somehow it bothered me that she thought I needed reassurance.

  After dinner we talked a bit about the logistics of getting her there. She was planning on taking the train Friday night, which would get her to the 7:00 A.M. ferry. She’d start work at nine.

  “You don’t need to take the train,” I said. “I’ll drive you.”

  She smiled and patted my hand. “That’s sweet, but you don’t need to do that, drive all the way up and turn around and come back. I’ll be fine on the train.”

  “I don’t mind. I loved it up there and the cycle I’m on, I have Monday off anyway. I wouldn’t mind an actual weekend there.”

  “Doyle, don’t be silly,” she said. “You’re probably still tired from last weekend. Besides, I’ll be working all weekend, as soon as I get up there. And anyway, I already bought my train ticket.”

  I didn’t know what to make of the fact that she had bought a train ticket before she’d even told me she was going. We weren’t married, but it seemed like the kind of thing normal couples would discuss. Not that I knew much about normal couples.

  When we were talked out, she sat next to me on the sofa and put her hand on my cheek.

  “I’m coming back,” she said, reassuring me.

  This time, it did make me feel better. “Good.”

  Then she pulled me to my feet and led me into the bedroom, where she reassured me some more.

  * * *

  Friday I didn’t have to be in until noon, which was just as well, because we had been doing a lot of reassuring. I had the next three days off, and I felt like I’d need them to recover. Nola saw me off with a big, reassuring kiss, and said she’d see me in a couple of weeks. I was supposed to be working until midnight, and had offered to get off early to drive her to the station, but she insisted on taking a cab. I got off early anyway, maybe hoping I’d see her before she left, but knowing she’d probably be gone by the time I got home.

  I was almost home when she called me in a panic.

  “Doyle!” she said, out of breath. “I can’t get inside the apartment! They’re spraying.” She was breathing fast, almost hyperventilating.

  “What? What are you talking about?”

  “I don’t know, this fat little bald guy is spraying bug killer or something in the hallway. I went out to the drugstore to pick up a few last-minute things, and when I got back, there he was.”

  It sounded like Roskov, my landlord. “Look, I’ll be there in a second, okay? Just sit tight.”

  Two minutes later, I pulled up in front of the apartment. She was standing by the curb, looking at our home with fear in her eyes.

  “I asked him to stop, but he wouldn’t,” she said, running up to me. “I can’t get inside to get my stuff.” She looked at her watch. “I have to catch my train. The cab wouldn’t wait.”

  “It’s all right,” I told her. “I’ll get your stuff, and we’ll figure this all out.”

  She stared at me with eyes that churned with emotions: fear and anger, gratitude and resentment. Love, maybe, and maybe loathing.

  “What do you need?” I asked, stepping away from her.

  For an instant the question seemed too much for her. She shook, like she was going to explode, then she got herself under control.

  “It’s all by the door, my suitcase and a travel bag. My jacket should be lying across it.” I turned to go, and she shouted after me. “But I still need my toothbrush and deodorant, from the bathroom, and my hair brush, and I need my boots from the hall closet.” She added half a dozen other items.

  I let myself in and ran up the stairs. Rozkov was down the hall. I’d only met him a handful of times in the years I’d been living here. He looked up at me suspiciously. I felt a wave of anger, but he was just a guy doing his job, probably his second job, at midnight on a Friday night.

  “What are you doing?”

  He shrugged. “You don’t want roaches, right? I gotta spray every month. Been doing it for years.” He went back to spraying the baseboards.

  I paused with my key in the lock, watching him for a second, trying to reconcile the images of an old man making an honest living and an ecological terrorist wantonly spraying poison on my home. Nola’s home.

  I shook my head and went inside. The place was very clean and very quiet. The suitcase and travel bag were by the door. I found a plastic grocery bag and grabbed her toothbrush, deodorant, and hairbrush, put the boots in another bag. Her wallet and book were on the coffee table, with the train ticket. I grabbed them all and dashed back outside.

  Nola was pacing, eyeing me as I came out and mentally inventorying to make sure I had everything she needed.

  I put the suitcase and travel bag in the trunk, next to my duffel, still there from the previous weekend. I put the other stuff in her arms. When she saw the wallet and the train ticket, she seemed to deflate a little, both from the near crisis and relief from having avoided it.

  “Thanks,” she said, looking up at me.

  * * *

  “It’s twelve-oh-three,” she said as I turned the car around. “The train’s at twelve-thirteen.”

  I drove fast. Not quite “professional driver on a closed course” fast, but “I’m a cop in my own city” fast. I was starting to think we might make it until we turned onto the Schuylkill Expressway. I knew it was the only way we’d make it in time, but I also knew it was a risk. The Schuylkill Expressway was always a risk.

  This time, there was an accident. I drov
e up onto the shoulder, holding my badge out the window. Nola generally didn’t approve of those types of fringe benefits, but she didn’t say anything this time.

  Once we were past the accident, the road opened up and so did I, shooting up the ramp to Thirtieth Street Station and looping around to the passenger area.

  Nola was out of the car before it stopped. I met her at the trunk, and handed over her bags. She gave me a kiss that brushed my cheek, and then she was gone, swallowed into the massive station. It was 12:13.

  The signs in the drop-off area said “Do not leave your car unattended.” But again, the job has its privileges, and one of them is being able to ignore stuff like that, at least for a few minutes.

  I pulled the heavy brass handle and stepped through the glass doors. Nola was halfway across the station, running toward the stairs, her suitcase clacking loudly back and forth from one wheel to the other as she dragged it across the cavernous station.

  Then she slid to a halt. The porter was already fastening the rope across the top of the steps. Nola hung her head for a moment. Then she threw it back and let out a growl of frustration that echoed through the station.

  When she was done, she turned and looked directly at me. I had done all I could, and more than I should have. I knew she didn’t blame me. But it hadn’t been enough, and as she stalked back across the concrete floor, the look on her face said I was at least partly responsible, if only for being part of a world that would let such a thing happen.

  I stepped back and opened the door for her, and she stomped past me, not slowing down until she reached the car. She tossed her bags into the backseat and dropped into the front seat, arms folded, shoulders hunched, her face furrowed in on itself.

  “Sorry,” I said as I started up the car.

  “Next train’s in five hours,” she said quietly.

  “I could drive you.”

  It wasn’t how I had expected to spend the next six to ten hours of my life, but I had three days off. What else was I going to do? I merged onto the expressway, waiting our turn to squeeze past the remnants of the accident scene.

  Nola let out a long low sigh. “Thanks, Doyle, but you don’t have to.”

  As we turned onto the Vine Street Expressway, I gave her a look to remind her that I knew I didn’t have to.

  We drove in silence. I eased off the gas as we approached our exit at Seventh Street, looking over at her.

  “Okay.” She said quietly, nodding her head. “Thanks.”

  I eased the car out of the exit lane and back onto the highway.

  13

  Moose met us once again at the ferry terminal, looking confused when he saw me. He gave Nola a hug as we walked up, looking at me over her shoulder. His face was pale and drawn.

  “Couldn’t stay away, huh, big guy?”

  Nola hung her head as she released him. “I missed my train.”

  “Ouch,” he said, grimacing as he took her bag from her shoulder. “That sucks…” He turned to me. “So wait, you just drove her up here?”

  She put her hand against my midsection and gave it an affectionate pat.

  Moose let out a whistle. “Damn, Doyle, you’re a hell of a guy.”

  “I keep saying.”

  “Yes,” Nola said, with a sidelong look I didn’t quite know how to read. “He’s great.”

  “So, how long are you staying?” Moose asked as he started up the truck.

  I still didn’t know. When I’d grabbed my duffel bag and locked my gun in the trunk safe before we got on the ferry, Nola’s face had been unreadable. It still was. “I don’t know,” I said. “Sunday or Monday, I guess.”

  The farm was in Tisbury, at the end of a long dirt driveway flanked by a fieldstone wall. A hundred yards up was a large cedar shake farmhouse with a wraparound porch. The driveway continued on, jagging to the right and down into a shallow bowl holding a couple of tiny cabins.

  “Oh, my God, they’re so cute!” Nola exclaimed, bolting forward in her seat.

  Moose smiled. “That’s the farmer housing.”

  They were cute, all right, but they were tiny. I wondered if I was going to make it, even for just the weekend.

  Past them was a small red plywood structure with a wire enclosure next to it and four chickens pecking around.

  The door to one of the cabins opened and two women in their early twenties came out, one large and solid, the other small and wiry with a long braid. They both wore shorts, T-shirts, big heavy boots, and bright faces that were ready to go. Maybe it was lack of sleep, but I felt suddenly old.

  “This is you,” Moose said as we pulled up in front of the second cabin.

  “That is seriously adorable,” Nola said, hopping out of the car and running up to the combination porch/front step.

  I got out, too, stretching out my back. The place seemed to defy perspective, looking smaller and smaller the closer I got.

  The heavier woman walked up to us, tipped her head to Moose, and held out her hand to Nola. “You must be Nola,” she said. “I’m Elaine.”

  “Yes,” said Nola, “Good to meet you.”

  “You’ll be working with me,” Elaine told her, glancing at a leather-mounted wristwatch that looked like something out of a gladiator movie. “You’re just in time.”

  I couldn’t tell if she was saying, “Good for you, you’re right on time,” or “Hey, you’re almost late.” I think it was the latter.

  “Okay, great,” Nola said. “Let me just put my things inside and I’ll be ready to go.”

  Elaine looked at her watch again. I wondered if she had short-term memory issues.

  Nola grabbed her bags and darted inside the cabin for one second, then another. Elaine looked at her watch yet again.

  “I’m Doyle,” I said, and Elaine looked at me and nodded, like, “Yes, you sure are.”

  Before we could get to know each other any better, Nola came back outside. “Ready,” she said brightly.

  Elaine nodded again. “Gwen’s planting lettuce on the lower field,” she said, gesturing at the smaller girl disappearing down a narrow path through the tall grass to the left. “We’re working on the beach plums, this way,” she said, turning and walking toward a second path.

  Nola gave me an uncertain smile. I gave her a wink and a thumbs-up, and then she was gone.

  “What’s down there?” I asked, pointing to a third trail.

  Moose shook his head. “That just goes to the compost heap. Beyond those trees is a rental property. Some rich asshole who’s never there. Big and fancy, but no water access, so maybe he’s not that rich.”

  I gave him a look to let him know I thought it all very strange. He shrugged, not denying it. Then he looked at his watch as well. “All right, man,” he said. “Good to see you. I imagine you’ll be wanting to get some rest. I have to get to work as well.”

  I nodded, looking around me and then back at him.

  “I need a car,” I said.

  “What?”

  “A car. I need a car.”

  He laughed. “You don’t need a car. It’s an island, man. Besides, I’m sure Teddy’s got plenty of bikes lying around you can borrow. Just go knock at the big house.”

  “Teddy?”

  “Yeah, Teddy Renfrew.”

  “This is Teddy’s place?”

  His face froze as he tried to figure out an appropriate expression. “Yes.”

  14

  I almost cracked a tooth clenching my jaw, trying not to show I was angry until I could figure out why I was. I’ve been known to miss a lot of details, but I wouldn’t have missed that.

  Nola was working for Teddy Renfrew, and she hadn’t told me.

  “Come on,” Moose said. “Teddy’s not so bad.”

  I glanced over at the big house, and gave Moose a dubious look that made him laugh. Then I laughed, too.

  “If you say so,” I told him. “But I still need a car.”

  He shook his head. “Okay, there’s a place at the airport. But I have to m
ake a couple of stops on the way.”

  I tossed my bag into the cabin. It looked even smaller on the inside. Coming out, I bumped my head on the doorway.

  Moose looked away as he laughed.

  “Yes,” I said as we got back into Moose’s truck. “It’s hilarious.”

  Moose was still smiling as we drove off, but after a few minutes the smile fell away and the lines came back around his eyes and his mouth. He wasn’t even twenty-five, but those lines looked way older than that.

  “You doing all right up here?” I asked.

  He looked at me and gave me a half smile. “What do you mean?”

  “You look kind of haggard.” I shrugged.

  He reached up and turned the rearview mirror so I could see myself.

  “Hey, I was up all night driving. I have an excuse.”

  He laughed, but shook his head. “Actually, I’m worried. About the bees.”

  I might have laughed, too, but the look on his face was nothing funny. “You mean the dead bees? What you were talking about last week?”

  “Yeah, but it’s worse. Even in just a week. The whole reason Teddy’s bringing more people in is to do work the bees would be doing. Otherwise the crops won’t come in.”

  “So the farmers on the island are going to be screwed this year?”

  “Yeah, but it’s not just that. Part of the reason we’re doing this research project here is looking into why the island has been spared whatever it is that’s killing all the bees. Part of me feels like, if colony collapse is happening here now, it’s going to happen everywhere.”

  “I thought colony collapse was only when the bees disappeared from the hives. Didn’t Annalisa say it was mites or something?”

  He shrugged. “Mites are bad, too. They’re tiny little things, some microscopic, but devastating. The worst is called varroa destructor, which should tell you something about the damage they can do. You don’t hear about mites so much, but they’ve probably killed as many bees as the CCD. Whatever it is, it’s some serious shit. People don’t like to think about it, but we need the bees to grow food. Once the bees are gone, we’re next.” He took a deep breath and let it out as a sigh. “Plus there’s been a vibe.”