by Tom Perrotta
After all, it wasn’t too late.
* * *
“YOU’VE BEEN with us for quite a while,” Patti Levin had said at the end of their meeting last week. “I think it’s about time we made it official, don’t you?”
The envelope she pressed into Laurie’s hand contained a single sheet of paper, a Joint Petition for Divorce. Laurie had filled in the blanks, checked the necessary boxes, and signed her name in the space reserved for Petitioner A. All that remained for her to do was to take the form to Kevin and get him to sign as Petitioner B. She had no reason to believe he’d object. How could he? Their marriage was over—it had suffered what the state called an “irretrievable breakdown”—and they both knew it. The petition was a legal formality, a bureaucratic statement of the obvious.
So what was the problem? Why was the envelope still resting on the dresser, weighing so heavily on her conscience that it might as well have been glowing in the dark?
Laurie wasn’t naïve. She understood that the G.R. needed money to survive. You couldn’t run an organization that large and ambitious without incurring serious expenses—all those people needing food and housing and medical care. There were new properties to be acquired, old ones to be maintained. Cigarettes. Vehicles. Computers, legal advice, public outreach. Soap, toilet paper, whatever. It added up.
Naturally, members were expected to contribute whatever they could afford. If all you had was a monthly Social Security check, that was what you gave. If the sum total of your worldly goods consisted of a rusty Oldsmobile with a bad muffler, the G.R. could use that, as well. And if you were lucky enough to be married to a successful businessman, why shouldn’t you dissolve that union and donate your share of the proceeds to the cause?
Well, why not?
She wasn’t really sure how much money was involved—the lawyers would have to figure that out. The house alone was worth around a million—they’d paid one point six for it, but that was five years ago, before the market tanked—and the various retirement and investment accounts had to be worth at least that much. Whatever the final tally, fifty percent of it would be a serious outlay, substantial enough that Kevin might have to think about selling the house to meet his obligations.
Laurie wanted to do her part for the G.R., she really did. But the thought of walking over there, ringing the doorbell, and asking Kevin for half of everything she’d turned her back on filled her with shame. She had joined the G.R. because she had no choice, because it was the only path that made any sense to her. In the process, she’d lost her family and her friends and her place in the community, all the comfort and security money could buy. That was her decision, and she didn’t regret it. But Kevin and Jill had paid a high price, too, and they hadn’t gotten anything in return. It seemed greedy—unseemly—to suddenly show up at their door with her hand out, asking for even more.
* * *
SHE MUST have drifted off because she woke with a start, conscious of some sort of movement nearby.
“Laurie?” Meg whispered. Her nightgown emitted a ghostly radiance in the doorway. “Are you awake?”
“Is something wrong?”
“Can’t you hear it?”
Laurie listened. She thought she caught a muffled sound, a soft rhythmic tapping.
“What is that?”
“It’s louder in my room,” Meg explained.
Laurie got out of bed, hugging her bare arms against the chill, and followed Meg down the short hallway into the other bedroom. It was brighter on that side of the house, the glow of a streetlight filtering in from Parker Road. Meg crouched in front of an old-fashioned radiator, a bulky silver thing with claw feet like a vintage bathtub, and beckoned Laurie to join her.
“I’m right on top of them,” she said.
Laurie inclined her head, placing her ear close enough to the metal that she could feel the faint residual heat coming off it.
“It’s been going on for a long time.”
The sound was clearer now, like listening to a radio. The tapping was no longer faint or mysterious. It was a straightforward percussion, headboard against wall, with an undertone of protesting bedsprings. She could hear voices, too, one gruff and monotonous—it just kept saying the word fuck over and over—and the other higher-pitched, with a more varied vocabulary—oh and God and Jesus and please. Laurie wasn’t sure which one belonged to Julian and which to Gus, but she was glad to hear that neither one seemed to be suffering from shortness of breath.
“How am I supposed to sleep?” Meg demanded.
Laurie didn’t trust herself to speak. She knew she was supposed to be scandalized, or at least upset, by what she was hearing—the G.R. didn’t permit sex between members, gay or straight—but at that moment, she wasn’t feeling anything except muddled surprise and a little more interest than she would have liked to admit.
“What are we gonna do?” Meg went on. “Do we have to report them?”
It took an effort of will for Laurie to move away from the radiator. She turned to Meg, their faces just inches away in the darkness.
“It’s none of our business,” she said.
“But—”
Laurie took Meg by the wrist and helped her to her feet.
“Grab your pillow,” she said. “You can sleep in my room tonight.”
BAREFOOT AND PREGNANT
TOM PUT ON THE SKI jacket he’d borrowed from Terrence Falk, taking care not to get his beard tangled in the zipper, which he pulled all the way up to his chin. He’d gotten snagged a couple of times, and it had hurt like hell getting it free.
“Where you going?” Christine asked from the couch.
“Harvard Square.” He withdrew a cashmere watch cap from his coat pocket and smoothed it over his head. “Wanna come?”
She glanced down at her pajamas—polka-dot pants and a tight gray top that hugged the fertile swell of her belly—as if that were an answer in itself.
“You can get changed,” he told her. “I’m in no hurry.”
She pursed her lips, tempted by the offer. They’d been in Cambridge for a month, and she’d only been out of the house a handful of times—once to see a doctor, and twice to go shopping with Marcella Falk. She never complained about it, but Tom figured she must be going a little stir-crazy.
“I don’t know.” She glanced nervously toward the kitchen, where Marcella was baking cookies. “I probably shouldn’t.”
The Falks had never explicitly said that she wasn’t allowed to leave the house on her own—they weren’t bossy like that—but they discouraged her on a daily basis. It just wasn’t worth the risk—she could slip on the ice, or catch a cold, or draw the attention of the police—especially now that she was in the third trimester of a pregnancy whose importance to the world could not be overstated. And this wasn’t just their personal opinion—they were in direct contact with Mr. Gilchrest, through his attorney, and he wanted her to know how deeply concerned he was for her safety, and for the health and well-being of his unborn child.
He wants you to take it easy, they told her. He wants you to eat good food and get lots of rest.
“It’s a ten-minute walk,” Tom said. “You can bundle up.”
Before Christine could reply, Marcella Falk hustled in from the kitchen, wearing a striped apron and balancing a plate of cookies on her upturned hand.
“Oatmeal raisin!” she sang out as she approached the couch. “Someone’s favorite!”
“Yummy.” Christine reached for a cookie and took a bite. “Mmm. Nice and warm.”
Marcella set the plate down on the coffee table. As she straightened up, she glanced at Tom with an expression of bogus surprise, as if she hadn’t known he was there, hadn’t been eavesdropping the whole time.
“Oh—” She had short dark hair, watchful eyes, and the stringy physique of a fiftysomething yoga addict. “Are you going out?”
“Just for a walk. Christine might come along.”
Marcella did her best to look interested rather than alarmed.
“Do you need something?” she asked Christine a little too sweetly. “I’m sure Tom will be happy to get it for you.”
Christine shook her head. “I don’t need anything.”
“I thought she might like a little fresh air,” Tom suggested.
Marcella looked puzzled, as if “fresh air” were an unfamiliar concept.
“I’m sure we could open a window,” she said.
“That’s okay.” Christine made a show of yawning. “I’m kinda tired. I’ll probably just take a nap.”
“Perfect!” Marcella’s face relaxed. “I’ll wake you around two-thirty. The personal trainer’s coming at three for your workout.”
“I could use some exercise,” Christine admitted. “I’m turning into a blimp.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Marcella told her. “You look beautiful.”
She was right about that, Tom thought. Now that she was indoors and eating properly, Christine was gaining weight and getting lovelier by the day. Her face was glowing, her body ripening gracefully. Her breasts still weren’t that big, but they were rounder and fuller than before, and he sometimes got a little hypnotized by the sight of them. He also had to make a conscious effort not to reach out and rub her belly whenever she was nearby, not that she would’ve objected. She didn’t mind if Tom touched her. Sometimes she even grabbed his hand and placed his palm right on top of the baby, so he could feel the movement inside of her, the little creature doing slow-motion somersaults, swimming blindly in its bubble. But it was a whole different thing to just fondle her without permission, to treat her body like it was public property. The Falks did that all the time, closing their eyes and cooing dreamily at the baby, as if they were the proud grandparents, and Tom thought it was rude.
He started toward the door, resisting the temptation to grab a cookie on the way out.
“You sure you don’t want boots?” Marcella asked him. “I’m sure Terrence has an extra pair.”
“That’s okay. I’m fine like this.”
“Have fun,” Christine called after him. “Tell the hippies I said hi.”
* * *
IT WAS a damp gray afternoon, not especially cold for February. Tom headed east on Brattle, trying not to obsess about Terrence Falk’s boots. If they were anything like his coat, or his super-lightweight, mysteriously toasty gloves, they’d probably been designed to withstand the rigors of an Antarctic expedition. An ordinary winter day would have been nothing for boots like that. You wouldn’t even have to look where you were going.
But no, he taunted himself, hopscotching an archipelago of slushy puddles on Appleton Street. I have to do it the hard way.
At least he had his flip-flops. That was what the New England Barefoot People were allowed to wear when there was snow on the ground. Not boots, not shoes, not sneakers, not even Tevas—just plain rubber flip-flops, which were better than nothing, but not by much. He’d recently seen a couple of nerds wearing plastic bags over them—they were held in place by rubber bands around the ankles—but this modification was widely scorned around Harvard Square.
In California, it was frequently claimed that bare feet toughened up over time and became “as good as shoes,” but no one believed this in Boston, at least not in the middle of winter. Your soles got leathery after a few months, that much was true, but your toes never got accustomed to the cold. And it didn’t matter what else you wore—if your feet were frozen, the rest of you was miserable, too.
But there was no point in complaining, because all Tom’s suffering in this regard was self-inflicted and totally unnecessary. He’d completed his mission, delivered Christine safe and sound to her comfortable new home, to the generous couple who’d promised to take care of her for however long it took for Mr. Gilchrest to resolve his legal difficulties. There was nothing to stop Tom from scrubbing off his bullseye, putting some shoes on his feet, and getting on with his life. But for some reason, he couldn’t do it.
Christine hadn’t hesitated. The night they’d arrived at the Falks’, she’d disappeared into the bathroom right after dinner and taken a long, hot shower. When she emerged, her forehead was clean, her face pink and deeply relieved, as if the memory of the road were a bad dream she’d been happy to wash away. Ever since then, she’d been lounging around the house—a spectacularly renovated Victorian on Fayerweather Street—in organic cotton maternity clothes. In an attempt to repair the damage inflicted by months of exposure to the elements, the Falks had arranged for a house call from a Korean pedicurist, though they’d made Christine wear a face mask to protect herself and the baby from potentially harmful fumes. There had also been visits from a massage therapist, a dental hygienist, a nutritionist, and the nurse/midwife who would be assisting with what everyone hoped would be a home delivery.
All these professionals were devoted Holy Wayners, and they all treated Christine like royalty, like it was a rare privilege to buff her toenails or scrape the tartar from her teeth. Terrence and Marcella were the most obsequious of all; they’d actually knelt at Christine’s feet when she entered their house, bowing until their foreheads touched the ground. Christine was delighted by all the attention, happy to resume her life as Wife Number Four, the Special One, Mr. Gilchrest’s Chosen Vessel.
It was different for Tom. Being around all these true believers made it clearer than ever that he was no longer one of them, that there was no former self left for him to reclaim. The Holy Wayne part of his life was over, and the next phase hadn’t begun, nor did he have the slightest clue what it would be. Maybe that was why he was so reluctant to shed his disguise: Being a fake Barefoot Person was the only real identity he had left.
But it was more than that. He’d been happy on the road, happier than he’d realized at the time. The journey had been long and occasionally harrowing—they’d gotten mugged at knifepoint in Chicago and nearly froze to death in a blizzard in western Pennsylvania—but now that it was over, he missed the excitement and the closeness he’d shared with Christine. They’d been a good team, best friends and secret agents, improvising their way across the continent, dealing creatively with whatever obstacles came their way.
The disguises they’d chosen had worked better than they could have imagined. Everywhere they went, they met local Barefoot People and were treated like family, given food and rides and, often, a place to sleep. Christine had gotten sick in Harrisburg, and they’d ended up spending three weeks in a run-down group house near the state capitol, eating rice and beans from a communal pot, sleeping together on the kitchen floor. They hadn’t become lovers, but there’d been a couple of close calls, mornings when they’d awakened in each other’s arms and needed a few seconds to remember why that was a bad thing.
On the road, they rarely talked about Mr. Gilchrest. As the weeks went by, he became an abstraction, an increasingly hazy figure from the past. There were days when Tom forgot all about him, when he couldn’t help thinking of Christine as his own girlfriend, and the baby as his child. He let himself imagine that the three of them were a family, that they would soon settle down and build a life together.
It’s up to me, he told himself. I have to take care of them.
At the Falks’, though, this fantasy died of embarrassment. Mr. Gilchrest was everywhere, impossible to ignore, let alone forget. There were pictures of him in every room, including a gigantic photograph affixed to the ceiling of the master suite, right over Christine’s bed, so his face would be the first thing she saw when she opened her eyes in the morning. Everywhere he went, Tom could feel the great man smiling at him, mocking him, reminding him who the real father was. The image he hated most was the framed poster in the basement, on the wall beside the foldout couch where he slept, an action shot of Holy Wayne on an outdoor stage, one fist raised in triumph, his face streaming with tears.
You motherfucker, Tom thought, last thing every night and first thing every morning. You don’t deserve her.
He knew he needed to get out of that house and away from
that face. But he couldn’t bring himself to leave, to just walk out on Christine and abandon her to the Falks. Not when they’d come this far together, when her due date was only ten weeks away. The least he could do was stick it out until the baby came, make himself useful in any way he could.
* * *
THE MANDRAKE was a basement coffee shop on Mount Auburn Street that was one of the main gathering spots for Barefoot People in Harvard Square. Like Elmore’s in the Haight, it was owned and operated by people in the movement, and seemed to do a brisk business, not just in herbal teas and whole-grain muffins, but in weed and mushrooms and acid as well, at least if you knew the right person to approach, and the correct way to place an order.
Tom got a chai latte from the blissed-out kid behind the counter—the staff wore shirts that read, NO SHOES? WE LOVE YOU!—and then scanned the crowded room for a place to sit. Most of the tables were occupied by Barefoot People, but there were a handful of average citizens and slumming academics scattered among them, outsiders who had either wandered in by mistake or enjoyed the nostalgic contact high that came from being in close proximity to Grateful Dead music, face paint, and unwashed bodies.
Eggy waved at Tom from his table in the back corner—his bald head was impossible to miss in that sea of hirsute humanity—where he was engaged in yet another marathon backgammon session with Kermit, the oldest Barefoot Dude Tom had ever met. An unfamiliar blond girl around Tom’s age was the sole spectator.
“Yo, North Face!” Eggy called out. “Kill any caribou?”
Tom gave him the finger as he pulled up a chair. He took lots of ribbing at the Mandrake about the winter gear he’d borrowed from Terrence Falk, which was several cuts above the thrift-store crap most of the customers wore.
