We All Looked Up

by Tommy Wallach

  Anita stayed outside in the rain for a few minutes longer, punishing herself for something she couldn’t quite name. Her shivers turned to outright convulsions. And sure, she could have just gone back to her car and left, but that felt too much like a surrender. Her presence at the detention center was the only thing keeping Andy and Eliza from getting married and starting a fucking family together.

  The barracks had seemed cozy enough back when she was dry, but now it felt chilly and dank. Members of Golden’s crew, drunk and menacing, skulked up and down the halls. Anita needed to sober up somewhere, preferably alone. She tried a dozen doors before finding one that was unlocked—a stairway.

  “‘There’s a lady who’s sure all that glitters is gold,’” Anita sang as she climbed upward into the dark, “‘and she’s buying a stairway to heaven.’”

  The upper-floor windows, many of which had been knocked out by the fusillade of rocks, looked out over the whole naval base, a landscape of cracked cement and gnarled trees, illuminated in brief electric bursts like a strobe light set to the slowest possible setting. The rain drummed a metallic melody on the roof just above her head. Only after she’d unpeeled her socks and sweater did Anita notice the light at the end of the hallway. She crept closer, but the creaking floor gave her away.

  “Is someone out there? You can come in. I sit in peace.” It was a man’s voice, his tone affable and mild.

  The office was lit by a small green-shaded lamp perched on the windowsill and a half-dozen long-stemmed candles. Behind a large desk sat a rotund, ruddy-cheeked man wearing enough camouflage to tent a small house. In the glimmering, Anita could just make out his nameplate: CAPTAIN MORGAN. It was his name that kept her from immediately turning around and running away; somehow it seemed impossible that a man called Captain Morgan could be a threat. Only after she’d landed safely in a chair did she notice the mostly empty bottle of rum on his desk, and the mostly full glass in his hand.

  “Hey there,” he said.

  “Hey.”

  “I’m Doug Morgan.”

  “Anita.”

  Doug raised his glass to her. “How you doing, Anita?”

  “I’ve been better. You?”

  “I, too, have been better.” He drank, as if they’d just toasted.

  “What are you still doing here?”

  “Good question. I gave the order to evacuate, so I figured it was on me to stick around and make sure nobody burned the place down. I was meant to be keeping in touch with my superiors on that contraption, but it broke down on me yesterday.” He rapped the side of a green metal box that squatted on the narrow table behind him. It was clearly a relic, corroded at the corners, with an old-fashioned black handset on the side.

  “What is it?”

  “A shortwave radio. Phones and cell towers are out, so we’re back to the Stone Age.” He polished off the rest of his glass. Just the thought of consuming more alcohol caused Anita’s stomach to make a sudden and violent request to externalize its inner conflict. She swallowed it down.

  “Your turn,” Doug said. “What brings you up to the attic?”

  “I’m not totally sure. Just wanted to get some space.”

  “I hear that. Un momento.”

  He leaned down to open one of the desk’s lower drawers. Anita’s eye was drawn to the single photo frame propped up on a bookshelf—one of those digital things that played the same slideshow over and over again. It showed three babies becoming three toddlers becoming three elementary school kids, then only two teenagers. In photo after photo, just two, until the cycle restarted and a miraculous resurrection took place.

  “Sometimes I forget that death existed before Ardor,” Anita said.

  Doug sat back up, already unscrewing the top of a fresh bottle of rum. “One of the many advantages of youth,” he said.

  “Those are your kids, in the pictures?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Don’t you wanna get home to them?”

  “I would love to. But they live with their mom. In California.”

  “Why?”

  Doug shrugged his massive shoulders. “Because there are no second acts in American lives.” He didn’t so much speak the words as recite them.

  “Who said that?”

  “F. Scott Fitzgerald. You know him?”

  “We read Gatsby in English.”

  “Did you like it?”

  Anita tried to remember the paper she’d written about the book. “Sort of. A lot of it was really beautiful, but I didn’t like how he wrote about women. I got the feeling he didn’t respect them very much.”

  Doug acknowledged this with another one-sided toast; rum splashed over the side of his glass, leaving rust-red splotches on the papers beneath it. “That’s a fair read, Anita. I didn’t love it either, to be honest—I was never much of a fiction guy—but I have a lot of respect for the character. Gatsby had a goal, and everything he did was about reaching it. That’s admirable, even if it turns out your goal was a stupid one.”

  Anita was reminded of her own stupid goal, to make a little bit of music she could be proud of before the end came. She might even have achieved it too, if she hadn’t allowed herself to get distracted by this whole rescue fiasco. And for what? On the off chance that her selflessness would be rewarded with love? Pathetic. The tragic truth was that somewhere along the line, without her even noticing, Anita had traded in her big stupid dream for something even stupider: a boy who didn’t want her.

  “And you know the funniest thing about that line, the one about second acts?” Doug said.

  “What?”

  “It never even got published. Fitzgerald wrote this one great book, right? And that was the finale of his first act. Then he drank himself stupid, cheated on his wife, and basically pissed away every opportunity he got. And that line comes from the book that he hoped would turn it all around. The one that would have been his second act. Only he died before he could finish it. So the book didn’t get a second act, and neither did he.”

  A waver of the candlelight placed a living spark inside the droplet trickling down Captain Morgan’s stubbled cheek.

  “Are you okay?” Anita asked.

  “Me?” He chuckled. “I’m fine. I’m over the hill. It’s you I’m worried about. Your generation, I mean. Just look at you. So young and gorgeous and full of . . . life. You deserve a second act.”

  Anita stood up and walked around the desk. Maybe it was because Andy had done what he’d done with Eliza, or maybe it was because Doug had called her gorgeous and she’d really needed to hear that tonight. Whatever the reason, it seemed like the right thing to do. She bent down and kissed him gently on his rum-sweet lips.

  “Who says the end of the world is all bad?” he said, smiling. Then he pushed up out of his chair with a groan and went to a cabinet in the corner of the room. “You’re soaked, my dear.” He fished out a pile of green fatigues and threw them her way. “Wear them proudly.”

  “Thanks. So how long you think you’re going to stay here?”

  “The generator should give out before morning. They’ll all go after that.”

  Next to the broken shortwave was a more traditional radio, faux vintage, or maybe real vintage, with a brown metal grille for a speaker and a curved wooden top. Doug switched it on. The long, skinny bar of frequencies glowed the same butter yellow as the candlelight. He spun the dial, swimming across waves of static, until he found a lone voice, trembling above a cloud line of backing vocals and a ghostly rhythm section: “I don’t want to set the world on fire . . .”

  “Someone’s still out there,” Anita said.

  “It’s almost enough to make a man hope.”

  “Almost.”

  “It was nice to meet you, Anita.”

  “Likewise, Doug.”

  Once the door was shut behind her, she stripped off her we
t clothes and changed into the fatigues. She was still half-naked when a flash of lightning revealed that she wasn’t alone in the hallway: Eliza stood just at the top of the stairs.

  “Hey,” she said.

  Anita quickly finished buttoning up the too-large shirt. “Hey.”

  “I followed you up here a few minutes ago. Hope you don’t mind. I wanted to talk to you, but then I heard you in there with Captain Morgan, so I just figured I’d wait until you were done.”

  “You know him?”

  “A little. Anyway, listen, what you saw downstairs, with Andy? It was a mistake.”

  “I know.”

  “I was pretty drunk—I still am, actually—and Peter had just basically accused me of having a boyfriend or something and totally rejected me, which really messed my head up. So I did something stupid, and I’m sorry for it.”

  “Why apologize to me?” Anita asked. “Why would I care what you and Andy do?”

  Eliza frowned. “I’m not really sure. But I think you do. Am I wrong?”

  The song was still seeping quietly out from under Captain Morgan’s door: “I just want to start a flame in your heart.”

  “Stay right here,” Anita said. “I’m going to fix everything.”

  She worried she’d be conspicuous walking back into the party in full military regalia, but nobody even seemed to notice. She saw Andy before he saw her.

  “Dude, where have you been?” he asked. “The most amazing thing happened. Me and Eliza made out. And it was unbelievable.” His excitement was an excruciating twist of the knife.

  “And did you tell her what you told Peter?”

  “Are you kidding? Of course not! Speaking of which, shit just got crazy with him. He punched Bobo. Like, out of nowhere. So we had to tase him. It was messed up.”

  “Peter punched someone out of nowhere?” Anita caught the brief flash of remorse in Andy’s eyes. “I bet it was because of something Bobo did, wasn’t it? And then he got pissed off, and you did whatever he told you to do. Like always.”

  “Peter was gonna kick his ass! What was I supposed to do?”

  “You let him. You let Bobo get what he deserves. Because he’s an asshole, Andy, just like you.” Andy looked stung, but that only made Anita angrier. “And let’s be honest here, yeah? Do you really think Eliza wants you? Because I’ll tell you straight—she doesn’t. You were just the closest warm body. And the funniest part is that she doesn’t mean anything to you, either! The only thing you care about is winning your little game!” She wanted him to yell back, but he only stood there shamefaced, like a dog caught tearing up the couch cushions. “What is it even worth, huh? Would sleeping with Eliza protect you somehow, from what’s going to happen?”

  “She’s all I’ve got,” he whispered.

  And that was the cruelest blow of all. “Is she? Fine. Then I wash my hands of you. I’m done. Now, where’s Peter?”

  “He’s out on the tarmac.”

  “You left him in the rain?”

  “Miz is with him. Wait, why do you want to see him?”

  But Anita was already gone. Outside, her nice dry clothes were soaked through in seconds. A dark-blue dot in the middle of the runway came into focus—Misery sitting cross-legged with Peter’s head in her lap. She raised a bottle of tequila by the neck as Anita approached, preparing to throw it.

  “It’s just me,” Anita said.

  But Misery didn’t let her arm drop. “You here to finish the job?” Peter put his hand on his sister’s elbow, forcing her to lower the bottle.

  “She’s a friend, Miz.”

  Anita launched straight into it. “Peter, Andy was never dating Eliza. He lied. I went along with it because . . . well, it doesn’t matter now. Anyway, this is the truth. She likes you. And she’s waiting for you on the second floor. The stairway’s just outside the dormitory.”

  Nobody spoke for a good fifteen seconds. Then, imperceptibly at first, Peter began to smile. He stood up, and almost fell right back down.

  “You’re not going in there again,” Misery said. “It’s not safe.”

  Peter took the bottle of tequila out of her hand and began to walk back toward the barracks.

  Misery looked to Anita. “I hope you’re happy.”

  “Don’t worry. I’m not.”

  But at least it was done. Eliza and Peter would get what they wanted—for all the good it would do them.

  Anita left the navy base through the open front gate, then got in her car and drove as far as she could before she lost sight of the road entirely between the rain and her tears. She pulled over and dropped the seat back. Why not sleep here? There was no place in the world to call home anymore.

  The rain was slowing. In a couple of hours, the sun would rise again. Less than two weeks left now, but Anita wouldn’t have minded if Ardor came crashing down onto her car that very moment. What reason did she have to go on living? Andy would never forgive her for giving him away, even if he’d always known deep down that his stupid quest had been doomed from the start. It was the end of the first real friendship she’d ever had, and any possibility of something more than friendship. And beyond that, it was the end of the music they’d made together, which had lent some meaning to these last few desperate weeks.

  Anita wouldn’t ask the universe for a second chance, any more than she’d ask it for a second act. She knew now that no one was entitled to either one.

  Peter

  PETER WAS DROWNING. HE TRIED to push the water away, but it kept coming, heavy as stone. And now something had grabbed hold of his wrists, pulling him down even deeper. He was going to die here . . .

  “Peter!”

  His eyes opened. Not drowning, then: just the rain. “Samantha,” he said, and let his rigid muscles relax. His head was resting in his sister’s lap. “I got tased, didn’t I?”

  “Yeah.”

  “My head hurts.”

  “That’s because you landed on it. Hold up.” Misery stiffened. “Who the fuck is this?”

  Someone was coming across the tarmac from the direction of the barracks. It looked like a soldier. Misery reached for the only weapon near at hand—a bottle of tequila—and held it by the neck like a hammer.

  “You’re gonna throw tequila at them?” Peter asked,

  “Why not? I’ve got a good arm.”

  The soldier, blurred by the rain, finally came close enough for them to make out her face—Anita Graves, dressed head to toe in camouflage.

  “It’s just me,” she said.

  “You here to finish the job?” Misery asked.

  Peter gently forced her to lower the bottle. “She’s a friend, Miz.”

  Anita took a deep breath, as if she were about to try to lift up a refrigerator. “Peter, Andy was never dating Eliza. He lied.”

  Peter only vaguely listened to the rest of Anita’s speech. If not for the throbbing pain in his forehead, he would’ve smacked himself. Of course Andy and Eliza weren’t together! The little punk had only said that to get Peter out of the picture. It was a devious move, one that Peter should have been pretty pissed off about (to say nothing of the whole tasing thing). But how could he be angry now, when the path was finally clear?

  He grabbed the bottle of tequila and swallowed a mouthful, both to numb the pain and to bolster his courage. Misery was trying to warn him away from the barracks, but nothing in the world could hold him back now. It took everything in his power not to sprint through the middle of the dormitory. Though most of the partygoers were so drunk they wouldn’t have recognized their own parents, Peter played it safe, slinking slowly around the shadowy outskirts of the room. He suffered a bit of a dizzy spell on the stairs but managed to make it to the top without passing out.

  On the upper floor, some kind of staticky 1920s music was playing. Peter took a final slug from the bottle and let it fall to the f
loor.

  “Eliza?”

  She was barely visible in the glow from the moon-suffused clouds—just a few silvery lines limning her cheeks and arms.

  “Peter.”

  “That music . . . is someone else up here?”

  “Just Captain Morgan. He’s cool.”

  “Can he hear us?”

  “Maybe. Come this way.”

  He followed her through a doorway and into an empty office, closing the door behind him.

  “Eliza, I’m sorry about before. Andy told me you two were a couple.”

  “I don’t care.” She stepped toward him.

  “But that’s why I was such an asshole.”

  “Okay.” Another step.

  “Because I thought you had a boyfriend.”

  “Okay.” Another step.

  They were close now. Next to her, he felt gigantic and clumsy. He reached out and touched her face.

  “I haven’t been good tonight,” Eliza said. “I’ve messed some things up.” He leaned down to kiss her. “I’m serious, Peter.”

  “There’s nothing you could have done that would matter to me now.”

  “That’s a big statement.”

  “You want a big statement? I’ve been in love with you for a year.”

  She laughed. “Don’t throw that word around. You don’t even know me. We’ll probably be dead in a few days.”

  “That’s why I’m saying it now.”

  “This is the cheesiest shit I’ve ever heard,” she said, but he could feel the smile against his palm, and then against his lips—warm and familiar, inevitable and profound: the sweetest collision he would ever know.

  “The way I like to think of the universe, everything’s an event. You, Peter Roeslin, are just an event. And so am I. And you and me, right here, is another one. On the right scale, a mountain is just an event. It’s not a thing. It’s a way that time manifests itself.”

  “Is that supposed to be comforting?”

  “It is for me.”

  “More comforting than this?”