by Nancy Kress
“Now that we’re all here,” Kyle said, looking at me pointedly, “let’s have the monthly reports.”
It is possible to care passionately about a cause and yet be bored by other people’s participation in it. Nobody was interested in the monthly reports beyond knowing that the work was proceeding. April detailed her disinformation campaign, including far too many technical details. Jonas and I reported on the stations we linked to, without information that would let the others know where the stations were located. All of us were waiting for Kyle to talk about the wandering house.
“Okay,” he finally said. “Here’s what I can tell you—” which was certainly not all he knew “—about the empty house that Caro entered in Pioneer Square. It was one of ours, and there was supposed to be an agent in it. I can’t tell you his name, but—”
“Do you know his name?” April blurted out.
“I can’t tell you that, either. Come on, April, you know better. I’m sharing everything I can. Nobody in the Org, not all the way to the top, knows what happened to the agent. We have to believe he was arrested, was kidnapped, or defected. We have people checking to see which.”
How would we know which? That knowledge implied that somewhere up the chain of command, there were lawyers who didn’t operate in the shadows, and maybe also sympathizers in law enforcement. In the FBI? They handled kidnappings, after all.
We all knew better than to ask. But it was a tantalizing glimpse into how far the Org extended.
Kyle said, “What you need to know now is that the Org couldn’t find any connection between this cell and the wandering house. It wasn’t local. We wouldn’t have been told about it at all if Caroline hadn’t happened to be there.”
Everyone looked at me. I said irritably, “Don’t blame me for a coincidence.”
Kyle said, “Nobody’s blaming you for anything. And you didn’t endanger us. It was one just of those things.”
“Irrational,” April said. “People are irrational. Once I was at this lecture by a physicist who was talking about the bread-loaf theory of time. That’s when you think about time as a loaf of bread, and if you slice it on the diagonal instead of straight across, then events that we think are in ‘the past’—” her fingers made air quotes “—are actually still happening concurrent with the present. The equations support that. Anyway, this woman in the audience got really upset because the woman’s daughter had died in a horrific mudslide in California and the woman thought—irrationally!—that the bread-loaf theory meant her daughter was still dying in the present that horrific death that—”
“All right, April, we’re moving on now,” Kyle said. He didn’t look at me. Kyle was the only one here who knew about Ian.
Beneath the table, I clenched one hand into a fist and reminded myself that April had an IQ of 160 and was essential to our goals.
Kyle said, “Now, the next order of business. . . .”
Throughout the rest of the meeting, I watched Tom, knowing what he was thinking: This was the dangerous organization that was going to restore genetic engineering to a country that had rejected it, and so feed both the United States and the world as climate change, desertification, and rising seas changed the face of the globe? This low-key, droning meeting? Where was the adventure and risk taking? Where was the glamour of heroic rebellion?
“. . . the expense report with regard to the fund allotment for September . . .”
Tom would learn. We had all learned. The danger, and the accomplishment, was in the details.
While Tom looked disappointed, and April thought of something weird (eyes closed and lips moving silently), and Jonas listened soberly, I felt guilt. I had taken the toothbrush from the wandering house and asked Jean to run a DNA sequence on it, solely because I wanted more knowledge than the Org was willing to give me. I wanted to know who the missing agent was and why he was missing. It wasn’t that I didn’t trust the Org but that I didn’t trust any situation where I didn’t know as much as I possibly could.
Not since Ian.
As soon as I walked into the office the next day, my boss said, “Renata, don’t take off your jacket. A new case just came in, at the Quinault Nation. They asked for you.”
“Tell me.”
When Jeremy didn’t answer right away, I repeated, “Tell me. And are you going with me?”
“Can’t. I’m in court this morning on the Givens case.”
“Oh, right. What happened at Quinault?”
“First promise that you won’t scream and throw things.”
I could feel my mouth set in a tight line. This one would be bad.
Increasingly, the sexual assault cases I assisted with occurred on the Quinault Nation reservation. I never expected to deal with a Native tribe. It happened because of how Ian died, and where. Since his death, and since Jeremy treated me more as a partner than a paralegal, I’d slowly built up trust with members of the tribal council.
And with one nonmember, but Jeremy didn’t know about that. Nor did Kyle.
That Native trust in the law firm built so slowly was completely understandable, given the history. It helped that we weren’t a government organization. It also helped that tribes needed as much outside aid as they could get, due to the screwed-up jurisdiction laws.
Tribal girls and women were sexually assaulted at rates far higher than other American women, and 86 percent of the assaulters were nontribal. Over decades, the feds decreed that tribes could not prosecute what the government still called “non-Indians” who commited crimes on tribal land. No—they could prosecute sexual crimes, but only if they happened between “intimate partners.” No—they couldn’t, this was a federal matter. No—it was a state matter. Previous court cases were overturned, laws changed, changed again.
The result was a patchwork of jurisdictional authority depending on who, when, where, and our daily lunch orders. At the moment, tribes had the right to arrest and prosecute in crimes that occurred on tribal land. Off tribal land, if the victim was an enrolled member of the tribe and the perpetrator was not, tribal police could arrest but the state would prosecute, unless the crime is federal. Federal power trumps everybody.
Kidnapping is a federal crime. A U.S. attorney was supposed to prosecute abduction, rape, and missing-women cases (of which there were a heartbreaking number). But there were too few deputies to make arrests and too few prosecutors to bring charges, even when the fuckers could be found. And a lot of prosecutors just didn’t bother. Last year, the U.S. Justice Department declined to prosecute 68 percent of rape cases reported on reservations. Many more weren’t even reported.
Jeremy said, “Tribal police found a thirteen-year-old girl who’d been kidnapped two days ago. She was unconscious in the national forest, off tribal lands. She’d been raped and beaten. She’s in the clinic at Taholah, barely conscious, but she did say the three men who—”
“Three? Three?”
“—did this were white. Her grandmother called here, asking for you. The girl’s name is Lisa Anderson, her mother is Marina Anderson, and her grandmother is Naomi Patterson. But I’m afraid there’s more. The girl’s father and two uncles, all of them Ms. Patterson’s sons, are out looking for the men, and almost certainly everybody is armed.”
“Did you alert U.S. deputies that—”
“Of course I did,” he said irritably. “And if any cops—state or tribal or federal—catch the bastards, I’ll personally make sure this case gets prosecuted. But right now, you need to get to Taholah and interview the mother, grandmother, and Lisa, if possible. Record everything, if they’ll let you. God only knows how long it’ll take the feds to get anybody over there. Tell them all that we’re prepared to do, and try to secure as much cooperation as they’re willing to give. It’s a positive that Ms. Patterson wants you and nobody else.”
“I’m on my way.”
Thirteen years old. Three men.
It was a three-and-a-half-hour drive to the Quinault Nation, located on more than 200,000 acr
es along the ocean in the world’s only temperate-climate rainforest. It is beautiful, remote, wet country. I drove along roads bordered by Sitka spruce, red alder, western hemlock. The air smelled of pine and loam, an earthy, clean smell. A black-tailed deer ran across the road in front of me and I barely missed hitting it. It could have been a black bear or even a cougar. Unlike some Native American reservations, the Quinault Nation’s rich land is the same location where their ancestors have lived for centuries, hunting game and fishing the ocean.
The ocean, however, is not the same.
Over the last decade, parts of the village of Taholah, home to 800 people, has been moved a half mile from seaside to higher ground. As the Pacific Ocean rose from global warming and weather became more extreme, storm surges overtopped the seawall and flooded Taholah. The Army Corps of Engineers repaired it twice, but floods became too frequent. The entire village was supposed to be moved, but funds ran out. And, of course, there is the Blob, which no amount of shifting townships will remedy.
Carefully, I drove into Taholah without looking at all at the ocean. I could hear it, smell it, but I couldn’t look. Not yet. I needed my whole mind to concentrate on Lisa Anderson.
The Taholah Medical Center was new, bright, and well run. The young woman at the desk, June Barker, waved me toward Lisa’s room. Marina and Naomi sat on either side of Lisa’s bed. The girl lay asleep, her face swollen and bandaged as no child’s should ever be, her arm in a cast.
Marina stared at me flatly, but Naomi, who made the decisions in this family, nodded a dignified welcome. She knew that I saw the pain in her dark eyes, and that I shared it. For Lisa, and for Ian. It made a fragile bond between us.
I asked, “What does the doctor say? Is it Dr. Gooding?” Daniel Gooding, a registered member of the Quinault Nation with a medical degree from UW, was one of the best and most caring doctors I knew.
It was Naomi who answered. “Yes. He says Lisa’s body will recover.”
She didn’t need to add the rest. I took out my recorder, got signed permission, and set to work, fighting to not let fury deter me.
When I left Lisa’s room an hour later, she still hadn’t wakened from the sedative. Naomi followed me. In the corridor she said quietly, “Joe wants to see you. He’s waiting on the beach.”
All at once the air left the clinic, and I couldn’t breathe.
“Yes,” Naomi said. “It’s starting again.”
2011: SEATTLE, WASHINGTON
JAKE’S MOVIE, Year of the Goat, opened to wonderful reviews and great box office. And just like that, Jake was a star. Red carpets, print and radio interviews, David Letterman and Conan O’Brien and Ellen DeGeneres, a Vanity Fair profile, tabloid photos. I hated all of it.
YEAR OF THE GOAT CREATES A STAR—JAKE SANDERSON’S METEORIC RISE
CHARACTER ACTORS ARE HOLLYWOOD’S REAL ACTORS: PAUL GIAMATTI, STEVE BUSCEMI, KATHY BATES, AND JAKE SANDERSON
IT’S ALL JAKE
WHAT IS JAKE SANDERSON HIDING? HIS SECRET LIFE EXPOSED!
What Jake was hiding was a wife and son. I refused to be interviewed by anyone, would not let photos be taken of me or Ian (they were anyway, of course, whenever we left the apartment), stayed off social media. Most of all, I refused to move to Los Angeles.
“Renata, I have to be there,” Jake said in February. “You know that.”
“So be there. I’m not leaving my job, my life here.”
“And I respect that.” He had on his exaggeratedly patient expression, which always made me want to slap him. “But you knew when you married me that—”
“What I knew when I married you was that you were a fine actor who wanted to do mostly stage. Real acting. You wanted to play Macbeth! And now you just signed for a part in—what is it? The third sequel to something inane to start with?”
“It’s a big part,” he said, his jaw hard as an erection. “And a lot of money. Which helps pay, incidentally, for this apartment and Ian’s nanny.”
“Yes,” I said, refusing to sound grateful that Jake was supporting his own son.
“You’re staying here if I move to L.A.?”
“I am.”
“Then I want Ian to stay with me half time.”
“No. Absolutely not. He’s eighteen months old, for fuck’s sake! He belongs with me.” Panic edged my voice, even though I knew that Jake wouldn’t really try to have Ian half-time in L.A. His life involved too many nights out, too many sudden trips, too much uncertainty.
“The nanny can come with him. I love him, too, Renata!”
“I know. But you can’t . . . I can’t . . .”
Abruptly Jake softened. “Yes. I know. Only . . . please move with me, Renata. I need you.”
“You don’t need me,” I said, and it almost tore me apart to realize that it was true. We no longer needed each other. The only times we came together without tension were in bed. Sex was still good, if infrequent.
Jake was silent a long time. Then he said quietly, “Maybe I don’t.”
Words slithered into my mind, slimy and unwelcome: Let’s find out.
“Mommy!” Ian said, toddling out of his bedroom. “I get out!”
It was the first time he’d climbed out of his crib, and he looked as proud of himself as if he’d scaled Everest.
In 2014, Jake appeared in two movies. One got decent reviews, the other got only 26 percent favorable on Rotten Tomatoes. I didn’t see either one of them, or much of Jake. When he came “home” to Seattle, which wasn’t often, I left him alone with Ian as much as I could and spent extra time at work. Since I’d started at Stanley, Broome & Hardwick, I’d gone back to school—Jake paid for that, too—and qualified as a paralegal. I liked that no one at the firm treated me any differently because I was Jake Sanderson’s wife. On paper, I was paralegal to Jeremy Hardwick, but the job had grown to include much more than that. I did organize Jeremy, who desperately needed it; entropy enveloped him like fog on Elliott Bay. But I also accompanied him on depositions for his pro bono work on sexual assault, and I made the discovery that I was better at bonding with the confused and frightened victims, many very young, than even the firm’s female lawyers. The work was heartbreaking and deeply satisfying, in about equal measure.
In supermarket checkout lines, I sometimes saw photos of Jake with actresses, right next to headlines like SECRET ALIEN STRONGHOLD ON THE MOON! I didn’t know what Jake’s relationships were to these women, and I didn’t ask. We never slept together anymore. Jake paid the bills and saw Ian whenever he could, and if I sometimes lay awake at night wondering how he could be so different from the man I married—how we could be so different together—at daybreak I pushed the thoughts away and got on with it.
Then Dylan drove up to Seattle to see me.
Twenty minutes of chit-chat, mostly about Dylan’s life in Portland. He wanted to make detective, but it wasn’t happening. According to him, his superiors, right up to the commissioner, had an unreasonable and unfounded grudge against Dylan. This didn’t seem likely to me, but I said nothing.
He drained his coffee and said abruptly, “You haven’t asked about Jake.”
I didn’t see why I would ask Dylan about Jake.
He said, “I saw him recently. Went down there to surprise him. He barely had time for me.”
“Well . . . isn’t he shooting a TV show or something?”
“Renata—you’re defending him? You? After the way he’s treated you?”
“I wasn’t defending him.” Was I?
“He’s forgotten you, me, even Ian. He thinks he’s too big for us now.”
“I don’t think that’s true, Dylan. It’s just that—”
“You wouldn’t be defending him if you knew what I know.”
A wave of queasiness roiled through me. I knew, even before Dylan said it. I’d known for a long time. What I hadn’t known, hadn’t realized, was how jealous Dylan was of Jake, that he would do what he was going to do.
Dylan said, “Jake is having an affair.”
“I know,” I said.
“You do?”
“Yes. Dylan, why did you tell me?”
But he couldn’t bear to go there. I could barely go there myself. At the same time, I had to admit this was at least in part my fault. I had pushed Jake away, again and again. He was needy, successful, rich, and, if not exactly handsome, enormously appealing. Of course there was a woman. Or women.
Dylan said, sulky now, “Her name is Kitra Jordan. She’s an actress.”
“Yes,” I said. “I’m going now, Dylan. I’m not angry with you—” he was too pathetic to be angry with “—but I’m going.” I walked out of the coffee shop.
The worst thing was that Jake and I didn’t fight about Kitra Jordan. The fire had gone out of us, at least with regard to each other. Perhaps because we both recognized our culpability, the divorce was quiet and non-acrimonious. Washington is a community property state. I got half of everything Jake had earned. I put most of it away for Ian and kept on working at the law firm.
More years, more movies, more responsibility at work. Jake broke up with Kitra and took up with someone else, then someone after that. He was nominated for an Oscar for Best Supporting Actor and lost. A few years later, he won. Donald Trump was elected president. Four years later, he wasn’t. Ian discovered chess, and I spent Monday nights driving him to weekly matches at a local club, where he mainlined Skittles between moves against much older players. Often he won. My hair started to gray, and I decided against dying it.
And then, all at once, nobody’s thoughts in the entire nation were on anything but the Catastrophe, as the economy crashed, and entire companies too big to fail nonetheless went into bankruptcy, and people died, all brought down by a single letter of the alphabet.
2022: INDIA
THE CATASTROPHE broke while Ian and I were in India.
He had spent the two-week winter vacation from school, which somehow got extended to nearly another week, with Jake in Los Angeles. Three weeks in which I missed him and worried about him and enjoyed the guilty freedom of being alone. No babysitters, no arguments about whether an eleven-year-old needed a babysitter, no driving him to chess matches and friends’ houses and school events. No arguments about whether an eleven-year-old should take buses alone, or climb out on the roof to view a meteor shower, or have his Facebook page monitored. But at the airport he kissed me good bye, and for those three weeks, I clung to phone calls and memories and plans for when Ian returned to Seattle.