“What's your name.”
“Clifford Mukavetz.”
“I see.” He repeated my name.
“Did you know James Newsom.”
“Yeah. We went to college together. Is he okay?”
He mumbled into his earpiece. Why had all these robots flooded into my world? Even if James and Ruth were assholes, at least they had emotions untempered by apathy inducing drugs or stultifying professionalism. Besides me, only the officer seemed like an actual human being.
I got to my feet—I could take the news like a man, if nothing else.
“We see no reason to question you. You are free to go. The house, however, is currently under our jurisdiction, so you will have to find somewhere else to stay tonight.”
“And James? The body? What happened? You can't kick me out of and not tell me why,” I was becoming hysterical, but I didn't care; I was owed the opportunity to make a scene.
“To be clear: I can.”
“Is he alive?” No response—maybe some sympathy in his eyes. Or pity. “Fuck. You guys shot him? Did he have a gun or something?”
“James Newsom resisted arrest. You can access the police report once it's been submitted and reviewed.”
“Fuck. Really? Fuck. Oh man.”
“As I said, you'd better make sleeping arrangements. You can't stay here.” He walked away, talking into his earpiece.
“Sorry Stacy. My internet is off limits.”
“That's what you're worried—” she started, then puzzled through what I'd said. “You're joking. Haha. You can stay with me if you'd like. I have a couch.”
“No, it's fine.” I called Ruth, who answered on the second ring.
“Hello?” She sounded suspicious.
“Hi Ruth.” I paused. How do you go about saying something like that? I wondered if the military had sent someone to tell Helen in person. Or did they call? Maybe these days it was handled online, could they be so callous?
“Cliff? Look—”
“James is dead.” Direct was best. My inability to be direct always caused me grief, and now was as good a time as any to remedy that particular flaw.
“Shut up. I regret the way things turned out, but you don't need to be a douche about it. I called you like thirty times and you can't—”
“I'm serious. There's all these cops here. And, and they won't let me into my house.” Why had I called her? Not because I thought she cared about James. “It's terrible.” I wasn't sure how I wanted to sound, but not like I'd scarfed a bottle of Stacy's medication.
She didn't answer for a while, and I thought she might've hung up on me, believing it was all a cruel practical joke. Finally, “I'll be there in thirty minutes. Bye.”
I called a car for Stacy. She tried to pay for it, but I waved her off.
We met it at the end of the block—no one wants to pick up passengers from a crime scene. She gave me her number while we were waiting.
“We should hang out again. When you're feeling better,” she said.
“Sure, I'll call you.”
This was the worst end to a date in my entire life. Its only rival was a weekend I spent homeless in Madrid. I'd studied in London for a semester, and had taken a continental tour with this Japanese girl in the program. We arrived in Spain during a major holiday, and the hostel I booked was way out in the boonies. No train or bus ran there, we didn't have a car, and didn't know enough Spanish to explain to a driver that yes, our destination was in fact out past the suburbs. There wasn't a single vacant room in the entire city and we slept in a subway station for the next two nights.
I saw her again a year later. She was in New York for an interview and she hit me up. I took her out with my friends. When I went to the bathroom James made his move, and I'd come back to find her cornered and him trying to force a kiss. There'd been shouting and he'd gotten kicked out of the bar. The girl and I had gone on to have a thoroughly satisfying night. She didn't get the job, and ended up moving back to Tokyo.
James always did shit like that—it was part of who he was and you either accepted it or you didn't. A lot of people—maybe most—did not, but I always shrugged it off. I laughed at the memory, a spark of a snicker that exploded into unstoppable hysterics. After all his rantings and ravings he'd actually managed to get the government to kill him. If there were an afterlife, I hoped he was gloating to some spirit about how he'd known it all along.
The EMTs took their time loading his body. When they were finished, the driver accidentally shifted into reverse and drove back onto the curb. There was a loud crack as the vehicle rammed into the chestnut tree outside my window. He corrected his error and the ambulance made a clean turn onto the street. It kept its lights off until an intersection a few blocks down, where they flashed on as it sped through a red light. The tree was left leaning at a precipitous angle.
The suit who'd told me to fuck off in so much bureaucratese was talking to a familiar looking man, unshaven, skinny, and with the nose of a witch. It was Vincent, James's errant business partner. The two of them were dressed identically. Same jacket. Same pants. Same tie. Same earpiece. I grasped at understanding, maybe not all of it, but enough.
“Yo,” I shouted, jogging towards them. “Vincent.” The nameless suit glanced up and his expression fell in exasperated boredom. Vincent squinted at me, his face scrunched as he tried to remember who I was.
“You set him up. You fucking set him up. I can't believe this shit. Are you fucking serious? I'll go to the press. I'll call my congressman. You fucking lowlife.”
“Mr. Kurchecki and I have no idea what you're talking about,” said the first suit. “I suggest you give us some privacy,” he said in a tone that sound like anything but. “Immediately.”
“You can both rot in hell. You Storebrand-fucks. This'll show up in the news as you guys infiltrating some whacko Jacobin ring. What bullshit. Can you arrest me for saying that?”
“If you don't—” the suit said. He and Mr. Vincent Kurchecki fanned out on either side of me. Nothing but government thugs.
“I'm leaving. Don't worry.” I flipped them the finger and stormed off. I found a nice curb to sit on and chain-smoke cigarettes until Ruth's car pulled up.
“Cliff, I'm so sorry,” she said, running over to me. “Where is he?”
“I dunno. They threw him in an ambulance and drove off.”
“Are you sure he's dead?”
“Yes.”
She sat down beside me and rested her head against my arm. “He was so fucking stupid,” she said.
We sat there a while, shocked, each grieving in our own way. I continued smoking, flicking the half-finished cigarettes into the gutter and watching them flame out. Ruth remained huddled against me, rocking back and forth like a swing in an empty playground.
Perverse as it sounds, I enjoyed those brief moments with her more than any others since the rekindling of our friendship, more than any others with her ever. I felt guilty about it, and would have gladly traded them to see James come bouncing around the corner and ask “What the fuck's wrong with you two,” but it was no small thing, sharing an awful experience in quiet contemplation, all past wrongs forgotten for the moment. It was nice.
I would've stayed there with her forever, happily starving to death and rotting away, my hand clasped in hers. But Ruth's frame of reference was always in motion, and soon she was off to find a cop. She stood up, brushed the sidewalk grime from her jeans, and disappeared behind a black SUV.
Several minutes later she came back with a pink slip.
“What the... How...” I stammered.
“Here. So you can claim the body.” She handed me the paper. I stuffed it into my front pocket. “Let's get out of here.”
“I don't have anywhere to stay.”
“Don't play dumb. It pisses me off.”
“Right. Your place?”
“Duh.”
Her car was parked on the street, idling. “Technically, I'm not supposed to let non-employees ride i
n it,” she said as she waved me in. I'd never ridden in a self-driving car before.
“Take me home,” Ruth said. Neither of us cried. There would be no tears for James; we were both emotional dysfunctionals and no one else cared. No siblings, and no parents either—a missing father and dead mother. From cancer, or maybe the flu pandemic. I wasn't sure. His family was in worse shape than mine. Ruth's was intact: a father and mother healthy and in love, and two, (or was it three?) siblings in college or holding down jobs. Family was key. Even if the US economy righted itself and ascended to hitherto unheard of levels of wealth, it would be cold comfort for the survivors of households shattered by the airborne toxic event, Liberty Bell, Valley Forge, Operation Empire of Liberty, and more. To me, it sounded like a strong argument for a state-sanctioned reorganization of family trees. Distribute the dead and the even more equally, to level out the grief. James had whispered darkly that such a policy was a manufactured disaster away. If he was right then perhaps better days lie ahead for future generations born into a dying world.
“What are you thinking about?” Ruth asked.
“Huh?”
“When your eyes glaze over like that it means you're being super thoughtful. And you never share. And I want in. I've earned it.”
I explained what I'd been thinking, except for her part in it.
“That's a terrible idea. And you can't blame what happened to James on his parents. He knew what he was getting into.”
“I wasn't blaming anybody. That's why I don't say these things out loud. Because you take my thoughts as my beliefs.”
“Sorry.”
“Can I smoke in here?”
“No.”
“Damn.”
We arrived at her building, and I forced Ruth to stay with me while I smoked.
The doorman recognized me, I think, because he scowled at us while we waited for the elevator. Once in her apartment, I collapsed on her couch as if my spine had turned to jelly. Ruth's ceilings were off-white and spotless—unlike mine, which were stained yellow and bubbling covered in spiderweb cracks from years of leaking water. This building was new, offering a clean break from the past; whatever had occupied this space before had been torn down to its foundations and exerted no ghostly influence over its tenants.
Ruth joined me on the couch, a red cushion wedged between her legs. Watching me. Someday she would die, and I would too. Barring an unforeseen tragedy—nuclear war or the like—we would be buried, and our headstones would be well-maintained until someone paved over the cemetery in order to build condos. The future beckoned, and I took comfort in the ineluctable decay. In the grand scheme of things, it didn't matter if James died today from a gunshot or thirty years later from a coronary brought on by a life spent in contempt for his body.
I opened my mouth to share this revelation with Ruth, but stopped. I didn't see the point. She reached out to touch my hand. Hers was soft and smooth and warm, empathizing without reservation. I interlocked my fingers with hers and we sat there quietly like a weary old couple.
“Do you think things could have worked out between us? Or were we hopeless from the first time we met?” I asked.
“Hopeless.”
“Why?”
“We're both too selfish. And sneaky. We'd spend all our time in power struggles and trying to undermine each other.”
“Mmm.”
“You bring out the worst in me. And I hope for your sake that I do for you. What we need is someone kind and caring to balance us out.”
“That sounds so boring.”
“We have incompatible zodiacs,” she finished, ignoring me.
“Is it really so grim?” I leaned over, placing one hand behind her head and bringing her face to mine. She didn't pull away, but I may as well have been kissing a fashion store mannequin. Her lips were pursed and dry and refused to respond. She kept her teeth clenched to block my tongue, but when I unfastened her jeans she made no effort to dissuade me. I opened my eyes and saw her staring listlessly at the ground. I retreated to the far end of the couch. She left her jeans unbuttoned, and I could see a puff of pubic hair beneath electric blue underwear.
“Would you have gone along like that and let me fuck you?”
“Cliff—”
“Because you fucked James and now he's dead? Because you felt bad for me? Or do you just open up your legs and lay there like a corpse for anyone who comes along?”
“No, Cliff. I wouldn't have let you. I'm seeing someone.”
“Yeah? Have you been dating him this entire time? And now you're having pangs of conscience?”
“No. We met at the party.”
“Oh.” My self-righteousness deflated like slashed tires. “Is it serious?”
“It is. I think I'm in love with him.” She got up from the couch. “You can stay here as long as you want—it's not a problem. But you don't realize how inconsiderate you are, or when you say those things how much it hurts. Good night.”
She went upstairs to her bed, leaving me like a slug squished into the crevices of a child's bare foot.
Dear Therapy Diary,
I went on a date for the first time since starting my medication. The boy's name was Cliff. He took me to a cool restaurant called “33” and pretended to be having a good time, but I could tell the way I was acting made him uncomfortable. He kept making jokes that I didn't think were funny, and told me about a bunch of his personal drama that I didn't care about. I don't think I would've cared about any of it even without the meds. He's one of those people whose idea of being an artist means everything that happens to them is singularly unique and momentous, as if everybody else isn't dealing with their own setbacks and struggles every day. But he was pretty witty and I think I would've had a good time overall if it hadn't been for the side effects.
He was nice enough to let me walk me to his place after dinner so I could use the internet, but the police had raided his house. They shot his roommate, who put up a fight, but they didn't have any interest in Cliff. It sounded like he was selling drugs or something, but Cliff seemed to think it was part of some vast conspiracy. Maybe New York drives everyone crazy.
I called Father for the first time since moving here. His assistant put me through right away, but he had to go after a few minutes because he had to take a business call. He's trying to buy an abandoned warehouse stacked to the ceiling with space-proofed solar paneling. Father thinks space is the future and is tracking down and buying all of the materials the government earmarked for orbital construction during the post-Panic stimulus program. I hope he's right, and this isn't machine intelligence all over again...
...
16. Epilogue
Ruth was gone when I woke up. Taking advantage of my first morning in months without a trace of a hangover, I enjoyed the view from her terrace while I smoked my morning cigarette. Independence Park spread before me, engulfed in the shadows of massive skyscrapers. So many people with so much money, wanted to live next to park, and what was a few hours of sunlight for park goers when compared to enormous profits? Ruth's apartment, however, received illumination aplenty. And it was glorious.
Feeling some sort of wealthy envy or class resentment, I tossed the remnant of my cigarette on the terrace below. I hoped to ruin the evening of whoever lived there, but in all likelihood it would be found and disposed of by a maid or some other servant-by-another-name.
Ruth had left me half a pot of coffee and a note. The stationery was a delicate pink and ornate designs swirled along the border. Her initials were monogrammed at the bottom.
Had to go to work. You're welcome to stay as long as you want. A day, a week, whatever you need. I care about you. I really, really do.
- Ruth
With an invitation like that, I had no choice but to flee.
* * *
I'd expected to return home to find a guard posted outside, or to find yellow police tape across my door with a notice on the door explaining what exactly I was supposed to do next. But ther
e was no trace of the state's massive immune response: the vehicles were all gone and the cordoning had been taken down. No trace, that is, except for the broken chestnut, which had fallen over and whose trunk and branches now blocked the sidewalk. The tips of its leaves had begun to shrivel, deprived of water and nutrients by the severing of the xylem.
The authorities had, at least, had the courtesy to lock the door.
The inside of the house smelled acrid and a thin veil of smoke suffused everything. The living room was a mess: the coffee table had been overturned, the couch cushions were ripped up, and my old tablet lay smashed on the floor.
The kitchen was untouched. One of the stove's burners had been left on with a pot sitting on it. I went over and turned it off. James must have been making dinner, a soup or sauce of some kind; whatever it was had reduced to a burnt, black sludge.
The mattress in my room had been thrown off the bed and all of the dresser drawers were open, but nothing was broken or ripped up. They hadn't touched the bathroom, as far as I could tell.
That left two rooms to to survey. The door to James's was closed. The attic's was ajar, its padlock missing and the frame undamaged. They must have found the key on top of my bookshelf or picked the lock rather than kicking it in, or using a battering ram, or however those things were done.
Previously stacked to the ceiling with cardboard boxes stuffed with yellowing paper, the attic was now empty. Footprints of varying sizes crisscrossed the floor. A fine layer of dust had begun to settle where the boxes had been, in stark contrast to the thick carpeting accumulated atop the narrow walkways. Too bad for my cousin, if he ever intended to return for these documents. But he was no stranger to the devastating lightning strikes of authority, and would take the loss in stride. I only hoped nothing contained within those boxes was serious enough to warrant implicating me as an accomplice under some anti-terrorism law.
I stood outside James's room, not knowing what to expect. Would it be bits of brain and bone? Chunks of gore? Piss and shit? It took every byte of self-control in my possession to turn that knob.
The Merchants of Zion Page 28