My ministries are getting excited about this latest generation, Fred Wilson had written in his last email, another mass mailing. The cows of Generation 7 are about to give birth. We hope to have worked out the strain of white ears that rose in Generation 6 by retreating back to eggs frozen from the dams of Generation 5, and fertilized with semen from Bull Q.
It is a long and tedious process, but in the end we will prevail. Our Lord has endowed us with scientific knowledge and we have used them in ways that are in His service and beyond reproach.
I have been in constant touch with the good souls at the Third Temple Commission. They are preparing a storage facility in an undisclosed location in Gaza where we can store embryos for generations to come. We will leave nothing to chance, for every time a purification rite is needed, an embryo can be unfrozen and implanted, and a pure Red Heifer birthed. Give praise to God.
On the road, Ms. Thadeous does not appear to be worrying. Any resemblance to Ms. Tedious is long gone. She looks young, alive, her skin clear and taut, her dark hair loose around her shoulders. She has one hand on the wheel, her right hand intertwined with Jim Fulson’s, who is leaning so far into her side of the car that another adult could fit in the front seat between him and the window.
Anna hasn’t shaved her head since the night her parents died. At this point, more than a month, it almost covers her ears. The evening before they left, Ms. Thadeous had run over to the Gap at Valley Fair shopping center and bought Anna a pair of jeans and some striped pullovers, the sorts of clothes that normal teenagers wear. With her kitchen scissors she feathered Anna’s hair so it more softly framed her face. Anna is now distinctly a girl in her new clothes and new hair, might even be taken for one who cares about style. Neither Jim Fulson nor Lars commented.
Every mile they put between themselves and the bloody intersection at El Camino and Page Mill, Anna feels a little lighter, a little more human. She even sees herself in the rearview mirror, and manages not to flinch. This time her mission will end in hope, not destruction.
39
ANNA MUST HAVE DOZED, BECAUSE now they’re in the no-man’s-land of Sacramento, formerly rich farmland eventually deemed too valuable to plow and now desecrated by row upon row of identical houses, constructed along straight lines that run parallel to the freeway all the way up to and over the skyline. Barracks, not homes. Many have For Sale signs tacked to their garages. The cramped layout of the encampment not even allowing for any patches of grass.. Huge billboards line the highway advertising easy-win casinos, exotic pole dancers, places to sleep, places to eat, real estate agents who can sell the depreciating properties of the desperate and help the enterprising find bargains. Anna can feel Lars is energized by what he sees, emboldened by this vision of a people indifferent to beauty, who have clearly rejected their stewardship of His earth. That they have fallen so far from His grace is a sign that the End Times are coming. Anna might have felt the same way twenty-four hours ago. But she now possesses a different attitude, the scene evokes her pity rather than her scorn, and she wants to beg for His mercy rather than his sword. Give them time. Just give them enough time.
They take the bypass and circumvent Sacramento’s toy downtown, with its handful of skyscrapers and motley collection of ships anchored in the muddy stream of the Sacramento River. A long dreary stretch then, before Route-80 begins rising up into the Sierra foothills and Gold Country, where the financial crash had frozen new construction before any ground had been broken.
California hasn’t had significant rainfall for more than three years, and the reservoirs they pass are dangerously low. By this time in their journey they should be seeing resplendent snow-capped mountains, fields freshly green from autumn rain on the lower hills. Instead they get gray fields with telephone wires strung on poles reaching eastward in perpetuity, and, in the distance, dull brown piles of dirt. They pass the first sign for Tahoe resorts, for Truckee and Reno and for a museum honoring the Donner Party’s infamous cannibalism.
Ms. Thadeous and Jim Fulson switch seats, and he takes the wheel. She settles down to sleep with her head on his shoulder, the picture of young love.
Jim Fulson catches Anna’s eye in the rearview mirror, switches on the radio and finds a news station. KFBK. Class warfare, unemployment, the dismal business climate. A slow news day.
He pulls over at a gas station outside Dutch Flat to refuel. Although the pump is self-service, a bored attendant in his mid-fifties wearing a gray jumpsuit offers to fill up the tank. His thin frame swims in the denim folds.
“Not many people heading up to Tahoe this weekend,” Jim Fulson says to him.
“No reason to. No snow.”
“Yeah, we didn’t bother bringing our skis,” Jim Fulson says. He sounds casual, nonchalant, but his hands are shaking.
“Smart decision. Enjoy the nice weather. The resorts are hurting, of course, which means folks around here are, too. A good snow season, a chain monkey can make a thousand dollars a day easy,” says the man. He looks at Ms. Thadeous, then at Lars and Anna, openly curious.
“So, here to do some hiking? Hitting the casinos? Although”—here he stooped down, gestured at Lars and Anna—“those kids seem a little young. Likely to get carded if you try to sneak them in.”
“No, visiting relatives. Death in the family.” This is Jim Fulson’s first attempt to vocalize the story they agreed on, and it stinks of falsehood, the four of them as far from being a family as anyone would imagine.
The man doesn’t blink, though. “Looks more like a honeymoon trip,” he says, pointing to the sleeping Ms. Thadeous. He’s right. Even sleeping, she looks like a bride. Jim Fulson blushes.
Jim Fulson pays and takes off. Ms. Thadeous promptly opens her eyes. “I thought we’d never get out of there,” she says, sitting up. Jim Fulson smiles and pulls her toward him again as he maneuvers the car back onto the empty highway. Anna distrusts the tenderness. After years of witnessing her parents’ hard-edged courtship, she finds a relationship that exhibits this much mildness implausible.
40
THE ROLLING HILLS SOON GIVE way to pine forests rising high on either side of the divided highway. Noon has come and gone and Anna is hungry, but doesn’t feel comfortable asking to stop. At one point Lars has to go to the bathroom, so Jim Fulson pulls off the highway. Lars disappears into the bushes for five minutes. Otherwise, they drive in silence as they climb to two, three, five thousand feet, and plunge into the shadows of the Sierra Nevada.
Anna’s father hated the mountains because they reminded him of his despised West Virginia upbringing. But Anna’s mother often missed the snow of her Midwest childhood. At least once a winter they drove the five hours to Tahoe so Anna’s mother could get her fix of snow and Anna could become a passable skier. About thirty miles before Truckee, well before the turnoff to the Donner Pass, they’d see the signs for the Rainbow Lodge. Anna had always begged her parents to stop. The name evoked magic.
Once, Anna’s mother relented and they stopped at the Rainbow for lunch. Anna has a vague recollection of rich brocaded upholstery and paneled walls, and of pitchers of cold water that were constantly being filled from a large spigot in the corner of the dining room. The Rainbow owned the clearest and purest spring of drinking water in California, and for each meal they put pitchers of this clear good water on the table. No ice, no fuss.
Anna has just one photo from that trip; she must have been eight, her hair in two braids, standing next to a snowdrift three times her height, her mother smiling and looking young. Anna remembers her father telling her that the men standing at the bar in the Rainbow saloon, leaning against it as they talked, holding glasses in their hands, were the hard drinkers. “You can tell a hard drinker by whether he needs a surface to put his drink down on,” he had said. “If he does, he doesn’t qualify. Not really.”
Anna only had to say “The Rainbow!” with a pleased voice for Jim Fulson to brake slightly
. “Do you want to stop?” he asks.
Ms. Thadeous shakes her head. “It’s too early. We should get to Reno tonight.”
“I don’t know,” Jim Fulson says. “It’s almost 2:30 and I’m beat.” He smiles at Ms. Thadeous.
“I’ll take my turn. We need to keep going. We’ll find plenty of cheap hotels in Reno,” Ms. Thadeous insists.
“Let’s make a quick stop, then. I’ll bet the kids are hungry,” says Jim Fulson. Anna thinks, what an indulgent father he would be. “Besides, Reno is so sleazy. Everything smells of smoke, and all the food is deep-fried.”
“I’ll feel better when we reach Utah,” she says.
“I get it,” says Jim Fulson, “But it’s a long haul, and taking a break now won’t make that much of a difference. We’re not on a fixed schedule.” Ms. Thadeous shrugs.
They pull into the Rainbow’s gravel parking lot.
“We don’t open for dinner until 5:00, but you can get snacks in the saloon,” a young woman tells them as they enter the hotel, motioning them into the very room Anna remembers so vividly, where she’d sat sipping hot chocolate, her parents on either side of her. Everything deeply red with undertones of royal purpose, the dark wood paneling and lack of natural light making it into a sort of Aladdin’s cave. Safe and warm. A womb of possibilities. Anna takes off her shoes and rubs her bare feet across the uneven floor boards covered with patterned rugs, sinks down into a brocaded chair. The others join her around a low oak table; Jim Fulson also immediately slips his shoes off and puts his feet up on a small embroidered footstool.
They’re far from alone. A local crowd is already gathered, under the inevitable gazes of stuffed deer and bear heads on the walls, and, less conventionally, an assortment of mounted wildcat heads. Each of the cat faces wears a distinctly human expression—one with its mouth open in a round O of surprise, one looking sly with half-lidded eyes and a definitive upturn to its mouth. A frowning cat wears a Tyrolean hat with a feather in it. Anna is delighted.
“Let’s stay here,” Anna says. “Please?” She’s surprised at the strength of her desire. Lars appears indifferent. One night’s stop doesn’t matter. He will reach his destination, will fulfill his destiny. A look passes between Ms. Thadeous and Jim Fulson. They are calculating costs, and logistics.
“I can pay,” Anna says, but they hurriedly say “no, no,” just as Anna’s parents would.
“It’s a small place,” says Jim Fulson. “I’ll have to ask if they have rooms.”
As it turns out, one room is available. Third floor, no elevator. Bathroom down the hall. Two double beds, barely enough space to walk in between them.
“I’ll share a bed with Anna, Jim and Lars can take the other,” says Ms. Thadeous. This nod to convention makes Anna smile.
Lars brings his backpack and they haul up Ms. Thadeous’s suitcase to make it seem as though they are honest travelers. Lars comments on the smallness of the room and goes to read in the lounge until dinner.
Anna grabs a change of clothes and retreats down the hall where she takes the longest hottest shower she’s had in recent memory. The aging pipes wail and knock as she lathers herself with the peppermint soap, the apricot-scented shampoo. Her body a mixed bouquet.
She turns off the scalding water. She takes a soft white towel—softer and whiter than any she’s ever felt against her body—and dries herself, briskly rubs her short hair. She dresses in clean clothes and walks back to the room, realizing immediately upon entering how obnoxious her scent is, how it overpowers the space. The second thing she realizes is that she’s interrupted an embrace between Jim Fulson and Ms. Thadeous. It is Anna who is self-conscious. The visuals go into some kind of infinite loop inside her head, and she is condemned to witness that embrace, that open mouthed kiss disrupted by her arrival over and over again. That she disturbed something more important than a kiss is clear. Some tender thread prematurely snapped. Anna hurriedly leaves the room, joins Lars in the lounge. They wait more than an hour before Jim Fulson and Ms. Thadeous descend.
Dinner, served in the formal dining room, is superb: thick brown onion broth, rich Gruyère cheese coating the fresh French bread that floats on top of it, the miraculously clear crisp water. The waitress fills and refills the pitcher. Even Jim Fulson and Ms. Thadeous forgo stronger drinks; this is heady enough stuff.
Lars isn’t paying any attention to them. Anna sees him actively calculating, looking around the room, eyeing in particular a middle-aged couple sitting morose over their roast duck and taking no pleasure in the room, the food, the warmth. Anna marvels at Lars’s ability to relinquish pleasure in the here and now in pursuit of some more cerebral object.
Anna is alert to every move Jim Fulson makes. How his fingers accidentally brush those of Ms. Thadeous while reaching for the salt, how he puts his hand on the back of her chair, caressing the worn wood because it holds her body. Love by proxy. Ms. Thadeous has showered also; the ends of her hair are still slightly wet, her face shockingly bare. Ms. Thadeous’s eyes are smaller, less prominent, less obviously soulful as when they’re surrounded by kohl and thickened lashes. Her complexion is ruddier. Perhaps Ms. Thadeous considers the rosy tint of her cheeks, nose, and forehead coarse, but to Anna, it suits her, contrasting nicely with her black hair, which she must ordinarily straighten, because now it curls chaotically to her shoulders. No earrings. No shoes, either, Anna realizes. A child of nature. Jim Fulson can’t take his eyes off her.
Anna is honored to be a part of this magic circle. Even the indifferent Lars is indispensable; he is the neutral element that prevents the system from short-circuiting. For the air is too charged, the rug too soft, the food too flavorful. It is all too, too much. Anna is the only one who seems to realize that they are in a bubble, and that it has stretched as far as it can to accommodate them. Anna wants to savor this because it will not last, that the intensity of the evening is only possible precisely because it can’t last.
More time, thinks Anna. I can buy the world more time.
41
“A HAPPY MARRIAGE. YOUR PARENTS had one, I think. And yours, Lars, I believe they have one, too.”
“Yes,” Anna says.
“Perhaps,” Lars says.
They have finished dinner, are in no hurry to leave the table. Ms. Thadeous has apparently taken on the role of hostess. She is asking the questions, directing the conversation.
“They seem content,” Anna says to Lars.
“Content is a good word,” says Lars. “So is coexist. That’s what they do. They thought they should conceive a child and so they did. Otherwise, the relationship is a matter of convenience. And companionship. The members of our church who live alone don’t do as well.”
“Your congregation doesn’t tend to attract happy people,” Anna says. It comes out more challenging than she intended.
“No,” Lars says. “People seldom reach out to us because of excess happiness.”
“Is it your church’s goal to attract unhappy individuals in particular?” asks Ms. Thadeous.
“Let’s say we keep our eyes open for the ones that will be most receptive.”
“Like me?” Anna asks.
“And unlike us?” asks Jim Fulson. Anna notices the use of the word us with a little shock. It’s the one time he’s spoken for Ms. Thadeous, talked about them as a unit. Ms. Thadeous hasn’t noticed, is drinking more water. She’s already had to excuse herself to the bathroom twice.
“I thought we had possibly misjudged you,” Lars says to Anna. “I felt you slipping away. But now you’re back.”
“Give the girl a break,” says Ms. Thadeous. Her arm goes around Anna. For the first moment all evening, Jim Fulson looks directly at Anna. When Ms. Thadeous lifts her hand to brush the hair off Anna’s forehead, his eyes follow it, and for a second his eyes rest on Anna’s face, but they don’t linger.
Drunk on water, they stay up talking
past 10 pm. When they eventually stumble to the room, no one bothers to find pajamas, they all fall into bed fully clothed. Lars seems to fall asleep the minute he lays his head on the pillow. Jim Fulson takes the far side of the men’s bed, which is pushed against the wall. Anna thinks she won’t sleep but she keeps dropping off only to be woken up by Ms. Thadeous moving past her to get to the bathroom down the hall. After her third or fourth trip Anna and Ms. Thadeous switch places so she’ll be closer to the door.
Anna is awakened by a hand tentatively touching her shoulder. The thick velvet curtains have been drawn so tight that the room is black. She can’t see who it is.
“Clara?” Jim Fulson’s voice.
Anna holds her breath, doesn’t speak.
“Clara? Wake up.” He is speaking softly, but Anna wants to hush him, she doesn’t want him to wake Lars or Ms. Thadeous. She wants the hand to stay on her shoulder. But it doesn’t. It starts moving, travels down Anna’s arm, stops at her wrist, lingers there for a moment. Soon it will move again and he’ll realize whose body he is caressing. Anna reaches out and stops his hand with hers. She presses it tight against her side. With her other hand she reaches up and strokes Jim Fulson’s face, feels the bristles of two days’ growth. Anna has never touched a man’s face other than her father’s, and that was more than a decade earlier, during their games of grab-the-nose. Anna feels Jim Fulson coming closer to her, his breath on her cheeks.
Then whispers, at first unintelligible. Anna slowly gets used to the cadence, begins to put syllables, words together. Jim Fulson has much to say. He doesn’t seem to care if Anna can hear; he just apparently needs to say the words aloud.
“Clara. Clara. It hurts to be separated like this. I can hear you breathe. I know your breathing. Clara, I want you. Please say it. Just say my name.”
He waits.
Anna’s throat is dry. She pitches her voice low, whispers it as softly as she can and still force the word out.
Coming of Age at the End of Days Page 17