The Cure

by Glenn Cooper

  She rattled through the CDs.

  “Not my thing, but I’ll put one on if you want.”

  “Don’t touch them,” he said angrily. “Do not touch them.”

  “Whatever, Jamie. What’s your fucking problem?”

  From the back seat, Emma cheerfully parroted, “Fucking problem.”

  If he weren’t in such a rage that might have made him laugh. “My problem is you. You’re the problem.”

  “Me? You’ve got it wrong, my friend,” Linda said. “The problem is the mess the world’s in. I’m the solution.”

  “The solution to chaos and violence is more violence?”

  “It was self-defense, Jamie. How many times do I have to say it? You saw the knives.”

  “I don’t think those guys would’ve hurt a fly. Tell me something. The Suburban you found. Did you shoot the owner of that car too?”

  “Fuck you. The house was empty. The keys were lying around.”

  He stared into a lonely stretch of empty highway and gave the car more gas to keep speed on a long hill-climb. The daylight was flat and dull. The pale road looked like an on-ramp to the sky.

  “So, Mr. High and Mighty, that’s the way it’s going to be?” she said. “Guilty till proven innocent? Your version of truth, justice, and the American way? You know what I said about the world being the problem? It’s you who’s the problem. You’re the fucking problem.”

  “Care to explain that?”

  “Yeah, I’ll lay it out. The first night I stayed at your house I overheard what you said. To Mandy.”

  “What did I say?”

  “Something about it being your virus that caused all this, and that Emma would still be okay if it wasn’t for that.”

  His knuckles turned white on the steering wheel.

  “There’s a lot to unpack here, Linda. First of all, I didn’t say that. Mandy did. I didn’t agree with her. Second, the only way you could have heard that was by listening in on one of my calls.”

  “Hey, I think we’re way beyond house-guest etiquette,” she said. “Let me ask you this. What role did you play in this clusterfuck we’re living through?”

  He could have told her it was none of her business, but maybe he was feeling guilty and wanted to let it out. He tried to explain it to her. He talked about the gene therapy experiment, his role in the project, Mandy’s role. He told her about Steadman and the safeguards he had pushed for. He told her about Steadman’s violations of protocol and cavalier attitude about safety. Linda listened impassively, only interrupting his flow when one of the girls asked for food, and then muttering, “Go on,” after she passed a snack to the back seat.

  When he was done, she said, “Look, I’m only a cop. I didn’t understand everything. If you say it wasn’t you, it was the other guy, then fine. I’m used to hearing that. I’m happy to drop it. I won’t pass judgement on you. I’d appreciate if you gave me the same courtesy.”

  He hadn’t seen that she had taken a bottle of cognac from the musicians’ house—he presumed it came from there because it magically materialized from under her seat. Before he could say anything, she uncorked it and took a hit before returning it to its no-longer-secret place.

  She pre-empted him. “It’s just a snort to take the edge off a thoroughly shitty day. I’m going to take a little nap now. I’ll take the wheel whenever you want when I wake up.”

  It was supposed to be a fifteen- or sixteen-hour drive to Indianapolis. With all their problems they had lost a good five hours, so the earliest arrival time was going to be around dawn tomorrow. He wished he could call or text Mandy to tell her about the delay, but that wasn’t going to happen. The first text message was sent in 1992. The first cell-phone call was made in 1973. The first electric power transmission went online in 1889. Thousands of adenovirus particles could fit on the head of a pin and these microscopic specks were spinning the world backwards.

  As he drove, he thought about how he was going to unwind his association with the lethal booze-queen. It was good for Emma to have a buddy, but that wasn’t enough of a reason to keep Linda around. Was she a natural-born survivor? Without a doubt. Did he want a sociopath in his orbit? Absolutely not. He wasn’t even sure why she’d wanted to tag along with him in the first place. Why him? Didn’t she have relatives or friends?

  She started to snore. He tested the depth of her sleep by whispering questions to Emma and Kyra.

  Were they hungry?

  Both said yes, and he passed them a mostly spent bag of potato chips.

  Were they sleepy?

  He couldn’t recall if he’d taught them the word. Apparently, he hadn’t because they didn’t seem to know what he was asking about. He asked again and pointed to Linda, dropping his head to the side and making his own snoring noise.

  They found that hilarious and laughed so heartily he thought Linda would awake. He tried the question again.

  Emma said, “I am sleepy no.”

  “No. Say, I am not sleepy.”

  She repeated it correctly. Kyra got it right too. It was time for an abstract one.

  “Are you happy?”

  They were silent until Emma dredged up something he had taught her a couple of days ago.

  “I. Don’t. Under—”

  “Understand.”

  She repeated the word.

  “You don’t understand the word happy?”

  He saw her nodding in the mirror. “What happy?”

  “What is happy?” he said. “Happy is when you laugh. Ha ha ha.”

  Kyra mechanically repeated his bad imitation of a laugh, and the way she said it made Emma genuinely laugh. Then Emma went very quiet.

  “Happy no.”

  “Why are you not happy?”

  She said, “Rommy,” and began to cry.

  “Oh, sweetheart, you are sad.”

  “I are sad.”

  “Poor little Rommy,” he said. “Poor dog.”

  She sniffed. “I love Rommy.”

  *

  The sun finally peeked out from the clouds and the glare woke Linda.

  “Where are we?”

  “We just crossed the Hudson,” Jamie said. “Next up, New Jersey.”

  “Roads clear?”

  “Hardly a soul.”

  She craned her neck. The girls were asleep, Kyra on Emma’s shoulder.

  “How’s the gas?”

  “We’ll need one or two fill-ups before Indy. It’s not getting great mileage.”

  The conversation proceeded on neutral ground. The girls. Food. Bathroom breaks. She offered to drive again and this time he accepted, pulling the switch and rest-stop combo on a straightaway where they could see someone coming for a couple of miles in either direction.

  On the road again, he was too wired to sleep, so he broke down and slotted Mahler’s Second into the CD player. He instantly regretted it. It conjured up an image of the two musicians in these very seats, chatting away or perhaps just listening contentedly. He turned it off and adjusted the seat for more legroom and tried to find a position for Linda’s rifle that didn’t rub against his thigh.

  Her question seemed intent on deflecting his ire.

  “Did you ever think about getting married again?”

  He sighed. What was he going to do—ignore her for the rest of the journey?

  “Not seriously.”

  “Why?”

  Why? Because his marriage had been difficult. Because most women had been scared off at the idea of taking on Emma. Because his gold-standard had always been Mandy and other women were of baser metal. Because even when Mandy magically reappeared in his life, she was unwilling to leave her husband.

  He simply answered, “The right opportunity never presented itself.”

  She immediately shifted to her own situation, belying the purpose of her line of questions. He saw through it. She was playing for sympathy.

  “My marriage was so awful, there was no way I was going to make the same mistake twice.”

  “
Oh yeah?”

  “Bruce was a scumbag.”

  “Why’d you marry him?”

  “He was good-looking for one. And he was my ticket out of New Hampshire. I was thirty-three in a little town up by the Canadian border. I was a Fish and Game Officer and one winter, I stopped him for speeding on his snowmobile. He was a typical Massachusetts Mass-hole. Arrogant and cocky, but he was a good salesman and he got my number out of me. Next thing I know, I’m married and living in Brookline. He was an insurance broker who sold supplemental policies to a lot of policemen. That’s how I eventually got onto the Brookline department. We had Kyra and he lost interest in me. He got remarried to some bimbo and as far as I know he’s way up the hell in Maine, dodging child support like a world-class shithead. But I got the last laugh. He lived in Fucktown and I was in Brookline. I hope the virus got up there.”

  “I expect it did.”

  “Being a single mom hasn’t been easy, but I don’t have to tell you that.”

  “Nope.”

  “Things were bad enough when Kyra was little, what with the logistical nightmare of the shifts I was working and child care. But when she hit the teens, Kyra bar the door. Fucking nightmare. She’s become a total douche. It’s like she lives to torment me. Emma’s probably better. She seems polite when she’s over at our place.”

  “I’d say the same for Kyra. That’s how they behave. They can keep it civil for their friends’ parents then act like jerks around their own.”

  “I’m going to say something that probably is going to make me sound like a witch.”

  That wouldn’t be hard, he thought.

  She made a clicking sound with her tongue as she chose her words. “I like my daughter better now she’s sick. She’s not a defiant asshole anymore. She’s nice.”

  He hated to agree with anything she had to say, but he was having similar thoughts. It was easier to love Emma without all her teenage baggage. He had to believe that the lovely, wholesome girl in the back seat was the true essence of his daughter. He desperately wanted to teach her things about the world and about herself. But he didn’t want her to relearn how to be rude, how to be cruel, how to be thoughtless, how to be irresponsible. In the absence of a cure, he would reshape her into the person he wanted her to be, maybe doing a better job at being a father this time around.

  He told Linda, “Deep down, they’ve always been sweet girls.”

  31

  Mandy didn’t want to do it, but she really could not say no. Besides, it was not as if it was interfering with a busy schedule. So, she obliged Rosenberg by posing for him on a stool he placed by his chosen window, the one he thought was glowing best in the soft, afternoon sunlight.

  He had traveled light—for an artist that meant foregoing his cumbersome set of oils and brushes, palette knives and solvents, canvases and boards, for a simple set of watercolors and paper.

  “When I start with a subject, I always ask them this question,” he said. “How do you see yourself?”

  She made a what-the-hell expression. “I thought that was the artist’s job.”

  “Well it is, and I will paint you as I see you, but I don’t want to ignore your own perceptions.”

  She gave it some thought. “Okay, I’m a serious person. I think you understand that. I wish I were more frivolous, but I’m not. First and foremost, I’m a scientist. I suppose you can put some lab equipment in the painting to show that.” Her quivering lower lip previewed what she was about to say next. “I was a wife. Not the best wife in history, but I was a wife. I guess that’s it. That’s me.”

  “Can I be honest with you?”

  “We helped bury each other’s spouses, Stanley. I think we can be honest.”

  “I think you’re selling yourself short,” he said. “You are so much more than that. I see a passionate young woman who’s got an amazing understanding of the mysteries of life. I see a friend. And believe me, I’m decades too old to be hitting on you, but I see a sensuous woman, a lover, who is a wonderfully perplexing mixture of strength and frailty.”

  She laughed lightly. “Did you forget your glasses at home?”

  “I see just fine, missy. Now sit still while I sketch.”

  “I’m wearing a gray sweatshirt. I’d hate to be remembered in this thing.”

  “I’ve got enough imagination to paint a different top.”

  She got fidgety after an hour and he released her from her perch. She’d been thinking about Jamie and how far he might have gotten on the road. She wondered how they would find one another now that Derek was gone. She would not rush into his arms. She was in mourning. Derek’s memory had to be respected. She imagined that Jamie would feel the same. She let it rest after a while. They would work it out. People always did.

  “Would you like a coffee?” she said.

  “Would I ever,” Rosenberg said, setting his brush down.

  It was a guilty pleasure using the microwave to heat water. She wasn’t sure how much power a microwave pulled, but a minute here, a minute there would simply not make a meaningful dent in the generator diesel supply. As the coffee dripped through the filter paper into a lab beaker, she asked Rosenberg if she could sneak a look at the painting.

  “I’m not one of these artists who gets all uptight about letting someone see a work-in-progress, but there’s not a lot to see yet.”

  What she saw was color. Lots of color.

  Her head and upper body were still in penciled outline, but she was surrounded by splashes of pale but vibrant shades of lemon yellow, blush pink, emerald green, perfect sky blue. The window behind her didn’t exist in the painting. The background looked like it was going to be a tropical paradise of sorts—at least that was the impression she got.

  “Wow. Not what I was expecting.”

  “You thought I was going to have you in front of an ugly hospital building? I’m an artist, not a photographer. Let’s have our coffee then get back to work before the light’s gone.”

  *

  “What the hell is this?” Boris asked, running to get his green mask on.

  Shaun grinned sheepishly. “Her name’s Keisha. She’s from the blue house across the street.”

  “Why is Keisha in our house, man, and why aren’t you wearing a mask around her?”

  The little girl started to laugh at Boris’s bug-eyes.

  “You look funny,” she said.

  “You don’t need no mask around her,” Shaun said. “She been with her mama for days and days and she ain’t got sick.”

  “I’m not taking a chance with my precious brain, man. I asked you a question. Why is she here?”

  “Her mama’s run off, not that she was much use to her anyway. She’s gonna hang with us.”

  “Says who?”

  “Says me who’s got half the house.”

  “Does this look like day care? What are we supposed to do with a kid?”

  Keisha was looking around as best as she could in the unlit house. Her attention returned to Boris.

  “He’s not that fat. You know the mailman? Now he’s fat.”

  “Hey, man,” Shaun said, “I told you not to call him fat.”

  “I didn’t. I said I seen fatter.”

  Boris turned defensive. “I’ve got extremely heavy bones.”

  “More like an extremely heavy ass,” Shaun said, unable to resist. He asked the girl if she was hungry.

  “You got peanut butter?”

  “I’ll make you a peanut-butter-and-jam sandwich.”

  “Make me one too,” Boris said. “For my bones. Where’s she gonna sleep?”

  “I’ll clear the shit off the sofa. I can’t play my Xbox from there no more.”

  “Why?” Keisha asked.

  “No electricity, girl. Gotta find other stuff to play that don’t require electricity.”

  “I got Candyland and Chutes and Ladders at home,” she said.

  “Old-school board games? I’m all-in on that shit. Let’s go get ’em after we eat.”


  *

  Shaun hadn’t been giving Keisha lip service. He really was interested in playing board games. Inside her house, he held a flashlight and oohed and aahed while she made a stack of her favorites—the ones she told him about plus Chinese Checkers, Sorry, and Twister. When they were done, he figured they might as well take the rest of the food in the house before other scavengers got to it. So, she held the garbage bags open, while he stuffed them full, with a running commentary on each item.

  I like this. Boris likes this, but I don’t. That’s my favorite flavor of Jell-O too. How come you got milk that ain’t in the fridge?

  “Momma said it don’t need to be in the fridge.”

  Laden with bags, they were about to cross the street when Shaun saw headlights coming from around the nearest corner. He told Keisha to follow him quick to some bushes where they ducked down low. Two cars passed them by. Shaun recognized them right away. A Range Rover and an Escalade. NK cars.

  “Why’d we hide,” Keisha asked.

  “The bad guys,” Shaun said.

  “Are we the good guys?”

  “You know we are, short stuff.”

  *

  Boris was bubbling over with annoyance. He had been sitting in his easy chair with his green mask on for three-quarters of an hour and he was hot and bored. All his crossings and uncrossings of legs, squeaking the recliner’s springs under his shifting weight, and his random grunts went unnoticed as cards were turned and pieces got moved around the Candyland board. Finally, Shaun got the message and asked him if he wanted to play.

  “It’s like for babies,” Boris said, but it was the mildest of rebukes because he eagerly took his place on the floor.

  “Boris is a big, fat baby,” Keisha said.

  Boris chose the green gingerbread man and said, “I thought you weren’t supposed to call me fat.”

  Two games later, the little girl fell asleep on the floor and Shaun lifted her onto the sofa. Boris finally lifted his mask and he and Shaun drank bourbon for a while until Shaun remembered he hadn’t mentioned the NK drive-by.

  “If they’ve been through the hood just now, they’re not coming again tonight,” Boris said.

  “Yeah, so?”

  “So, we should make our rounds,” Boris said. “We should check out the place we saw with the lights on.”