I find another photograph of Meecham—taken shortly after Pittsburgh, during what must have been a tour of one of the FEMA camps in West Virginia they set up for people like me, the refugees and homeless.
“I was in a bar in Weirton when she was elected,” I tell Waverly. “Did you take this picture of her at the FEMA camp?”
Waverly nods. All the liquor’s gone to my head and I’m feeling loosely emotional, feeling my words sliding through my usual restraint: “I want you to know that we believed in her back then, when we had nothing left—I voted for her. She came from western Pennsylvania, she was one of us, and when the networks projected her as the winner, I remember I was crying like everyone else in that bar with me. I was—thinking, stupidly thinking, that her election would somehow bring everything back, that everything would turn out all right. She described the Kingdom of Heaven and told us that the dead were held in the palm of God’s hand, all that bullshit—that they had found peace, telling us the world continues because the love of God continues—”
“I think those words were meant more for the rest of the nation, Dominic, people who hadn’t gone through what we’d gone through, but who were still scared, who wanted comfort. I don’t think the consolation was ever meant for us—”
“I need to talk with you about our arrangement, Mr. Waverly. There’s just—”
“More money? We can make arrangements with my secretary. Timothy’s informed me about the excellent work you’ve been doing—”
“There was a man who confronted me in the City-Archive. He threatened me. He threatened to take my wife from me if I still worked for you, and I—”
“Who?” asks Waverly. “What man? What’s his name?”
“I don’t know his name—he says it’s Legion, so it might not be a man at all, it might be a collective—”
“That man’s threats are meaningless. I’ve had others in the Archive before you, Dominic, who’ve encountered this man. He’s a paper tiger. If you can ID him, I’ll pay you triple—”
“I can’t risk losing her—”
“What are you saying, Dominic?”
“I appreciate what you’ve done for me,” I tell him. “But I can’t risk losing Theresa—I’ll return to rehab, Mr. Waverly. I’ll return the iLux—”
“I’m disappointed,” he says. “Stay for the party, of course, and I’ll still transfer what I owe you for the work you’ve done. I’m very disappointed. You, in fact—you were working out well for me—”
“There are plenty of people who do this kind of research,” I tell him. “You could poach an actual librarian from the Archive with the money you’re paying me. It doesn’t have to be me—”
“Take a few days to think things over,” he says. “I understand what you’re telling me, that you feel threatened. I can protect you, of course—”
“You couldn’t protect Albion—”
The guests gather in the Caraway room, the Caraway a basement-level game room with amphitheater-style seating. The heads of antlered stags decorate the walls. Streaming, the Caraway room’s become a replica of the Capitol Building interior, live feeds of senators and the Joint Chiefs of Staff and the Supreme Court justices integrated seamlessly among us. The nine federal prisoners wear black robes that echo the robes of the justices. They’re shackled and on their knees.
“Madam Speaker, the President of the United States—”
Meecham walks among us in her Porta gown like a Valkyrie, something shimmering. Some senators cheer—they actually cheer and kneel to her, reaching out to touch her as she passes in the aisle. A petal-pink lace blindfold matches her gown and gloves, an approximation of blind justice, I suppose. She pauses before each prisoner, studying each body like a consumer pricing meat. She offers each prisoner a chance to recant, to swear their allegiance to the United States—but no one speaks. I’m not on the political fringe, but even I can’t stomach these executions—the pronouncements and prayer, the humiliation masked as honor, Meecham placing the black hood over each prisoner. They’ll be presented one by one and she’ll sign their execution warrants with a silver pen. They’ll be shot point-blank in the temple. Their bodies will be draped in black flags. There will be torrents of pornography derived from these executions, there always has been—of classic Meecham sex vids spliced with death shots and the prisoners bleeding out. I don’t want to be part of this, to hear her speech to the Senate, using the memory of the dead as justification for these public killings.
“Seen enough?”
Timothy’s found me. His jaw’s clenched like he’s keeping himself from screaming through sheer physical effort. I’ve never seen him lose composure like this—his eyes bloodshot, brimming with tears. He smiles for my benefit but the effect is horrific, and for a brief, terrible moment I think he will lean over and bite me.
“I have—I have seen enough,” I tell him. “I’m ready to go—”
The weather’s turned. Timothy’s venting his aggression, speeding the hairpin turns on the slick woodland roads, the Fiat’s windshield augs flashing snow caution and marking his triple-digit speed in red. I lean back, swimming drunk and letting myself believe that it would be all right to die if Timothy skids on ice and we wrap around a snow-laden tree. Believing it would be for the best . . .
“Mr. Waverly tells me that you’re quitting,” he says, breaking what felt like an interminable silence. I’d been thinking of Albion and Twiggy and staring at the dark blur of pines.
“Your treatment schedule is under review,” says Timothy. “I don’t believe you’re making the progress that I’d hoped you would. I may have made a mistake about you, and may have to recommend a more intense schedule to retrieve you—group therapy, work restrictions. I don’t think it’s out of the question that a stay at the psychiatric institute might be very good for your recovery. The Correctional Health Board may even find it necessary to intervene—”
“Don’t do this,” I tell him, understanding the threat implicit in what he’s saying, knowing full well he could snare me in bureaucracy if he chooses to. “I’m not quitting my treatment, Dr. Reynolds, and I’m grateful for the special care you’ve given me, but I just can’t continue with Waverly—”
“You have no idea how important your work is—”
“Why ‘Albion’?” I ask him. “Mr. Waverly named his boat The Daughter of Albion. He named his own daughter Albion—”
Timothy says, “There’s a common misconception about Christ—”
I don’t like this turn, I don’t want this conversation, but I don’t know how to stop it, either—the snow’s fallen heavy, the roads white except for a smear of tire tracks, but Timothy drives heedless. A real sense that I might die settles over me, a lightness of being, a surrendering of control. All I say is, “Slow down—”
“When I talk with people who are suffering,” says Timothy, “they often tell me that they’re comforted because Christ associated Himself with sinners. Prostitutes and taxmen. Drinkers. The thief who was crucified with Him. My patients often tell me that they’re comforted because no matter how depraved their lives, no matter what damage they’ve done to themselves or others, Christ will still save them. Christ will still save them. They think they will somehow transcend the world, somehow continue sinning but find a spiritual perfection when the time comes because they believe their soul is pure so it doesn’t matter if their body is corrupt. I tell them that Christ doesn’t accept us as sinners. We might be sinners when Christ calls us, but He doesn’t accept us as sinners. He demands that we abandon our lives to follow Him, to become like Him. That doesn’t mean turning our backs to the world—it means just the opposite. He demanded the twelve abandon their lives in order so they might fully embrace the incarnation. He demands this of us—”
“It can be difficult to change—”
In the light of the windshield augs Timothy’s eyes bore through me like I’m no longer a man in nee
d of professional assistance or even personal grace, but more like I’m something already lost. I can’t bear the weight of his eyes. I lose myself watching the snowfall. This must be what it feels like to be caught in the tide—wading deep water and feeling suddenly tugged, my feet pulled from beneath me. Whatever I’m involved in, I realize, goes beyond therapy and paperwork and work permits. Timothy drives faster in our silence. Headlights approach, at first just pinpricks of light but growing into the elaborate quad headlights of a rig—how easy it would be, I think, for Timothy to flick his wrist, to swallow us in those lights, and I wonder if he’s contemplating how sometimes it feels easier to die than to live. I close my eyes, preparing.
2, 3—
BUY AMERICA! FUCK AMERICA! SELL AMERICA!
This is CNN.
A police checkpoint on Connecticut—queue with the others, waiting my turn through the scanner. Nip-Slip for Ri-Ri with upskirt dessert, traffic’s backed up for blocks, click here, District cops leading drug sniffers car to car, random inspections, pulling some drivers out for the scan, bypassing others. Raw feed of a New York woman pushed in front of subway, click here. I ping Simka: Checkpoint, I’ll be late. The usual paranoia that I’m carrying brown sugar or some other shit so I check my pockets, but I’m clean—I’m clean.
Simka pings: I’ll pick you up, stay by the checkpoint—
The District cops wear opaque visors and train their weapons on us, but we’re all complying, no need for intimidation here. There are three of them, enough to keep the peace. One of them waves me through the scanner archway. Yellow lights flip to green. I’m pulled aside—arms extended and feet spread shoulder width while another cop passes the wand over me. They perform an Adware sweep and my anti-malware catches, but I click allow to get this over with. Yellow lights flip to green. Stand against the brick wall while another cop snaps my photograph. My e-signature states that my identity matches the image. I’m free to go—
Simka picks me up in his Smart City Coupé. He shakes my hand and pats my shoulder.
“Cut your connection,” he says.
There’s a pock on the back of my head where the skull begins its slow eggshell slope toward my neck—an off switch. I push it and my Adware shuts down, the augmented reality blinking off, leaving me with a sudden, startling blurriness of vision without the retinal lenses.
“We can talk,” I tell him.
Simka keeps to the right lane on the Beltway, his cruise control set a shade under the speed limit as other cars flash past.
“When you contacted me, you said you’re having some problems with Dr. Reynolds?” he asks.
“You think he might listen through my Adware?”
“Possible,” says Simka. “Some psychiatrists use that trick to eavesdrop on their patients’ habits. Now, tell me: What’s going on?”
“Timothy threatened me,” I tell him. “He threatened my recovery schedule, he threatened me with incarceration at the health institute—”
“For what?” he says.
“Because I quit a job I was working. Because I quit helping this man Waverly with the Archive. I quit—”
“And he threatened you? That’s bad, Dominic. No, no—that’s illegal. I can write to some colleagues of mine—”
Simka lives out near Chevy Chase, on a solitary lane that borders Rock Creek, in a type of house common in Maryland: an oblong box, two-toned with brick along the bottom and white siding around the top. I was here once before, for a Christmas party he hosted, back when I was healthier—I was the only patient he invited. I met his family, his wife and twin sons. His boys were just babies the last time I saw them, but now they’re kids—brutal in their youth, toys and the debris of toys scattered throughout the living room, but still polite when I enter with their father. They don’t recognize me, of course, but they tell me their names and shake my hand before running off to another room, shaking the house with their wrestling. Simka’s wife Regina’s a few years younger than he is, her curly hair still jet-black—she hugs me like I’m a long-lost son, remembering my name, and begs me to sit at the kitchen table for something to drink. She takes my coat and brings me root beer.
We eat dinner together. I haven’t eaten so well in quite some time, the boys wearing Redskins avatars, filling in whatever gaps and silences exist among the adults with chatter about the play-offs. Regina’s made Wiener schnitzel, caloric information displaying in the Good Eats app, her recipe displayed in Recipe Swap. Dutch apple pie and coffee following dinner. Simka shows me off to his boys like I’m someone successful, like my education makes me someone important. His boys ask questions about The Adventures of Tom Sawyer that I’m able to answer, and it feels good—great, actually. I tell them the whitewash scene is a founding document of American-style capitalism, and they look at me, befuddled. Simka tells them it’s just a clever trick, a funny story. He asks me to spend the night—a comfortable bed, away from my anxieties.
“Sure,” I tell him, “I have nowhere to be—”
We drink cognac in his office, his desk windows facing a woodland backyard, chatting for an hour or so while we drink, deliberately avoiding the topic at hand, wondering what the novel by a man named Lear was. He explains, “If you spell his name l-e-e-r, then it would be a dirty story about a dirty man, Dominic. But Freud would be interested in the pun, even if you do spell his name like the king—”
I’m left alone to freshen up while Simka and his wife put the boys to bed.
“Put your coat on,” he tells me when he comes back downstairs. He leads me outside through the mudroom door, down a path of pavers through his wife’s garden. He’s holding a lantern ahead of us, we walk in silence down a grassy slope into the woods and around to a barn he’s renovated as his woodshop. He flicks on the lights—rows of fluorescent tubes—and tells me to come inside. He uses a long match to light a black woodstove in the center of the room.
“I could use electric heat,” he says, “but I have so many scraps and besides I like the smell of smoke—”
I sit at one of the bench seats at the massive table near the stove. Simka’s brought a thermos of coffee.
“We can talk freely here,” he says. “I feel like my woodworking helps me with clearing my mind—like Zen, in a way. When I converted this barn into my shop, I insulated it with rolls of firewall. I didn’t want to be interrupted with pop-ups out here. This is a quiet zone. It’s peaceful—”
The furniture he’s made is elegant, really. I’ve seen the furniture in his waiting room, back at his office in the city, but his shop here is like a showroom. Bureaus and dining room sets, chairs and tables, all in a Craftsman style. Visible wooden joints and beautifully stained. Simka pours me a cup of coffee from the thermos before pouring his own cup. It is quiet, here—I realize I can hear the distant murmur of Rock Creek. It’s a sound I haven’t heard for years, the sound of water dribbling through a creek bed—probably not since I was a kid, hiking with my parents in Ohiopyle.
“Something went wrong between you and Dr. Reynolds,” he says. “You mentioned he threatened you—”
“Timothy’s too close to a man named Waverly,” I explain. “It’s almost like the only reason Timothy was interested in my case was to recruit me for this work helping to track Waverly’s daughter Albion in the Archive—”
“Theodore Waverly is Dr. Reynolds’s father,” he tells me, the connection between the two men slithering down my spine. Registering my shock, Simka says, “I’ve been doing some research for you. You called the other day on my landline—I thought it odd until I realized you were probably trying to keep our meeting private. I have a friend, a very close friend, on the Correctional Health Board. I asked him about Dr. Reynolds. I had to convince him—”
I open up to Simka freely, speaking comfortably to him, an old friend. Simka jots notes on a yellow legal pad, as is his custom when listening to me speak. I tell him about Albion, about Mook. I rehas
h Timothy’s threats against me.
“Dr. Reynolds has his own troubles,” says Simka. “I don’t know why he wanted your case specifically. Maybe it was because he had you in mind for Waverly, I don’t know. My hands were tied when you were arrested in Dupont Circle that night—the Correctional Health Board demanded changes because of the felony drug charge. I tried to keep you under my care, but Dr. Reynolds lobbied hard to have you transferred to him. I don’t know why—”
“What troubles?” I ask him.
Simka opens the folder he’d brought with him. “Dr. Timothy Reynolds’s file,” he says. “It’s relatively common for people in my field to undergo therapy once we start practicing, as sort of professional oversight to make sure we’re not adversely affected by the work we’re doing. Timothy and I both saw the same doctor for a number of years. This file represents the information our doctor kept about their sessions together—”
“How did you get his file?”
“Like I said, I called in favors from some influential doctors,” says Simka. “The doctor that Timothy and I both saw is a mentor of mine, a very old friend. I explained the severity of the situation—”
“You don’t need to discuss any of this with me,” I tell him. “I don’t want you to feel you have to, if you’ll get in trouble—”
“Sharing patient information goes against everything I believe in as a doctor,” says Simka. “But I’m worried—”
“What’s going on, Dr. Simka?”
“Reynolds is not his real last name,” says Simka. “When these files start, he goes by the name Timothy Billingsley. Before that he was Timothy Waverly. He has a history of spousal abuse, he’s been in and out of legal trouble—”
“Spousal abuse? Did he hit his wife? Timothy told me he wasn’t a very good husband, but I never thought—”
Simka leafs through the contents of Timothy’s file before saying, “I want you to look at these—”
He unfolds sheets of newsprint—drawings, the same type of memory maps I made with Simka, but these drawings are exceptional. The first several are of the Christ House, the house Waverly had donated to his wife’s congregation—that home for women. Timothy as Waverly’s son, living in that Christ House, his mother running the place. All of Timothy’s Christian bullshit starts coming into focus.
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