by Meg Napier
“The hell you are!” My shout startled even me. Philip stuck his head into the kitchen.
“Everything all right?”
I turned to him, rendered mute by the fear that was surging up my throat. Mom stepped forward to explain, and to insist that she was going to quarantine with my father.
“No,” said Philip with perfect authority.
Mom and I both blinked at him. He turned to me.
“Joan, do you want to put your mother in the last empty room upstairs and keep your father in their apartment? Or do you want all the sick people upstairs and your mother in the apartment? We’ll have to clean everything in their apartment if we move him instead of her, but it will be easier to have all the sick people together.”
His question was so sensible—and I was so relieved that he, too, was insisting on separating my mother and my father—that my fear receded and I could think again.
“We’ll put Dad upstairs. Do not argue with me.”
Mom was sufficiently cowed. We moved a grumbling Dad into the last bedroom and Mom and I began to scrub out their apartment. I bit back any reply when I discovered that Philip was scrubbing along with us.
Kumiko, upon discovering that she was now quartered on a floor with three Coronavirus victims, demanded to be allowed to move downstairs into the room I was using as my office (writing stupid social media about Bright!), but Philip told her that if she took one step out of her room, she’d be scrubbing alongside us, and she retreated back into her shell.
Becky, the nurse, nodded when she’d assessed Dad. “He’s doing well, but we’ll keep an eye on him. He wants to make sure you check his crab pots.”
Philip stepped up. “I’ll do it. I’ve been going with him every day. I know what to do.”
I eyed Philip with confusion. Who was this guy?
Quarantine: Day 10 (Saul), Day 6 (Darren), Day 2 (Dad)
I’d gotten over the shock. Nurse Becky was now my best friend, and I pestered her with far more questions that I had after either Saul or Darren’s diagnosis.
She told me that Saul was beginning his fight back to health, but he couldn’t come out until his temperature was below 99 for three days straight, and not to waver on that, since Saul, like everyone, was jonesing to get out of his confinement.
She told me that Dad was doing well for someone in the early stages and she didn’t think he’d need to go to the hospital, but that I should be ready for anything.
And she told me that Darren was a big crybaby.
That’s not what she actually said, but it was the message she delivered, nonetheless. I already knew; my phone calls with Darren had descended into his fears and his dreams—an alarming percentage of which seemed to be a powerful longing to be out drinking with his friends, none of whom were female. He was only academically interested in the fact that my father now had the virus. I began to hate the handsome beast for his lack of concern.
Philip took the party barge out to check Dad’s crab pots, and after all three patients assured me that they were okay, I went with him. My dislike for the corporate bastard was at war with my desire to get away from the house. The pull of calm, open water won. Mom waved from her balcony.
“Tell me again why I can’t come out?” she called.
“Because I can’t bear for you to get sick, Mom! Stay there!”
“You’re such a worrywart,” she muttered. But she was sitting on the balcony with a stack of magazines and her needlepoint beside her. She’d FaceTimed with my father and now he was napping. If she hadn’t been worried about him in general, I think she would have been perfectly happy.
Philip had somehow become capable at the wheel of Dad’s boat.
“I have a sailboat in Montauk,” he offered.
Of course he did. Probably a membership in the New York Yacht Club, too, I thought with contempt. Any sense of detente between us vanished; he was a bastard lawyer with a boat, paid for by billing Big Oil to hurt people too poor or too disadvantaged to fight back.
His conversational gambit having been rebuffed, Philip returned to his accustomed silence. I sat as far from him as I could and watched the landscape slip past. A heron took off from a nearby tree, looking prehistoric as it stroked through the air. Gorgeous. And this was the land his biggest client was slowly poisoning.
All too soon, we pulled along the first of Dad’s floats, and I leaned over to reach it. Philip appeared at my side and I growled at him. “I’ve got it. Stay at the wheel.”
One person can haul up a crab pot and shake the contents into the cooler. It’s easier when two people do it, but one person—especially one who is prickly and unwilling to play nice—is capable.
We harvested enough for the four healthy people we were feeding (the three invalids were existing on soups and apple sauce) and then released the rest to be caught another day.
“Why don’t we just leave them down there?” Philip asked.
“Leave them in a cage? Unable to move? Trapped until their doom comes on them? Yeah. That’s a great idea. You could probably bribe a judge to rule in your favor for that plan.”
“They’re going to die in the cook pot, though—right?”
“Oh, shut up. Head for the next float.”
Quietly obedient, he did as he was told.
After I freed the last prisoners, he idled the engine for a moment and looked around. The afternoon had turned into early evening and the water was still and calm. The colors reflected from sky to sea and we drifted in the middle of serenity. The only sounds were the light breeze hushing in my ear and the gentle slap of water against the hull.
“I’ve never had this much free time before,” he commented.
It took me a while to formulate my response. “It’s nice, isn’t it?”
“It is.”
“Too bad the whole thing is at risk…” I was going to needle him but suddenly I lost the energy. “Let’s go back. I need to check in on Dad. And Darren.”
“Young men are so tiresome,” he said as he turned the boat back to shore.
“They are,” I agreed thoughtlessly, and then bit my lip, determined to remain silent for the rest of the journey.
Quarantine: Day 11 (Saul), Day 7 (Darren), Day 3 (Dad)
Philip was a rat bastard, but he was a good worker. I had to give him that.
We traded off on being the cook, which meant neither of us had to be in the kitchen with the other. Mom kept protesting that she could cook for us from her quarantine, but I wasn’t allowing any contact between her and the outside world.
Dad was grumpy and beginning to cough really deeply. He refused a FaceTime call from Mom and admitted to me that it was because he thought his generally haggard appearance would scare her. I was worried, even though Becky said he was doing well.
Darren’s cough hadn’t gotten any worse. He said he was obsessed with his own mortality and that had given him new and profound wisdom about what was truly important in life. I was glad he couldn’t see me roll my eyes through the door.
Quarantine: Day 12 (Saul), Day 8 (Darren), Day 4 (Dad)
I went for a run this morning. Philip did not come with me. I was glad.
Sort of.
He ate dinner on his deck, as usual, and I ate on the main deck. But afterwards, he appeared at the foot of the steps looking tentative. He’d brought with him a DVD from the collection in the cottage. He sent me a questioning look. Did we want to revive the after-dinner movie tradition?
He happened to be holding Deadpool, which was one of my favorite smart-ass movies. Hard to resist.
I nodded and he bit back a quick smile. “I’ve heard a lot about this movie,” he said as he came up the stairs.
I goggled at him. “You’ve never seen Deadpool?”
He shook his head. “I never watch movies. I don’t have time. There’s always too much going on.”
“Well…” I wasn’t sure what to say about that. Did he know what he was getting into?
I actually watched him as m
uch as I watched the movie. Some of the cultural references clearly went over his head, but he was simultaneously horrified and entertained (as we all are) by Deadpool’s profanity-laced violence and (beneath the blood) tender heart.
Shocked and entertained. The Deadpool credo.
His laughter seemed to ease something in me. We parted at the end of the evening as… not friends. Never that. But perhaps less vigorous enemies.
Quarantine: Day 13 (Saul), Day 9 (Darren), Day 5 (Dad)
Kumiko appeared in the Great Room this morning, dragging her wheeled bag after her.
Her dramatic arrival, I noted, happened after I’d humped her breakfast up to her; her highness apparently needed just a little more personal service before emerging from her sanctuary.
“I’m leaving,” she announced grandly.
I was wiping down the tables and Philip (it was his day for kitchen duty) stuck his head out from the kitchen. “Kumiko,” he said in greeting.
“Philip,” she said, “Saul has been sick for fourteen days and I have no symptoms. I’m getting out of here.”
“It’s only been thirteen,” I said stupidly.
“Fourteen,” Philip said to me. He came out of the kitchen wiping his hands on a dishtowel. “Saul went into isolation the day before you came down.”
Damn. My counts were off.
“Anyway,” Philip continued, “you were exposed to Darren, too, so if you’re waiting to make sure you’re not sick, you’ve got another six days.”
Kumiko stamped her pretty foot. “No! I want to get out of here!”
“If you leave now, you could be exposing other people to the virus.”
Her wail of protest was straight from the heart. “I don’t care!”
He stepped menacingly towards her. “Yes, you do. You’re certainly not going back to work for my law firm until you’re clear—and that means six more days. If you stay out here with us much longer,” he gestured between him and me and I was gratified to be an “us” with the man demanding social responsibility, “then your clock is going to reset from the date that Joan’s father was diagnosed. That will mean another nine days.”
Kumiko went pale and backed up, away from him and closer to the stairs. He wasn’t finished.
“You either go back to your room or you get out here and help us care for the others. But if you leave, you’re not going back to my law firm. Ever. Got it?”
She fled up the stairs as if the devil was on her tail.
He glared at me—I think I was just in the line of his righteous fire—and stomped back into the kitchen.
Dayum.
Quarantine: My day 14, Day 15 (Saul), Day 10 (Darren), Day 6 (Dad)
Philip appeared as I was doing the breakfast dishes.
“I’ve had a few important words with Kumiko.”
“Through her door, I’m sure.”
“That’s right. I’ve told her that if anyone needs anything in the next three hours, she’s on duty.”
“Right. That’s likely. She’ll pretend she can’t hear anything.”
“No,” he said firmly. “She won’t. Not if she cares at all about my good opinion of her.”
He said it and I saw that he was perfectly aware that Kumiko wanted more from him than a job… and I also saw that he wasn’t even remotely interested.
“Okay,” I said guardedly.
“Let’s bike over to Little Hell again. Will you? I want to take another look.”
Warm summer air was breezing in from the open door and the sky was cloudless and blue. Ducking out of our responsibilities sounded extremely good to me. “We’re going to need sunblock.”
I checked on Dad; he’d had a pretty good night and gotten some sleep. He told me through the door to go. “Good for that guy to see Little Hell,” he opined wheezily. “Take him. See if you can meet some people.”
“We’re still under quarantine, Dad. No talking to anyone.”
“Right. Have a good time, Joanie.”
From my back, Darren called from behind his door. “Joan? Sweetness, can you get me some more apple juice before you go? I’m parched.”
Not to be outdone, Kumiko called from behind her door, “I need some iced tea! With plenty of ice!”
Saul was sleeping. He was the least worrisome of all my patients, since I didn’t really know him well enough to actively fear for his health. I left some apple juice at his door on general principles.
Mom told me to wear a hat and promised to roust Kumiko if she ignored any obvious pleas for help. Philip and I set off.
The glory of biking around Onancock was that the land was flat and the asphalt spooled out before me like an invitation. Cycling there was like flying; there was almost no cardiovascular benefit to such an easy ride, but the fundamental bliss was worth so much more than the endless quest for exercise. What little sweat I worked up was breezed away. The ride was lovely.
Philip biked at my side, a silent companion. I felt no need to make conversation and neither did he. We traveled in peace.
By common accord, we pulled over at the same point on the road and heeled our bikes over on the shoulder.
We stood in the same spot, looking over the same view of a forlorn and rusty swing set in a dusty yard. Finally he spoke.
“I hate my job.”
Startled, I turned to look at him. “What, now?”
“I do. I hate being a part of why this community is having a bad time. I hate being on the wrong side of these cases.”
This was so unexpected that I felt like he was suddenly speaking a foreign language. My question was tentative; I was feeling my way. “Why do you do it, then?”
He shrugged. “I’d like to blame my partners, but I knew what I was doing. It’s just that…” He struggled with the words. “It’s that the cases are so challenging. Can I bend the law to fit my goals? Yes or no.”
“It’s a puzzle,” I offered.
He raised his dark eyebrows in startled accord. “Yes. That’s exactly right.”
“Do you know that your staff calls you the Puzzle Master?”
“Do they?” He had a faint smile on his lips. “It’s really what interests me. The puzzle. Did you take geometry in school?”
The abrupt change of topic left me confused. “Yeah. Although I wasn’t very good at it.”
“I was,” he said without bravado. “If I hadn’t found the law, I would have been a mathematician. I loved the idea that there are certain rules. Fundamentals that you don’t question. And you can use those rules to understand problems.”
“Like every triangle’s angles equal 150 degrees.”
This time his grin was right out loud. “That’s 180 degrees, Killer Joan—but yes. Like that. And the law has the same philosophy. There are fundamentals. Rules you can’t break. And the puzzle is—how do you use those rules to get to the solution you want? I’m telling you, it’s addictive.”
He moved back to the bikes and righted mine for me before retrieving his own. “So when my partners wanted to work for Kemper Oil, or any of our clients, I went along with it.”
“For the puzzle,” I said again.
“Right. And now look at where I am.” He stood for a moment, looking at Little Hell. “And it took the quarantine to slow down enough to see it. Hm.”
He put a foot on the peddle and looked at me. “Ready to go?”
Ready.
That evening, I brought his dinner tray to his deck… with enough food for two. I looked my question to him, and he nodded and patted the seat beside him.
We ate quietly, looking over the water.
“Why don’t you solve puzzles for the ethically correct side?” I asked him, as if an entire day hadn’t passed since our dialog.
His forehead wrinkled. He didn’t have an answer. I pushed a little harder.
“If you were legal counsel for the people of Little Hell, what would you advise them to do? To get Kemper Oil to compensate them properly?”
He sat back, looking at the cas
e as a puzzle, but from the other side. Then he heaved a sigh.
“We’d lose. Because of people like me. I hate my job.”
“Me, too. I mean—I hate my job, too.”
“Bright,” he said with a sympathetic nod.
“Not Bright. Bright!” I bulged out my eyes and fixed him with a manic grin to make the trademarked exclamation point obvious. He laughed.
“So why do you do it?” Shoe was on the other foot; he was now asking me.
“No jobs left for investigative journalists. I told you.”
“So why do you have to be a journalist? Couldn’t you just be an investigator? Why don’t you work for—I don’t know, a law firm? We need investigators.”
The idea was startling, and I ruined our nice evening by speaking thoughtlessly. “Yeah, but I’d never work for you bastards.”
The pleasant, end-of-the-day feeling vanished at the words, and I wished I could rewind and re-record. “Oh,” I said flatly. “I’m sorry.”
“Not at all,” he said with impressive courtroom dignity. “If you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll turn in.”
And the big freeze was on.
Quarantine: My day 15, Day 16 (Saul), Day 11 (Darren), Day 7 (Dad)
Philip was not speaking to me. He was very polite and did at least half the work to keep our patients safe but he was not talking to me. And he didn’t invite me to join him when he went to check the crab pots.
That was fine. He was helping to rape the environment and I didn’t need him.
Darren had gotten tearful. He was sure he was going to die. Dad, on the other side of the wall, tried to yell at him to man up, but it made him cough too hard. Mom and I were tracking Dad’s thermometer readings and trying to hide from each other how scared we were for him.
It wasn’t a good day.
Quarantine: My day 16, Day 17 (Saul), Day 12 (Darren), Day 8 (Dad)
I decided that I was the one who wasn’t speaking to Philip. Why should he be the one to give me the silent treatment?