Parts Per Million

by Julia Stoops

  Nelson shoots me his classic shitty look. The train roars past, and the girl sits up like an old woman in pain. A piece of her greasy black hair falls forward. The train dies away.

  Fetzer says, “You going to throw up again, Deborah?”

  “Deirdre,” she says and holds the glass in both hands to take a sip. “Bleedin’ hope not.”

  Fetzer lifts his chin and stares into space. “Franky’s back.”

  The guy’s got radar ears. Then I can hear it too, Frank’s car on the gravel outside.

  “Good,” says Fetzer. “Let’s go interview this tree-sitter.”

  Finally.

  4: FETZER

  Deirdre came to us because of Franky, but she got to stay because I kept my mouth shut the afternoon Jen and Nelson and I got back from the tree-sitter interview in the forest.

  The basement door swung open before I even got the last key in the lock. “Guys, I am so glad to see you,” said Franky.

  Deirdre had gotten sicker. The mess of her black hair on the pillow shifted, and she turned her head enough to look at us out of watery eyes. She drew her knees up under the blanket, and I was thinking, man, she needs a bath, but then it hit me like a punch in the gut. She wasn’t some poor sick kid; she was a stupid druggie using our place as a detox center. Standard operating procedure would’ve been to throw her out.

  But something stopped me. Maybe it was how much restrained misery was lying on that pathetic camp cot. At least the poor kid was trying. Trying counts.

  She pulled the blanket around her neck. “It’s just a tropical thing. Got it in India.”

  Nelson’s eyes bugged out. “Malaria?”

  She shook her head.

  While Nelson murmured platitudes and Jen peered down like Deirdre was a squashed animal on the road, I folded my arms and stared at her until she figured out I’d figured her out—and that what happened next was going to be up to me. I kept my eyes on her till she turned her head away.

  “Know anyone in Portland?” I asked.

  Her eyes closed. “No. Please don’t toss me out.”

  Nelson went to sit beside her but I stopped him.

  “I’ve seen this with buddies of mine when they got back from ’Nam.” I didn’t mention it was one particular buddy, Ron, who sweated in my bed for a week while I slept on a sofa. “She just needs to ride it out.” I nudged Nelson until he was past the curtain.

  Nelson stepped back in. “How do you know it’s the same thing?”

  “Get outta here,” I said, and shooed him and Jen and Franky away like turkeys.

  I rolled a chair into her cubicle, pulled the curtain, and waited till there were no more footsteps going up the basement stairs. Her eyes opened but she didn’t look at me.

  I folded my arms. “Jesus, girl, you’re an idiot. Coming here like this. Fuck this.”

  She rolled over to face me and drew her knees up again. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, then she closed her eyes again. “Forgive me, Blessed Mother, forgive me. Oh, dear God, it hurts.”

  My arms relaxed, unfolded of their own accord. The urge to yell at her was gone.

  She cried silently for a minute. My hand lifted without me making a decision about it. Knuckles touching her forehead, slipping on the warm sweat. Her skin was soft where I pushed the sticky black strands off her cheek.

  “I know, kiddo. I know.”

  They didn’t notice me come up the stairs, and I paused and watched them. Franky was at the sink, washing dishes. Nelson was lying on the kitchen sofa—this big brown velvet behemoth we had—and staring out the kitchen window. Jen was at the kitchen table with headphones on, frowning at a green sound wave spiking across her laptop screen.

  She and Nelson were ticked off about the tree-sitter interview because Samuel, who occupied the platform, wasn’t inclined talk to anyone in a tie. I'm way past the point of being able to climb a rope, so Jen had hoisted up that tree and muddled through without Nelson. Who even back then was the best interviewer I’ve ever known. And in the meantime, wind gusts played havoc with the sound quality, and Jen's safety. And now she had to pull the raw material into radio-quality shape.

  Deirdre’s sour smell hung around me even at the top of the basement stairs. Jen was saying, “We gotta redo it, Nelse. He’s like um-ing a lot, and spitting into the mic. And this wind—shit.”

  Nelson kept staring out the kitchen window. Jen pulled off her headphones. “Nelse?”

  “Hmm?” Nelson turned to Jen, his eyes polite and there-for-you.

  I almost said, There’s something you need to know about our guest. But I didn’t. Because by then Deirdre had me disarmed.

  She’d looked up at me from that sweaty bed and whispered, “Promise you won’t tell them?” She took my hand, held it tight. “I’ve got to get away from that shite. Fresh start. No one even thinking it about me.” She’d squeezed harder. “Please, Fetzer?”

  Everyone deserves a fresh start.

  I stepped into the kitchen and Jen looked up. “Hey Fetz, listen to this.” She tapped a key, and Samuel the tree-sitter’s voice said, “—scientists say, uh, we’ve entered a period of catastrophic species extinction.” Wind rumbled in the mic. “And there’s this giant, uh, gap, you know? Between mainstream eco-consciousness and this totally dire situation faced by the planet. It’s like, recycling soda cans just isn’t going to—”

  I agreed the sound quality was bad, but Nelson and Franky quickly diverted the conversation to Deirdre. Nelson insisted we take her to an urgent care, and Franky said he’d pay for it.

  A day’s stubble on my head was like sandpaper under my hand. I told them it wasn’t an infection. I told them it was more of a viral type of thing. Antibiotics wouldn’t help.

  And there it was. The lie that bought me time. I couldn’t bring myself to throw her out, but I knew letting her stay was a risk. Just not the kind Jen was worried about.

  “And I need a sponge,” I said, “and a bucket. Franky, can I get in under there?”

  Franky stepped aside so I could open the cupboard under the sink.

  “She threw up again,” I said into the silence.

  Next time I went up to the kitchen, Franky was spooning mac ’n’ cheese onto plates.

  Franky supported several causes, but we were his favorite. He didn’t just write us checks, he put in time, and I always appreciated it when he stayed the night. It meant a break from lentils and rice. It meant comfort food.

  Franky handed me a plate with two mounds of orange chow.

  Jen sat sulking at the table. “You know how carbon-intensive cheese is.”

  My mouth was watering. “I do. But Franky was kind enough to cook, so stop being a brat.”

  Jen stabbed at her slippery olive-oil macaroni. “She’s gone by tomorrow.”

  Nelson put down his fork. “You can’t be serious.”

  Before it turned into an all-out argument, I mentioned an upcoming protest at UW. Students were planning to turn their backs on Madeleine Albright during the commencement ceremony, for saying it was “worth it” to sacrifice a half a million Iraqi children for the sake of foreign policy. The ensuing discussion distracted them enough to get through the meal. And when we were done eating, I told them I was going back downstairs to check on Deirdre.

  Nelson shrugged. “If you’re tired, I’ll go.”

  I didn’t pick up on the studied nonchalance of that shrug. “Nah, I’m fine,” I said, and headed down to the basement.

  5: NELSON

  Nelson flicks on his bedroom light, and across the room his reflection stares back from the double-sash window that looks over Novi Street—looks north, except with the light on at night he can’t see out, just his reflection alone with the bare walls. His reflection hand pushes the reflection door shut, cutting off the energy of the household, the roommates, the relentless bickering.

  Hardly anyone goes down their dead-end street, except for the homeless guys. But still, it feels exposed with no curtain. It’s for a good cause, thoug
h: the blue sheet that usually hangs there is now part of Deirdre’s private area in the basement.

  Nelson places the laptop on his desk. He sits down, and out of habit he reaches to turn on his lamp, but that’s also with Deirdre.

  Journals? Or the website? He’s behind on the journals. And site updates, too. He pulls the BioAgriculture Quarterly from the top of the stack and opens it to an article about soil movement on the high plains.

  Without the lamp, his head casts a shadow on the page. The wall in front of his desk is pitted and painted a sticky ivory semi-gloss. Years ago in another life he and Lise had their own house, with smooth matte walls. And real curtains. And plenty of lamps.

  Okay. Soil movement on the high plains.

  Two floors down and behind the threadbare blue sheet that used to cover his window lies Deirdre, shivering. Her teeth chatter in him, chatter in his chest, until he takes a deeper breath.

  Right. More than a thousand farmers in Montana have given up in the drought. That’s a lot of failed farms. Only one percent of tallgrass prairie—

  He places his palms over the article, stares at the backs of his hands. He noticed how small Deirdre’s hands were.

  He turns his own hands over. Through the gap between his wrists he reads “experts predict another dust bowl.”

  This is unproductive. He should work on site updates instead. He opens the laptop and balances the journal on the edge of the desk as a reminder to look at it again before he goes to bed.

  At least the laptop screen is easier to see.

  What if Fetzer’s wrong and she needs antibiotics?

  Nelson enters his password and the website admin system opens. Spotlight on Big Oil, Politics and Elections, Energy Alternatives, Species in Danger, Environmental Racism, Global Extreme Weather Watch. Every single section needs work.

  The Actions Archive is always good for inspiration. Already Jen’s started the Maryville Wild Horse entry. The EFB communiqué is in place, but it’s still waiting for the video clip to be edited. Then there’s that lousy mink liberation clip they got last week from Sweden. He clicks it open and the video is jerky and dark. Blurred people move around with flashlights. Small white blobs appear, then disappear—they might be mink escaping, but the camera shakes so much it’s hard to tell. Animal squeaks and whispered Swedish. Yep, it’s lousy.

  The Pigeon Terrorism one is always good for a smile, and he clicks it open. There’s Jen’s hand, throwing breadcrumbs into a gray sidewalk doorway. The camera pulls back and catches Fetzer’s boot getting out of the way. Pulls back more to reveal the red-and-yellow McDonald’s logo. Next shot shows the doorway filled with pecking pigeons, and McDonald’s patrons milling around, wondering how to get past the excited, dirty wildlife.

  Oh god, there’s the V&B Logging Company one. They’d gone to Idaho for the Forest Witness folks.

  He shouldn’t watch it. He really shouldn’t.

  He clicks, and it opens.

  There’s the eight protesters sitting cross-legged in a circle in the company lobby, holding hands with their arms locked together inside metal tubes. They’re chanting, “Not one more ancient tree.” Nelson fast-forwards to where the police show up and threaten to pepper-spray. But the protesters want the company president to agree to meet with them. The police pull out their cans, aim jets of OC point-blank. The protesters close their eyes tight; they cry out. They writhe, still joined at the elbows. They yell, “This is a peaceful protest!” They plead for the torture to stop.

  The police stop. Ask them if they’re going to leave. The kids’ backs are slumped, their heads are bowed. They are in shock. One of them mumbles something, and a cop steps forward, pries open one of his eyelids, and sprays again. The screaming escalates, and Nelson clicks. The video closes.

  The air in his room has gone gritty and hot.

  Sounds downstairs in the kitchen, talking. Maybe Fetzer’s coming up to say, Nelson, she’s worse. We need to take her to urgent care.

  Nelson places his hands flat on either side of the laptop and pulls in a deep breath that stretches his lungs and presses his tie against the edge of the desk. The strain inside feels like he’s swallowed a stone, but he holds the breath for one. Two. Three. Then lets it out: “whhhhh,” like a yoga teacher showed him years ago. Back when he lived in a house with smooth clean walls, and took classes like that.

  The talk downstairs turns to laughter. Fetzer’s probably just getting a snack.

  Then it’s the sound of Jen taking the stairs two at a time, and Nelson’s door bangs open, and the energy of the household flies into his room. He yanks his hands into his lap, and the journal falls on the floor.

  “Dammit, Jen, would you please knock?”

  “Catch you jacking off?”

  “I’m doing site updates.” He picks the journal up and unbends the corner. Outside a train is coming.

  “Perving over the BioAg Quarterly,” says Jen. “Whatever spins your fan. Here.” She throws him a can. He catches it, the cold metal a shock in his hands. The window rattles from the train.

  “I don’t want a beer right now,” he yells over the noise.

  Jen snaps the tab off her own can, and waits till the train passes. “You gotta help me get through this crap Frank bought. Besides, you need to relax.” She tips her head back and chugs.

  The can is freezing in Nelson’s fingers. He pulls the tab, leans forward, and slurps to stop the foam from dripping onto his pants.

  Jen wipes the back of her wrist across her mouth. “You look like crap.”

  “Thanks for the helpful feedback. I’m tired, okay?”

  Jen examines him. “Not tired, more like deer-in-headlights.”

  Nelson pushes his fingers up under his glasses and rubs his eyes. “Been reading about Montana. It’s tragic. They say it’s going to be another dust bowl.”

  Jen drops her head and her long hair falls forward and bobs for a while, then she flips her hair back and smiles to herself. “You’re a case, John.”

  He turns his face away. The room is too—anyone could see in. Deirdre is so sick. The trains will keep her awake. Breathing deep hurts. He wants to curl up in the dark. They might have to redo the interview.

  “We really need to redo the interview?” says Nelson.

  “Nah,” says Jen, “I fixed it.”

  “Oh, good. Thanks.”

  Jen drinks from her beer. Nelson takes a sip. Bitter. Cold.

  “Once again,” says Jen, “Jen Owens saves Omnia Mundi Media Group’s ass.”

  “Yeah. Thank you.”

  Nelson sips again. The energy of the house pours through the door, roaring rivers of it. He stares at a spot near his clothes rack and listens to the roaring.

  “Boy, you’re fun,” says Jen, and then she’s gone.

  “Could you close—?”

  The doorframe is empty. The universe pours through. Nelson gets up to close his door, and in the hall coming from Jen’s room is the sound of typing. No doubt she’s in that chat room that seems to go 24/7. He turns off the overhead light, but the room doesn’t go completely dark because of the streetlight. Now no one can see in, but there’s not enough light to work by. He has to get through his share. No excuses.

  He turns the light back on. Picks up the beer from its puddle of condensation. A memory bursts in from nowhere: Jen running ahead of him into a gully, panting and grunting. All of them running, stumbling, tripping on roots, branches whipping them in the face.

  He shouldn’t think about it.

  He turns the can in his hands. His shirt cuffs are frayed. Shirt’s so old it used to share a washer and dryer with Lise’s things.

  He tips his head back and drinks. There are cracks in the ceiling, and droopy lines of cobweb. The beer is bitter in his throat.

  Jen, stumbling through a gully, a dark stain of urine spreading down her pants. Those good people in Idaho, tortured, screaming. The slap of fright when a flashlight caught him with freshly pulled survey stakes in his hand. He shouldn�
�t think about these things late at night.

  Nelson rotates the can in little twists, gathering wet on his fingers.

  Deirdre probably thinks they’re pigs. The basement’s so cluttered it took him three tries to find a place to put down the Forest Alliance back issues. And when he moved the bag of hats and wigs, there was mildew underneath.

  This isn’t how it’s supposed to be.

  He could be working for a successful research institute. Managing one, even. Working just as hard, but at least the work would have currency.

  Nelson sets the can down on the desk. He breathes in and holds the pressure against the sore place in his chest. Sometimes it feels like a small rock is lodged in there.

  Who is he kidding? If he returned to the industry he’d be sucked back into the groupthink.

  He breathes out: “whhhhhh.” He picks up the journal and turns his chair around so he’s not casting a shadow. He finds the article on soil movement on the high plains and starts to read.

  6: FETZER

  Jen made it clear she didn’t want Deirdre upstairs. But Deirdre needed company—being alone made her weepy. Franky, bless his heart, offered to stay, so we took turns, him and me and Nelson, sitting with her in her sheeted cubicle. The first couple of days meant lots of trips to the bathroom. Girl nearly turned herself inside out. Then that slowed down, and the anxiety attacks set in. She tried to hide it, but I could tell.

  Even with Franky helping it was hard to get work done. Lunchtimes would find us still laboring on our morning task of going through the papers, looking for environmental stories for the archives. What we gathered were typically cookie-cutter pieces off the AP wire; you had to go to the alternative media online for anything different.

  A few days into it Franky came upstairs and stood by the kitchen table. “Hey, guess what?” he said to me and Nelson. He bounced on his toes like he was waiting for a starting gun.

  I kept reading the paper, perturbed as I was by an account of a guy arrested for refusing to leave a New York mall. Reason they wanted him out? His Give Peace a Chance T-shirt. Which he’d just bought at the same mall. Strange times.