Parts Per Million

by Julia Stoops

  The night they came back from the station retreat and found her dancing, she was so happy. He wanted her so much back in July he thought he was going to short-circuit. Now he needs her just as much, but it’s different. He needs the frequent familiar of her. He needs her ribs under his hand, like this. He needs her skin under his lips, like this. And he feels so helpless when she gets so drunk. Too drunk to make love.

  He nuzzles her sleeping neck. Her breath struggles in, falls out.

  Not that it didn’t cross his mind last night.

  He was so eager to get to bed. Felt good about getting the GM raid story done. Looked forward to the reward waiting for him. Instead it was half an hour of getting her up, getting her warm, stopping her crying. And later as he pressed up against her still body he suspected he could fuck her and she wouldn’t notice. Or wouldn’t care.

  He hates it that he’s even thinking like that.

  He tugs her T-shirt straight. Smooths her hair around her ear. Whispers, “What’s wrong, Deirdre, what is wrong? What can I do?”

  The shadow of a chair looms across the ceiling.

  Yesterday Rumsfeld “did not rule out” the possibility of using nuclear weapons in Iraq.

  The shadow seems to shift. Fear flickers under Nelson’s skin.

  And North Korea’s saying its missiles could reach the west coast of the U.S.

  The West Coast. The roadtrip unfolds in him: San Diego. Los Angeles. San Francisco. The long stretch to Portland with only small towns in between. Who would the North Koreans bomb first? Portland? LA? Vancouver?

  Her shocked face when he’d brought it up. What if he volunteered to go to Iraq, he’d asked, his voice halting around the size of the idea. “It seems so pointless trying to have an effect from this distance.”

  “Join the army?” she’d said.

  “No, no,” he’d said. “To be a human shield.”

  Her mouth hung open.

  “Bombs,” he’d said, “made by my country, will be killing civilians in a country that never did a damn thing to me. And simply protesting against it is having no effect. I need to do more.”

  But Deirdre put another mint in her mouth and shook her head. “Are ye mental?”

  And he hasn’t brought it up again. And, to be honest, it’s a relief. The most scared he’s ever been was the time the loggers caught them building tree-sit platforms in the forest and had raised their rifles. He’d probably shit himself within five minutes over in Iraq.

  In the distance an ambulance wails. Someone else’s emergency. He tucks a strand of hair away from Deirdre’s face. In war movies bombs scream when they fall. In slow motion, a bomb blast: the shock wave bursts the windows and punches through the walls. Glass and splintered wood fill the air. She wouldn’t even have time to lift her head and they’d both be gone.

  The clock now says 4:32. Another big peace rally today. If he can get started now on the Health Effects of War essay, that’ll mean more time later to research the growing number of city- and county-initiated antiwar resolutions for next week’s show.

  He pulls himself to sitting. The floor is achingly cold under his feet. He arranges the covers around Deirdre, then goes over to the desk, where his slippers and his files sit waiting.

  “You’re looking better,” says Fetzer. “You looked like crap this morning.”

  Nelson nods. Deirdre rests a hand on his back. He says, “A little better.”

  The drumming is loud. It’s a big happy crowd today but he has a headache. It’s the first time Dee’s joined them for the monthly rally, and he wishes he was more into it. He should have taken some aspirin when she offered. He watched her crunch five of them this morning before breakfast.

  “Check it out,” says Jen, and she points down a side street to the mass of people several blocks away, moving in the opposite direction. The march is so long it’s almost joining up with itself. Jen turns the video camera toward the sight. Nelson writes, “Nearing end of route. View down Madison shows start of rally still packed. Energy remains high.”

  “This is even larger than the last one,” Fetzer says to Dee. He’s grinning. Nelson feels like grinning about as much as he feels like poking his pen in his eye.

  They pass people burning a flag. They pass belly dancers with their hips swinging and their arms in the air, and Nelson hopes their bare bellies aren’t too cold. There’s a weak sun but it’s chilly. He forgot his scarf. They pass a parked SUV with I LOVE FOREIGN OIL scrawled on its windows in grease pencil. A noisy group advances from a side street. Nelson writes, “Radical feeder march? Est. 150–200.” Then he adds, “black bloc.”

  They pass a large folding table set up on the sidewalk, covered in a purple cloth and fronted by a banner saying WHO WOULD JESUS BOMB? Behind the table long-robed priests hand pamphlets to passersby. After a minute Nelson has to run back and grab Deirdre, who has stopped to gape at the priests.

  “Try to keep up,” he says, and he bundles her along.

  The radical feeder march gets closer, and a lithe kid in shabby black breaks away and bounds up to them.

  “Dudes!”

  “Brian, hi,” says Nelson. He feels like dealing with Brian’s energy about as much as he feels like poking his pen in his other eye. Brian walks with them, chatting a mile a minute. He takes Dee’s hand and kisses the back of it. “And how is Deirdre the fantastic photographer?”

  For crying out loud, Dee’s batting her eyes. “Enchanté,” she says, and giggles.

  Nelson resists the urge to step in between them.

  In front of them walks a couple in their sixties with identical THROW BUSH OUT signs. Brian skips ahead until he’s face to face with them, walking backward. “Hey, great to see you here,” he says. He points at the signs. “Think that’ll solve the problem?”

  “Oh, he must be stopped,” says the woman in an earnest schoolteacher voice. Jen snorts. Nelson rolls his eyes. Poor woman’s underestimating who she’s talking to.

  Brian bounces on his toes. “Nope. That won’t do it. This war isn’t the result of a bad president. It’s the result of a socio-economic system that is racist and exploitive of the vast majority of the world’s population.”

  “Right on,” says Jen. The couple glances back at her, their eyes uncertain. Nelson makes a quiet-down motion at Jen.

  Brian keeps walking backward. His smirk is quick to come and go. “What kind of car do you drive?”

  The man and woman look at each other. “Uh, a Subaru,” says the man. “And a Civic,” says the woman, nodding with approval at their vehicular modesty.

  “You rich?” says Brian.

  “Oh no,” says the woman, and she smiles at the idea. “We’re just ordinary folks.”

  Brian points. “You’re rich, lady! Rich by global standards! And this war’s going to benefit you and the rest of the economic elite at the expense of everyone else.”

  Before the couple can reply, Brian says, “Later, dudes,” and springs away. He disappears among the marchers.

  Nelson envies Brian’s energy. His single-minded passion. But not his tactlessness.

  “That was interesting,” says Jen.

  “Rude,” mutters Deirdre.

  “We are not part of the economic elite,” huffs the woman. Her knuckles tighten around her sign.

  “Well, he has a point,” says Jen. “This isn’t just Bush’s war. The invasion of Afghanistan and Iraq were planned years ago, before Bush.”

  The man stops and turns, and Fetzer almost bumps into him. “That’s ridiculous,” he says. The march flows around them. The man points a rigid finger. “If Gore got in, there wouldn’t be this war. It’s Bush’s revenge for Bush Senior. Plain and simple.”

  “Maybe not during Gore,” says Nelson, “But eventually. The invasions have been planned for some time.”

  “Says who?” says the man.

  “The Project for the New American Century,” says Fetzer. “They drew up a report a year before 9/11.”

  “Rove was part of
it,” says Jen. “And Rummy and Wolfowitz. Perle, Cheney, Jeb Bush. They’re all in on it.”

  The march keeps flowing around them. The man narrows his eyes. “Then how come it’s not on the news?”

  “Media blackout,” says Jen. “But you can find it on the internet.”

  The man pulls in his chin and says to his wife, “A conspiracy theory. On the internet.” His wife rolls her eyes.

  “No, seriously,” says Nelson, but the man grabs his wife’s elbow and yanks her along. Nelson resists the urge to tell him to be more gentle.

  They let a few people get between them and the couple, then they start walking again.

  Three pro-war protesters pass in the opposite direction, chanting “Go USA, go USA.” Their signs say, SADDAM HAS THREE THOUSAND INNOCENT LIVES ON HIS HANDS, and Except for ending NAZISM and FASCISM, war has never solved anything. Bringing up the rear is a man with long hair under his backward baseball cap. His sign says, Get a brain! MORANS! in wobbly letters.

  Jen snorks out a laugh. “Morans?”

  “Fuck you, hippie,” says the man, and he moves on.

  “May contain traces of nuts,” says Jen.

  Nelson resists the urge to sit down and put his head in his hands. They turn the corner and approach Pioneer Square. And the square is still full of people waiting to start the march. Nelson smiles for the first time that day. “Wow,” he says. In the notebook he writes, “25 blocks full. Largest so far?” The crowd thickens as they near the square.

  “Hey,” says Jen, and she jumps to see over the mass of heads. “I think that’s Isobel from the station. To the left of the stage.”

  Nelson jumps too, and he spots Isobel’s long gray cornrows.

  Isobel waves her clipboard as they approach. “Jen! Irving! John! Isn’t this fantastic?” Her big mouth stretches open in theatrical surprise.

  “Biggest antiwar gathering I’ve seen in decades,” says Fetzer.

  Isobel nods so hard her braids dance. “And this war hasn’t even started.”

  “Yup,” says Fetzer. He puts his hands in his pockets, rocks back on his heels. “We’re ahead of the game, for once.”

  “I know!” she cries, then she touches Nelson’s arm. “Oooh, I just thought of something. Zenia Rafeedie can’t make it. Could you say a few words in her place?”

  Nelson is instantly sweaty, despite the cold.

  “About Palestine?” he says. “Um, not really. I’m not qualified to talk about—”

  “No, no, no,” says Isobel, and she laughs and flaps her hand. “Just say something. War and the environment or something. I’ve got a ten-minute gap and it would really help me out if you could fill it.”

  The sweat doesn’t stop coming. “Uhh.” He runs a hand through his hair but it makes his scalp cold. “I didn’t exactly come prepared for—”

  Fetzer whacks him on the back. “Sure you can.”

  “Look, I didn’t get much sl—”

  “You can do it,” says Jen, and she points to Nelson’s head. “Fuck, you’ve got whole books stored in there.”

  Isobel’s shoulders slump and she does a mock-sad face. “Pleeeeease?” she says.

  Deirdre looks at him with adoration. He says, “Uh. I guess.”

  “Fantastic,” says Isobel. She snags the sleeve of a man wearing a headset. “John Nelson is taking Zenia’s place.”

  The man cocks his head. “John Nelson? Awesome. Right.” He checks his watch, looks at Nelson, and says, “You’re fifth up. Hopefully everyone’ll be back by then.”

  They’re allowed to hang out on the steps up to the stage so they can see over the crowd a little bit. But the crowd is too big. There are no stage lights to blind him into pretending there’s no one out there. Deirdre keeps up a steady stream of encouragement in his ear. Isobel pats his arm each time she goes up to introduce another speaker. Each speaker climbs up the steps. Says articulate and eloquent things. Comes back down. Nelson knows, or knows of, all of them. He offers congratulations. Handshakes. Forces himself to smile. Everyone agrees the march is the biggest ever. Everyone is hopeful that this means something. Every time Nelson tries to formulate his talk, his mind goes blank.

  The crowd is cheering. The fourth speaker comes down the steps. Isobel’s voice over the PA says, “Our next scheduled speaker, Zenia Rafeedie of Free Palestine Now, is unable to make it due to transportation problems. Instead we have John Nelson from Omnia Mundi, who will say a few words about war and—” Isobel turns and looks sideways down at Nelson. She smiles. “War and the environment.” She raises her hands clapping and steps away from the microphone. The crowd claps thinly. They are disappointed Zenia isn’t here. En masse they will walk away. Nelson will be responsible for the critical depletion of numbers that will occur before Isobel can wrap up the event. Omnia Mundi will lose respect. Their show will go off the air. Fetzer and Jen will hate him. They’ll split up.

  He swallows. Climbs the stairs. Someone grasps his hand, squeezes. It’s Jen.

  From the stage the crowd swells out of the square, fills the streets as far as he can see. Open faces looking up at him, smiling, waiting. Signs bob.

  An ocean of goodwill. A sea of hope.

  Love surges up so fast in Nelson his knees feel like they’re made of string.

  “Oh my god,” he says, but he’s not near enough to the microphone so he takes a wobbly step closer. One of the signs says, No Blood for OIL.

  “Oil,” he says. He clears his throat. “Oil. Our lives are bound up in it. And we’re about to go to war over it. Again. We have this way of thinking about oil that seems completely normal, but is actually—insane.”

  The crowd claps.

  “We suck vast amounts of it out of the ground—a dangerous process in itself. Then we set fire to it!” Nelson spreads his arms. “We send the smoke into the air! That smoke—and I’m simplifying the science here—is going to destroy life on earth as we know it. How insane can you get?”

  More clapping.

  “We’re living with old, leftover ideas about oil. It was once important to our sense of power. Sense of progress. But these old ideas will be our downfall. And we’re taking the whole planet with us.”

  The crowd is quiet. Helicopters thrum overhead.

  “The story we tell ourselves, about oil, may look like it’s changing, but only at the edges. Sure, we like our bicycles and our canvas grocery bags, but we’re a minority. The sacred story of oil still has primary currency. Those of us who think differently are considered odd curiosities. We don’t fit.”

  Laughter from the crowd.

  “And maybe we don’t want to fit. Maybe we make a lifestyle out of not fitting. We feel proud we don’t blindly follow the status quo.”

  Laughter and cheering from the crowd. Signs bob like buoys on a sea.

  Nelson holds up a finger. “But let’s not be too proud.” The crowd goes quiet. “Let’s not be too proud. Because the earth is in deep trouble.

  “Everyone here”—Nelson lifts his arms to the beautiful crowd—“imagines a different story of oil. Some of you are diehard cyclists.” A few whoops and cheers fly up from the mass of faces. “Some of you work with renewable energy and peak oil. All of you know that killing people over this oil is crazy, and at least that part has to change.” The cheering swells and Nelson pauses. “We’re beginning to transcend the sacred story of oil. But it’s a tiny beginning. Let’s not get smug. Let’s never feel like it’s enough.”

  Clapping again, louder this time.

  “Marching like this is good. It reminds us we’re not alone. But we have to do more than walk through the streets, then go home to our oil-heated houses to watch the news. We have to transcend, we have to tell a new story. One that says it’s not eccentric to get rid of the car, it’s not crankish to install solar panels, it’s not weird to avoid plastics. It’s normal. These things need to stop being charming and self-righteous; they need to become normal. Small gestures are a start, but we need to ratchet up our efforts. And we need t
o make it easy for others to make these choices, too. Others who have fewer choices than we privileged folks. We must transcend.”

  Their beautiful faces, receiving, giving.

  “We will transcend the story of oil.”

  The cheer mushrooms up, echoes off the buildings. Signs dance like wave caps stretched as far as he can see. Nelson’s knees are titanium. His head is crystal, clear and solid. His heart is a ruby, dense with love. He lowers his arms and walks away from the microphone. Hands pat his back, squeeze his arms, rest on his shoulders as he makes his way down the stairs. Fetzer’s eyes, Jen’s eyes, bright, alive, loving. Isobel yelling in his ear, “Good job!”

  And Deirdre. He holds her tight. “Let’s get married,” he says into her neck, and he’s not sure if she heard over the noise of the crowd, but she pulls back, grips his shoulders.

  “Yes!”

  51: JEN

  Franky’s stupid bouncing rocks the whole sofa. “It’s you!” he shouts at the TV. As if it’s not blindingly obvious to the rest of us who were actually there. It’s a semi-distant shot, but it’s Nelson on that stage all right. His moment of glory. Good thing I also caught it on camera. Add it to the DVD I’m planning.

  “Quit bouncing,” I say.

  Fetzer says, “You shoulda seen it, Franky.” He gestures at the TV. “He just stepped up there and had the crowd eating out of his hand in half a minute.”

  Deirdre whines, “But you can’t hear what you’re saying.”

  Nelson sits with an arm across her shoulders, relaxed, unblinking. Like it’s anyone but him on the news.

  “Course not,” I say. “Broadcasting a dissenting opinion would be collaborating with the enemy.”

  The reporter on TV says, “No violence marred today’s event like it has in some of the earlier rallies,” then the screen switches to a helicopter shot. The square, the streets, the waterfront, like someone spilled colored confetti over the city.

  “Notice how he managed to get the word ‘violence’ into the first sentence?” I say.

  “About eleven thousand people turned out to voice their opposition to a possible war—”