by John Case
Butt-ugly. That’s what they were, and that was the only word for it. Butt-ugly. And as a matter of fact, if you asked her, this whole landscape was a downer – even here, just a little ways from Beverly Hills, where everything was supposed to be perfect, but wasn’t – it was a downer. Even if the bus wasn’t on the prettiest street . . .
She’d been riding buses for a while. This was the fourth one she and Stephen had been on.
Now the little boy’s face was puckering up and he was making that uh-uh-uh sound and she could tell it was about time to feed him anyway, because her breasts were getting that full feeling. She’d better feed him now because otherwise her milk might leak out and that would be bad because the clothes she was wearing were just for today (she had the tags and everything tucked in where you couldn’t see them).
Adeline had taken them shopping at the Pentagon City Mall, not far from their safe house in the Potomac Towers. That’s what Adeline called it – ‘our safe house’ – even though it was really only a two-bedroom apartment. No matter what you called it, though, the apartment was way cool. It came with a new car, a bank account, and, neatest of all, a new identity, Whenever Susannah stayed there (and after Rhinebeck, she’d been staying there a lot), she was ‘Mrs. Elliott Ambrose.’ Which she liked, because it sounded classy. Classier, at least, than Susannah Demjanuk.
Anyway, the apartment was convenient – close to the mall, and close to the airport. They’d changed clothes there, and when they got back, they’d change them again. And return them, only a little bit used.
The thing about clothes was: you are what you wear. That’s what Solange said. He said that if you dressed well enough, it was like being invisible – at least as far as the cops were concerned – and security guards, and people like that. If you dressed right, you didn’t get hassled. It was practically a rule.
Even so, these clothes were way expensive – the suit alone cost more than her plane ticket – and there just wasn’t any point in buying them. Especially if you could borrow them.
Mostly, she got her clothes at thrift shops. Everyone did. That way, they were recycling, and they weren’t using up resources that could be spent on more important things (like a good centrifuge). Even cotton – which was supposed to be such friendly, natural stuff – making cotton was, like . . . drilling for oil, or something. It was really! So, this way . . . Belinda or one of the other guys from the office of Special Affairs could take everything back, once she and Tommy returned from the Coast.
Susannah scrutinized the bus.
When you came right down to it, a bus wasn’t such a bad place to breast-feed a baby. The seats were high enough to kind of hide you, and it wasn’t very crowded.
Stephen made little wet smacking noises as he latched on. After a few minutes she shifted him to the other breast as L.A. slid past the window. It sure went by slow. There was a lot of traffic, and sometimes they just sat through the light, waiting for someone to move: red green yellow red hello? Nobody beeped or honked, though; they must be used to it. No wonder the sky was that nasty gray color.
By the time the driver said ‘Wilshire Boulevard coming up,’ her blouse was buttoned and Stephen had been burped. She folded up the cloth diaper she used to burp him on and put it back in the diaper bag and then, from the little quilted section in the bottom – actually, it was a compartment to hold dinner rolls! – she took out a lightbulb and bent down and held it in place under the toe of her shoe.
Practically as soon as she stood up and let it go, the driver accelerated around a double-parked car, then cut in to the bus stop. She heard the lightbulb rolling along the floor as she walked to the door at the front of the bus.
Of course, there was no way to tell when it would break, or where. It might roll around all day, or it might break before she got off the bus. You couldn’t predict it. Not really.
Which was one of the things Solange liked about the lightbulb method. It was random, he said, like Nature.
When she got off the bus, she was all turned around – north, south, east, west. She could be anywhere. So she went over to a redheaded woman who was sitting at a table at a sidewalk café, only a few steps from the bus stop.
‘Excuse me?’
The woman looked up from a little leather notebook in which she’d been writing. Her face had a puzzled look.
‘Do you know where Rodeo Drive is?’ Susannah swung Stephen from one hip to the other.
The woman gave her the once-over – as if she was adding up how much Susannah had spent on her outfit or, worse, doubted that the clothes were her own. Then she sighed and swung her eyes to the corner. ‘It’s just to the right,’ she said.
Susannah smiled her thanks.
‘And by the way,’ the woman added, her face creasing in a poisonous smile that made Susannah want to get out a lightbulb and throw it at the bitch, ‘it’s Roh-day-oh Drive. Not Roady-oh.’
‘Thank you so much,’ she said, and walked off in the direction the woman had indicated. How was she supposed to know it wasn’t pronounced the way it looked. Rodeo. Like a roh-dee-oh. This was the West, right?
Women checked you out way more than men, although men checked you out in a different way. Except gay men, who checked you out the same way women did. In fact, having a baby didn’t change a thing as far as guys hitting on you was concerned. The truth was, she was getting a kind of good feeling from all the admiring glances. She’d lost all the baby weight, and then, with this boss outfit on and all, she looked good. And the truth was she had an even better figure now, with her boobs so big from nursing. Better than breast implants. And Stephen was so adorable, people couldn’t take their eyes off the two of them.
It felt so good, she almost wished this was her real life. Walking down Rodeo Drive, pushing the baby in his brand-new stroller, nothing better to do than window-shop and think about maybe stopping for a Smoothie or something. The windows were so clean, the glass was like – not just transparent, but really invisible. And the shops were so expensive, you needed appointments in half of them, just to get in. And everything was displayed as if it was something holy. There were eyeglasses in cases that revolved, so you could see them from every angle, just like precious jewels. And a window with a purse in it. One purse, that was it!
Everything gleamed and shone, even the people.
Susannah checked herself out, scanning her reflection in the window. And guess what? She fit right in, she really did – she looked like she was somebody’s wife, a producer or somebody. Or maybe she was a producer herself, out with her baby, shopping for earrings and rugs.
It felt good.
In fact, it felt so good, just walking along, that she started to feel guilty. But Solange had mapped out her route personally, using those little maps that came off the computer. They told her which buses she should take and which neighborhoods she should walk through. But the rest was up to her. She could put the lightbulbs wherever she wanted – on a bus, in a trash can, in a parking space beside the curb – so long as it was in the right neighborhood.
It had to be that way if they were going to track the results. And besides, all the neighborhoods were fancy ones because, well . . . who used the most resources? Who did the most damage?
And this was the belly of the beast, right here – the pep center, Solange called it. Or maybe not. But something like that. The pep center of conspicuous consumption. Right here, sucking at her on Rodeo Drive.
Ro-day-oh Drive.
She was down to the last of the lightbulbs. Because they’d only made a dozen or so. Stopping on the sidewalk in front of ‘Bijan’s,’ Susannah adjusted the little umbrella that kept the sun out of Stephen’s eyes. Then she reached into the diaper bag and, taking out the lightbulb, carried it to the street and laid it gently beside the curb, where a car was certain to crush it.
There was a crowd of people coming the other way, laughing. They had big white teeth and a predatory look that made her want to step on the lightbulb right then and there.
But she didn’t-not because it would make her sick, but because she was wearing stacked heels that cost $192 at Joan & David, and they couldn’t be taken back.
Which meant that she got to keep them.
12
WASHINGTON DC
APRIL 17, 1998
IT WAS THE middle of April, and the city was luminous with spring.
Returning home from Santa Fe, Frank found winter dismissed and the landscape transformed. The streets and parks and verges were ablaze with tulips and azaleas, and all the dogwoods seemed to be in bloom.
When he got to his apartment, he tossed his suitcase on the bed, stripped to a T-shirt and running shorts, and went out for a jog, looking to get the kinks out after the long flight. He ran through Rock Creek Park, sticking to the bike path. For a quarter mile, near the zoo, the black asphalt path was littered with fallen blossoms from a stand of cherry trees. Every now and then a gust of wind set loose a shower of petals that fell through the air like confetti. Forget Paris, he thought. For a few weeks in the spring, Washington was the most beautiful city in the world.
Or maybe it just seemed that way because he’d spent the last two weeks in pickup trucks, rocketing around the desert where there was nothing but dirt and rocks and scrub. A single lilac bush would have seemed a miracle.
He tagged along as health workers tried to head off an outbreak of Hanta virus in the Four Corners area. So far there had been only two cases, and those geographically separated by more than a hundred miles, but with a virus that killed seventy percent of those it infected, no one wanted to take any chances.
Sometimes, the households surveyed were on reservation land, and sometimes not. In either case, getting permission to set traps, take a blood sample, or inspect homes was a tricky business.
– You want to check my house for mouse shit? Who the fuck are you?
– We’re trying to prevent another outbreak – like you had in ’ninety-three.
– And the mice . . . they cause it?
– Yeah. Sort of. It’s a virus. The mice spread it.
– Uh-huh. And what do they call that virus?
– Sin Nombre.
– And that’s the name of it? The no-name virus?
– That’s right.
– You’re shitting me . . .
Some people remembered ’93. The fevers. The panic. The dying. They knew more than they wanted to know about Sin Nombre, and the name didn’t amuse them. But for those who hadn’t been around, or who hadn’t paid attention, the name put them over the top, eliciting a look that said, Get outta here. You gotta do better than that – some disease you don’t even name?
Others reacted with suspicion.
– You want to test me for antibodies? You talking about Aitch-aye-vee, you come right out and say so, don’t give me that Sin Nombre shit.
In the end, the public health people got what they wanted, and there was no real outbreak – just the two cases. Still, it was interesting stuff, and the story was an easy one to write. Most important, Frank thought, it would make Coe happy and give him enough breathing room to go after the story he was really interested in.
He took a shower, then sat down at his computer and caught up on his expenses. He typed out a sheet and stuffed it into a manila folder, along with the receipts. He’d send it to Jennifer in the morning.
He slid the floppy from his laptop into the B drive of his desktop computer and copied the files from his trip. He called up Nombre 1 and read through his notes, then created a new file, Nombre 2. He worked on the story for about an hour, but that was all he could take: it was spring, and he really felt like going out.
So he copied the files to a floppy, shut down the computer, and went into the kitchen. Opening the refrigerator, he looked in the back for the diskette carrying case that he kept behind the milk. It was, he knew, a peculiar practice, storing his backups in this way – but it was an effective one. The refrigerator was cold, but not freezing, and what was more important: it was insulated. If there was a fire, his backups would be fine.
It was late in the afternoon, with shafts of light slanting through the windows, when he picked up the telephone and called Annie Adair.
‘Hello?’
‘It’s Frank Daly.’
‘Oh!’ A pause. ‘Hi.’ Between the two syllables, between the ‘oh’ and the ‘hi,’ her voice changed, subsiding from enthusiasm to wariness.
They went back and forth for a minute. How he’d been. How she’d been. Did she get the piece he sent? On influenza?
‘Oh, yeah! It was good,’ she said. ‘I was impressed.’
It took a while, but he got around to it: ‘I was thinking . . . Y’know, maybe we could go out – get something to eat.’
‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘It doesn’t seem like such a good idea.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because . . . well, because I still can’t talk to you.’
‘But you are! We’re talking right now.’
‘You know what I mean. I mean . . . about Kopervik. Hammerfest. That stuff.’
‘You think that’s why I called you?’
‘Umm-hmmm.’
‘My God, talk about a suspicious mind! Kopervik! You think I want to talk about Kopervik?’
‘Umm-hmmm.’
‘Huh! Kopervik . . . I’ll tell you what – what if I promised not to talk about any of that?’
‘I don’t think I’d believe you. You seem kind of . . . tenacious.’
‘“Tenacious”? Me? Nah. Not “tenacious.” Hungry. So what if I swear? Solemnly. What if I give you my word?’
An edgy laugh that told him she was thinking about it. ‘Okay – tell you what! I’ll swear on a stack of Bibles.’
A little giggle.
‘How about that? Bibles!’
‘You don’t seem like the religious type.’
‘Okay . . . you’re right. I’m not. So how about Gravity’s Rainbow? Gray’s Anatomy! You name the books, I’ll stack ’em and swear!’
Silence on the other end of the line. Then: ‘But . . .’ A sigh. ‘I know that you still want to know about the expedition. If it was me – I’d want to know.’
‘Trust me. I did the piece,’ he said. ‘You read it. Now I’m moving on to bigger and better infections.’
‘Like what?’
‘Sin Nombre. I just got back from New Mexico.’
‘Really?’
Easing into his most unctuous newscaster’s voice, he read from the screen in front of him. ‘“Even before winter set in, health experts in the Four Corners worried that peromyscus maniculatus was reproducing in dangerous numbers. More often known as the common deer mouse . . .”’ He paused. ‘You want me to go on?’
‘No.’
‘Okay, so how about dinner?’
‘Well . . .’
He always took the words ‘well’ or ‘maybe’ as consent. Don’t say no, he used to beg his mother, say maybe. ‘Great!’ he said. ‘Is Friday okay? I know it’s prime time, but . . . I’ll pick you up at seventy-thirty!’ Then, without giving her time to reply, he broke the connection, thinking, If she isn’t up to it, she’ll call me back. And if she can’t find my number, she just won’t be there.
Annie lived about a mile from his apartment, in a Mount Pleasant town house that she shared with a woman named Indu from Kansas and a freelance computer guru from Caracas. ‘They’re both working tonight,’ she said, and laughed. ‘We’re a bunch of grinds.’
It had taken him longer to find a parking place than to drive over, and he said as much to her as he opened the door to the Saab.
‘Well, why don’t we walk?’ she said.
And so they did.
It had been a warm, rainy day. The sidewalks were wet and clean, the gutters empty of their usual trash. Together, they navigated the six or seven blocks that lay between Mount Pleasant and Adams-Morgan, passing claques of drunks and double-parked police cars, Kenny’s Bar-B-Que and the Unification Church. The air was heavy with hone
ysuckle and booze, salsa and rap.
‘So tell me about your trip,’ she asked. ‘How did you get interested in Sin Nombre?’
‘The name. It sounded so spooky . . . like it was the opposite of what they say about New York.’
‘Which is what?’
‘You know – how it’s ‘so nice, they had to name it twice.’ But this thing is so bad, they didn’t even want to name it once.’
‘I always wondered why they called it that,’ Annie said.
‘Well, I can tell you!’
‘Great!’
‘But it’s kind of disappointing.’
‘Why?’
‘Because it’s all about political correctness,’ Frank replied. ‘They used to call it the Muerto Canyon virus, after the place where it first occurred. But that didn’t work because the canyon’s on a Navajo reservation, and the Navajos went ballistic at the idea of naming a virus after the place.’
‘Why?’
‘Because it was the site of a massacre – white guys killing Indians, a hundred years ago. Now, the virus was killing them, and it didn’t seem very sensitive to name it after this earlier disaster. I mean, it would be like calling Tay-Sachs “Auschwitz disease.”’
‘So what happened?’
‘They called it the “Four Corners virus.”’
‘Makes sense, Annie said. ‘Diseases are often named after the place they’re first seen.’
‘Hong Kong flu, Marburg, Ebola –’
‘Right.’
‘They’re all place names,’ Frank said. ‘Except, Ebola’s a river – at least, I think it is. But anyway, what happened was, after they named it the Four Corners virus, the locals got upset. The chambers of commerce, the tourist boards – I mean, you can see their point. It would be like living in a place called “Polioville.”’ Annie laughed. ‘So they didn’t have a name for it, and in the end that’s what they called it: the No-Name virus.
‘Except they translated it.’
‘Yeah. I think they were sensitive to language issues, too.’
They ended up at an Ethiopian restaurant called Meskerem. There were no knives or forks or chairs. They sat on stuffed leather cushions and ate a spicy stew with their hands, using a spongy, sour bread called injera to lift bits of meat and vegetables from the tray to their mouths. It was the kind of dinner that promoted a casual intimacy, and yet, across from him, Annie kept her reserve. She looked as if she was ready to bolt the moment he mentioned Kopervik.