by Rumaan Alam
“We’re not on Mars. There are people just a few miles away. We’ll hear something. We heard something. Maybe we’ll hear it again.” This was G. H., trying to be reassuring and rational at the same time. “We’ll drive out to the neighbors. Or someone will come by. It’s just a matter of time.”
“I never want to hear that thing again.” Clay wished he could have denied hearing the noise altogether. He wished he could imagine doing what G. H. described, but he couldn’t. He was scared. He didn’t want to leave, not because it wasn’t prudent but because he was too afraid.
Amanda pulled away from her husband, who still had his arms on her, dazed relief, and looked at G. H. “You know, you look a little like Denzel Washington.”
G. H. wasn’t sure how to respond, and also it was not the first time he’d heard this.
“Has anyone ever told you that? And your last name is Washington! Any relation?” Amanda looked at her husband. “His name is George Washington. I don’t know—I’m sorry, I know it’s rude.” She laughed, and none of them said anything.
25
FROM THE OTHER ROOMS, THE CHILDREN COULD NOT HEAR their mother’s laughter. From the other rooms, the children had not heard their father’s return. The little house was so well made (walls so solid!) and so seductive too that it made you forget other people altogether.
Archie ran the shower very hot. His balls were tight against his body, bumpy like he’d just got out of the pool. The muscles in his back softened as he watched the water twist down the drain, dirty and then clear. He dried his body on white towels. He put on boxer shorts and took to bed, where, unable to watch The Office, he diverted himself with that important repository, the hidden album on his phone. The pictures were mostly beautiful. The stuff Archie liked best was not so terrible. He was weirded out by the internet’s complex configurations: three women, five women, seven women, massive dicks (his dick would never get so big, he worried), two men, three men, pretended incest, racial violence, spit, ropes, athletic equipment, public spectacle, stage lights, mussed makeup, swimming pools, toys and tools he didn’t know the name of, the supposed beauty of punishment. He just liked women. Dark hair and tan skin. He preferred them to be completely naked, rather than posed with clothes to emphasize the parts of their body there for you to see: wooly sweater raised over heavy breasts with satin nipples, plaid skirt up over pale hips to show off what he called pussy because he was sure he didn’t know the exact word for it, denim shorts slashed or torn, lips protruding. He liked her to look pretty and happy. Archie wanted to please and be pleased.
Rose pulled the down comforter of her parents’ bed up to her chin, then over it, up to her nose, drawing in the smell of detergent and bath soap and her own skin and the lingering traces of her parents’ chemical signature. This was comforting, almost canine. Her book was not an escape (adolescence’s trials, the body’s betrayals, the heart’s new desires) but preparation, the Fodor’s to a country she planned on visiting soon. But it couldn’t hold her attention. She thought about the quiet of the woods, punctured by that bang overhead. She could barely picture her little bedroom in Brooklyn. She shook her head to clear it, but that didn’t do anything.
She didn’t want to hide in bed. Rose didn’t want to hide at all. She stood up and stretched as you might after a restorative night’s sleep. She stretched her arms and legs, and they both felt powerful and alive. Rose walked to the window and tried to see into the trees. She wasn’t sure what she was looking for, but she would know it when it appeared, and knew, too, that it would appear. Earlier, she’d wanted to prove that she’d seen those deer, but the ground had showed no sign of them. The beasts trod lightly on this earth.
She was standing before the glass back door, looking out at the flat sky, clouds close enough to touch. She saw that there was a crack in the pane and understood this had not been there before. It made sense. The rain was as it always was: hesitant at first, then confident. The trees were so thick with leaves, they’d sop up most of the water before it touched the ground. The overflow from the gutter over the door made a kind of waterfall. What did the deer do when it rained? Did animals care about getting wet? Rose wished she could go for another swim, or just sit in the hot tub. She wished for a little more vacation, even just an hour.
The phone in one hand and himself in the other, Archie’s body did not respond as it usually did. He could come in the morning’s shower and in his nighttime bedroom lit by the laptop, volume turned low. Sometimes afternoons too: huddled in the drafty pee-smelling cubicle, spit on palm. First ropes of cum, then an abbreviated sneeze of the stuff, finally a dry shudder, his dick red and tired and maybe a little sore. He’d always swear it off but—it finds a way. It was life!
There was a storm forming outside, and the light was strange, but even if not for that, Archie would have had no idea how to guess what time it was. He knew it was odd that the people who owned the house had shown up, but he didn’t care, or they seemed nice. Mr. Washington had asked him the kinds of questions that grown-ups always asked, and had seemed nice. Archie abandoned his phone. He slipped into the beautiful void. If he dreamed of anything (the noise?), it was with some part of his mind so distant he barely controlled it.
Did he feel warm? Well, he’d just taken a shower. When he tucked his wrist under his cheek, that told him nothing; touching your own skin is not diagnostic. The body was a splendid and complicated machine, almost always humming along happily. When something went wrong, the body was smart enough to make accommodations. The light was muddled and soupy, the room filled with the music of rain on the roof overhead and the unassuming sound of objects in space—the presence of Archie’s body, his bed, his pillows, his glass of water, his paperback of Nine Stories, the wet towel curled on the floor like a napping pet. It was like the white-noise machine his parents had used to trick the infant him to sleep.
Washing her hands, Ruth could not hear the rain. Then she left the guest bath and saw the tumble of water and understood. The wine had done nothing to her. She was not sleepy, or pacified, or distracted. She gathered their dirty clothes into a little pile. How were there so many already? There was something comforting about the yellow of the bedside lamps and the gray outside the windows. She could have got into that bed and read a book. She might even have dozed in that indolent way you do when you’re in a vacation home—not for need of rest but because you can.
Instead, she went to the walk-in closet down the hallway, found a laundry basket on the shelf beside all of George’s provisions, those bottles of wine, those helpful tins, those sturdy plastic containers of thousands and thousands of calories. She allowed herself to think—good. They were prepared for whatever this was. She’d have thought this might comfort her, but she didn’t want cans of tomatoes or sticky Kind bars. It was fruitless to dwell on what it was she wanted, which perhaps explained her resolve to simply do something. Ruth filled the basket with their dirty laundry. She righted the throw pillows on the bed. She put the useless television remote control back onto the dresser. She turned off the reading lamps that no one was using. She retrieved the damp towels from the bathroom.
It was too intimate, but she knew she should invite Amanda to put in her dirty clothes. It would be a more efficient use of power and water. It would be neighborly, though that word didn’t describe their relationship—maybe no word could. Ruth knew a conversation was warranted, and knew that it would demand that she pretend to be a better person than she felt like being. She thought of the satisfying weight of her grandsons on her body.
Rose put her hand on the window. It was cold, as glass tended to be. There was something satisfying about the surface of the swimming pool, roiled and rippled by the steady rain. There was no thunder, and anyway, Rose understood that the noise before had not been thunder. She saw the temptation in believing that, but she knew in her own teenage way that belief and fact had nothing to do with each other.
The question was not what that had been; the question was what they
would do next. Rose knew that her parents did not take her seriously, did not think her grown. But Rose knew that their troubles were not a matter of some sound overhead. She’d seen what the problem was, and she’d try to solve it. Then she remembered that her mother had promised her that when it rained, they would bake a cake, so Rose forgot her book and went to do just that.
26
TELEVISION WOULD HAVE BEEN PALLIATIVE. TELEVISION would have stunned them, entertained them, informed them or helped them forget. Instead: the three of them sitting around a television that showed them nothing, the pleasant orchestra of the rain against skylight, roof, deck, canvas umbrella, treetop, and the clatter of Rose—“I can do it by myself!”—in the kitchen, and then the chemical scent of her cake from a box, puffing up in the gas oven.
“We need to fill the bathtubs.” Amanda wasn’t sure what was required. She was guessing.
“Fill the bathtubs?” Clay took it for a figure of speech.
She lowered her voice. “In case—the water.”
“Does the water not run if the power goes out?” Clay had no idea.
It did not. The next day, or the day after that, certainly the day following that one, some residents of the uppermost apartments in Manhattan would fall into the delirium that presaged their eventual dehydration. “I think that’s right. An electric pump fills the reservoir. So if the power goes, the water does too.” G. H. marveled that their power still held on. He credited the well-made little house, even though he knew that had nothing to do with it.
“Do you think the power is going to go out?” Clay thought the day—the smell of yellow sponge, the percussion of the rain—seemed almost unnervingly normal.
“It goes out in storms, doesn’t it? Like, downed branches? And if there’s something wrong in the city. And then that noise, whatever that was? I think we’re lucky that it’s still on, but maybe we shouldn’t push our luck.” Amanda looked at her husband. “Go!”
Clay got up and went to do as entreated, without mentioning the fact that they weren’t his tubs and it wasn’t his water.
Amanda leaned forward in her seat, toward G. H. across from her. “There’s no thunder. No lightning, even. Just rain.”
“I didn’t really think it was thunder anyway.”
“So what was it?” She was whispering because she did not want Rose to hear. She did not think the girl stupid, she just thought she might protect her.
“I wish I knew.”
“What are we doing?”
“I’m waiting for the cake your daughter is baking.”
“Should we leave?” She looked at the older man like he was the father she had never had, the one she could trust for sound advice. “Wouldn’t we be better—safer—at home, in the city, around other people?”
“I don’t know.”
“I would feel better if I just knew what was happening.” Amanda looked toward the hall, could hear the plash of water in the bathtub. These words were not true, but she did not know that.
Clay returned, wiping hands on shorts. “That’s done.”
“There’s a tub downstairs. I’ll do the same.” G. H. nodded his thanks.
“So there’s that.” Amanda was trying to convince herself. “We have some water. And we don’t even need it. Maybe we won’t at all.”
“Better to be prepared,” Clay agreed.
“Do you think we should go home?” Amanda looked at her husband.
“Or we can just go back to town tomorrow? Or go for the first time,” G. H. corrected himself.
“I’m sorry.” Clay put his hands on his knees. The gesture was sheepish.
“What?” Amanda asked.
“I should have— I heard the noise and I came back, I was worried. But! I didn’t see any cars.” Clay did not tell them about the woman. He wondered if she was out in the rain.
“I thought you were— I didn’t know what had happened to you.”
G. H. was understanding. “You see no cars a lot of the time. It depends on the time of year, I guess. But it’s quiet. That’s why we moved here in the first place.”
“I think we should just sit tight.” Clay didn’t want to go back onto those confounding roads.
“How can you say that?” Amanda asked. Parenthood required pretending bravado, derring-do, courage, conviction. It was just instinct, it was just love.
“It’s pouring. Maybe it’s not the best idea to trek out in a storm.”
“Fine. But tomorrow.” Amanda was prompting him.
“We’ll go to town,” Clay said. “Then we can—decide. If the power is out in the city maybe we should wait things out.”
“Here?” They did have the lease. That didn’t seem to matter as much. Amanda would prepare to demonstrate her faith. She’d pack up their things, be ready to leave. It was a statement of purpose.
“Tomorrow. Clay, you and me, we’ll go in the morning. I know the way.” G. H. didn’t believe Clay’s story, and he was right not to. “Then we’ll see where we are after that. If there’s power, if there’s a problem, what that noise was. We’ll know more, and once we know more, we can decide the best thing to do.” He looked up at the girl approaching the adults. G. H. felt the same urge Amanda had. “It smells delicious in here.” He said it jauntily but meant it sincerely.
“It just needs to cool before I frost it.”
“It’s done already?” Amanda tried to determine the time. “We should save it for after dinner.”
“I made layers, so it bakes faster. Two little cakes instead of one big one. I wish I had things to decorate it. Sprinkles and stuff.”
“You might want to look in the pantry. Go ask Mrs. Washington to show you where she keeps all the baking things. I wouldn’t be surprised if we had some supplies on hand.” The girl was nothing like his daughter, but naturally that was who he thought of.
“I should get something together for dinner.” Clay thought it atonement for his earlier failure. He’d filled the tubs, he’d feed them dinner, he’d prove his value. “Rose, before you get into the cake decorating, let’s tidy up the kitchen.”
“Where’s Archie?” Amanda wanted the children out of sight but could not get them out of mind.
Clay shrugged. “Maybe he’s napping.”
“I should get him up.” There was that danger, she knew, in napping too late—the grogginess nothing would dispel. As a toddler, he’d wake with his face creased from the bedding, red from the exertion of rest, grumpy and unable to do more than pout for at least ten minutes. She offered G. H. an “Excuse me,” then went to the boy’s door. Amanda knocked, because teenagers needed the respect of that first (she’d seen some things), then pushed the door open, saying his name.
The boy did not stir, did not seem to register her presence.
“Archie?” She could see his shape, twisted in the blankets. “Honey, are you sleeping?”
He said nothing, if he heard her, so Amanda pulled the covers from his face, revealing his hair, in glorious disarray, tendrils this way and that like the roots of an old tree. She smoothed his locks, a palm on his forehead by reflex. Was he warm from fever or warm from slumber? “Archie?”
He opened his eyes, not blinking; asleep and then not. He looked at his mother, but she did not come into focus.
“Archie? Are you feeling okay?”
He exhaled slowly, a long and tremulous breath. He did not know where he was, he did not understand what was happening. He sat up, this movement abrupt too. He opened his mouth, not to speak, but to move his jaw, which hurt, or of which he was aware, in some way that seemed new or different or wrong. “I don’t know.”
“What do you mean, you don’t know?” She pulled the duvet back, revealing his thin frame, releasing the radiant heat of his body, so powerful she could feel it without laying hands on him. “Archie?”
He made a sound, like a hum. He leaned forward and vomited onto his own lap.
27
PARENTHOOD HARDENED YOU. YOUR TASK WAS UPKEEP OF the body, an
d you understood what that entailed. The sight of vomit once made her retch, but her children’s—Amanda faced it. Crisis made her rational. She called to Clay. She washed her son’s body just as she had when he’d been a boy.
When they were babies, Clay and Amanda played man-on-man defense. That first wretched winter, Clay would take Archie to the New York City Transit Museum, an indoor attraction but always very cold, since it was built in an old subway station. Amanda would pace the apartment with Rosie, desperate for the tit, listening to the album Björk had made about how great it was to have sex with Matthew Barney. If she thought about it, Amanda could still hear the creak of floorboard underfoot in that one spot near the kitchen. If he thought about it, Clay could still picture the trains from a more innocent era—rattan seats, ceiling fans—parked on the museum’s obsolete tracks. Amanda stripped the soiled bedding. Clay took the boy to the living room.
“We have a thermometer.” Ruth, prudent, had stocked the bathroom. Analgesics for adults and children, bandages, iodine, saline, petroleum jelly.
“That would be great.” Clay helped the boy into his too-big sweatshirt; he smoothed his mussed hair. He sat beside him on the sofa, and they looked toward the back of the house, at the drama of the rain filling the swimming pool.
Maternal muscle memory was strong. Ruth returned with supplies. “Let’s take his temperature.”
So, too, was paternal instinct. G. H. helped Rose find the hidden stores: icing sugar, tubes of decorative gels, birthday candles, sprinkles rattling in plastic jars. Rose was not a fool, but happy enough to be diverted. They coaxed the cake onto a plate, and she spun it expertly beneath the spatula, stationary, thick with frosting.