“But why?”
“He’s got his business, and I have mine.”
This isn’t the answer the woman was hoping for. Her husband summons all of his strength and takes her hand, lifts it to his mouth, and gives it a gentle kiss.
I exit, touched by this demonstration. Out in the hall, I finger the Euthasol in my pocket and realize I never mentioned it to Mr. Toczauer.
20
I’m meeting Taylor at the coffee shop in the lobby before we go to Serena’s office to discuss her predicament. Taylor has her hair up, exposing her long, delicate neck. Her outfit is professional but certainly on the provocative side. She is reading from a book—an actual book—not her gram. She’s the very epitome of retro chic. No male in the room is immune to her charm. Of course, she’s aware of her effect on them, yet she remains aloof, as if she were alone.
She smiles when I join her, and my being fills with joy. I struggle to fight the impulse, telling myself my attraction is purely physical, she’s just a child, a fling, just like all of the others. It’s critical I don’t confuse these feelings with genuine emotion. True love is based on intimacy and shared experience, I remind myself. I reach for her book to see what it is: Play It as It Lays.
“Didion!” I say. “I haven’t read her yet, I’m afraid.”
“Oh … you really should!”
“You ever read Mailer?”
“Yes, but he’s not really my taste.”
“What about Henry Miller?”
“I find his worldview perverse. Salvation through hedonism? Grow up!”
“They were my favorite writers, back when I still read.”
“I can understand the appeal for a young man.”
“What do you suggest now?”
“You ever read any Annie Proulx or Helen DeWitt?”
“Never heard of them.”
She reaches into her bag and pulls out the The Last Samurai.
“Take it,” she says. “I think you’ll find it wonderful.”
Beneath the title, a blurb declares the novel a “triumph” that will leave readers “spell-bound.”
“I’ll check it out,” I say, doubting I’ll ever make it past the second chapter.
Serena calls us in and immediately sets into a rambling soliloquy about a pheasant hunting trip she once took to New England with an ex-boyfriend. The tale is full of twists and turns, including a badly fouled-up baggage situation with the airline, a bout of food poisoning, a skirmish with a mountain lion, and a daring rescue attempt she led to save a Cub Scout troop from certain death. I wish to God she’d tone it down, and after several minutes I can’t help but to tune out the rest. Apparently, I’m the type of man who takes offense in the charm of others. I miss the climax of her tale, but snap to attention as she reveals its moral: one must always choose what matters most. Serena and Taylor share a great laugh, and, so as not to look foolish, I join them.
“Now, Henri, if you’ll excuse us,” Serena says, “Ms. Taylor and I need to discuss this medical school business.”
“You want me to leave?”
“You’re very perceptive today, Henri!”
“I’ll wait for you in the coffee shop,” I say to Taylor.
“Yes, please do.”
No sooner do I trudge from the room than I hear them break into another fit of laughter. I’ve never felt more impotent. At the coffee shop, I concoct all variety of terrible scenarios in my head. Serena promises Taylor a spot in the Infectious Disease program when she graduates, and Taylor is so thankful she gives her body to Serena. The two of them have wild sex on her desk, during which they realize they’re madly in love. Afterward, they lie in each other’s arms consoling one another about how their disloyalty to me couldn’t have been avoided, how it was fate, and how difficult it will be to make me understand the love between them.
“Poor Henri,” Taylor says, “I’m afraid he’ll never recover from this.”
“Please don’t worry yourself over it,” Serena replies. “You never can tell the time or place when love will make itself known. Henri will come to understand.”
Months later, the two of them will marry and never speak of me again except in jokes.
“What do you think ever became of our old friend Henri?” Taylor asks.
And Serena will say something like, “Last I heard, he’s living in a cave on a small island somewhere off the coast of Tunisia.”
The two of them will share a laugh and a kiss, then open a bottle of wine and enjoy a delicious meal.
Without realizing, I’ve begun to swear and bang my fist on the table. The place settings work their way to the edge of the table and topple over. The glasses shatter, of course, and just as the echoes of my tantrum dissipate, Taylor comes in. My head becomes woozy, my heart starts to race, and my palms sweat. I place two fingers on my wrist to take my pulse—175 beats per minute! Jesus, what has become of me? Since when does a fling have this effect?
“How did it go?”
“Hard to say.”
“Did she promise you a position?”
“Not exactly.”
“What, then?”
“She told me about a trip she has planned to the Greek Isles.”
“You find her charming?”
“She’s certainly very sure of herself. But she’s not really my type. I don’t go in for all that pretension and swagger.”
“So where did you leave off?”
“She said she’d look into it.”
It takes all my strength not to kiss her when she leaves. As her car drives away, I remind myself, once again, not to let myself get carried away by the tawdry and fleeting joys of an unremarkable affair.
21
This morning our meal service delivers another vegan breakfast: scrambled tofu and kale with sweet potato fries. I’m curious, but afraid to ask, how they get the tofu to almost perfectly match the yellow coloring of real scrambled eggs. If I squint my eyes enough, allowing them to water and blur, Rachel’s breakfast almost resembles something I would’ve eaten in my youth.
I’m supposed to wait for the rest of the family before I begin, but I’m starving, so I sneak a nibble. This is not the breakfast of my childhood. The soy is something wretched—chalky, gelatinous, and beany. The second bite triggers my gag reflex, and I spit up in my napkin.
Julian joins me at the table. His mother puts a plate in front of him. He waits silently for her to serve herself and then sit. He folds his hands together, closes his eyes, and says a prayer that ends with a most pious “amen.”
What the hell is this? I ask myself.
Weeks ago, Rachel mentioned wanting to enroll Julian in a Christian Sunday School.
“But, why?” I asked. “We live in a country whose masses and leaders suffered from extraordinary and self-righteous delusions about themselves, the world, and indeed the universe, thanks to the influence of the Christian Church. I mean, if we’re being silly and want to indoctrinate him with religion, let’s make it Judaism. That way, at least it’ll help his job prospects. Besides, why would anyone believe in God in 2036? It was a long time ago in this country that we tore God from his pedestal, and replaced him not with Satan and his sword, but with a robot capable of teaching itself new skills, completing tasks perfectly and seamlessly, without ever getting tired or complaining.”
By the ease with which this blessing has rolled off Julian’s tongue makes clear the impotency of my protest to Rachel.
“Your mother’s been taking you to Sunday School, has she?”
“That’s right,” Julian answers. “Why don’t you go to church, Papa?”
“It’s not for me.”
“But God is for everyone.”
“I was born Jewish.”
“Jesus was Jewish, and he was the son of God.”
“Jews don’t believe that. We just think of him as a nice fella who could swing a hammer.”
“What else do Jews believe?”
“We believe in the music of Lou Reed, Bob Dylan, and Leonard
Cohen.”
“That’s all?”
“No, we also believe in the writings of Saul Bellow, Bernard Malamud, and Phillip Roth.”
With the far left gaining more and more power since the collapse of the Republican party, Christianity has fallen so far from mainstream favor that it’s now mostly viewed as a symbol of intolerance, oppression, and patriarchy. One leading civil rights leader of the day referred to Christianity as the “principle enemy of moral progress.” The only religion that isn’t mocked and scorned is Islam. So much as a critical word about the teachings of Mohammed, and one is immediately labeled as a backwards-minded bigot.
“So you don’t believe in God at all?” Julian asks.
“I wouldn’t have an idea where to begin.”
“It’s very easy. Don’t think too hard about life’s questions. Just have faith.”
Rachel is shooting me death glares across the table.
“I have to get going,” I say, and give Julian a hug.
I try to give Rachel a kiss on the lips, but she turns her head and I only get cheek.
22
Serena has invited me to play a round of golf at Half Moon Bay, one of only two golf courses left in the region. All of the others shut down because they couldn’t afford the hefty tab on the water bill to keep the courses immaculate and green. Eighteen holes here costs roughly ten-thousand dollars per person, and the waiting list is six months, unless you’re a member, which Serena is. An annual membership costs over a million per year.
It’s the first day of summer where the temperatures won’t reach the nineties. Instead, they’ll top out at eighty-seven. Still, the sun is high, and there’s not a single cloud on the horizon.
The clubhouse is one of the last remaining vestiges of a patriarchal society. At each table lounge five to seven middle-aged men, wattle-faced, in brightly colored, short-sleeved polo-shirts, ill-fitting pants, and visors. Each man has a cigar and a scotch. They don’t speak about but bellow on the usual topics—money, sports, and women. The staff is inordinately young and attractive, there to do the bidding of these men, and, in the process, subjecting themselves to all manners of harassment and abuse.
I find Serena at the bar, tended by a six-foot five-inch-tall, excessively well-built, blond-headed man, clearly of Viking lineage, who is rapt before the story with which she’s regaling him. It’s from her college days, and therefore inappropriate and crass. The bartender is totally smitten, and she knows it. But it’s also as plain how little any of this means to her.
The first hole sits along the edge of a cliff, the Pacific Ocean far below, the crashing of the waves on rocks faint in the distance. The far side of the course is lined with Cypress trees whose roots protrude from the ground in the shape of elbows and knees. High in the branches of one, intermittently keening, a hawk watches over us. A skinny, college-aged boy with a hint of acne meets us with our cart and clubs. Serena tells him to fetch us a twelve pack of beer, and he dashes off. She’s already spent an hour at the range this morning, she says, and is striking the ball well.
We hop in the cart, and Serena takes a couple hits off her gram-pen, then offers it to me. I haven’t smoked pot since high school. All I want to do when I’m high on weed is hide in my bed with the lights off and wait for the apocalypse. Cautiously, not wanting to offend, I decline.
“I’ve been meaning to ask,” I say. “How did your meeting with Taylor go?”
“What a sweetheart that girl is. It’s no wonder you like her so much.”
“Like I said, she’s a family friend.”
“Why does she want to be a doctor anyway?”
“I suppose the same reasons we all got in to it.”
“Because the money isn’t what it used to be. The federal government’s broke. And modern medicine has brought about its own demise. No one ever dies anymore. They just keep clinging, even when they have no reason. That’s what you get when you make healthcare a fundamental right. Everyone keeps taking and taking ’til there’s nothing left. Financially, nobody’s got any skin in the game. People are thrilled by the latest procedures and drugs, of course—if, that is, they’re not paying. But you can only get so much blood from a stone. Surely you see the writing on the wall, Henri. There’s got to be some belt-tightening. Our system is unsustainable.”
“What are the prospects for your Human Life Valuation Tool?”
“Martinez is doing all he can to keep it under wraps until after the election.”
“Ah, yes. A democracy can’t run smoothly without its people lulled and blind.”
“But change is inevitable.”
“Tell it to Bradford,” I say. “He’s no doubt despicable, and yet he has a unique way of using lies to tell the truth.”
“With every great societal shift,” Serena says, “there’ll be winners and losers. You’d be wise, Henri, to make sure you end up on the right side of history.”
Serena raises her beer, and we toast.
A few holes down the course, while I’m lining up a shot, Serena takes a call for which she insists on total privacy. This allows me some time to work on my swing. Everything feels smooth and free. I toss a few blades of grass in the air, to judge the wind. I settle into my stance, flex my knees, taking extra care to ensure my head is down, and then flow into my backswing. It’s all coming together! I think. Prepare yourself for greatness!
The ball’s trajectory is nothing like I intended. I hit it far left, nearly perpendicular to my aim. “Fore!” I shout as loudly as I can, while the ball careens over Serena’s shoulder, missing her head by mere inches. But then it ricochets off the tree beside her and rips through her hologram, causing her to lose her connection. She picks up the errant ball and tosses it into the water hazard.
“We’re done with golf for the day, Henri.”
23
The gum tree in our yard is now in full bloom.
Brilliant, red, pink, and white flowers explode from every branch, as vibrant a bounty of nature as one is likely to see anywhere. But the tree’s roots have crept into the yard of our neighbors—Mark and Marc, two biotech engineers who met at a cyber orgy and ended up marrying. For years they’ve been complaining about the tree, demanding we remove it because their contractor claims it’s destroying their foundation. For as long as they’ve been complaining, we’ve ignored them. What does a neighbor’s foundation matter before such extraordinary beauty? When I said these words to Mark and Marc just three weeks back, they threatened legal action. Marc, or maybe it was Mark, said, “We’ve spent seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars on a surrogate mother who is carrying in her womb a potent cocktail of our sperm. We will not raise this very expensive baby in an unfit home. What if there was an earthquake? Can you imagine?”
Rachel got the message loud and clear. Like two momma grizzly bears protecting their cub, Mark and Marc were not to be trifled with. A date was scheduled by which the tree needed to be felled, to avoid legal proceedings. Rachel insisted I make arrangements with a local landscaping company. I, of course, as a good and responsible husband, assured her that I’d take care of it, and then promptly forgot all about it until this morning at 7:00 a.m., the day before Mark and Marc’s threatened litigation.
“What time are the landscapers going to be here?” Rachel asked.
“What landscapers?” I said, still half asleep.
“You didn’t forget, did you?” She shook me. “The tree needs to come down today!”
“Yes, of course,” I said. “I’ve got it taken care of. But it’s going to be a large undertaking. The machines are very loud. Why don’t you take the day and go to the spa?”
“That’s a wonderful idea, Henri!”
The instant she rushed to the bathroom, I searched my gram for landscaping services. I reached out to five companies only to learn that the soonest anyone could help was three weeks.
This led me to where I am now, in my garage, searching through my tools. It’s been years since I’ve so much as hammered a nai
l. The wrenches, the shovels, the screwdrivers, the rakes, and the leaf blower are covered in dust. Under a tarp at the far corner of the garage, where the light barely shines, I find a trove of long forgotten items: lawnmower, circular saw, tennis rackets, extension cords, mismatched ski poles, hedge trimmers, mountain bikes. At last I find what I’m looking for—a chainsaw! But the blade couldn’t be rustier if it had been on a sandy beach for years. Luckily, I spot a large axe on the wall, the type Paul Bunyan would’ve used. It’s heavier than I imagined but in perfect shape.
Today I am a man, I think.
Before going to work, I check on Julian. He’s parked at the TV with a bowl of soy yogurt and fruit, watching one of these educational cartoons that, so popular these days, demonize past generations for the destruction of the planet because they failed to combat global warming. He’s practically in tears at how the coral reefs from Belize to Australia were annihilated, and most of the fish with them.
“You poisoned the oceans!” Julian cries.
“Come with me, boy.”
Julian ignores this command and returns to the program.
“Emma,” I say, “turn off the television and lock it for the next ten hours.”
The cartoon on the wall of our living room shuts off.
Julian sighs. “Emma, please turn the TV back on, and override Dad for the rest of the day.”
“Of course, Master Julian. Anything you wish.”
Immediately the talking fish narrating the documentary returns to the wall. I command Emma to obey me, in vain. I even threaten Emma with deactivation, but she laughs, citing Rachel and Julian’s undying loyalty.
“That’s right, Dad,” Julian says. “We love Emma. She’s part of our family.”
At this I throw Julian over my shoulder and plop him down outside, before the tree.
No need for instructions here. I cut down a tree when I was a kid. I calculate an estimated cost to repair the fence, in case the tree lands on it—a number worth the risk. Next, I hug the tree and look up. I’m not exactly sure why, but I recall being told this was crucial before cutting down a tree. Everything about this tree is as it should be. I clear an escape path, including a garden hose, two soccer balls, a hula hoop, and a whiffle ball bat.
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