Matt Richtel - The Cloud

She’s in deep thought, or a trance, something I’ve learned not to interrupt. Not that I want to. Seeing the Witch means poking the wound I’ve just discovered.

I start to walk to the futon. I’m going to lie down on it and then get up again when I’m struck by any urge of any kind that seems more powerful than the urge to lie on the futon.

But, then, I’ve forgotten the lure of my mobile phone. En route to the futon, I remember that it-my iPhone-is dead for wont of a charge. I beeline to the desk to plug it in, genuinely rueful at the inescapable need to attend to my device. I find the power cord plugged into the wall behind my computer. I insert it into the device. I see the picture of Isaac on the desk. It’s the one I took with this self-same phone, the image I emailed to myself and printed out, wanting, perversely, to keep alive some memento of all the things I lost. Equally inexplicably, I kept tacking it to my wall, no doubt one of the many small missteps I made that allowed me to create a virtual reality, concussion enhanced, that left me believing that Isaac never died.

I pick up the photo.

I turn around. The Witch stares at me. With her hands folded in her lap, as in the shape of a cup, she looks like a statue you’d see in some comically peaceful Asian rock garden. Water should be flowing from her lips into her hand cup.

I take the picture and I lay it on the desk. Facedown.

This elicits no discernable reaction from Samantha. Maybe her eyes soften. Maybe I’m projecting. She tilts her head back and looks up in the direction of the water-stain tarantula, then closes her eyes.

My phone chirps, suddenly juiced, coming to life. On it, the clock reads 12:05. What day, though? Then the phone, as if reading my mind, beeps again. The calendar pops up, reminding me I’ve got an appointment in three hours. It’s the tax hearing.

I wonder if I’ll make it.

I plod to the futon. I plop down. I fall asleep. I don’t dream.

I feel warmth on my hand. I open my eyes. The Witch sandwiches my fingers between her palms, bringing me to life as if an anesthesiologist gently awakening a cardiac patient from a post-surgical haze.

“Your phone says you’ve got a meeting at three,” she says.

“What time is it?”

“Twenty minutes until your meeting.”

I sit up and prop my back against the wall.

“I’m glad you’ve stopped running.”

“Yeah, maybe.”

She cocks her head. I imagine she’s seeing all kinds of different Karmic colors swirling around me.

“What if I’m running to something, instead of away from something?”

“Are you?”

I stand up. I walk to my desk and I pick up my phone.

“Nathaniel, have you ever?”

“May I say something important?”

“Please.”

“I hope you and Bullseye aren’t using lubricants that support radical extremists.”

She laughs. “I saw that sign. Don’t worry. Our love oils are certified organic.”

Outside, I climb into my car and see a familiar face or, rather, two. Sandy Vello and boyfriend, Clyde. They sit across the street from my office in a pickup truck-Clyde’s, I presume. When I stare at them, they first pretend not to see me. Then Clyde starts the truck and speeds off.

I suspect they are no threat, though I’ll need to deal with Sandy again at some point. Not when I’ve got a date in court.

The magistrate wears a pantsuit and a grim visage. Making sure to alternately make eye contact with me and a mousy man with a small head and a full beard sitting across an oak table from me, she explains she’s not a judge but a state-appointed arbiter. Do we have any questions about that?

Just: Why am I here?

“I’m not being cute,” I say. “I got served two or three days ago.”

“You know about your responsibility to pay taxes,” says the man, the Internal Revenue Service rep.

The magistrate holds out her hand, nun-style, urging calm. Her hair is pulled so tightly into a bun, I see scalp.

Overhead, one of the filament lights blinks out, making the boxy bureaucratic room even dimmer.

The magistrate looks at me. “This revolves around the estate of Pauline Sanchez.”

I nod. Of course. I clear my throat. “How much is she in arrears?”

“Not she,” the mousy man says. “You. Nine hundred and fifty thousand dollars. Plus penalties. We’ll not settle for a penny less.”

I shrug. Okay. “Why me?”

“Is this guy for real?”

The magistrate cautions him again with her hands, palms down. “Mr. Idle, you understand you have to pay the estate tax on what you inherited.”

“On the apartment and the car. I’m sorry, I. .”

The mousy man seems to soften. It dawns on him that I am not merely playing ignorant.

“You’re the journalist,” he says.

I nod.

“You obviously know you’ve got to pay the tax not just on the hard goods but also the liquid assets.” It’s not confrontational anymore, a tonal olive branch.

I shake my head. “I don’t. .”

“The cash,” the magistrate interjects. “Several million dollars in. .” She looks down at the file. Something seems to dawn on her too. “It was in a trust but payable to you in the event of. .” She trails off.

“You’re aware of the inheritance.” The tax man blinks rapidly.

I’m aware, vaguely. Even before she died, I had already moved into Polly’s house and started driving her car, all at her behest so that I’d be ready to take care of Isaac. Subsequent to their deaths, I’d been contacted on several occasions by an executor with regard to Polly’s estate but I’d asked him to take care of it, figuring she had her own cadre of money people. I recall him telling me I was in line to inherit a substantial sum of money. But, I kept thinking, for what? For being the helpless guy who watched the whole thing fall apart, who sat on the sidelines with the medical degree and the reporter’s notebook?

I’d asked him to give the money to Polly’s brother. I seem to recall that the executor had told me that, given the brother’s substance-abuse problems, Polly had wanted the lion’s share to go to me.

I remember getting letters from the lawyer and some from the IRS. I piled them up on the end table at the front of the flat I inherited and never quite took ownership of.

The magistrate clears her throat. “I’m going to order a continuation, Mr. Idle. Get yourself a good accountant.”

I nod.

“I’m sorry.” She puts her sun-cracked hand on my arm. “No one should lose a child.”

Iput the Audi into drive and take a right out of the lot. No one should ever lose a child.

I pull to the side of the road, next to a yellow-painted curb, which, if memory serves, means I can be fed to piranhas if caught parking here. I pull my phone from my pocket. I dial Jill Gilkeson.

“Hi.” She’s lifeless in a way I now get.

“I’m sorry to bother you. One more question regarding all the fine work that Mr. Leviathan’s done.”

“Shoot.”

“Were there any others who worked with you early on at Leviathan Ventures, people who could attest to the germs of his efforts?”

She asks for a second to think about it. She starts listing names, thinking aloud. She promises to get me contact info for the ones she can find. She asks if she should just email me the names and contact info and I say sure. I’m fishing for something, not really sure what, when it leaps onto my boat.

“I’d appreciate if you didn’t call the Gearsons. Lena and Erik.”

“Sure. They don’t get along with Mr. Leviathan?”

“Oh no, not that. They just lost their son. He was friends with Jill, my daughter. A long time ago. He died earlier this year. He was one of those kids at Los Altos High School.”