Christian Kiefer - The Infinite Tides

“I’m doing good,” Eriksson said. “Doing good. But I’m calling to find out how you’re doing.”

“What?” Keith said.

“I want to know how you’re doing,” Eriksson said again.

“No,” Keith said. “Hang on. I’m at Starbucks.” Then to the girl at the counter: “What?”

She told him the price again and he fished out his wallet. “Sorry about that,” he said into the phone.

“Hey, no problem,” Eriksson said. “So how you doing?”

“Fine. Grabbing a cup of coffee.” He handed the girl his credit card and she pulled it through the edge of the register and then handed him the card and the receipt.

“Yeah? You been home?”

“Home,” Keith said. “Well, yeah.”

“And?”

“And I’m getting the house ready to sell.”

“Is that what you decided?”

“Yes, that’s what I decided.” She handed him a paper cup and he took it and mouthed a thank you and then cradled the phone awkwardly against his ear with his shoulder and carried his bag and coffee to a padded chair at the back of the room.

“She there?”

“Barb?”

“Yeah, Barb. Who else?”

“OK,” Keith said. “No, she’s definitely not here.”

“That’s too bad.”

For a moment neither of them spoke. Then Keith said, “She really emptied me out.”

“How so?”

“There’s nothing in the house at all. The whole place is empty.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah, shit.”

“So what’s the plan?”

“Well, I’m looking for a realtor.”

“Any chance of counseling?”

“Marriage counseling? I don’t know. Maybe.”

“Is that something you want?”

“I want to sell the house. That’s what I want.”

“All right then,” Eriksson said.

A pause. Then Keith said, “Yeah. That’s about it. Get the house sold.”

“Then vacation somewhere?”

He looked at his coffee and then stood and walked to the small table near the counter and poured creamer and a packet of sugar into the cup. “Maybe,” he said.

“No maybes. Take a break, Keith. We all earned one. Especially you.”

“You said that before.”

“Yeah, but I feel like you’re not really hearing me.”

“I hear you.”

“All right. All right. Just looking out for the crew.”

“Mission’s over.”

“It’s over when I say it’s over,” Eriksson said. “So how’s the processor?”

“Funny. How’s yours?”

“Same sense of humor,” Eriksson said, not without irony. “Listen, the offer still stands, you know. You’re always welcome here.”

“I need to get this house thing done. I appreciate it, though.”

Keith could hear a child’s voice in the distance of the phone and Eriksson said, “Hang on,” and then, muffled, “Daddy’s on the phone. I’ll be off in just a second. No, you cannot have a Pop-Tart. Just wait a second until I’m off the phone.” And then, to Keith: “Sorry about that.”

“How are they?”

“Running me ragged.”

“I’ll bet.” Through the phone he could hear the sound of a child’s voice yelling, whether in joy or terror he could not tell.

“Oh, so that reminds me,” Eriksson said after a pause, “my wife keeps asking if you’ve looked at that book at all.”

“Book?”

“Yeah, that thing on the grieving process. She was asking me if it’s been helpful.”

“Oh yeah, sure. Tell her … tell her yeah it’s good. It’s been …” He paused a moment and then added, “helpful.” Another pause. Then, “Thank her for me.”

“Will do.”

“So look, you call me now and then. I want some check-ins.”

“You’ve got my number,” Keith said.

“I’m serious. Status updates.”

“OK,” Keith said. “Can you do me a favor?”

“Sure, buddy. Anything.”

“I asked Mullins for some files from my office. Can you see what the status of that is?”

“Yeah, OK. I’ll find out but you know you’re supposed to be taking a break.”

“Just find out. OK?”

“All right, I will.”

“Thank you,” Keith said.

“You’ll check in, right?”

“Yes,” Keith said.

“That’s all I wanted to hear,” Eriksson said. Then: “Talk to you later, buddy.”

“OK,” Keith said. “Talk to you later.”

He pocketed his phone again and then he lifted his bag and removed his laptop and opened it. He looked through his e-mail but there were no messages of note, only some general information about changes to health care, some budgetary updates, a newsletter or two. After a few moments he searched the Internet for local real estate agents and wrote them on the back of his coffee receipt and then found the addresses of a nearby building supply store. Then he closed the laptop and lifted the coffee cup and leaned back in the chair.

There was a discarded newspaper on the small table next to him and he retrieved it and flipped through its pages without any real interest. Fires in some adjacent county. Democrats dumping money into something. Economic downturns and rising joblessness.

The door opened and closed. A scattering of customers arriving and departing. The static of steam jets and the murmur of conversation.

He turned the newspaper over. Some hotel in foreclosure and, on the adjacent page, a claim that commercial real estate was remaining strong. The usual murders and crimes. Sports teams winning. Sports teams losing. A brief note about a comet set to crash into Earth, killing everything.

The door opened again and Keith glanced up to see a thickly built man in a red T-shirt who approached the counter and said, “Hello, Audrey,” in a booming voice. Keith could not hear the barista’s response but a moment later the man’s voice came again: “You look lovely today as usual.” He had an accent of some kind. Keith thought it was likely Russian or Ukrainian. His body was low to the ground and squared off as if it had been carved roughly from a block of wood and his face was friendly even though it too was all square angles below a thatch of close-cropped salt-and-pepper hair. He wore a red vest that was stretched over his similarly red T-shirt with a name tag Keith could not read. Coming from work, then. “Time now for morning mocha,” he said.

“Of course it is,” the barista said, loud enough that Keith could hear her this time and when she came into view from behind the register, he could see that she was smiling broadly.

“And are you having good day today?” the man said.

“Sure,” she said.

“Good day for me also,” he said. He shifted his eyes toward the back of the shop where Keith sat with the paper and said, in a voice that was near shouting: “Hello! What is big news this morning then?”

Keith blinked. “Oh,” he said. “Not much.”

“No?” the man said.

“Well,” he said, glancing at the paper again, weighing for the briefest moment whether or not the man was actually asking him a question or if he was simply making small talk to the only other customer in the shop. “OK,” Keith said, his eyes fixing on a headline, “we’re apparently going to be killed by a comet.”

“Ah yes, about this I know something. Don’t be worried.”

“I wasn’t,” Keith said.

“Good thing!” the man shouted. Then he turned back to the counter again.

The barista worked at her machine of hissing and bubbling and a moment later she handed the man a cup and he paid her.

Keith finished his coffee and stood and lifted his laptop bag, dropping the newspaper to an adjacent table.

As he passed the counter, the barista looked up at him. “See you next time,” she said.

Keith nodded, said, “Take care,” and was at the door when the Russian man said, “NASA?”