Nathaniel Rich - Odds Against Tomorrow

“Everything all right, Ms. Eppler?” said Large Keith. He was standing in the gate, his arms crossed in front of his sequoia chest, keeping an eye on the neighbors. His titanic dome gleamed in the sunlight, slippery with perspiration. “You need me to go in?”

Behind him she could see that the couple from down the block — David and his wife with the overbite, what the heck was the poor girl’s name? — were sauntering over. She stepped outside the gate.

“Andrea and I have been worried about him,” said David, waving. “He still only comes out at night. We watch him from our house. You know, just to make certain he doesn’t get into any trouble.”

“He’s fine,” she said. “Same as always.”

“Could you tell him the offer still stands?” said Andrea. “Our shack isn’t finished yet, but we’d really love to have him over sometime. I mean, once he’s ready.”

“I’ll tell him.”

“The Tildas are having a party tomorrow,” said David. “Everyone’s going to be there. We’d like very much to see him.”

She nodded. “I’ll stop by when we’re done here. I have the PV modules.” She could see the relief on their faces.

Once they’d returned to their hut and were safely out of earshot, she informed Large Keith that Mitchell was missing.

“This kind of thing?” Keith shook his head. “It’s not sustainable. No man can live like this.”

“I don’t know what to do.”

“Want me to unload the supplies?”

“Maybe we should wait,” she said. “I mean, maybe the best—”

They were interrupted by a skitter of falling gravel, then three loud plunks as something bounced off the top of the perimeter wall, then off the roof of the limousine, and landed in the dirt. Jane looked up. There was nothing to see except a thin plume of dust where the object had skimmed the top of the wall. They ran around to the other side of the limousine. On the ground lay a fat metal bolt.

“Mother Mary.”

“The roof,” said Large Keith. “I’m coming this time. That could’ve killed one of us.”

“Keith? Stay here.”

He gave her a long, cold, squinty stare, the kind of look he must have used to traumatize the offensive tackle at the line of scrimmage.

“Please. You know how he feels about visitors.”

She ran back through the arbor, fumbled the keys, dropped them in the dirt, picked them up, turned them in the lock. She sprinted across the atrium, through the creaking turnstile, up the stairs— thwap-thwap, thwap-thwap, thwap-thwap —to the third floor. Then — of course, why hadn’t she thought of it before? — she walked to the back of the building, where she ascended the final half flight of steep metal stairs. She pushed with all her weight on the security bar. The heavy steel door burst open, and she was in the open air. And there on the blacktop, facing her, was a filthy bearded man with curly hair that danced mazurkas off his head in every direction. He was shirtless, his chest a dull brown, his arms nicked and blemished like someone who has run through brambles. Of course he probably had run through brambles. He probably did every time he went for a night marsh soak. He was wearing only dirty green slacks and a pair of black boots. She recognized the boots, of course. They were Mountainsiders. She’d given them to him.

Every month she had scrutinized him for signs of impending madness. There were signs, starting with the beard (which looked more feral than ever, a chaotic blizzard), but until now they hadn’t added up to anything verifiable — or certifiable. Mitchell didn’t rant about pantheism or spirit liberation, he didn’t wear energy bracelets or anti-EMF diadems, and he hadn’t sworn off soap or toothpaste (though deodorant, based on anecdotal evidence, appeared to have fallen out of favor). But the jury was still deliberating. She was the jury.

“Jane?” said Mitchell.

“I was worried.”

“Why?”

He was holding a hammer. She noticed now the white PVC tubes, the power drill, the open toolbox with its contents disgorged around it like a split belly, the boxes of nails and screws — and bolts.

“What are you doing?”

“Trying to improve the rain catchment system,” he said. “What’s wrong with you?”

“Nothing. I was just … annoyed. I couldn’t find you.”

Mitchell put down the hammer and put his hand on her collarbone. He smelled awful. Like a wild animal.

“Jane. How many times do I have to tell you.”

“I know.”

“I’m fine.”

“Great. But you need to take a shower. I know you’re not in modern society anymore, but this is crazy hobo territory.”

“Actually that’s what I’m doing up here.” He smiled faintly, from a faraway place, and lowered his arm. “The gutters catch the rainwater, it drains through the PVC into barrels on the ground. I’ll warm the water with the solar heater. And then I can take a hot shower.”

“Well,” said Jane. “That’s neat.”

“Isn’t it?”

“I have the stuff you wanted.”

“Thanks. I’ll help Keith unload.”

“I also got you a present. You can open it after you take your first shower.”

“Hm. I think I know what it is. Hey, did Tibor and Rikki write?”

“There’s a package in the car. Also the guy from The Wall Street Journal keeps calling. Did you ever read his article?”

“I don’t read articles.”

“Well now he has a book deal. A kind of biography. It begins with his memories of you in college. The day of Seattle and all that.”

“Convenient.”

“He’s a nice guy. Smart. But he does want you to sit for an interview, or several. He says if you don’t, he’ll be forced to imagine things from your perspective so that he can put the reader inside your head.”

“Is that supposed to be a threat?”

Jane shrugged. “Look, I don’t care. What should I tell him?”

“He can talk to you or my parents, or even Charnoble. But I don’t want to hear about it again.”

“I have one other message for you.”

“Who?”

She smiled uneasily.

“Did you give them the spiel? Off the grid, no interviews, no donations—”

“No.”

“What? Why not?”

“The message is from Elsa Bruner.”

“Elsa Bruner.”

“She called Future Days.”

Mitchell recoiled. His mouth underwent a violent contortion. It was like he had seen a ghost.

“She’s alive ?”

Jane told him about Elsa’s recovery, her decision to undergo open-heart surgery to implant an automatic cardiac defibrillator — a device that carried a number of risks, but seemed necessary given the alternative. There were three months of physical therapy, during which she had begun to study for the LSAT.

“Absurd. She didn’t even finish college. You’re lying. This isn’t nice.”

“But she’s been accepted. Stanford.”

The look on Mitchell’s face was a mixture of befuddlement and high skepticism. At least that’s what she guessed. The beard blocked everything. It was like the perimeter wall. It not only kept you out, it kept you from getting too close.

“I can’t believe it.”

“I don’t think she would lie about it.”

“I can’t believe she’s alive.”

“She’s going to study environmental law.”

“It doesn’t sound like the Elsa Bruner I knew.”

“She’s not the Elsa Bruner you knew.”

“I don’t want to see her.”

“You have about three months to think about it. She has a summer job downtown at some environmental law firm. Not far from Future Days, in fact.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“She’d like to visit you.”

“Enough.”