Jonathan Franzen - Freedom

“In Washington?”

“Yes.”

“Figures.”

“That’s where we’re based.”

“Right. It’s where everything’s based.”

“Jocelyn, we have fifty thousand acres here that will never be touched in any way. The rest of it will be successional within a few years. I think we’ve made some very good decisions.”

“I guess we disagree about that, then.”

“Seriously think about joining us in Washington on Monday. And have your friend at the Gazette give me a call today.” Walter gave Zorn a business card from his wallet. “Tell him we’d love to bring him to Washington, too, if he’s interested.”

From farther up in the hills came a murmur of thunder that sounded like blasting, probably up at Forster Hollow. Zorn put the business card in a pocket of her rain parka. “By the way,” she said, “I’ve been talking to Coyle Mathis. I already know what you’re doing.”

“Coyle Mathis is legally barred from discussing it,” Walter said. “I’m happy to sit down with you and talk about it myself, though.”

“The fact that he’s living in a brand-new five-bedroom ranch house in Whitmanville speaks for itself.”

“That’s a nice house, isn’t it?” Lalitha said. “Much, much nicer than where he was.”

“You might want to pay him a visit and see if he agrees with you about that.”

“Anyway,” Walter said, “you need to move your cars out of the way so we can get through.”

“Hm,” Zorn said, uninterested. “I guess you could call somebody to tow us, if there were cell reception here. Which there isn’t.”

“Oh, come on, Jocelyn.” Walter’s anger was outflanking his barricades against it. “Can we at least be adults about this? Acknowledge that we’re fundamentally on the same side, even if we disagree about our methods?”

“Sorry, no,” she said. “My method is to block the road.”

Not trusting himself to say more, Walter strode up the hill and let Lalitha hurry after him. A flail, the whole morning was becoming a flail. The hard-hatted manager, who looked no older than Jessica, was explaining to the other women, with remarkable courtesy, why they needed to move their cars. “Do you have a radio?” Walter asked him abruptly.

“I’m sorry. Who are you?”

“I’m the director of the Cerulean Mountain Trust. We were expected at the top of the road at six o’clock.”

“Right, sir. I’m afraid that’s going to be a problem if these ladies don’t move their cars.”

“Well, then, how about radioing for somebody to come down and get us?”

“Out of range, unfortunately. These damned hollers are dead zones.”

“OK.” Walter took a deep breath. He could see a pickup parked beyond the gate. “Maybe you can run us up in your truck, then.”

“I’m afraid I’m not authorized to leave the gate area.”

“Well, then, lend it to us.”

“I can’t do that, either, sir. You’re not insured for it on the work site. But if these ladies would just move aside for a sec, you’d be free to proceed in your own vehicle.”

Walter turned to the women, none of whom looked younger than sixty, and smiled in vague supplication. “Please?” he said. “We’re not with a coal company. We’re conservationists.”

“Conservationists my ass!” the oldest one said.

“No, seriously,” Lalitha said in a soothing tone. “It would be to everyone’s benefit if you would let us through. We’re here to monitor the work and make sure it’s being done responsibly. We’re very much on your side, and we share your concerns about the environment. In fact, if one or two of you would like to come along with us—”

“I’m afraid that’s not authorized,” the manager said.

“Fuck the authorization!” Walter said. “We need to get through here! I own this fucking land! Do you understand that? I own everything you can see here. ”

“How you likin’ it?” the oldest woman said to him. “Doesn’t feel so good now, does it? Being on the wrong side of the fence.”

“You’re more than free to walk in, sir,” the manager said, “although it’s a pretty far piece. I reckon you’re looking at two hours with all the mud.”

“Just lend me the truck, OK? I will indemnify you, or you can say I stole it, or whatever you like. Just lend me the fucking truck.”

Walter felt Lalitha’s hand on his arm. “Walter? Let’s go sit in the car for a minute.” She turned to the women. “We’re very much on your side, and we appreciate your coming out to show your concern for this wonderful forest, which we’re very dedicated to preserving.”

“Interesting way you got of going about that,” the oldest woman said.

As Lalitha led Walter back down toward the rental car, they could hear heavy equipment coming rumbling up the road behind it. The rumble became a roar which then resolved itself into a pair of giant, road-wide backhoes with mud-caked tractors. The driver of the front one left the engine coughing out fumes while he hopped down for a word with Walter.

“Sir, you’re going to have to move your vehicle up ahead to where we can pass it.”

“Does it look like I can do that?” he said wildly. “Is that what it fucking looks like to you?”

“I wouldn’t know, sir. But we can’t be backing up. Be near a mile back down to a turnout.”

Before Walter could get even angrier, Lalitha took him by both arms and peered up fervently into his face. “You have to let me handle this. You’re too upset now.”

“I’m upset for good reason!”

“Walter. Sit in the car . Now.”

He did as he was told. He sat for more than an hour, fiddling with his non-receiving BlackBerry and listening to the mindless waste of fossil fuels as the backhoe behind him idled. When the driver finally thought to turn it off, he heard a chorus of engines from farther back—another four or five heavy trucks and earthmovers were backed up now. Somebody needed to summon the state police to deal with Zorn and her zealots. In the meantime, incredibly, in deepest Wyoming County, he was stopped dead in traffic. Lalitha was running up and down the road, conferring with the various parties, doing her best to spread goodwill. To pass the time, Walter did mental tallies of what had gone wrong in the world in the hours since he’d awakened in the Days Inn. Net population gain: 60,000. New acres of American sprawl: 1,000. Birds killed by domestic and feral cats in the United States: 500,000. Barrels of oil burned worldwide: 12,000,000. Metric tons of carbon dioxide dumped into the atmosphere: 11,000,000. Sharks murdered for their fins and left floating finless in the water: 150,000 . . . The tallies, which he recalculated as the hour grew even later, brought him a strange spiteful satisfaction. There are days so bad that only their worsening, only a descent into an outright orgy of badness, can redeem them.

It was getting on toward nine o’clock when Lalitha returned to him. One of the drivers, she said, had found a spot two hundred yards back down the road where a passenger car could pull off and let the big equipment pass. The rearmost driver was going to back his truck all the way down to the highway and phone for the police.

“Do you want to try to walk up to Forster Hollow?” Walter said.

“No,” Lalitha said, “I want us to leave immediately. Jocelyn has a camera. We don’t want to be photographed anywhere near a police action.”

There ensued half an hour of grinding gears and squawking brakes and black bursts of diesel smoke, followed by a further forty-five minutes of breathing the rear truck’s foul exhaust as it inched backward down the valley. Out on the highway at last, in the freedom of the open road, Lalitha drove back toward Beckley at frantic speeds, flooring the gas on the shortest of straightaways, leaving rubber on the curves.