Epitaph Road Page 4

  “You, too, Kellen.”

  The girls in his group milled around, casually brushing up against us with their shoulders, elbows, hips. They didn’t look at us. They pretended it was accidental. The contact, not just at school but everywhere, bothered me at first, but I’d gotten older, and accustomed to the uncomfortable yet comforting feeling that girls were so close to me, that they wanted to be.

  Aunt Paige said not to get a big head over it, that girls were curious about anyone with different body parts, and getting close kind of satisfied that curiosity. I knew she was right. Ernie, with his sad face and unsociable ways, was proof of that.

  When we passed through the lobby on the way out, I got a little too near The Groundskeeper and Petey. Somehow, in the midst of all the smells surrounding her, she picked out mine. Or maybe she just assumed I was somewhere in the pack of departing kids. Maybe she was showing off for the new girls. “Safe journeys, Kellen,” she sang out to me in her gravelly, sexy voice. She inhaled, big, and held it in as I walked by. She smiled. I couldn’t see her eyes, but I knew they were twinkling with mischief.

  “You, too, Petey,” I said.

  “That’s disgusting,” Tia said as we approached the door, but she was trying to hide a grin.

  “This ain’t Nebraska,” Sunday said. “It ain’t 2066.”

  We got on our bikes and headed for home. I told them to lead the way, see if they could avoid getting lost, pass the Seattle geography test, and I was sure they could, but they were content to cruise along beside me.

  When we got to the house, a strange car was parked in the driveway. I peered through its windows, looking for clues to its ownership. Two briefcases sat on the backseat; one of them looked familiar.

  Tia and Sunday didn’t care about the car or its contents. They were already on the front porch, opening the door. Just on the other side stood two women. One of them, old but tall and unbent, I didn’t recognize. The other one was a surprise.

  Forty-two years safeguarding his flock,

  but when the baddest bear came, her eyes fell on him.

  — EPITAPH FOR THE REVEREND DESHAWN TIMMS

  (JANUARY 18, 2000–AUGUST 8, 2067),

  BY LUCILLE TIMMS, HIS WIFE,

  NOVEMBER 6, 2068

  CHAPTER THREE

  A few days, Mom had told me when she left, and for once she’d been accurate. Her trip didn’t stretch out to a week or two or three. She spotted me, pushed past Tia and Sunday, and hurried down the steps. I met her halfway, and we tried to out-crush each other. It was a draw, but I was sure I’d get her next time. I was getting bigger and stronger; she was getting skinnier and older.

  She kissed me on the tip of the nose and both cheeks, something she’d learned on her travels to some foreign land, no doubt, a remnant of the Russian or French cultures. I half expected her to kiss my hand next. “I’m so happy to see you, Kellen,” she said, not letting go of my arm but allowing me to start for the house. “I missed you.”

  “Me, too,” I said, even though I hadn’t been that thrilled with her the last time we “visited.” And I hadn’t really had time to miss her. Three or four days or whatever it had been was a short absence for my globe-trotting mother. She said she was happy to see me, but her eyes didn’t look happy. They still looked tired. Once more, I wondered what was going on.

  We reached the front door, where Tia, Sunday, and the old woman were hanging out. I should have been embarrassed at Mom’s public display of missing me, but I wasn’t. I’d been under the microscope for so long, I’d quit caring.

  “Septiembre and Sunday, this is my mom, Dr. Heather Dent,” I said. The majority of kids — and I was in the majority — shared their mothers’ last names. Marriages, on the rare occasions they occurred, tended not to last. A lot of married men, even though they’d passed their trials and maybe had a kid, succumbed to the multiple temptations to wander, in every meaning of that word. Single dads were even less likely to stick around. Moms were the constants in kids’ lives.

  “Tia,” Tia said.

  “I love your names,” Mom said. “Sunday and Septiembre. How beautiful.”

  “Tia,” Tia repeated.

  “And this is Dr. Rebecca Mack,” Mom said, nodding toward the old woman, and I found myself instantly zeroing in on her. Up close her crumpled tissue-papery skin made her look older, but her eyes reminded me of the fierce, watchful eyes of an owl I once did a face-to-face with at wilderness camp.

  “Sunday,” she said, shaking Sunday’s hand warmly. “Septiembre.” Another friendly handshake, even though I was sure Rebecca Mack caught Tia’s eye roll at the use of her full name.

  “Rebecca, this is my son, Kellen,” Mom said, and it was my turn for a handshake.

  This one was even warmer. And for an old woman, she had a grip. She hung on tight while she smiled and said, “I’ve heard so much about you, Kellen. Your mother thinks you walk on water.”

  “Nice to meet you,” I lied. Besides being Mom’s demanding boss, Rebecca Mack was the chairwoman of PAC, the organization dedicated to keeping me from walking on water. Closing in on eighty years old, she was still running the worldwide show.

  What was she doing here? I wondered, but I didn’t ask. I knew what was okay by now, and asking about Mom’s work definitely wasn’t.

  I remembered Anderson once referring to the old lady as “Mack the Knife,” which prodded me to do a Net search. I’d discovered that “Mack the Knife” was a once-popular song originally written for a 1920s play called The Threepenny Opera. That was about as far as my curiosity took me. I chalked up the nickname to the good doctor maybe having a background as a surgeon before moving into her current line of work. It was as good a guess as any.

  We went inside, where the air felt heavy and lifeless, the colors looked murky. Mom and Rebecca Mack headed to the study, talking in low voices. The girls invited me to do homework with them at the kitchen table, but I was ready for breathing space. I carried my backpack to my room, turned on some music, and hit the button on my e-spond to load the assignment onto my desk display. In an instant the words HISTORY LESSONS, COURTESY OF PAC ARCHIVES, EXCERPTED FROM JUNKYARDDOG.BITES, showed up on the big screen. But the vision of San Francisco evaporating was still stuck in my brain, replaying itself again and again. It shoved everything else to the fuzzy edges of my mind.

  I touched the PRINT command on the screen and my printer began spitting out the information while I sat and started spooling slowly through the stuff on the display. I noticed the heading again.

  HISTORY LESSONS, COURTESY OF PAC ARCHIVES, EXCERPTED FROM JUNKYARDDOG.BITES

  Now I was focused enough to wonder what PAC had to do with Anderson’s assignment. I puzzled over the question for a moment, but then I dove in. It looked like a big batch of heavyweight facts, and I didn’t have all day to devote to studying. I wasn’t going to obsess over this. I wasn’t Ernie.

  SEPTEMBER 15, 2035, JUNKYARDDOG.BITES — CHICAGO POLICE AND FEDERAL AUTHORITIES REPORT THEY HAVE NO SUSPECTS IN THE ASSASSINATION OF CONGRESSWOMAN AND LEADING PRESIDENTIAL CANDIDATE CHERYL BAUER LAST WEEK.

  DECEMBER 11, 2035, JUNKYARDDOG.BITES — EXECUTIVES OF CROWN INDUSTRIES, THE NATION’S LARGEST CONGLOMERATE, HAVE DISSOLVED ITS RETIREMENT BENEFITS PLAN, EMPTYING THE ACCOUNTS OF TEN MILLION EMPLOYEES AND RETIREES.

  JUNE 8, 2036, JUNKYARDDOG.BITES — A U.S. JUSTICE DEPARTMENT STUDY REVEALS THAT FOR THE FIRST TIME, THE NUMBER OF EIGHTEEN-TO TWENTY-TWO-YEAR-OLD MEN IN PRISON, JAIL, OR UNDER THE JURISDICTION OF THE COURT SYSTEM EXCEEDS THE NUMBER IN COLLEGE.

  AUGUST 2, 2036, JUNKYARDDOG.BITES — A MALE CALIFORNIA CONDOR NICKNAMED HAN SOLO, THE LAST KNOWN MEMBER OF A SPECIES SAVED FROM EXTINCTION MORE THAN A HALF CENTURY AGO, HAS DIED.

  NOVEMBER 21, 2036, JUNKYARDDOG.BITES — INDIA, SURPASSING 1.5 BILLION PEOPLE FOR THE FIRST TIME, NOW HAS AT LEAST A BILLION OF ITS CITIZENS LIVING BELOW THE POVERTY LEVEL. HALF OF THEM ARE IN EXTREME POVERTY AND FACING STARVATION.

  FEBRUARY 4, 2037, JUNKYARDOG.BITES — GLACIER NAT
IONAL PARK TODAY WAS RENAMED GOING TO THE SUN NATIONAL PARK. ITS LAST GLACIER HAS MELTED.

  True once, but when I was ten, Mom and I took the flash train to Montana. A new glacier was forming on a high peak at the park. People had come from all over the country to admire it, as if it were a newborn baby with the cutest nose ever. Mom cried when she saw it. Tears of elation, she said.

  APRIL 2, 2037, JUNKYARDDOG.BITES — OVER THE PAST DECADE, REPORTED INCIDENTS OF RAPE IN THE UNITED STATES HAVE INCREASED 176 PERCENT.

  MAY 10, 2037, JUNKYARDDOG.BITES — HOOD CANAL, A ONCE-PRISTINE BODY OF WATER ON WASHINGTON STATE’S OLYMPIC PENINSULA, NO LONGER SUPPORTS MARINE LIFE. A LONG SERIES OF FISH KILLS HAS LEFT NOTHING LIVING IN ITS OXYGEN-DEPLETED, PLASTIC-POISONED DEPTHS. WORLDWIDE, FISH POPULATION NOW STANDS AT 5 PERCENT OF 1900 LEVELS.

  Hood Canal. I thought about my dad, the fisherman. Mr. Lucky. What would he have done if the fish hadn’t made a comeback?

  MARCH 23, 2039, JUNKYARDDOG.BITES — CITING FAMILY FEARS LINGERING FROM THE ASSASSINATION OF PRESIDENTIAL HOPEFUL CHERYL BAUER PRIOR TO THE 2036 CAMPAIGN, SENATOR SUSAN ABRAMS TODAY WITHDREW FROM THE 2040 PRESIDENTIAL RACE.

  JUNE 3, 2044, JUNKYARDDOG.BITES — EXPLORATION TEAMS HAVE FOUND VAST OIL RESERVES UNDER ICELAND’S CRUST.

  JANUARY 27, 2045, JUNKYARDDOG.BITES — PRESIDENT MONTY STRONG ANNOUNCED TODAY THAT EVIDENCE OF WEAPONS OF MASS DESTRUCTION HAS BEEN UNCOVERED IN ICELAND.

  FEBRUARY 16, 2045, JUNKYARDDOG.BITES — WITH THE APPROVAL OF THE LEGISLATIVE BRANCH AND A SHRUG OF THE MEDIA’S SHOULDERS, THE UNITED STATES AND A CONSORTIUM OF OTHER OIL-POOR-BUT-HUNGRY COUNTRIES TODAY INVADED ICELAND.

  NOVEMBER 3, 2048, JUNKYARDDOG.BITES — PRESIDENT MONTY STRONG WAS REELECTED TO OFFICE EARLIER TODAY WITH AN UNEXPECTEDLY, AND SOME SAY SUSPICIOUSLY STRONG, SHOWING IN MIDWEST STATES.

  OCTOBER 17, 2049, JUNKYARDDOG.BITES — WITH POPULATION DENSITY AND SPRAWL BOTH REACHING CRITICAL MASS IN THE UNITED STATES, TRUE GRIDLOCK HAS SET IN. COMMONPLACE ARE HUNDRED-MILE, FOUR-HOUR COMMUTES AND CLOUDS OF TOXIC EMISSIONS BLANKETING CITIES AND SUBURBS AND HOVERING OVER RURAL AND WILDERNESS AREAS.

  AUGUST 3, 2050, JUNKYARDDOG.BITES — IRAQ HAS JOINED OTHER MIDDLE EASTERN COUNTRIES IN FURTHER TIGHTENING RESTRICTIONS ON FEMALES’ RIGHTS IN MARRIAGE, DRESS, EDUCATION, VOTING PRIVILEGES, AND ELIGIBILITY FOR PUBLIC OFFICE.

  SEPTEMBER 6, 2051, JUNKYARDDOG.BITES — THE SOON-TO-BE-DEFUNCT SOCIAL SECURITY ADMINISTRATION PAID OUT ITS LAST RETIREMENT BENEFIT YESTERDAY. STATES ARE GIRDING UP FOR A COLOSSAL INFLUX OF WELFARE APPLICANTS; LAW ENFORCEMENT AND EMERGENCY AGENCIES ARE SCRAMBLING TO PREPARE FOR A WINTER OF CRIME, VIOLENCE, AND DEATH; CHARITABLE ORGANIZATIONS ARE PLEADING FOR DONATIONS AND VOLUNTEER HELP.

  I recalled last semester’s history class. Female political leaders, lawmakers, and social workers reestablished Social Security in 2073, when they wrote the constitution for the new country of North America.

  MARCH 28, 2053, JUNKYARDDOG.BITES — WITH SUPPLIES OF OIL IN THE ENTIRE MIDDLE EAST WANING, THE REGION HAS TURNED TO A MORE RELIABLE INDUSTRY: DRUGS. THE BIGGEST IMPORTER, DESPITE THE FACT THAT ITS JAILS AND PRISONS ARE CRAMMED WITH PEOPLE CONVICTED OF DRUG-RELATED CRIMES: THE UNITED STATES.

  JULY 4, 2054, JUNKYARDDOG.BITES — OUR WORST FEAR HAS BEEN REALIZED.

  I pictured the morning’s lesson — San Francisco shedding its skin, the mushroom cloud rising above the city like a gloating grim reaper, surveying his handiwork.

  JULY 5, 2054, JUNKYARDDOG.BITES — MADMEN BLAME IT ON THE VICTIMS.

  JULY 6, 2054, JUNKYARDDOG.BITES — THE MADNESS CONTINUES.

  JULY 8, 2054, JUNKYARDDOG.BITES — WHEN WILL IT END?

  JULY 10, 2054, JUNKYARDDOG.BITES — PRESIDENT NAPPER’S ONEDAY IMPEACHMENT TRIAL HAS CONCLUDED WITH HIS REMOVAL FROM OFFICE. VICE PRESIDENT JAMES CORSON ASSUMES THE PRESIDENCY.

  JANUARY 21, 2059, JUNKYARDDOG.BITES — PRESIDENT CORSON’S ORDER FOR THE INVASION OF MEXICO WAS BASED ON A TERRORIST-INFESTED VISION FROM GOD, HE CLAIMS. HIS ORDER TO DEFOLIATE AND OCCUPY A FIVE-MILE-WIDE STRIP OF MEXICAN TERRITORY STRETCHING ALONG THE ENTIRE BORDER HAS COUNTRIES TO THE NORTH AND SOUTH OF THE UNITED STATES IN AN UPROAR.

  I shut down my computer and pushed back from my desk. I was having a hard time coaxing the air out of my lungs, as if I’d just crashed into a wall chest-first.

  Where was the world headed before Elisha?

  I exhaled finally.

  To hell, I decided.

  I told you, goddammit, love —

  we should have taken the honeymoon cruise.

  — EPITAPH FOR SEAN O’NEILL (FEBRUARY 11, 2041–AUGUST 9, 2067),

  BY SADIE O’NEILL, HIS BRIDE OF FOUR DAYS,

  NOVEMBER 8, 2068

  CHAPTER FOUR

  I’d had enough of being alone. I walked down the hall and banged on Sunday and Tia’s door. No answer. I went downstairs and found them still in the kitchen, still locked in on junkyarddog on a wall display linked to Tia’s e-spond.

  “I thought you almost-fifth-levels already had this stuff,” I said.

  “Not all of it,” Tia said. “Not in this context. You never know what they’ll throw at you in your trials.”

  “Being nearly fifth-levels doesn’t guarantee us anything,” Sunday said, continuing to scribble notes in her journal.

  She was right. The Worldwide Scholastic Boards administered elective achievement tests, which were nothing more than benchmarks to tell you how you were doing in preparation for your trials and eventually college. So far my best score was just above level four, but that didn’t mean I couldn’t do better with a new retake. Or ace my trials.

  I shook my head. “You two ever do anything besides study?”

  Tia smiled. Her eyes were still on the screen. “Sure.”

  “We like to dance,” Sunday said. “How about you? You ever dance with a girl?”

  “Everything I’ve ever done was with a girl,” I said. “I can dance. But I don’t like it much.”

  “Baseball?” Tia said. “You like that? We used to play on a team in Nebraska.”

  “Catcher,” I said. “I wanted to pitch, but the league won’t let guys pitch.”

  “We could hit you,” Sunday said. “We can hit any boy’s pitching.”

  “Let’s see,” I said, remembering that they’d barely been around boys. How good could their competition have been anyway? I headed for the basement as Tia darkened the display, giving it one last look. The girls followed me. I switched on the light at the bottom of the steps and grabbed three mitts, two bats, and a bag of balls off a shelf. We went back up. There was no sign of Mom or Rebecca Mack.

  On the way out we passed a couple of women — more housemates — coming home after work. We now had a total of thirteen living here, counting Sunday, Tia, and their moms. A houseful.

  I was the lone guy.

  Luckily, everyone cooked and cleaned up after themselves, mostly. Two women did the major housework a couple of times a month and cooked dinners three nights a week for reduced rent, and I helped with housekeeping — my specialty was windows — and did most of the outside stuff — mowing, weeding, watering — for spending money. For a while I helped with the group cooking, too, but complaints surfaced about my other specialty — oyster pizza — so I was transferred out of the kitchen.

  I glanced at the lawn on our way to our bikes. Still thriving on Sunday’s rainfall, it needed a haircut. I’d better get to it soon or Mom would forget how glad she was to see me.

  And speaking of Mom, as we passed the half-open parlor window, I heard her voice. It was raised, but another voice rose to meet it. Aunt Paige’s. She’d come home early. A physician, she usually worked long hours in a downtown clinic. She almost always found me to say hello, but not this time.

  “How did you find out?” Mom said.

  I didn’t get on my bike. I stopped at the edge of the driveway. Like twin shadows, Sunday and Tia stopped next to me.

  “Never mind,” Aunt Paige said. “It’s dangerous. You’re overstepping —”

  She paused in mid-
sentence. I looked up at the window. Mom was staring out. Her face looked flushed. She saw the three of us, slid the window shut, and disappeared. Rude. No way to treat an accidental eavesdropper. I gave a bat and mitt to each of the girls, hung the bag of balls from my handlebars, and pretended to monkey around with the placement of my mitt. But my tactics got me nowhere. The closed window was doing its job. Or maybe Mom and Aunt Paige had continued their discussion at a lower volume elsewhere.

  We got on our bikes and headed down the bike path. “What was that about?” Tia said.

  “I don’t know,” I said.

  “That was your aunt’s voice, right?” Sunday asked.

  “Right.”

  “She’s your mom’s sister?” she said.

  “My dad’s.”

  “She and your mom don’t get along?” Tia asked.

  “They usually do,” I said. I held two fingers in the air, no space between them. “They’re close.” I pedaled harder. I wasn’t much for conflict. I wanted to leave this one — whatever it was — behind me. But it stuck to me like the sweat that was materializing between my shoulder blades. What had they been talking about? What was dangerous? What was Mom overstepping? Was it the mysterious thing that had been weighing on her? Did it involve me?

  The park was huge, stretching from Sand Point Way to the western edge of Lake Washington and north and south along the shoreline for two miles or more. We turned in at the entrance road — Northeast 74th, officially, but because of where it led and what it bordered, everyone called it Epitaph Road.