The Leftovers (20 page)

*   *   *

JILL LAY
awake in the darkness for a long time before getting up and putting her clothes on. She planted a soft kiss on Max’s forehead, but he didn’t stir. He’d fallen asleep right after jerking off and looked like he was out for the count. Next time she’d have to ask him to keep the light on while he did it, so she could watch his face. That was the best part of the whole thing as far as she was concerned, the way a guy’s face contorted so violently and then relaxed, as if some terrible mystery had just been solved.

She headed downstairs, surprised to find the living room empty, eerie and unfamiliar-looking in the light of the muted TV. That stupid “Miracle Spotters” infomercial was on again, the one that showed a family of four—Mom, Dad, their son and daughter—walking through the woods with military-style night-vision goggles strapped over their eyes. On cue, they all stopped and looked up, pointing in amazement at something in the sky. She knew the narration by heart:
Buy two Miracle Spotters at our everyday low price, and get two more ABSOLUTELY FREE! That’s right, buy two and get another pair free! As an added bonus, we’ll throw in a set of four Home Safe Family Communication Devices for NO CHARGE WHATSOEVER! That’s a sixty-dollar value!
On-screen, the little boy cowered in the forest, speaking worriedly into his Family Communication Device, which looked to Jill like a garden-variety walkie-talkie. His face broke into a wide grin as his parents and sister emerged from the trees, clutching their own devices, and rushed to embrace him.
Order now! You’ll thank God you did!
Jill would’ve died before she admitted it, but the cheesy commercial always got her choked up, the joy of the reunited family, all that sentimental crap.

Not that it was her job, but she took a few minutes to tidy up while she waited for Aimee. She knew how depressing it could be to wake up in a messy house, how it could make you feel like the new day was already old. Of course, Dmitri’s house was party central—his parents and two little sisters had been “away” for as long as Jill had known him, and no one expected them back anytime soon—so maybe he didn’t mind so much. Maybe chaos was the normal state for him, order the puzzling exception.

She carried a bunch of empty beer bottles into the kitchen and rinsed them under the faucet. Then she wrapped up the cold pizza, put it in the fridge, and crammed the box into the trash can. She’d just finished loading the dishwasher when Aimee came in, smiling sheepishly, holding one arm straight out in front of her. A pair of panties was dangling from her hand, pinched between her thumb and forefinger like a piece of suspicious roadside trash.

“I am such a slut,” she said.

Jill stared at the panties. They were light blue, with a pattern of yellow daisies.

“Are those mine?”

Aimee opened the cabinet under the sink and shoved the underwear deep into the trash can.

“Believe me,” she said. “You don’t want them back.”

*   *   *

AS MUCH
as he enjoyed it, Kevin had never been much of a dancer. It was the football, he thought—he was too tense in the hips and shoulders, a little too rooted to the ground, as if he expected dancers from an opposing team to come crashing into him. As a result, he tended to get locked into simple repetitive motions that made him feel like he was impersonating a cheap battery-operated toy.

Nora made him even more conscious of his shortcomings in this department than usual. She moved with a relaxed grace, apparently unaware of any distinction between her body and the music. Luckily, she didn’t seem the least bit put off by Kevin’s incompetence. Most of the time, she didn’t even seem to know he was there. She kept her head down, her face partially concealed by a swaying curtain of dark, sleek hair, so fine it looked almost liquid. On those rare occasions when their eyes met, she gave him a sweet, startled smile, as if she’d forgotten all about him.

The DJ played “Love Shack” and “Brick House” and “Sex Machine,” and Nora knew most of the words. She shimmied and spun and kicked off her shoes, dancing barefoot on the hardwood floor. The exuberance she displayed was especially impressive because she must have known how closely she was being watched. Kevin could feel it himself, as if he’d accidentally wandered into the beam of a harsh spotlight. The scrutiny wasn’t exactly rude, he thought—there was something furtive and helpless about it—but it was relentless, and he grew increasingly self-conscious in its glare. He glanced around, smiling sheepishly, apologizing to the room for his clumsiness.

They danced for seven songs straight, but when Kevin asked if Nora wanted a break—he certainly could have used one himself—she shook her head. Her face was gleaming with sweat, her eyes bright.

“Let’s keep going.”

He was exhausted after the one-two punch of “I Will Survive” and “Turn the Beat Around.” Luckily, the song after that was “Surfer Girl,” the first slow number since they’d started. There was a moment of awkwardness during the opening arpeggio, but she answered his questioning glance by stepping forward and draping her arms around his neck. He completed the embrace, placing one hand on her shoulder and the other on the small of her back. She dropped her head on his shoulder, as if he were her prom date.

He took a little shuffle step forward and one to the side, breathing in the mingled scents of her sweat and shampoo. She followed his lead, her body pressing into his as they moved. He could feel the humid heat of her skin rising through the thin fabric of her dress. Nora murmured something, but her words got lost in his collar.

“Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t hear you.”

She lifted her head. Her voice was soft and dreamy.

“There’s a pothole on my street,” she told him. “When are you gonna fix it?”

Part
Three

HAPPY HOLIDAYS

DIRTBAGS

TOM WAS JITTERY IN THE
terminal. He would have preferred to keep hitchhiking, sticking to the back roads, camping in the woods, saving their money for emergencies. They’d made it all the way from San Francisco to Denver like that, but Christine had gotten tired of it. She never told him so straight out, but he could see that she thought it was beneath her, having to stick out her thumb and pretend to be grateful to people who had no idea what an honor it was to play even a bit part in her story, people who acted like they were the ones doing the favor, picking up a couple of scruffy, barefoot kids in the middle of nowhere and taking them a little farther down the road.

It was two days before Thanksgiving—Tom had forgotten all about the holiday, which used to be one of his favorites—and the waiting area was choked with travelers and luggage, not to mention a problematic number of cops and soldiers. Christine spotted an empty seat—it was a single in the middle of a row—and rushed to grab it. Trying to control his irritation, Tom lumbered after her, weighed down by his overstuffed backpack, reminding himself that her needs came first.

Shrugging off the ungainly pack—it contained her stuff as well as his own, plus the tent and sleeping bag—he sat down at her feet like a loyal dog positioning himself at an angle to avoid eye contact with the pack of soldiers sitting directly across the way, all of them dressed in desert fatigues and combat boots. Two were napping and one was texting, but the fourth—a skinny, redheaded dude with rabbity, pink-rimmed eyes—was studying Christine with an intensity that made him nervous.

This was exactly what he’d been worried about. She was so cute that you couldn’t
not
check her out, not even when she was dressed in these filthy hippie rags and a hand-knitted stocking cap, with a big blue-and-orange bullseye painted in the middle of her forehead. More than a month had passed since Mr. Gilchrest’s arrest, and the story had pretty much faded away, but he figured it was just a matter of time before some busybody noticed Christine and connected her with the fugitive brides.

The soldier’s gaze shifted to Tom. He tried to ignore it, but the guy apparently had all the time in the world and nothing to do but stare. Eventually, Tom had no choice but to turn and meet his eyes.

“Yo, Pigpen,” the soldier said. The stitching on his shirt pocket identified him as
HENNING.
“That your girlfriend?”

“Just a friend,” Tom replied, a bit grudgingly.

“What’s her name?”

“Jennifer.”

“Where you heading?”

“Omaha.”

“Hey, me too.” Henning seemed pleased by the coincidence. “Got a two-week leave. Gonna spend Thanksgiving with the family.”

Tom gave a minimal nod, trying to let the guy know he wasn’t in the mood for a big get-to-know-you chat, but Henning didn’t take the hint.

“So what brings you to Nebraska?”

“Just passing through.”

“Where you coming from?”

“Phoenix,” he lied.

“Hot as a bitch down there, huh?”

Tom looked away, trying to signal that the conversation was over. Henning pretended not to notice.

“So what is it with you guys and showers? You allergic to water or something?”

Oh, God,
Tom thought.
Not this again.
When they’d decided to disguise themselves as Barefoot People, he figured they’d get teased a lot about drugs and free love, but he had no idea how much time he was going to have to devote to the subject of personal hygiene.

“We value cleanliness,” Tom told him. “We’re just not obsessed with it.”

“I can see that.” Henning glanced at Tom’s grimy feet as if they were Exhibit A. “I’m curious. What’s the longest you’ve ever gone without a shower?”

If Tom had any interest in being honest, he would have said seven days, which was the extent of his current streak. In the interest of verisimilitude, he and Christine had stopped showering three days before leaving San Francisco, and during their time on the road they’d only had access to public restrooms.

“None of your business.”

“All right, fine.” Henning seemed to be enjoying himself. “Just answer me this. When was the last time you changed your underwear?”

The soldier next to Henning, a bald black guy who’d been texting like his life depended on it, looked up from his phone and chortled. Tom remained silent. There was no dignified way to answer a question about your underwear.

“Come on, Pigpen. Just give me a ballpark figure. Extra points if it’s less than a week.”

“Maybe he’s a commando,” the black guy speculated.

“Purity comes from within,” Tom explained, echoing one of the Barefoot People’s favorite slogans. “What’s on the outside is irrelevant.”

“Not to me,” Henning shot back. “I’m the one that has to sit on the bus with you for twelve hours.”

Tom didn’t say so, but he knew the guy had a point. For the past couple of days, he’d been uncomfortably aware of the funk he and Christine were giving off in close quarters. Every driver who picked them up immediately cracked the windows, no matter how cold or rainy it was. Verisimilitude was no longer an issue.

“I’m sorry if we offend you,” he said, a bit stiffly.

“Don’t get mad, Pigpen. I’m just fucking with you.”

Before Tom could reply, Christine kicked him softly in the back. He ignored the summons, wanting to keep her out of the conversation. But then she kicked him again, hard enough that he had no choice but to turn around.

“I’m starving,” she said, jutting her chin in the direction of the Food Court. “Could you get me a slice of pizza?”

*   *   *

HENNING WASN’T
the only one who resented their presence on the overnight bus. The driver didn’t look too happy as he took their tickets; several passengers muttered disparaging comments as they made their way down the aisle toward the empty seats in back.

It was almost enough to make Tom feel sorry for the Barefoot People. Until he’d started impersonating one, he had no idea how unpopular they were with the general public, at least once you got out of San Francisco. But whenever he found himself wishing that he and Christine had chosen a more respectable cover—something that would have allowed them to blend in a little better and not attract so much free-floating hostility—he reminded himself that the weaknesses of this particular disguise were also its strengths. The more conspicuous you were, the easier it was for people to take you at face value—they just wrote you off as a couple of harmless dirtbags and left it at that.

Christine slid into the window seat in the very last row, unpleasantly close to the restroom. She seemed puzzled when Tom sat down across the aisle.

“What’s the matter?” She patted the empty seat beside her. “Aren’t you gonna keep me company?”

“I figured we could spread out. Be easier to get some rest.”

“Oh.” She looked disappointed. “I guess you don’t love me anymore.”

“I forgot to tell you,” he said. “I met someone else. On the Internet.”

“Is she pretty?”

“All I know is, she’s clean Russian girl, looking for rich American stud.”

“Good thing it’s not the other way around.”

“Very funny.”

They’d been teasing each other like this for the past couple of weeks, pretending to be boyfriend and girlfriend, hoping to joke away some of the sexual tension that always seemed to be hanging in the air, but only making it thicker in the process. It had been distracting enough back at the house, but it had become excruciating now that they were on the road, twenty-four-hour-a-day companions, eating together, sleeping side by side in the little pup tent. He’d heard Christine snoring and seen her squatting in the woods, and had held her hair away from her face when she threw up in the morning, but all that familiarity hadn’t managed to breed even the smallest sliver of contempt. He still got flustered every time she brushed up against him, and knew it would be pure insomniac torture, sitting right next to her for twelve hours, his eyes wide open, her knee just inches from his own.

Despite a multitude of opportunities, Tom still hadn’t made any moves on her—hadn’t tried to kiss her in the tent, or even hold her hand—and he didn’t intend to. She was sixteen years old and four months pregnant—her belly had just begun to bulge—and the last thing she needed to deal with were sexual advances from her traveling companion, the guy who was supposed to be watching out for her. His mission was simple: All he had to do was deliver her safely to Boston, where some sympathetic friends of Mr. Gilchrest had offered to take her in and provide her with food and shelter and medical care until the baby arrived, the one who was supposed to save the world.