This weekend, he says to the eight faces arrayed at the table, you will go on a digital fast. He catches himself: he’s almost said yoga, vestige of Arcadia. Doubleplusgood duckspeak he sometimes calls the old language, laughing, when it comes out despite his censor. I was raised in a commune, he’ll say, and he’ll feel a bit treasonous and tell some of the funnier or sadder stories; the summer they all got hepatitis from eating the watercress in the stream near the Family Quonset loo; what happened to baby Felipe, whose white crease in the fat brown neck remains indelible in Bit’s memory, even thirty-five years later.
What’s a digital fast? says Sylvie. There is a designated speaker in every class, and she is it for this one. Awkward girl, overeager. He has to be extra gentle with her. Her eyes fill with tears after a curt word.
No cell phones, Bit says. No computers, no MP3s, no GPS, no social networking, no e-mail, no whatever else it is that you do and frankly I don’t understand. If you have other coursework, try to do it all tonight or put it off until Sunday night, if you can. Let’s see how long you can resist the siren song of the outside world. Have a response paper to your digital fast for me on Monday. One page. Written by hand, of course.
Some make faces; others, the hipsters, smile. They love being throwbacks. They wear the jeans and teeshirts and sneakers and sunglasses he wore when he came to the city so many years ago from Arcadia. He reminds himself that the hippies seemed just as childish in their own time.
Sylvie calls out as she stands and gathers her things, No problem. Smiling, her bone bracelets dully clinking on her wrists, Sylvie sings out, Easy, easy, easy.
When he woke that first morning without Helle in bed beside him, he was almost calm. He made excuses in his head: she had gone out on a long walk in the afternoon and visited an old friend, stayed too late to come home. Once in a while, she’d do this. Regina and Ollie owned a cupcake emporium in the city and a frilly apartment by the river where Helle had her own key. Maybe she was housesitting their cats and forgot to tell Bit. Or maybe she went up to Jincy’s in the suburbs, Jin just having given birth to her twins; and Helle forgot to tell Bit. He didn’t want to push beyond this thought for what followed; the drugs again, scourge of Helle’s twenties, the desperation, the needle marks between the toes.
To avoid the apartment, Bit took Grete to the children’s museum all day. The two of them ate an early dinner out. It was passive-aggressive, Bit could admit. He’d wanted Helle to come home to a cold apartment and worry about where they were, the same way he had barely contained his panic, a tightness in his chest, all day. It was dark outside when he and Grete came home; but the apartment, also, was dark.
By night, he grew worried. Grete finally fell asleep after calling out Mommy! for an hour. Bit sat at the heavy old rotary phone he would never replace for a cell and dialed their friends. Nobody had seen her. He called family. Erik, an engineer in California, was grumpy, still at work. Handy was having dinner with his fourth wife, Sunny, who told Bit that Handy was saving his voice for a concert, could she take a message, and hung up when Bit shouted, It’s Handy’s daughter, dammit, put him on the line. Astrid was at the Tennessee Midwifery School. Nobody had heard from Helle for a week.
Ike’s number was still in the ancient pleather phone book: poor Ike, dead these twenty years, who, like his sister, had grown into beauty in his midteens. Who loved his new adult body, used it indiscriminately, with gorgeous Norwegian women who knitted him sweaters, men in the park at night. By the time he finally admitted he was sick, he had lesions. It didn’t take much for him to die. A breath of cold air, pneumonia, one weekend in a hospital, and Bit arriving too late with flowers, finding a bed still warm under the imprint of Ike’s body. Those were the years when Helle’s family rarely knew where she was or how to get in touch with her. She didn’t know to come to Ike’s memorial. This broke her heart, even twenty years later, made her cry and cry when the shame of her life swallowed her down.
He called Leif, who answered coldly. Couldn’t talk. In editing. Hadn’t heard from his sister. Wait until morning then file a police report. Get back to him after Bit calls the cops. Earlier’s better than later. Dial tone.
It was midnight when he called Hannah, who had just begun living apart from Abe. He’d watched, alarmed, as Hannah suddenly became a fury of a woman, a new Hannah, a shouting one. When his mother answered her phone, Bit heard the desert behind her, the coyote howl and insect hum; could almost feel the wall of heat rise up against him, almost see the grasping saguaros. She was teaching history at a university there, and was still so full of anger at Abe that she couldn’t say his name. Your father, she called him. I haven’t heard anything from Helle, she’d said that night. Call your father.
Although Bit was on Hannah’s side (always on Hannah’s side; poor Abe), the richness of his mother’s fury took him aback. Her rage seemed immoderate in light of Abe’s sins. Bit could understand how she’d be upset: Abe had used their life savings to build a house in the Arcadia Sugarbush, throwing away all those years of scrimping, telling her they were poor again only when their new house was mostly built. Worse, Abe was officially squatting: Leif’s corporation, Erewhon Illuminations, now rented the old Homeplace from Handy. Leif had been a puppeteer, then went into movies and, when he’d tired of shoving his hand up felted asses, had gone on to computer-generated films. His last one was a retelling of the old Scottish ballad “The Well of the World’s End.” It was nightmarish, shockingly beautiful. The landscape was pure Arcadia. The company’s ranch in California had proved too small and Handy still held the title to Arcadia and always needed money, so Leif took over. What had been the Free People’s was now a corporation’s; sacrilege! The diaspora of Arcadia had rebelled. Squatters had descended, ponytailed men with tents so old the sides shivered apart in a small wind, women with rears gone soft as brioches. Most wandered home soon, but four stayed to build houses. Midge dug into the hill on the side of the Sugarbush, a geothermally controlled cabin, her own Hobbit hole. Titus and Saucy Sally and their kids built a treehouse. Scott and Lisa, hiding their anarchic hearts under Brooks Brothers sweaters, built a Mission-style cabin overlooking the Pond. And Abe, old engineer, had poured his whole being into his house. He had become obsessed with what would happen in the end of the era of oil and went offgrid, solar everything, backup windmill; rainwater catchment system, backup well; ambient solar heating, backup woodstove; materials eighty percent salvaged. Even the insulation was shredded dollar bills from Fort Knox.
When Bit called his father the night after Helle disappeared, he imagined the dark lonely Sugarbush, the forest pressing in on the old man. Abe picked up, panicked. What’s wrong? he said. When Bit explained, his father went silent. At last he said, Helle was so troubled, honey.
I know how troubled Helle is, snapped Bit. She’s been fine for four years.
Abe said nothing. Bit hung up, hard.
Bit wanted to weep with frustration. He heard a mouselike noise and looked up to find Grete, pale in the door, her stuffed frog in her arms. I can’t sleep, she said. Mommy needs to come.
Bit said, Can I try?
Grete said, No. It’s Mommy.
Mommy’s on a walk, said Bit. Why don’t I tell you a story? And she was too tired to resist, and he sat with her then the way he has sat with her every night since that first one, waiting until her breath evened out into sleep, into the morning, wondering how in the world he was going to protect her now.