The next morning, Fertility is whispering on the telephone to someone. I wake up, and she's dressed and out of bed asking, "Do you have an eight a.m. flight to Sydney?"
She's saying, "One-way, please. A window seat if you have it. Do you take Visa?"
By the time she notices me watching her, she's hung up and putting on her shoes. She starts to put her daily planner into her tote bag but puts it back down on the dresser.
I ask, where is she going?
"Sydney."
But why?
"No reason."
I say, Tell me.
By now she's started lugging the tote bag toward the bedroom door. "Because I got my surprise," she says. "I got the damn surprise I wanted, and damn it, I don't want it. I don't want this!"
What?
"I'm pregnant."
But how does she know?
"I know everything!" she screams at me. "Well, I knew everything. I didn't know this. I didn't know I was going to have to bring a child into this miserable, boring, terrible world. A child who would inherit my gift for seeing the future and living a life of crushing ennui. A child who would never be surprised. I didn't see this coming."
So now what?
"So I'm going to Sydney, Australia."
But why?
"My mother killed herself. My brother killed himself. You figure it out."
But why Australia?
She's out the bedroom door now and dragging her tote toward the top of the stairs. I'd follow her, but I'm naked.
"Think of this," she yells back at me, "as a very radical abortion procedure."
A man steps out of the master-bedroom doorway dressed in a blue suit I've pressed a thousand times. In a voice I've heard on a thousand speakerphone calls, he asks me, "Are you Dr. Ambrose?"
By the time I've jumped into my clothes, Fertility is down the stairs and out the front door. Through the bedroom window, I watch her cross the lawn to a taxi.
Back out in the hallway, a woman wearing a silk blouse I've hand-washed a thousand times steps up to the man in the blue suit. The two of them frozen in the doorway of the master bedroom, the woman I used to work for shouts, "That's him! Remember? He used to work for us! That's the Antichrist!"
I tuck Fertility's daily planner under my arm and make a run for it. Still running, out the front door, down the street toward the bus stop, it takes me another minute to find today's date in the book, and there's the answer.
At 1:25 this afternoon, Flight 2039, nonstop from here to Sydney, will be hijacked by a maniac and crash somewhere in the Australian outback.
Ladies and gentlemen, as the last person aboard Flight 2039, out here above the huge Australian outback, it's my duty to inform you that our last engine has just flamed out.
Please fasten your seat belts as we begin our terminal descent into oblivion.
The airport is full of FBI agents looking for Tender Branson, Mass Murderer. Tender Branson, False Prophet. Tender Branson, Super Bowl Despoiler. Tender Branson, who abandoned his lovely bride at the altar.
Tender Branson, Antichrist.
I catch up with Fertility at the airline ticket counter.
She's saying, "One, please. I have a reservation."
The black dye we used was weeks ago, and my blond roots are showing. The greasy road-trip food has me fat again. It's just a matter of the right armed security guard looking at me and pointing his gun.
My jacket pocket is empty when I check. Adam's gun is gone.
"If you're looking for your brother's gun, I've got it," Fertility ducks her head and tells me. "This plane is going to be hijacked even if I have to do it myself."
No bullets, I say. She knows that.
"Yes, there are," she says. "I was lying to you so you wouldn't worry."
So Adam could've shot me dead at any time.
Out of her tote bag, Fertility hefts a shining brass urn. To the ticket agent, Fertility says, "I'll be taking my brother's remains in the flight. Will that be a problem?"
The ticket agent says, no, it's no problem. The urn can't be x-rayed at security, but they'll let her take it on board.
Fertility pays for the tickets and we start toward the gates. She hands me the tote bag and says, "I've been schlepping this for the last half hour. Make yourself useful."
Security is too worried about the urn to give me a second look. It's metal, and nobody wants to open it, much less put a hand inside.
Here and there along the way, the security people all seem to be in pairs, looking at us and talking into walkie-talkies. The urn rubs against my leg through the tote bag. Fertility looks at her ticket and at the signs for each gate we pass.
"Here," she says when we get to the gate. "Give me my bag and scoot out of here." Around us are people getting in line as the airline makes the first boarding call.
People holding tickets for rows fifty through seventy-five, please board now.
Which one of these people is a crazed terrorist hijacker, I don't know.
Down the concourse behind us, the pairs of security guards have come together into foursomes and sixsomes.
"Give me the bag," Fertility says. She grabs the handle next to my hand and tugs hard.
Her taking Trevor with her doesn't make any sense.
"I need my bag."
People holding tickets for rows thirty through forty-nine, please board now.
The security guards are moving in, trotting down the concourse, coming our way with every holster unsnapped, every gun with a hand on it.
And it hits me. Where Adam's gun is.
It's in the urn, I say, and try twisting the tote bag away from Fertility.
People holding tickets for rows ten through twenty-nine, please board now.
One handle of the tote bag breaks and the urn clunks to the carpeted floor with Fertility and me chasing it.
Fertility plans to hijack the plane.
"Someone has to," she's saying. "It's fate."
The urn's in both our hands.
People holding tickets for rows one through nine, please board now.
I say, Nobody has to die here.
This is the final boarding call for Flight 2039.
"That plane has to crash into Australia," Fertility says. "I'm never wrong."
A security guard shouts, "Freeze."
We repeat, this is the last boarding call for Flight 2039 to Sydney.
Security has us surrounded when the urn comes open. The mortal remains of Trevor Hollis going everywhere. Ashes to ashes. Into everybody's eyes. Dust to dust. Into their lungs. Trevor's ashes spread in a cloud around us. Adam's gun thuds on the carpet.
Before Fertility, before the security team, before the plane can leave the jetway, I grab the gun. I grab Fertility. Okay, okay, okay, okay, we'll do this her way, I say with the gun against her head.
I walk us backward toward the gate.
I yell, Nobody make a move.
I stop to let the ticket agent tear her ticket, then I nod toward the open urn and the mess of Trevor all over the carpet.
Could somebody maybe scoop that stuff up and hand it to this woman here, I say. It's her brother.
The security team is all crouched with their guns aimed at my forehead while a ticket agent gets most of Trevor back into the urn and hands it to Fertility.
"Thanks," Fertility says. "This is so embarrassing."
We're getting on this plane, I say, and we're taking off.
I walk us backward down the jetway, wondering who on board will be the real crazed hijacker.
When I ask Fertility, she laughs.
When I ask why, she says, "This is just too ironic. You'll guess soon enough who the hijacker is."
I say, Tell me.
People on the plane are all crowded into the back half of the plane, cowering with their heads down. Sobbing. In the aisle near the cockpit is a pile of everybody's wallets and watches and personal laptop computers, cellular phones, minicassette recorders, personal compact disc stereos, and wedding rings.