“Charlotte would like you to know that we went to the museum.”
“Cool,” I said. “Which museum?”
“Tell him there were dinosaurs.”
“And there were dinosaurs.”
“Wow. Were they scary?” I asked.
“No.”
“Did you get ice cream before or after the museum?”
“We got it at the museum.”
“Was it dinosaur-flavored ice cream?”
“Daddy, I can’t see you.”
“I know. I’m sorry. I love you so much. Are you having fun with cousin Sarah and cousin Jake and baby Liam?”
“He’s a baby. He doesn’t go on the potty.”
“Not like you. You’re a big girl.”
“Their place is bananas,” Amy whispered. “I feel like a Kardashian.”
I thought about the crazy house I’d been in that day.
“Tell me,” I said. “I want to hear all about it.”
While she talked I stretched out on the living room floor and let her voice wash over me. I could smell the overdone air infiltrating our leaky windows and the dust in the area rug and the baked scent of the cardboard boxes stacked against the wall. We’d moved in months ago. Same week I passed my sergeant’s exam, in fact. I’d thought that leaving the boxes out in the open rather than putting them in the garage would spur us to deal with them sooner. Instead we’d learned to ignore them. Now we had a cardboard accent wall.
Amy said, “Do you have enough to eat?”
“Beef jerky for days.”
“Honey. That’s not dinner.”
“Many cultures would disagree.”
“What about the leftover lasagna?”
“I ate it last night.”
“Can’t you order in?”
“Nobody’s open. Drake’s is pouring, but no food and cash only. Don’t worry about me. How was your morning sickness today?”
“Better, thanks. On the whole it’s definitely been easier than last time. Sarah says that means it’s a boy.”
“Sounds scientific.”
“What should we name him?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “Hey, Charlotte, what should we name the baby?”
“Charlotte,” Charlotte said.
“You want to name the baby your name?” Amy asked.
“It is a good name,” I said. “But don’t you think it might get confusing?”
“No.”
“Like if Mommy calls you for dinner, and she says, ‘Charlotte,’ how will you know which Charlotte she means?”
“They both need to eat dinner,” Amy said.
“That’s true. Let me think of a better example.”
“Daddy, when are you coming here?”
I sighed. “I’m not sure, lovey. Will you eat some more ice cream for me?”
“Okay.”
Amy said, “We’re heading out with Sarah and the baby in a few minutes. P-I-Z-Z-A.”
“Excellent. Have fun.”
“I’ll call you tonight after she’s down.”
“I might go to bed early. There’s nothing to do. TV’s out, Wi-Fi’s out.”
“Read by flashlight.”
“It’s too hot under the covers.” I paused. “Maybe I’ll tackle the Great Wall of Cardboard.”
“Mm-hm.”
“You sound skeptical.”
“Mm-hm.”
“Should I be insulted that you sound so skeptical.”
“You should be happy that we understand each other so well. Try you around eight?”
“Sounds good. I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
“Bye, lovey.”
“Bye, Daddy.”
I opened the text thread with my brother. My last two attempts, hours old, unanswered.
Yo sorry what’s up
Call me please
I’d balked at calling Luke’s wife. I didn’t want to worry her and frankly I wasn’t sure she’d pick up. We’re not close, either.
I tried her. She didn’t pick up. I texted her.
Hey Andrea. Can you please ask Luke to give me a quick ring or call me yourself. Thanks
I considered calling my mom. Then I came to my senses.
I showered, hanging my work clothes over the towel rod to air out.
The house was fully dark. I fetched out LED lanterns and a box of candles, holdovers from the previous two blackouts, and placed them at intervals to create stepping-stones of light. It felt like I was stranded between the twenty-first and seventeenth centuries. The piercing glare of the lanterns hurt my head. I turned them off.
In the kitchen I fanned four packs of jerky and two slices of bread on a plate. I filled a glass with tap water. I surrounded the meal with candles and texted a picture to Amy.
#BachelorLife
She sent me a photo of their pizza, oozy cheese, golden crust.
I sent her a scowling emoji.
She sent me a kissy emoji.
I tore open my beef jerky. One and a half packs in I had lockjaw. Neither Luke nor Andrea had responded to any of my calls or texts. I put my plate in the sink and got dressed.
Chapter 4
My brother and his wife lived off the grid, in the foothills of Las Trampas Wilderness.
The nearest town was Moraga, sleepier than usual tonight beneath the darkness and heat. Windborne snack wrappers waltzed the strip-mall parking lot. Past St. Mary’s College I hooked sharply onto Jupiter Creek Road and wound through a tight, leafy canyon.
As I drove, my phone dropped bars, three to two to one, like a firing squad mowing down a row of the condemned. The gaps between mailboxes lengthened. Then several boxes formed a consolidated delivery point. After that, no boxes. The United States Postal Service had made its stand. Not one inch more.
Cruising with the window down, I could hear the creek that ran parallel to the road and gave it its name. The turn was easy to miss: a bike reflector, affixed to the trunk of a big-leaf maple, marking the spot where a crumbling culvert bridge jumped the water. On the other side concrete gave way to rutted dirt.
I bounced along at a crawl through alders and oaks, shrubs and creepers.
The genuine version of what Rory Vandervelde’s landscaper designer had sought to evoke.
Six and a half acres had cost Luke and Andrea about the same as what Amy and I paid for sixteen hundred square feet. The trade-off was scant creature comfort and human contact.
I switched on my brights. The underbrush rippled with panic.
The parcel had come with a simple wooden longhouse, plonked in a clearing besieged by regrowth. There was an outdoor shower stall and an outhouse with a composting toilet. To these Luke and Andrea had added a chicken coop, raised vegetable beds, a potting shed. Late-season wildflowers flourished around an aboveground cistern. Solar panels made a modernist Stonehenge.
Charlotte loved it here. The setting brought out her latent savage. She harassed the chickens, ran through the grass in delirious circles, war-whooping and ripping up handfuls of vegetation. Every visit ended with me hauling her wailing to the car, her fingernails black, her diaper heavy as a sack of mud.
We didn’t visit often.
On the far side of the clearing Luke had erected a shelter for working on his cars: a poured-concrete pad, four pressure-treated posts, and a corrugated tin roof. Tarp walls kept out the rain. While Charlotte gorged on freedom and our wives scrounged for conversation, he would take me out to show me the latest active project.
Tonight the pad was empty.
I parked next to Andrea’s Nissan Leaf. Amber light filled the longhouse windows. Thin gray smoke twined from the stovepipe. I could not smell it because the air stank so deeply of char. Wind chimes rang unseen.
I started for the door.
The forest stirred.
I turned, took a few steps into the trees. “Luke?”