But not for long, because Rita decided to do what most women her age do: make appointments, get tests.
The show got canceled. Bruce was paid to give a few talks about underground programming and used the fees to bankroll an online gambling bender that cost him one of two savings bonds, the other of which he used to shred his debt, which, it turned out, was impossible. There would be no money for a college fund or life insurance. There’d be no money for a crib. But still he said nothing. He spent his days in the park and came home to his wife stabbing herself in the gut with hormones. She braved the drugs and procedures and shots, and so there was just no telling her what he had done.
The day she got pregnant was etched in his mind as the most confusing of his life. The panic was incredible. The joy unbridled. The effort it took to hide the panic almost life threatening. The ease with which he took her in his arms and squeezed: wonderful. They were having a baby! He threw up in the bathroom. He had sworn never to tell her about the gambling and the loan, and then he told her everything. This meant the day she got pregnant became the most confusing of her life, too. Could she still trust her husband? Did she still love her husband? She was so angry, she threw up in the bathroom. He would have to get a job. Any job in any field. She’d take on extra work until maternity leave. They’d fire the cleaning lady and cut out the luxuries. It all seemed reasonable, and he swore to do exactly as told. But a job in any field? Was he supposed to janitor just because he was creative and creativity did not pay? Was he being punished for wanting more than the next guy? No, he was being punished for ruining their life. He promised to look for work the next day.
He cruised the job sites online. He uploaded his résumé and met the relevant parties and tried to be agreeable, though it never occurred to him actually to work in these places. A job in HR at a pharmaceutical company? A super for Curtis Building Management? Come on, he was a show runner! In most cases, he was not offered work, anyway, which was fine. He could say he tried and spend another day watching the vampire slayer on TV.
The weeks passed. Rita would spot blood and cramp and spot some more. Spotting, gushing. Something was wrong. On the day she went to the hospital for surgery and was prescribed bed rest, Bruce was offered a position with the phone company, customer service. Only such was his rush to refuse the job, he’d forgotten to wipe the answering machine before Rita got home. They spoke for a while on the couch. She wasn’t feeling well. And she was worried. They’d consolidated their debt and cut way back, but to minimal effect. They weren’t saving money. And the baby was due in less than five months. She’d had her head on his shoulder when she noticed the 1 on the answering machine and went for it. Bruce did nothing. It was like watching a bottle of wine roll off the table. Not enough wherewithal to stop it but full knowledge that here was a disaster.
They fought. She hemorrhaged. Two weeks later, the phone rang. “This is the Department of the Interior,” said some strange woman who seemed to know a lot about him, followed by a job offer and signing bonus. To do what, exactly? Footage consultant. Had he applied for a job there? He couldn’t remember. Never mind, there was no arguing at dinner, no discussion. Bruce simply accepted the job and started work.
“Can I have the remote now?” he said.
“No.”
They’d been watching Les Misérables on pay per view. She said, “You know, most of the radicals in this country are fixated on their commitment to revolution way more than on the revolution itself. They don’t want to succeed. Because if they did, they couldn’t be radicals anymore, and a radical is most interested in his sense of being a radical.”
He shifted to his side. “See, this is why you need to stop with all that reading. It’s making you sound like a crank. Where do you get these ideas?”
“Just look around.”
“I am. And what I see is a middle-class couple watching Les Mis on a Sleep Number bed.”
“Crystal could probably put what I said better, anyway.”
“Oh, so this is Crystal talking. I’d like to meet this fount of conservatism.”
“She’s not conservative. She’s Helix. A level-headed reformist.”
“Aha.”
“Get me that brush while you’re up?” she said.
It was on her nightstand. He tossed it her way. “Anything else?”
“It’s snowing out. I bet Crystal’s not going to make it.”
His heart sank. Crystal, do not do this to me! The doorbell rang. And rang again, because he was so busy lamenting the afternoon ahead, he didn’t hear it.
“Want to get that?” Rita said.
He made for the door. A young woman with a canvas bike bag and a box of chocolate peppermint bark. Eighteen years old. Twenty, tops. “Yes?” he said.
“I’m here for Rita. You must be Bruce.”
She wore a hat with a yarn pom-pom dusted in snow. The cuffs of her jeans were soggy.
“You’re Crystal?”
“The very one.”
She took off her boots in the doorway. They were shag Inuit boots with tassels and incongruous rubber soles. She took off her gloves, coat, scarf, and sweater, and piled them on the radiator. She’d looked much bigger a second ago.
“My wife’s in the bedroom,” he said. “Follow me.”
“I know the way.”
She trotted down the halclass="underline" guess she’d been here before.
He decided to make nice. Brew some tea, make a tray of chocolate and whatever else was in the fridge.
Crystal had pulled up an armchair and rested her feet on the mattress. Awfully chummy, these two. Her socks were penguins on the beach. Rita had put on her glasses, which she never did in company. They were giant. Brown and plastic, and hitched to a chain around her neck. She was reading out loud. Bruce leaned against the door frame and waited.
Crystal put up her hand as if to say: Not in front of the husband.
But Rita shrugged it off. “He’s fine,” she said, and she kept going:
As the seizure, four years back, of the presidency from the will of the people has perverted the Constitution.
As liberal Americans have a common stake in the enterprise of justice and must be common sufferers of its dispatch.
As the government’s hostility to principles of democracy mandates a reluctant but immediate exercise of protest.
As the seizure, four years back, of the presidency from the will of the people has perverted the Constitution.
As liberal Americans have a common stake in the enterprise of justice and must be common sufferers of its dispatch.
As the government’s hostility to principles of democracy mandates a reluctant but immediate exercise of protest.
Rita looked over her glasses at Crystal, who said, “So what do you think? We’re passing them out at the meeting today.”
“I think it’s good. It’s got moral authority.”
Bruce cleared his throat, wanting to jump in.
“You think?” Crystal said. “Because we haven’t gotten input from HQ. Not yet, anyway. Thurlow’s a busy man.”
Rita nodded. She’d read every speech Thurlow Dan had given, and none had actually mentioned interest in the travesty helming the government or that he thought the political strife of 2000 had turned into a bald divide no country could sustain, so revolt. But still, the message was there. Implicitly. Loud and implicit. Revolt!
“We were going for a certain tone,” Crystal said. “Like, you sort of want to call up the language of back then but not the substance.”
“Exactly,” Rita said. “Because if anything, the Confederates have all the power now. Total role reversal.”