Authors: Sarah Langan
That’s what you got for trying with people. His whole life he’d done for others. Listened to their problems. Analyzed pointless dreams, held hands, filled bank ac- counts in his children’s names. And now his patients were turning on him one after the next: Albert. Lila. Lois. His kids were no better. Maddie and her scream- ing. David lost for good. Meg had loved the boy too much, squeezed him too tight. Made him a sissy who liked it up the ass. And then there was Meg. That whore. In his mind a dog was barking. In his mind it was tear- ing her apart while his house made of slate and wood began to smolder, and then blaze.
Brian Wilson sang. He hummed along and wondered
whether, when the end of the world came, anyone would recognize it.
Encasing all embracing wreath of repose Engulfs all the senses
. . . You know I was never sick, don’t you?
And now he wasn’t sure: Was that his mother talking to him on the radio?
Suddenly Sara Wintrob was knocking on the win- dow. His heart beat fast and everything started scream- ing. In the dark, he saw her silhouette. Thin and pale. She grinned with gapless teeth, the bitch.
Fennie, is it a lump?
the radio asked.
She was watching him. She wasn’t his mother any- more. Lois? Lila? He would throttle her. Pile her into the trunk. No one would guess if he waited until late tonight, and burned her body in the hospital incinera- tor. And if the other bitch who lived in this house hap- pened to catch him in the act? Well, then he’d throttle her, too.
The woman knocked harder. He’d gut her like a trout. His leaky eyes, they were starting to rust. She kept knocking. Meg. His wife. Lois, Sara. He’d punched them tonight. Which one?
He waited for his eyes to clear. Thought about the Beach Boys even though the song on the radio now was “Wonderful Tonight.”
Fennie, is it a lump?
the radio asked. He thought about the track team and fermented cabbage. He thought about his first finger feel inside Joanne Streibler, and a bloody carpet, the missing rivets in Lois’s floors, and Lila Schiffer’s fat kids. Most of all he thought about how hard he’d worked his whole life, only to find his wife fucking a yuppie in room 69.
Meg was shouting his name. Sure, now she wanted him. Now that Nero had infected her with the virus and she was used goods. “Let me in!” she shouted. He took a breath and waited for his eyes to clear. He made sure not to wipe them, but instead let them dry in the air. Finally he rolled down the window and flashed a jolly grin. “Yeah?”
She was hopping on one foot. He couldn’t figure out why until he remembered her broken ankle. “What are you doing out here?” she asked. Her voice was soft, concerned. She poked her head through the window. He could slam her skull against the side of the door if he wanted. A tragic slip of the hand:
Oops, sorry babe! By the way, faux gold trim mirrors all over the walls aren’t classy, just Guinea.
“You look awful. Are you sick?” she asked. She stepped down off the runner and opened the door. He moved over and she climbed in. She smelled like sugary perfume, and her hair was pin-straight. Instead of shoes she was wearing ratty moccasin slippers.
“Say something. You’re scaring me,” she said.
He looked at her for a long while. Women’s faces played through his mind. Lois, Sara, Lila, Maddie, and finally he recognized her:
Meg
. She slipped her hand inside his and squeezed.
She was so small. Her breath was fast, and her brow was sweating, which could only mean that she hadn’t taken enough codeine. “Fenstad?” she asked. “Can you hear me?”
In easy listening paradise, Eric Clapton was telling his girl that she looked wonderful while diminutive Meg Bonelli peered up at him, and he thought about smashing her face.
“Fenstad?” she asked. “Can you hear me?” Her voice cracked, and she held his face in her hands.
A lump caught in his throat, and he thought he might cry again. He’d met her a thousand years ago, a wait- ress at the diner he liked, who also happened to be first- year law at Boston University. He’d asked her out when he ran into her at a bar on Boylston Street because she was pretty, and at the time he’d had a thing for bru- nettes. Unexpectedly, she got under his skin. Six months later, instead of heading to Germany for an internship, he finished his classes early and got down on one knee. “What is it?” she asked, and he felt himself crumble.
He was going to leak all over her delicate hands. The tears built up inside him like a tidal wave ready to crash. He was going to have to tell her everything. From Lois, to Sara, to the fact that he might be infected, to the spy- ing he’d done on her at room 69. Why had he watched such a thing outside the motel window and never said a word? Why had he tortured himself like that? It was time he told her. It would be a relief to tell her. She’d know now that there was something wrong with him. Maybe there always had been.
“What is it?” she asked.
“Nothing,” he said. His voice was hoarse. He climbed out of the car. She met him in front of it. He held her by the waist, and together, they walked to the house.
M
eg scratched her leg with the wire from an un- tangled coat hanger while Fenstad sliced into his
r
po terhouse. His eyes were red like he’d been crying, but she knew that was impossible; to the best of her knowledge, Fenstad Wintrob had been born without tear ducts.
She’d been trying to report Graham Nero to the po- lice when Fenstad had called and told her to retrieve Maddie from school. At first she’d thought he was overreacting—really, how often does a woman get an urgent call from her husband to gather the kids, lock the doors, and buy an air filter? It was ludicrous. Still, she’d done it. And then, as she and Maddie had flipped on the evening news tonight, he’d proved himself right. As usual. You could set a clock by Fenstad’s instincts. She’d looked at Maddie then, with whom she’d been sharing a blanket and rubbing toes, and been grateful. The man was handy in a pinch.
Corpus Christi didn’t make just the local news. Even the networks reported on the illness contracted by half the population of a small, affluent town in Maine. Ten people so far were dead, scores more were missing, and no one yet had recovered. It had chilled her to watch
smiling Katie Couric announce that the state govern- ment was advising people in Mid-Maine to stay in- doors. The EPA had ruled out chemical exposure, and while the CDC hadn’t isolated the agent of infection, they suspected a virus. At about eight tonight NBC an- nounced that Maine’s governor was declaring a state of local emergency. To keep infection from spreading, starting tomorrow morning, all stores and businesses in Maine were closed.
This explained Graham Nero’s visit to the library. The guy had been sick, half crazy, and maybe even dy- ing. After getting Maddie safely home, she’d tried to call the police department for the third time, but all she got for her troubles was sixty minutes of Barry Man- ilow elevator Muzak. This time, at least, a harried re- ceptionist answered at the end of the hold time. She told Meg that too many people were calling, and then accidentally, or maybe intentionally, hung up. In turn, Meg gave up. Her ankle was hurting pretty badly, and the back of her turtleneck was wet with sweat. She’d hardly made it to the high school, and after that had sent Maddie into Target with a credit card and a list, rather than joining her. When she got home she took three 200mg codeine tablets, and was even now still woozy, but at least her leg didn’t hurt. Probably she should see a doctor, but other than her husband, she doubted any were available.
Fenstad sipped his V&T while she scratched her leg. She was having a hard time jettisoning the memory of Graham Nero. That fool had licked her. She wiped her face just thinking about it. Then she looked at Fenstad, who was staring at his quarter-pound steak like a mountain he’d never be able to summit, and blushed. What if Graham had given her the virus? What if she’d brought it home to her family?
Fenstad took a small bite of steak. He chewed, swal- lowed, looked at his fork, then gave up and gulped down half his vodka tonic. The man was too tired to eat.
“What was the hospital like?” she asked.
He shook his head. “Bad.” Then he took another swig. He kept his stress buried so deeply that when he was thirty his gallbladder backed up and he had to have it surgically removed. Yet he still insisted on V&Ts and steak three times a week, like the rules of healthy liv- ing didn’t apply to doctors. Mr. Cold Fish. Still, she was glad she was here with him. Glad to stay here with him tomorrow, too. It was safe in this house where her husband would protect her. Suddenly, after Albert and Graham and now this virus, that seemed very impor- tant.
She scratched again. Her ankle itched so bad that she could feel it, not just on her skin, but in her bones. Fen- stad nodded at her leg. “I told you to take the codeine.”
She sighed and put the coat hanger on the table. He’d hardly said two words except to make sure that Maddie knew to stay in the house, and that the air purifiers were running. Before he sat down at the table he’d in- sisted on showering in scalding hot water and diluted bleach, in case he’d been contaminated at the hospital or Lois Larkin’s house. “You okay?” she asked.
He didn’t look up from his plate. Hardly even paused. “Fine. Thank you.”
What was wrong with him? He wasn’t even looking at her. Over the years, blue and green veins had crawled across her legs like ivy, and her slender waist had thick- ened, but Fenstad’s admiration of her figure had always remained constant. Even last month when he got food poisoning, she’d caught him checking out her rear as she’d emptied the bucket by his bed. But right now he wasn’t looking. He was acting distant. Hostile, even.
Then it came to her. Someone must have told him they’d seen Graham’s Porsche at the library, and he’d drawn the wrong conclusion. She’d wanted to spare him this (been ashamed that it had happened at all), but now she’d have to tell him.
“Something happened,” she said.
He glared at her from behind his plate, and for a mo- ment she was frightened. The expression was full of hate. But in an instant it was gone. She’d imagined it, surely.
“What is it this time?” he asked.
She wasn’t sure how to answer. She looked out the window and into the dark night. The bird was gone now. She’d thrown it away . . . But where were all the other birds? And the squirrels? And . . . the deer? “Gra- ham Nero came to the library today,” she said.
Fenstad didn’t answer, which was pretty much what she’d expected. She continued. “He made a scene. His wife left him. He was talking nonsense. He was sick with the virus, I think. I told him to leave . . .”
Fenstad looked at his fingernails and began to pick out the dirt. Even for him, the reaction was peculiar. “Did he touch you?” he asked without looking up at her.
“I told you. I made him leave. Nothing happened.”
His took a deep breath through his nose so that his nostrils flared. She had the idea that he was smelling her skin for Graham’s scent. “Did he touch you?”
She closed her eyes. “Yes . . . He had me pinned, and he licked me. I didn’t want him—”
Fenstad stood so fast that his chair fell backward into the floor. It rattled as he spoke, so he yelled to be heard. “Stay away from Maddie. You could have the virus,” he said. Then he started out of the room.
“Where are you going?” she called after him. “Target. I’m buying a deadbolt for the door, and
some more water. In case you didn’t notice, we’re at the center of an epidemic. We may be camped out at the house for a while.”
“Fenstad, that’s crazy. It’s twenty miles to Target, and you don’t even know how to install a lock.”
He turned, and she realized that she hadn’t imagined the look he’d given her before, because it was back, only this time he was baring his teeth. She said it with- out hesitation or guile. She said it because it was true. “You know I love you.”
He looked at her for a second, and then two sec- onds, and then three. His scowl softened. “Yeah,” he whispered. “I think . . . I know. I should get that lock, though. We’ll need it if there’s a quarantine and not enough police to patrol the streets. We could leave, but if we’re infected we’d be spreading it. I don’t want to do that. Besides, the less contact we have with the outside, the better.” He turned and headed for the door.
In the next room she heard him stumble, then mut- ter, “Shit!” She gimped her way to the hall. Fresh pain and a groggy codeine hangover made her bite her lip anew. She found him standing in the doorway. He was holding the husk of a large, dead animal. Its fur was damp with blood. All that was left of its corpse was bones and pelt. Even its eyes were missing.
“What is that?” she asked.
Fenstad’s voice was barely a whisper. “Did you do this?”
She didn’t know he was talking to her until he turned and glared. “How could you do this?”
She was so shocked that all she could do was shake her head:
I didn’t.
He dropped the pile of gristle to the stoop. “Kaufmann, the Fowlers’ German shepherd. I couldn’t remember until
now, but it’s the Fowlers’ dog . . . How did you know about my dream?” he asked.
His voice was quivering, furious and full of emotion. Not at all like the man she knew. He walked over the corpse and headed for the car. She hardly noticed the dog, though, because she could have sworn—yes, she could have sworn—that as he’d climbed into the Esca- lade, Fenstad Wintrob had been crying.
T
s
he cherry of Maddie’s Marlboro Light glowed. She was leaning out her window, and it was late Satur- day night. She’d been trapped in her hou e for an entire thirty hours. As if grounding wasn’t enough, starting tonight, the whole freaking town had been put under quarantine. Enrique’s phone wasn’t working again (his brother sometimes wandered off with it, and forgot to recharge it), so she hadn’t been able to call him since he’d left her house in a huff. This was the longest she’d gone without hearing from him since her vacation to Gettysburg. She’d spent yesterday helping her dad drill holes for deadbolts into the front and back doors while Captain Ahab had watched with folded arms. “If some- one wants to get in, they will,” her mom had scolded, and her dad had answered, “No thanks to you,” which Maddie guessed had something to do with Albert. Ev- erything between them was back to normal, which