The Merchants of Zion (36 page)

“Duh.”

Her car was parked on the street, idling. “Technically, I'm not supposed to let non-employees ride in it,” she said as she waved me in. I'd never ridden in a self-driving car before.

“Take me home,” Ruth said. Neither of us cried. There would be no tears for James; we were both emotional dysfunctionals and no one else cared. No siblings, and no parents either—a missing father and dead mother. From cancer, or maybe the flu pandemic. I wasn't sure. His family was in worse shape than mine. Ruth's was intact: a father and mother healthy and in love, and two, (or was it three?) siblings in college or holding down jobs. Family was key. Even if the US economy righted itself and ascended to hitherto unheard of levels of wealth, it would be cold comfort for the survivors of households shattered by the airborne toxic event, Liberty Bell, Valley Forge, Operation Empire of Liberty, and more. To me, it sounded like a strong argument for a state-sanctioned reorganization of family trees. Distribute the dead and the even more equally, to level out the grief. James had whispered darkly that such a policy was a manufactured disaster away. If he was right then perhaps better days lie ahead for future generations born into a dying world.

“What are you thinking about?” Ruth asked.

“Huh?”

“When your eyes glaze over like that it means you're being super thoughtful. And you never share. And I want in. I've earned it.”

I explained what I'd been thinking, except for her part in it.

“That's a terrible idea. And you can't blame what happened to James on his parents. He knew what he was getting into.”

“I wasn't blaming anybody. That's why I don't say these things out loud. Because you take my thoughts as my beliefs.”

“Sorry.”

“Can I smoke in here?”

“No.”

“Damn.”

We arrived at her building, and I forced Ruth to stay with me while I smoked.

The doorman recognized me, I think, because he scowled at us while we waited for the elevator. Once in her apartment, I collapsed on her couch as if my spine had turned to jelly. Ruth's ceilings were off-white and spotless—unlike mine, which were stained yellow and bubbling covered in spiderweb cracks from years of leaking water. This building was new, offering a clean break from the past; whatever had occupied this space before had been torn down to its foundations and exerted no ghostly influence over its tenants.

Ruth joined me on the couch, a red cushion wedged between her legs. Watching me. Someday she would die, and I would too. Barring an unforeseen tragedy—nuclear war or the like—we would be buried, and our headstones would be well-maintained until someone paved over the cemetery in order to build condos. The future beckoned, and I took comfort in the ineluctable decay. In the grand scheme of things, it didn't matter if James died today from a gunshot or thirty years later from a coronary brought on by a life spent in contempt for his body.

I opened my mouth to share this revelation with Ruth, but stopped. I didn't see the point. She reached out to touch my hand. Hers was soft and smooth and warm, empathizing without reservation. I interlocked my fingers with hers and we sat there quietly like a weary old couple.

“Do you think things could have worked out between us? Or were we hopeless from the first time we met?” I asked.

“Hopeless.”

“Why?”

“We're both too selfish. And sneaky. We'd spend all our time in power struggles and trying to undermine each other.”

“Mmm.”

“You bring out the worst in me. And I hope for your sake that I do for you. What we need is someone kind and caring to balance us out.”

“That sounds so boring.”

“We have incompatible zodiacs,” she finished, ignoring me.

“Is it really so grim?” I leaned over, placing one hand behind her head and bringing her face to mine. She didn't pull away, but I may as well have been kissing a fashion store mannequin. Her lips were pursed and dry and refused to respond. She kept her teeth clenched to block my tongue, but when I unfastened her jeans she made no effort to dissuade me. I opened my eyes and saw her staring listlessly at the ground. I retreated to the far end of the couch. She left her jeans unbuttoned, and I could see a puff of pubic hair beneath electric blue underwear.

“Would you have gone along like that and let me fuck you?”

“Cliff—”

“Because you fucked James and now he's dead? Because you felt bad for me? Or do you just open up your legs and lay there like a corpse for anyone who comes along?”

“No, Cliff. I wouldn't have let you. I'm seeing someone.”

“Yeah? Have you been dating him this entire time? And now you're having pangs of conscience?”

“No. We met at the party.”

“Oh.” My self-righteousness deflated like slashed tires. “Is it serious?”

“It is. I think I'm in love with him.” She got up from the couch. “You can stay here as long as you want—it's not a problem. But you don't realize how inconsiderate you are, or when you say those things how much it hurts. Good night.”

She went upstairs to her bed, leaving me like a slug squished into the crevices of a child's bare foot.

Dear Therapy Diary,

I went on a date for the first time since starting my medication. The boy's name was Cliff. He took me to a cool restaurant called “33” and pretended to be having a good time, but I could tell the way I was acting made him uncomfortable. He kept making jokes that I didn't think were funny, and told me about a bunch of his personal drama that I didn't care about. I don't think I would've cared about any of it even without the meds. He's one of those people whose idea of being an artist means everything that happens to them is singularly unique and momentous, as if everybody else isn't dealing with their own setbacks and struggles every day. But he was pretty witty and I think I would've had a good time overall if it hadn't been for the side effects.

He was nice enough to let me walk me to his place after dinner so I could use the internet, but the police had raided his house. They shot his roommate, who put up a fight, but they didn't have any interest in Cliff. It sounded like he was selling drugs or something, but Cliff seemed to think it was part of some vast conspiracy. Maybe New York drives everyone crazy.

I called Father for the first time since moving here. His assistant put me through right away, but he had to go after a few minutes because he had to take a business call. He's trying to buy an abandoned warehouse stacked to the ceiling with space-proofed solar paneling. Father thinks space is the future and is tracking down and buying all of the materials the government earmarked for orbital construction during the post-Panic stimulus program. I hope he's right, and this isn't machine intelligence all over again...

...

16. Epilogue

Ruth was gone when I woke up. Taking advantage of my first morning in months without a trace of a hangover, I enjoyed the view from her terrace while I smoked my morning cigarette. Independence Park spread before me, engulfed in the shadows of massive skyscrapers. So many people with so much money, wanted to live next to park, and what was a few hours of sunlight for park goers when compared to enormous profits? Ruth's apartment, however, received illumination aplenty. And it was glorious.

Feeling some sort of wealthy envy or class resentment, I tossed the remnant of my cigarette on the terrace below. I hoped to ruin the evening of whoever lived there, but in all likelihood it would be found and disposed of by a maid or some other servant-by-another-name.

Ruth had left me half a pot of coffee and a note. The stationery was a delicate pink and ornate designs swirled along the border. Her initials were monogrammed at the bottom.

Had to go to work. You're welcome to stay as long as you want. A day, a week, whatever you need. I care about you. I really, really do.

- Ruth

With an invitation like that, I had no choice but to flee.

* * *

I'd expected to return home to find a guard posted outside, or to find yellow police tape across my door with a notice on the door explaining what exactly I was supposed to do next. But there was no trace of the state's massive immune response: the vehicles were all gone and the cordoning had been taken down. No trace, that is, except for the broken chestnut, which had fallen over and whose trunk and branches now blocked the sidewalk. The tips of its leaves had begun to shrivel, deprived of water and nutrients by the severing of the xylem.

The authorities had, at least, had the courtesy to lock the door.

The inside of the house smelled acrid and a thin veil of smoke suffused everything. The living room was a mess: the coffee table had been overturned, the couch cushions were ripped up, and my old tablet lay smashed on the floor.

The kitchen was untouched. One of the stove's burners had been left on with a pot sitting on it. I went over and turned it off. James must have been making dinner, a soup or sauce of some kind; whatever it was had reduced to a burnt, black sludge.

The mattress in my room had been thrown off the bed and all of the dresser drawers were open, but nothing was broken or ripped up. They hadn't touched the bathroom, as far as I could tell.

That left two rooms to to survey. The door to James's was closed. The attic's was ajar, its padlock missing and the frame undamaged. They must have found the key on top of my bookshelf or picked the lock rather than kicking it in, or using a battering ram, or however those things were done.

Previously stacked to the ceiling with cardboard boxes stuffed with yellowing paper, the attic was now empty. Footprints of varying sizes crisscrossed the floor. A fine layer of dust had begun to settle where the boxes had been, in stark contrast to the thick carpeting accumulated atop the narrow walkways. Too bad for my cousin, if he ever intended to return for these documents. But he was no stranger to the devastating lightning strikes of authority, and would take the loss in stride. I only hoped nothing contained within those boxes was serious enough to warrant implicating me as an accomplice under some anti-terrorism law.

I stood outside James's room, not knowing what to expect. Would it be bits of brain and bone? Chunks of gore? Piss and shit? It took every byte of self-control in my possession to turn that knob.

What greeted me was anticlimax. At the foot of his bed, a dark red, almost black, circle the size of a dinner plate on the carpet. On the windowsill, the shattered base of a bottle of whiskey. Two holes in the window radiating hairline fissures. Any scent of blood was overpowered by the reek of the spilled alcohol. The room was bare except the shards of broken glass, a mattress in the corner, and James's suitcase. The entirety of his physical possessions.

I covered the bloodstain with a hand towel. The carpet hadn't been in the best shape to begin with and would need to be torn up and replaced. I didn't have the stomach for it, but couldn't afford to pay someone else. In any case, it could wait until later.

Helen called me. Stacy had told her about the tragic end to last night's date. I didn't really feel like talking about it, and offered stock responses to standard consolations to speed the process along. It was Friday, and I agreed to take today off from tutoring Elly, but insisted that I would be ready to resume my duties come Monday.

The whole day spread before me, free and unendurable. I bought a fifth of gin and a fifth of vodka. I couldn't bear to drink beer today.

* * *

On Sunday I checked my bank account, which seemed several hundred dollars low, even accounting for my two day bender. I soon discovered why: Mr. Felkins had never transferred me the money promised for the date. Not wanting to jump to conclusions, I searched through my spam folder, as it was possible the transfer confirmation had been intercepted by an overzealous algorithm. The bastard hadn't sent me anything, but among the hundreds of advertisements and scams from ghost accounts I found a misidentified message from Honest Abe Insurance, Inc.

Our records indicate that James Newsom has recently passed. His policy names Clifford Asswarts Mukavetz as his sole beneficiary. To claim the benefits please follow the link below. If you are not the Clifford Asswarts Mukavetz in question, please disregard this message.

We Are Sorry For Your Loss,

Abraham Lincoln Information Technology and Insurance, LTD

A Subsidiary of Liberty Bell

Below the letter were details about James's date of birth, policy number, and other miscellanea. The cause of death was listed as “cardiac arrest.”

The message had been sent before midnight on Thursday, the day of James's death. Supremely convenient insurance was the one major advantage of the surveillance state. Every death, surgery, car purchase, and birth was collected in one massive database, organized and accessible by a piece of software that was definitely, most assuredly, indisputably not an artificial intelligence. Because if it were, the liability would be enormous.

I clicked through the link and briefly considered the possibility I was being entrapped, that by claiming the money I would be engaging in wire fraud of one sort or another. But it wasn't like anyone needed a reason to send you to Valley Forge, or shoot you. Plus, it was a lot of money. Not enough to retire on, but enough to pay for a funeral twice over. In any case, I wouldn't be replacing the carpet myself.

* * *

Arranging the funeral was painless. I filled out an online form using the information on the pink slip Ruth had finagled for me and the mortuary director did the rest. My only responsibility was to send her a guest list.

I tracked down Dahlia Sparks, the girl James had lived with before moving in with me, and was mildly surprised to discover she was real. When I invited her to the funeral she responded with a long, angry message expressing no sympathy and some satisfaction at James's demise. Her vitriol was no doubt well-earned.