up. Let me tell you, bud, you stick around here, you shouldn't oughta drink the water, not after what I seen put in the ground.” He paused a moment. “God. All those dead people, and a vapor-brain like Stewart lives. And me.” He shook his head. “I was countin' on dyin'. One of the biggest disappointments in my life. Maybe the only ones who lived through it are the screwheads — me, Stewart, Captain Zero."
“And me,” Martin said. They passed by a shopping center. Some of the larger windows had been broken out, but it looked surprisingly normal.
“Yeah,” Diaz said. “You're the one normal.”
“Just as normal as a guy can be,” Martin said, “who volunteers to spend a year underground in total isolation and didn't go nuts.”
“Like I said, only the normal screwheads lived.” Diaz flashed him his big yellow-toothed grin.
When they turned into Delana's neighborhood, Martin felt his chest tighten up, as it did when he approached his parents' house. She lived in an upscale apartment complex, surrounded by clusters of birches, blue spruce, redwoods, and dense hedges of nandina, mock orange, and privet. In the cool, wet weather, everything grew thick and green.
From the foot of the stairway that led up to her door, he could see the pond in the center of the complex with its carefully arranged boulders. Every other time he had been here, the fountain had filled the air with a rhythmic rushing sound — but now it was silent and the water was green. No cars passed on the surrounding streets, no one was chattering a hello or goodbye, no one sunbathed, no smells of suntan lotion or barbecue.
Up on her balcony, he saw her potted azaleas — they were now leafless collections of naked sticks.
Martin put his hand on the banister and said to Diaz, who leaned against the car fender, “I may be a few minutes.”
“I got no appointments,” he said. “Do what you need to do.”
Isha sat on the sidewalk, looking toward Martin, also waiting.
As he climbed the stairs, Martin was assailed by memory — coming up the stairs with wine, Delana opening the door before he could ring the bell, her black hair hanging in curls to her shoulders, her bright blue eyes, the smell of her neck, the smell of bread from her kitchen, her voice, low and liquid.... He pressed the doorbell and heard it chime twice inside.
Down on the sidewalk, Diaz still leaned against the car, his thick arms folded, his eyes turned discreetly away. Isha looked up at Martin.
Stupid, Martin thought, ringing the bell. But he waited a decent interval, while around him bugs clicked and a single midday cricket sawed slowly.
He tried the door and the knob turned easily. He pushed it open. He was thinking that perhaps she knew he would come here one day; perhaps she knew it soon wouldn't matter whose door was locked, because no one would be left to steal anything.
The air was thick with stale apartment smell. Everything was in its place, neat and in order. No dishes were left out in the kitchen, the two red pillows on the sofa were fluffed and symmetrically arranged, and in the bedroom the bed was made — the bed where many times they had made love — and a white envelope lay on the near corner. It had his name on it.
He held it in his hand a moment, feeling its thinness, its dry surfaces, wondering if he had the nerve to read it now, another message from the past. From the dead.
Martin pulled open the envelope flap and took out the one small thin sheet of paper.
My dear Martin—
I am so sorry I could not stay to see you again. Take as good care of yourself as I would. I love you now more than I have words for, so do well with what there is left. I'll give you my last thoughts.
—Delana.
With a period at the end of her name.
He put the note in his pocket, next to the papers his parents had left, and never felt so alone in his life. Everything was gone — he'd known it for a full day, but now he felt it. He felt it down to the middle of his
“And me,” Martin said. They passed by a shopping center. Some of the larger windows had been broken out, but it looked surprisingly normal.
“Yeah,” Diaz said. “You're the one normal.”
“Just as normal as a guy can be,” Martin said, “who volunteers to spend a year underground in total isolation and didn't go nuts.”
“Like I said, only the normal screwheads lived.” Diaz flashed him his big yellow-toothed grin.
When they turned into Delana's neighborhood, Martin felt his chest tighten up, as it did when he approached his parents' house. She lived in an upscale apartment complex, surrounded by clusters of birches, blue spruce, redwoods, and dense hedges of nandina, mock orange, and privet. In the cool, wet weather, everything grew thick and green.
From the foot of the stairway that led up to her door, he could see the pond in the center of the complex with its carefully arranged boulders. Every other time he had been here, the fountain had filled the air with a rhythmic rushing sound — but now it was silent and the water was green. No cars passed on the surrounding streets, no one was chattering a hello or goodbye, no one sunbathed, no smells of suntan lotion or barbecue.
Up on her balcony, he saw her potted azaleas — they were now leafless collections of naked sticks.
Martin put his hand on the banister and said to Diaz, who leaned against the car fender, “I may be a few minutes.”
“I got no appointments,” he said. “Do what you need to do.”
Isha sat on the sidewalk, looking toward Martin, also waiting.
As he climbed the stairs, Martin was assailed by memory — coming up the stairs with wine, Delana opening the door before he could ring the bell, her black hair hanging in curls to her shoulders, her bright blue eyes, the smell of her neck, the smell of bread from her kitchen, her voice, low and liquid.... He pressed the doorbell and heard it chime twice inside.
Down on the sidewalk, Diaz still leaned against the car, his thick arms folded, his eyes turned discreetly away. Isha looked up at Martin.
Stupid, Martin thought, ringing the bell. But he waited a decent interval, while around him bugs clicked and a single midday cricket sawed slowly.
He tried the door and the knob turned easily. He pushed it open. He was thinking that perhaps she knew he would come here one day; perhaps she knew it soon wouldn't matter whose door was locked, because no one would be left to steal anything.
The air was thick with stale apartment smell. Everything was in its place, neat and in order. No dishes were left out in the kitchen, the two red pillows on the sofa were fluffed and symmetrically arranged, and in the bedroom the bed was made — the bed where many times they had made love — and a white envelope lay on the near corner. It had his name on it.
He held it in his hand a moment, feeling its thinness, its dry surfaces, wondering if he had the nerve to read it now, another message from the past. From the dead.
Martin pulled open the envelope flap and took out the one small thin sheet of paper.
My dear Martin—
I am so sorry I could not stay to see you again. Take as good care of yourself as I would. I love you now more than I have words for, so do well with what there is left. I'll give you my last thoughts.
—Delana.
With a period at the end of her name.
He put the note in his pocket, next to the papers his parents had left, and never felt so alone in his life. Everything was gone — he'd known it for a full day, but now he felt it. He felt it down to the middle of his
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