decided he was going to stop taking the meds. He wasn’t sure why he’d made the decision. But he knew he had to get his head clear so he could think about this.
But maybe I should be taking them. Maybe there really is something
wrong with me,
he thought.
Up and down the street, people were packing things into cars, getting ready to leave. But no one was leaving Quiebra. The firemen standing at the corner, watching silently from their QFD cars, had insisted that everyone evacuated stay somewhere in town. An evacuation—but not far. They had to be there for some kind of health checkup. They’d all be told about it later, “when everything is ready.”
Dad started the station wagon and they drove away, on their way to a room-and-board place over the Chinese restaurant in Old Town Quiebra.
Larry wanted his mom.
He wanted his dog.
He wanted his dad.
7
December 3, late afternoon
Bert Clayborn was sitting in the uncertain sunshine on the small deck of his duplex. His condo’s back door faced the ocean, and he was eating a late lunch of tomato-cheese salad and watching the gulls wheel and dive over the beach.
A crash from next door; the wall vibrated. Another crash. Things breaking, the girl yelling something he couldn’t make out. That Derry girl, half Pakistani, all goth, who’d dropped out of Contra Costa College—an unpredictable, possibly bipolar girl with visible mood swings. Knowing that, he wasn’t inclined to call the police; it was more likely she was assaulting her own apartment than being assaulted.
He drank off the rest of his chardonnay. He allowed himself one glass before going to teach a class. He had taken over a class at Diablo Valley College near the end of term for Darryl Winsecker, who had taught a literature class and who’d suddenly dropped out of the job for “the indefinite future.” There were rumors of long-term alcoholism rehab. Darryl hadn’t settled for one glass of chardonnay.
The phone rang, and Bert grimaced. He was pretty sure he knew who that was. It was that time of year. He just didn’t want to answer.
He knew it would be his younger brother, Errol, and he knew that Errol was going to invite him to spend vacation break with him and his wife, Dory. Dory with her ever-patient, faintly puzzled look whenever Bert spoke. And their videogame-obsessed kids. Errol would want him to come see the family for Christmas, and Bert knew he should go. It would be healthier to spend the holiday with someone; it’d be good for his relationship with his brother— but he just didn’t want to go. And he didn’t want to tell Errol why.
Because I don’t want any more well-meaning “help” from my family,
or any more pitying looks because you think I’m either gay or a loser just
because I don’t get married.
Another crash from next door, and weeping. Should he go over there? But every encounter with her had been like gazing into Edgar Allan Poe’s maelstrom. And the phone was still ringing.
He sighed and stood up. But he didn’t go next door or to the phone. Instead he stood there and watched the gulls some more. White birds, starkly aerodynamic wings with black tips, Nature’s genius in their design—they could do maneuvers beyond the most cunningly wrought aircraft. Graceful and raucous, determinedly survivalist but brattily pushy, garbage-eating scavengers, too. Nature increasingly imitating people, having to accommodate itself to people. But then there had always been scavengers and parasites.
The phone stopped ringing. The crashes from next door ceased, too—though he could hear her talking loudly and cursing.
He could see a big swatch of plastic trash washing up on the beach.
Thoreau would have been apoplectic, seeing what we’ve done to
this planet,
he thought.
And in fact—
The phone started ringing again. He sighed and went to answer it. “Yes?”
“Bertie!”
His heart sank. “Hi, Errol.”
“Listen to that enthusiasm when he says my name! Bad time to
But maybe I should be taking them. Maybe there really is something
wrong with me,
he thought.
Up and down the street, people were packing things into cars, getting ready to leave. But no one was leaving Quiebra. The firemen standing at the corner, watching silently from their QFD cars, had insisted that everyone evacuated stay somewhere in town. An evacuation—but not far. They had to be there for some kind of health checkup. They’d all be told about it later, “when everything is ready.”
Dad started the station wagon and they drove away, on their way to a room-and-board place over the Chinese restaurant in Old Town Quiebra.
Larry wanted his mom.
He wanted his dog.
He wanted his dad.
7
December 3, late afternoon
Bert Clayborn was sitting in the uncertain sunshine on the small deck of his duplex. His condo’s back door faced the ocean, and he was eating a late lunch of tomato-cheese salad and watching the gulls wheel and dive over the beach.
A crash from next door; the wall vibrated. Another crash. Things breaking, the girl yelling something he couldn’t make out. That Derry girl, half Pakistani, all goth, who’d dropped out of Contra Costa College—an unpredictable, possibly bipolar girl with visible mood swings. Knowing that, he wasn’t inclined to call the police; it was more likely she was assaulting her own apartment than being assaulted.
He drank off the rest of his chardonnay. He allowed himself one glass before going to teach a class. He had taken over a class at Diablo Valley College near the end of term for Darryl Winsecker, who had taught a literature class and who’d suddenly dropped out of the job for “the indefinite future.” There were rumors of long-term alcoholism rehab. Darryl hadn’t settled for one glass of chardonnay.
The phone rang, and Bert grimaced. He was pretty sure he knew who that was. It was that time of year. He just didn’t want to answer.
He knew it would be his younger brother, Errol, and he knew that Errol was going to invite him to spend vacation break with him and his wife, Dory. Dory with her ever-patient, faintly puzzled look whenever Bert spoke. And their videogame-obsessed kids. Errol would want him to come see the family for Christmas, and Bert knew he should go. It would be healthier to spend the holiday with someone; it’d be good for his relationship with his brother— but he just didn’t want to go. And he didn’t want to tell Errol why.
Because I don’t want any more well-meaning “help” from my family,
or any more pitying looks because you think I’m either gay or a loser just
because I don’t get married.
Another crash from next door, and weeping. Should he go over there? But every encounter with her had been like gazing into Edgar Allan Poe’s maelstrom. And the phone was still ringing.
He sighed and stood up. But he didn’t go next door or to the phone. Instead he stood there and watched the gulls some more. White birds, starkly aerodynamic wings with black tips, Nature’s genius in their design—they could do maneuvers beyond the most cunningly wrought aircraft. Graceful and raucous, determinedly survivalist but brattily pushy, garbage-eating scavengers, too. Nature increasingly imitating people, having to accommodate itself to people. But then there had always been scavengers and parasites.
The phone stopped ringing. The crashes from next door ceased, too—though he could hear her talking loudly and cursing.
He could see a big swatch of plastic trash washing up on the beach.
Thoreau would have been apoplectic, seeing what we’ve done to
this planet,
he thought.
And in fact—
The phone started ringing again. He sighed and went to answer it. “Yes?”
“Bertie!”
His heart sank. “Hi, Errol.”
“Listen to that enthusiasm when he says my name! Bad time to
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