Cold Storage

Thirty-Nine

The snow globe was back in the cabinet. Roberto had upgraded the emergency cell phone and given it a fresh charge, just in case. Both were locked away in the secret kitchen cupboard again, and on most days, he hoped they’d never come back out. On the other days, the days when he felt particularly proud of himself, he’d muse about how awfully good he was at his job after all and what a shame it would be to park those skills on a shelf forever.

The government attention had been flattering in the immediate aftermath of the Atchison Event, as it was now universally called in the media. In the first hours after the blast, Jerabek had tried hard to play the traitor/terrorist/rogue-agent card, but Roberto was much too skilled a player to be snookered. The initial white paper he’d written on the fungus had been archived in three separate backup locations, to ensure it could never be destroyed without being widely read and, inevitably, leaked to the press. Abigail, whose real name actually was Abigail—huh, guess he didn’t know everything—had proven to be a determined truth-teller and a savvy player of government games. Within twenty-four hours the real story was out, and they were heroes. Talk of renegade Deep State actors gave way quickly to serious conversations about planning for potential future hostile biological invasions and a lively debate about real estate values along the Missouri River bluffs. Speculation ensued.

Roberto sat now on the back porch of the house in North Carolina, in the rocker, the one that felt good on his back. He was nowhere near full strength, but at least the surgery was over with, and he was in the sweet zone of his second Percocet of the day, so pain wasn’t an issue at the moment. He was watching Annie, who was working in the garden. He loved the wide-brimmed hat she wore in the sun, the one she’d bought on the trip to Harbour Island. He loved the blue Wellingtons she stomped around in, the pair she’d bought at the Clarks on Kensington High Street in 2005. He loved the way she stood back after clipping or weeding a particular area, the way she assessed what she’d done and thought about whether it was good enough or needed more. Invariably, she’d see that it needed a little more pruning, a bit of extra shaping, and she’d keep working. He loved watching her form. Her shape was the shape of home to him, and he never tired of admiring her.

Beside him, his cell phone buzzed. He looked at it and smiled, recognizing the number. He picked it up. “You’re still terrible on TV.”

“Like, I know, right?” Teacake replied. “I don’t even know why I do that shit.”

“I do. How much you get?”

Teacake laughed. “Five grand.”

“You’re selling yourself cheap.”

“That ain’t what I called about. Fucker, what the fuck is this?”

“You’ll have to be more specific.”

“Notice of Expungement. I got it in the mail. What the fuck is this, dude?!”

“It’s exactly what it says, Travis.” Nobody called him Teacake anymore, and he didn’t miss it. Roberto continued. “Your conviction has been set aside and your record permanently sealed. It’s as if it never happened.”

“How the fuck did you do that?!”

“It isn’t that hard.”

“Well, fuck, man, thanks! Fuck!”

“You have got to learn another word. You know, for when you want to emphasize something.”

“I’ve tried other words, man. Nothin’ else is as good. Anyway, thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

“And hey—go easy on them painkillers. I can hear it in your voice. You got the thick tongue.”

Roberto smiled. “Will do.”

“That’s a slippery slope, man. I’ve seen it.”

“So have I, my friend.”

“Later, dude.”

“Later, Travis.” Roberto hung up.

He watched his wife as she worked in the garden.

I’m here now.

TRAVIS PUT THE PHONE IN HIS POCKET AND TOOK NAOMI’S HAND AGAIN. Sarah ran ahead of them. They were headed for the playground. He glanced over at Naomi, figured now was as good a time as any. He spoke, soft and halting at first, then picking up steam.

“So, like, I gave it a lot of thought, and it’s not something I say much or have said much, and I don’t want to come off like ‘Ooh, I’m this guy who knows all this shit about whatever or what have you,’ but, you know, given what’s up and how it is, I mean, you prolly know what I’m gonna say, and I can’t honestly say that I’ve ever said it before, or maybe what I should say is I can honestly say I’ve never said it before, you know, anyway, the thing is, I love you.”

Naomi didn’t respond. She kept walking, looking straight ahead, watching as her daughter ran the last fifty feet of sidewalk and cut right onto the sandy expanse of the playground, toward the big play set in the middle.

Travis stared at Naomi, furrowing his brow. He hadn’t expected an “I love you” back, but he hadn’t expected this either. Ignoring him? Staring straight ahead? What kind of ridiculous bullshit was this? Had he freaked her out that badly? Then he remembered.

He let go of her hand and moved around to the other side of her, the side with her good ear, the one she could actually hear out of. He looked at her.

“I love you,” he said.

Naomi turned and looked back, hearing the words for the first time. “I love you too,” she said. She kissed him.

Oh, Travis thought, how much there is to be said for a sober kiss.

With her.