First Shift - Legacy

17

The fat raindrops on the canopy outside De’Angelos sounded like rhythmless fingers tapping on a drum. The traffic on L Street hissed through puddles gathering against the curb, and the asphalt that flashed between the cars gleamed shiny and black from the streetlights. Donald shook two pills out of a plastic vial and into his palm. Two years on the meds. Two years completely free of anxiety, gloriously numb.

He glanced at the label and thought of his sister, then popped them in his mouth and swallowed. He was sick of the rain, preferred the quiet cleanliness of the snow. But another winter had been too warm for any chance of that.

Keeping out of the foot traffic flowing through the front doors—umbrellas jostling against umbrellas—he cradled his cell phone against his ear and listened patiently while his wife urged Karma to pee.

“Maybe she doesn’t need to go,” he suggested. He dropped the vial into his coat pocket and cupped his hand over the phone as the lady beside him wrestled with her umbrella, water flicking everywhere.

Helen continued to cajole Karma with a raft of words the poor dog didn’t understand. These were their conversations of late. Nothing real to say, disjointed daily routines, babbling about the trivial amid long silences. “But she hasn’t been since lunch,” Helen insisted.

“She didn’t go somewhere in the house, did she?”

“She’s four years old.”

Donald forgot. Lately, time felt locked in a bubble. He wondered if his medication was causing that or if it was the workload. Whenever anything seemed… off anymore, he always assumed it was the medication. Before, it could have been the vagaries of life; it could have been anything. Somehow, it felt worse to have something concrete and new to pin it on.

On the other end of the line, Helen pleaded with the dog. There was shouting across the street. Donald looked up to see two homeless men yelling at each other in the rain, squabbling over a piece of cardboard or a bag of tin cans or some personal offense from the day before. He watched morosely as more umbrellas were shaken and more fancy dresses flowed into the restaurant. Here was a city charged with governing all the others, and it couldn’t even take care of itself. These things used to worry him more. He patted the capsule in his jacket pocket, a comforting twitch he’d developed.

“She won’t go,” his wife said exhaustedly.

“Baby, I’m sorry I’m up here and you have all that to take care of. But look, I really need to get inside. We’re trying to wrap up final revisions on these plans tonight—”

“How is everything going with that? Are you almost done?”

A file of taxis drove by, hunting for fares, fat tires rolling across sheets of water like hissing snakes. Donald watched as one of them slowed to a stop, brakes squealing from the wet. He didn’t recognize the man stepping out, coat held up over his head. It wasn’t Mick.

“Huh? Oh, it’s going great. Yeah, we’re basically done, maybe a few tweaks here and there. The outer shells are poured, and the lower floors are in—”

“I meant, are you almost done working with her?”

He turned away from the traffic to hear better. “Who, Anna? Yeah. Look, I’ve told you. We’ve only consulted here and there. Most of it’s done electronically.”

“And Mick is there?”

“Yup.”

Another cab slowed as it passed by. Donald turned at the sound of squealing brakes, but the car didn’t stop.

“Okay. Well, don’t work too late. Call me tomorrow.”

“I will. I love you.”

“Love you—Oh! Good girl! That’s a good girl, Karma—!”

“I’ll talk to you tomorr—”

But the line was already dead. Donald glanced at his phone before putting it away, shivered once from the cool fall evening and from the moisture in the air. He pressed through the crowd outside the door, fought through patrons studying the rain and calling car services. Inside, he waved off the maître d’ and made his way to the table.

“Everything okay?” Anna asked. She sat alone at a table with three settings. A wide-necked sweater had been pulled down to expose one shoulder. She pinched her second glass of wine by its delicate stem, a pink half-moon of lipstick on its rim. Her auburn hair was tied up in a bun, the freckles across her nose almost invisible behind a thin and expert veil of makeup. She looked, impossibly, more alluring than she had in college.

“Yeah, everything’s fine.” Donald twisted his wedding ring with his thumb—a habit. “Have you heard from Mick?” He reached into his pocket and pulled out his cell, checked his texts. He thought of firing off another one, but there were already four unanswered messages sitting there.

“Nope. Wasn’t he flying in from Texas this morning? Maybe his flight was delayed.”

She took another sip of wine and studied him over the rim. He saw that his glass, which he’d been nursing, had been topped up while he was gone. Donald knew Helen would disapprove of him sitting there alone with Anna, even though nothing was going to happen. Nothing ever could. It was just the potential, the act of placing himself in danger.

“We could always do this another time,” he suggested. “I’d hate for Mick to be left out.”

She set down her glass and studied the menu. “Might as well eat while we’re here. Be a little late to find something else. Besides, Mick’s logistics are independent of our design. We can send him our materials report later.”

Donald reluctantly unfolded his napkin and placed it in his lap. Anna leaned to the side and reached for something in her purse, her sweater falling dangerously open. Donald looked away quickly, a flush of heat on the back of his neck. She pulled out her tablet and placed it on top of his manila folder, the screen flashing to life.

“I think the bottom third of the design is solid.” She spun the tablet for him to see. “I’d like to sign off on it so they can start layering the next few floors in.”

“Well, a lot of these are yours,” he said, thinking of all the mechanical spaces at the bottom. “I trust your judgment.”

He picked the tablet up, relieved that this was still going to be about work. He felt like a fool for thinking Anna had anything else in mind. They had been exchanging emails and updating each other’s plans for over two years. There was never a hint of impropriety. Even as he watched a couple at another table slide their basket of bread out of the way so they could hold hands, he cautioned himself not to let the setting, the music, the white tablecloths, fool him.

“There is one last-minute change you’re not going to like,” she said. “The central shaft needs to be modified a little. But I think we can still work with the same general plan. It won’t affect the floors at all.”

He scrolled through the familiar files until he spotted the difference. The emergency stairwell had been moved from the side of the central shaft to the very middle. The shaft itself seemed smaller, or maybe it was because all the other gear they’d filled it with was gone. Now there was empty space, the discs turned to doughnuts. He looked up from the tablet and saw their waiter approaching.

“What, no lift?” He wanted to make sure he was seeing this right. To the waiter, he asked for a water and said he’d need more time with the menu.

The waiter bowed and left. Anna placed her napkin on the table and slid over to the adjacent chair. “The board said they had their reasons.”

“The medical board?” Donald exhaled. He had grown sick of their meddling and their suggestions, but he had given up fighting with them. He never won. “Shouldn’t they be more worried about people falling over these railings and breaking their necks?”

Anna laughed. “You know they’re not into that kind of medicine. All they can think about is what these workers might go through, emotionally, if they’re ever trapped in there for a few weeks. They wanted the plan to be simpler. More… open.”

“Open.” Donald chuckled and reached for his glass of wine. “And what do they mean, trapped a few weeks? I feel like we’re designing something here you could hole up in for a few years.”

Anna shrugged. “You’re the elected official. I figure you should know more about this government silliness than I do. I’m a consultant. I’m just getting paid to lay out the pipes.”

She finished her wine, and the waiter returned with Donald’s water and to take their orders. Anna raised her eyebrow, a familiar twitch that begged a question: Are you ready? It used to mean much more, Donald thought, as he glanced at the menu.

“How about you pick for me?” he finally said, giving up. The descriptions of the entrées were little help. He supposed a trained chef might understand what the sauces were and what the preparations meant.

Anna ordered, and the waiter feigned appreciation for her selections.

“So now they want a single stairwell, huh?” Donald imagined the concrete needed for this, then thought of a spiral design made of metal. Stronger and cheaper. “We can keep the service lift, right? Why couldn’t we slide this over and put it in right here?”

He showed her the tablet. More wine was poured.

“No. No lifts. Keep everything simple and open. That’s what they said.”

He didn’t like this. Even if the thing would never be used, it should be built as if it might. Why else bother? He’d seen a partial list of supplies they were going to stockpile inside. Doing that by stair seemed insane, unless they planned to stock the floors before the prebuilt sections were craned inside. That was more Mick’s department. It was one of many reasons he wished his friend were there.

“You know, this is why I didn’t go into architecture.” He scrolled through their design and saw all the places where it wasn’t their design. “I remember the first class we had where we had to go out and meet with mock clients, and they always wanted either the impossible or the downright dumb—or both. And that’s when I knew it wasn’t for me.”

“So you went into politics.” Anna laughed.

“Yeah. Good point.” Donald smiled, saw the irony. “But hey, it worked for your father.”

“My dad went into politics because he didn’t know what else to do. He got out of the army, sank too much money into busted venture after busted venture, then figured he’d serve his country some other way.”

She studied him a long moment.

“This is his legacy, you know.” She leaned forward and rested her elbows on the table, bent a graceful finger at the tablet. “This is one of those things they said would never get done, and he’s doing it.”

Donald put the tablet down and leaned back in his chair. He turned to the side so he could cross his legs. “He keeps telling me the same thing,” he said. “That this is our legacy, this project. I told him I feel too young to be working on my crowning achievement already.”

Anna smiled. They both took sips of wine. A basket of bread was dropped off, but neither of them reached for it.

“Speaking of legacies and leaving things behind,” Anna asked, “is there a reason you and Helen decided to not have kids?”

Donald placed his glass back on the table. Anna lifted the bottle, but he waved her off. “Well, it’s not that we don’t want them. We just both went directly from grad school to our careers, you know? We kept thinking—”

“That you’ll have forever, right? That you’ll always have time. There’s no hurry.”

“No. It’s not that—” He rubbed the tablecloth with the pads of his fingers and felt the slick and expensive fabric slide over the other tablecloth hidden below. When they were finished with their meals and out the door, he figured this top layer would be folded back and carried off with their crumbs, a new layer revealed beneath. Like skin. Or the generations. He took a sip of wine, the tannins numbing his lips.

“I think that’s it exactly,” Anna insisted. “Every generation is waiting longer and longer to pull the trigger. My mom was almost forty when she had me, and that’s getting more and more common.”

She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

“Maybe we all think we might be the first generation that simply doesn’t die, that lives forever.” She raised her eyebrows. “Now we all expect to hit a hundred and thirty, maybe longer, like it’s our right. And so this is my theory—” She leaned closer. Donald was already uncomfortable with where the conversation was going. “Children used to be our legacy, right? They were our chance to cheat death, to pass these little bits of ourselves along. But now we hope it can simply be us.”

“You mean like cloning? That’s why it’s illegal.”

“I don’t mean cloning—and besides, just because it’s illegal, you and I both know people do it.” She took a sip of her wine and nodded at a family in a distant booth. “Look. He has daddy’s everything.”

Donald followed her gaze and watched the kid for a moment, then realized she was just making a point.

“Or how about my father?” she asked. “Those nano baths, all the stem-cell vitamins he takes. He truly thinks he’s gonna live forever. You know he bought a load of stock in one of those cryo firms years back?”

Donald laughed. “I heard. And I heard it didn’t work out so well. Besides, they’ve been trying stuff like that for years—”

“And they keep getting closer,” she said. “All they ever needed was a way to stitch up the cells damaged from the freezing, and now that’s not so crazy a dream, right?”

“Well, I hope the people who dream such things get whatever it is they’re looking for, but you’re wrong about us. Helen and I talk about having kids all the time. I know people having their first kid in their fifties. We’ve got time.”

“Mmm.” She finished what was in her glass and reached for the bottle. “You think that,” she said. “Everyone thinks they’ve got all the time in the world.” She leveled her cool gray eyes at him. “But they never stop to ask just how much time that is.”

After dinner, they waited under the awning for Anna’s car service. Donald declined to share a ride, saying he needed to get back to the office and would just take a cab. The rain hitting the awning had changed, grown fiercer. Now it sounded like bubble wrap being popped.

Anna’s ride squealed to a stop, a shiny black Lincoln, just as Donald’s phone began vibrating. He fumbled in his jacket pocket while she leaned in for a hug and kissed his cheek. He felt a flush of heat despite the cool air, saw that it was Mick calling, and hit the accept button.

“Hey, you just land, or what?”

A pause.

“Land?” Mick sounded confused. There was noise in the background. The driver hurried around the Lincoln to get the door for Anna. “I took a redeye,” Mick said. “My flight got in early this morning. I’m just walking out of a movie and saw your texts. What’s up?”

Anna turned and waved. Donald waved back.

“You’re getting out of a movie? We just wrapped up our meeting at Angelo’s. You missed it. Anna said she emailed you like three times—”

He glanced up at the car as Anna drew her leg inside. Just a glimpse of her red heels, and then the driver thumped the door shut. The rain on the tinted glass stood out like jewels embedded in wet obsidian.

“Huh. I must’ve missed them. Probably went to junk mail. Hey, have you heard of The Wizard of Oz? We just got out of this film, supposedly a remake. If you and I were still in our getting-high days, I would totally force you to blast one with me right now and go to the midnight showing. My mind is totally bent—”

Donald watched as the driver hurried around the car to get out of the rain. That sheet of gleaming black trembled, the jewels scattering as her window lowered a crack. One last wave, a disembodied hand braving the wet and cold, fingers fluttering.

“Yeah, well, those days are long gone, my friend.” Donald waved back as the car pulled out into the light traffic. Thunder grumbled in the distance. An umbrella opened with a pop as a gentleman prepared to brave the storm. “Besides,” Donald told Mick, “some things are better off back in the past. Where they belong.”