TWENTY-THREE

It seemed all his life, Thomas had been failing to please women.

One day when he was twelve years old, his mom picked up the phone and found herself talking to her husband’s mistress. The girl, barely out of college, explained how his father had been fucking her every morning while pretending to be at the gym. The way his mother handled this unexpected news was to get drunk and wait for her husband to come home so she could stab him with a broken beer bottle. And though she hadn’t gone through with her plan, she did kick his dad out of the house for a while, and Thomas had spent those terrible weeks doting on his mother even as she verbally abused him for it. She growled and yelled and broke down in angry tears, and all the while he convinced himself she didn’t mean to say those things, she didn’t mean it when she slapped him across the face, she didn’t mean it that one awful morning while she sat in front of her vanity yanking at her tangled hair and hoarsely whispered words he could still hear today: I hate you, Thomas.

With time he came to understand why he fell so hard for women like Natalie and Sophia: It wasn’t true love unless you were forced to work for the tiniest bit of affection. And when he finally met someone devoted to him, Thomas was put off by it. As early as their second date he knew he would never love Gloria the way he should love a wife, but she was beautiful and driven and wanted desperately to be married. They suffered five years avoiding conflict (and eventually each other) before Gloria summoned the nerve to leave him. Because for Thomas to leave her would have meant another failure.

Today smoke loomed on the horizon, and soon flames would reach the shore of the lake, and then what? Would they be forced to leave? Would the water protect them? Would they be overrun by hordes of starving people? There was no way to know. To spend even a single moment thinking of anything else seemed frivolous.

But Thomas couldn’t help himself. He wished he knew how to comfort Natalie. He resented having to order Seth and his boys to remain indoors. And his relationship with Skylar was a disaster. She had flown here, ostensibly, to discuss his screenplay, but her obvious flirting at the airport hinted at a possible romantic interest he never would have imagined. And there was no use pretending he wasn’t flattered by her attention. This was a woman who was every man’s fantasy, who had flown halfway across the country to have an in-person conversation that could easily have happened over the phone. Who now loathed him for refusing to share his food.

She thought he was being selfish. Inhuman. And she was right about him, that was the hell of it. There was an animal side of Thomas willing to share food with everyone in the neighborhood if it meant Skylar would sleep with him. That he would consider sacrificing the life of everyone in this house for a half-hour sexual fantasy made Thomas feel exactly like the monster she believed he was.

On top of all that, he enjoyed being around her! What he wouldn’t give to relive the airport scene, when their easy camaraderie had melted the tension of an anxious first meeting. If not for the end of the world, everything might have been different.

Now, it was Monday evening, and the mood in the house was dark. Skylar was upstairs with a book. Natalie remained in the bedroom, mysteriously mute. Thomas himself had passed much of the day building an inventory of the safe room and preparing estimates on how long their group of six could expect to survive on the current food stores.

Ironically, out of everyone in the house, Seth and the twins seemed most at ease. It was two days now since Thomas had admonished them for going outside, and he assumed Seth would be tempted by the bright sunshine to give it another go. But somehow this had never happened, which was the lone bright spot in an otherwise awful afternoon.

Yesterday Skylar had mentioned a love of Asian food, so Thomas was boiling water and chopping onions for tonight’s dinner of curry and rice. Yes, it was a cheap ploy to earn her approval, but what did he have to lose? And so far it appeared to be working, because a few minutes ago Skylar had finally come downstairs. She was sitting on the sofa, reading, of all things, Alas, Babylon.

When he was done with the onions, Thomas walked past the kitchen table, where Seth and the boys were playing Sorry!. Through the back windows he could see clouds of smoke against the setting sun.

Thomas heard a knock then, quick three raps, that he recognized immediately but refused to acknowledge.

“Someone’s at the door,” Skylar said from the living room. “Maybe you ought to answer it.”

“I’ll get it,” said Seth.

“Seriously?” Thomas replied. “I will answer it. And please be quiet. Just like when Matt was here before.”

He knew who was at the door. Even when the electricity was on, Larry preferred to knock. He was the kind of man who considered himself more cultured than most, when really his personality was adolescent and celebrity-obsessed.

“Hi, Larry,” Thomas said as the door swung open. “This is some crazy shit, isn’t it?”

Larry smiled his typical creepy smile. He was a physicist and had been one of the leaders at the particle accelerator in Olney before it was destroyed. Today, he worked for an overseas corporation with a German name Thomas couldn’t remember.

“Crazy?” Larry said. “Do you say that because of the improbable supernova? Or because this reality is so similar to your new screenplay?”

Thomas didn’t understand how a person could effect a manner both erudite and slimy.

“I don’t know how the government plans to respond, but if they don’t come soon I’m afraid—”

“You know there won’t be a response,” Larry said. “It hasn’t been that long since we talked about this. Don’t you remember?”

One night several months ago Larry had lured him onto his patio, which was how Thomas had come to know the man’s role at the particle accelerator. Larry had also told stories about his years in Los Angeles and all the celebrities he met while working as a science consultant. But Thomas didn’t remember talking much about his work.

“Maybe,” he said. “I had just finished another draft of The Pulse, so it’s possible I—”

“I’m not surprised you prepared for an event like this,” said Larry. “You were pretty spooked by the idea.”

Thomas remembered drinking a lot of scotch. Possibly more than he intended.

“Anyway,” Larry whined, “if you’ve invited a family to stay in your house, you must have put away more food than I thought.”

“A family?”

“They seemed like nice people. Seth and his two young sons. I’d love to say hello.”

Larry grinned.

Now here was Seth, yanking the door farther open before Thomas could react.

“Hey, Larry.”

“Hello, Seth! Oh, it smells good in there. What are you guys cooking?”

Thomas was so furious with Seth he could barely think straight, but it was the wrong time to let emotion get the better of him.

“We do have a little food,” he said to Larry. “But we are being frugal with it, because who knows how long this will last?”

Larry’s creepy smile widened, stretching from ear to ear, as if it was in danger of splitting his face in two.

“Maybe we should invite him for dinner,” said Seth inconceivably. “I bet he’d enjoy some curry.”

“Yes, I would,” replied Larry. “And it would be lovely to speak with Skylar again.”

The words Skylar who? arrived at his lips, and it was all Thomas could do to contain them.

“Let him inside!” trumpeted Seth, who grabbed at the door, who exhaled a sour cloud of whiskey breath.

Thomas jerked the door away.

“So now you know,” he said to Larry. “There are six people here, including two children. Six people I have to figure out how to feed.”

“So you have enough for six but not seven?”

“What I mean is we’re on our own. Everyone is.”

“But everyone didn’t prepare for the apocalypse the way you did. I can’t believe you would decline to help a hungry neighbor.”

“It’s only been three days. Surely you’re not out of food yet.”

Larry stepped forward. The smile on his face faltered into a grimace. It was horrifying.

“Even if I can survive on Bisquick for another day or two, I’m still going to run out. I walked to H.E.B. after the rain yesterday and the place looked like a bomb went off. What do you expect me to do?”

“I don’t know, Larry.”

“You expect me to stay home and starve while you get drunk and make curry for your celebrity girlfriend?”

“I expect you to take care of yourself. The way I’m taking care of my guests and myself.”

“I’m not the only one around here who’s running low,” Larry countered. “Maybe I should tell everyone in Lakewood Village about your little party.” “Get out of here,” Thomas said. “And don’t come back.”

Larry leaned to one side and pretended to look beyond him.

“Give Skylar my regards.”

“Get out,” Thomas said and shut the door.

When he turned around, Seth and the boys had disappeared. Thomas marched into the living room, where Skylar sat alone.

“So you went outside?”

“Yes, I did. What are you going to do about it?”

“That’s a mature response. You realize your pointless act of rebellion will probably get us killed.”

“What’s so pointless about talking to a neighbor?”

“I told you what he was like! What would you have done if he attacked you? What if he tells someone else and a bunch of skeezy men show up here?”

“You mean you wouldn’t protect me?” Skylar said, and pretended to theatrically fan herself. “What will I ever do without a man?”

“Not this shit again. That isn’t what I meant.”

“You act like you want the best for us, but you don’t include us in a single decision.”

Thomas balled his fists and walked in the direction of the kitchen, where he was greeted by the sour smell of onions and a pot of water rapidly boiling itself away. He switched off the gas and stomped into the hallway. When he barged into the bedroom, looking for Seth, he discovered Natalie on the bed, writing something.

“Sorry,” Thomas said. He wondered what she could be writing or why she had chosen now of all times to do it. “I’m looking for Seth.”

Her response was to level her eyes at him, eyes so sad and empty that he should have stopped and talked to her. But he couldn’t do that for a number of reasons, the primary one being the behavior of her stubborn and defiant husband, who along with Skylar seemed determined to sabotage the environment that was keeping them alive.

The other downstairs bedrooms were dark, so the only place left to look was the game room. When Thomas reached the top of the stairs, he heard fierce whispers and found the twins huddled under the pool table.

Seth himself stood between the table and the bar, brandishing a handgun. Flickering candlelight lit the scene like a nightmare. When Thomas raised his hands and took a step backward, the two boys screeched.

“Daddy, no!”

“Seth,” Thomas said. “Put down the gun.”

“We’re tired of listening to you, Thomas. You’re not being reasonable and we’re all suffering.”

“You’re scaring the boys.”

“They don’t understand what’s going on. Natalie is so upset she won’t speak to anyone. You shouldn’t treat us this way.”

“Seth.”

“You caused all this to happen.”

Beyond the raised surface of the bar, Thomas noticed the top of what appeared to be an open liquor bottle.

“What do you mean I caused it to happen?”

“Your screenplay. You wrote this. It’s your fault.”

Thomas noticed Seth wasn’t pointing the gun at him anymore. His hands had fallen to his sides, and his weapon was aimed generally at the floor.

“Did Skylar tell you that?”

“Don’t patronize me. Just because I’m not some hotshot Hollywood writer doesn’t mean I’m stupid. Your whole shtick is to write shit that comes true.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“Is it any more ridiculous than all this happening in the first place? A new star shows up and that’s it? The end of the world?”

Thomas blinked, and for a moment reality seemed to disappear. He lost his position in space and wobbled on his feet. He realized, as if for the first time, how alluring it would be if Seth and Skylar were right. If he had caused this, if Thomas had thrust them into some kind of alternate fictional reality, maybe all he had to do was wait for the inevitable happy ending. Because American studios didn’t fork over millions of dollars to make the feel-bad thriller of the year. In a movie everything would work out well in the end.

“Maybe you’re right,” he said to Seth. “Maybe all this is my fault. But we still have to live it. And there’s no reason to scare them.”

He pointed under the table.

“You don’t tell me what to do with my sons,” Seth blurted.

Thomas stepped forward. He looked down at the gun again but was convinced Seth was bluffing. His eyes were dull and uncertain and Thomas wondered how much he would remember tomorrow.

“Maybe it was a mistake to bring you here,” he said. “I was only trying to help. You’re welcome to leave if that’s what you want.”

“We can’t,” said Seth, breathing through his teeth. “That’s the whole problem. We’re trapped here now. In this stupid movie of yours.”

Where had he gone so wrong, Thomas wondered, that the people he was trying to help felt like prisoners?

Eventually he went downstairs and found Skylar still in the living room, devouring Alas, Babylon as if it were the most riveting novel ever written in English. She didn’t look up as he walked past.

Even if Natalie had killed most of the limoncello, several ounces remained, and Thomas dumped all of it into a tumbler. All he was trying to do was make the best of a bad situation, and somehow everything kept getting worse. He poured a bit of olive oil into the skillet and dumped in the chopped onions. Miraculously, in the pantry, he discovered a single can of coconut milk. Which meant this was the last batch of curry he would ever make.

While the onions sautéed, Thomas brought the water to boil again for the rice. He heard something behind him and found Skylar standing there, Alas, Babylon hooked under her arm.

“What are you cooking?”

“Curry. Doesn’t it smell good?”

He tossed in sliced carrots and red peppers and stirred them with the onions.

“Are you making that because I said I liked Asian food?”

No woman could respect an earnest man. The better approach was to impress without seeming to try.

“Will you stop?” she said.

“Stop cooking?”

“Stop trying to be so fucking perfect!”

“I’m sorry. Would you be happier if I treated you like shit? If I was more of a bad boy?”

“Stop trying to bend the world into the shape you want!”

The curry paste would burn if he didn’t add the coconut milk. He used an opener to puncture the can and poured milk into the skillet, where it erupted into a cloud of steam. Surely Skylar would see reason when she sat down to eat a hot meal.

“Don’t you get it?” she said. “It doesn’t matter if you wrote this world or if it’s just a coincidence. The outcome for us is the same. You behave as if you’re in control of everything that happens. You treat everyone as if they’re characters in your story. Why don’t you try being real for a change? Or at least vulnerable? I think everyone in the house would appreciate it.”

This was finally enough. He threw the empty can into the sink and pointed his spoon at her.

“Give the sanctimony a rest. You pretend the only reason you came here was to tell me how wrong I was about the script, as if your work is somehow more authentic than mine. But then you accept twenty million dollars to dance like a puppet in front of a green wall. You have all the money a person could ever need. You could make art films for the rest of your life. But you don’t. Because you’re as shallow as anyone else.”

Skylar stared at him. The curry simmered.

“So yeah,” Thomas said. “Maybe I could use a reality check. But so could you.”

“I think I’ll go to bed.”

“You haven’t eaten anything in hours. Why not sit down and have some dinner?”

“Sorry, but I’m too tired to be hungry.”

Skylar walked out of the kitchen while Thomas methodically stirred. A little while later the rice was ready, and he scooped some onto a plate. He added curry and took his dinner to the table along with a glass of whiskey.

Thomas didn’t waste any time with the drink. He knocked it back in a couple of swallows and toyed with onions and carrots and peppers. When he first conceived this meal, he had imagined how Skylar might smile at the chopsticks, an unexpected taste of refinement injected into the anxious boredom of their days. Now, sitting here alone, the chopsticks felt ridiculous. He pushed vegetables around his cooling plate and thought about what Skylar had said.

How on earth could she accuse him of being a control freak? All his life Thomas had tried to be a kind and honest and empathetic man. He wanted people to be happy, not miserable. Was the problem Skylar’s? Was she so upset that she couldn’t see reason?

Or was there something off-putting about Thomas that he was too blind to see?