CHAPTER 28
Susan
“Susan? Hello?”
Jennifer rapped on the door . . . for some reason, since Gautierre
died, Susan had holed up in one of the empty apartments in the
complex directly across from the abandoned radio
station.
Before Big Blue,
these “2 BR, 1½ BA” townhomes would have rented for a brisk $1,800
a month, utilities not included. The radio station wasn’t the draw
for renters who weren’t Susan; the draw was the river view, and the
new construction, and the ice-cream shop less than two blocks
away.
Jennifer had no idea
why Susan would have left dozens of other spots to stay, by
herself, in a part of town that wasn’t convenient to the hospital,
the train, or the grain elevators.
Hell, the only thing
this place did have was that nice river view right beside the big
willow tree where she and Gautierre had seen Ember—
Oh.
Right.
“Susan?”
“For cripe’s sake.”
The door was yanked open. “What?”
“Yeesh.”
“I’m aware,” her best
friend retorted, “of how I look.”
“Um. If you say
so.”
Susan looked wrecked.
Jennifer had no idea when she’d last washed her hair, which was
floppy, more stringy than curly, an unattractive length, shiny with
grease, and needed a trim in the worst way. Not to mention
deep-conditioning treatments.
Her skin was blotchy
and uneven, too pale in some spots, flaring with acne in others.
The circles beneath her eyes were enormous and dark; she’d lost at
least eight or nine pounds, and Susan hadn’t needed to lose an
ounce. Shit, these days in Domeland, nobody needed to lose
weight.
“You look like you
can’t find your heroin dealer.”
“Well,” she replied,
turning and walking away, “I can’t.”
Jennifer followed,
closing the door, and followed her into the living room. Her friend
had done nothing to make this apartment a home; it was furnished—it
had been the model apartment—but looked like a page in a catalog,
not someone’s refuge.
All she’d done was
bring in a sleeping bag, a backpack, and two rolls of toilet paper.
No books. No knickknacks.
“Um.” How have you been? Nope. How’s it going? Uhuh. So what’s
new? Definitely not.
Under Big Blue was no
place for irreverent small talk.
“How awful is it?”
she finally asked.
“Pretty damn awful.”
Susan sighed, and flopped down on her sleeping bag.
“Yeah. I
figured.”
“What do you want,
Jenn?”
“Me?”
Susan snorted.
“Please. You’re not here to check on me. You need
something.”
“Maybe it’s both,”
she replied, stung.
“It’s not. You’ve
remembered I exist because someone—probably your mom—has an updated
plan of attack, and someone—probably your mom—has realized I can
play a tiny, stupid part in it. And lo, the Ancient Furnace
approacheth.”
“There’s no need to
be unreasonably nasty,” Jenn said nervously. She knew Susan wanted
her to be embarrassed and guilty. But she fought against
it.
Dammit, she’d had a
fistfight with her mother over this exact thing. Time to step up, Jennifer. Stop being a baby, Jennifer.
Why aren’t you there for me, Jennifer. Get back to work, Jennifer.
Save the world, Jennifer. Raise the dead, Jennifer. Help Susan
mourn Gautierre, Jennifer. Don’t think about your EXTREMELY DEAD
DAD, Jennifer.
She felt dull heat in
her palms and looked; she had clenched her fists so hard, her
fingernails had cut the skin.
I am doing the best I can, Winoka, thank you very much,
and if that doesn’t leave time to stroke people, that is too damned
bad.
“Are you okay?” Susan
asked. “You look weird.”
“I’m fine.” She
practically strangled on the lie and abruptly was tired of the
whole thing. “Yeah, I’m busted. I am not fine. I am the polar
opposite of fine. And we need your help.”
“With
what?”
Jennifer stared.
“Seriously?”
“What’s wrong now?”
Susan was unrolling the toilet paper, which was two-ply. She was
separating it, making two piles of one- ply. Waste not, want not.
“You know, specifically.”
“Well, specifically,
my dad’s dead, my mom’s dead on her feet, Skip’s trying to kill us
all, so then we’d all be dead, and we need to get the word out to
the world, which is pretending we’re dead.”
“Why?”
“What?”
“Why? You think they
don’t know? Everybody knows. My father probably knows, for all the
good that’s done me, or anybody.” She shrugged. “We’re screwed. We
haven’t got the sense to lie down and stop kicking. It always takes
longer for the dumb ones to clue in.”
“Anyway,” Jennifer
continued, determined not to strangle Susan . . . not yet. “Anyway,
we need you to do another broadcast. Several, in fact. If they
see—if they hear—”
“What? We’ll be
saved? The National Guard will show up on horseback and save the
day? Even you’re not that arrogant.” She paused, then asked,
seeming honestly curious, “Are you?”
“Susan, I love you,
but will you please knock it off? You think you’re the only one
hurting? Have you seen my dead dad around anywhere lately? Hmm? You
think I don’t want to curl up on a smelly sleeping bag and turn
two-ply T.P. into one-ply?”
Susan shrugged. That
maddened Jennifer more than anything else. She wouldn’t even get
mad . . . didn’t care enough to so much as raise her voice. It was
like yelling at a store mannequin.
“So that’s it?” she
yelled.
“Yup.”
“You’re out. You
won’t help.”
“Nope.”
“Because you’re
sad.”
“Because the cost is
too high, and it pretty much always has been. Find another tool,
Jenn. I’m done.”
“You’re not a—”
“Don’t even bother.
I’m the screwdriver in the Ancient Furnace’s Toolbox of Life . . .
or I was, anyway.”
“That’s the worst
metaphor I’ve ever heard.”
“Don’t care. Run
along, why don’t you. Make a couple of boys fall in love with you
or fix a parallel universe or find out about a weird half-sibling
or roast a couple of neighborhood cats with your weird sparky
smelly breath.” Her eyes turned hard. “Make your way through life,
dodging every bullet and arrow while those around you get killed.
Come through unscathed, while everyone around you feels
pain.”
“That’s not fair,
Susan—”
“And do it outside,
please, because I’ve got zero interest in continuing this
conversation.”
Jennifer wasn’t sure
if she was numb or shocked. “What about you?”
“People like me? What
you and your mother call ‘the innocents,’ in your clueless,
patronizing way? Why, that’s easy. We’ll die.” Susan looked forty
years old, which scared Jennifer more than anything else that had
happened since she’d knocked on the door. “Gautierre and your dad.
They’re the lucky ones, y’know.”
Jennifer turned,
began to leave, paused, booted Susan’s backpack into the dining
room, and kicked the door open on her way out.
“We’ve got all
kinds of toilet paper at the hospital!”
she yelled, before slamming the door behind her.