Ruin Falls (24 page)

Liz found her husband exactly where she had expected to after absorbing Tree’s pronouncement. Tree had described Paul as a talker not a doer, and occasionally someone who didn’t even say much, and the words had snagged a corner of her memory.

PEW had a thread that came and went, going all the way back to the origin of the site. It was there to lure certain members out periodically, people who read and kept up with threads, but didn’t tend to contribute themselves.

The latest batch of posts was dated the night of the faculty dinner.

Liz could imagine what had created Tree’s impression of Paul: the uncharacteristic speechlessness her husband would’ve exhibited in the face of a rival who’d attained far greater levels of accomplishment.

She clicked on
LURKERS DE-LURK
!

“Hello, Paul,” Liz whispered.

And in the deep hush of the room, the Professor began to speak.

Liz saw Paul sitting at this screen; she felt the ropes of his dilemma, drawing and quartering him. These were the people whose preoccupations he had dismissed when Liz was juggling them, the day-to-day detritus of raising young children. Paul had held himself above it all during the years and months of threads Liz had scanned. Then, prompted by Tree’s attack and a craving for new sources of adulation, Paul had quit lurking and waded in.

If only Liz had known to click on this thread. It contained relatively few posts and as such had passed unnoticed. But
LURKERS DE-LURK
! seemed to embody the real purpose of PEW, an acronym whose meaning someone called
The Town Crier
finally explained.

PEW
stood for Parents at the End of the World.

T
HERE
’
S A LONG HISTORY
, a woman who went by
Magpie
had written,
OF
PEW
MEMBERS WHO REALIZE BAD TIMES ARE COMING AND WE
’
D BETTER DO SOMETHING ABOUT IT
. W
E
’
RE NOT JUST COMPLAINING ABOUT PLAYDATES
. T
HE ONLY PROBLEM IS, WE CAN
’
T FIGURE OUT A SOLUTION
.

Magpie
, Liz thought.
The agitator bird, the one who incites movement
.

She bowed her head to begin reading again.

O
THERS ON THE SITE THINK WE
’
RE TOO RADICAL
. O
UR THREADS NEVER GET MANY RESPONSES
.

S
O WE COME HERE
. K
IND OF A ROOM-WITHIN-A-ROOM
.

W
E
’
RE NOT ACTIVE ALL THE TIME
. A
ND SOMETIMES WE DO JUST HANG OUT WITH THE REST
.

B
UT WHEN WE GET GOING STRONG, WE
’
RE BRAINSTORMING INSTEAD OF JUST COMPLAINING
. I
T
’
S NOT ABOUT WHETHER YOU CAN GET A FAST FOOD BURGER THAT ISN
’
T FACTORY-FARMED
. I
T
’
S WHETHER OUR CHILDREN ARE GOING TO BE EATING ANYTHING BESIDES WHAT THEY CAN FORAGE A DECADE FROM NOW
.

T
HIS IS WHY NOBODY WANTS TO ANSWER OUR POSTS
. T
HEY
’
RE SO HOPELESS
.

A
T LEAST WE FACE REALITY
.

T
HERE
’
S JUST NOTHING TO DO ABOUT IT
.

And then the Professor had waved a flag. Liz studied Paul’s avatar: a bespectacled owl that looked more severe than avuncular.

I
HAVE SOME IDEAS
.

Liz sat forward in the desk chair, her eyes wide and unblinking. She tried jumping from post to post, scrolling for those written by the Professor, but they made no sense out of context. And since each entry had the potential to tell her where her children might be, she knew she’d better read closely. Liz followed the evolution of Paul’s presence in PEW, witnessing the balm participation must have been to the ego Tree had bashed.

Someone had responded immediately, avidly, to Paul’s first post.

T
ELL US
! W
ELCOME, BY THE WAY
. A
ND WHAT DO YOU MEAN
?

W
E DON
’
T HAVE TO BE PRISONERS TO THE FACTORY SYSTEM
, Paul had typed.

G
O ON
, wrote someone named Processed whom Liz remembered from other threads.

M
Y FATHER
’
S RENTED OUT HIS LAND TO
P
ERVADON FOR TWO DECADES
. B
UT HE ALSO EXPERIMENTS WITH VARIETALS THAT HAVEN
’
T BEEN GROWN IN A HUNDRED YEARS
. F
UNNY, HUH
? B
IGGEST AGRIBUSINESS IN THE COUNTRY DOESN
’
T REALIZE IT
’
S PAYING HIM TO FIGHT
GMO
S
.

People typed in a train of emoticons to recognize the irony. Smiley faces, toothy mouths. Here was a whole new crowd of Adoring Girls, Jakes, and Lias, just waiting to be schooled. A chorus of questions asked Paul about food production in colder climates, whether Cuba surviving the embargo was merely a result of its long growing season, and if pest resistance could begin in the soil.

I
T SURE CAN
, Professor replied. You
SHOULD SEE MY FATHER
’
S FARM
.

Tears were rolling, silent and salty, into the corners of Liz’s lips. She felt as if she’d found the seeds of her undoing, preserved like amber in distant cyberspace. They were here for the discovery, but unable to be impacted or changed.

T
HERE ARE MEASURES WE CAN TAKE
, Paul had added. R
IGHT HERE AT HOME
.

L
IKE WHAT
?

S
AYING NO TO CORN, EVEN IN ANIMAL FEED
. M
AKING OUR OWN DISHWASHING DETERGENT
. C
OMMERCIAL DISHWASHING AGENTS ARE RESPONSIBLE FOR TWELVE PERCENT OF THE POLLUTION THAT SHOWS UP IN AQUIFERS
. O
R HOW ABOUT ESCHEWING ANYTHING IN A CONTAINER SMALLER THAN DRUM-SIZED
? B
UY IN BULK
. T
HAT MEANS NOT USING DRUGSTORE HYGIENE PRODUCTS OR MOST SUPERMARKET WARES
.

Liz herself could’ve typed that list. But from the clamor of responses, she could see how welcome the ideas were, and how novel. She saw Paul come alive, his posts entered faster, fewer seconds between, his tone more and more commanding as he was asked to elaborate.

Magpie tried to wrap things up, the late hour marked by the time-stamp of her post.

W
E SHOULD ALL CALL IT A NIGHT
. T
HIS THREAD HAS BEEN A RALLYING CRY
.

I
KNOW
, wrote someone with the handle
Unplugged
. I
T MAKES ME FEEL LIKE WE SHOULD DO SOMETHING.
L
IKE WE COULD DO SOMETHING
.

K
EEP ASKING QUESTIONS LIKE THESE
, Paul had counseled. D
EMANDING ANSWERS
. S
MALL CHANGES ADD UP
. I
T DOESN
’
T TAKE A LOT
. T
HINGS WILL START TO CHANGE
.

I
GUESS
, Magpie typed. I
SN
’
T THAT
G
ANDHI
? L
IVE LOCALLY, ACT GLOBALLY
?

I
T
’
S THINK, NOT LIVE
. A
ND YOU
’
VE GOT THE LOCALLY AND GLOBALLY REVERSED
.

Magpie entered the emoticon with its tongue thrust out for reply.

G
ANDHI SAID BE THE CHANGE WE WANT TO SEE
.

T
HAT
’
S WHAT
I’
M SUGGESTING
, Paul wrote. You could hear sagacity even in the toneless quality of chat.

N
O
, someone else typed impatiently, a few errant keys stroked. I
DON
’
T WANT MY GARBAGE TO DWINDLE WHILE MY NEIGHBORS LUG THEIR OVERENGINEERED, FIFTY-FIVE GALLON
R
UBBERMAID TRASHCANS TO THE CURB EVERY WEEK
. A
NY CHANGE
I
MAKE IS LIKE TRYING TO SWIM UP A WATERFALL
. I
WANT A WORLD WHERE WE CAN START FRESH AND THE DAMAGE HASN
’
T ALREADY BEEN DONE
.

A man who called himself
the Shoemaker
spoke up for the first time. De-lurking after the initial flurry of posts.

W
ELL
? L
ET
’
S DO IT
.

CHAPTER FORTY

A
lthough everyone’s enthusiasm appeared to be sparked, the Shoemaker was clearly the most serious. He asked questions about everything from fast-growing crops to natural medicine, soaking up the information like a root system took in water.

He also clearly had a deep regard for Paul. A long string of posts culminated in, Y
OU SEEM TO KNOW EVERYTHING
, P
ROFESSOR
. Y
OU JUST NEED A SHIP TO STEER
. W
HY HASN
’
T ANYONE EVER GIVEN YOU A SHIP
?

There was a lag in the thread after that. Liz took in the silence, from Magpie and Unplugged and Processed and others, as if everyone were holding a collective breath.

L
OTS OF SMART GUYS OUT THERE
, Paul had at last replied.

S
MART IS ONE THING
, came the next post from the Shoemaker. I
AGREE WITH YOU
. G
OOD MINDS ARE A DIME A DOZEN
. B
UT VISION
? T
HAT
’
S ANOTHER
.

Paul had logged off then. He hadn’t entered another reply.

The next day, though, the conversation continued unabated, Magpie and Unplugged and Processed and the Shoemaker and others cross-posting, the virtual equivalent of everyone speaking at once.

H
OW MANY WOULD WE NEED
?

A
FAIR NUMBER
.

T
HERE ARE A LOT OF ROLES TO FILL
.

L
ET
’
S MAKE A LIST
.

I
WOULDN
’
T KNOW WHERE TO START
.

Y
OU CAN
’
T BREATHE THE SAME AIR AS THE
P
ROFESSOR AND NOT KNOW WHERE TO START
.

As if summoned by the admiration, Paul appeared for the first time that day.

T
OO MANY IS WORSE THAN NOT ENOUGH
. T
HE DANGERS OF SOMETHING LIKE THIS COLLAPSING HAVE BEEN PROVEN TIME AND TIME AGAIN
.

The Shoemaker responded, each word precisely whittled to engage Paul, and puncture any resistance. How welcome his contribution must’ve been in the wake of Tree’s assault.

C
OME ON
, P
ROFESSOR
. W
E ALL KNOW WHAT YOU ARE CAPABLE OF
. W
HY ARE YOU RESERVING YOUR POWER FOR THIS LITTLE BOX
? H
AVE YOU NEVER WANTED TO DO SOMETHING BIG
? N
OT JUST THINK ABOUT IT, BUT ACTUALLY DO IT
?

Even as Liz grew chilled to the core, shivering and shaking in the desk chair while she watched the theft of her children approach, she also experienced a dawning sense of bafflement. How had the Shoemaker known so exactly what to say?

Liz clicked swiftly, entering another thread where she’d seen the Shoemaker’s avatar. Its association was less transparent than Paul’s: one of those elliptical faces from an old-time magic show or carnival.

There was a less frequent poster on this thread—young, from the sound of her comments—who was expecting a baby. She called herself
Mommie’s Dearest
, an odd twist on handles used by people who identified themselves by their children’s names. Mommie’s Dearest got lots of support and interaction from the other moms on the site, but the Shoemaker also seemed especially focused on her, asking minute details and following up.

The Shoemaker knew when her backaches, which Mommie’s Dearest described as bolting her to the bed, started to subside; the names she had considered for her baby; and that the baby’s grandmother had found a good pediatrician, a good secondhand crib, a good brand of formula. The Shoemaker engaged in long strings of posts, listening to speculations about what life would be like once Mommie’s Dearest became a mother herself, and adding a few conjectures of his own.

H
OW WONDERFUL IT WOULD BE TO RAISE YOUR CHILD AWAY FROM THE SHACKLES OF THE WORLD
. T
HE FREEDOM YOU
’
D HAVE TO DO WHAT YOU WANT WITH HER
.

H
OW DID YOU KNOW
I
WANTED A GIRL
?

It was true. Liz scanned back, but nowhere could she find Mommie’s Dearest indicating a preference for either gender. She had listed more girls’ names than boys’. Had that been the giveaway?

I
ONLY KNOW THAT YOU DESERVE A GIRL
. A
ND SHE DESERVES YOU
.

T
HANK YOU
. T
HANK YOU FOR SAYING THAT
.

There was a time lag before Mommie’s Dearest posted again.

B
UT FREEDOM IS NOT SOMETHING EITHER OF US ARE GOING TO HAVE
.

The darkest of emoticons accompanied the statement, a tiny yellow circle with eyebrows drawn down, and features contorted with fury.

Liz couldn’t tell from the threads who was imprisoning her—an abusive boyfriend was her guess—but that was the thing. Somehow, the Shoemaker honed in on the truth.

S
OON YOU
’
LL BE A MOTHER YOURSELF AND ABLE TO WREST BACK ALL THE POWER YOURS HAS ALWAYS WIELDED
.

Her mother, not a boyfriend, then.

There was a long gap between posts. Liz assumed the girl must’ve logged off. But then a final entry came, wistful in its brevity.

HOW
?

After that, the posts tapered off. Whatever reply or conversation the girl’s query had led to must have occurred via private messages or even offline. The thread went into another phase of dormancy, and whatever came next took place in the real world.