I have the phone numbers of two people who currently live in Houston.
The second doesn’t count, because I’ll sleep cradled by the slimy arms of
Noah’s skeleton before calling it. But that’s okay, because the first is Rocío, who could ask the super for a ladder and drive here in our rental. Let’s be real: cemeteries at night are her natural habitat. She’ll love this immensely.
If only she bothered to answer her phone. I call her once, twice. Seven times. Then I remember that Gen Zs would rather roll around in nettles than talk on the phone, and I text her. No answer. My stupid battery is at 18
percent, mosquitos are sucking blood out of my shins, and Rocío is probably having Skype sex to a band called Thorr’s Hammer.
Who else can I call? How long would it take Reike to fly here? Is it too late to ask her for the number of nose-tongue guy? What are the chances that Shmac secretly lives in Houston? Should I email Guy? But he has a kid.
He might not check his email at night.
My phone is at 12 percent, and my eyes fall on the 832 number in my incoming call log. I haven’t even bothered saving it. Because I thought I’d never use it.
I can’t. I can’t. I can’t call Levi. He’s probably at home, having a Stepford dinner with his wife, playing with his dog, helping his daughter with math homework. Penny of the black curls. No. I can’t. He’d hate me even more.
And the humiliation. He’s already saved me once.
Nine percent, the world is pitch black, and I hate myself. There’s no alternative. I have successfully defended a Ph.D. dissertation, overcome a depressive episode, gotten my chuncha fully waxed every month for years, and yet tapping once on Levi’s number feels like the hardest thing I’ve ever done. Maybe I should just settle in for the night. Maybe a pack of bobcats will let me snuggle in their pile. Maybe—
“Yes?”
Oh, shit. He answered. Why did he answer? He’s a millennial; we also hate talking on the— “Hello?”
“Um, sorry. This is Bee. Königswasser. We, um, work together? At NASA?”
A pause. “I know who you are, Bee.”
“Right. Yes. So . . .” I close my eyes. “I am having a bit of a problem and I was wondering if you could—”
He doesn’t hesitate. “Where are you?”
“See, I’m in this little cemetery by the Space Center.
Greenwood?”
“Greenforest. Are you locked in?”
“I— How do you know?”
“You’re calling me from a cemetery after sundown. Cemeteries close at sundown.”
That would have been a useful piece of information fortyfive minutes ago. “Yeah, so . . . the walls are sort of tall, and my phone is sort of dying, and I’m sort of—”
“Go stand by the gates. Turn off the flashlight if you have it on. Don’t talk to anyone you don’t know. I’ll be there in ten minutes.” A beat. “I’ve got you. Don’t worry, okay?”
He hangs up before I can tell him to bring a ladder. And, come to think of it, before I can ask him to come rescue me.
9
MEDIAL FRONTAL CORTEX: MAYBE I WAS WRONG?
THE SECOND LEVI appears I want to kiss him for rescuing me from the mosquitos, and the ghosts, and the ghosts of the mosquitos. I also want to kill him for witnessing the extent of the humiliation of Bee Königswasser, human disaster. What can I say? I contain multitudes.
He steps out of an oil-guzzling truck that I sadly have no right to complain about anymore, surveys the wall, and comes to stand on the other side of the gate. To his credit, if he’s smirking he’s doing it on the inside. His expression is neutral when he asks, “You okay?”
Does thoroughly mortified count as okay? Let’s say: “Yeah.”
“Good. This is what we’re going to do: I’ll slide in the ladder through the gates, and you’ll use it to get on top of
the wall. I’ll be on the other side to catch you.”
I frown. He sounds very . . . in charge. Self-assured. Not that he usually doesn’t, but it’s having a new . . . effect on me. Oh my God. Am I a damsel in distress?
“How will we retrieve the ladder?”
“I’ll drive by tomorrow morning and pick it up.”
“What if someone steals it?”
“I’ll have lost a precious heirloom passed down my family for generations.”
“Really?”
“No. Ready?”
