The Leftovers

radiance in the doorway. “Are you awake?”
    “Is something wrong?”
    “Can’t you hear it?”
    Laurie listened. She thought she caught a muffled sound, a soft rhythmic tapping.
    “What is that?”
    “It’s louder in my room,” Meg explained.
    Laurie got out of bed, hugging her bare arms against the chill, and followed Meg down the short hallway into the other bedroom. It was brighter on that side of the house, the glow of a streetlight filtering in from Parker Road. Meg crouched in front of an old-fashioned radiator, a bulky silver thing with claw feet like a vintage bathtub, and beckoned Laurie to join her.
    “I’m right on top of them,” she said.
    Laurie inclined her head, placing her ear close enough to the metal that she could feel the faint residual heat coming off it.
    “It’s been going on for a long time.”
    The sound was clearer now, like listening to a radio. The tapping was no longer faint or mysterious. It was a straightforward percussion, headboard against wall, with an undertone of protesting bedsprings. She could hear voices, too, one gruff and monotonous—it just kept saying the word fuck over and over—and the other higher-pitched, with a more varied vocabulary— oh and God and Jesus and please . Laurie wasn’t sure which one belonged to Julian and which to Gus, but she was glad to hear that neither one seemed to be suffering from shortness of breath.
    “How am I supposed to sleep?” Meg demanded.
    Laurie didn’t trust herself to speak. She knew she was supposed to be scandalized, or at least upset, by what she was hearing—the G.R. didn’t permit sex between members, gay or straight—but at that moment, she wasn’t feeling anything except muddled surprise and a little more interest than she would have liked to admit.
    “What are we gonna do?” Meg went on. “Do we have to report them?”
    It took an effort of will for Laurie to move away from the radiator. She turned to Meg, their faces just inches away in the darkness.
    “It’s none of our business,” she said.
    “But—”
    Laurie took Meg by the wrist and helped her to her feet.
    “Grab your pillow,” she said. “You can sleep in my room tonight.”
     

BAREFOOT AND PREGNANT
    TOM PUT ON THE SKI jacket he’d borrowed from Terrence Falk, taking care not to get his beard tangled in the zipper, which he pulled all the way up to his chin. He’d gotten snagged a couple of times, and it had hurt like hell getting it free.
    “Where you going?” Christine asked from the couch.
    “Harvard Square.” He withdrew a cashmere watch cap from his coat pocket and smoothed it over his head. “Wanna come?”
    She glanced down at her pajamas—polka-dot pants and a tight gray top that hugged the fertile swell of her belly—as if that were an answer in itself.
    “You can get changed,” he told her. “I’m in no hurry.”
    She pursed her lips, tempted by the offer. They’d been in Cambridge for a month, and she’d only been out of the house a handful of times—once to see a doctor, and twice to go shopping with Marcella Falk. She never complained about it, but Tom figured she must be going a little stir-crazy.
    “I don’t know.” She glanced nervously toward the kitchen, where Marcella was baking cookies. “I probably shouldn’t.”
    The Falks had never explicitly said that she wasn’t allowed to leave the house on her own—they weren’t bossy like that—but they discouraged her on a daily basis. It just wasn’t worth the risk—she could slip on the ice, or catch a cold, or draw the attention of the police—especially now that she was in the third trimester of a pregnancy whose importance to the world could not be overstated. And this wasn’t just their personal opinion—they were in direct contact with Mr. Gilchrest, through his attorney, and he wanted her to know how deeply concerned he was for her safety, and for the health and well-being of his unborn child.
    He wants you to take it easy, they told her. He wants you to eat good food and get lots of rest.
    “It’s a ten-minute walk,” Tom said. “You can bundle up.”
    Before Christine could reply, Marcella Falk hustled in from the kitchen, wearing a striped apron and balancing a plate of cookies on her upturned hand.
    “Oatmeal raisin!” she sang out as she approached the couch. “Someone’s favorite!”
    “Yummy.” Christine reached for a cookie and took a bite. “Mmm. Nice and warm.”
    Marcella set the plate down on the coffee table.