The Leftovers

As she straightened up, she glanced at Tom with an expression of bogus surprise, as if she hadn’t known he was there, hadn’t been eavesdropping the whole time.
    “Oh—” She had short dark hair, watchful eyes, and the stringy physique of a fiftysomething yoga addict. “Are you going out?”
    “Just for a walk. Christine might come along.”
    Marcella did her best to look interested rather than alarmed.
    “Do you need something?” she asked Christine a little too sweetly. “I’m sure Tom will be happy to get it for you.”
    Christine shook her head. “I don’t need anything.”
    “I thought she might like a little fresh air,” Tom suggested.
    Marcella looked puzzled, as if “fresh air” were an unfamiliar concept.
    “I’m sure we could open a window,” she said.
    “That’s okay.” Christine made a show of yawning. “I’m kinda tired. I’ll probably just take a nap.”
    “Perfect!” Marcella’s face relaxed. “I’ll wake you around two-thirty. The personal trainer’s coming at three for your workout.”
    “I could use some exercise,” Christine admitted. “I’m turning into a blimp.”
    “That’s ridiculous,” Marcella told her. “You look beautiful.”
    She was right about that, Tom thought. Now that she was indoors and eating properly, Christine was gaining weight and getting lovelier by the day. Her face was glowing, her body ripening gracefully. Her breasts still weren’t that big, but they were rounder and fuller than before, and he sometimes got a little hypnotized by the sight of them. He also had to make a conscious effort not to reach out and rub her belly whenever she was nearby, not that she would’ve objected. She didn’t mind if Tom touched her. Sometimes she even grabbed his hand and placed his palm right on top of the baby, so he could feel the movement inside of her, the little creature doing slow-motion somersaults, swimming blindly in its bubble. But it was a whole different thing to just fondle her without permission, to treat her body like it was public property. The Falks did that all the time, closing their eyes and cooing dreamily at the baby, as if they were the proud grandparents, and Tom thought it was rude.
    He started toward the door, resisting the temptation to grab a cookie on the way out.
    “You sure you don’t want boots?” Marcella asked him. “I’m sure Terrence has an extra pair.”
    “That’s okay. I’m fine like this.”
    “Have fun,” Christine called after him. “Tell the hippies I said hi.”
    *   *   *
    IT WAS a damp gray afternoon, not especially cold for February. Tom headed east on Brattle, trying not to obsess about Terrence Falk’s boots. If they were anything like his coat, or his super-lightweight, mysteriously toasty gloves, they’d probably been designed to withstand the rigors of an Antarctic expedition. An ordinary winter day would have been nothing for boots like that. You wouldn’t even have to look where you were going.
    But no, he taunted himself, hopscotching an archipelago of slushy puddles on Appleton Street. I have to do it the hard way.
    At least he had his flip-flops. That was what the New England Barefoot People were allowed to wear when there was snow on the ground. Not boots, not shoes, not sneakers, not even Tevas—just plain rubber flip-flops, which were better than nothing, but not by much. He’d recently seen a couple of nerds wearing plastic bags over them—they were held in place by rubber bands around the ankles—but this modification was widely scorned around Harvard Square.
    In California, it was frequently claimed that bare feet toughened up over time and became “as good as shoes,” but no one believed this in Boston, at least not in the middle of winter. Your soles got leathery after a few months, that much was true, but your toes never got accustomed to the cold. And it didn’t matter what else you wore—if your feet were frozen, the rest of you was miserable, too.
    But there was no point in complaining, because all Tom’s suffering in this regard was self-inflicted and totally unnecessary. He’d completed his mission, delivered Christine safe and sound to her comfortable new home, to the generous couple who’d promised to take care of her for however long it took for Mr. Gilchrest to resolve his legal difficulties. There was nothing to stop Tom from scrubbing off his bullseye, putting some shoes on his feet, and getting on with his life. But for some reason, he