The Leftovers

live together very happily as husband and wife, partners and best friends forever.
    “Whatever my husband does,” she said, “I support him a hundred and ten percent and I hope you will, too!”
    There was a roar from the crowd as Mr. Gilchrest bounded up the steps and made his way across the stage to present his wife with a bouquet of roses.
    “Isn’t she the greatest?” he asked. “Am I the luckiest guy in the world or what?”
    The spiritual brides began to applaud as Mr. Gilchrest kissed his legal wife, and the crowd followed suit. Tom did his best to clap along with everyone else, but his hands felt huge and leaden, so heavy he could barely pry them apart.
    *   *   *
    CHRISTINE SAID she was bored, trapped in the house all day like a prisoner, so Tom took her for a whirlwind tour of the city. He was glad for an excuse to get away from the office. It was like a funeral in there—no seminars in session, nothing to do except sit around with Max and Luis, answering e-mails and the occasional phone call, parroting the talking points they’d been given by headquarters: The charges are bogus; Holy Wayne is innocent until proven guilty; an organization is bigger than one man; our faith remains unshakable.
    It was a classic San Francisco day, cool and bright, milky morning fog surrendering reluctantly to a clear blue sky. They did the usual stuff—cable car and Fisherman’s Wharf, Coit Tower and North Beach, Haight-Ashbury and Golden Gate Park—Tom playing the role of jovial guide, Christine chuckling at his lame jokes, grunting politely at his half-remembered facts and recycled anecdotes, just as happy as he was to think about something besides Mr. Gilchrest for a while.
    He was surprised at how well they were getting along. Back at the house, she’d been a bit of a problem, a little too interested in pulling rank, reminding everyone of her exalted status within the organization. Nothing was good enough—the futon was lumpy, the bathroom was gross, the food tasted weird. But the fresh air brought out a previously concealed sweetness in her, a bouncy teenage energy that had been hidden beneath the regal attitude. She dragged him into vintage clothing stores, apologized to homeless guys for her lack of spare change, and stopped every couple of blocks to gaze down at the bay and pronounce it awesome.
    Christine kept moving in and out of focus on him. Yes, she was a visiting dignitary—Mr. Gilchrest’s wife or whatever—but she was also just a kid, younger than his own sister and a lot less worldly, a small-town Ohio girl, who, until she ran away from home, had never been to a city bigger than Cleveland. But not really like his sister, either, because people didn’t stop and stare at Jill when she walked down the street, tripped up by her unearthly beauty, trying to figure out if she was famous, if they’d seen her on TV or something. He wasn’t sure how to treat Christine, if he should think of himself as a personal assistant or a surrogate big brother, or maybe just a helpful friend, a caring, slightly older guy showing her around an unfamiliar metropolis.
    “I had a nice day,” she told him over a late-afternoon snack at Elmore’s, a café on Cole Street that was full of Barefoot People, hippies with bullseyes painted on their foreheads. The Bay Area was their spiritual homeland. “It’s good to be out of the house.”
    “Anytime,” he said. “I’m happy to do it.”
    “Sooo.” Her voice was low, slightly flirtatious, as if she suspected him of withholding good news. “Have you heard anything?”
    “About what?”
    “You know. When he’s getting out. When I can go back.”
    “Back where?”
    “To the Ranch. I really miss it.”
    Tom wasn’t sure what to tell her. She’d seen the same TV reports he had. She knew that Mr. Gilchrest had been denied bail, and that the authorities were playing hardball, seizing the organization’s assets, arresting several top and midlevel people, squeezing them for damaging information. The FBI and State Police made no secret of the fact that they were actively searching for the underage girls Mr. Gilchrest claimed to have married—not because they’d done anything wrong, but because they were victims of a serious crime, endangered minors in need of medical care and psychological counseling.
    “Christine,” he said, “you can’t go back there.”
    “I have to,” she told him. “It’s where I live.”
    “They’ll make you