The Leftovers

moments when it was just the two of them, father and daughter, and neither had a word to say.
    *   *   *
    KEVIN LEFT the house a little before nine. As usual, Lovell Terrace was lit up like a stadium, the big houses preening like monuments in the glow of their security floodlights. There were ten dwellings in all, “Luxury Homes” built in the last days of SUVs and easy credit, nine of them still occupied. Only the Westerfelds’ house was empty—Pam had died last month, and the estate remained unsettled—but the Homeowners’ Association made sure the lawn was cared for and the lights stayed on. Everyone knew what happened when deserted houses fell into disrepair, drawing the attention of bored teenagers, vandals, and the Guilty Remnant.
    He headed out to Main Street and turned right, setting off on his nightly pilgrimage. It was like an itch—a physical compulsion—this need to be among friends, away from the gloomy, frightened voice that often held court in his head but always seemed so much louder and surer of itself in a quiet house after dark. One of the most frequently noted side effects of the Sudden Departure had been an outbreak of manic socializing—impromptu block parties that lasted for entire weekends, potluck dinners that stretched into sleepovers, quick hellos that turned into marathon gabfests. Bars were packed for months after October 14th; phone bills were exorbitant. Most of the survivors had settled down since then, but Kevin’s urge for nocturnal human contact remained as powerful as ever, as if a magnetic force were propelling him toward the center of town, in search of like-minded souls.
    *   *   *
    THE CARPE Diem was an unassuming place, one of the few blue-collar taverns that had weathered Mapleton’s late-twentieth-century transformation from factory town to bedroom community. Kevin had been going there since he was a young man, back when it was called the Midway Lounge, and the only drafts you could get were Bud and Mich.
    He entered through the restaurant door—the bar was in an adjoining room—nodding at the familiar faces as he made his way to the booth in the back, where Pete Thorne and Steve Wiscziewski were already deep in conversation over a pitcher of beer, passing a legal pad back and forth across the table. Unlike Kevin, both men had wives at home, but they usually arrived at the Carpe Diem long before he did.
    “Gentlemen,” he said, sliding in beside Steve, a bulky, excitable guy who Laurie always said was a heart attack waiting to happen.
    “Don’t worry,” Steve said, filling a clean glass with the dregs from the pitcher and handing it to Kevin. “There’s another on the way.”
    “We’re going over the roster.” Pete held up the legal pad. The top page featured a rough sketch of a baseball diamond with names scrawled in the filled positions and question marks by the empty ones. “All we really need is a center fielder and a first baseman. And a couple of subs for insurance.”
    “Four or five new players,” said Steve. “That should be doable, right?”
    Kevin studied the sketch. “What happened with that Dominican guy you were telling me about? Your housecleaner’s husband?”
    Steve shook his head. “Hector’s a cook. He works nights.”
    “He might be able to play on the weekends,” Pete added. “That’s at least something.”
    Kevin was gratified by the amount of thought and effort the guys were giving to a softball season that was still five or six months away. It was exactly what he’d been hoping for when he convinced the town council to restore funding for the adult recreation programs that had been suspended after the Sudden Departure. People needed a reason to get out of their houses and have a little fun, to look up and realize that the sky hadn’t fallen.
    “I’ll tell you what would help,” said Steve. “If we could find a couple left-handed hitters. Right now every guy on the squad is a righty.”
    “So what?” Kevin polished off his flat beer in a single gulp. “It’s slow-pitch. None of that strategy stuff really matters.”
    “No, you gotta mix it up,” Pete insisted. “Keep the other guys off balance. That’s why Mike was so great. He really gave us that extra dimension.”
    The Carpe Diem team had lost only one player on October 14th—Carl Stenhauer, a mediocre pitcher and second-string outfielder—but Mike Whalen, their cleanup hitter and star first baseman, was an indirect casualty as well.