The Leftovers

the ones left behind, less sadness and worry all around, a brighter future ahead? The prophecy was maddeningly vague, which led to all sorts of groundless rumors and wild speculation, none of which he took seriously, for the simple reason that his faith in Mr. Gilchrest was pretty much shot to hell. He was only helping Christine because he liked her, and because this seemed like a good time to get out of San Francisco and on to the next chapter in his life, whatever that was going to be.
    Even so, just for fun, he sometimes allowed himself to entertain the remote possibility that it could all be true. Maybe Mr. Gilchrest really was a holy man, despite all his flaws, and the baby really was some kind of savior. Maybe everything really did depend on Christine, and therefore, on him. Maybe Tom Garvey would be remembered thousands of years from now as the guy who’d helped her when she needed it most, and had always acted like a gentleman, even when he didn’t have to.
    That’s me, he thought with grim satisfaction. The guy who kept his hands to himself.
    *   *   *
    IT WAS early evening by the time they got moving, too late to enjoy the Rocky Mountain scenery. The bus was new and clean, with plush reclining seats, onboard movies, and free wireless, though neither Tom nor Christine had any use for that. The bathroom didn’t even smell that bad, at least not yet.
    He tried watching the movie— Bolt, a cartoon about a dog who mistakenly believes he has superpowers—but it was hopeless. He’d lost his taste for pop culture after the Sudden Departure and hadn’t been able to get it back. It all seemed so hectic and phony now, so desperate to keep you looking over there so you didn’t notice the bad news right in front of your face. He didn’t even follow sports anymore, had no idea who’d won the World Series. All the teams were patched together anyway, the holes in their rosters plugged by minor leaguers and old guys who’d come out of retirement. All he really missed was music. It would have been nice to have his metallic green iPod along for the ride, but that was long gone, lost or stolen in Columbus, or possibly Ann Arbor.
    At least Christine seemed to be enjoying herself. She was giggling at the tiny screen in front of her, sitting with her dirty feet on the seat cushion and her knees hugged tightly to her breasts, which she claimed were a lot bigger than they used to be, though Tom couldn’t really see much of a difference. From this angle, with her little bump hidden beneath a baggy sweater and a ratty fleece jacket, she just looked like a kid, someone who should have been worrying about homework and soccer practice, not sore nipples and whether she was getting enough folic acid. He must’ve stared a little too long, because she turned suddenly, as if he’d spoken her name.
    “What?” she asked, a little defensively. The bullseye on her forehead was a bit faded; she’d have to touch it up when they got to Omaha.
    “Nothing,” he said. “I was just spacing out.”
    “You sure?”
    “Yeah, go back to your movie.”
    “It’s pretty funny,” she told him, her eyes crinkling with pleasure. “That little dog’s a trip.”
    *   *   *
    THERE WAS a run on the bathroom when the movie ended. The line moved efficiently at first, but it came to a standstill after an older guy with a cane and a grimly determined expression ducked inside and stayed put. The people behind him grew visibly annoyed as the minutes ticked by, sighing with increasing frequency, instructing their colleagues up front to knock and see if he was alive in there, or at least find out if War and Peace was all it was cracked up to be.
    As luck would have it, Henning happened to be second in line during the traffic jam. Tom kept his head down, pretending to be engrossed in the freebie paper he’d picked up at the terminal, but he could feel the soldier’s insistent gaze boring into the center of his bullseye.
    “Pigpen!” he cried when Tom finally looked up. He sounded pretty drunk. “My long-lost buddy.”
    “Hey.”
    “Yo, Grampa!” Henning barked, addressing the closed door of the restroom. “Time’s up!” He turned back to Tom with an aggrieved expression. “What the fuck’s he doing in there?”
    “Can’t rush Mother Nature,” Tom reminded him. This seemed like something a Barefoot Person would say.
    “Fuck that,” Henning replied, drawing an agitated nod of agreement from the middle-aged woman in