The Leftovers

So the Creator will recognize us.”
    Henning glanced at Christine. She was breathing softly, her head resting against the window, her features delicate in repose, as if they’d been sketched on her face rather than sculpted.
    “How come hers is a different color? Does it mean something?”
    “It’s a personal choice, like a signature. I do maroon and gold ’cause those were my high school colors.”
    “I could do green and beige,” Henning said. “Kind of a camo thing.”
    “Nice.” Tom nodded his approval. “I haven’t seen that before.”
    Henning leaned across the aisle, like he wanted to share a secret.
    “So is it true?”
    “What?”
    “You guys are into orgies and shit?”
    From what Tom had heard, the Barefoot People held these big solstice gatherings out in the desert, where everybody ate mushrooms and dropped acid and danced and fucked. It didn’t sound all that great to him, just a big, sloppy frat party.
    “We don’t call them orgies,” he explained. “It’s more like a spiritual retreat. You know, like a bonding ritual.”
    “I’m down with that. I wouldn’t mind bonding with a few cute hippie girls.”
    “Really?” Tom couldn’t resist. “Even if they hadn’t changed their underwear for a week?”
    “What the hell?” Henning said with a grin. “Purity comes from within, right?”
    *   *   *
    CHRISTINE NUDGED him awake as they pulled into the terminal in Omaha. Tom’s head felt big and unsupportable, way too heavy for his neck.
    “Oh, God.” He shut his eyes against the onslaught of daylight through the tinted windows. “Don’t tell me it’s morning.”
    “Poor baby.” She patted him gently on the forearm. They were sitting next to each other, Tom in the seat where Henning had been.
    “Ugh.” He swirled his tongue around the inside of his mouth. There was a vile taste in there—stale bourbon, pot smoke, bus exhaust, sadness. “Just shoot me and get it over with.”
    “No way. It’s more fun to watch you suffer.”
    Henning was gone. They’d hugged him goodbye around four in the morning, at a travel plaza in the dead center of the middle of nowhere.
    “I hope he’s okay,” she said, as if reading his mind.
    “Me, too.”
    He was on his way to San Francisco, hitchhiking westward with a piece of paper in his wallet, on which Tom had written the address of Elmore’s Café and instructions to “Ask for Gerald.” There was no Gerald, as far as Tom knew, but it didn’t matter. The Barefoot People would take him in, with or without an introduction. Everybody was welcome, even—especially—a soldier who’d decided that he wanted no part of the killing and dying.
    “It’s kind of amazing,” Christine remarked, as they stood with the other passengers on the concrete apron, waiting to retrieve their luggage. “You converted him to a religion you don’t even believe in yourself.”
    “I didn’t convert him. He converted himself.”
    The driver was in a bad mood, tossing suitcases and canvas bags onto the ground behind him, paying no attention to where they landed. The crowd retreated a few steps, giving him room.
    “You can’t really blame him,” Christine said. “He’ll have more fun in San Francisco.”
    Their backpack landed with a thud. Tom bent down to get it, but must have straightened up a little too quickly. His legs went rubbery and he wobbled in place for a second or two, waiting for the dizziness to pass. He could feel the sweat breaking out on his forehead, one clammy drop at a time.
    “Oh man,” he said. “Today is gonna suck.”
    “Welcome to my life,” she told him. “Maybe we can throw up together.”
    A redheaded family was standing inside the terminal, anxiously scanning the arriving passengers. There were four of them: a skinny father and a plump mother—they were around the same age as Tom’s own parents—a sullen teenage girl, and a haggard, one-legged guy in a wheelchair. Adam, Tom thought. He was smiling wryly, holding up a piece of paper, like an airport chauffeur.
    MARK HENNING, it said.
    The Hennings barely noticed Tom and Christine. They were too busy checking every new face that came through the door, waiting patiently for the right one to appear, the only face that mattered.
     

SNOWFLAKES AND CANDY CANES
    KEVIN GOT TO TOWN HALL around eight that morning, an hour earlier than usual, hoping to squeeze in a little work before heading to the high school for a meeting with Jill’s guidance counselor.