The Leftovers

barely remembered her own childhood Christmases. Being a parent had obscured all that; what stuck in her memory was the excitement on the faces of her own kids, their contagious holiday pleasure. That was something Meg would never get to experience. Laurie assured her that it was okay to feel anger about that, and healthy to acknowledge and express her anger, much better than feeding it with denial.
    The vow of silence forbade laughter as well as speech, but a few people forgot themselves and chuckled at the next slide, a house lit up like a Vegas bordello, the front yard crowded with random yuletide statuary—a nativity scene, a herd of reindeer, an inflatable Grinch, some elves and toy soldiers and angels and a plastic snowman, plus a sour, top-hatted fellow who must have been Ebenezer Scrooge.
    “CHRISTMAS” IS A DISTRACTION. WE CAN NO LONGER AFFORD TO BE DISTRACTED.
    Laurie had watched a lot of PowerPoints over the past six months, and had even helped to put a few of them together. They were an essential mode of communication within the G.R., a kind of portable, preacherless sermon. She understood the structure by now, knew that they always took a turn somewhere in the middle, away from the topic at hand to the only subject that really mattered.
    “CHRISTMAS” BELONGS TO THE OLD WORLD.
    The caption remained constant while a series of images flashed by, each one representing the world of the past: a Walmart superstore, a man on a riding lawn mower, the White House, the Dallas Cowboys cheerleaders, a rapper whose name Laurie didn’t know, a pizza she couldn’t bear to look at, a handsome man and an elegant woman sharing a candlelit dinner, a European cathedral, a jet fighter, a crowded beach, a mother nursing an infant.
    THE OLD WORLD IS GONE. IT DISAPPEARED THREE YEARS AGO.
    In G.R. PowerPoints, the Rapture was illustrated by photos from which particular individuals had been clumsily deleted. Some of the Photoshopped people were famous; others were of more local interest. One picture in this series had been taken by Laurie, a candid snapshot of Jill and Jen Sussman on an apple-picking expedition when they were ten years old. Jill was grinning and holding up a shiny red apple. The Jen-shaped space beside her was empty, a pale gray blob ringed by brilliant autumnal colors.
    WE BELONG TO THE NEW WORLD.
    Familiar faces filled the screen, one after the other, the entire, unsmiling membership of the Mapleton Chapter. Meg appeared near the end, along with the other Trainees, and Laurie squeezed her leg in congratulations.
    WE ARE LIVING REMINDERS.
    Two male Watchers stood on a train platform, staring at a well-dressed businessman who was trying to pretend they weren’t there.
    WE WON’T LET THEM FORGET.
    A pair of female Watchers accompanied a young mother down the street as she pushed her baby in a stroller.
    WE WILL WAIT AND WATCH AND PROVE OURSELVES WORTHY.
    The same two pictures reappeared, with the Watchers obliterated, conspicuous by their absence.
    THIS TIME WE WON’T BE FORGOTTEN.
    A clock, the second hand ticking.
    IT WON’T BE LONG NOW.
    A worried-looking man gazed at them from the wall. He was middle-aged, a bit puffy, not particularly handsome.
    THIS IS PHIL CROWTHER. PHIL IS A MARTYR.
    Phil’s face was replaced by that of a younger man, bearded, with the burning eyes of a fanatic.
    JASON FALZONE IS A MARTYR, TOO.
    Laurie shook her head. Poor boy. He was hardly older than her own son.
    WE ARE ALL PREPARED TO BE MARTYRS.
    Laurie wondered how Meg was taking this, but couldn’t read her expression. They’d talked about Jason’s murder and understood the danger they were in every time they left the compound. Nonetheless, there was something about the word martyr that gave her chills.
    WE SMOKE TO PROCLAIM OUR FAITH.
    An image of a cigarette appeared on the wall, a white and tan cylinder floating over a stark black background.
    LET US SMOKE.
    A woman in the front row opened a fresh pack and passed it around the room. One by one, the women of Blue House lit up and exhaled, reminding themselves that time was running out, and that they weren’t afraid.
    *   *   *
    THE GIRLS slept late, leaving Kevin to fend for himself for a good part of the morning. He listened to the radio for a while, but the cheerful holiday music grated on him, a depressing reminder of busier and happier Christmases past. It was better to turn it off, to read his newspaper and drink his coffee in silence, to pretend that it