he would learn to adjust.
He jumped when he heard a knock at his door. It was late and he wasn’t expecting anyone. Elliot got to his feet silently. He’d added an old-fashioned barricade: a quick job, with brackets and a sturdy piece of plywood. He didn’t have much worth stealing, but he’d seen enough on the job to know how little that mattered. Just last week, Johnny’s place on the first floor had been robbed by someone who was probably disappointed to have found only a thirty-year-old television and an array of collapsible walkers, which they had nevertheless stolen. Johnny had been beside himself until Elliot had installed a barricade for him, too. With each passing day, the ARAMIS crisis created more tension between those with resources and those without.
There were people who prowled at night, in defiance of the curfew—scavengers poking through the trash looking for still-edible food, supplies, things to sell. A risky proposition, given the amount of contaminated items being jettisoned according to ARAMIS protocol. But the creepers were solitary and non-violent, so the police ignored them. They were the least of their problems. Meanwhile, the tourism industry had collapsed, and a segment of unscrupulous hotel owners were advertising rooms as affordable refuges from infected neighbours, but without offering any additional protection against the contamination risks that came with living in close quarters: shared door handles, elevators, stairwells, ventilation systems.
The peephole revealed a man at the door, an older gentleman with a long white beard, wearing a crumpled tweed suit beneath an open camel overcoat. The beard was cartoonish, but also highly distinctive. No matter where or when, Elliot would always recognize him: Keelan Gibbs, his mother’s old rival.
He opened the door. “Hello, Professor Gibbs. What are you doing here? It’s nearly curfew.”
“Elliot.” Keelan squinted at him. It had been a long time since they’d seen each other. “I’ve been looking for my daughter,” he said. “I thought I knew where she lived, but I guess she moved without telling me.”
“And you thought I might know?”
“You used to be married to my daughter’s wife, yes?”
Elliot waited for the usual pain to come and was pleased when it didn’t arrive. He’d almost forgotten the connection between Julia and Keelan. At one point it had angered him that Dory had taken up with someone linked to his family in a tangential way, as though it were not enough to disrupt a man’s life by divorcing him—she had to remain in it, ever after, as a permanent reminder of his failure.
“I’m sorry, Professor Gibbs, but I don’t have Dory’s address,” he said. “I’ve sort of made a point of not knowing it, since the divorce.” He knew he could always reach out via Sarah if necessary.
“I see.” The old man seemed to sag. The professor had a rolling suitcase and was leaning his weight on its fully extended handle. Elliot wondered how far he had walked. “Then I’m out of ideas. How absolutely absurd. It took me a week to get everything ready. I even turned around once when I was already on the highway! I thought I needed more supplies, in case things took a turn. And now I’m finally here and I have to head right back to Lansdowne.”
“Why don’t you come in, Professor?” He held the door open.
Keelan stepped inside, staring as Elliot secured the latch, the deadbolt, and finally barred them inside with the piece of wood. “I got your address from Information.”
Elliot was surprised that the professor would remember so much about him, including that he lived in the city.
“It’s funny what you remember,” said Keelan, as though he had read his thoughts. “When I went to Julia’s place and she wasn’t there, I started to feel like I was in a bad dream. Then I went to a hotel and tried to be very methodical about it.” He scanned the apartment in an idle way as he twitched the handle of his suitcase. Elliot saw it through Keelan’s eyes and felt a moment’s self-consciousness about its bachelor barrenness: couch, table, desk, bed—everything unadorned and visible from the door. “Of course, I checked for an address for her and for Dory, but there’s nothing listed. Then I went to Dory’s publishing house, but it was closed. And I couldn’t for the life of me remember Julia’s company, if she ever had one. I think she works from home.” Keelan sighed and pulled at his beard. “I spent so long getting everything in order only to