Fall or, Dodge in Hell. Neal Stephenson

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       14

      Anne-Solenne, Phil, Sophia, and Julian all knew and would have acknowledged that by virtue of being enrolled at Princeton they were members of a globe-spanning, self-perpetuating elite caste. They would all end up making millions or billions unless they made a conscious decision to drop out, and even if they became ghetto-dwelling junkie artists they would do so with an invisible safety net. So Sophia’s friends were almost eerily polite to the locals, starting with Pete Borglund and moving on, as the afternoon progressed, to Karen, to the Mexican-American caretaker at the grave site, and to various shirttail relatives, estate-running functionaries, and local dignitaries who came out to say hello and to accompany them on a tour of the house and of the creek bottom where the Forthrast boys had gone to play cowboys and Indians with live ammunition.

      Eventually the visitors were treated to a thoroughly non-ironic dinner at an Applebee’s. A gender-based split materialized at the table—actually two tables pushed together. Sophia saw it happening in real time but, like Pharaoh watching the Red Sea part, was powerless to stop it. She did a passable impression of giving a shit about the lady talk but was close enough to the man end to be a quasi-participant in their conversation. Pete asked a few questions to which he clearly didn’t know the answers, and not in an interrogating way, but just out of curiosity. They were all strangely grateful to be in the presence of someone who was willing to be that vulnerable. Phil and Julian opened up, and so it was that Pete got the general story on how they had come to find themselves in an Applebee’s in northwestern Iowa. The nominal purpose of the journey was to drop Sophia off in Seattle and then swing down the coast to San Francisco, where Anne-Solenne had an internship lined up. After that, Julian would wander down to L.A., and Phil would fly back to New York to spend his summer writing hedge fund code on Wall Street.

      Thus briefed on the visitors’ overall plan, Pete began to answer questions from Phil and Julian on how it all worked in this part of the world. The visitors were now thoroughly disoriented. They had barely had time to register their shock over the two-hundred-foottall flaming cross of the Leviticans—which was clearly visible from the Applebee’s—before they had found themselves in this small and apparently stable town that, while a far cry from Iowa City, was definitely a Blue State pocket. It was completely surrounded by Ameristan but it was populated by people like Pete who had a college degree, asked questions, and seemed to be plugged into sane and responsible edit streams. Pete tried to explain it. “People like that,” he said, cocking his head in the direction of the Leviticans’ cross, “claim to believe certain things. But obviously if you spend ten seconds looking for logic holes or inconsistencies, it all falls apart. Now, they don’t care.”

      “They don’t care that their belief system is totally incoherent?” Phil asked. Not really asking. Since this much was obvious. Just making sure he was following Pete’s line of argument.

      “That is correct.”

      “Explains a lot!” Julian said.

      “They can go a surprisingly long time without bumping up against reality,” Pete said, “but at the end of the day when a pregnant mother needs a C-section or you can’t get your Wi-Fi to work, or a thousand other examples I could give, why, then you do actually need someone nearby who can help you with that.”

      “So you have doctors and dentists in this town?” Phil asked.

      “No, they all moved away years ago, but we have practitioners who can help patients get urgent care over webcam, get telerobotic surgery, and that sort of thing. Both men and women, since the Leviticans won’t let male physicians examine female patients. And I could give other examples of the same general thing. Some percentage of their children are gay. Some percentage have an intellectual or artistic temperament. Those kids need a place to go. Ames and Iowa City are far away. So they find their way into town, move into abandoned houses, and live their lives. Now, if you ask the guys who are up on that hill building that cross, they’ll quote Leviticus at you concerning gay people. But a lot of them have a child or a nephew or a cousin who’s gay and who is hanging out in this town minding their own business.”

      “It’s an accommodation, you’re saying. Unspoken, unwritten.”

      Pete nodded. “It’s not just that it’s unspoken. It’s that it can’t be spoken of.”

      At Pete’s invitation they ended up lodging at the farmhouse, paired up in two of the upstairs bedrooms. These bore faint traces of refurnishings, rewirings, recarpetings, and rewallpaperings beyond count. The most recent wave had apparently been aimed at getting the place back to some kind of historical condition thought of as pure: hardwood floors reexposed and finished, layers of paint scraped off the heavy door trim, wallpaper stripped all the way down to the original horsehair plaster, light fixtures and doorknobs that had either spent most of a century piled in a hayloft or been painstakingly manufactured to look that way. Sophia didn’t have the talents or the sensibilities of a decorator, but she knew her critical theory, and as she lay awake on the iron bunk bed—now upgraded with an extra-firm Gomer Bolstrood mattress that had probably been slept on all of half a dozen times—she wondered about the way of thinking that held this one particular era of the house’s history to be somehow canonical: the logical end state to which it ought to be returned and in which it then ought to be preserved by the flawed machine of Richard Forthrast’s last will and testament. Between when it had first looked thus and the moment, a few years ago, when it had been returned to the same state, it had passed through who could guess how many intermediate phases of interior decoration. Almost all of these had been devoted to covering up—literally papering over—the simple bare rustic character that had now been expensively reinstated. Probably those decorators—various generations of Forthrast moms—had seen it as embarrassing and had sought to expunge it from their visual environments while spending as little money as possible.

      When Karen—Pete’s wife, and now the chatelaine—had been assigning them to beds on the way back from Applebee’s, she had quite naturally and reasonably assumed that Sophia would want to sleep in Patricia’s former bedroom. Patricia had been the only girl in the generation that had included Alice’s husband, John; Sophia’s uncle Richard; and Jake, the straggler, the only one still living. Naturally John and Dodge had bunked in one room so that Patricia could have her own: a small, cozy third-story attic build-out with sloping walls. Upon reaching adulthood, getting married, and discovering that she was infertile, Patricia and her worthless husband had adopted Zula—Sophia’s mother—from Eritrea. The husband had gone on the lam and was no longer spoken of. Patricia had then died young in a freak accident. Zula had been raised by John and Alice, with Richard always hovering around the edges as a favored, cool, transgressive uncle. She’d ended up in Seattle, employed by Richard’s company. They had become close. Thus, when Sophia had been tiny, Richard had been her uncle/granddad. She still had memories of sitting on his lap reading books.

      Three years ago, when she had been packing for the move out to Princeton, she had found the tattered copies of the D’Aulaires’ Greek and Norse СКАЧАТЬ