Love in the Time of Fridges Read online

  CONTENTS

  TITLE PAGE

  DEDICATION

  EPIGRAPH

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  PROLOGUE

  PART ONE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  PART TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

  CHAPTER SIXTY

  CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

  CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

  CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX

  CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE

  CHAPTER SEVENTY

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-NINE

  PART THREE

  CHAPTER EIGHTY

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-ONE

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-TWO

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-THREE

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-SIX

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-NINE

  CHAPTER NINETY

  CHAPTER NINETY-ONE

  CHAPTER NINETY-TWO

  CHAPTER NINETY-THREE

  CHAPTER NINETY-FOUR

  CHAPTER NINETY-FIVE

  CHAPTER NINETY-SIX

  CHAPTER NINETY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER NINETY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINETY-NINE

  CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED

  CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND ONE

  CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND TWO

  CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND THREE

  CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND FOUR

  CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND FIVE

  CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND SIX

  CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND SEVEN

  CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND EIGHT

  CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND NINE

  EPILOGUE

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  ALSO BY TIM SCOTT

  COPYRIGHT

  To all those who are coming home.

  “Tribe follows tribe, and nation follows nation, like the waves of the sea. It is the order of nature, and regret is useless.”

  —Chief Seattle, from a speech reputedly made in Seattle in 1854 (as printed in the Seattle Sunday Star on October 29, 1887, in a column by Dr. Henry A. Smith)

  “Quoth the raven, ‘Nevermore.’”

  —Edgar Allan Poe, from “The Raven,” first published in 1845

  acknowledgments

  A huge thanks to Anne Groell, Josh Pasternak, and everyone who has worked on this book for their enormous patience, dedication, and boundless enthusiasm.

  And to fridges everywhere for their inspiration, and for keeping the beers cold.

  PROLOGUE

  The drone carried on the breeze.

  She scanned the top of the hill and just made out the slits of light as they huddled together.

  The rest of the park seemed deserted, nestled in this forgotten backwater, still clinging desperately to the idea it was a park rather than a derelict piece of waste ground. But she sensed it would lose that battle soon. New Seattle had other things on its mind.

  She quickened her pace. It wasn’t a safe place to be after dark.

  Or probably before dark.

  Or even at a time between the two, when it seemed light enough to see, but you kept tripping over things. Or banging your knee on carelessly dumped bed frames and other bits of shapeless metal. She hurried across the long uncared-for grass as a thick, dewdrop-sweet smell of rain brought the brooding promise of an approaching storm. And the wind herded the litter in circles.

  Now she heard them more clearly, speaking in their own language, which consisted entirely of humming. And she could see they looked battered, as though they had seen their fair share of lettuces, mayonnaise, and cartons of milk. As though they had each been through the ceremony of having the remnants of a meal carefully sealed in plastic wrap and placed neatly on their top shelves, and then, inevitably, tossed in the garbage a week later when it had gone bad.

  A snap of lightning shattered the horizon and silhouetted their awkward, bulky shapes. Ravens were gathered in a leafless tree above them, perhaps hoping for scraps if they opened their doors too far, but she guessed they would barely have any food between them.

  Now they saw her, and they all closed their doors so that their lights went out, and hunkered together trying to blend in. As much as six-foot-tall white objects can blend in against a grassy hill.

  Which, actually, is not at all.

  When she was close enough to almost touch them, she knelt down and began talking, still half expecting them to bolt with their trademark shuffle, pedaling their little feet and waving their tiny arms. But she was pleased to see that they gradually opened their doors, just a little—throwing out a slit of light—and she knew she was winning their confidence.

  Not because she had a pint of milk—although now she wished she had brought them something—but because she offered freedom. They were all desperate to avoid the Fridge Details that roamed the city hunting them down, sending them to compounds in the desert. They longed to go to a place where electrical goods had certain rights, such as complimentary yogurt.

  That’s why they dreamed of going to Mexico.

  And now, she was giving them a chance.

  Lightning snapped and the storm prepared to engulf the city.

  PART ONE

  chapter one

  ONE DAY LATER

  I didn’t know her then.

  Not when she stepped into the tiny drongle and sat down, soaked through, her slim lips mouthing a faint curse, her brown eyes a stark echo o
f someone I had once known.

  The drongle had just clattered under the concrete snarl of New Seattle’s main gate, carrying me back into a city that I had not seen for eight years.

  My life had gone missing since I had last been here, mislaid among too many motels, too many bad memories, and a never-ending succession of nights fogged with the bittersweet taste of mojitos. I stared out at the gleaming city lights star-bursting through the rain.

  I had tried to close the door on all that had happened here. But that door had never quite shut, and the past had seeped out in a deathly trickle, contaminating my life.

  And now I was back, watching the city slump by, pretending these awkward, unfamiliar buildings were my home. We passed a new city sign that shone with garish insincerity in the rain:

  WELCOME!

  New Seattle Welcomes Visitors*1

  A billboard with a huge list of exclusions rose up behind it and I caught the words real estate agents somewhere near the bottom. They were resented in a lot of places now, and actually hunted down in Texas by bounty hunters, because the residents had lost patience after being randomly sent inappropriate house details time after time.

  The drongle juddered to a halt and the sign loomed over us. It seemed unlikely anyone had ever actually read all that small print, however much it constituted part of the legal agreement to enter this city. It would have probably ranked as the dullest half hour of my life, and I had once talked to a man at a party who was a real fan of scat singing.

  I tilted my head as we passed by and saw a bird sitting on the top, motionless, staring down, and the image sat frozen in my mind as we shuddered on through the streets. When it faded I saw the girl was wrapped in her own thoughts, and her deep brown eyes appeared lost in an alleyway of her past.

  A Health and Safety sign rose up behind her, filling the drongle dome with a screaming green light.

  “New Seattle Health and Safety asks you to stay safe! Be careful of apple pie filling! It’s absurdly hot! A strong Health and Safety Department means a strong city!”

  I had seen a handful of these signs already and I had read somewhere that the H and S Department wielded the political power behind the machinations of the west coast of America now, and especially in New Seattle. The department had become so powerful it even had an army and had invaded Denmark a few years before. It claimed the war was necessary to settle an international disagreement over the use of hard hats. Eventually, after it had taken over most of Copenhagen, a protracted truce was agreed. Health and Safety published several Venn diagrams to prove that more people wore bright reflective clothing in Denmark than they had previously and this, they claimed, meant victory. So they left.

  Although two thousand people died in the fighting, nobody cared too much. It was a long way away, and wars in other people’s countries don’t really count. Except to some life-shattered veterans who probably walked through the crowds in the mall on a Saturday afternoon drunkenly telling a story in snatches that no one wanted to hear.

  The drongle rattled to a halt behind a line of others in the splattering rain, and I felt a prick of frustration. I had been in this city less than fifteen minutes and I was already about to be hassled at a police checkpoint.

  The girl’s eyes came back and looked around.

  “Thank you for traveling today,” said the drongle. “Your lucky color is blue. Your lucky artist who died miserably is Toulouse-Lautrec. Please take the receipt that is being printed. It may contain traces of nuts, so if you are allergic to nuts, use the gloves provided.” A sheaf of paper spewed out, along with some gloves, from a small slot, but neither the girl nor myself made any move for them.

  We just sat with leashed-up frustration without exchanging a word as the rain teemed down, smattering the roof with a heavy thumping cry, as though the gods were not just angry, but insane.

  Welcome home, I thought, trying to believe the cops would just wave us through with a glare. The minutes passed until finally they crisscrossed the translucent dome with flashlights before hauling open the door, their black ponchos reflecting silver streaks in the lights.

  “Out of the car, please,” said a voice.

  “What’s the problem, Officer?” I said, really not in the mood to be hassled by a bunch of rookies.

  “No problem. Just step out of the drongle, please, both of you.”

  So we got out and stood waiting in the teeming rain as they hassled the people in the drongle ahead amid a flurry of don’t-fuck-with-me faces. It seemed some hoods had pulled off a downtown robbery and these cops were trawling for evidence from anyone they could find. And right now, that was me.

  The rain pattered and slapped on everything it could find, and above us another huge New Seattle Health and Safety sign flashed in the wet. “Beware! Treading on small toy building blocks when only wearing socks really hurts.”

  “You just in?” said a different cop with a flashlight walking over.

  “Yeah, that’s right.” I tried to sound polite, but the brightness in my voice got lost in the storm.

  Eventually, another cop trudged over with the rain sliding off his poncho in rivulets and gathering on the peak of his cap in a long line of playful drops.

  I had a feed on the back of my neck like everyone else. He plugged in, and a twist of looping wire spooled from the jack plug to his Handheld Feed Reader.

  I felt a cold jolt in my neck.

  “You showed up as only just in. We tracked your drongle. We like to check out strangers,” said the first cop.

  “I’m not a stranger. I was born here. I lived here until eight years ago.”

  “Registered in New York State,” said the cop scrolling through my details on his handheld. The system saved cutting through a lot of crap. Sometimes people had their profiles altered on their feed, but if you knew what you were looking for, you could usually tell.

  “What’s your business?” The first cop shone the flashlight in my face, and I squinted into the glare.

  “I’m looking up an old friend, Gabe Numan.”

  “Old friend, huh?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Hey! He’s an ex–New Seattle cop,” said the one still scrolling through my details on the screen. “Huckleberry Lindbergh.”

  “That right?”

  “Yeah. Once upon a time,” I confirmed.

  “Kicked out?”

  “I left for my own reasons.”

  “Couldn’t hack it?”

  “No, I just left.”

  “Sure. You left. Let’s hear his mood.”

  The mood program played a few bars of music that was meant to represent your mood. For some reason mine played something classical—a heavy, brooding piece that might have been banged out by a Russian composer after a night on the vodka. It sounded melancholy in the rain.

  “I don’t like that. That doesn’t sound right. What kind of mood is that?” said the cop with the flashlight. “Take him off to Head Hack Central—and the girl, too. If there’s one group of people you can’t trust, it’s cops who got kicked out. They hold a grudge.”

  “Hey!” cried the woman. “We’re not together. I’m not with this guy!”

  That was the first time I noticed the fire in her eyes. Even through the snapping drops of rain, I could see it burn.

  “Hey, calm down, lady,” said the cop, pocketing his flashlight. “If you’ve nothing to hide, you’ll be out within the hour. Just routine. Normally we use the street booths, but they’re all broken around here. Now get a red tag and some cuffs on these two and get them in a drongle.”

  Welcome home, Huck, I thought. Welcome home.

  chapter

  TWO

  My hands were cuffed and a thin red collar snapped onto my neck. They did the same to the girl. It wasn’t comfortable. Then we were herded into a four-man cop drongle and, after I kicked up a commotion, they retrieved my bag and threw it in after me.

  An officer stooped inside, pulled the hood shut with a grinding crack, and sat with h
is legs apart, chewing gum and treating the world with enough disinterest to power a small country.

  As the drongle rattled away into the night, the hard, wet seats felt cold and soulless. Several tiny screens flickered into life, and the image of a small man with short, neat hair and overlarge eyebrows appeared. For a moment, his words ran out of sync with his mouth, and then the two fused together.

  “Hi, I’m Dan Cicero, mayor of New Seattle. You might have heard of me. People call me the Mayor of Safety.” He pulled an overly serious expression that played havoc with his eyebrows. Neither seemed to know which way to go. “We have a zero-tolerance policy on danger in this city. If you feel scared—or even nervous about anything—call our slightly-on-edge help line, where a counselor will be happy to talk to you about nice things like pet rabbits.” His eyebrows returned to their default setting, then the left one began to head off. “New Seattle Health and Safety is the finest in the world. And certainly a lot better than anything they have in Chicago. Their safety mascot is a piece of crap. An absolute piece of high-end crap. So enjoy your visit.”

  “New Seattle Health and Safety,” sang a close harmony group as pictures of the city were splayed across the screen. “Stay safe! Watch out! Stay safe! Watch out for that—”

  Then the drawn-out sound of a long, tortuous crash.

  And the mayor’s face again.

  “And remember, please don’t die for no reason. I mean, what’s the point? Right?” Then the screen flickered, went black, and those last words hung in the air mocking me, daring me to stir up my anger.

  “Don’t die for no reason? Why does he say that?”

  “It’s just a slogan,” said the cop.

  “A slogan? Sometimes people do die for no reason. Isn’t that obvious?”

  “If you say so.”

  The noise of the drongle wheels crunched over the conversation.

  I closed my eyes trying to breathe away the anger provoked by that absurd slogan. But the more I pushed it away the more it came back. And the more the memories waited in line in my head.

  Another back-wrenching jolt and I looked up.

  The woman was quiet. Her features had a soft warmth, but her dark eyes were wrapped up with thoughts I couldn’t begin to read. Maybe she saw bad memories running like reels of film in her mind. Maybe she was a prisoner of the past as well.