I thought about this woman who lived in Zone Fourteen throughout the weekend and Monday, and by the time it was Tuesday, and therefore my free night, I was thinking about her still. After dinner, I went straight to the bedroom instead of helping my husband with the dishes as I normally did just to use up some time. There I lay on the bed and rocked myself back and forth and talked to Grandfather, asking him what I should do. I imagined him saying, “It’s okay, little cat,” and “I love you, little cat,” but I couldn’t think of what else he might say. If Grandfather had been alive, he would have helped me figure out what I was upset about, and how to fix it. But Grandfather was not alive, and so I had to figure it out on my own.
Then I remembered what the woman in the bathroom had said, that she had followed her husband. Unlike her husband, my husband didn’t leave especially early in the morning. He didn’t come home late at night. I always knew where he was—except for Thursdays.
And that was when I decided that, on my husband’s next free night, I was going to follow him, too.
* * *
The next day, I realized that my plan had a flaw: My husband never came home from work on his free nights, so either I would have to find a way to follow him from the Farm or I would have to find a way to make him come home first. I decided the second option was more feasible. I thought and thought about what I was going to do, and then I came up with a solution.
That night, at dinner, I said, “I think there’s a leak in the showerhead.”
He didn’t look up from his plate. “I haven’t heard anything,” he said.
“But there’s some water pooled in the bottom of the tub,” I said.
He looked up then and pushed his chair back and went to the bathroom, where I had emptied half a cup of water into the tub; there would be just enough left to appear as if the spout had developed a leak. I heard him open the curtain and then turn the taps on and off, quickly.
As he did this, I remained in my seat, sitting straight, as Grandfather had taught me, waiting for him to return. When he did, he was frowning. “When did you notice this?” he asked me.
“Tonight, when I came home,” I said. He sighed. “I asked the zone super to tell someone from building management to come inspect it,” I said, and he looked at me. “But they can’t come until tomorrow at 19:00,” I continued, and he looked at the wall and sighed again, a big sigh, one that made his shoulders rise and fall. “I know it’s your free night,” I said, and I must have sounded scared, because my husband looked at me and gave me a small smile.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ll come home first, to be with you, and I’ll go to my free night after.”
“Okay,” I said. “Thank you.” Later, I would realize that he could have just said that he would take his free night on Friday instead. And then, later still, I would realize that the fact that he wanted to take his free night as usual meant that someone—the someone who’d sent those notes—was probably waiting for him on Thursdays, and that now he would have to find a way to tell this person that he would be late. But I knew that he would wait until the inspector came—our water consumption was monitored every month, and if you went over your allotment, you had to pay a penalty and it would be noted on your civilian records.
That Thursday, I told Dr. Morgan that I had a leak in my shower and I needed permission to go home early, which was granted. Then I took the 17:00 shuttle home, so by the time my husband got home—at 18:57, as he always does—I was making dinner. “Am I too late?” he asked.
“No,” I said, “he hasn’t come.”
I had made an extra nutria patty, just in case, and extra yams and spinach as well, but when I asked my husband if he wanted to eat something as we waited, he shook his head. “But you should eat it now, while it’s hot,” he said. Nutria meat congealed unless you ate it right off the stove.
So I did, sitting down at the table and moving the pieces around with my fork. My husband sat at the table, too, and opened his book. “Are you sure you’re not hungry?” I asked, but he shook his head again. “No, thank you,” he said.
We sat in silence for a while. He shifted in his seat. We never talked much over dinner, but at least we were doing an activity together when we sat down to eat. But now it was like we were in two glass boxes that had been placed next to each other, and although other people could see us, we couldn’t see or hear anything outside our own boxes, and had no idea of how close we were to each other.
He shifted in his seat again. He turned the page and then turned it back, rereading what he’d already looked at. He looked up at the clock, and so did I. It was 19:14. “Damnit,” he said. “I wonder where he is?” He looked at me. “There hadn’t been a note, had there?”
“No,” I said, and he shook his head and looked down at his book again.
Five minutes later, he looked up. “What time was he supposed to be here?” he asked.
“Nineteen hundred,” I said, and he shook his head once more.
A few minutes later, he closed his book entirely, and we both sat there, staring at the clock, its blank, round face.
Suddenly my husband stood. “I have to go,” he said, “I have to leave.” It was 19:33. “I—I have to be somewhere. I’m already late.” He looked at me. “Cobra—if he comes, can you handle this on your own?”
I knew that he wanted me to be able to handle things on my own, and all at once I felt scared, as if I really were facing the prospect of talking to the building manager by myself, without my husband here; it was almost like I had forgotten that the manager wasn’t coming at all, that this entire incident was something I’d invented in order to do something that should have been much scarier: following my husband on his free night.
“Yes,” I said. “I can handle it.”
He smiled then, one of his rare smiles. “You’re going to be fine,” he said. “You’ve met the manager before; he’s a nice man. And I’ll come home early tonight, while you’re still awake, all right?”
“All right,” I agreed.
“Don’t be nervous,” he said. “You know how to do this.” This was something that Grandfather used to say to me as well: You know how to do this, little cat. There’s nothing to be afraid of. And then he took his anorak from the hook. “Good night,” he said, as the door closed.
“Good night,” I said to the closed door.
* * *
I waited just twenty seconds after my husband closed the door before I too left the apartment. I had already packed a bag with some things I thought I might need, including one of the small flashlights, and a notebook and pencil, and a thermos of water in case I got thirsty, and my anorak in case I got cold, though that was unlikely.
Outside, it was dark and warm, but not hot, and there were more people than usual, walking around the Square, walking home from the store. I spotted my husband immediately: He was heading briskly north on Fifth Avenue, and I followed him as he turned west on Ninth Street. It was the same route we both took every morning, at separate times, to the shuttle stop, and for a second, I wondered whether he was going to wait for the shuttle again and go back up to work. But he kept walking, crossing Sixth Avenue and through the area we called Little Eight, for its complex of high-rise apartment towers that made it feel like its own zone within Zone Eight, and then across Seventh Avenue as well, and still he kept going.