Free Afterlife by Paul Monette Page A

“Channel 4 Action News,” said a man’s clipped voice, reeling with self-importance.
    â€œYeah, how come you don’t got a story about the blood in the reservoir?”
    â€œWhat story would that be, sir?” Instantly alert, yearning for an anchor spot.
    â€œI stole it from a lab. It’s contaminated with AIDS. I sure hope they got a good filter up there in Castaic.”
    â€œAre you claiming responsibility? Are you a group?”
    Dell laughed. “No, man, I’m just a nut. I don’t belong to anyone.”
    He heard a beep and click on the line and hung up fast. He didn’t really believe they could trace the call, but he didn’t want to be recorded either. He ambled into the kitchen as Linda was finished washing up. She said she was going around to collect the rents. First of October already: at least they had left behind the anniversary month. She was wonderful with the tenants, mostly single mothers, who were never on time with money. More like a resident social worker than a landlady, Linda filled out their ADF forms and wrote their letters home to Costa Rica.
    By ten it was on the news. A spokesman from the Water Department said there was no cause for concern. The reservoir in question wasn’t in use and would be brought on line only in severe drought conditions. No evidence of the alleged vandalism had been uncovered by department workers, but the footage was vivid all the same: a crew of men combing the shores of a pristine mountain lake in white space suits, helmeted, with walkie-talkies bleating.
    A nice counterpoint to the anchorman’s insistence: “There is absolutely no way that AIDS could be transmitted in this manner.” Even a gallon of blood was scarcely a part per billion of water. More plutonium fell on Castaic Lake on an average day.
    Nevertheless, there were seven thousand calls to the Water Department between ten and eleven. Linda came back with partial payment on two of the four rents and found her brother prone on the sofa again, flicking the remote from station to station. The switch-boards were clogged to the point of gridlock. A hastily briefed dork from the Mayor’s staff reiterated that nothing had happened and nothing could. No Castaic water was flowing through the system. Every faucet in the L.A. basin was being served by pure Colorado River runoff. The reporters shoved their mikes in his face: “Can you say without any doubt that the water supply is completely safe?” The dork brayed with frustration, trying to talk reason, but the answer was clearly no.
    â€œStupid, crazy people,” Linda hissed in contempt, switching her black ponytail. It wasn’t certain whether she meant the vandals, the officials, or the hysterical callers; she may not have known herself. Dell chortled and scratched at his mustache. Linda was pleased to see he didn’t let the ignorance and lunacy get under his skin. She didn’t say how little of the rent she had collected, how many dollars from how many months were owed by the Cabrillos and the Rodriguezes.
    She did say, though, with a casualness that was most unlike her that she would leave him his supper cold tomorrow night. Asked it more than said it. He frowned up at her, not knowing how to tell her she owed him nothing. He’d explained to her often enough that he didn’t need to be cooked for, that the last thing he wanted was Linda in a dutiful role, tied like the women of Morelia. He didn’t ask about her plans for tomorrow night. It was none of his business.
    â€œThis girl I ride the bus with,” she said. “Emilia. She asked me to go to Disneyland.” Her brother didn’t say anything, just nodded as he watched the TV screen fill up with a map of California, all its reservoirs dotted in blue. Linda shrugged. “I’ve never been there. Everybody should see it once, right?”
    At last he turned from the news, as if he finally heard the