The Unfolding, page 40
“Between the plague and the toxic waste and the decentralization of the government, America will be a dead zone. People will start growing their own food supply because of shortages and contamination, and we will return to a barter system. Many will be unemployed and have no money,” Frode says.
“Due to the failure of the poorly maintained roads, you won’t be able to cross the bridge to go to grandma’s house,” Bo says.
“It will look like the world is going to hell,” the General says. “Like we are in the grip of a behemoth, a monster that is physical and psychological. There will be ringing in the American ear—tinnitus, an alarm that cannot be turned off, a bell that cannot be silenced, a tintinnabulation that echoes across the country.”
“Our economy will divide into those who have more and those who have nothing. On the world stage, the view of America will be cloudy. Our allies will be looking for that shining city on the hill, and they will see ravages of wildfires, catastrophic floods, illness, and death. It will look terrifying but not entirely unfamiliar, as much of what will happen will not be unique to America. A global iteration of this unrest is baked into the plan,” Kissick says.
“How are you going to cause all these things that I’d call acts of God?” the judge wants to know.
“That’s the easy part; we’re already on target, thanks to climate change,” Bo says.
“People around the world will become more tribal; borders will open and close like poorly played accordions, and mass confusion will result. The median citizenry will retreat and divide by money, race, religion, and sexual preferences. Fracture is part of the plan,” Kissick says. “Out of chaos comes opportunity, and nostalgia for the America they once knew and loved.”
“The great American experiment, in pieces on the floor,” Metzger says.
“What was it Will Rogers said about democracy . . .” Bo pauses. “There was never one that didn’t commit suicide.”
“We’re not here to self-destruct,” the Big Guy says. “In fact, the opposite. We are here to protect and preserve.”
“As we say in my field, sometimes you have to rebreak a bone to set it right. That’s what we’re doing,” Frode says. “We are breaking the back of America to set it straight.”
“I am proud to be with you,” the judge says.
“Just don’t let them call it the Last Stand of the White Man,” Bo says.
“God help me if that’s what it is, but it’s a catchy title; you should use it for your memoir,” the judge says.
“The United States Semiquincentennial is in 2026,” the Big Guy says.
“The what?” Bo asks.
“The two hundred and fiftieth anniversary of the signing of the Declaration of Independence,” Kissick says.
“Let that be our touchstone,” the Big Guy says.
“That is eighteen years from now. You said the rollout would be in twelve to fifteen years,” Eisner says. “I’ll be old by then.”
“Everybody gets old, Crayola; it can’t be avoided.”
“Some of us will be gone by then,” the judge says.
“Everything takes longer than you think,” the Big Guy says. “The plan needs time to mature.”
“I just never thought I’d be that old,” Eisner says. “I’ll be fully AARP by then.”
“My youngest graduates college that year,” Kissick says.
“Meghan will be thirty-six in 2026,” the Big Guy says.
“It’s nice how you’ve got your lives all planned out,” Bo says. “It’s unfortunate that sometimes life is not so neat, plans change.”
“July 4, 2026,” the General says. “Consider it a date.”
“Out of chaos—opportunity. When the moment comes, it will feel essential, urgent. It will be clear that America needs to reclaim its identity,” Bo says.
The waiter brings a beautiful and enormous Baked Alaska with an enormous sparkling candle to the table and sets it down in front of the General. The waiter douses the dish with cognac and sets it on fire.
“When I was in the kitchen, I told them it was your birthday,” Frode whispers to the General.
Between the sparks from the volcanic candle and the fire on the meringue, the whole thing looks like the Revolutionary War on a plate.
The men’s faces are aglow with fire and a kind of giddy high.
“All the boys like the big candle,” the maître d’ says, coming over to the table. “I wanted to do something special. I am so happy to have you here.”
“Merci beaucoup,” the General says.
As sparks fly in all directions, one of the waiters rushes across the room with a dish of vanilla ice cream in hand and dumps the ice cream over the sparkler, which sputters to a stop. Everyone laughs.
“Not funny,” the waiter says. “You could accidentally burn the house down.”
“It is funny,” the General says, serving Baked Alaska to the table. “It is very fucking funny.”
“One final piece of business for today,” the Big Guy says. “Gentlemen, open your boxes.” The men each fumble to open the black-velvet boxes. There are oohs and aahs. Kissick pricks his finger with his.
“You’re gonna have a long night’s sleep now, princess,” Bo says to him.
“You’re doing it again,” Kissick says. “Scaring me. Why? Why do you have to do that?”
“Because it’s so easy,” Bo says.
“These are pins made to reflect who we are and where our hearts lie.”
“Why are there two more than needed?” Kissick asks.
“Good boy, always counting things,” the Big Guy says. “The remaining ones are for Tony and a player yet to be named.”
The men all nod.
“There’s something else,” the Big Guy says.
“Of course there is, like a secret handshake,” the judge says. He’s standing now behind his chair, doing calf stretches.
“I need to tell you a couple of things.”
“I’m listening.”
“There comes a point where there is no going back. There is no return after lunch today. We might know one another in passing, but we won’t be having Thanksgiving together. We won’t be making late-night calls; we won’t be searching things on the internet; we will be leaving no mark. We’ll have a way of contacting one another—that will be set up in the next couple of weeks, a contact, like a man on the surface,” the Big Guy says.
“I want to get your addresses, permanent and any vacation homes, car VIN numbers, all of it,” Bo says.
“For what?” the judge asks.
“For me,” Bo says. “My belated Christmas gift to you is going to be secure communications and training.”
“That concludes our meeting. I’m not sure when I will see any of you next. I assume that you’re not hitting any of the balls this evening,” the Big Guy says.
“The only balls I’ll be in touch with are my own,” Bo says. “But I will be at the prayer service on February fourth.”
“As will I,” the judge says.
“Me too,” the doctor says.
“Wouldn’t miss it,” the General says.
“Are we pressing go?” the judge asks. “Is this the launch?”
“Affirmative,” Bo says.
“We are good to go,” the General says.
“Let’s get it going,” Metzger says. “Set the drinking bird in motion.”
“Are we ready?” Eisner asks. “This is the formal observation of the beginning; we have ignition.”
“We are ready,” the General says.
“Green light go,” Kissick says.
“Seal of approval,” the General says.
“Authorization,” the doctor adds.
“See you in Philadelphia in 2026,” the Big Guy says. No matter what, he is going to have the last word.
“We have liftoff,” Eisner says, as the men stand and raise their glasses.
“The Forever Men.”
The Big Guy and Kissick are the last to leave.
“It went very well. Button pushed. Green light go,” Kissick says, as the two men haggle over the tip.
“There are times when it is not worth being dryfisted,” the Big Guy tells Kissick.
“And there are times when doing more than what is required draws undue attention,” Kissick says, taking fifty bucks off the table.
“Narrow-souled,” the Big Guy says. “No matter what good fortune comes your way, you remain a clusterfisted chincherd.”
Kissick shrugs. “I am what I am. So, best-case scenario, how do you think this whole thing ends?” Kissick asks the Big Guy as they’re walking out of the restaurant.
“My daughter will be the president of the United States. I am the maker and she is the bomb.”
“That’s not what I thought you were going to say.”
“If I was predictable, it would be boring.”
A.M. Homes is the author of thirteen books, including May We Be Forgiven, winner of the Women’s Prize for Fiction, and the best-selling memoir, The Mistress’s Daughter. She adapted her novel, Jack, for Showtime and her story collection, The Safety of Objects, was made into a feature film. Homes was a writer and producer on the original Showtime program The L Word, and a co-executive producer of Falling Water on the USA Network and of David E. Kelly’s and Stephen King’s Mr. Mercedes. She has written pilots for CBS, ABC, and HBO. Currently, Homes is involved with the adaptation of her novels This Book Will Save Your Life and Music for Torching.
Homes often collaborates with artists in other forms; in 2019 she worked with Experiments in Opera and six composers to create a new opera, Chunky in Heat, based on four of her short stories. And in 2022, RISE, a short opera commissioned for The Kennedy Center’s 50th Anniversary, had its world premiere.
Her work has been translated into twenty-two languages, and she writes frequently on the arts for publications such as Artforum, The Atlantic, The Financial Times, Granta, The Guardian, Harper’s Magazine, McSweeney’s, The New Yorker, The New York Times, and The Paris Review. She is a contributing editor to Vanity Fair, BOMB Magazine, and Blind Spot.
Passionate about being involved in one’s community and supporting work across disciplines, Homes serves on the boards of Poets & Writers, Experiments in Opera, and the Writers Guild of America, East, and has long been active with the New York Foundation for the Arts, the Fine Arts Work Center in Provincetown, and Yaddo.
She teaches in the Creative Writing Program at Princeton University.
What’s next on
your reading list?
Discover your next
great read!
Get personalized book picks and up-to-date news about this author.
Sign up now.
_140845392_
A.M. Homes, The Unfolding
