“I can’t live on the edge like that,” Ernest said.
Gabe laughed.
“So, how does this radio work?”
“The ionosphere—it’s a shell of electrons around the Earth, and the radio waves bounce off of it.”
“So who do you hear out there?”
“Everyone, everything,” Gabe said. “Anything can be radio. You could have electromagnetic waves hit a rock and that sound would be radio. And in a way, it’s going on all the time. I can shut this thing off right now, but all those voices are still there, carrying on without me.”
The scotch had warmed Ernest’s tongue; his thoughts flowed. “Did you know that in the 1800s people were scared of electricity coming into their houses because they thought ghosts might make their way through the wires?”
“Really? That’s crazy.”
“Maybe, but it’s hard to trust something you don’t totally understand. They had no idea what it meant for them except that it happened kind of overnight and it was totally life altering. How can that not be scary?”
Gabe shrugged. “I guess.” As he dialed through the stations, garbled voices and snatches of static emitted from the speakers.
“Those voices on the radio, people used to think that was their dead ancestors talking to them.”
Gabe shook his head. “I don’t want to hear anything from dead people.”
“Who do you want talking to you?”
“Pretty much anyone else, but wait, I have the perfect show for you, Dad.”
The shortwave radio blinked on the living room rug. Wiring from an antenna snaked over the fleur-de-lis pattern as Gabe twisted the dial, then stopped: a series of pops, whistles that bent in the air, and crumbly static.
“What is this?”
“This one guy plays ‘natural radio.’ Well, technically natural radio would be live from a special receiver, but it’s still pretty cool. He makes recordings of the Earth’s electromagnetic field all around the world and then he plays it, like, around the clock.”
After a particularly fiery crackle, a man’s voice cut in and announced, “That’s the sound of some massive coronal ejections.”
“Wow, this is amazing.” Ernest smiled. “Nice find.” It felt good to admire his son, and for a moment, he was there with him, in the moment, as Cynthia had urged him to be. Then he noticed Gabe tugging on his earlobe and plunging his finger into the canal.
“What’s the matter with your ear?”
“It’s ringing.”
“For how long?”
“Like, maybe five minutes straight this time.”
“You’ve been listening to the radio too loud.”
“It’s not like I’m listening to Slayer.” Gabe checked his watch. “Oh, it’s time!”
Frantically, he dialed in a station that crackled with static and a whining high pitch. After a few moments, a woman’s voice cut in and urgently recited, “Anna? Nikolai? Ivan? Tatyana? Roman?” She stopped after each name. After a longer pause during which the static snapped with more fury, she repeated her call: “Anna? Nikolai? Ivan? Tatyana? Roman?” The woman sounded concerned but also resigned to calling these names for every night of her life.
“Is that from Russia?” Ernest asked. “Can’t quite tell from the accent.”
Alison walked in. “Ooh, look, it’s Christian Slater. What’s going on in pirate radio land?”
“Not pirate,” Gabe corrected. “Shh, listen.”
Alison’s face fell as she heard the woman’s call. Gabe nodded.
“I wonder if she’s looking for her kids. Maybe they got separated?” Alison asked.
“Who knows?” Gabe said, then looked at his dad. “I discovered her a week ago, and every night around this time, she repeats those names.”
“That’s sad,” Alison said. “Is she all alone?”
“How would I know?”
“Let’s hear another station,” Alison said, taking a seat next to Gabe, but they didn’t change the dial. They listened to the sad woman repeat the string of names a few more times, until it became just a stream of syllables.
3
They didn’t like it, but Cynthia and Ernest owned two cars for necessity’s sake—Ernest’s battered Jetta and the Volvo station wagon that Cynthia used for commuting to a law firm in the city. Whenever the whole family had to pile in, Ernest drove the wagon.
Three days after Ernest’s birthday, they took a field trip to the new mega health-food store, Demeter Foods. After months of advance buzz, Ernest heard about its grand opening during his committee meeting for next year’s Earth Day celebration. Prairie Park had just hired him to direct the 1995 efforts. In years prior, the Earth Day festivities had been modest—a few tents slapped up to educate people on the issues, plus some crafts and activities for the kids—but town hall wanted something bigger to celebrate the twenty-fifth anniversary. When his committee got wind that he hadn’t yet basked in the splendors of Demeter, they were horrified. “What are you waiting for?” his boss, Jean, had crowed. For all sorts of reasons, he was skeptical of Demeter Foods, but curiosity ultimately won out.
On the way, Ernest insisted on cranking an NPR story that quoted the president’s executive order from earlier in the year demanding that “all Americans deserve clean air, pure water, land that is safe to live on, and food that is safe to eat.”
“Wow!” Cynthia said. “It really is a new era. Never thought I’d see it.”
“Yep, it’s a good time to be an environmentalist,” Ernest said. “Best time since the early seventies.”
“This is Al Gore’s influence,” Cynthia said. “Don’t you think he’s cute, Alison?”
“Not to me,” Alison said. “He looks like a high school principal.”
“I hate to rain on your parade,” Gabe piped in from the backseat, “but I think it’s just trendy for the moment. I mean, all I see at school all over everyone’s notebooks are those panda stickers from World Wildlife, but I bet you none of them really know anything about pandas.”
“So what?” Alison said. “Maybe people want to save pandas because they’re cute and that’s it. You don’t have to know what it eats for lunch.”
“It’s a little poseurish. It’s like saying Nirvana’s best song is ‘Smells Like Teen Spirit.’”
“Well, I’m going to join the Protect the Planet club and I’m not feeling like a fake.”
“That’s because you’re not a fake. You were raised by these people.” Gabe flapped his hands toward their parents.
“All you kids ever talk about is who’s a poseur,” Cynthia said. “It’s like we’re riding with the authenticity cops or something.”
“That’s really more Gabe’s thing. It’s some kind of code he lives by,” Alison said, and looked at her brother: “Pearl Jam?”
His answer was immediate: “Poseurs.”
“Wrong. What about Jane’s Addiction?”
“Legit.”
“Live.”
He groaned. “Now you’ve got that terrible song in my head.”
“It’s