Conundrum (31 page)

I stood and walked toward the kitchen. “I’ll get you some soup. Do you want to watch a movie?”

The phone
jangled
as I stepped into the kitchen. My heart clenched
,
and
I
thought of my mother. Was I going to react
like that
to
every
telephone
call
for the rest of my life?

I ignored the ringing and got the pot of soup out of the fridge. As I set it on the stove and turned on the burner, I heard Julie Hutchinson’s voice.

“
Hi
,
Lisa, it’s me, Julie, again. I’m sorry I’ve left so many messages.
Y
ou haven’t called me back,
and I’m worried that
maybe I said something that offended you. I hope not. I really need to see you. I apologize for all this melodrama, but it’s very important. I know you’ll want to hear me out—it’s more about your father. Here’s my number
.
 
.
 
.
”

“Who’s that?” Jeremy called out from the living room. I could hear the TV playing low
as I poured the hot soup into a bowl. “Aren’t you going to answer it?”

I brought Jeremy his soup as the message ended and the machine gave a final beep. A baseball game aired on the screen
with the sound
low
. I looked at Jeremy’s pale coloring, listened to his labored breathing.

“Do you need to take your meds with some food? You look a little sweaty.”

“Yeah, I probably should. But I don’t want anything to put me to sleep. Just painkillers.”

“Okay.” I walked over to the chair where I’d set my purse and rummaged through to find the right plastic bottle. “You’re supposed to take these twice a day. Did you already take some this morning?”

Jeremy shook his
head
. I dropped two capsules in his hand. “So, who was that?
” he said.
“
She sounded
.
 
.
 
.
upset or something.”

I plopped down in the armchair
. “Her name is Julie. Her dad, Ed Hutchinson, was my father’s boss thirty years ago at Penwell Corporation. I visited them last week in Mountain View.”

Jeremy’s face registered surprise.
“So, did they tell you much about your dad—anything to help you learn more about his death?”
He
seemed interested—
perhaps eager to grab at any conversation
to take his mind off our circumstances.

I let
out
a long breath and started in on
my
visit to Ed, the pictures of my father, and the RTGs he helped design. Then I told him about my talk with Julie and how she informed me of the affair between my father and her mother. Jeremy’s reaction was similar to what mine had been.

“So, what’s the big
deal
about it? Some short affair before your father died. She obviously is holding back. What do you think’s going on?”

“I’ve been trying to guess. Maybe she has something of my father
’
s. Something valuable. Maybe he gave Shirley Hutchinson something before he died—that belongs to us kids. Although
,
I’m hoping for something more personal—like letters, love letters, maybe. What if my dad said something in the letters that explained his death wish, or his volunteering for that experiment
?
”

“Wouldn’t she have shown you those letters when she met with you? I can’t imagine what could be so serious or revealing that she’d be afraid to tell you. I mean, it’s been nearly thirty years, and you say her mother died three years ago, so what does any of it matter?”

“Well, none of it matters now.” I leaned over and put my chin in my hands. Jeremy turned off the TV and watched me instead.
“The whole reason I tried to find the truth about my dad was so I could help Raff. Bring my family closer together.” I snorted in anger. “Fat lot of good that did.”

“Lis, you’re not at fault here.” He gestured loosely to our home, meaning our
situation
. “You didn’t do anything wrong—”

“You weren’t there when I threw the name Shirley Hutchinson at my mother. When I accused her ‘happy’ marriage of being a sham, that I had a letter from my father that revealed how miserable he was with her. No one
makes Ruth Sitteroff look bad—no one.”
My words rattled in my throat as they came out. I felt
as
small as a worm
.

Jeremy sh
ook
his head and open
ed
his arms to me. “Come here.”

I slid from my chair to the couch and eased
against his chest
, careful not to put any pressure on his ribs.
Through my tears, I asked, “Is this okay; am I hurting you?”

Jeremy pressed his face into my hair and mumbled. “It’s more than okay. It’s perfect.”

As crazy and paradoxical as it seemed to my logical mind, Jeremy was right. Sitting with him, injured and hurting, about to lose our house, my family turned against me, it felt exactly that—perfect.

At Jeremy’s urging, I called Julie back and invited her to visit us.
Without hesitation, she asked for directions and said she was on her way. I
relayed this to
Jeremy and his eyebrows raised.
I doubted he was up to having company, but h
is
curiosity was piqued, and he probed me about the radioactive generators Ed Hutchinson had mentioned.

“There’s nothing here,” he said, flipping closed the magazine Ed had given me—the one with the photo of my father standing by the SNAP generator.
“At least nothing that tells how the thing is built, and how it really works—other than generate low levels of radiation through radioactive decay.”
He set the magazine on the coffee table and studied me. “
Is
it weird—seeing a photo of your father, looking happy and
.
 
.
 
.
accomplished? Just what did this Ed guy say about your dad
?
Did he confirm the depression, the
death
wish
?”
Jeremy spoke the last words in a mocking tone, and I knew he was implying the whole death-wish theory was my mother’s cover-up. I still wasn’t sure.

“I’m thinking the library should have more information. Maybe something in the encyclopedia, right?
Or some science journals?” I searched my brain, trying to remember what else Ed had said about the RTGs. All I could come up with was plutonium with a half-life of eighty-seven years, and that you couldn’t get sick from
just
looking at one—you had to inhale or ingest the radioactive material to get sick. But thinking about Ed’s manner made me wonder whether he had told me
the
truth—
or
had
he purposely omit
ted
telling me something about these generators?
It seemed too coincidental that my father died of leukemia—something often caused by radiation exposure—while he was working on a project involving radiation. I suddenly wished I hadn’t told Julie to come over. My feet were ready to run out the door and tackle the card catalog at the downtown library once more.

“I think I’ll go
research this
tomorrow,” I said. “See what else I can find out. If that’s okay with you.”
I chided myself for pursuing this apparent dead end. I had more important things to focus on—finding a place to rent, organizing our bills
,
and assessing our financial situation.
Helping Jeremy recover.
Yet, this whole scenario compelled me, pulled me into its larger scope.
A realization crept over me, like an invading march of ants across my skin.
This wasn’t just about how my father died and
determining
if he
’d
suffered depression. This was all about perception and defining truth.

Until now, perhaps like most people, I
had
thought truth a constant—something that would exist even if the universe disappeared.
Universal
s
. Facts. But,
in the midst of this noble search,
my own perception of truth
had
shattered—
regarding
the constancy and loyalty of family. If that intrinsic truth could not stand up to disturbance, then what could?

What if you dig to the root of a matter, to get to that rock-bottom truth, only to find you’re standing in a deep, empty hole? Always my mind returned to T. S. Eliot and
“
The Love-Song of J. Alfred Prufrock
”
:
“
And would it have been worth it, after all
.
 
.
 
.
after the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets, after the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor
.
 
.
 
.
Would it have been worth while if one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl, and turning toward the window, should say:
‘
That is not it at all. That is not what I meant, at all.
’
”
I realized then that my need for answers did not revolve around
decoding
my father’s death but more about finding a reliable way for me to perceive my world—something I now desperately needed to thrash and hack my way through the dense foliage blocking my sight.

“
The library?
Sure.”
Jeremy turned his attention back to the Dodger game.
I could tell he was having trouble concentrating.
His face had lost so much luster—the skin pale and dull
from medication and trauma
. Some new creases aged him, but he still looked handsome. His was the kind of face that would hold up to the years chiseling away at his features. A two-day’s growth of a beard made him appear rugged, reminding me of his childhood in Montana
, and how he
had
hunted and fished with his father in the backcountry. I’d never slept in a tent—
not
even in a crowded
,
tourist-ridden campground, let alone wandered over miles of grizzly
-
bear-infested wilderness.
While growing up,
I thought having a house in the Marin foothills was the very definition of “country.”
And our “homestead” in Petaluma was even more rural.
I had a sudden urge to sleep ou
t
side, under the stars with Jeremy—at least one time before we lost our home. How could I say I really knew this place without
such an
experience?

A restless energy came over me,
while
waiting for Julie, waiting to hear her next important revelation. On a whim, I pulled out bowls and measuring cups and got busy m
aking blue
berry muffins.
I went out to the berry patch and scrounged enough ripe berries to suit my purpose. Another month the blackberries would be ready to pick—

I stopped
in midthought
, realizing I probably wouldn’t be here long enough to make my famous blackberry cobbler from this tangled patch I had kept in check these ten years.
Making cobbler was a yearly tradition for me. Homemade vanilla ice cream, the cobbler warm out of the oven. I work
ed
back tears filling my eyes. There were plent
y of blackberry bushes in Marin and Sonoma counties. Plenty of places to pick them.
I could—would—still make cobbler, I told myself. Regardless
of where I lived
.

Julie must have sped on 101, because, by the time my second batch of muffins came out of the oven, I heard the doorbell. I glanced over at Jeremy on the couch, who had fallen asleep with his chin tucked into his chest, then opened the door and signaled Julie with a finger to my lips. I whispered, “
M
y husband’s asleep on the couch.” I stepped out onto the porch and eased the door shut behind me. “He just got out of the hospital; he needs his rest.” I didn’t have the energy to concoct some story about why my husband would be asleep on a couch in the middle of a workday.

“Hospital? Is he all right?” I could tell Julie was asking out of politeness; she seemed brimming over with words she wanted to dump on me.

“Had a little car incident. But he’s recovering.”

“Oh. Well, that’s good news, at least.”

The porch felt crowded with the two of us standing there and the dogs pressing up to see who their new visitor was. Thankfully Julie seemed to like dogs and gave them the attention they required before
they
chas
ed
after a flock of blackbirds chattering on the split-rail fence.
“Let’s go around the back
—
on the deck. We can talk there.”