Early Warning (30 page)

“What have they got you doing?”

“Divulging top-secret information.”

“Pardon me?” said Frank.

“Well, I was so secretive for so long that now, when I talk to news reporters, they think I've actually told them something, because, of course, we only do it in long walks in Rock Creek Park, or in garages, where whatever we say is broken up by the sound of revving engines.”

“Are you teasing me?”

“No. Even the KGB does PR. You can only say ‘no comment' so many times, because ‘no comment' means ‘yes.' ”

Frank leaned forward. “But why you?”

Arthur shrugged. “What do I know?”

“You've been there since the beginning. You knew about everything.”

“I thought I knew a few things,” said Arthur. “But I don't know them anymore.”

Shock treatments. A chill ran up Frank's spine.

—

HENRY OPENED
the door of his office on the second knock. In his first office hours of the fall, he expected kids either wanting in or wanting out of one of the three classes he was teaching. Instead, there was a pleasant-looking young man carrying a briefcase, smiling and holding out an envelope. The envelope had Henry's name on it in Gothic letters. He took it, and opened it.

My dear boy,

Please note the bearer of this missive. He is a brilliant student of mine named Philip Cross who has taken it into his head, now that your poofters have decided to riot and make their presence felt, to try his luck in the U.S. He is about to enroll in that monument to capitalism, the University of Chicago, in literary criticism. Please do not discuss any work of literature with him, as you will not understand a word he says, and it will lower your estimation of our educational system. He is, however, a young man of exceptional grace and intelligence, and I told him that you will introduce him to the mid-continental wilderness, as you so ably introduced me. I have cultivated him assiduously and I defy you to uncover his dialect roots. In addition, he is an excellent chef. Suet is his middle name.

I am, as always, your devoted,

Basil

Henry said, “Philip. Do come in.” He stepped back, and this young man (Henry thought, no more than twenty-one, no taller than five nine, but neatly made) stepped across the threshold. Henry said, “U of Chicago. Good Lord. It's a jungle down there.”

Philip smiled, opened his mouth, and came out with the most beautiful speaking voice Henry had ever heard, as vibrant, deep, and rounded as a human voice could be. Henry said, “I'm sorry. What did you say?” Philip said, “It does seem a different world than this campus, which is very open.”

“Northwestern is a little bit of Iowa right beside Lake Michigan. It came first, you know, before the town. We take an Iowa approach in
many things—for example, we approach student unrest by wondering why the students are unhappy. Down there, they just expel you.”

“Is that a warning?” said Philip.

“Are you restless?” said Henry.

“Basil would say so,” said Philip. He sat down on the windowsill.

So—the young man called his professor “Basil.” Henry said, “His letter indicates that I am not to discuss literature with you, so what else are you interested in?”

“How do you feel about these bouts of campus—”

Henry waited to hear what word he would use—“unrest”? “silliness”? “brutality”? Henry had heard dozens of words applied. His aunt Eloise, who knew the U of Chicago catalyst, Marlene Dixon, slightly and said that she was “well meaning but doctrinaire,” always talked about “campus preliminaries.” Philip said—“rebellions.”

That was nicely limiting, but respectful. He said, “Ask me in ten years. I have no idea. I suppose I am sympathetic, but from a distance. As a medievalist, I am not asked to do teach-ins, but I would if I could think of something to teach. The fate of the Cathars is not a heartening precedent. I think the military draft has been God's gift to the left.”

Philip smiled. “I didn't realize God gave gifts to the left, or that those gifts were accepted.”

Oh, he is a charming boy, thought Henry, and Basil was right—he might have been born at the BBC, his pronunciation was so perfect and smooth.

Just then there was a knock, and when he opened the door, Henry saw Marcy Grant, his tallest student, decked out as usual in her giant army-surplus pants held up by a string, her glasses sporting a piece of masking tape, her hair a tangle. She peered at Henry and said, “Oh, Professor Langdon,” then looked around. She smiled her brilliant smile. Someday she would stand up straight and discover that she was a lovely woman. “That's me,” said Henry.

“I forgot to sign up for the history-of-the-language course, but I thought I had. I already wrote my first paper over the summer.” She held out some typed pages. Henry knew they would be excellent. He took them, set them on the bookcase beside the door, and said, “Come in, I'll give you a note.”

She squinted at him, then walked through the door. Philip's response to Marcy wasn't even curiosity, though whether that was because Marcy was female or because she was a mess, Henry couldn't tell. Marcy's response to Philip, though, was gratifying. Her mouth dropped open, and she kept glancing at him while Henry wrote the note to the registrar. Henry said, “Marcy, this is Philip Cross. He's come over from England to do grad work at Chicago. Philip, my excellent but disorganized student Marcy Grant.”

Marcy exhibited the good manners her Wisconsin mother had impressed upon her—how very nice to meet you, hope you have a good time—but she could go no further. Philip gave her his fingertips and said, “You are very kind,” as if Marcy could now be quietly executed and removed from the company of the civilized. Henry handed her the note and herded her toward the corridor. Henry eased back into the office and closed the door.

Philip had picked up Henry's monograph, which was sitting on the windowsill,
Dialectical Variations in Anglo-Saxon Epic Poetry
, Yale University Press, unreviewed in any American publication, but embraced by two scholars at Cambridge, one at Oxford, and his mother, Rosanna Vogel Langdon. Henry said, “It could keep you up at night.”

Now the expected knock came, and then Rick Kingsford pushed the door open, calling, “You here, Doc? Oh, hi. How are ya?”

Henry said, “I'm fine, Rick. How are you?”

“Well, I had this cough, but it's not so bad today. I thought I was gonna havta go to the infirmary, but not yet.” Rick was an enthusiastic student of Old English. He planned to do a translation of “The Seafarer,” with notes, as his thesis. He also carried a thermometer with him at all times and refused to shake hands. When he saw Philip, he recoiled slightly.

“What can I do for you, Rick?” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw that Philip was getting bored.

“I need a form you got, for the thesis credit.”

“Oh, I do have that,” said Henry. “Let's see.”

Philip stood up and stretched, then looked out the window. Henry opened the top drawer of his filing cabinet and began to go through the folders.

Rick, looking over his shoulder, said, “That's it, Doc.”

“Oh, good. Is that all you—”

“Hell, no! I mean, I was thinking I was going to do something like free verse; then, the other night, I thought obviously iambic pentameter, but now I'm not so sure. We could have echoes of Ibsen or something.”

Philip was at the door, his hand on the knob. Rick sat down in the chair beside the desk and wiggled around, making himself comfortable. “The words would be English, but the meter would evoke the North, you know? I'm thinking of my guy—let's say his name is Thor—sailing almost to the Arctic Circle. It's dark, it's cold. No Latin-derived words, or, God, Norman French—you don't want that. Well, maybe a few, but carefully se—”

“Just a minute, Rick, okay?”

As a known campus bachelor, Henry had to be careful, but he did step one step toward Philip.

Their gazes locked. Henry said, “Let me know if you need anything.” Then, “And give my best to Basil if you write.”

“Ta-ta!” said Philip.

The door closed behind him.

“Ta-ta?” exclaimed Rick.

“A bit of slang that could come from Swahili, oddly enough. Now, let's get on with it, what do you say?” He sounded put out, and Rick looked alarmed.

At dusk, when he was walking home from the university, feeling not quite down but not quite up, thinking that the sixteen weeks of classes just now commencing was a long stretch of talking and reading, he sneezed and put his hand into his jacket pocket for his handkerchief. Instead of his handkerchief, which he now remembered leaving on the corner of his desk, he pulled out a slip of paper. It read, “Philip +, 312-678-3456.” Henry immediately felt much better.

—

“
YOU LOOK SO GREAT,
” said Ruth.

“Don't say that,” said Claire. They were having breakfast at the pancake house, which they did every Monday morning. She had her turkey and a dozen eggs in the car, but the temperature was in the forties—she didn't think the eggs would freeze. Paul wanted a “private Thanksgiving, just us,” but the smallest turkey she'd found was eighteen pounds. She and Ruth didn't have much in common
anymore, but they still referred to each other as “best friends.” Bradley was sitting quietly on the seat between Claire and the wall. He was holding his blueberry muffin, staring at it, turning it, and taking bites. He was concentrating. Claire smoothed his hair.

“Why not?”

“Because whenever Paul says that it's because I'm pregnant again.”

Ruth laughed, but then said, “You don't look…”

“No.” Then, “Not yet.” Claire knew this was a sensitive subject, and was sorry she hadn't thought before saying what she did. She'd been taking the Pill for two months now, and she knew she had put on at least five pounds. She was also wearing contact lenses—she told everyone (including Paul) that that was Paul's idea. It had been, at one point, but he had sort of forgotten about it. Brad looked up at her. Claire said, “That's good, BB. You keep eating that. You need that.”

Brad nodded.

“He looks healthy,” said Ruth. “He ate the piece of sausage.”

“My mother says
she
never produced a picky eater.”

“I wish I'd been a picky eater,” said Ruth. “We heard so much about the starving Armenians that we had the clean-platter club, not the clean-plate club. You have such cute boys,” said Ruth.

“I do,” said Claire. This was how she was to be punished for veering toward a topic that had become taboo between them, the fact that Ruth had been married now for two years to Carl and still had no children. Not even a miscarriage. She would soon be thirty-one; ten years ago, she had planned to have had her own two by this time. Nor was she a member of the Wakonda Country Club, which Paul had joined the previous summer—three-thousand-dollar initiation fee, one-thousand-a-year membership. Claire took Ruth there as often as she wanted, but Carl, a builder, wouldn't go. Carl was good-looking, as nice as pie, and could fix anything (Claire hired him whenever she could get him), but playing golf and tennis, swimming in a pool, and eating in a formal dining room with a tie on were not for Carl.

Ruth sighed. “I always wanted three.”

Ruth had a way of recasting her old ideas, making them more ambitious rather than less as they got more unattainable. “Sweetie,” said Claire firmly, “it can still happen.”

Ruth's eyebrows dipped, and she put her fingers over her mouth.

Brad got onto his knees and set the remains of his muffin on his
plate, then gazed at the orange slice. Claire picked it up, tasted it, put it back on the plate, and said, “You can eat it. It's a sweet one.”

Brad shook his head.

Ruth said, “Does he like French toast? I haven't touched this piece.” She turned her plate toward Claire, and Claire picked up the yellow triangle with Brad's fork, set it on his plate, then cut it into pieces. She handed the fork to Brad. He said, “Wile Ting.”

Claire said, “The book is in the car. We'll read it later. In the car is where the wild things are.” Brad grinned.

But it was she who was the wild thing, wasn't it? thought Claire. There were four stages of wildness: Stage one was being married and falling silently in love with a young and charming man, but doing nothing. Stage two was doing something in the hope of trading your bossy, dissatisfied husband for the beloved young charmer; stage three was allowing the lithe physique and the merry nature of the charmer to occupy your every thought. Stage four was not caring, just acting. She was at stage three. If her analysis was correct, then she was a wild thing, but she didn't feel wild, only that she was sitting inside the cage with the door open, and that was enough for now.

Brad successfully forked the first bit of French toast into his mouth, and Ruth said, “Good boy. Yummy.” He stabbed at the second.

“You are a good boy,” said Claire. She glanced at her watch. “Time to pick up Gray at nursery school. I've got fifteen minutes.”

“The streets are pretty clear. But it's only a few blocks from here. Why don't I stay with Brad, and you can bring Gray back here?”

Claire guided Brad's fork just a bit, and he got the third piece. He seemed to be enjoying it. She said, “I'll do that. Do you mind?”

Ruth shook her head. Her look was so sad, though, that Claire felt tears coming when she stood up from the booth. Yes, thought Claire, I deserve to have it all blow up, because obviously I do not value what I should. Why this was, she did not know. It was right out of
Madame Bovary.

I
T WAS ONE THING
to break your foot when you were expecting things to continue to disintegrate, as she did in her own house, where she now held both stair railings when she went up and down, but how could you stumble on a single step at Younkers when you were returning a tablecloth your daughter-in-law had given you for Christmas, and fall down so that they practically carried you out, and you went to the hospital, and your foot was broken? So Rosanna was staying with Claire until she could get around.

Her room was off the kitchen. She was stuck there, either in her bed (very comfortable) or in the easy chair Claire moved in for her. It took her three days to start covering her ears every time Paul talked. If she could have gotten up and closed the door, she would have.

“These eggs are overdone. Did you boil them by the timer? Are you sure? Oh, I'll eat them anyway. Don't worry about it. It's fine. I'll just have toast. The underside of the toast is too dark. Just one more piece, and watch it this time. Only a little butter. Yes, that's enough. Well, just a smidgen more. I guess I'm not hungry after all.” How Paul could have possibly reminded Claire of Walter, Rosanna could not imagine.

Then: “What's the temperature again? No, the outside temperature. Sixteen! Okay, I think Brad needs both the hat and the scarf, and be sure his mittens are pulled up
under
his sleeves, and then his
sleeves pulled down. There was a child Herb Barker saw last week, his feet were frostbitten. Grayson, is your sweater buttoned? Show me! That's a good boy. Sixteen degrees is sixteen below freezing. Can you count to sixteen? No, don't use your fingers. Good boy.”

Rosanna could have ascended on billows of rage at the sound of his voice, so she scrunched down under the covers and put her fingers in her ears; she must have dozed off, because, the next thing she knew, Claire was standing over her, saying, “Are you hungry, Mama? I have your breakfast.”

Claire looked neat and clean, and she stood there like one of those maids no one in Iowa had, ready to obey orders.

It was as bad at supper—dinner, Paul called it. Claire was sent to get this and that: Gray dropped his fork, he needed a clean one; Brad's bib was dirty from lunch; could she heat up the green beans, they were cold; this was butter; really, margarine was better. Chew each bite twenty times, Gray; don't talk while eating, you could choke; you know what “choke” means? Get something caught in your throat and not be able to breathe—very dangerous. Brad, this is a bean. Say “bean”! A bean is very nutritious. Gray, say “nutritious”! That means “good for you.” Sit straight up in your chair. If you loll back, you are more likely to choke. That's a good boy.

Claire said nothing. Rosanna imagined her sitting at her end of the table, eating between trips to the kitchen (Rosanna could hear her footsteps), smiling like she didn't have a thought in her head, and so, the next day, Rosanna called Minnie and said, “Anything is better than this.” Minnie came and picked her up and took her home, where Joe set a bed up in the living room right across from the television. But she didn't turn it on—she was grateful for every single moment of silence.

—

ANDY THOUGHT
she had had a good session with Dr. Smith—just talking, very calm, a few fake dreams. They hadn't practiced any Kama therapy in several weeks, because Dr. Smith was too busy with what he was writing to concentrate. And then the drive home was quite pleasant. When she pulled into the garage, she saw that both Frank's and Nedra's cars were gone, and she would be alone—also something to look forward to. She went up to her room, changed
into shorts (it was quite warm for May), and entered the kitchen as the phone rang.

Normally, she would not have picked up, but she wasn't thinking, and she was all the more sorry that she had when she heard Janet's breathless voice. “I wanted to tell you before you heard on the news.”

“Heard what on the news?”

“We're striking,” said Janet. “We're not going to any classes, and I'm taking incompletes in all my courses. But also we're marching on Washington. That's the part you might see on the news. I could end up in jail. You don't have to bail me out. I would rather stay.”

Andy felt her good mood slip away. She almost hung up right there, but then she said, sharply, “I don't understand this at all. What are you protesting, Janet?”

“The murders at Kent State. Those kids were nowhere near the National Guard, and they were completely unarmed.”

Andy never watched the news, and she had tossed the morning paper on the hall table without looking at it. It wasn't the first time she was maybe the last person in the United States to know about something—Dr. Smith never discussed “ephemeralities.” But Frank and Janet found her ignorance annoying, so Andy said, “Such a sad thing.”

“It's worse than sad, Mom! Though Eileen told me her mom said those kids deserved what they got. Can you believe that? She's a terrible Nixon-supporter. Eileen might disinherit herself.”

Andy didn't know who Eileen was, either. She said, “Unarmed people who get shot never deserve it.” However, Andy thought, if they had any sense, they would expect it.

“Will you let me stay in jail if they arrest me?”

“Well, of course. But try not to get arrested.”

“I don't know what to try,” said Janet. “Where's Dad?”

“He's in Frankfurt.” That, she made up.

There was a pause, and Andy began, “Are you—” But Janet had hung up. She'd meant to ask what Janet intended to do for the summer.

She washed her hands at the kitchen sink and plugged in the coffeemaker. She came upon Nedra's doughnut stash, and she looked at the doughnuts—pink, chocolate, maple—for three or four moments before putting them back where she found them. She looked out the
back door at the lawn, which needed cutting. On the hall table, the paper was folded together. She carried it into the kitchen. There was the boy, flat on his stomach, his head turned away, his feet flopped to one side, his arm folded under his chest. It could be any boy, any boy at all. Andy put her hand over the picture and then took it away. There was the girl, her arms out, kneeling over the boy, her mouth open in a scream. Andy put her hand over the picture again. There was no reason in the world for this picture to affect her, Andy. It was not her business, and anyway, she was inured to death, was she not? Dr. Smith said she was the least in touch with her feelings of anyone he had ever met; just look at the way she kept coming back to the murder of the woman she had never met, but skated over Tim's death, the death of the darling boy, as if she didn't care. Perhaps she had no feelings beyond nerve endings. Was that possible? But this picture…She took her hand away again, and stared. Moments before, that boy had been alive. Now he was dead. Someone his own age had shot him. Andy stared at the picture. She did not read the article—no need for that.

—

THE FIRST TIME
, Claire was at Hy-Vee, beginning her Saturday's shopping. She ran into Dr. Sadler in cereal (he was buying Frosted Flakes, which Paul wouldn't allow in the house). Yes, he had been lightly flirting with her for years by now, but maybe he had never expected to get beyond that. He gave her a kiss on the cheek, which, by turning her head, she transformed into a kiss on the lips, and a passionate one. They left their carts in cereal and went straight to his house, four blocks away. She was home two hours later with her groceries and the news that she hadn't been able to find any lamps to match the new couch—she'd looked everywhere. Paul related all the things he had done with Gray and Brad in her absence, not a flicker of suspicion, and it went like that for seven weeks, as if a slot had opened up in the normal progression of time that was dedicated to the advancement of their affair.

Claire had no shame, no remorse, no fear. Dr. Sadler was in charge of those emotions. Week by week, date by date, he got more tormented and more handsome. The first time seemed like a game they were both playing—hide and seek, don't let the grown-ups know.
They laughed most of the time—that he climaxed within a minute was hilarious, that they did it again and the corner of the contour sheet popped off with the violence of their lovemaking was wonderful. He admired Claire, her patience and her good nature, and her eyes, especially since she'd gotten the contacts—they were beautiful, riveting, such a strange color, not exactly brown, a cat's eyes; he wanted her to keep them open while they were making love. He was wonderful to look at also—the sunlight flickering over his triceps, the shadows of his ribs, the indentation along the side of his gluteal muscles. When they were finished making love, he gave her treats in bed—leftover mu-shu pork, Popsicles, once a mai tai, which she'd never had before (Paul didn't allow food out of the kitchen, he was suspicious of leftovers, and he would not go to a Chinese restaurant). What did Claire want to do? Dr. Sadler did it. Just kiss? He would kiss her a thousand times. Just let her touch it and look at it? He smiled while she explored. He had no inhibitions—he thought getting rid of those was what medical school was for—but, more than that, he was curious, curious about her. In her dating life, she had never met a man who was curious about her, and over the seven years of their marriage, Paul had grown suspicious of her inner life, not curious about it. If she said what she wanted for breakfast, for example, he met every response with an objection: if she wanted pancakes, eggs were more nutritious; if she wanted eggs, waffles would be a change.

After a couple of weeks, he said how could this go on, but of course it had to, he was only joking. He began to embrace her very tightly, as if they were about to part, but they did not part. Each lovemaking after that was more frantic. He never said, “I love you,” but he did say, “You're adorable,” “I've never met anyone like you,” “I can't stay away from you,” “I had no idea just looking at you,” “You're killing me.” Claire floated along, every desire satisfied before she imagined it. Week six, he told Paul he was leaving in a month—going into practice with his younger brother in Kansas City. Dr. William Sadler specialized in podiatry, had served his internship at the University of Texas. Paul sat his partner down and told him frankly that ENT and podiatry made no sense together, and that starting from nothing in a place they didn't know was insane—what in the world was he thinking? A week after that, he was gone from his house, from the office,
from Hy-Vee, his telephone disconnected, his front step piled with newspapers and grocery-store flyers. She knew this because she drove by no matter where she was intending to go. She even parked and went into the house—the door was unlocked. A week later, a “For Sale” sign appeared on the lawn, and then she kept her eye out for the listing—“Two bedroom bungalow, single story, 1½ baths, very good condition, $36,000.”

He didn't have to write or call. There was no mystery: he had informed her of every shift in his state of mind, every new level of anxiety, every conviction that he had committed an impossible betrayal that could not go on. Claire was not unhappy; he was so present in her mind that he hardly seemed gone at all. Another two weeks passed; she was not pregnant. And so that was that.

—

RICHIE FIGURED
they were looking for him by now. He had maybe one day, and so he was going to make the best of it by joining the army. Once you were in the army, they couldn't get you back. He was seventeen. He had been to military school for years now. Whatever that thing was about parental consent, well, he would deal with that if they realized the letter he'd given them was a forgery.

And he looked eighteen. Michael was still bigger than he was, but not much: six three, 170 versus six three and a half, 175. If he caught Michael unawares, he could still knock him down, but he hadn't done that in a year. Now they mostly ignored each other. Michael liked the Kinks; Richie liked Black Sabbath. That was all a person needed to know. Anyway, now he was in Boston, and here was the bus that was taking him to where he would go through the physical and the tests, whatever they were. He was the first to get on, and he walked to the back and sat down.