Eye of the Whale (9 page)

“I was worried you wouldn’t get back in time,” he said.

“In time for what?” Elizabeth asked.

“To fill out the forms. Didn’t you get my e-mail?”

“No, I’m afraid I didn’t…What forms?”

“More bureaucratic bullshit,” he said, handing the papers to her. “The department secretary needs them in her box by 9:00
A.M.
tomorrow morning.” His smile was reassuring, but somehow she didn’t feel reassured. She missed Professor Maddings—he could find a way out of any dilemma. Yet Elizabeth remained grateful for Dr. Skilling’s support in a hostile department. He was highly respected, which made him a powerful mentor.

She looked down at the papers he had given her. “Why do they need them?” Elizabeth asked.

“I explained in the e-mail that you’re not going to be able to file your dissertation at the end of the semester if you don’t get these forms in to the dean’s office by the deadline.”

“File my dissertation? But I’m still collecting my data.”

Dr. Skilling sighed. “You have plenty of data, Elizabeth. Now what you need to do is finish your dissertation.”

“I’ve discovered something new, which I think puts me really close to—”

“You don’t
need
more data. You’ve been working on your dissertation longer than anyone in the department’s history. We’re getting a lot of pressure from the dean’s office.”

“But I have another year of funding for my fieldwork.”

“Elizabeth, the e-mail explained that, too…The department has voted to cut off your funding.”

Elizabeth’s knees went weak. She started to feel dizzy. The first thing she thought about was Milton’s boat. “They can’t cut my funding. I have a grant.”

“I’m afraid we don’t have a choice, Elizabeth,” he said, looking down. “Several people in the department…well, let’s just say they don’t believe that your research is serious science. The dean even got a call from the chancellor.”

“Why does the chancellor care about my dissertation research?”

“It has come under criticism from outside the university.”

“By whom?”

“Some…donors, I think. Look, I did everything I could. The department just wants you to finish your dissertation. If you do, maybe you can demonstrate to everyone the value of your work.”

“It
is
valuable. I can prove it.”

“Good, because you’ve got until March fifth to give the committee something we can sign off on.”

“Or they’re going to kick me out?”

“This shouldn’t be news to you, Elizabeth—you were served notice last semester multiple times.”

“But last fall you said—”

“Just get me the dissertation, please.”

Elizabeth broke out in a cold sweat. Dr. Skilling was staring at her like the animal behaviorist that he was. She steeled herself and tried not to react.

“You know that’s impossible,” she said. “That’s less than a month away.”

“I’m afraid we have no choice, Elizabeth.” Dr. Skilling turned to leave. “I know you can do it.”

Elizabeth looked at her watch. It was 4:15
P.M.
A sigh of exhaustion spread through her body. Her eyes burned, and it took all her effort to keep them open. She looked at the pages of forms. They would take her hours to fill out. Elizabeth sat back down at her desk and picked up the phone.

“Hello, Konditorei Bakery, can I help you?”

“Do you have Italian cream cake?”

“Italian
cream cake?” the man on the other end said through a thick accent. “We got
Austrian
cake, no
Italian
cake.”

She looked down at the recipe card. The red writing was shouting at her. “I’d like to order your best vanilla cream cake for four
people. I’ll pick it up at 6:30. Please write ‘Happy Birthday, Frank’ on it.”

F
RANK WENT UPSTAIRS
and picked up his dirty clothes off the floor and threw them in the closet. Wrinkling his nose from the odor of his own sweat, he opened the window and turned on the fan above the bed. Downstairs, he took out a package of small white tea candles and placed them strategically around the living room. “Con te Partiro,” sung by Andrea Bocelli, was now flooding through the house with all its operatic emotion.

E
LIZABETH’S BODY
felt heavy with exhaustion. The six weeks of fieldwork and sleep deprivation were catching up with her. She never slept very well when she was away from Frank. She looked down at the last page of the forms. There was still time to get home to the party—if she didn’t crash.
I better put my head down for a minute, and then I’ll be safe to drive, and awake for Frank.

NINE

10:30
P.M.

F
RANK SAT
at the round wooden table, which was cluttered with the remains of dinner. Three of the wineglasses were still half filled with red wine; the other was empty. The picked-at pasta lay next to the scattered remains of salad and broccoli rabe. No one had had much of an appetite. The roses in the center of the table seemed to be wilting already.

Frank stared at the one empty plate on the table. Elizabeth’s voicemail had said that she would be back by seven at the latest—she had discovered papers that she needed to fill out at her office. At first he had worried that maybe something had happened, but this wasn’t the first time she had lost track of time or fallen asleep at her desk. He had thought of calling her but kept telling himself she would walk in at any moment. Tom and his wife, Jenny, had encouraged him to call, but Frank kept saying, “She’ll be here.” It became a test for him, some kind of final exam of her love—and she had failed.

What had he done wrong? What hadn’t he done to make Elizabeth love him or want to be with him as much as she wanted to be with her whales? He had known that she would never be like his mother; he had purposefully married her because she was strong and independent. His mother had never taken care of herself or her health, giving everything to her husband and children. He knew he didn’t want a wife who was committing such slow suicide under the guise of love. He wanted a woman who would challenge him and
be a true equal, but something had gone wrong. Their careers, certainly his as well as hers, had dragged them out of each other’s arms, and now they could not find their way back. But maybe he had to face the truth—perhaps Elizabeth did not want a family or a marriage like he did. Maybe her science and her whales really were more important to her.

He looked at the box of brightly colored birthday candles languishing on the table. Pulling out a red one, he took up the lighter that had been waiting expectantly on the table. The wick ignited and glowed gold, the red wax starting to drip onto his finger. The burn cut through his numbness and his grief. After another few moments and a few more drops of sharp hot wax, he threw the snub candle into his wineglass. It hissed as it drowned, and gray smoke spiraled out of the glass.

He lit a green candle, watched it burn and drip onto his fingers, and then flicked it into the wineglass. The smoke snaked up, folding over itself until it was gone.

He lit another and drowned it, too. And another. And another.

Frank pushed his chair back and walked to the phone in the kitchen. He started to dial the number for Elizabeth’s office. Then he hung up. He really did not want to know what the excuse was this time. Instead, he called the back line of the neonatal intensive care unit.

“NICU.” Dorothy’s voice made him smile, even in its brusqueness and impatience. There was always work to be done for Dorothy—and for him. There was no time to waste when babies were sick.

“How’s the Bradley baby?” Frank asked. He was relieved to remember that there was so much greater suffering in the world than his—suffering he knew how to treat.

TEN

11:55
P.M.
Semple Cay, Bequia

T
HE MOON HUNG
like a searchlight in the sky, its glare rippling a path across the water. The fishing boat kept its engines quiet and slow. The factory ship could not get close enough to the cay, so Kazumi had dispatched one of the small catcher boats.

The rocks were treacherous and the currents around the island unpredictable. Kazumi had chosen a captain he could trust not only to steer clear of the shore but also to leave the expedition out of the ship’s log.

There were still four hours of darkness in which to operate before the first fishermen would start to go out. They needed to accomplish their goal before they were seen. This would not be easy. Semple Cay was close to the island, and there might be curious eyes stumbling back from one of the rum shops. They would need to work without the benefit of floodlights. But nothing could be done about the full moon.

Pirates had once hidden among these islands and their innumerable cays because they were hard to patrol. Kazumi knew that the whole country had only two or three Coast Guard boats, and these would be docked back in St. Vincent at this hour. He had heard that drug dealers sometimes dropped shipments into the water at night near here, but what he needed to retrieve was more valuable to them than any cocaine shipment.

As they approached the cay, they saw the shine of an oily slick on the surface. Even at night, birds were feeding and fighting for pieces of the decomposing carcass. Small scraps of blubber and flesh were floating to the surface, dislodged by the fish that had come to feast. He could hear the birds squawking and flapping their wings at one another. The noise would hide the sound of the winch.

Kazumi raised his hand, and two divers jumped into the water, their faces hidden by their hoods, masks, and regulators. One was Nilsen and the other was a Japanese fisherman.

Tipped off by the birds, the divers found the carcass quickly. Its body was impossible to miss even in the dark water. The fish scattered as the divers approached, and then returned repeatedly, unwilling to give up the banquet.

Once the lift bags were in place, the divers used their regulators to fill them with air. Used for salvaging shipwrecks, these lift bags easily floated the calf. The divers then fastened a chain to the tail, and slowly, the winch pulled the body to the boat. Kazumi wanted to have the whale tested to know exactly what he was dealing with. He needed to know the truth, but it was equally important to ensure that others never did. As soon as samples were taken, the carcass would be destroyed.

ELEVEN

7:45
A.M.
Next morning
Tuesday
Davis

“W
ELCOME HOME.”

Elizabeth awoke with a start. “Connie?” she said.

A warm smile spread across Connie Kato’s face. Her best friend had black bangs that she used unsuccessfully to obscure her pretty face. Connie’s industrial-chic jacket and black-and-white-striped tights only seemed to accentuate the attractive body that was constantly getting her into trouble. Elizabeth and Connie had been best friends ever since Connie joined the evolutionary biology program two years ago, and they had been there for each other through all the inevitable dramas of love and life. Although they had very different politics—Connie’s bordered on the radical—they found common cause as the only two female graduate students in the department. “What time is it?” Elizabeth asked, her eyes still trying to adjust to being awake.

“Almost eight o’clock.”

“
P.M.
?”

“A.M.”

“Oh, my God, I fell asleep.
I missed Frank’s birthday party!”
As she spoke the words, she felt her throat constrict with dread. Elizabeth looked down at the papers. “These have to be at the department secretary’s by nine.”

“I can take them for you,” Connie said, quickly scooping up the papers as Elizabeth grabbed her coat and bag.

“Thank you,” Elizabeth said. “I know we need to sort out all the men in your life, but I’ve got to get home to mine—if he’ll still have me.”

Connie followed Elizabeth out to her car. “Elizabeth, I know you just got back, but have you thought about the invitation?”

“Connie, I’m a scientist, not an activist.”

“If the whaling ban is reversed, there won’t be any whales for
scientists
to study.”

“I’ll think about it,” Elizabeth said, although she doubted anyone at the International Whaling Commission meeting in Seattle would listen to her. “Oh, I almost forgot.” She pulled out a box lying on the passenger seat. “These are for you.”

Connie looked at the box of Mama’s Island fudge. “You remembered me…and my obsession.”

They hugged each other, and then Elizabeth opened the door of her station wagon.

“Think about the IWC,” Connie said.

“Who’s going to care what I have to say? I’m not even a Ph.D.—and the way things are going, I may never become one.” Elizabeth got into her station wagon.

“What are you talking about?”

“The department has cut off my funding.”

“I told you your work is threatening.”

“No, Connie, it’s not threatening. It’s just late. And now I’ve got three weeks to finish my dissertation.”

“You’ll show them all.”

“No, I won’t.”

“Why not?”

“It’s taken me five years to write the first half.”

TWELVE

T
HE
1989 Ford Country Squire required several turns of the ignition before the engine turned over. The car had belonged to Frank’s parents, and its wood-paneled exterior screamed “family car.” All that was missing was the family.
Why isn’t a marriage enough? Why does a couple only become a family when children are born?
Elizabeth wanted a family, but she wanted to finish her Ph.D. first.
I just need a little more time.
She pulled the gearshift into reverse and hit the accelerator. The heavy car lurched backward.

Elizabeth raced home through yellow lights and slowed only partly at stop signs. Davis was in the middle of the Central Valley’s agricultural region, although its current crop was no longer corn and tomatoes but suburban children. As she passed a strip mall containing a coffee shop and a hair salon, she saw a ramshackle barn and an overgrown field across the street. The farms on the periphery of town always shocked her, like ghosts that still haunted the town, revealing the rich earth buried under the neatly paved streets and manicured lawns.