The Fearsome Particles (8 page)

“I’ve been hoping we’d meet.”

Gerald was forced to glance up. “Have you?” By now the copy should have fallen into his hand. He should have been gone. By now.

“I think it’s jammed,” said Sandy, as the copier gave a sigh.

He straightened and looked at the panel of lights. Where all should have been green, one was yellow. “Well, it’s not important. I’ll get it later.” He started to leave.

“Wait!”

“Yes?”

Her eyes ballooned at him. “You’re not going to leave it jammed are you?”

“Actually, I –” He pointed vaguely down the hall.

She squinted. “What’s that on your neck?”

He touched the skin above his collar. “We have a cat. I have to go.”

“That looks nasty. She must not like you.” Sandy grinned. “I assume it’s a she.”

Gerald, backing his way down the hall, shrugged. “It’s not our cat.”

He made it as far as the framed poster for the International Window-Fittings Conference (hosted by Spent Materials Inc., 1989) when Sandy raised her hand and dangled an index finger over the copier like mistletoe. “I don’t know how to fix this,” she crooned.

Gerald felt his desire to flee crumble under duty’s oppression. He reversed course and walked back to the copier with head bowed. It was unbelievable, really, the bind he’d gotten himself into; he doubted anyone would even
read
this humidity column.

As he swung open the copier’s flimsy door and reached in amongst the inner workings, Sandy laid her folder on the top of the machine and lifted out a typed sheet. She rattled it at Gerald as he was bent over.
“This
is what I wanted to talk to you about. I thought, while I was waiting, I’d get everything down on paper.”

“Your crazy idea?”

She rose up on her toes. “My crazy, earth-shattering idea.”

“You were going to make copies of it?”

“Well” – her expression turned pert – “I was anticipating your enthusiastic approval and I was getting ready for the meeting with Bishop.”

He pulled the offending sheet from the copier’s entrails and tossed it, crumpled, into the recycling bin. “Jumping ahead a bit maybe.” As he smudged black toner dust off his hand, he
assessed his options and the punishments each entailed. He could hear Sandy out for a few minutes and bear the pain of her disappointment when he said no, or he could let her go around him and drag Bishop into a headache he didn’t need. He considered that there might be value too in being seen to be open to new ideas, and that this might serve to instil a little useful fear in Trick, whom he judged to be floating these days like a goose on a warm thermal breeze. “Why don’t you come to my office after five and we’ll talk about it,” he said, then punched the reset button and pulled his issue of
Sheet and Screen
from the glass. “There you go.”

“Five-fifteen?”

“Make it six.”

F
rom his office, Gerald called Vicki’s cell phone. She wasn’t answering, most likely because she was setting up the house on Lightenham and had stored her purse under a sink somewhere. Why she didn’t keep the cell on her belt or in a pocket so that people could reach her when they needed her was a great, impenetrable mystery to Gerald. “Vicki,” he said when her voice mail kicked in, “hope things are going okay over there. I’m just letting you know that I have a meeting at six, which shouldn’t go too long, and so I should be home around seven. As long as the traffic cooperates.” He was about to hang up but brought the phone back. “By the way, I am sorry about this morning.”

It had been bothering Gerald most of the day – to be accurate, since 11 a.m. – that he had, in the night, set Vicki’s bedside clock to the correct time. This was his admittedly petty response
to being woken, from the best sleep he’d had since Kyle’s return, by an attack from one of his wife’s more savage toenails, which had dug a finger-length gouge out of his left calf. It was a wound so deep he couldn’t let it wait until morning, although part of him had wanted the satisfaction of showing her the blood on the sheets. While he’d padded into the ensuite and repaired himself with a generous daubing of liquid bandage, he’d let his mind run with a visual loop that had him flinging off the duvet before Vicki’s horrified gaze to reveal a
Godfather
esque level of gore.
(See? See?
his expression would say. He wouldn’t even need to speak.
See? See?
and she would shrink back, ashamed.) By the time he was finished painting over the damage, he’d come to feel that he’d shortchanged himself somehow, that it wasn’t required of him to be so saint-like in letting Vicki sleep through yet another of her assaults. She was like one of those split-personality murderers, the evil done by the bad side while the good side lived on, oblivious and guilt-free. He’d decided it was time she suffered some consequence for her crimes, and that he should enjoy some taste of revenge. So for several minutes, in the darkness, he’d fumbled around with Vicki’s three-thousand-dollar antique carriage clock until he’d figured out how to slide off the glass front, and then he’d eased the minute hand back until it showed 2:58, the time it was
supposed
to show. And when, at eight in the morning, Hella had called to find out where Vicki was – because the moving trucks were waiting outside the warehouse – Vicki, looking at her clock and realizing that it was not 7:35 a.m. as she’d thought but actually 8 a.m., had glanced over at Gerald, who was in the midst of knotting his tie, and adopted such a withering nonchalance that he’d felt completely cheated.
It was at this point that he’d hoisted his trouser leg and ripped down his sock to reveal the divot in his leg and shouted, “Look at
this
. This is
your
work right here!” as she made her way out of the bedroom, and the house.

He’d been fuming about it until an hour before lunch, when Bishop had stopped by Gerald’s office to ask if he knew anything about the medical system in Denver. Susan had called, he explained, to say that the doctors in Cincinnati were recommending she see some specialists there, and Bishop was wondering whether Gerald had any views.

Gerald had been determined to listen intently for as long as Bishop wanted to lean against his filing cabinet and talk, ignoring his phone, going so far as to slide his left wrist, his watch wrist, into the crevice between his leg and his chair, so that he wouldn’t glance at it inadvertently. And when Bishop was done talking, and put a hand out to lightly brush the back of the chair sitting in front of Gerald’s desk with the air of a man who wanted some advice, Gerald had told him that he’d heard good
things about the hospitals and the specialists in Denver,
very
good things (though he’d heard nothing at all). He told Bishop that if the Cincinnati doctors wanted Susan to see specialists in Denver, then that was the best thing for her, and he knew she’d be better off because of it. And Bishop had brightened considerably at this and then turned the attention around (because he was a gracious man and it was what gracious men did) to ask how Gerald’s own family was; how was Vicki, how was young Kyle?

And Gerald had lied and said, “Fine, Bishop. Great. Thanks for asking.”

And he’d been thinking about his lie ever since.

It wasn’t as if he knew, for a fact, that his wife and his son were not fine and great; they might have been either or both of those good things, and as his own mother had often said (in a whisper, while in the den his lumber merchant father sat in a whisky-scented plume of ire and spat at newspaper pictures of the mayor), there was nothing wrong in hoping for the best. But in truth, he couldn’t be sure. Since Kyle had returned, Vicki had become hard to read. For years, Gerald had happily relied on Vicki’s certainty about things, such as her environment, the things she bought and touched and admired, or chose to disdain. Certain tile borders, for instance, or a particular kind of cabinetry, or a seldom-seen relative he might have fretted over regarding an invitation to Easter dinner (because his cousin Sonia and her husband were coming and therefore shouldn’t he include Sonia’s husband’s sister Gini?). What Gerald experienced as small, gripping agonies of decision troubled Vicki not at all. (No, was the answer on Gini, because the last time they
had invited her to a family event, she’d brought a man who opened their fridge and helped himself to pickles, then laughed about it in the aftermath. So, no.)

And yet now, Vicki no longer seemed as fixed in her world view. She seemed, instead, hazy. It wasn’t just the toenail trouble or her skewed grasp of time; she lacked clarity in other ways. Was Rosary, their cleaning lady, doing enough to remove the cat hair from the furniture? Vicki was undecided about this. How long should they allow Kyle to stay closed up in his room? She was unsure. Reports of bombing in the Middle East no longer elicited a crisp
tsk
from Vicki; nor did catching televised antique experts in absurd errors bring her bitter joy. It was as if she had stopped paying close attention to her own sensibility. Gerald happened to have his own views on some of these questions (Rosary was
failing
with the cat hair), but he was able to relax more when Vicki did too.

As for Kyle, since he’d come home, he had spent most of his days and nights sequestered behind his bedroom door. In the context of a recent “off-camp event,” this constancy had seemed right enough, and certainly better than the alternative suggested by Oberly’s use of the word
erratic
. For much of the week, Gerald had embraced Kyle’s quiet isolation as the antithesis of
erratic
and therefore proof of his son’s good mental health and Oberly’s suspect judgment. He looked on it as a kind of quarantine period, during which whatever infection of anguish Kyle had picked up in Afghanistan could be cleansed out of his system.

He wanted to talk to his son, of course. He wanted to hug him, wanted to hold his ear to Kyle’s mouth and hear all the ways
the world had become harder for him, less accessible, more vicious. On the drive back from the airport, he’d tried to get Kyle to tell him what happened. Overseas, on the plane, wherever he wanted to start. “What went on, Kyle?” he’d said, glancing away from the road to look at his son, his wrists freed but his body hemmed in by the seatbelt. “They wouldn’t tell me,” he said over the tire hum, “but you can.” Kyle, though, had only smiled. And it had frightened Gerald. Because all his life Kyle had seemed to Gerald to be a boy you could reach, a boy who was more than usually receptive to the appeals of logic. Did it make sense to scream and throw food in a nice restaurant, Kyle? he would ask as Vicki took Kyle into her lap. Did it make sense to scare the waiters away so they wouldn’t bring us nice dessert? No, it didn’t. What a smart boy. Very good.

Yes, Kyle had had his childhood moments of extreme focus, when it seemed as though he experienced the world through a long, narrow tube. But that was nothing unmanageable, that was almost a skill. And when Gerald witnessed the trouble other parents had with small children – the tantrums, the recklessness, the uncontrollable will – he had known that he had the keys to something special. And it remained his, through Kyle’s toddling years, his rambunctious years, into his teens.

Did it make sense to throw the cordless telephone and break Mommy’s nice things?

Did it make sense not to take notes in class?

Did it make sense to call a girl’s house seven times and repeatedly hang up before anyone could answer? Or join after-school clubs that you never attend, or drive Mom’s car until it runs out of gas?

No, it didn’t, Kyle. Now you’re thinking. Very good.

All the years of Kyle’s growing up Gerald had managed to take his son by the figurative hand and pull him toward sound choices. It had only been a few months before Kyle left that this had changed, like a shift in barometric pressure, and the logic message had no longer been able to get through. Which was why
Did it make sense to drop out of school and go work in Afghanistan?
had never reached him.

And it was why Gerald had watched Kyle’s face in the car, on the way home from Trenton, and felt scared, because his son hadn’t smiled in a comforting way, but in the shiny, dislocated way of someone on drugs, or unhinged, someone beyond the range of his signal. And why he thought that Kyle spending a quiet, uneventful week in his room was perhaps the best thing.

Until he realized it wasn’t uneventful at all.

A
t 5:58, according to Gerald’s watch, Sandy Beale appeared at his door and knocked on the door frame, producing a thin clack which apparently dissatisfied her because she was reaching her knuckles toward the door as he looked up.

“Are you in the middle of something?” Sandy asked.

“Nope.”

“You said six, right?”

“I did.” He tapped his computer keyboard a couple of times and shut everything down. “Come on in.”

At the chair in front of his desk, she hesitated. “Did you want me to sit here or …?” Her gaze drifted over with a kind of longing to the small round table.

Gerald rose. “There’s fine, if you’re more comfortable.”

She claimed her seat and laid her folder open in front of her. With a glance out the window as he sat, she said, “It’s nice to see it’s still light out at this time of night.”

“It’s only six.”

“You’re right.” Sandy nodded and smiled. “I guess it just feels later. Everyone here, well almost, leaves right at five.”

“Most of them have a long commute.”

Sandy rolled her eyes in an expression of great empathy. “The traffic just
kills
. Especially when people have to get home to their families.” She shook her head. “I’m lucky I’m single. I can work as late as I want. And I don’t know about you” – here she made fervent eye contact with Gerald – “I find I get a lot more done after everyone’s gone.”