The Speed of Dark (45 page)

“Mr. Arrendale !” Ms. Tomasz , the manager, sounds surprised. She would not expect to see me in midmorning on a weekday. “Are you sick? Do you need something?”

“I am going on a project for the company I work for,” I say. I have rehearsed saying this smoothly. I hand her the statement Mr. Aldrin gave us. “I have told the bank to make the payments for my rent. You can contact the company if it does not.”

“Oh!” She glances down at the paper, and before she has time to read all of it, she looks up at me.

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“But… how long will you be gone?”

“I am not sure,” I say. “But I will come back.” I do not know that for sure, but I do not want her to worry.

“You aren’t leaving because that man cut your tires in our parking lot? Tried to hurt you?”

“No,” I say. I do not know why she would think that. “It is a special assignment.”

“I worried about you; I really did,” Ms. Tomasz says. “I almost came up and spoke to you, to express—to say I was sorry—but you know you do keep to yourself, pretty much.”
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“I am all right,” I say.

“We’ll miss you,” she says. I do not understand how that can be true if she does not even see me most of the time. “Take care ofyourself ,” she says. I do not tell her that I cannot do that, because my brain will be changing.

When I get back upstairs, the bank’s automatic reply has come through, saying that the message has been received and the manager will make a specific reply very soon and thank you for your patronage.

Underneath it says: “Safety Tip #21: Never leave the key of your safe-deposit box in your home when you leave for a vacation.” I do not have a safe-deposit box so I do not have to worry about it.

I decide to walk down to the little bakery for lunch—I saw the sign about sandwiches to order when I bought bread there. It is not crowded, but I do not like the music on the radio. It is loud and banging. I order a ham sandwich made with ham from pigs fed a vegetarian diet and butchered under close supervision and the freshest ingredients and take it away. It is too cold to stop and eat outside, so I walk back to the apartment with it and eat it in my kitchenette.

I could call Marjory. I could take her to dinner tonight, or tomorrow night, or Saturday night, if she would come. I know her work number and her home number. One is almost a prime, and one is a nested multiple of pleasing symmetry. I hang the spin spirals in my apartment where they twirl in the air leaking past the old windows. The flash of colored light across the walls is restful and helps me think.

If I call her and she goes with me to dinner, why would that be? Maybe she likes me, and maybe she is worried about me, and maybe she feels sorry for me. I do not know for sure it would be because she likes me. For it to be the same in opposite directions, she would have to like me as I like her. Anything else would not make a good pattern.

What would we talk about? She does not know any more about brain functionality than I do now. It is not her field. We both fence, but I do not think we could talk about fencing the whole time. I do not think she is interested in space; like Mr. Aldrin she seems to think it is a waste of money.

If I come back—if the treatment works and I am like other men in the brain as well as in the body—will I like her the way I do now?

Is she another case of the pool with the angel—do I love her because I think she is the only one I can love?

I get up and put on Bach’s
Toccata and Fugue in D
. The music builds a complex landscape, mountains and valleys and great gulfs of cool, windy air. Will I still like Bach when I come back, if I come
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back?

For a moment, fear seizes my whole being and I am falling through blackness, faster than any light could ever be, but the music rises under me, lifts me up like an ocean wave, and I am no longer afraid.

FRIDAY MORNING. I WOULD GO TO WORK, BUT THERE is NOTHING
in my office to do, and there is nothing in my apartment to do, either. The confirmation from the bank manager was in my stack this morning. I could do my laundry now, but I do my laundry on Friday nights. It occurs to me that if I do my laundry tonight as usual and then sleep on the sheets tonight and Saturday night and Sunday night, I will have dirty sheets on the bed and dirty towels in the bathroom when I check into the clinic. I do not know what to do about that. I do not want to leave dirty things behind me, but otherwise I will have to get up early Monday morning and do a wash then.

I think about contacting the others, but I decide not to. I do not want to talk to them, really. I am not used to having a day like this, apart from planned vacation, and I do not know what to do with it. I could go see a movie or read books, but my stomach is too tight for that. I could go to the Center, but I do not want to do that, either.

I wash the breakfast dishes and stack them. The apartment is too quiet, too big and empty suddenly. I do not know where I will go, but I have to go somewhere. I put my wallet and keys in my pocket and leave. It is only five minutes later than I usually leave.

Danny is going downstairs, too. He says, “Hi, Lou, howyadoin ’,” in a rush. I think that means he is in a hurry and does not want to talk. I say “hi” and nothing more.

Outside, it is cloudy and cold but not raining right now. It is not as windy as yesterday. I walk over to my car and get in. I do not turn the engine on yet, because I do not know where I will go. It is a waste to run the engine unnecessarily. I take the road map book out of the glove compartment and open it. I could go to the state park upriver and look at the waterfalls. Most people hike there in summer, but I think the park is open in the daytime in winter, too.

A shadow darkens my window. It is Danny. I open the window.

“Are you all right?” he asks. “Is something wrong?”

“I am not going to work today,” I say. “I am deciding where to go.”

“Okay,” he says. I am surprised; I did not think he was that interested. If he is that interested, maybe he would want to know that I am going away.

“I am going away,” I say.

His face changes expression. “Moving? Was it that stalker? He won’t hurt you again, Lou.”

It is interesting that both he and the apartment manager assumed I might be leaving because of Don.

“No,” I say. “I am not moving, but I am going to be gone several weeks at least. There is a new experimental treatment; my company wants me to take it.”

He looks worried. “Your company—do
you
want it? Are they pressuring you?”

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“It is my decision,” I say. “I decided to do it.”

“Well… okay. I hope you got some good advice,” he says.

“Yes,” I say. I do not say from where.

“So—you have the day off? Or you’re leaving today? Where is this treatment going to be given?”

“I do not have to work today. I cleaned out my desk yesterday,” I say. “The treatment will be given at the research clinic, at the campus where I work but in a different building. It starts Monday. Today I have nothing—I think I may go up toHarperFalls .”

“Ah. Well, you take care, Lou. I hope it works out for you.” He thumps the roof of my car and walks away.

I am not sure what it is he hopes will work out for me: The trip toHarperFalls ?The treatment? I do not know why he thumped the roof of my car, either. I do know that he doesn’t scare me anymore, another change that I made on my own.

AT THE PARK, I PAY THE ENTRANCE FEE AND STOP MY CAR IN
the empty parking lot. Signs point to different trails: TO THE FALLS, 290.3 METERS.BUTTERCUP MEADOW, 1.7 KM.

JUNIOR NATURE TRAIL, 1.3 KM. The Junior Nature Trail and the Fully Accessible Trail are both asphalt-surfaced, but the trail to the falls is crushed stone between metal strips. I walk down this trail, my shoes scritch-scritching on the surface. No one else is here. The only sounds are natural sounds. Far away I can hear the steady humming roar of the interstate but closer at hand only the higher whine of the generator that powers the park office.

Soon even that fades away; I am below a ledge of rock that blocks the highway sound as well. Most of the leaves have fallen from the trees and are sodden from yesterday’s rain. Below me, I can see red leaves glowing even in this dull light, on maples that survive here, in the coolest areas.

I can feel myself relaxing. Trees do not care if I am normal or not. Rocks and moss do not care. They cannot tell the difference between one human and another. That is restful. I do not have to think about myself at all.

I stop to sit on a rock and let my legs hang down. My parents took me to a park near where we lived when I was a child. It, too, had a stream with a waterfall, narrower than this one. The rock there was darker, and most of the rocks that stuck out were narrow and pointed on top. But there was one that had fallen over so the flatter side was on top, and I used to stand or sit on that rock. It felt friendly, because it did not do anything. My parents didn’t understand that.

If someone told the last maples that they could change and live happily in the warmer climate, would they choose to do it? What if it meant losing their translucent leaves that turn such beautiful colors every year?

I draw in a deep breath and smell the wet leaves, the moss on the rock, the lichens, the rock itself, the soil… Some of the articles said autistic persons are too sensitive to smells, but no one minds that in a dog or cat.

I listen to the little noises of the woods, the tiny noises even today, with the wet leaves mostly flat and silent on the ground. A few still hang and twirl a little in the wind, tip-tapping on a nearby twig. The squirrel’s feet, as it bounds away, scritch on the bark as it catches and releases its footholds. Wings
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whirr, and then I hear a thin
zzeeet-zzzeeet
from a bird I never actually see. Some articles say that autistic persons are too sensitive to small sounds, but no one minds that in animals.

No one who minds is here. I have today to enjoy my excessive and unregulated senses, in case they are gone by this time next week. I hope I will enjoy whatever senses I have then.

I lean over and taste the stone, the moss, the lichen, touching my tongue to them and then, sliding off the stone, to the wet leaves at its base.The bark of an oak (bitter, astringent), the bark of a poplar (tasteless at first, then faintly sweet). I fling my arms out, whirl in the path, my feet crunching now the crushed stone (no one to notice and be upset, no one to reprimand me, no one to shake a cautionary head). The colors whirl around me with my whirling; when I stop they do not stop at first, but only gradually.

Down and down—I find a fern to touch with my tongue, only one frond still green. It has no flavor. The bark of other trees, most I do not know but I can tell they are different by their patterns. Each has a slightly different, indescribable flavor, a slightly different smell, a different pattern of bark that is rougher or smoother under my fingers. The waterfall noise, at first a soft roar, dissolves into its many component sounds: boom of the main fall hitting the rocks below, the echoes of that blur that boom into a roar, the trickles and splatters of spray, of the little falls, the quiet drip of individual drops off the frost-seared fern fronds.

I watch the water falling, trying to see each part of it, the apparent masses that flow smoothly to the lip and then come apart on the way down… What would a drop feel as it slid over that last rock, as it fell into nothingness? Water has no mind, water cannot think, but people— normal people—do write about raging rivers and angry floodwaters as if they did not believe in that inability.

A swirl of wind brings spray to my face; some drops defied gravity and rose on the wind, but not to return to where they were.

I almost think about the decision, about the unknown, about not being able to go back, but I do not want to think today. I want to feel everything I can feel and have that to remember, if I have memories in that unknown future. I concentrate on the water, seeing its pattern, the order in chaos and chaos in order.

MONDAY. NINE TWENTY-NINE. I AM IN THE CLINICAL
RESEARCH ,facility on the far side of the campus from Section A. I am sitting in a row of chairs between Dale and Bailey.

The chairs are pale-gray plastic with blue and green and pink tweedy cushions on the back and seat.

Across the room is another row of chairs; I can see the subtle humps and hollows where people have sat on those chairs. The walls have a stripy textured covering in two shades of gray below a pale-gray rail and an off-white pebbly covering above that. Even though the bottom pattern is in stripes, the texture is the same pebbly feel as the one above. Across the room there are two pictures on the wall, one a landscape with a hill in the distance and green fields nearby and the other one of a bunch of red poppies in a copper jug. At the end of the room is a door. I do not know what is beyond the door. I do not know if that is the door we will go through. In front of us is a low coffee table with two neat stacks of personal viewers and a box of disks labeled: “Patient Information: Understand Your Project.” The label on the disk I can see reads: “Understanding Your Stomach.”

My stomach is a cold lump inside a vast hollow space. My skin feels as if someone had pulled it too tight. I have not looked to see if there is a disk labeled: “Understanding Your Brain.” I do not want to read it if there is one.

When I try to imagine the future—the rest of this day, tomorrow, next week, the rest of my life—it is like
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looking into the pupil of my eye, and only the black looks back at me. The dark that is there already when the light speeds in, unknown and unknowable until the light arrives.

Not knowing arrives before knowing; the future arrives before the present. From this moment, past and future are the same in different directions, but I am going that way and not this way.

When I get there, the speed of light and the speed of dark will be the same.

LIGHT.
DARK.LIGHT.DARK.LIGHT AND DARK.
EDGE OF
light on dark.Movement.Noise.