The Widower's Tale (54 page)

Ira wondered if tonight would be the night he finally said yes to Anthony. Later, of course, when they were alone together at home--though Ira knew well enough how plans could be derailed by the smallest of mishaps. He thought of your average straight guy with the jeweler's box burning a hole in his pocket, of bended knees, of dowries and stammering permission sought from fathers. At least they were spared the torture of such antiquated rites.

Ira heard Evelyn calling his name. "Think you can fend for yourself?" he asked Anthony.

"Can't promise I won't run off with the next Bob Dylan who walks by."

Ira laughed and jogged down the hill. The weather couldn't have been more accommodating: warm and breezy, the pond rippling in a light that promised the onset of summer. It was early enough in the season that mosquitoes were scarce, yet late enough that even after dark the parents would linger to drink and dance in the open air while spending money to give their four-year-olds precocious access to theater outings, ballet lessons, pony rides, possibly even stained-glass lessons from Rico's mom. The breeze rose to occasional gusts, but they were refreshing, not sharp.

Rosemary, that was her name. He'd met her at the squash courts. For the second time that night, she smiled openly at Robert from across the room as he tried to concentrate on reviewing theories behind the evolution of human estrus and gestation, the orchestrated rise and fall of hormones. (How ironic that his pituitary gland was sabotaging these efforts.) Eventually, he'd have to go to the men's room, which would take him directly past her table. If she hadn't left.

For now, he stayed faithful to his computer screen. The reading room was nearly full; they were halfway through reading period, exams a week away.

What kept him from absorbing the finer details of his class notes wasn't Rosemary, however; it was his exhaustion and the pressure of a poorly timed head cold. The night before, he'd helped prepare for the "big action" Turo kept talking about.

They'd had dinner at the apartment first. Turo had made tamales, a favorite meal of Robert's whenever they ate together (something they did less and less often). On the radio, while Turo cooked, they heard a story about an American couple in Guyana. The wife, a labor nurse, had set up a prenatal clinic to serve a community of Rupununi Indians. The husband, a botanist, had launched an ecotourism outfit. His true goal was to teach the Indians how to safeguard yet profit from the unspoiled wilderness around them.

"Wait till the government gets wise to the larger implications. Mr. and Mrs. Smith can kiss their visas adios," said Turo.

"What do you mean?"

"Let's see. Ecotourism ... lumber and pharmaceuticals. Hmm. Which one yields a greater GDP?"

"Man, you are one hardened cynic," said Robert.

This vaulted Turo into a big jag about how, having started out life where he did, he'd seen firsthand what terrible, irreversible things people could do to the places where they lived. "I mean, not to belittle your conscience, man, but flying over a million acres of forest reduced to red earth, it's not like watching a bunch of ugly ranch houses go up in Newton or Matlock. I hear your granddad when he rails against people who 'destroy history,' I get where he is, but it's peanuts compared to what goes on in places like Brazil and Argentina. Nature is history writ macro, nature is way the fuck bigger than history. In the balance, history's puny."

Robert ate and listened. He didn't argue that Turo had mostly grown up in Gold Coast Chicago and Exeter, New Hampshire. Robert had his own illusions to nurture.

After dinner, in the car, Turo directed Robert to Everett, to pick up Tamara.

"You hear about New York yet?" Robert asked. He had yet to tell Turo that he'd just accepted the internship with the Adirondacks outfit and planned to live with his cousins in Brooklyn. It had just occurred to him that the lease on their Cambridge apartment wasn't up till the end of August, and whether or not they renewed it, they had to find tenants to sublet.

"Change of plans," said Turo. "This summer I'll be here, then ... Depends on how things play out."

"What things?"

"I'm thinking of taking next year off."

"Dude. That's news to me," said Robert. "Don't tell me you're selling your soul to this ... to the DOGS." He still found it hard to utter the name of the organization with any degree of seriousness. Though serious it clearly was, or he wouldn't be blowing off work on his Borges paper.

Turo snorted loudly. "Look after your own soul. Mine is not for sale."

"Can I say something, dude?" Robert asked as he waited for a light to change. "It's like you've gone and joined the army."

Instead of acting insulted, Turo said, "Well, yeah. It's that rigorous, if you make the commitment."

After they picked up Tamara, Turo drove them out to Lothian, to a warehouse near the train tracks. There, they joined two guys named--if Robert had heard correctly--Skunk and Boots. They were maybe in their thirties, Skunk a goth-looking guy, Boots a reggae type, dreadlocks down to his butt. They made no small talk, didn't even shake hands.

They were doing what Turo called prep work, as if this were a restaurant kitchen. At least they didn't have to go creeping through the pitch-black woods acting like commandos. If anybody was in charge, it seemed to be Boots, who gave Robert the weird task of tying newspapers into fat cylinders. Boots then stuffed them into four massive tires, the kind you'd see on a semi. At the other end of the huge empty space, Skunk and Tamara were painting the signature banner. Turo came and went from another room.

After two hours--no beer, no talk, and the place was a frigging freezer--Robert helped Boots load the stuffed tires into the back of a van, along with a crate of extension cords. He felt cross-eyed with fatigue, his fingers numb. Boots wasn't hostile, but he hardly spoke. The cooperative silence grew creepy.

Once the van was loaded, Robert crossed the space to have a look at the banner, but it had already been folded. "Dowels in the truck?" Tamara asked Skunk. Skunk nodded. He wasn't exactly loquacious, either.

Just as unceremoniously as they'd all come together, they parted. Turo drove. "So where does this 'big action' take place?" asked Robert.

"Won't know till we meet tomorrow, back at the warehouse."

"It's like we're special ops, at risk of blowing our cover," said Tamara.

"I think special-ops guys know everything before they go in," said Robert. "They are torture-proof. Which, come to think it, we are not. Or"--he glanced at Turo and laughed--"I am not. That's for sure."

"I have input, but I've learned to go with the flow," said Turo.

"Oh, that'll be the day," said Robert.

Turo hadn't responded. As they'd cruised into town, the three of them had slipped into a sleepy inertia. Robert dozed off, barely waking when they dropped Tamara at her place.

"Get your beauty sleep, friend," Turo told him when they got home.

He'd awakened that morning with a nasty sore throat and a cough. Turo had left a note on the kitchen table:
HERE AT 5!
Robert had groaned.

He'd taken a hit of DayQuil and packed for the library. He had to study for his medical anthro exam and finish a draft of his lit paper, or he'd be screwed. Midmorning, he tried to call Turo but got his voicemail. "Man, I am wiped, and I've got this evil cold," he said. "I don't think I can make tonight."

When he took his next break, to buy a sandwich at the basement cafeteria, he checked his phone and found a text from Turo:
B THR. NO OUTS
.

"Give me a break," Robert said aloud. He texted back,
b thr if i can. don't count on me
. Almost immediately, Turo replied,
NEED CAR
. Robert answered,
SORRY
. Enough of this textual Ping-Pong. He punched in Turo's number; weirdly, he hit voicemail. Maybe this meant Turo was in a library. "Finally, man," muttered Robert.

At five, he felt his phone vibrate. Not without a hint of guilt, he put the phone in his backpack. Turo would have to save the human race without his help that night.

Now he looked at the clock on his computer: only 8:15. His body felt like it was 3:00 a.m. Where was Turo now? On the lawn of some McMansion out in Ledgely? Down on the Cape? Why had they been meeting so early? Robert had to wonder if his appointed place in this MnM had been crucial; probably, all they really wanted was his car. All he did was follow orders. Anybody could do that. It
was
like the army. None of the men in Robert's family had "served in the military," as the press liked to put it. How weird was that? No war stories of any kind. Maybe he was a sissy at heart, didn't have the guts to give in to whatever unpleasant work it would take to effect any positive change. Maybe he simply didn't have the warrior gene.

"You need coffee. So do I." Her whisper, so close he could feel her breath on his ear, nearly knocked him out of his chair. Rosemary stood behind him.

Robert laughed quietly at his physical panic. This girl was so stealthy,
she
should work for the DOGS. She was right: he did need coffee. But more than that, he needed distraction.

He closed the computer, slipped it into his backpack, and followed her out of the reading room.

The band was playing--by request!--"In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida." Roughly two hundred adults dressed in silly, colorful getups were dancing to this undanceably interminable song, drinking together on the swings, and crowding around the silent-auction tables, trying to snare their fencing lessons or Red Sox tickets before the bidding closed. (Was that Jonathan Newcomb, venture capitalist, wearing the fake sideburns, bandanna headband, and ripped overalls?) Ira had bid three times on a gift certificate at Trader Joe's, but he quit when the bidding reached twice the face value. He was still in contention for a year's membership at the gym to which he and Anthony belonged. (They had secured this donation.) Last time he'd cruised by the table, he'd noticed that three separate people were vying for the equine massage. Go figure.

Evelyn took his arm. "Heidi's rounding up the other teachers, to introduce their projects. Are you ready to cue the tree?"

"Light my fire, baby."

She laughed. "These Earth Shoes are killing me. I cannot believe I ever wore them for more than five minutes." Over her ducklike shoes, Evelyn wore a paisley maxidress and a jean jacket with Joni Mitchell appliqued on the back. She had long ago discarded a garland of fake daisies that made her scalp itch. Ira was feeling the same way about the thrift-shop jacket. Oh God, not fleas, he thought as he started toward the house.

After an incendiary sunset, the sky had finally darkened. Maxwell's dad had laid down all the extension cords that afternoon, anchoring and covering them to make sure no one tripped. Percy had been kind enough to let them use power from the house, since the tree was so far from the barn. He'd told Ira that he had other plans the night of the auction but would leave the back door unlocked.

Ira had noticed Rico's mom earlier; like a few other parents, she wasn't in costume. Well, who could blame her? If you were going through chemo, what energy would you have to dress up as Sergeant Pepper or Janis Joplin? (One couple, the Plotkins, were sporting what looked like canary-yellow Dr. Dentons, with hoods, makeshift periscopes strapped to their heads.)

Ira had watched Sarah as she wandered around the auction tables. She appeared to have come alone, yet he'd also noticed how often she looked up at the house. Percy had left lights on for Ira, so he wouldn't have to stumble through the dark to flip the switch. Sarah probably thought that Percy was home but refusing to attend the auction. It was still a mystery to Ira, what had happened between those two; clearly, the news wasn't good.

He stood on the porch, waiting. A crowd began to gather for the live auction, timed to occur when people had drunk just enough to loosen their purse strings but not so much that they'd doubt their own decisions. Maurice Fougere, wearing bright pink Indian garb that made him look like a sultan ripped from
The Arabian Nights
, stood by the mike where the lead singer had, a few minutes earlier, tried mightily to channel Iron Butterfly. Evelyn stood beside him. Maurice had agreed to be the auctioneer. This Ira couldn't wait to see. That thick French accent should make the spectacle extra amusing.

Anthony stood near the front of the group below. He waved at Ira. Ira blew him a kiss. They'd agreed to bid on the Nantucket weekend (honeymoon?).

Anthony was having a good time. He'd bought two fortune cookies, yielding strips of paper that read,
Kookookaju!
and
Go ask Alice
. ("Can I work here? Please," said Anthony. "Definitely not," said Ira. "One of us has to stay in touch with the real world." "And that's
me
?" said Anthony. Ira had kissed him, quickly but easily. " 'Fraid so.")

The crowd was impressive. Clover had done a good job of roping in not just current parents but a sizable number of alum parents as well as members of the Matlock community seeking idle entertainment and maybe a few good deals on acupuncture or Swan Boat rides.

Evelyn signaled Ira. Maurice spoke into the microphone.
"Attention
, my psychedelic friends! This is the moment when we ask you to cast all financial caution to the wind, in the behalf of our wonderful children!"

As the applause began, Ira entered the house and went to Percy's study. On the desk sat a power strip from which four extension cords snaked out through the window. Ira flicked the switch: four beams of light shot up into the branches.

Black lights had been Arturo's suggestion; he'd even told Ira where to rent the fixtures. The teachers had spent an entire afternoon cutting giant flowers, peace signs, and doves from heavy white paper. Climbing into the tree house that morning, they'd pinned and hung the shapes throughout the branches. Now these ghostly silhouettes glowed and shifted in the breeze. The effect was ethereal and joyful. Perfect.

Ira heard more and louder applause, the childlike exclamations of awe. There was something shameless about this degree of excitement over something so frivolous, yet here was a community of people who put the kind of value on their children's lives that so many other people, sadly, did not. Ira could not discount the effect of the wine, yet in that moment he realized how glad he was to belong in a place like this. Because he did belong.