Before Gaia

by Francine Pascal

  Now they were face-to-face again. Finally.

  And it was like no time had passed at all. She could have been scribbling wildly in that journal just a few seconds ago, and he could have been walking through the door of that cramped dusty bookstore.

  “Tom?” she said. She was looking at him like she’d seen a mirage.

  He knew he should speak, but all he could manage right now was to smile. And smile. And grin…

  “Well, better late than never,” Oliver stated, far too loudly. “Sit down—both of you.”

  But neither Tom nor Katia paid any attention. Their instant trance state had returned to them, and Tom was in no hurry to let it go. Not this time.

  God, I missed you, he wanted to say. But that wouldn’t have done it any justice. That wouldn’t have nearly explained the hole in his stomach for the last four weeks. He needed words like yearning and longing and craving. But they all would have sounded so horribly corny—so shamelessly melodramatic. Besides, it didn’t really matter what words he would have chosen. He could still barely speak. Nor, did it seem, could she.

  “It’s not polite to stare,” Oliver stated from his seat at the table.

  It was an odd statement to make. Bitter somehow. Resentful, even? Whatever its intent, it broke the trance long enough for them to at least dimly notice their surroundings again.

  “Did… did you finish your thesis?” Katia asked, trying to forge some kind of normal conversation. She was nearly stumbling over the hem of her dress as she moved to the table. Oliver had gotten up to pull out a chair for her, but she almost missed it and toppled to the floor. Tom noticed that Katia didn’t even thank Oliver—she kept staring back at him. And that was just fine.

  “About an hour ago,” Tom said, reaching blindly for his chair and nearly falling into it.

  And then their eyes were glued together again. Tom wondered if he might be able to send a semitelepathic message to her across the table—a message suggesting that they leave here now together and find someplace where no sounds could possibly distract them. But a dim thought seeped into Tom’s brain.

  Oliver. Your brother. Next to you. Whatever his brother was doing here at Katia’s show, the fact remained that Tom had barely seen him in the past month, either. And he had missed him.

  “Wait—” Tom forced himself to look at Oliver. He reached over and clapped his brother on the arm. “I’m sorry. Oliver! How’s it going? What are you doing here?”

  “Just listening to Katia sing,” Oliver said. He was smiling at them both, his eyes moving back and forth. Back and forth…

  “Yes, I see that,” Tom replied. “But how did you know about her—?”

  “It’s a long story,” Oliver interrupted with a trivializing smile. Apparently that conversation was over. For now.

  “Congratulations,” Katia said, taking another stab at normal conversation. “On your thesis, I mean. Very long sentences, I hope.”

  “For miles,” Tom replied, wanting to take her hand. “God bless the semicolon.” And then their eyes locked again. Tom lost track of his thoughts. He had to forcibly remind himself of what he was saying. But Katia saved him by standing up out of her chair.

  “You know… you boys will have to excuse me for a moment,” she announced, patting down her hair and her dress. “But I must, as the American euphemism goes, ‘powder my nose.’” She pointed her finger straight into Tom’s face. “And you. If you disappear again while I’m gone… then I will hunt you down and I will—”

  “I’ll be right here,” Tom interrupted. “I promise.”

  Katia searched his eyes for a moment. “Hm,” she grunted, with not exactly mock suspicion. “We’ll see….”

  Sitting alone with Oliver suddenly made Tom feel very fidgety. For the first time in as long as he could remember, he had no idea what to say to his brother. Oliver had been awfully quick to dismiss his earlier question—the question of just what exactly he was doing at the Bitter End this evening—and now Tom wasn’t sure what stance to take. He wasn’t angry. Oliver obviously wasn’t the type to try and move in on Tom’s girl… if Tom could even call her his girl. Oliver wasn’t the type to move in on anyone’s girl. He wasn’t even the type to move in on a girl who was one hundred percent unspoken for. No, it wasn’t anger Tom was feeling. It was something more along the lines of “suspicious confusion,” if there was such a thing. But even that made Tom deeply uncomfortable. He didn’t like the idea of there being “suspicious anything” with his brother. What he really wanted was to break the tension that was building between them as they sat in silence at the table.

  “Oliver,” Tom said, squeezing his brother’s arm, “I’m in.”

  “What?” Oliver narrowed his eyes, looking back at Tom. Apparently he, too, was suffering from “suspicious confusion.” “What do you mean, ‘in’?”

  “I mean I’m in,” Tom said more quietly, leaning closer to his brother. “On Rodriguez’s payroll…”

  Come on, Olly. Don’t let one awkward moment ruin something we’ve been waiting for our whole lives. Whatever is going on here tonight, we’ll work it out. This is so much bigger than some misplaced suspicious confusion. This is us. This is Tom and Oliver….

  It took Oliver just a second, and then his face lit up with genuine elation. “You son of bitch,” he whispered joyously. “You did it. I’m so proud of you, Tom. I knew you could do it.”

  All of Tom’s suspicious confusion melted away in that moment. This was who they were. Not those silent, fidgety fools who were sitting at the table ten seconds ago, but two brothers who were there for each other no matter what. Two agents now. It hardly seemed possible.

  “Tell me,” Oliver insisted with a grin. “Tell me all about it.”

  Tom looked over Olly’s shoulder and saw Katia gliding back toward the table with her patented angelic grace. She gave Tom a completely unfettered smile. She seemed to be acknowledging that he’d kept his promise this time. He was still there, just as he said he would be. Tom grinned back at her. Don’t worry, Katia, he wanted to say. I’m here now. I’m here for good. And I will never make you wait again.

  “Tom?” Oliver was looking curiously into Tom’s eyes, still waiting for a response. “Tell me. What happened with Rodriguez?”

  “Later,” Tom said, his eyes glued once again to hers as she smiled. “I’ll tell you all about it later.”

  Oliver turned behind him, the proud smile still spread across his face as he followed Tom’s enchanted gaze. But when he turned back… he was no longer smiling.

  Putting Sentences Together

  OLIVER WAS CONFUSED. SUSPICIOUSLY confused.

  Sitting at their table at the Bitter End, he moved his eyes back and forth, watching his brother and his girl (he secretly thought of her as “his girl”) talking, and a feeling was growing inside him—an emotion that was getting louder and louder, like the roar of an approaching train. And it had been a damn near perfect night until Tom showed up.

  “So how was your… I mean…” Tom was fumbling for words. Oliver watched, a bit smugly. For once it was Tom who was struggling to impress a woman.

  “My…?” Katia said, smiling dazzlingly at Tom.

  “Your… um…”

  “I’m waiting.” Katia kept smiling.

  She’s leaning forward, Oliver noticed suddenly. It was true: Katia had curved forward in her chair, her chin on her hand, her face closer to his brother’s. He tried to remember if he’d ever seen her sit that way before.

  “How was the set?” Tom asked. “There… yes,” he said with a laugh. “There it is. How was the set?” He was making a show of having completed the sentence successfully. And there was something about it Oliver didn’t like. He’s showing off, Oliver thought. Which was ridiculous—Tom was reacting to a joke. It was the same kind of sly banter Oliver had performed back four weeks ago during that brief, dazzling moment when Katia thought he was Tom. Oliver remembered doing the same kind of thing: the James Dean squint, the casual smile, the h
oarse voice, all the little tricks in Tom’s arsenal. “I’m sorry I missed it. I really wanted to get here on time.”

  “That’s all right.” Katia shook her head dismissively. “No, really,” Tom said. “From what I caught, at the end, that last song was just—”

  “You heard the last song?” Katia suddenly looked quite thrown. Bizarrely vulnerable in a way Oliver had never seen before. Why was she suddenly so down on the last song? She’d been closing with that “Alien Boy Wonder” song for the last three shows.

  Oliver noticed she was out of wine. “Waiter! Waiter!” he called out as one of the red-vested waiters came by. The waiter didn’t see or hear him.

  Katia and Tom didn’t hear or see him, either, it seemed. And Tom was looking right at Katia’s wineglass—her empty wineglass—but he wasn’t doing anything about it.

  Cad, Oliver thought.

  And immediately he regretted the thought. This was probably the best day of Tom’s life—he was joining the CIA, and the historiography thesis—the weight hanging around Tom’s neck for the last few years—was finally gone. Oliver could see a shaving nick on Tom’s cheek and realized he’d gotten ready very quickly. Like he was in a big rush to get down here. And that somehow made the sick feeling grow even worse.

  “Waiter!” Oliver called out helplessly. The passing waiter glanced at him, a shadow of irritation passing over his face, and Oliver realized he’d spoken much too loudly.

  But not loudly enough to rouse Tom and Katia out of what they were doing—which was, apparently, nothing but staring. At each other. Then, as Oliver watched, Katia actually reached with her slim hand and touched Tom’s cheek, where the shaving nick was.

  “You hurt yourself,” she said, pouting.

  “A mere flesh wound,” Tom replied, jerking his head so that his face pulled back from her fingers. As if he didn’t want to be touched—or touched by her.

  As if he didn’t want Oliver to see. As if he didn’t realize that Oliver had already seen enough.

  “Yes, sir?” the waiter said suddenly. He had appeared right next to Oliver, making him jump. Tom and Katia noticed, too—they both looked startled or flustered as they turned their heads to see who had arrived at the table.

  “The lady would like more wine,” Oliver said weakly. It sounded wrong to his ears—much too formal.

  “Thanks, Olly,” Tom said, touching Oliver on the arm. “You read my mind. Can I have a Dewars on the rocks?”

  “Actually, nothing for me,” Katia told the waiter. “I’ve got to get home.”

  Oliver was looking at Tom. There shouldn’t have been anything irritating about what Tom had done. There was no reason why the casual touch of his brother’s hand on his arm—as if he was some kind of servant, on the side, whose job was to wait for the appropriate moment and summon the waiter—there was no reason that should have bothered Oliver. There was no reason it should have made Oliver want to smash Tom in the face. But it did.

  “You really have to go?” Tom was saying.

  “I’m afraid so,” Katia said, rising to her feet. She turned to Oliver with a big, friendly smile—but the smile looked forced somehow. “Oliver—thanks so much for dinner. It was wonderful to see you, as always.”

  “Don’t mention it,” Oliver said. He could hear the crack in his voice. He stood up, leaning to kiss Katia’s cheek. Tom was still seated, accepting his scotch from the waiter. Stand up, jerk, Oliver thought angrily. The rudeness bothered him.

  “Farewell, ex-historian,” Katia said to Tom. She didn’t move toward him at all—she just stood there in her flawless white dress, a few strands of hair caught across her face, catching the candlelight like spun copper.

  “Bye,” Tom said, smiling back at her. He didn’t move—he and Katia didn’t get anywhere near each other—but as they locked eyes, their faces flushed, their lips slightly pursed, as if they were each about to speak but restraining themselves, Oliver felt the sick sensation grow even more until it seemed to be blackening his vision.

  “Oliver?” Tom was leaning forward with a worried look on his face. Oliver wasn’t looking—he was staring at the candle flame, watching it dance in the warm air—but he could recognize the concerned voice. “Oliver? Are you all right? What’s wrong?”

  Oliver looked at Tom. He just looked at him, but Tom recoiled as if he’d seen a ghost—as if his brother’s identical face had been replaced by a monster’s glaring, bright-eyed stare. Oliver forced himself to smile.

  “Nothing’s wrong,” he told Tom. “Nothing at all.”

  1983

  Banging loudly on a door wasn’t exactly a known counterespionage maneuver, but anything was possible.

  Ghostly Light

  SOMEONE WAS POUNDING ON THE front door, and it was getting louder.

  Tom reached into the closet and pulled out his service pistol—it was a Ruger .45, loaded clip, empty chamber. He flicked off the safety and approached the front door in his pajama bottoms, gun behind him. He could barely see. Banging loudly on a door wasn’t exactly a known counterespionage maneuver, but anything was possible. Leaning so his shadow wasn’t visible under the front door, Tom peered through the peephole. And then he instantly relaxed.

  It was Oliver. He looked terrible. He was swaying, still dressed in the same clothes he’d worn at the Bitter End, but his hair was a twisted mess. His face was dirty, as if he might have been crying, or throwing up, or both. He smelled terrible. His overcoat and tie were smeared with dirt and mud. His fist was raised, as if to knock on the door again.

  “Olly?” Tom said, alarmed. He could tell from his brother’s eyes that he was completely drunk. And Oliver never drank, Tom reminded himself. There had been a club soda in front of him at the Bitter End. “Olly? What happened?”

  Oliver swayed and toppled and would have crashed to the floor if Tom hadn’t caught him. Tom’s bare feet slipped on the polished floor, his large bare arm muscles straining with his brother’s weight. He was overwhelmed with pity and concern. This was a first—he simply had never seen Oliver drunk, in all the years of their adult lives.

  “Stole my girl,” Oliver was whimpering, his dirty face against Tom’s neck. “Stole my girl—you son of a bitch…”

  Tom suddenly realized that there were small tears flowing sideways from his brother’s clenched eyes, drawing clear lines in the soot on his reddened face. Tom brushed his fingers through Oliver’s hair, kneeling beside the couch. “It’s all right, Olly,” he whispered. “It’s all right.”

  “All ri’?” Oliver whimpered. “No, ish not—never be all ri’. You son of a bitch—you stole my girl—my love—my Katia.”

  Tom looked at Oliver, his eyes widening in surprise.

  He loves her, too, Tom realized. He hadn’t put much thought into Oliver’s presence at Katia’s performance—and he should have, he realized now—but it occurred to him for the first time that there might be more going on between Katia and Oliver than he knew. A lot more.

  This is bad, Tom realized. This is really bad.

  “Tom,” Oliver rasped. His eyes were open; he had stopped crying. He had reached out and grabbed Tom’s wrist—even in this state, his grip was strong and unyielding. “Tom, you got—” He cleared his throat painfully; it involved a lot of harsh coughing. “You got to understand. I love her. I can’t think about anything else, bro.”

  “I understand,” Tom said helplessly, still brushing Oliver’s messy hair away from his face. “I understand.”

  “I don’t think you do,” Oliver said, his reddened eyes slipping shut and opening again. “Always got the girl, Tommy—an’ now you want this one, too.”

  “Nothing’s happened,” Tom said urgently, soothing Oliver. “Listen to me. Nothing happened between me and Katia, Olly. That was—tonight was only the second time I ever saw her. I’ve never touched her. Nothing’s happened.”

  “Going to,” Oliver whispered as he looked up at his brother’s face. “It’s all falling apart, Tom. Nothing’s working. You’ve go
t the girl again. I’m losing the girl… and I’m probably gonna lose the job, too.”

  “What?” This was the first Tom had heard of anything like that.

  Oliver barely curled his hand into a fist as he slammed it clumsily on the back of the couch. “That code,” he muttered. “Can’t even crack that goddamn code, Tom. And they know it. They can see me losing it… losing the touch… losing everything….”

  The code. Tom had actually forgotten about it tonight. The code he had proudly cracked only hours ago. Jesus, was Oliver in that much trouble with it? Tom had no idea. But the thought of it adding to his brother’s unwatchable drunken sorrow for even another second was simply unacceptable. Here was at least one problem Tom could solve right now.

  “That code?” he said with a comforting grin. “Forget about it, Olly. You don’t ever have to worry about that code again because I—”

  Tom suddenly froze midsentence, like he was slamming down the brakes of a car that was about to go careening off a highway.

  What, are you crazy? Tom hollered at himself before he could utter another word. Have you been listening to your brother at all? He thinks you’ve stolen his woman away from him, and now you’re going to tell him that you cracked a code in forty minutes that’s been torturing him for weeks? Do you want him to blow his brains out right here on your couch? Do you want him to blow your brains out?

  “You what?” Oliver asked groggily.

  “Huh?” Tom uttered.

  “Don’t worry about the code because you what?”

  “Oh… nothing,” Tom said. “I don’t even remember what I was saying.” He wouldn’t have to tell Oliver about cracking the code. He had a much better idea. But now wasn’t the time to think about that. Olly’s eyes were finally beginning to close as his breathing became more regular and less labored. And finally, after a few more indecipherable drunken mumblings, Oliver was asleep.

  Tom stood up, retrieving the gun off the floor. He pulled off Oliver’s shirt and shoes and got a blanket from the closet, draping it over his brother’s disheveled form. Tom’s heart was heavy as he did it. It wasn’t just the pain of seeing Oliver like this. It wasn’t just the sudden knowledge that they were in a bad spot.