American Nocturne

by Hank Schwaeble

  “What do you want, Gorman?” Seth said. He looked over again, but only briefly, returning his eyes to the path ahead of him.

  “Seth! I need to talk to you! Please! It’s important!”

  “I think I’ve heard everything you have to say. Let the lawyers do the talking.”

  “No! Seth! Please! This is very important! Very important!”

  Seth slowed to a walk, lifting his chin toward the sky and resting his hands on his hips. Speaking even those few words had cost him extra wind, and he was forced to take some deep breaths to get it back.

  He looked over and saw Philo Gorman’s gray eyes locked on him, unblinking and plaintive, his brow furrowed, as if what Gorman had to say involved a matter of life and death.

  “What?”

  “Seth, please. I need to show you something.”

  Seth bent forward, planting his palms atop his knees, still catching his breath. A drop of sweat rolled off his nose and he watched it hit the ground between his running shoes. He didn’t want to talk to Philo Gorman, PhD., known fraud, and general pain in the ass.

  “Seth!”

  “All right!” He cut the air with an impatient wave of his hand, and rested his hand again his knee while he caught his breath. After a few seconds, he straightened up and walked over to the SUV. Gorman smiled and sat up behind the wheel as he approached. The door unlocked with a muted thump.

  “My attorney’s planning to file a motion to have your case dismissed, you know,” Seth said once he was close enough to be heard without raising his voice. “He tells me the statute of limitations has long run. And come to think of it, I don’t think you’re supposed to be trying to talk to me like this. Not without the lawyers present.”

  “No, it’s okay. There’s no reason we can’t talk. And you know lawyers. Mine tells me I should be able to get the case to a jury. He has arguments. A continuing tort, he called it.”

  “This is what you wanted to tell me? Because—”

  “No, no. Nothing like that. You know, Seth, I read about your achievement. The International Society of Human Geneticists. Very impressive. I’m sure you’ll deliver a wonderful paper.”

  “Thank you. Now, are we through here?”

  “Seth, listen. I can finally give you the proof you demanded. Really. Remember how you told me you’d be eager to see solid evidence. I have it. Get in.”

  He’s got to be crazy, Seth thought. Certifiable.

  “No.”

  “Seth, I wouldn’t ask this of you if I wasn’t certain I could prove it to you. To settle who was right and who was wrong once and for all. You owe me this much. Just get in.”

  Seth stared at the man in silence, studying him. Philo Gorman hadn’t aged well in the last seven years. He had to be in his mid-fifties by now, but the sag in his cheeks, the colorlessness of his bushy eyebrows, and the winter-gray strands of hair pasted down across his scalp could have marked him as seventy. Philo reminded Seth of what his mother used to call a skinny fat-person. Though slight, he was rounded where a fit person would be flat, and the bony frame that prodded his clothes at the joints looked like it had rarely, if ever, been acquainted with exercise. Without giving it much thought, Seth presumed physical inactivity ran in the family. It ran in the genes. It all ran in the genes.

  “I don’t owe you anything.”

  “Come now, Seth. You don’t believe that, do you?” Philo held up a hand, nodding as if he were conceding a point. “But look, I don’t mean it in the way you think. You owe it to me professionally. You inspired me to prove it, and now I can. You were right about one thing – I didn’t have the evidence to support my theory. The scholarship on my part was lazy. But the theory... that’s another matter. You at least owe me the chance to show you.”

  “Fine, show me,” Seth said, bending forward and leaning his forearms through the open window on the passenger-side door. “I’ll take it with me and look it over.”

  “No, you have to come with me. Please Seth, get in. I can have us there in no time.”

  Seth inhaled sharply and glanced down the street. No traffic, no pedestrians. Not even another runner. “How did you know to find me here?”

  “I drive by here every morning. Days I’m early, I see you taking this route for your jog. Seth, I really want you to come with me. Just hop in.”

  “Philo—”

  “If you give me this one chance to show you the proof, I swear, I’ll drop the suit. Honest. I’ll call my lawyer tomorrow. You have my word. Please, Seth. You do owe me.”

  Seth held his breath for several heartbeats, felt the pulse in his neck start to throb. He could hear the air hiss through his lips as it escaped. More than seven years ago he had ruined Philo Gorman’s career, but he didn’t feel nearly as guilty about it as Philo seemed to presume. Philo had committed academic fraud. Pure and simple. He had fudged the data on a study supposedly proving how environmental factors dictated numerous success indicators later in life, such as income, substance abuse, criminal behavior and self-assessed happiness. The study had been hailed by behaviorists as a major blow to the so-called ‘nature’ crowd, and was widely acclaimed as a breakthrough by sociologists, psychologists, educators and most everyone in the media who took notice of it. Geneticists tended to ignore such studies even if others didn’t, leaving them to the realm of humanities and pseudo-sciences like sociology for debate.

  But Seth had been unwilling to let this one go.

  He knew the study couldn’t have presented accurate data. It was too perfect, too expedient for the agenda it served. And regardless of how many holes one could poke in the methodology, he had decided a mere scholarly rebuttal was not enough. He was not going to sit by and watch such dishonesty shape the broader social debate. He reviewed the source information, recalculated the statistics. When the citations, the subject histories, the family trees, the medical records, all checked out, he was still convinced something was skewing the results. He would never have discovered it if he hadn’t been so obsessive, but buried deep in the Bureau of Vital Statistics was a document that showed one of the subjects of the study, a convicted felon serving time in Rahway State Penitentiary, New Jersey, was adopted. The subject probably didn’t even know, but Seth was certain that Philo did. Armed with that certainty, he searched until he discovered others, a definite pattern, and published a scathing article exposing the study as a sham.

  “Come on, Seth.” Philo leaned over and opened the passenger door. Seth stepped back, thinking. He owed this man nothing, he told himself. Nothing. There was no way he’d let Philo lay this kind of guilt trip on him. No way, no how. But the lawsuit certainly was a drain, and his lawyer charged the same hourly rate for defending against frivolous claims as he did meritorious ones. Despite that, he was about to decline when he felt a few large drops of rain pelt the thinning hair on his crown. A rumble of thunder rolled in the distance. He slid into the passenger seat and shut the door.

  “Alright, Philo. But I don’t owe you. And after this, we’re even. Even though I never owed you.”

  “Most definitely, Seth. No worries. Even, all the way.”

  * * *

  The last exit to Sugar Land passed without comment, and with it the area’s highway-access-road, concentrations of majestic shopping centers and malls decked out in colorful combinations of bright brick and stucco, modern emblems of affluent suburbs. Gorman’s Isuzu had gotten ahead of the rain a few minutes earlier.

  “Okay, Philo, this is ridiculous. Tell me, damn it – where are we going?” They had been driving for almost fifteen minutes when Seth finally asked, heading away from Houston down a deserted Interstate 59. The silence that draped them had made it seem like much longer, and Seth’s desire to appear reasonable waned more and more with each passing mile. Lawsuit or no lawsuit, he was now regretting the whole thing. He should have just let himself get wet.

  “Just a few more minutes. Patience, Dr Wilson.”

  Seth resisted the urge to once again ask what it was Philo want
ed to show him. “Proof” would be the inevitable response, as it had been each previous time. He had assumed they were heading to Sugar Land once they left southwest Houston. There was literally nothing else in that direction. Not within a distance Seth was willing to travel, anyway.

  “That’s it, Gorman. I’ve gone far enough. Turn around. Take me back to Memorial.”

  Philo shook his head, stealing an occasional glance at his passenger as he continued down the highway. “Just a few exits farther, Seth. Please. After all I’ve been through, is that asking so much?”

  There was something about Philo’s voice that Seth didn’t like; a cloying, importuning quality that seemed almost sarcastic. “I didn’t do anything to you, Philo. You did it to yourself. I just let people know the truth.”

  “Truth. Yes, Seth. That’s what this is about. Truth. You’re a man of science. Don’t you want to see proof? Don‘t you want to know the truth? ”

  “Proof of what? Of your environment-dictates-everything theory? I’ve seen your idea of proof.” Seth leaned back in the seat, turning his head to face the window. “So has everyone else.”

  “Touche. But my premise is and always has been more than sound. It’s absolute. I’m going to show you, once and for all.”

  Seth said nothing. Getting in the vehicle had obviously been a mistake, but one he would have to ride out. At least it might make the stupid lawsuit disappear, though he wasn’t a hundred percent convinced of it. Something else did surprise him, though. As much as he hated to admit it, there was a tiny spot of guilt, a residue of self-reproof lingering like a shadow deep in the pool of his thoughts. Philo Gorman had, for a brief period, become the academic equivalent of a rock star after his study was published. Seth had witnessed both the rise and the fall. A previously undistinguished professor at the University of Houston, he was suddenly sought after for interviews, booked for speaking engagements, and showered with offers from prestigious private research institutes and think-tanks. Philo had also been given the heads-up that he was the unofficial pick to receive the Stromberg Award, the most highly-esteemed distinction the behavioral sciences profession had to offer, and one that came with a generous cash grant.

  All that ended when Seth published his attack piece in the American Journal of Behavioral Studies. Not only did the offers evaporate and the awards go to others, but rumors that had been previously ignored were suddenly found to be of great interest, rumors of family scandals and illicit relationships with female students. Girls started coming forward, alleging sex-for-grades offers and painting a picture of tacky after-class come-ons. Bizarre stories circulated among the student body, stories that, depending on who was telling them, had Philo sleeping with his mother or raping his younger sister. Within a year of Seth’s article, he had heard that Philo’s wife had filed for divorce.

  And it all circled back to him.

  “Here we are,” Philo said as he slid the Isuzu into an exit lane and left the highway. The sign indicated they were exiting at Crab River Road. They were now two exits and several minutes past Sugar land, which meant several minutes past civilization, as far as Seth was concerned.

  “What the hell’s out here?” Seth asked.

  “You’ll see.”

  Philo took a left at the first intersection on the feeder road, passing under the highway. The area was densely wooded, with huge white oaks and hickory trees packed in between tight stands of tall pines fencing in the road on each side – a seemingly impenetrable wall of trunks and limbs, the ground beneath them lost in an endless thicket of undergrowth. The greens and browns appeared deep and rich in the warming sun, the light angling beneath cobalt clouds directly overhead. The treetops shuddered anxiously as if anticipating the rains to come.

  “I have a cabin up ahead,” Philo said, before Seth could utter the question.

  Getting in the car suddenly seemed worse than a bad idea. It seemed like a dangerous one. He started to wonder if this man could be deranged, if he was plotting some type of revenge. But he couldn’t think of how that would make sense. The section of Memorial Park where Philo had pulled up next to the jogging trail had been empty at the time. If Philo had a gun, he could have shot Seth without any witnesses. Besides, if Philo had planned something, why would he have filed the lawsuit? An old feud no one would have remembered was turned into a current controversy, which would make Philo a prime suspect if anything happened to Seth. Add to that the fact that Philo had always been rather civil the few times they previously found themselves in face-to-face encounters – upset, maybe, but civil – and the idea seemed paranoid, at best. The more Seth thought about it, the sillier he felt. Philo Gorman had pleaded with him to get in the car, begging past the point where someone seeking vengeance would have likely brandished a weapon if he had one. And Philo wasn’t the type to get physical. He looked like he would emerge bruised and battered after a bout with a stiff breeze.

  Seth pulled his cell phone out of the pocket of his sweat pants to call his wife anyway. Just in case.

  “Phoning home?”

  “Just to let my wife know where I am.”

  Philo nodded. “A bit early, don’t you think? Are you that worried about me?”

  Seth didn’t like it, but Philo was right. It wasn’t even half past seven. His wife would still be asleep. He glanced over at Philo, who was busy squinting at the side of the road ahead, apparently looking for a turn-off. Despite his comment, Philo seemed unconcerned about whether Seth called his wife or not. Seth slipped the phone back into his pocket. He wasn’t going to let this little shit intimidate him, especially when it didn’t even seem like he was trying.

  “You’re right, it is a bit early. But she’ll be expecting me to call in about a half hour. I’ll just explain things then.” He could scarcely believe how lame that sounded. He was not much of a liar.

  “Sure,” Philo said absently, still studying the tree line. “Ah, here we are.”

  Philo pulled the vehicle off the black-top onto and a dirt road that winded a path into the woods. The SUV rocked a bit as it made its way, jolting and bouncing every few dozen yards. After a mile or so, the road curved, feeding into a gravel driveway that led to an old-style farmhouse. The design of the house was simple, a rectangular layout, with a large front porch running the entire width of the building under a ribbed shed roof. The exterior walls were plastered over, giving the outside a light adobe texture the color of wet sand. The place looked to be twenty or thirty years old, but well-maintained.

  “This was my father’s cabin.” Philo shifted the transmission into park. “I inherited it when he passed away.”

  Seth nodded, but didn’t say anything. Part of the controversy surrounding Philo indirectly involved his father, a prominent Houston businessman. Marvin Gorman passed within weeks after the bad press started, dying suddenly of a heart attack. Three days before his death, he told a reporter from the chronicle that the Gorman family name would be vindicated. Two days before his death, the first co-ed came forward with lurid allegations. One day before his death, a stinging article in the Wall Street Journal laid bare the whole story, backing up Seth’s research and accusing Philo of the worst kind of agenda-driven prevarication. Perhaps this was the source of his lingering guilt, he realized. Marvin Gorman died disgraced by his son, quite possibly because of what Seth had done. Even if he had been genetically predisposed to a heart condition.

  Philo stepped out of the car and headed toward the porch. Seth reluctantly followed. The porch was enclosed by a gated perimeter of wooden balusters, about three feet high to the railing, divided into sections by beveled cedar posts supporting the overhang of the roof. Like the rest of the house, all the visible wood was coated in a glossy white paint. Seth stepped onto the porch as Philo unlocked the front door and beckoned Seth to follow across the threshold.

  The entry opened into a large parlor with a vaulted ceiling and exposed rafters that occupied the right-hand half of the house. The interior was sparsely furnished. To the immediat
e left stood a wall about seven feet tall with an open space between its top and the ceiling. A sofa, loveseat and chair formed a semi-circle around a wooden coffee table in front of a stone fireplace. The center of the room’s wooden floor was covered by a large brown throw rug speckled with red, blue and green flecks. White doilies were draped over the dark red cloth of the wood-framed furniture. Very rustic, Seth thought.

  “How about some breakfast?” Philo said as he walked toward the rear of the room. There was a large opening in the wall as it approached the back of the house, and Philo headed toward it as he spoke. He paused at the threshold to listen for a reply.

  “Philo, I really can’t stay very long. I have to get back.”

  “Yes, of course. Some OJ, then?” Philo slipped out of the room before his guest could decline. Seth moved toward the center of the parlor and could see the edge of a kitchen table and a chair through the passageway. He heard the sound of a refrigerator open, then the clinking of glasses. A few moments later, Philo emerged with two tumblers of orange juice. He handed one to Seth.

  Seth stared at the pulpy liquid in the glass. One moment passed, then two. He felt like a bass eyeing a garish lure. When he looked up, Philo gave a mild roll of his eyes, wagging his chin as his lips stretched into a bemused smile. He reached down and replaced Seth’s glass with the one he was holding.

  “My father loved this place,” Philo said, lifting his juice and sweeping it in a flat arc. “Said it made him feel at peace with nature. Do you ever feel that way, Seth? At peace with nature? Given what happened to your father, I mean. His struggle against it.”

  “Nature’s made me a pretty good living, so I’d have to say yes.”

  Philo smiled and took a sip of his beverage. He held up the glass. “Freshly squeezed.”

  “It’s delicious,” Seth said, downing a healthy swig. Another polite lie, he thought. Truth was, it was horribly bitter. “So, Philo, why am I here?”