The Arcturus Man

  She put the cutting board over the disposal side of the sink. Looking out of the window she spotted a skunk go under a shed where there was a crawl space. Jenny made a mental note of not going near the shed. She spotted his Cuisinart on the counter but decided to use a knife. She found a perfect knife. It was razor sharp. She ripped apart the Iceberg lettuce and tossed in a few leaves of Romaine. There was a large wooden salad bowl next to the coffee maker.

  She drizzled some olive oil into the bowl and seasoned the wood. She julienned the peppers, sliced the tomatoes, chopped a few radishes and tossed everything into the salad bowl. She wasn’t much of a cook, but this was slicing, not cooking. That she could do.

  She looked in the frig and saw fresh chanterelle mushrooms and sharp cheddar cheese. She opened the pantry and found some large black olives. “This was going to be a salad to kill for,” she thought. She sliced up the remaining ingredients and tossed the salad with her hands.

  “Oh No, please don’t do that Mr. Skunk,” she pleaded as she whiffed the air.

  “There are definite downsides to living in the woods,” she thought.

  “Fan on,” she said, testing the house. The ceiling fan came on. That helped a little. The Jenn-Air exhaust fan came on. The oven fan came on. There were fans everywhere. Every fan in the area was coming on.

  Miffed, she said, “You’re not as smart as I thought you were…house.” “I didn’t understand that, Jenny!”

  That was eerily human like. “Spooky!”

  “No. No. Just talking to myself, house. Fans off. I’m trying to get rid of the skunk

  smell. Can you help?” Jenny was not a timid person.

  No answer. “This is creepy,” she thought.

  The fans shut off. Then the ceiling fan came on again.

  “Creepy.”

  She was her own person and tried hard to not let other people dictate how she

  lived her life. It wasn’t always easy to recognize when you are being influenced, or even manipulated, by others. The house was irritating. An Eleanor Wiley poem surfaced in her memory. It was one of her favorites.

  “Avoid the steaming herd,” she mouthed softly, “shun the polluted flock. Be like the stoic bird, the eagle on the rock.” “Interesting coincidence” she thought. She was spending the night on Eagle’s Head Island. And…she found an eagle.

  Jared came into the kitchen. He looked good. His hair was dry. She thought that there was something feminine about a guy using a hair dryer, but there was nothing feminine about Jared. He was wearing the same kind of Bellagio white robe she had on. He had a flesh colored butterfly bandage on his forehead. It added to the rugged look. “I guess the cut wasn’t as bad as it looked at first,” she thought.

  “Let’s move everything into the veranda. We have a lot of skunks around here.” “It’s really not that bad,” she said. But, it was.

  He took some plates and silverware out of a closet and set two places on the large

  glass table in the Florida room. He pulled two wine glasses from the overhead rack and set them on the table. He lifted the lid to a large enamel pot on the stove. The gas was on high and it was boiling violently. He turned the heat down.

  The pot had a bad drawing of a lobster on it. “Was that just decoration or did people really need the visual aid? There are a lot of moles in this world,” she thought. She brought the salad bowl over.

  Jared grabbed the lobsters one at a time and dropped them in the boiling water. Jenny turned her head. She didn’t want to see that. She couldn’t get the Elinor Wylie poem out of her mind, The Eagle and the Mole. It just fit so naturally with everything that had happened today. It was cycling through her head for the past few hours.

  “ I’m on Eagle’s Head Island. And, I am with a bona fide eagle,” thought Jenny. “Avoid the reeking herd; shun the polluted flock, live like that stoic bird, the eagle of the rock,” she said out loud. Jenny was self-conscious now. She learned through adolescence how to not be a nerd with friends, but her nerdiness would slip through now and then anyway. She glanced over to Jared and searched his face for a reaction.

  “Yes, I love Wylie. I love her poetry.”

  “Do you write poetry?” asked Jenny.

  “Of course, don’t you?”

  “Well, yes, but I’m not very good.”

  “Let me see some of your poems some time,” said Jared.

  Jenny glowed. She would never let him read any of her poems, but that he asked was wonderful. It was really wonderful.

  “Can I read one of your poems?” asked Jenny.

  “I don’t have any written down.”

  “Then recite one.”

  He did.

  When it is cold again, which will be soon, I will remember that it was warm, but not how it felt. That I was warm a day ago won't console me

  when my heart is caught in the hard grip of the chill. Warm winter days are not how it is meant to be. Jenny didn’t know what to say. It was a strange poem. She couldn’t be dishonest and say it was beautiful. It was intriguing however. She wondered what it meant.

  “What is it called?”

  “That was the last stanza. The poem is called A Warm Winter Day.”

  “I would like to hear all of it some time,” said Jenny.

  “Let’s get back to preparing our extraordinary repast,” said Jared.

  “Where’s the bread?” asked Jenny.

  “There is some French bread in the drawer. Do you prefer to slice it or shall we rip it apart with our hands?”

  “Hands, for sure.” She feigned a Maine accent.

  “Anything you do will be as lovely as you are, Ms. Nilsson.”

  Jenny blushed. She turned and attended to her duties as quickly as she could. She couldn’t think of what to say. Nerds weren’t good at handling compliments.

  Jared couldn’t keep Jenny off his mind. “She’s so close,” he thought again and again.

  The lobster pot was steaming. Since this was an island, she was surprised that he had gas.

  “Must be LPG,” she guessed. She lifted the lid and looked inside. The lobsters were deep red.

  “What’s this?” she asked, peering into the pot.

  “This is sea water and sea weed on top of the steaming tray. Old man Sevigny taught me the proper Down East way to make lobsta. Scrumptious eatin’. Scrumptious eatin’,” he said in a true Maine accent that was much, much better than her phony attempt. This is the first time he had said anything light, let alone funny. She liked it. It bothered her a little that he didn’t smile very often but at least she now knew that he had a sense of humor.

  He dropped several ears of corn into the lobster pot.

  “Who’s Sevigny?”

  “He is the old lobsterman who used to own this island. He died last month. His son now owns the restaurant we almost met at. Ashley is sort of a partner and waitress. You know…the place where I was climbing the roof while you were inside buying a sandwich,” he said smiling. It was a broad, exaggerated grin.

  She chuckled. “Oh, that one.” Yes, he had a sense of humor. What a relief.

  “I heard you talking to Ginger,” said Jared.

  She turned suddenly. “What? Who?”

  “Ginger is what I named the house.” He paused. “Well, that’s not exactly true. Ginger is the name of the computer program that runs the house. I think of her as the house but the house really has no name. Should it?”

  “Well, boats are named after women, so why not houses, I suppose?”

  “Good evening, Jared,” said Ginger. “Please visualize me.”

  “I wasn’t talking to you, Ginger. Be quiet,” said Jared.

  Jenny frowned. “What did that mean?”

  “It’s just a joke. She says a lot of funny things. Ginger is the digitized personification of the house as a woman. She can appear on any monitor in the house when she is visualized.”

  “Can I see her?” asked Jenny.

  “I’d rather not. Not right now.”

&n
bsp; Jenny pursed her lips, but said nothing.

  “I don’t know how much you know about computers, or want to, but I used a lot of fuzzy logic and AI in the programming?

  “AI? Oh yes, artificial intelligence.”

  “Yes. The house is pretty smart,” said Jared.

  “Can the house actually think?” she asked.

  “Not as you understand it, but I suppose it depends on how you understand thinking.”

  “Cool. You don’t have any male characters lurking around, do you?”

  He smiled. “No, I guess I’ll have to work on that. Perhaps you can give me the specs later.”

  She smiled back. “OK, I’ll think about that. By the way, speaking of technology, your toilet is very strange. What is all that stuff that goes on?

  “Oh that. I enhanced the basic commode. A company makes them now for upscale spenders. Really pricey! I don’t want to be too graphic right before dinner but I’m rather proud of that toilet. It uses high pressure water, vacuum, carbon nanotubes, activated charcoal, ultraviolet light, and titanium dioxide to keep it odor free and sanitary all of the time. It never requires cleaning.”

  “Wow! Imagine that.”

  “TI02 is an exceptional photocatalyst and it is hydrophilic. When it sees sunlight, it breaks down organic material without consuming itself—as I said, it is a catalyst—and it makes water sheet. The water goes under contaminants and lifts them…hence, perfect flushing. It destroys microbes by breaking down its DNA through oxidation and combined with organic adsorption, it cleans and sanitizes.

  “Fascinating, but I think my butt glows in the dark now.”

  Jenny thought that was funny, but he wasn’t laughing. She just made fun of his invention. Not cool!

  “Did you say adsorption or absorption?” she asked, eager to change the subject.

  “Adsorption! It is the adhesion of molecules to a solid surface. Absorption is something entirely different. This is boring, isn’t it,” asked Jared.

  “Did he mean he was boring her or was he bored explaining it to her,” she wondered.

  “No, it is very interesting. comes up in marine biology, I DO KNOW what adsorption is,” said Jenny. “It such as with undersea hydrothermal vents…you know…black smokers. These vents are often thousands of feet below the euphotic region and organisms like the Chemautotrophic bacteria depend on the chemical soup around the vents to survive. And…the chemical soup is supported by the adsorption of chemicals on organic and inorganic substances around the vents.”

  Jenny was pleased with herself. She wanted to show off…just a bit. Jared was pleased too. He liked intelligent, beautiful women.

  He put a large Teflon® pan on the Jenn-Air and dropped a half a stick of butter into the pan. As soon as the butter was melted, he began to sprinkle a handful of bread crumbs into the pan as he mixed. He cooked fast. He put snow peas pods into another steamer and turned up the heat. A few minutes later he poured the pods into the frying pan and turned the mixture over several times. He put a full stick of butter into another small pan. He salted the butter slightly and added a few drops of Tabasco.

  “This is for the lobster,” he said as he turned toward Jenny. “And, that’s for the snow peas.”

  “It looks great. I guess we can forget about bad cholesterol tonight.”

  “I’m sorry, Jenny. I don’t pay attention to that, but we don’t have to have the butter.”

  “No that’s fine. I assume it won’t kill me immediately.”

  He was saying “Jenny” often now, she noticed. It was the beginning of familiarity. She liked it.

  He pulled out the lobsters. They were a fiery red. Steam was coming off the shells. He put them on a serving tray and carried them into the veranda. Jenny brought over the snow peas and the corn on the cob.

  “Do you like Franken wine? It’s hard to find in America.”

  “I don’t believe that I’ve ever tried it. Franken wine?”

  “Yes, named after the river, as are all of the German wines—as you know,” he added as an afterthought. “This is a Spätlese trocken. I hope you don’t mind German wines. Most people think they’re too sweet, but Franken wine is a little dryer than most other German wines.”

  “’Sound good.” “As if I know what that is,” she thought.

  He poured the wine. He lit some candles. “Do you like New Age?” He didn’t wait for Jenny’s answer. “Ginger, play Northern Lights.” The music changed instantly. The lighting dimmed.

  “Oh Oh,” she thought.

  They began to dine.

  “Is this your favorite wine?” asked Jenny.

  “I like Franken wine, but my favorite without question is saké.”

  “I didn’t think saké was a wine.”

  “Of course it is. It is rice wine. It is far more complex than grape wine. This is, as you can see from the label, from the Gekkeikan brewery. It is a daiginho-shu saké, meaning that the rice has been polished by at least 50%. It is unpasteurized so it is a namazake type. I think it is wonderful. I think pasteurization ruins both saké and beer.”

  “You speak Japanese too?”

  “Yes.”

  Her cell phone played a few notes of Beethoven’s Fifth.

  “Wouldn’t you know it! Just as we are about to eat,” said Jenny.

  She glanced at the caller ID. It was Krissy.

  “Hi Krissy.”

  “Good! Can you talk? I guess your cell like works on the island afterall,” said Krissy.

  “Jared and I were just starting dinner. I’ll call you later. Did you call Mom?”

  “Yes, and you better call her. What’s he like?”

  “I will, I will, and I’ll talk to you later.”

  Krissy realized she wasn’t going to chat. “Bye.”

  "Wait! Can we have lunch on Thursday at Mary Chung's? Around Noon? I am going to really miss you. Your going back on Friday aren't you?” asked Jenny.

  "OK, Mary Chung's for lunch. Bye."

  Jenny pushed the phone away from her. Jared seemed to be smiling.

  “I am really surprised that there is an active cell out here.”

  “I had to put one on the island. The phone company wasn’t about to do it.”

  “Tell me something about you,” asked Jared, changing the subject.

  “There isn’t that much to tell. As you probably surmised, I am studying marine biology. I am a doctoral candidate. MIT picks up some of my tuition if I spend my summers doing field work for the Sea Grant program. I live in Cambridge most of the year. I’m up to my (she almost said ass) butt, in debt. I have one brother and one sister, both younger. My Dad was an electrical engineer. He passed. My Mom was a civil engineer. She retired a few years ago. I’ve been mostly on my own since I was eighteen. What else? I play the recorder, but I’m not very good. I like all sports. I read a lot. I love the sea…and…” She affected a very feminine stilted voice and continued, “I love slow walks on the beach, moonlight, and puppies, and I hunger for world peace,” and she threw open her arms to the heavens, laughing. He didn’t.

  He noticed that she was exceptionally adept at dismembering a lobster. “I guess that comes with being a marine biologist,” he thought.

  “How about you? I’m dying to know what its like to graduate from MIT at nine.”

  He noticeably tensed up. “Hmmmm. It’s nothing that I would recommend to anyone.”

  “I guess it is pretty tough being a kid at a large university and getting people to treat you like a kid. You must have missed your childhood.”

  “Not really,” he said matter-of-factly.

  “What about you? Who are you, Jared?”

  “I was born in Latvia. My father was an engineer. My mother was my mother. There were hard times. I have no brothers or sisters. They sent me to the United States when I was six. I don’t think that it was their idea. Latvia was still under Soviet rule in 1987. They had a special exchange program for special children. My parents stayed in Latvia. They died, first my father
and then my mother.”

  “Is Jared a Latvian name? I’ve met some Jareds before.”

  “No. My birth name is Jorens Ziemelis. Somebody must have thought that it sounded like Jared, so Jared stuck. It doesn’t sound anything like Jorens, but it’s not very important. It is just a name.”

  “The snow peas were wicked delicious, “she said. The browned bread crumbs gave the pea pods a nutty taste.

  “Wicked? You are sounding like a Mainer. Must be cause yore eatin lobsta,” he said in his Maine accent.

  “What was your major?” asked Jenny. She was truly fascinated.

  “Physics—at least at first. After that I kind of drifted around into anything that interested me, especially Quantum Theory. I guess I was what you would call a geek.”

  “Not me by me. Not from one geek to another.” “That seemed to please him,” she thought.

  She wanted to ask if he was ever married or was seeing anyone seriously, but didn’t know how to pose the question.

  “I’ve never been married and don’t socialize much.”

  “Wow. He keeps doing that,” she thought.

  He changed the subject--again. “The Latvian language is sort of interesting. Latvian and Lithuanian are the oldest spoken languages in the Western world. Their closest antecedent is Sanskrit. These are tiny populations which are why it is amazing that, except for the Stalin era, the language and culture have not changed much for thousands of years. The gene pool is remarkably old. Ancient might be a more apt word. As a biologist, you know that an unchanging gene pool has pluses and minuses.”

  There was a long pause after which he spoke again.

  “When Pliny the Elder accompanied Roman soldiers to the Baltic in search of amber for the emperor, the Latvians—actually, Letts, Livs, and others, which is much more than you probably want to know—had already been there for thousands of years, or so anthropologists think.”

  “Interesting,” she said sincerely.

  “There are clusters of people around the world that no one knows very much about, like the Ainu in Japan, the Basques in Spain, and others. Latvians are another such group. Balts are extraordinary people…unique in so many ways.”