The point is, I wanted to get a head start if things were going to get ugly. The press conference was over.
That’s how it went down, Arthur.
More or less.
Jess
From: Jessica Frobisher
Sent: Friday, May 30, 2014 12:37 am
To: Arthur Danielson
Cc:
Bcc:
Subject: a little more
I did too.
While we were in the press conference, it rained. Hard. We never saw a drop, but when we came out everything looked like aftermath. The pavement had a dark, soaked look. All the bright new leaves on the trees looked battered. All the shimmering dust hanging above the parking lot, churned up from the gravel by spinning tires, had vanished. I know you’ve been practically living in a monsoon up there, but down here in civilization we’ve barely seen rain for weeks. All the meteorologists checking their overflowing rain gauges would later say “Thank goodness” and “It’s about time,” all of them would say we so desperately needed the relief.
The field was a sodden mess. It took us twenty minutes to get out, to propel ourselves out of the muck, and we only escaped thanks to Liam’s fancy footwork with the clutch, and his willingness to torque the tires at breakneck speeds until we could smell the engine burning and chunks of earth were flying sky-high.
He had to concentrate, and neither of us could talk. This was a good thing. The silence allowed me to inspect my hands, my digging calluses, the faint gray traces of greenhouse dirt trapped in the half-moons of my fingernails. (Our soil seems to have these magical, soap-proof, detergent-proof properties. It’s unscrubbable. Whatever it stains, it stains.)
When we had finally rocked our way out of the rut, it was Liam who broke the silence first.
“Well,” he said. “That could have gone better.”
“No, no,” I said. “You handle a battle-ax beautifully.” I dropped my hands into my lap, pressed my face against the window, and closed my eyes, surrendering briefly to the cold clarity of the glass. “Christ, Liam.”
“I didn’t say anything that wasn’t true.” He must have seen me opening my mouth, because he added: “About her. About her. Jess, those people weren’t there to get the facts. They were there to crucify us. They’re pretending they’re on some sort of noble quest—that they’re bringing some sort of painful truth to light—but they’re not. They don’t know even the first thing about it.”
“Let’s please have the debate about journalistic integrity later,” I said. “You guys do realize that that’s the least of your worries right now, don’t you? Although that was a nice touch, by the way, going after the Times. Liam, you lied. You stood up there in front of all those people, and you lied. And you made me a party to it. I got all dressed up in this stupid suit, and I—” I had to raise my voice to be heard over Liam’s phone, which was sitting on the console between us. It had been angrily buzzing nonstop since we’d gotten in the car.
“First of all,” said Liam. “I didn’t make you anything,” Liam said. “Second of all, if I was you I’d think long and hard when I was picking which high horse to climb up on. Honesty? Is that the one you want to go with?”
“What are you talking about?” I said. But I could feel myself shrinking back a little into my seat.
“We don’t need to talk about this now. There’s no rush.” Liam jerked us into second gear and gestured impatiently at the line of muddy cars that were bottlenecking in front of us. “Seriously. Every single person here is making a left turn? You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”
You’ll want to know what I said next, of course, Arthur. Well, here’s your answer: a big fat nothing. I didn’t even open my mouth. Not because I was afraid to—although I know that’s what you’re thinking.
No, it was because right then, I spotted a man in my rearview mirror. He was a ways back, but jogging steadily up the line of cars, and he appeared to be making a beeline toward us. He had both arms above his head and was waving them—clearly he was trying to flag someone down, and as soon as I saw who it was, I knew that someone was us. Do you know who it was, Arthur? I’ll give you one guess and only one, because I’m sure that’s all you’ll need. You’ve always been better at guessing than a person should be. A person can be too astute for his own good, you know. My mother told me once that all gifts are double-edged swords. They cut both ways, she said. So watch out.
Time’s up, Arthur. Do you know the answer?
That’s right. It was my new friend, the eccentric cameraman from the press conference. The sight of him gaining on us distracted me from the pressing question at hand and made me let out an involuntary groan.
“What’s the matter?” Liam said.
“Nothing,” I said. “Can we drive faster?”
“Does it look like I can drive faster?” Liam said. “If no one up there is willing to actually use the gas pedal, we’re going to be here until we rot.”
But it was too late. The man had caught up to us and was knocking on Liam’s window. Liam hit the open button with his thumb for about half a second, giving the guy no more than an inch gap. “Yes?”
“Liam Callahan?” said the man.
“Yes?” Liam said again. He hadn’t stopped the car, Arthur. We were still bumping along slowly across the ruts, and it was forcing the guy into an awkward sideways trot, but he didn’t seem discouraged.
“Theo Lacroix. I’m a documentary filmmaker. I’d like to talk to you about a possible project—”
Much to my relief, Liam cut him off. “Sorry. I’m under instructions not to speak off-record to the press.”
“I’m not the press,” the guy said. Liam was attempting to roll up the window, but the man had managed to wedge his fingers inside the frame. “I’ve already spoken with one of your board members. Vince Fay. He told me he was going to speak to you.” Keep in mind, Arthur, that this intrepid filmmaker was still jogging right alongside us. His steps were a little lead-footed, the strides of someone with knees on the fritz—the guy must have been in his mid-sixties at least—but he wasn’t the slightest bit out of breath. He was giving off the impression that he might be able to keep up with us for the next several miles.
“Well, he didn’t,” Liam said. We were finally coming up to the shoulder of the road, and I could feel him stepping on the gas. One of the cars behind us had started honking. “So I’d appreciate it if you would let go of my vehicle.”
“Just let me give you my card.” Somehow Lacroix had managed to reach into the pocket of his blue jeans, extract his card with his free hand, and shove it in the slot above the window.
“I don’t want your card,” Liam said. “I want you to stop accosting us. I want you to—”
“Liam, for God’s sake. Just take it.” I reached over and snatched the card. “There. There.” I waggled it at our unwanted hitchhiker. “See?”
At that, he finally let go. When he waved at me, I noticed that he was still wearing all three pairs of glasses.
I think that about sums things up. Are these details gory enough for you? I know the nights are long up there, and you don’t have TV, and you have more than enough time to kill. (Seriously. War and Peace and Moby-Dick? You’re just showing off.)
More later.
Jess.
From: Jessica Frobisher
Sent: Sunday, June 1, 2014 10:59 pm
To: Arthur Danielson
Cc:
Bcc:
Subject: Re:
Arthur, there’s nothing else to tell. The conversation ended there. I had plenty of good reasons for not pushing it. I sure as hell am not going to spell them all out for you.
He could have been referring to any number of things, you know. We have no shortage of skeletons in our marital closets—the predictable collection of festering specimens, the things that go bump in the night, etc. Honestly, I don’t think he even know
s you exist—besides meeting you that one time at that dreadful party at Thom’s.
But let’s change the subject. How about you send me a good poem from that Mary Oliver I sent you? I never got a chance to finish reading it before I mailed it.
I’m going out to dig.
j
From: Jessica Frobisher
Sent: Tuesday, June 3, 2014 11:12 pm
To: Arthur Danielson
Cc:
Bcc:
Subject: Re:
I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that. I’m not even sure it’s true. He might know something. Or part of something.
You remember that night you invited me over for dinner at your place so we could talk about that BioSys metadata problem? This is such a small thing, but when I walked in the door that night and was standing by the coatrack shucking off my jacket, Liam glanced up briefly from his laptop, tapped his chin, and said to me in a very offhanded way: “Your lipstick is smudged.” It was such an anomalous comment coming from him. He barely knows what lipstick is, and it took him three days to notice the last time I drastically cut all my hair off.
I paused, and—I remember this—I looked at the clock above the couch. It was 9:53, and that made me relieved for some reason. It seemed like such a sensible, prudent time. Liam was already reabsorbed in his work. That night was the first time, and at that point, Arthur, I stupidly believed that I had strayed over the foul line just once, and that I could sneak back across and go back to playing by the rules, and no damage had been done.
I was ruminating endlessly about all this last night while I was out digging. I keep turning up odd objects with my shovel. A grimy pink calico sunbonnet of Corinne’s. Five Scrabble letters. A wineglass with a shattered stem. A tennis bracelet crusted with mud and what appears—to my inexpert eye—to be real diamonds. Last night it was an empty turtle shell. It belonged, I’m afraid, to Jack’s turtle Spike, who went AWOL last summer and never came back. When I get done shoveling, I gather my finds and put them in a box on the shelf in the garage. If this lawsuit goes to trial and we lose (the “highly unlikely worst-case scenario,” according to the lawyers) we will at least have these artifacts to remember our old life by.
Be safe.
Your morbid,
Jess
From: Jessica Frobisher
Sent: Wednesday, June 4, 2014 2:42 pm
To: Arthur Danielson
Cc:
Bcc:
Subject: Re: the digging hour
I know. Late is the best time to do it, though. Everyone’s sleeping, or pretending to, behind their cozy blackout curtains. I can turn on all the motion-detector lights and plow through a few cubic feet of topsoil without any interruptions.
It’s true that my new hobby requires me to take GI-bleed amounts of Ibuprofen. I don’t even bother with the water anymore. I just crunch up the pills with my teeth and swallow the bitter grit, relishing the slow burn as they go down. But you should see me. I’ve gotten this digging thing down to a science. It’s like I’ve turned into a one-woman machine, a human backhoe. There’s something Zen-like about the rhythm of heaving dirt. Once I get started, I have a hard time stopping. It’s like it’s myself I’m carving away at—the carelessness, the regret, the useless longing. The explosion in the desert sky. You half a continent away. No wonder so many religions and spiritual gurus link physical suffering to enlightenment—because yes, Arthur, there are moments when I feel as though I’m coming close to something, to Truth with a capital T, the stuff of metaphysicians or your beloved poets.
Just for a moment, though. Then I stop and snap back to myself. My shoulders and back are on fire, and I know it’s a lie. I’m getting too old for this.
Liam has taken to pointedly stuffing up his ear canals with Jack’s swimming earplugs when he’s getting ready for bed. Or, if he’s up late working, he puts them in and paces around the house like some sort of deaf-mute. He hates the sound of the shoveling. He claims it’s like being lulled to sleep by the sound of a chain gang. Which has tempted me to start belting out a rendition of “Sixteen Tons” while I’m out there flinging dirt around. But there’s Jack and Corinne to think of—subjecting them to my singing would be tantamount to child abuse. And there’s also the fact that I don’t want to up the ante in our passive-aggressive standoff. I’m not sure what it would lead to, only that it wouldn’t be good.
There’s also been another interesting development, but I don’t have time to talk about it now. I’m out the door—there’s someone coming from MSU who wants to see (by which I mean drool over) the Prasophyllum, and she’s supposed to be here any second now.
Off to sell my soul to the company store.
Jess
From: Jessica Frobisher
Sent: Friday, May 31, 2014 6:06 am
To: Arthur Danielson
Cc:
Bcc:
Subject: Re: the plot thickens
Yeah, those numbers are screwy all right. Either you guys have hit the jackpot or your postdoc is asleep at the wheel. That’s what Rick Ellison would say. Back when I was working with him at BU and we would get some sort of freakily aberrant result on an assay, he would say, “Either we have just made a radical scientific breakthrough, or Frobisher’s been logging some serious head-in-ass time.” He was dying of cancer by then, you know. He had it for three years and he didn’t tell a single soul, not even the man he was practically married to. I’d been here for about a week when Karen e-mailed me to tell me. He was at work and he just went over face-first into a rack of glassware and centrifuge trays. The people down the hall thought something in the chem lab had blown.
Personally, I’m rooting for the inept postdoc theory.
We’ve had our own, unexpected plot twist here this week. Remember Theo Lacroix? The cameraman-cum-hitchhiker at the press conference? It turns out that he’s not just a delightful eccentric. He’s a bona fide filmmaker. Or more precisely—he’s half of a documentarian duo. His wife, Elle, is a heart-stoppingly beautiful Afrikaner heiress he took on as an apprentice and taught his craft—“the secret of hefting and wielding the camera like a weapon.” I lifted that last part out of this review. I’d never heard of either one of them (neither have you, I’d imagine), and nothing on the list of obscure Cannes films that Liam rattled off from his flawless memory rang even the faintest bell. I think I would remember if I’d heard of that kind of hefting and wielding or the “transformation of every gesture, no matter how unremarkable or how brutal, into a lyrical meditation on the experience of being alive in the world.” I attached a picture of the woman, and I mean, look at her, for God’s sake. That’s the kind of arresting, over-the-top beauty that probably stops charging rhinos and rock-hurling crowds of protestors dead in their tracks. No wonder time slows down and the world parts around the path of her lens. She probably doesn’t even know things work any other way.
Anyway, it turns out that she and Lacroix have been on Spaceco’s waiting list for over a year. They were originally scheduled to go up in June 2015. They signed up back at the beginning of last year, and that was the earliest slot they could get. Ravishing beauty and critical acclaim notwithstanding, the Lacroixs were low men on the Spaceco totem pole. Liam thinks—correction: Liam thought—it was funny to be cagey about how the Spaceco list worked. “We here at Spaceco believe firmly in the democratic principles upon which our fine country was founded,” he would say. (He was usually gesturing grandly with something here, a screwdriver or a fork.) “First come, first served. All men are created equal.” He would pause for a beat and then add: “Of course, some men are created more equal than others.” And then he’d lift his free hand and rub his thumb and fingers together.
It was a joke, Arthur. So don’t go raising your eyebrows in that meaningful way you do. It’s extremely unattractive. You think no one sees it, b
ut they do. I did, and I swear to God, it makes me want to clock you right in the teeth. I’m just not tall enough to draw a good bead on you. Liam never had anything to do with Spaceco politics or the calling in of favors, and not because he couldn’t have. So there.
At any rate, it doesn’t matter now. There are no longer any favors being called in. People aren’t exactly queuing up for a ride in Spaceco’s new Goddard shuttle. Hardly anybody wants anything from Spaceco these days—except their nonrefundable deposits back. The Lacroixs have suddenly found themselves catapulted to the top of the list, but the fact that they are the last bidders standing in a deal everyone else has bailed on doesn’t seem to faze them. Nope. It turns out that this is now an extremely advantageous position for them. Because, get this: Lacroix has decided that he wants to make a documentary about Spaceco.
God is an Astronaut Page 11