The Great Perhaps: A Novel

by Joe Meno

  To Whom It May Concern,

  You did not forgive your father for what he did or did not do.

  When Henry has finished scribbling this new letter, this last memory of his fading childhood, he folds the note inside the envelope, licks the seal, scrawls down the address, licks the stamp, and wheels himself toward the front desk. Without a word, he hands Nurse Rhoda the letters, then rolls himself forward, pausing before the glass security doors.

  “Keep moving, Mr. Casper,” Nurse Rhoda calls out, glancing suspiciously over the counter at him. Henry does not respond to her command, not immediately. Instead he stares at the smudgy glass divider, memorizing its exact shape, already planning his next escape: “Once I’m gone,” he mutters, “please don’t remember me.”

  Eleven

  AS JONATHAN FINDS HIS WAY BACK FROM THE RESEARCH lab to the unlit den late that Saturday evening, tired from visiting with his father all afternoon, he pulls off his double-knit sweater, unbuttons his shirt, and, on his hands and knees, crawls beneath the white sheets that hang like long tent flaps. He is startled to find Madeline there, in her white nightgown, bare shoulders freckled and glowing. He starts to mutter something, but his wife puts her narrow finger to his lips and then helps him unbutton the rest of his shirt, and soon they are kissing, their tongues exploring each other’s mouths, and Jonathan cannot remember the last time they kissed like this: they are like grad students all over again, making out in the stacks of the university’s library or in her tiny apartment afraid that her ditzy roommate might stumble in at any minute. Off come his pants, off comes her nightgown, and soon they are having intercourse, her limbs pressed against his limbs, their bodies tensed and moving in one delightful motion, Jonathan staring deeply into his wife’s brown eyes, wanting to say something, to thank her for waiting here for him, for knowing everything, but as soon as he opens his mouth to speak, she shushes him again, closing her eyes, a narrow smirk across her face. When they are done a few minutes later, Madeline pulls down her nightgown and crawls away through the flaps of the fort. Jonathan reaches out for her shoulder and asks, “Wait, where are you going?”

  Madeline smiles and says, “We’re still fighting.”

  “What? We are? Why?”

  “Why? Why do you think, Jonathan?”

  “I got to be honest, I really don’t know.”

  “Well, for one, because you are totally in your own world. For two, you expect me to take care of you and the girls and the house and the bills but you’re not willing to do the same for me.”

  “But you just had sex with me,” he mutters.

  “It doesn’t matter. We’re still separated,” she says, then disappears into the darkness of the poorly lit house.

  THE NEXT DAY is a Sunday, and in his office on campus Jonathan searches through the long list of his electronic correspondence. There is a response from Dragonflydr. Jonathan clicks on the miniature white electronic envelope and begins to read:

  Jonathan Casper,

  You are a coward. You do not have any bravery in your blood and like the animals you study you will hide in the dark and be doomed to a life of the most mediocre kind. With regrets,

  Heidi Arzt

  Sighing, he deletes the message and tries to finish his notes for tomorrow’s lecture, which is supposed to be about the evolutionary connection between physical traits and emotion. When the dull beige phone on his desk begins to ring, Jonathan, apprehensive, glares at it and lets it buzz once, twice, a third time, before answering.

  “Hello?” he mutters.

  “Jonathan? It’s Ben Brandt. From the Hausman Institute.”

  Jonathan cringes. “Hello, Ben.” He pinches the spot between his eyes and begins to shake his head. “You’re calling me on a Sunday?”

  “I wanted to try to get ahold of you today before you got the bad news from someone else tomorrow morning.”

  Jonathan sighs.

  The Hausman Institute is a benevolent, though not very imaginative scientific organization, and the major funder of Jonathan’s stalled prehistoric giant squid project.

  “It’s about your grant. We…we’ve had to pull your funding for next year.”

  “Why?” Jonathan whispers. “Why are you doing this to me?”

  “Jonathan, we just wanted to let you know that we think you are doing incredibly important, really sophisticated work. But because of financial constraints and the sheer number of new applicants this year, we’re unable…well, we’ve had to make the hard decision to no longer continue your funding.”

  “What am I supposed to?” Jonathan hisses, his teeth clicking against the phone. “What am I supposed to do now? This is my life. This is the only thing in the world that matters to me and you’re cutting me off at the knees. You’re fucking—” and, promptly remembering himself, his voice, his tone, “You’re fucking castrating me.”

  “Jonathan, I know you’re upset, but I’m sure there’ll be other funding opportunities for you. I was speaking with Laura Hamlin, from the Manguson Foundation—”

  “Laura Hamlin is an evangelical Christian. Those guys, those guys don’t want anything to do with evolution. They’d like us to spend our time searching for Noah’s ark.”

  “Jonathan, I hear your frustration, but the last thing I want to do is give you the impression that we don’t believe in the work you’ve been doing. We’re just not able to fund it any longer.”

  “Ben?”

  “Yes?”

  “Fuck you.”

  Jonathan slams down the phone, holding his hand over his face. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

  WHEN JONATHAN PULLS the Peugeot into the garage that evening, he notices the Volvo is missing. He crosses the small backyard, pushes open the back door, which is unlocked, walks down the hall to the family room, and collapses into his gray chair. Amelia and Thisbe are lying in front of the television, watching some drama about teens in southern California. Jonathan glances around and asks, “Where’s your mom?” but the girls only shrug.

  “Did either of you guys eat yet?” he asks.

  They both mutter a depressed no without turning from the TV.

  “Does anybody know what time it is?” Jonathan asks.

  Amelia sighs and looks at her wristwatch. “It’s like eight-thirty.”

  “How long have you been watching TV?”

  “An hour,” Amelia lies.

  “Then you’re done after this show.”

  “Fine,” she whispers.

  “Well, do either of you guys want something to eat?” he asks.

  “No,” Thisbe says, staring expressionlessly at the TV.

  “No,” Amelia says, turning over on her back.

  “Well, I’m going to go make myself something to eat.”

  “Good,” Amelia mutters.

  “Good.”

  Jonathan sucks in a breath and pulls himself out of his chair. He putters around the kitchen, opening and closing the cabinets, the refrigerator, not interested in anything he sees. He finds a half gallon of milk and drinks a long draught, then caps it and places it back in the fridge. He sniffs around again, opening and closing the same cabinets. Why is there no junk food anywhere in the house? Why not a Ding Dong or a Twinkie? Why not some hot dogs or frozen pizza? Where the fuck is Madeline? It’s eight o’clock on a Sunday night. What is happening to them? Does she still love him? Is she getting fucked by some dude with enormous biceps right now? Why can’t they just be unhappy together? Why can’t they just live like regular miserable people?

  Glancing down the hallway at his two daughters, both of them lit up like zombies from the blue glow of the television, Jonathan skulks off to the den, where once again he switches off the lights, climbs through the
opening of his fort, and pulls the sheet over his head. With the flashlight resting in his lap, he imagines he is at the bottom of the ocean, the sandy silt of silent, undisturbed civilization far above him. He starts to cry, the sound bursting like bubbles of dismay, rising through the air.

  ASLEEP LATER THAT EVENING, beneath the shadows of the white sheet, Jonathan is awoken by the sound of the telephone ringing somewhere beneath the rubble of the den. He crawls through the opening of the fort, searching frantically for the phone, finding its cord, then follows it to the receiver itself. On what may be the third or fourth ring, Jonathan answers it groggily.

  “Hello?” His voice sounds like he’s still underwater.

  “Dr. Casper?”

  “Yes. Hello?”

  “Dr. Casper?”

  “Yes, this is him. Who is this?”

  “This is Ted,” and then some mumbling on the other end. “And Catherine is here next to me.”

  “Who?”

  “Your grad students, Dr. Casper.”

  Jonathan nods, though there is no one around to see him do that.

  “Ted?”

  “Yes?”

  “Do you have any idea what time it is?”

  “It’s about two in the morning, sir. Two-twelve actually.”

  “Why are you calling me at two-twelve in the morning, Ted?”

  “Sir, we didn’t know if it was appropriate to phone you but we both felt it was important.”

  “Okay.”

  There is more mumbling on the other end.

  “Catherine wants you to know she did not think it was appropriate to call you.”

  “Okay.”

  “But we both agreed that we thought maybe you’d like to know.”

  “Know what, Ted?”

  “It’s the French, sir.”

  Jonathan then realizes he is standing. He is standing and sweating all of a sudden.

  “The French?” His heart is beating hard now, his hand clenching the phone tightly. “What about the French?”

  “Sir…” He can hear the grad student thinking, the sound of his lips parting and his tongue against his teeth. “Sir…”

  “Just say it, Ted.”

  “They found it, sir. Tusoteuthis longa. They think they got one. It was just on CNN. Catherine saw it and then came over and woke me.”

  “CNN.”

  “That French scientist, Albert, he was on TV. I guess they found it near Japan.”

  “Japan.”

  “It was in international waters. That’s how they got it so fast. Do you want to meet or something, sir? Catherine thought maybe you’d like to discuss a—”

  “No,” Jonathan murmurs. “No.”

  “Well, we can be at the lab as early as you need us, sir.”

  “Ted?”

  “Yes?”

  “Go back to sleep.” Jonathan hangs up the phone, setting the device back on the carpeted floor where he found it. Staggering, he stumbles through the dark, down the hallway, and finds the television remote. He switches the TV on and then begins flipping through the channels, finally finding CNN. There behind the anchor desk is a bright-eyed woman, finishing up some news story about the latest tragedy in Iraq. Then the camera switches angles and she turns, her expression changing, softer now, pleased to introduce something less awful, less dreadful, a pixelated photograph appearing in a box above her shoulder announcing: SEA MONSTER DISCOVERED!

  Jonathan, leaning forward, turning the volume on the television set up and up and up, stares in both wonder and a wretched sense of sadness as the news anchor announces, “And now some breaking scientific news: a few hours ago, researchers announced the discovery of a species of giant squid thought to be extinct for millions of years. An international team led by Dr. Jacques Albert of the French Sédimentologie Association made this surprising scientific find off the coast of Japan. Considered by many as the leading expert in the field of evolutionary science, Albert has been searching for this particular species of squid for more than a decade…”

  Jonathan switches off the television, his face falling into his hands. All of his work, all of his work is nothing now, completely useless. Gone, gone, gone. He is too upset to even cry, to even make a sound, though he hears himself gritting his teeth. He looks up, staring into the darkness of the television room, wishing he were dead. A glow, a glimmer of light suddenly catches his eye. He turns and stands, staring out the curtained windows. There is something standing in the backyard. There is someone standing in his yard at two in the morning. Slightly panicked, Jonathan carefully parts the curtains and sees it is Madeline, in her white nightgown and robe, staring up at the trees. She is holding a flashlight in her hand and she is looking up at something.

  Twelve

  A. Beginning that Monday, Madeline follows the cloud in her Volvo every day after work. The cloud seems to follow the same general route, stepping northeast toward the open expanse of the dark blue lake, standing in the air for an hour or more. Madeline will park in the emergency lane to watch it, listening to NPR or the Beatles. Then the cloud will start moving north toward downtown, like some celestial commuter, momentarily disappearing in the windows of the highest skyscrapers, then reappearing, silently circling back to its spot just above the family’s garage. Perhaps it is waiting for something. Madeline does not know. Sometimes the cloud-figure will veer from its normal path, heading way off course to the north, stopping over a particular row of trees along the lake. It is in these moments, uncertain as to where the cloud-figure might be going, that she feels strangely content, suddenly sure of life, of everything, the front seat littered with Diet Coke cans and candy bar wrappers, the Volvo swift and unsteady, swerving happily in and out of traffic.

  B. Madeline decides to make a map of the cloud-figure’s movement in one of her research notebooks. The map, drawn in erasable black pen, describes a large ellipse, a flattened-out circle. The cloud always heads northeast, then north, then west, then south, ending in Madeline’s backyard. Madeline does not think about anything while she is driving, not Jonathan, not his father, not her awful failing experiment—the birds are still murdering each other—not her daughters, who have become distant and obnoxious, not the incident between her and Eric, the other researcher, not the war in Iraq, not the president, not the poor captured soldier who is waiting to see if he will lose his head, not anything other than the cloud-figure itself.

  C. Night after night, Madeline hurries home from work, rushes into her backyard, and begins the long circuitous path through the city, wondering exactly where the cloud will go next, following the cloud-figure late into the evening. In the backseat of the Volvo, Madeline has even packed a suitcase with a few days’ worth of clothing: work attire and makeup and even a toothbrush. She has slept in the car these last few nights—following the cloud to where it hovers doubtfully above the lake—parking in one of the lakefront lots and climbing into the station wagon’s backseat to try and get some sleep.

  Tonight Madeline listens to the radio while she sits in the driver’s seat, waiting there alone in the dark, parked near the great blue lake. It is already one o’clock in the morning. The cloud-figure has not moved for the last two hours, drifting along an empty span of gray water and black rocks. Bored, Madeline switches the radio on, tuning it in to NPR. In the darkness, she hears a rebroadcast of the third and final presidential debate between George Bush and John Kerry, their voices distant and trebly. Bob Schieffer, the moderator, asks, “Will our children and grandchildren ever live in a world as safe and secure as the world in which we grew up?”

  John Kerry responds: “I believe that this president, regrettably, rushed us into a war, made decisions about foreign policy, pushed alliances away. And, as a result, America is now bearing this extraordinary burden where we are not as safe as we ought to be.”

  George Bush: “Yes, we can be safe and secure, if we stay on the offense against the terrorists and if we spread freedom and liberty around the world.”

  Switching th
e radio off, Madeline then climbs into the backseat. She lies down on top of the uncomfortable vinyl and folds her arms under her head, staring out the windows at the nighttime sky, thinking, When did we get so used to having to always fight somebody? When did we get so used to the idea of war? How come no one’s really talking about how terrible the idea really is? How come no one’s asking any questions? And how come there are no protests? How come there’s no rationing? No rubber drives? How did war become such a distant, everyday thing? She thinks of what her parents had to go through during World War Two, and what it was like growing up during Vietnam, she can still remember girls in her class crying during the Pledge of Allegiance each morning. She remembers her older brother shouting at her father, and a few friends and boyfriends her own age hoping the war would end before they would be eligible for the draft. She remembers watching a protest, somewhere downtown, and all the people involved were all just kids, only a few years older than she was. How come my own girls aren’t more upset by what’s happening? Why doesn’t it seem more important to anybody? And how come no one’s affected by anything like they used to be?

  Thirteen

  WITH THE BLACK BERET ATOP HER HEAD, HER WEEK and a half of suspension served, Amelia walks into school that Monday morning dressed as a cloud. The cloud outfit is made out of cardboard and has been painted shiny black and gray. Amelia waits to be sure her mother is gone and her father has left for school before she carries it out of her room, through the kitchen, and out the front door. Amelia has come up with a new plan for her history project: she will prevent the further spread of capitalism by making the world aware of how far-reaching the influence of soulless corporations already extends.