Blue Collar, White Collar, No Collar

by Richard Ford

  “Don’t use your fingers. Christopher,” Truus said, sitting down with him. “Use your fork.”

  “It won’t reach,” he said.

  She pushed the plate an inch or two toward him.

  “Here, try now,” she said.

  Later, watching them play outside on the grass, Gloria could not help noticing a wild, almost a bestial aspect in her son’s excitement, as if a crudeness were somehow becoming part of him. soiling him. A line from the many that lay writhing in her head came forth. I hope you will be ready to take my big cock when I see you again. P.S. Have you had any big cocks lately? I miss you and think of you and it makes me very hard.

  “Have you ever read anything like that?” Gloria asked.

  “Not exactly.”

  “It’s the most disgusting thing. I can’t believe it.”

  “Of course, she didn’t write them,” Ned said.

  “She kept them, that’s worse.”

  He had them all in his hand. If you came to Europe it would be great, one said. We would travel and you could help me. We could work together. I know you would be very good at it. The girls we would be looking for are between 13 and 18 years old. Also guys, a little older.

  “You have to go in there and tell her to leave,” Gloria said. “Tell her she has to be out of the house.”

  He looked at the letters again. Some of them are very well developed, you would be surprised. I think you know the type we are looking for.

  “I don’t know . . . Maybe these are just a silly kind of love letter.”

  “Ned, I’m not kidding, she said.

  Of course, there would be a lot of fucking, too.

  “I’m going to call the FBI.”

  “No,” he said, “that’s all right. Here, take these. I’ll go and tell her.”

  Truus was in the kitchen. As he spoke to her he tried to see in her grey eyes the boldness he had overlooked. There was only confusion. She did not seem to understand him. She went in to Gloria. She was nearly in tears. “But why?” she wanted to know.

  “I found the letters” was all Gloria would say.

  “What letters?”

  They were lying on the desk. Gloria picked them up.

  “They’re mine,” Truus protested. “They belong to me.”

  “I’ve called the FBI,” Gloria said.

  “Please, give them to me.”

  “I’m not giving them to you. I’m burning them.”

  “Please let me have them,” Truus insisted.

  She was confused and weeping. She passed Ned on her way upstairs. He thought he could see the attributes praised in the letters, the Saudi letters, as he later called them.

  In her room Truus sat on the bed. She did not know what she would do or where she would go. She began to pack her clothes, hoping that somehow things might change if she took long enough. She moved very slowly.

  “Where are you going?” Christopher said from the door.

  She did not answer him. He asked again, coming into the room.

  “I’m going to see my mother,” she said.

  “She’s downstairs.”

  Truus shook her head.

  “Yes, she is,” he insisted.

  “Go away. Don’t bother me right now,” she said in a flat voice.

  He began kicking at the door with his foot. After a while he sat on the couch. Then he disappeared.

  When the taxi came for her, he was hiding behind some trees out near the driveway. She had been looking for him at the end.

  “Oh, there you are,” she said. She put down her suitcases and kneeled to say good-bye. He stood with his head bent. From a distance it seemed a kind of submission.

  “Look at that,” Gloria said. She was in the house. Ned was standing behind her. “They always love sluts,” she said.

  Christopher stood beside the road after the taxi had gone.

  That night he came down to his mother’s room. He was crying and she turned on the light.

  “What is it?” she said. She tried to comfort him. “Don’t cry, darling. Did something frighten you? Here, Mummy will take you upstairs. Don’t worry. Everything will be all right.”

  “Good night, Christopher,” Ned said.

  “Say good night, darling.”

  She went up, climbed into bed with him, and finally got him to sleep, but he kicked so much she came back down, holding her robe closed with her hand. Ned had left her a note: his back was giving him trouble, he had gone home.

  Truus’ place was taken by a Colombian woman who was very religious and did not drink or smoke. Then by a black girl named Mattie who did both but stayed for a long time.

  One night in bed, reading Town and Country, Gloria came across something that stunned her. It was a photograph of a garden party in Brussels, only a small photograph but she recognized a face, she was absolutely certain of it, and with a terrible sinking feeling she moved the page closer to the light. She was without makeup and at her most vulnerable. She examined the picture closely. She was no longer talking to Ned, she hadn’t seen him for over a year, but she was tempted to call him anyway. Then, reading the caption and looking at the picture again she decided she was mistaken. It wasn’t Truus, just someone who resembled her, and anyway what did it matter? It all seemed long ago. Christopher had forgotten about her. He was in school now, doing very well, on the soccer team already, playing with eight- and nine-year-olds, bigger than them and bright. He would be six three. He would have girlfriends hanging all over him, girls whose families had houses in the Bahamas. He would devastate them.

  Still, lying there with the magazine on her knees she could not help thinking of it. What had actually become of Truus? She looked at the photograph again. Had she found her way to Amsterdam or Paris and, making dirty movies or whatever, met someone? It was unbearable to think of her being invited to places, slimmer now, sitting in the brilliance of crowded restaurants with her complexion still bad beneath the makeup and the morals of a housefly. The idea that there is an unearned happiness, that certain people find their way to it, nearly made her sick. Like the girl Ned was marrying who used to work in the catering shop just off the highway near Bridgehampton. That had been a blow, that had been more than a blow. But then nothing, almost nothing, really made sense anymore.

  Jim Shepard

  MINOTAUR

  Kenny I hadn’t seen in, what, three, four years. Kenny started with me way back when, the two of us standing there with our hands in our pants right outside the wormhole. Kenny wanders into the Windsock last night like the Keith Richards version of himself with this girl who looks like some movie star’s daughter. “Is that you?” he says when he spots me in a booth. “This is the guy you’re always talking about?” Carly asks once we’re a few minutes into the conversation. The girl’s name turns out to be Celestine. Talking to me, every so often he gets distracted and we have to wait until he takes his mouth away from hers.

  “So my husband brings you up all the time and then, when I ask what you did together, he always goes, ‘I can’t help you there,’” Carly tells him. “Which of course he knows I know. But he likes to say it anyway.”

  With her fingers Celestine brings his cheek over toward her, like nobody’s talking, and once they’re kissing she works on gently opening his mouth with hers. After a while he makes a sound that’s apparently the one she wanted to hear, and she disengages and returns her attention to us.

  “How’s your wife?” Carly asks him.

  Kenny says they’re separated and that she’s settled down with a project manager from Lockheed.

  “Nice to meet you,” Carly tells Celestine.

  “Mmm-hmm,” Celestine says.

  The wormhole for Kenny and me was what people in the industry call the black world, which is all about projects so far off the books that you’re not even allowed to put CLASSIFIED in the gap in your résumé afterwards. You’re told during recruitment that people in the know will know, and that when it comes to everybody else you shouldn’t
give a shit.

  If you want to know how big the black world is, go click on COMPTROLLER and then RESEARCH AND DEVELOPMENT on the DOD’s Web site and make a list of the line items with names like Cerulean Blue and budgets listed as “No Number.” Then compare the number of budget items you can add up, and subtract that from the DOD’s printed budget. Now there’s an eye-opener for you home actuaries: you’re looking at a difference of forty billion dollars.

  The black world’s everywhere: regular air bases have restricted compounds; defense industries have permanently segregated sites. And anywhere that no one in his right mind would ever go to in the Southwest, there’s a black base. Drive along a wash in the back of nowhere in Nevada and you’ll suddenly hit a newish fence that goes on forever. Follow the fence and you’ll encounter some bland-looking guys in an unmarked pickup. Refuse to do what they say and they’ll shoot the tires out from under you and give you a lift to the county lockup.

  All of this was before 9/11. You can imagine what it’s like now.

  For a while Kenny helped out at Groom Lake as an engineering troubleshooter for a C-5 airlift squadron that flew only late-night operations, ferrying classified aircraft from the aerospace plants to the test sites. They had a patch that featured a crescent moon over NOYFB. “None Of Your Fucking Business,” he explained when I first saw it. He said that during the down time he hung with the stealth-bomber guys with their Huge Deposit–No Return jackets, and he told his wife when she asked that he worked in the Nellis Range, which was a little like telling someone that you worked in the Alps.

  I’d met him a few years earlier when Minotaur was hatched out at Lockheed’s Skunk Works. He’d been brought in for the sister program, Minion. We were developing an ATOP—an Advanced Technology Observation Platform—and even over the crapper it read: Furtim Vigilans: Vigilance Through Stealth.

  It wasn’t the secrecy as much as the slogans and patches and badges that drove Carly nuts. “Only you guys would have patches for secret programs,” she said. “Like what’re we supposed to do, be intrigued? Guess what’s going on?”

  In the old days Kenny’s unit had as its symbol the mushroom, and under it, in Latin: Always in the Dark. The black world’s big on patches and Latin. I had one for Minotaur that read Doing God’s Work with Other People’s Money. I’d heard there was a unit out at Point Mugu that had the ultimate patch: just a black-on-black circle.

  “‘Gustatus Similis Pullus,’” Carly said. She was tilting her head to read an oval yellow patch on Kenny’s shoulder.

  “You know Latin?” he asked.

  “Do you know how long I’ve been tired of this?” she told him.

  “I don’t know Latin,” Celestine volunteered.

  “‘Tastes Like Chicken,’” he translated.

  “Nice,” Carly told him.

  “I don’t get it,” Celestine said.

  “Neither does she,” he told her.

  “Oooh. Snap,” Carly said.

  “People’re supposed to taste like chicken,” I finally told them.

  “Oh, right,” Carly said. “So what’re you guys doing, eating people?”

  “That’s what we do: we eat people,” Kenny agreed. He made teeth with his forefingers and thumbs and had them bite up and down.

  Carly gave him a head shake and turned to the bar. “Are we gonna order?” she asked.

  It’s all infowar now. Delivering or screwing up content. We can convince a surface-to-air missile that it’s a Maytag dryer. Tell an over-the-horizon radar array that it’s through for the day, or that it wants to play music. And we’ve got lookdown capabilities that can tell you from space whether your aunt’s having a Diet Coke or a regular.

  What Carly’s forgetting is that it’s not just about teasing. There’s something to be said for esprit de corps. There’s all that home-team stuff.

  I heard from various sources that Kenny’s been all over: Kirtland, Hanscom, White Sands, Groom Lake, Tonopah. “What’s my motto?” he said, in front of his wife, the last time I saw him. “‘A Lifetime of Silence,’” she answered back, as though he’d told her in the nicest possible way to go fuck herself.

  What’s it like? Carly asked me once. Not being able to tell the people you’re closest to anything about what you care about most? She was talking about how upset I was at Kenny’s having dropped right off the face of the earth. He’d gone off to his new assignment without a backwards glance some two weeks before, with not even a Have a good one, bucko left behind on a Post-it. She was talking about having just come home from a good vacation with her husband and watching him throw his drink onto the roof because of an e-mail in response to some inquiries that read No can do, in terms of a back tell. Your Hansel stipulated no bread crumbs.

  The glass had rolled back off the shingles into the azaleas. By way of explaining the duration of my upset, I’d let her in on a little of what I’d risked by that little fishing expedition. I asked if she had any idea how long it took to get the kind of security clearance her breadwinner toted around or how many federales with pocket protectors had fine-tooth-combed my every last Visa bill.

  “I almost said hello to you two Christmases ago,” Kenny told me now. “Out at SWC in Schriever.”

  “You were at SWC in Schriever?” I asked.

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake,” Carly said. “Don’t talk like this if you’re not going to tell us what it means.”

  “The Space Warfare Center in Colorado,” Kenny said, shrugging when he saw my face. “Let’s give the bad guys a fighting chance.”

  “I didn’t know we had a Space Warfare Center,” Celestine said.

  “A Space Warfare Center?” Kenny asked her.

  At our rehearsal dinner, now three years back in the rearview mirror, during a lull at our table Carly’s college roommate said, “I never had a black eye, but I always kinda wished I did.” Carly looked surprised and said, “Well, I licked one all over once.” And everybody looked at her. “You licked a black eye?” I finally asked. And Carly went, “Oh, I thought she said ‘black guy.’”

  “You licked a black guy all over?” I asked her later that night. She couldn’t see my face in the dark but she knew what I was getting at.

  “I did. And it was so good,” she said. Then she put a hand on the inside of each of my knees and spread my legs as wide as she could.

  “What’s the biggest secret you think I ever kept from you?” she asked during our most recent relocation, which was last Memorial Day. We had a parakeet in the backseat and were bouncing a U-Haul over a road that you would have said hadn’t seen vehicular traffic in twenty-five years. I’d been lent out to Northrup and couldn’t even tell her for how long.

  “I don’t know,” I told her. “I figured you had nothing but secrets.” Then she dropped the subject, so for two weeks I went through her e-mails.

  “I don’t know anything about this Kenny guy,” she told me the day I threw the drink. “Except that you can’t get over that he disappeared.”

  “You know, sometimes you just register a connection,” I told her later that night in bed. “And not talking about it doesn’t have to be some big deal.”

  “So it was kind of a romantic thing,” she said.

  “Yeah, it was totally physical,” I told her. “Like you and your mom.”

  Carly had gotten this far by telling herself that compartmentalizing wasn’t all bad: that some doors may have been shut off but that the really important ones were wide open. And in terms of intimacy, she was far and away as good as things were going to get for me. We had this look we gave each other in public that said, I know. I already thought that. We’d each been engaged when we met and we’d stuck with each other through a lot of other people’s crap. Late at night we lay nose to nose in the dark and told each other stuff nobody else had ever heard us say. I told her about some of the times I’d been a dick and she told me about a kid she’d miscarried, and about another she’d put up for adoption when she was seventeen. She had no idea where he wa
s now, but not a day went by that she didn’t think about it. We called them both Little Jimmy. And for a while there was all this magical thinking, and not asking each other all that much because we thought we already knew.

  That not-being-on-the-same-page thing had become a bigger issue for me lately, though that’s something she didn’t know. Which is perfect, she would’ve said.

  What I’d been working on at that point had gone south a little. Another way of putting it would be to say that what I was doing was wrong. The ATOP we’d developed for Minotaur had been an unarmed drone that could hover above one spot like a satellite couldn’t, providing instant lookdown for as long as a battlefield commander wanted it. But how long had it taken for us to retrofit them with air-to-surface missiles? And how many Fiats and Citroëns have those drones taken out because somebody back in Langley thought the right target was in the car?

  There was an army of us out there up to the same sorts of hijinks and not able to talk about it. Where I worked, everything was black: not only the test flights, but also the resupply, the maintenance, the search-and-rescue. And the security scrutiny never went away. The guy who led my last project team, at home when he went to bed, after he hit the lights, waved to the surveillance guys. His wife never understood why even in August they had to do everything under the sheets.

  On black-world patches you see a lot of sigmas because that’s the engineering symbol for the unknown value.

  “The Minotaur’s the one in the labyrinth, right?” the materials guy in my project team asked the first day. When I told him it was, he wanted to know if the Minotaur was supposed to know where it was going, or if it was lost, too. That’d be funny, I told him. And we joked about the monster and the hero just wandering around through all these dark corridors, nobody finding anybody.

  And now here I was and here Kenny was, with poor Carly trying to get a fix on either one of us.

  “So what brings you to this neck of the woods?” I finally asked him once we were well into our second drinks.