The Curiosity

by Stephen Kiernan

  “And that,” the current guest was saying, handing out servings as the camera neared her face, “is how you make the perfect strawberry shortcake.”

  “Cut to one, closing shot.”

  “Thanks so much, Elise,” Molly said, smiling. The show’s theme music came up, stirring strings above a marching band of horns. “We’ll take a quick break now, and be right back with the national weather. Stay tuned.”

  “Let’s see if I can clean my plate before the break is up,” said Tom, yuk-yukking until the moment the lights blinked out.

  The onstage smiles vanished just as quickly. Tom hurried off, handing his plate to an underling just offstage. Molly trotted to a table where she picked up her cell phone to poke at its screen. The woman in the apron sat alone for a moment, then stood.

  “This way, please,” someone called, and she wandered forward in the dark. Then the houselights came up, bright as day. I stood still, blinking. The dirt showed even worse.

  All at once a slice of my past returned to me, from interviews in those weeks after we first returned from the Arctic. All the news outlets wanted us. I remembered the smell I found on my clothes, somewhere between excitement and fear. Everything was speculation then, or hope. Meanwhile, back in the chamber, a body lay encased in ice, which became the man now standing fifteen feet away, wearing a yellow tie I was the first to knot around his neck.

  Alex led Jeremiah to a seat, then came to stand beside me. “He’ll be fine,” she said, scanning the set as if hunting for something amiss.

  A dowdy older man waddled to a side area, wearing tweedy clothes like someone’s bad idea of Sherlock Holmes. He scanned his notes, tucked them in his jacket pocket, folded away his glasses. He took out a curved pipe, biting the mouthpiece, then stared into space.

  “Places,” called a voice overhead. The houselights dropped. “Three, two—”

  “Lights up,” said the director. “Give me three zooming to Waldo.”

  Spotlights flooded the side area, where the man in tweed took an imaginary draw on his pipe and blew out clear air. “Waldo’s Weather welcomes you back with windy, good-morning wishes,” he said, “and today’s question of the day: How do weather forecasters know the future? And why are their predictions often incorrect? Elementary, my dear Watson.”

  He continued with his patter, explaining barometric pressure, the prevailing wind direction for different kinds of fronts. Screens behind him displayed a series of simple graphics, puffs of white for clouds, blue arrows to represent wind. His segment lasted about three minutes. Jeremiah sat in the dimmed main stage. I felt his solitude. When Waldo started the forecast, a national map depicting various storms or calms, Tom ambled up while Molly put down her phone. They took their seats, adjusted their clothes. Tom angled his head side to side, stretching his neck muscles. The lights came up.

  At first it was a game of softball: What had Lynn been like? Were the people of nineteenth-century Boston friendly? Then Molly began homing in.

  “What do you make of our society today? What are our shortcomings?”

  Jeremiah answered instantly. “You’re vulgar.”

  Tom laughed loudly. “Ya think? Ya think?”

  “I hear obscenities everywhere. Also I find a needlessly heightened sexuality in all manner of transactions, from advertising to news to how people dress in public.”

  “Wow. Any other criticisms?”

  “Your culture today is violent. I have seen bloody entertainments, vicious computer games. It is no surprise that violent crimes are an everyday occurrence.”

  “Isn’t solving those problems the responsibility of the political world?” Molly asked. “And if so, what about your great friendship with the vice president?”

  “I would hardly describe a single meeting at his request as a friendship. If that were so, I could claim a closer bond with a president.”

  “Wait a second,” Tom said, pretending to scratch his pate like a hayseed. “You met the president, too?”

  “Not the current one, no, sir. But in 1902, President Roosevelt conducted a Progressive Tour of New England, with a dinner stop in Lynn. As a judge and civic leader, I spent three hours in his company, far more than with Vice President Walker.” He leaned toward Molly with a pinched grin. “You might say we were great friends.”

  She smiled, too, but coldly. Some kind of game was on. “Would you say you have led a charmed life, Judge Rice? I mean, Harvard Law School, the youngest judge in the state at the time of your appointment, grand adventures exploring the northern seas—”

  “Do you mean aside from the fact that I died? And lost everything, friends and home and family?”

  To me, Jeremiah was beginning to sound like a scold. But I understood his intent, his interest in using this moment in the lights.

  “Well,” Molly persisted, “your life has been one great spectacle since reanimation, wouldn’t you say? One crowd after another?”

  “People have been incredibly generous and kind, for which I am grateful. Honestly, though, I encountered larger crowds in my past life. The energy people spend today on gossip about celebrities was, in my time, directed toward exploration and learning. Once our group announced that we were sailing above the Arctic Circle, people waited in line to see us. We drew thousands, filling churches and opera halls. I never drank more champagne.”

  “Now you’re talking.” Tom guffawed. “Good times.” Molly narrowed her eyes but he pressed on, oblivious.

  “Hold on three,” the director said. I noticed that the cameras did not cut to her face, so the audience would have no notion that she was annoyed.

  “So tell me,” Tom said, “what sort of fun do you like to have now? Is there anything good on TV?”

  “Little,” Jeremiah said. “It is mostly shallow, false, and predictable.”

  “Ya like any of it?”

  “Oh, yes. Twice I have seen the Red Sox play on the small screen. Those games struck me as entertaining and full of surprises. A fine ball club.”

  “You can say that again,” Tom yukked. “Did you know this station is part owner of the Sox? Hey, we could catch a game, ya know.”

  “Honestly? In the stadium?” He sat up straight. “That would be splendid.”

  I brought one hand to my mouth. How was it that Jeremiah struck an antagonistic tone with the smart one, but was fast becoming friends with the frat boy? They laughed, making plans to talk later about going to a game. Finally Molly saw her chance, charging back into the interview.

  “What do you say to people who insist that you are a fake?”

  “Pardon me?”

  “A hoax, a sham. There are many, many skeptics out there.”

  “Hm.” Jeremiah looked off for a moment, thinking, the silent airtime weighing tons. “I suppose there would be, yes.”

  “What do you say to these people, who think you are little more than an elaborate publicity stunt?”

  Jeremiah turned so that his knees were nearly touching hers. “There have always been people for whom cynicism is a reflex. Perhaps disbelieving feels safer. Either way, there is little to be gained by insisting to them that something is so, when they do not wish to believe it. The rather, therefore, we must let our deeds be our ambassadors. Our challenge is to live with all the sincerity that is in our hearts, and hope that those who doubt will come to see the truth.”

  “Right,” Tom said, chortling. “Good luck with that, fella.”

  In that moment I felt the secret thrill of a teacher who sees her student surpass her. Jeremiah no longer needed me to navigate this world. He was ready to shape it to his will.

  “That’s all we have time for,” Molly said. “Thanks for joining us, Judge Rice, Boston’s own time traveler. Headline news is next, plus the results of a new survey: how often does the average married couple have sex? The answer may surprise you.”

  �
�Uh-oh,” Tom said. “Is my wife going to want to know this?”

  Molly made an openmouthed smile. “We’ll be right back.”

  The theme music began playing again. “Camera two,” the director said. “Snug on his mug till we cut away.”

  Jeremiah’s face filled the screen. The soundman on my right removed his headset. “Looky looky, what a prince.”

  Alex stood on my other side. “Prince of what?” she said.

  “Prince of the world that is going to eat him alive.”

  CHAPTER 28

  Play Ball

  (Daniel Dixon)

  No question, my first mistake is wearing shorts. All those months inside the four walls of the project, without a break to report on a single desert expedition or tour the Everglades in an airboat, my legs have become pasty white. Gams of a dead guy, I swear.

  But I don’t know where our seats will be. If we’re parked out in the freaking bleachers somewhere, full sun for the whole afternoon, I have no intention of roasting in long pants.

  Partly I still can’t believe I am going. How our old Frank scored three seats for a Saturday-afternoon game against the Yanks, I still don’t entirely understand. Something about agreeing with a TV show to be filmed during the game and interviewed after, is what it was, but I didn’t pay attention to details. The chance to watch the Bronx Bombers spank the Sox at home was too good to pass up. I have loved the Yankees about since I could walk, and couldn’t care less who they beat on any particular day.

  The only disappointment is that Dr. Kate has some research thing to finish for Carthage today. I’d been drooling at the notion of seeing her in shorts. Then, out of the whole remaining lab staff, only Gerber wants to see the game, which proves what a pack of nerds that crew is, but which therefore left seat number three available for yours truly. Ka-chingg.

  As a result I’m not carrying a camera, or notebook, or much besides a wallet and phone, when I hit the project offices. As any reporter with ten minutes’ experience will tell you, this is always when the biggest news happens.

  After muscling my way through the shouters and oddballs outside the building’s front door, I come bopping off the elevator feeling like the original Mr. “Take Me Out to the Ball Game,” when a line of guys in suits strolls out of the private conference room. I pull back for a second. Carthage shakes each one’s hand, thanking them for coming in on a weekend. He’s smiling but these guys are as dour as undertakers. Each one has a green binder tucked under his arm. Thomas swipes his security badge and presses the elevator call button for them, a signal of their importance as obvious as a fire alarm.

  I duck behind a door and whip out my phone. Only a cheapo camera but it will do. The suits are not talking, not a word. There are enough of them that some have to wait after the elevator fills up. Smile fellas, I think, snapshotting. You’ll catch the next one. No need for introductions just now.

  After the second elevator loads, the doors whispering closed, Carthage turns to Thomas. “What’s your take?”

  “Six interested, three eager. Too bad Bronsky didn’t show.”

  “Maybe four. How many will break the confidentiality contract?”

  “You saw how readily they signed, sir. I think we’re secure in that department.”

  “Let’s do a full review and debrief.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  They march off toward Carthage’s office. Funny, I have never seen Carthage consult anyone before, much less his lackey. Anyway I can’t help snooping in the conference room, and yes, they’ve left two goodies behind. One is a list of names, which I photograph in a heartbeat. The other is one of those green binders. Score.

  Of course I don’t have a briefcase or anywhere to hide the damn thing. I hustle out to the hallway and swipe my badge to enter the control room.

  “Dixon.”

  It’s Thomas. I turn, holding the binder behind my back. “What’s up?”

  “What brings you in on a Saturday?”

  “The ballgame, remember?”

  “Right.” He thinks for a second. “When did you get here?”

  “Dunno.” I shrug. “How long does it take to walk down this hallway?”

  Thomas makes some kind of internal calculation, then heads for the conference room. “Have fun at the game.”

  I open the control room door. “You bet.”

  But he’s already gone. In the control room, I snoop through the glass as he hustles out with that list of names. He must have forgotten that Mr. Bronsky had a binder coming too.

  Gerber is rocking out at his desk, headphones clomped on his ears, a grin of bliss on his face, and I can just imagine where that came from. I look around for someplace to stash the binder, but every place seems too obvious. Then I see it: the out-box-type basket where Gerber puts old Perv du Jours after posting a new one. Not much chance of discovery there. I stuff the binder underneath the pile, scrambling the papers over it to look naturally messy.

  Gerber is in shorts, too. And if my hams look strange, his are downright comical. He’s wearing these plaid Bermudas like something out of 1949, legs as pale as a salamander. We are such lab rats in here, I swear. The Lazarus Project menagerie.

  I goose him with my thumb. “Our hero awake yet?”

  “Yes indeed,” Gerber says, removing the headphones and straightening in his chair. “Already up when I got here at six.”

  I scan the closed chamber curtains. “He’s that stoked to see the game?”

  “Or something,” Gerber answers. Before I ask what he means by that, he points at the clock. “We ought to get rolling, since they want us there so early.”

  “On the case,” I say, starting around the corner. “What’s the pass code again?”

  “Two-six-six-seven,” he calls, without a thought. But I’m thinking: Bingo. Finally got it.

  I’ve never liked the lockdown part of this place, as if somebody must be doing something illegal. Or old Frank is somehow a prisoner. Punching in 2667, I notice the letters above each number like on a phone. It hits me: maybe the pass code is actually a word. The door slides back and the judge is sitting reading. He’s wearing a suit and a bright yellow tie. You’d have thought we were going to a debutante ball.

  Which only shows that I forgot what a freak fest life is whenever the judge is involved. I mean if Gerber and I look weird, old Frank takes the blue ribbon. “What’s with the getup?”

  “I’ll need to purchase a hat somewhere,” he says. “A tall one that befits the grandstand. Do you know of a good place we might stop along the way?”

  Look, I know better than to indulge the guy, no matter how much everyone else makes a habit of kissing his 140-year-old behind. But the fact is, he’s going to roast in that outfit, not to mention how popular a tall hat would be in the snug of Fenway Park. He’ll be pissing people off four rows back. Which amuses me to consider, until an idea comes along that’s so much better, it might as well be whistling a happy tune.

  “I know just the lid for you,” I say. “And a perfect spot we can get one.”

  “Excellent,” he says, setting his book on the bed as carefully as if it was the Bible. I snoop and it’s Great Expectations. I remember ninth-grade agony wading through that doorstop, dull as a raining Sunday. The only thing I liked was how the crazy rich lady faked everyone into thinking she would leave a wad to the kid, but the money turned out to be from a criminal he’d helped years before. Didn’t see that one coming.

  Our Frank jumps to his feet, tugging his vest sharp. “Shall we be off?”

  I notice that lately he has more spark to him, and not just about a baseball game. He’s faster to learn things, quicker to answer questions, less likely to need a nap. It’s like he’s finally all the way awake.

  “Yeah, let’s grab Gerber and get moving. You know you’re throwing the opening pitch?”

  “What? I d
id not know that, no. My goodness, what an honor.”

  “Well, just make sure the ball makes it all the way to the plate, okay? Don’t freaking embarrass us all.”

  “No, of course not.”

  “Come on.” I hook a thumb toward the door. “Let’s make like a baby, and head out.”

  He’s shaking his noggin at me, but follows like a pup on a leash.

  Carthage had Thomas hire a town car, but there is no way yours truly would go to a ballgame by limo. Germs be damned. If the sneezes, coughing, and handshakes of half of Boston haven’t killed the guy already, riding the T to Fenway Park won’t do any worse. Not to mention our old Frank will get a big helping of true Boston that day, so why not give him the common man’s transportation? We sneak out the back door while the town car idles out front.

  For the entire T ride the judge babbles about ballgames in the days of old. Apparently there were these local characters who would carouse beforehand at a bar called Third Base, then pour themselves into the bleachers under a banner that said THE ROYAL ROOTERS. They were so rowdy, sportswriters gave them as much ink as the games.

  “Those crazy madcap palookas,” Gerber says, winking at me.

  The judge doesn’t notice. He’s just getting warmed up. “There were other fans, equally devoted but with behavior more appropriate to my station. I joined them whenever the press of cases abated and I could hurry away to the Walpole Street grounds. Oh, and now I remember, later they played at Huntington Avenue. Lucy Swift of New Bedford, for example. She never missed a game, always wore a black dress, and kept tallies on batters and pitchers in her own little black score book. Michael Regan, too, he ran a prominent Boston furniture company. A hard worker, but somehow he always found time to watch the Pilgrims play.”

  That one gets my attention. “The Pilgrims? Who the hell were they?”

  “One of the parent teams for the Red Sox, along with the Cincinnati Red Stockings. This was always a premium baseball town, I’d say. Fifty-cent tickets when the other teams charged twenty-five.”