The Explanation for Everything: A Novel

by Lauren Grodstein

  “I just got some news,” he whispered into her cheek. She reared back to look at him, alarmed.

  “I mean, I’m fine—I just, the man who killed my wife. He was denied parole again.”

  “That’s good news, right?” she said, and bless her for not acting like an undergraduate, bouncing up and down and saying “awesome!” She understood the gravity of it (that’s what he needed, he needed gravity) and took a step back from him and leaned against his desk, a precarious pile of midterms. “That’s what you wanted, right? When you went to Florida?”

  “I feel strange about it, though.”

  “Guilty?”

  He looked at her, the broad planes of her open face. Her soft, youthful skin. “I guess I do.”

  “That’s crazy. I mean, no offense, but that’s crazy. This is the man who killed your wife. Who deprived your daughters of their mother. He should stay in jail forever—”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Remember when I told you God was just? Is this why you asked me?”

  He nodded. He loved her.

  “Listen, not only is God just, but this is what is just. This is the punishment that is just, right? Parole—what is parole? It’s a way of getting out early. A way of not serving out your punishment. That’s all it is. A way of dodging the bullet. Why should this man get parole? He’s a murderer! Why should he dodge the bullet? He should probably rot in there, shouldn’t he? I mean, if that’s what the state sentenced him to? To rot in there?”

  He loved her, so he tried not to notice that he disagreed with her. Especially because he wanted so much to agree.

  “I don’t know,” Andy said, miserable.

  “Well I do,” she said. “I know. You asked me if God is just. The answer is yes, and the proof is that this man was denied parole. See?”

  Andy tried to see, but he couldn’t. He wanted Lou back. That’s all he could see. He had loved Melissa Potter five seconds ago but now he wasn’t so sure. Still, when she came to him and hugged him, he let her, and when she kissed him—how rarely she initiated any sort of contact!—she kissed him, and he let himself be kissed.

  “See?” she whispered again, his overweight seductress.

  And suddenly she was kissing him hard, in the mess that was his office. They were pressed against the wall as though by centrifugal force. He put his hands inside her shirt, felt the warm firm folds of her back. Papers everywhere, books strewn around them, he moved his hands to her cheeks, held her head against the wall, next to the Exton Reed calendar that was stuck there with a thumbtack. “Andy!” she gasped. Here, it would happen here. She put her hands in his pants—he hadn’t fucked her yet, why hadn’t he fucked her yet?—and yanked at his waistband.

  Another knock, twice, firm, the twist of the doorknob. He jumped away, almost tripped over the carpet of books. From tragedy to comedy. The door opened. Melissa Potter still stood against the wall, her face red, her hair messy. Her shirt untucked.

  “Everything okay in here?” asked Rosemary. “I got a call from your 202 class. They’re waiting for their midterms.”

  “Right,” Andy said. “We were just finishing up a discussion.”

  Rosemary looked at Melissa, then back at him. “Okay,” she said. Her tone was so flat it was impossible to know if he should read suspicion there or just boredom. “It’s a quarter after eleven,” she said then. “In case your clock doesn’t work.” And then she closed the door.

  Melissa blinked at him.

  “I better get to class.”

  “Right,” she said. “I’ll see you soon.”

  “Melissa,” he said. He put his arms around her one more time and kissed her more gently, because the door was closed, because he didn’t know what had come over him, because McGee was in jail. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m great,” she said. “I’m just worried about you.”

  FROM THIS MOMENT on, perhaps a wiser man might have cooled it with Melissa. How close had they come to being caught? And what if they’d been caught? How humiliating for everyone, for him, for Rosemary, but especially poor Melissa, getting manhandled in the office of a biology professor.

  “Cool it, Andy,” he told himself, driving home along Deborah Boulevard. “Cool it now.” Or, if not, just tell her look, let’s put this thing on hold, whatever it is—we can wait a year and then whatever it is between us will be scandalous, but not actionable. Or maybe just say thanks for the memories, sweetheart. It’s been grand.

  But how could he say that to her? How could he look at her open, honest face, and not want to cradle it between his hands?

  “You look great,” Melissa said. She’d come that night to watch Belle while he and Rachel went to the fifth-grade father-daughter dance. Andy was wearing a new tie. He’d bought Rachel a corsage, an orchid, which was staying fresh in the refrigerator, wrapped in green paper. She was in her bedroom, getting ready, while Belle watched television in the den. “This is a new tie, right?” Melissa said.

  “It is,” he said, and again that urge to take her face in his hands, but he didn’t—he just let her adjust his tie.

  “I don’t understand why Rachel always gets to do these special things and I don’t ever get to do anything special,” Belle said, plopping onto a kitchen chair. “It’s always like Rachel’s soccer game or Rachel’s dance show or whatever and my question to you is, how is that fair?”

  “How is what fair?”

  “I want to do something special too,” she said. She stood, draped herself against the kitchen counter in the melodramatic pose she’d learned from her older sister. “Like, it’s always Rachel’s special day and Rachel gets a new outfit and Rachel gets to stay out late and I’m stuck with a babysitter and my question to you is, how is that fair?”

  “Since when do you care about new outfits?” First Rachel, now Belle. Who was about to turn nine.

  “Wow!” said Melissa, as Rachel made her entrance. “Look at you!” She had pulled her hair off her face with a sparkling white band, and she was wearing a white skirt and a white shirt with rhinestones around the collar. She looked a bit like a fairy princess and a bit like a teenager and entirely like her mother. And she was growing up. And one day, only a few years away now, she would leave. All of them—they all would leave.

  “You look terrific, Rache,” Andy said. Gutted, he was gutted. He removed the corsage from the refrigerator and strapped it to her wrist. “There you go.”

  Rachel twirled excitedly across the kitchen, stopping only when she hit the counter. “What’s your problem?”

  “I am so, so sick of you!” Belle sputtered. “It’s always special Rachel day and I am so sick of it!”

  “Oh my God, would you relax?”

  “I will not relax!” And Belle sat down again on a kitchen chair and started to sob. Melissa sat next to her, rubbed her back. Whispered something in her ear.

  “C’mon, Dad, we’ve got to go.”

  “Rachel, we can’t leave her like that,” Andy said, marveling at the compact way Melissa was able to soothe Belle, whose back stopped heaving after a few minutes, who stopped making panting sounds.

  Melissa whispered something else, and Belle, head still hidden behind her arms, nodded.

  “Should I ask your dad?” Melissa said, and Belle nodded again. “Belle would like to be baptized.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “In a white dress.”

  “You’re kidding,” Rachel said. “Why?”

  Again, from behind her arms, Belle started to sob. “Because Rachel was baptized when she was a baby and I want to be too! Because it’s not fair that Rachel gets everything and I get nothing!”

  “Baptized, Belle?”

  “Rachel’s going to heaven and I want to go too!”

  “Heaven?” Gutted, and now he had been steamrolled too.

  “I told her we could do it at my church, if you guys wouldn’t mind the drive. Of course, we could do it anywhere, the beach if you wanted—”

  “No,” Belle sa
id. “I want to do it in a church, like Rachel had it. With our mom. I want to do it in Melissa’s church.”

  He was going to Melissa’s church. A wiser man would have cooled it.

  “Please, Dad?”

  “We’ll see.”

  “Why we’ll see?”

  “Because I—”

  “You were the one who said we should try going to a church,” Belle said.

  “Did you say that, Andy?” Melissa asked. “Oh, I’m so glad. I think it would be so good for you too.”

  “Dad, can we go already?” said Rachel.

  “You really want to do this?” Andy asked Belle. She looked up at him with reddened eyes. She looked half-hopeful, half-scared. She reminded him as she so often did of himself, the deepest part of him. She nodded. “So then we’ll do it.”

  “Fine, good, let’s go,” Rachel said, grabbing him by the hand, dragging him to the door.

  “Really? And it’ll be my day, not Rachel’s?”

  “Oh my God, what’s your problem?”

  “It’ll be your day, Belle,” Andy said, as Rachel pushed him out of the house and out toward the car.

  THE DANCE WAS all streamers and Kool-Aid and music Andy couldn’t abide and girls dancing in circles with each other while their tubby, embarrassed fathers stood in corners of the room and watched them and talked about the Phillies’ spring training. Every so often Rachel would find him, make sure he was okay—what a thoughtful girl!—and then return to her friends in the center of the room. Rachel did seem to have lots of friends. They spent a lot of time giggling. Andy didn’t know how to talk to the other dads.

  In all, a junior high dance, which meant that nobody was spiking the punch. Did kids still spike punch? He remembered, during Oliver McGee’s trial, someone talked about a particular high school dance, and Oliver showing up wasted, throwing up all over a popular girl’s new shoes. The popular girl’s boyfriend beat the shit out of him in the parking lot.

  Was that justice?

  Mister. Hey, Mister. The lyrics of a song he could not get out of his head.

  At five thirty the next morning, he woke up to the cloudless sparkle of a March day.

  Dear Mr. McGee:

  It’s been a while since I’ve written, but I don’t want you to think I’ve forgotten you. Just the other day I received a phone call telling me that your application for parole has once again been denied, and I’d be lying if I said that I didn’t feel some sort of relief, some sort of vindication—okay, some sort of joy—at knowing that you’ll be in that shithole for another two years, playing dodgeball with your white-power friends or cowering in the shower or whatever it is you do in there. I know that I can’t keep you in jail for the rest of your life, no matter how much I’d like to, but it seems a fair thing to keep you there for at least these next two years, minimum.

  But at the same time—and this is what’s been bothering me lately, McGee, as much as I wish it weren’t—at the same time I’ve been trying to forge some kind of relationship with God, which is difficult, as God is a concept I’ve never had much patience for, and even now find a little peculiar. I have it on good authority that God is a figure of justice, and I have no doubt that the God of justice would smile upon someone like you being locked away for two more years. But at the same time I can’t help but feel—it’s hard for me not to feel—I worry for you, McGee. I worry for you there, and I worry for your mother, and I worry most of all for myself, and what this glee means, this glee that you have been punished and will continue to be punished, and what it means that I cannot forgive you, or that I’m so unwilling to try.

  It took him forever to write these letters. It was seven, and the girls wouldn’t be up for another two hours. Head throbbing, heart sagging, Andy could think of nothing good to add and so he went back to bed.

  FOURTEEN

  The baptism would be on the Wednesday of spring break—this was the only free time the pastor could spare. “You’re going to come with us, right?” Belle asked.

  “Should I?” asked Melissa, so willing to be part of their family yet so hesitant to intrude. She looked at Andy, a bit tremulously, and as much as he sometimes thought he loved her there were other times when he still wanted her to just stand up straight.

  “Of course you should,” said Andy, who did not want to sound impatient. “We’re going up there because of you.”

  So the Wednesday of spring break, just after breakfast, she met them at their house for the drive down to Hollyville. She brought coffee for him, hot chocolates for the sleepy girls. They spent what felt like an eternity on country roads toward nowhere but they lightened the mood with showtunes, Guys and Dolls and Fiddler on the Roof. Finally they pulled into the Hollyville Mission Church, the parking lot empty at ten a.m. on a Wednesday.

  From the outside the church looked, as Melissa had warned, like the shell of the supermarket the place used to be, one whose reach had extended to all its neighbors in the mini-mall. To its left, the Hollyville Mission Senior Center; to its right, the Hollyville Mission Community Bookstore. And everywhere, signs of construction, Dumpsters in the parking lot, pallets of building materials left out in the damp March sun.

  Andy, strangely nervous, feeling as though he were on some covert operation, and yet glad too, to do this thing for Belle—he parked in a spot near the church’s double doors and let the girls out of the car. Rachel was wearing her white outfit from the father-daughter dance; Belle, not to be outdone, was wearing the princess costume that she’d worn, after a certain amount of debate, for Halloween, a shimmering ball skirt, a cheap satin bodice. Melissa wore her fuzzy sweater. Andy wore his new tie.

  “Shall we?” he asked his girls.

  “We shall,” Belle said, and Rachel agreed.

  The chapel they entered was enormous, flooded with multicolored light—the old Acme windows had been replaced by stained glass—with endless pews on either side of them and a navy blue runner connecting the front door to the vast altar. For a strong minute Andy wanted to hustle his daughters out of there and run, but then he remembered that he was trying to bring God into his heart and that he wanted Belle and Rachel to do so as well, and, moreover, they had schlepped all the way here. And Melissa, at his side—she seemed right at home here. If he concentrated on her, maybe she could make him feel almost at home?

  They moved up the carpet toward the altar, Melissa in the lead, and a jovial man bounced through the pews toward them. Andy recognized the comb-over, the Hawaiian shirt. “Pastor Cling,” he said.

  “Professor Waite, what an honor,” he said. “Melissa has told me so much about you.”

  “Only good things,” Melissa said, as the pastor pulled her to his side for a half hug.

  “I’ve read your book,” Andy said. “It was inspiring.”

  “Ah,” said the man, bigger than Andy would have expected, almost bearlike. He waved his hand in front of his face in a modest gesture, then ruffled Melissa’s hair with one of his paws. “You’re the academic, sir. I’m just a humble servant of God. And Melissa has told me you’re quite a big deal, isn’t that right? You’re a biology professor?”

  “Well,” Andy said, thinking of Rosenblum: a half-ass school you gotta admit. Belle took a step backward into his legs. Rachel lifted a book from one of the pews and wrinkled her nose at it. For a moment, there was nothing to say, and again, the instinct to run. But no. “So how does this work?”

  “It’s a simple enough process,” Pastor Cling said. “Happens all around the world, thousands of times a day. That’s one of the beauties of baptism, that it’s a universal blessing. Some cultures, as you probably know, immerse the baptismal candidate, while others, like we do, just use a symbolic sprinkle of water. Point’s the same—the baptism washes away sin, allows you to become clean in front of God. Usually we have baptisms in front of a big group—you want your community to witness you—but in this case, I think we have a good group of witnesses right here. Your family, your friends, and God. We’ll all watc
h you become born again clean.”

  “Okay,” said Andy, although Belle—hadn’t she been born clean? When had his little girl ever sinned?

  “But first I want to ask a few questions of your daughter, here, if that’s okay with everyone.”

  “Belle,” Andy asked, “is that okay?” She nodded that it was.

  Pastor Cling bent down with his hands on his knees so that he could look Belle straight on. He was probably fifty, with a shiny reddish complexion and kind brown eyes. The accent was hard to place—not Southern, exactly, but drawling, or folksy; he sounded to Andy like a Republican candidate. Which maybe he was, or one day could be. He put his hands on Belle’s round shoulders. He said a few things to her that were hard to hear, then he spoke again more loudly.

  “Belle, let me ask you—do you promise, here, in front of your friends and family, in front of God, to try to do what’s right and try not to do what’s wrong?”

  Belle nodded somberly. “I do.”

  “And do you promise to try to understand God’s path for you and follow that path?”

  Oh Lord, what had he done? Forcing God on these girls—it seemed so absurd, so self-indulgent, except that Belle was smiling broadly. “Yes,” she said. She made eye contact with Andy. She wanted him to be proud. “Very much.”

  “And not follow the devil?”

  “No, never,” said Belle. And Rachel was shaking her head in agreement. “Never.”

  “Then we’re all set,” Pastor Cling said. “You’re ready to be baptized.” Belle turned and smiled at them, then followed Pastor Cling up to the altar. The rest of them followed two steps behind.

  Behind the blond-wood pulpit, in a pool of stained-glass light, a table was set with a silver bowl. “Now, in some denominations, the baptism can be a fancy thing, with lots of Latin and fooling around,” said Pastor Cling, “but that’s not how we do things here. Instead, I’m going to say a few words and sprinkle water on your head three times, once for the Father, once for the Son, and once for the Holy Ghost. Just a sprinkle. That okay with you?”