The Forgotten World

by R Gene Curtis

  “Sam!?”

  I jump off my chair and crouch down behind the desk. I lift his head. Bad idea. Warm blood oozes through my fingers. His eyes open weakly, and he tries to say something. The weak moan echoes through the small office.

  My lecture is over.

  I place his head on the ground and stand, unsure of what to do. My hands are covered in blood. I can see how this is all going to go down. Authorities discover a struggling graduate student standing stupidly in his advisor’s office, covered in blood, after being chewed out over his mediocre performance.

  Great.

  My pants have a large ketchup stain on them from a hamburger I ate yesterday. I wipe the blood by the stain. It blends in okay, though I still have blood under my finger nails.

  Sam moans, but he doesn’t move.

  What is wrong with him? I look around the room stupidly, but I can’t think of what to do. Mostly, I would rather be anywhere else but here. Can I run away?

  I walk to the door. Tara is back, sitting outside the office door with her laptop perched on her bare legs. Her face is scrunched into a scowl as she pounds away on the keyboard.

  She looks up, catching me watching her. Again.

  “You’re finished already? That has to be some kind of record.”

  Her words seem to bring back some of my brain’s function. “Something is really wrong with Sam,” I manage to get out.

  She gently sets her laptop on a chair and walks over to stand by me. I step away so she can see what happened. Her shriek fills the office and leaves my ears ringing.

  For a minute, I think she might faint and bang her head as well. That’s just what kind of day it seems to be right now. She stumbles over to the door and grabs the frame with both hands. I hear her take a few deep breaths, and then she stands up turns around.

  “We have to get him to a hospital,” she says.

  “No. I think we should call 911.” I don’t want to get sued for helping my advisor get to the hospital.

  “That will take too long. We need to go now, and I have a car close by. The ER at the UPMC hospital is just down the street.”

  If she has a car close by, that is the better option. At least for Sam. I nod.

  “Any idea what’s wrong with him?”

  I shake my head.

  “He’s bleeding badly.” Tara crouches down next to him. She isn’t dressed for a rescue operation, but she looks good doing it. “Karl, stop gawking at me and take his other arm.”

  The drive to the hospital is short, but it feels like an eternity. The sound of Sam’s raspy voice fills the car as Tara zips down the road. I try not to look at him or think about him. And I hold my breath so I don’t smell the blood. The thought of sitting this close to death paralyzes me. How could Sam, a healthy, middle-aged man, collapse like that?

  He’ll be fine, I tell myself. There’s nothing to worry about.

  I close my eyes and try to ignore the rasps and the sound of death. I clench my hands and hold them against my ears. Sam’s rasping breathing still resonates loudly in my ears. I shudder and close my eyes. What if he dies?

  Tara slams on the breaks and jumps out of the car—high heels and all—and runs into the ER.

  I get out of the car, but I don’t follow her. I don’t want to see anyone in the ER.

  Seconds later, a few EMTs run out with Tara and take Sam away on a stretcher. I stand dumbly by the car. The wind picks up and blows bits of snow against my face. I shiver, realizing I left my coat back in Sam’s office.

  Tara’s arm slides across my back, sending shivers through me. Instinctively, I lean into her warm skin.

  “Do you want to stay?”

  “No.” I don’t even want to be here now. I open the door and slide back into my seat.

  Tara walks around the car to the driver’s side door. I need to get away from this place. I need to get back to my office. I have a lot of work I need to do this afternoon. Like that conference paper I need to submit tonight. But Sam won’t have time to go over it now. He hates it when I submit things without his approval. As sick as he seems, though, it might not matter.

  I’m sure they’ll figure out what’s wrong with him. He’ll be fine.

  Tara stays quiet as she drives the few blocks back to campus and parks the car on the street next to the Mellon Institute. The stately building sits above us, its proud columns black on the side towards Pittsburgh and white on the east side.

  If Sam dies, I’ll have to start all over with another advisor. Sam really hasn’t been that bad, even if I haven’t made much progress in his eyes. I stare out the window, wondering why they never tried to clean the columns after they shut all the steel factories down. The building probably looked nice a hundred years ago.

  Tara clears her throat, and I look over to find her smiling at me. “Did you want to stay in the car? I can get a power adapter for you. Is there anything else you need? I will do anything for you, Karl. Whatever you want.”

  The words are oddly flirtatious. A rush of something goes through me, but I push it aside and open the car door. Tara was out of my league before I put on 150 pounds after starting graduate school.

  We take the stairs to the entrance and I swipe my student card to open the door and hurry out of the cold.

  “Thank you for your help. I’m sure Sam appreciates it, too.”

  Tara smiles. “I’m glad I was there. I think you might have died with him otherwise. Perfect timing, I suppose. I had decided to head back down here when I got the call from Candice that I’m now your new office chum. So, I came back.”

  Office chum? No way. I haven’t shared an office with anyone all four years of graduate school. The huge stack of papers on Steve’s unused desk, the clutter around the office. It’s worked for years.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “What do you mean, office chum?”

  “I’m moving into your office. Our office.”

  “You’re moving into my office?” I repeat dumbly.

  A playful grin tugs at the corners of Tara’s full lips. Why does it seem like she’s always laughing at me? “Steve doesn’t use the office. Did you know that? All the stuff on his desk actually belongs to you. I talked to Candice about it, and she told me to move in right away.”

  Share an office with a first year?

  By now we’ve walked through the building to the offices for the program. Carefully, I insert my key and open the door. This office is not the same office I left two hours ago on my way to meet with Sam. Steve’s desk shines as if it’s been recently polished, and a dozen pictures of orchids hang on the walls. All of my fast food wrappers from the last four years sit in the corner in a huge trash bag. The room smells like some kind of perfume. And Clorox. A pile of my dirty clothes has been collected into a laundry basket in the corner.

  A laundry basket? This has got to be some kind of joke.

  Tara laughs and gives me a small push. “Welcome to your new home, Mr. Stapp.”

  I take one step inside, but the smell is too much. “I need to get something to eat.”

  “I’ll come with you.”

  No way. I haven’t eaten a meal with a girl since Andrea.

  “No. That’s okay.”

  “Please?”

  Tara’s laugh follows me as I run down the hallway. “Where are you going?”

  Away. From here, from the smell, from the reminder that Sam is in the hospital. I’m not sure where I’m going, but I’m going. Maybe I’ll talk to Candice and see if I can get Tara out of my office. Maybe I’ll take a walk and finally figure out what I’m doing for my thesis work.

  5 Review

  Karl

  Two days.

  That’s how long Sam lasted in the hospital. Two days.

  Tara and I might as well have left him in his office.

  I’m finally going to delete the email from Khanh, our program director. It’s been sitting in my inbox for more than two weeks. Khanh said nice things about Sam, all well deserved. He gave his life to his res
earch. His wife left him years ago, but Sam never noticed. He mentored over 250 students during his career and published more than two dozen high-impact papers. His research was a big part of the latest breakthroughs in machine learning, and he was a renowned leader worldwide. He gave his life to his work, and he expected his students to give even more.

  It’s over. He’s gone.

  Something is happening behind my eyes. Tears? Not today. I delete the email. I have work to do. I need to find another advisor, and I need to figure out what research to work on now.

  But one more email from Khanh needs to be deleted from my inbox.

  I read the subject line again: Funeral Arrangements.

  A funeral. More than a week ago. My muscles tense and my throat constricts.

  Funeral.

  I should’ve gone.

  I couldn’t go.

  My hands won’t move. I realize I’m holding my breath and my head feels fuzzy. I start breathing again and stare at the email, but I don’t open it. I haven’t opened it once.

  It’s been four years since the funeral, yet the email has kept me back there like it hasn’t been any time at all. I’m in a church building. The music is haunting, the room still. Andrea sits next to me. She holds her arm around my back, even though she knew then. She hid her secret, pretended to care. On my other side, Dad sits still as a statue, stone-faced and pale. Pearl sobs to his side. Her face is red and blotchy. Crowds of people tell me how sorry they feel. They crowd around me, drowning me. There is no escape.

  Mom’s body lies at the front of the church. Inside that casket. She knows. She knows it’s been four years now. The promises I made before she passed are promises I haven’t kept.

  I delete the email and force myself to stand. My legs are wobbly. I slam the computer shut. Thoughts try to force their way into my mind. Who went to Sam’s funeral? Did his wife come back? Did his children come? Any of the students or other academics that he worked with go?

  Or, did people cower in their offices like I did?

  The door swings open and Tara walks into the office.

  “Hey Karl,” she says, her presence as strong as her perfume.

  “Hi.” I sit down and put my eyes on my computer. It’s time to get busy. It’s already late, and I’m need to start another project before I go home tonight.

  Tara grabs my shoulder, and I jump. Her hair tickles my neck as she leans forward and whispers in my ear.

  “This research thing is really getting to you,” Her warm breath sends chills down my spine. “You just work, work, work.”

  Her lips tickling my ear causes a strange change in my mood. I fight back a smile, but I end up losing that battle. “I worked hard before graduate school. And I’ll keep working after. It’s what I do.”

  “And eat!” She reaches out and pats my tummy in a way that should be weird, but somehow comes across as cute. She leans across me to grab the arm of my chair. She rotates the chair, moving my view away from my computer and completely onto her. She wears a determined expression, along with a white sleeveless turtleneck that highlights her tightly toned midriff.

  “What are you working on?” I ask.

  “You wouldn’t believe it.” Tara walks over to what should be Steve’s desk and pulls out her laptop. “Dr. Lee wants us to code up our own Monte Carlo simulator. By tomorrow!”

  “That isn’t too bad.” I remember the assignment. Graduate level homework seems hard at the time, but at least answers exist. It’s a whole new ball game diving into research and realizing the problems I’m working on have never been solved.

  “Isn’t too bad!?” She puts her hands on her hips and pouts. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean that it’s actually not that hard of an algorithm to code up.”

  “That’s because you’re unusually brilliant.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  She smiles. “You don’t think you’re brilliant?”

  “I’m not narcissistic.”

  “You don’t think I should call myself beautiful?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “Yes, you did.”

  “If I did, I take it back.” I feel my face get warm.

  Tara smiles. She’s probably noticed that my eyes haven’t left her since she turned me around. I don’t even remember what I was working on anymore.

  “I have two questions for you,” she says. “First, doesn’t it bother you that Sam was poisoned?”

  My hands become clammy. I swallow hard and look away.

  “Karl, it’s okay to be distraught. Your advisor died. Was murdered, actually! But, didn’t the police talk to you about it when they questioned you? Don’t you wonder who did it?”

  I shake my head. I didn’t ask the police anything when I talked to them. I just answered their questions and left. They didn’t tell me anything about how Sam died.

  Tara hands me a white board marker. “OK. Suit yourself. We don’t have to talk about it anymore. But, as far as the Markov experiment goes, would you explain it to me? My Computational Biophysics class is tomorrow. I think I mostly have it, but I really need help with a few details.”

  On principle, I don’t help first years with their homework. Unless I’m a TA, and then I only help during office hours.

  But, most first years aren’t Tara. And I need a distraction right now. I stand up and walk over to the white board. “Where do you want me to start?”

  Tara smiles and puts her arm around my back. The chills come back. She puts another arm around my stomach and her body presses into mine.

  “Why don’t you start at the beginning?” She’s whispering again. “I’ll stop you when I have questions.”

  “Sure.”

  ✽✽✽

  It’s well past 1:00 AM when I finally shut off my computer for the day and leave the office. I have a sleeping bag under my desk for occasions like this, but I haven’t been to my apartment for a few days, and my supply of clean clothes at the office ran out last week. You can only wear a shirt three or four days before you start to notice the smell.

  Tonight, I’m going home, sleeping in a bed, and doing some laundry. It’s a pain, but sometimes one must do life, even if it means that some of the mathematical modelling simulations end up failing. Besides, Tara hinted a few times tonight that she thought I would benefit from taking a shower.

  Not that I care what she thinks. Even if I did spend three and a half hours helping her with that homework assignment.

  I walk out of the building into the chilly night and hurry down the steps. Salt crunches under my feet, but that’s the only sound at this time of night. I look down the street and see a bus coming slowly up Fifth avenue. It’s the bus I was hoping to see. I’ll catch it on the corner of Fifth and Craig, and it will take me right to my apartment. It’s still several blocks away—going against the one-way traffic in the odd bus lane on Fifth—but it hasn’t passed me yet. The last one of the day. Perfect timing.

  The cool air of the early spring night makes me wish that I had a bigger coat. I shiver and rub my arms. Even after all these years in Pittsburgh, I still don’t bother to think about the weather before I go outside. Once a Phoenix boy, always a Phoenix boy.

  I make it to the bus stop and look anxiously back at the bus. It may take another five minutes of shivering before it finally gets to me.

  I hear a crunch behind me, and a man steps out from the shadows. His hair is pulled back in a long, blond ponytail. In the dim light his eyes are strangely gray. I shiver and look back at the bus. Still another two or three minutes before it gets here. I hope I don’t find out what it means to get mugged during that time.

  “Hey,” the man says. “I’m Bob.” His gray eyes haven’t left me. I look longingly down the empty street at the approaching bus.

  “Chilly night, isn’t it? Want to go out on the balcony for a stroll?”

  What balcony? I shiver and take a step closer to the road. Bob can’t be a beggar or homeless. He’s dressed in jeans t
hat don’t have holes in them, and his long coat looks newer than my beat-up T-shirts. Still, one can never be too careful, especially this late at night.

  “Heading home for the evening, eh?”

  Is this guy from Canada?

  I do have my wallet, although I doubt it has any cash in it. If he takes my student card, then I won’t be allowed back into the building or onto the bus.

  Finally, the bus pulls up to the light down the street. As soon as it’s green, I can lose this guy.

  “Not very talkative, are you?” His voice is deep, intimidating.

  The light turns green.

  “That’s alright, I’ll join you on your ride home. We’ll talk more on the bus.”

  So much for losing him.

  The bus pulls up with a screech and the door slides open. I show my student ID card and walk down the aisle. Bob follows me into the empty bus.

  I pass three African American women sitting in the front of the bus, chatting about work. At the center of the bus a man watches porn on his phone. I make my way past him to the back of the bus.

  Bob follows me all the way to the back and chooses the seat right next to me.

  I scoot over a seat to give us some space. Common courtesy says never to sit right next to someone unless there are no other options. With the bus as empty as it is, options are plentiful.

  “Well, Karl. Now is the time you start talking.”

  “Excuse me? How do you know my name?”

  The man laughs, the deep sound barely audible over the roar of the bus engine as it pulls away from the curb. “I know a lot about you, Karl Stapp. Tell me everything you know about the forgotten world.”

  I study the man. I’m sure that I have never seen him before. He’s tall, taller than me, and muscular. I probably weigh more than him, but for every fat cell I have, he has five muscle cells.

  “The forgotten world?”

  “Yes,” he says, and his eyes light up. “You’re a direct descendant of Kinni. What do you know?”

  “Kinni what?” I have no idea what he’s talking about. How does he know my name? I pull out my phone and pretend to browse my email. Dad tried to call me four times today. One time more than usual.