The children didn’t come out when Terrence called that the stew was ready, and so I said I would get them. The door to Jack’s room was shut, and when I went in, I saw that none of the toys had been pulled out. I called again, but the bathroom door was open; there was nowhere they could be hiding.
Terrence had come into the living room. “Where are they?”
“I’ll go up and check.” He followed, and I was conscious of his footfalls on the steps behind me. It had been a while since I’d brought a man upstairs, and I was glad that I’d made the bed that morning. I looked in the office first, since that’s where they’d gone the last time, but it was empty. Terrence and I went into my bedroom, where there was a light behind the closed door. An unidentifiable clicking sound was coming from inside.
“What are you guys doing in there?” Terrence asked, with strained cheerfulness.
I have a walk-in closet, an addition of the previous owners, where plastic shelving units from the hardware store take up most of the space. These are crowded with old journals, years of tax returns, Jack’s artwork, medical records—less organized than stacked into piles to be dealt with later. Seated on the floor next to this jumble were both children, seemingly uninjured and wearing all of their clothing. These happy circumstances didn’t seem to alleviate Terrence’s worries the way they did mine.
They looked up, equally guilty but wearing different expressions: Jack embarrassed, Simmi sullen and defiant. Maybe she was nervous about having disobeyed my instructions about staying downstairs. On the floor between them was an extensive assemblage of supplies: a shoebox, black and red wires from Jack’s Snap Circuits kit (which they’d successfully connected, illuminating a red light that they’d fed through the side of the box), and the metronome that normally sat beside the keyboard in Jack’s room. For some reason, Simmi was holding two of our plastic drinking cups in her lap.
“Simmi?” Terrence asked. “What are you doing?”
To my surprise, it was Jack who answered first. “Science,” he said shortly, not looking at Simmi’s father. Simmi hugged the cups to her chest, concealing their contents with her hands.
“This is Helen’s bedroom,” Terrence said. “She asked you to play downstairs.”
“It’s okay,” I said quickly.
“We’re not playing.” Simmi’s voice had a disobedient edge to it, the way Jack’s sometimes does when he knows he has done something wrong and is trying to cover it up.
Terrence sounded more exhausted than stern: “You do not talk to me that way.”
This is something I’ve said to Jack myself, but I find that it doesn’t work—since it’s clear to both parties that the child has just done what the parent insists he or she does not do. Terrence looked from one child to the other. Jack seemed to waver, but Simmi glared at him, and he was silent.
“Can you explain?” I said, kneeling down. “What’s all this?”
This was all Jack needed. “It’s a metaphase typewriter,” he said eagerly. “We set up the circuit here—see—and here’s the thallium—” He turned the box gently, so that I could see. It was impossible that the children could’ve obtained a radioactive poison like thallium, but the dirty clay-like lump was convincing enough to make my pulse speed up. “Jack—what is that?”
“Our radioactive source,” Jack said, but he sounded uncertain.
“But what is it really?”
“Surf wax,” Simmi said, and I laughed a little in relief. “It was in my backpack.” She looked at her father. “We used to go to the beach a lot after school.”
“But it worked,” Jack said, attempting to change the subject, as I’d noticed he often did when Simmi talked about her life in L.A.
“Okay,” I said. “You guys figured out that surf wax conducts electricity. So what does the light do?”
“Nothing,” Jack admitted. “That’s just to show that we’re doing a science run.”
“Is a ‘science run’ a real thing?” Simmi asked me.
“It’s when a machine is collecting information,” I said. “Data.”
“See,” Jack said, gaining confidence. “And then we turn on the metronome.”
I had bought the metronome with the electronic keyboard in an ill-fated attempt at piano lessons in kindergarten. Physicists tend to be musical (Neel can pick out anything on the guitar, and Arty is a proficient cellist), and I’ve always regretted my lack of ability in this area. I had hoped that his donor’s genes might predispose Jack toward music, but he had demonstrated very little interest. On the other hand, it was nice that he was using the metronome for something.
“When the metronome clicks, Simmi—”
“Shut up,” Simmi said.
Jack stopped, surprised.
“Simmi,” Terrence said. “You can’t talk to your friends like that. I think it’s time for us to go.”
“Fine,” Simmi said. “I don’t care.”
Jack made a small sound of protest, but didn’t say anything. Simmi unfolded her crossed legs.
“But first you’ll help clean up. And apologize to Helen and Jack.”
“Sorry.”
“It’s okay. I can take those for you.” I leaned forward to collect the cups, but Simmi hugged them toward her chest, one in each arm, as if they were dolls. Terrence seemed to notice them for the first time.
“What’s in there?”
Simmi’s hair was twisted into two knots on either side of her head, making her look younger than usual. “Just some toys and stuff,” she said.
“Give them here,” Terrence said, as if he didn’t believe her. Slowly, Simmi obeyed.
Terrence took the cups carefully. Maybe he thought the children were actually playing with dangerous materials. His expression when he looked inside was perplexed.
“Scrabble?”
“See,” Simmi said, crossing her arms over her chest. “It’s nothing.”
But Jack couldn’t keep himself from explaining: “When the metronome clicks, Simmi throws a letter out of the cup. Then we use the letters to spell the words.”
Suddenly, I understood. The Scrabble tiles replaced the teletype machine in the metaphase typewriter. The metronome was the Geiger counter. This was the part that impressed me, because the children had understood the concept of measuring intervals between events—if not the necessity for radioactive events to happen at uneven intervals, in contrast to the clicks of a metronome.
“What words did you get so far?” I asked the children.
“Nothing,” Simmi said. “It’s stupid.”
“Maybe it’s just the beginning,” Jack suggested.
Simmi looked scornful. “Hrik fax?”
“A fax is a thing,” Jack pointed out.
“Not anymore.”
Terrence laughed. He seemed to have mellowed a little, given that the kids weren’t misbehaving in any obvious way. I began to hope that we could salvage dinner, proceed toward the lamb stew as if nothing had happened.
“But what does it do?” Terrence asked.
“You can talk to people who aren’t here,” Jack began. I gave him a sharp look—but if anything, all this was my fault. If I’d spoken to him as soon as I understood that he might be talking to Simmi about seeing her mother’s ghost, we could have avoided this moment.
“What people?” Terrence asked.
Jack looked at me helplessly. Even he knew better than to tell Terrence whom they had been trying to contact.
“There was a little confusion,” I began.
Simmi was looking out the window. It was already dark, and all you could see was the street lamp haloed against the black trees outside my window. The look on her face could have been mistaken for boredom, if she hadn’t been holding herself so perfectly still. Terrence watched her with a concerned expression.
“It’s just a game, o
kay?” she said suddenly. “We didn’t think it would actually work. Or at least I didn’t.”
“Me neither,” Jack said quickly. “Because we didn’t have real thallium.”
“It wouldn’t work anyway,” Simmi said. “Obviously.”
Jack looked confused. “Then why did you say we might be able to talk to your mom?”
Terrence made a short sound, a strangled groan. Simmi looked at him, frightened, then turned back to Jack. “I didn’t,” she said fiercely. “I was just doing it because there’s nothing to do here. All we do is sit around inside, playing with Legos. I want to go home.”
“Okay, Sims,” Terrence said. “Okay.” He put an arm around her and she looked as if she would break free; then she made a sudden move and put her face against his chest. He wrapped both arms around her. She wasn’t audibly crying but her small body shook; he bent his head over hers, and for a moment I saw them again the way they’d been at the memorial—in the midst of a group of mourners, but also alone. The difference in their sizes seemed to emphasize her suffering as well as his ability to comfort her. Jack stood in the lit closet doorway, watching them with an unreadable expression.
Terrence straightened up and gave me a questioning look. I shook my head, as if I were just as perplexed as he was. It struck me later that it is possible to lie without saying anything at all.
“Maybe we’re all hungry,” I suggested. “We could go down and eat—”
“I’m not hungry,” Simmi said immediately.
“I think we should probably just head out,” said Terrence.
“But the stew—”
“Don’t worry about it. Freeze what’s left and you’ll have another meal.” He didn’t sound angry, but he wouldn’t meet my eyes. The only light was from the closet and the street. Terrence put his arm around Simmi.
“It was his idea,” she said suddenly. “He wanted to find his dad. I told him you just Google for that. But…” Simmi shrugged, as if the ignorance of second graders was beyond her.
“Did not.” When Jack is trying not to cry, he pulls on his ears.
Simmi glared at him, and turned away on one foot in a way that momentarily undermined my sympathy for her. Whatevs, her mother used to say. I followed them down the stairs to our front hall, but Simmi had already gone out, and was heading down the second flight to the outer door.
“I’m sorry,” I said to Terrence, who was collecting their jackets from the Shaker-style bench just inside the door.
He gave me a half smile. “Not your fault—it’s like this all the time. Just usually in private.” He glanced down the stairs. “Hold up, Sims.” He put a hand briefly on my shoulder. “I’ll see you,” he said, before hurrying down the stairs after his daughter. The door downstairs locked automatically behind them, and I closed and locked our apartment door. Jack had come down from my bedroom, and was sitting three steps from the bottom of the stairs.
“Like what all the time?” he said.
I went to sit with him, and he made room on the step.
“You understand why Simmi was upset?”
“Because of her mom.”
“Right—she really misses her.”
What would Terrence think if he found out that I’d known all along that my son believed in ghosts—that in fact he believed he’d seen Simmi’s mother in my office several weeks after her death—and that I’d kept that information from him, perhaps in an attempt to make him like me?
“That’s why you really can’t talk about things like ghosts, even if you’re just playing a game.”
“Okay.”
“You understand?”
Jack nodded, lifting the hallway carpet with his toe, a dark red runner with a pattern of yellow triangles, flipped over the edge to reveal the rubber mesh pad. It was clear that something else was bothering him.
“Simmi said you were trying to use the machine to find out about your dad.”
Jack scowled at me. “No.”
It wasn’t that I hadn’t thought about talking to Jack about his donor; if anything I’d overthought it. I’d been waiting for him to ask, not about the mechanics of his conception—we’d covered that years ago—but about the man himself. I was going to show him the profile with the childhood photo of “Papageno,” and explain what musicology really was. I thought we could go to the rock climbing gym in Somerville and learn about that passion of his father’s, too.
I looked at Jack’s face now, and I knew how naive I’d been. Any child his age would’ve started thinking about his father and longing to meet him. A career and a few hobbies were hardly going to satisfy him.
“We don’t have to talk about it now—”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” he said. “Not ever.”
“But we will have to later. Because I’m afraid you don’t understand—”
Jack looked at me with such fury that I stepped back, startled.
“I do understand,” he said. Then he got up, slipped past me, and hurried down the hall to his room.
26.
Jack said he didn’t like the stew, and so I put on a movie to get him to eat. I watched half of it with him, and then let him stay up a little later while I cleaned the kitchen. I was just about to tell him it was time to get ready for bed, when someone knocked on our door.
Jack looked up from the screen. “Can I open it?”
It was our tenant Andrea. Her stomach ballooned under a tight, red-and-black striped sweater. She was very pale, her eyes shadowed as if she hadn’t been sleeping, as if the baby were taking its health and vitality from her. She looked from Jack to me, smiling uncertainly.
“I hope it’s not too late? I have some questions about the lease, but maybe now is not so good?”
“It’s okay.” I turned to Jack. “Can you do your own shower?”
Jack nodded, but he was watching Andrea with uncharacteristic excitement, as if she’d promised him a gift of some kind.
“What time is it?”
“Nine,” I said. “Past your bedtime.”
“Nine exactly?”
“It’s eight-fifty-eight,” I told him. “Go take a shower.”
“I won’t take your time,” Andrea said, when Jack was gone. “Only some friends from Germany are moving to Brooklyn. They’ve bought a house—they would like to rent us half. We like it here, but New York is better for us, for our work, and this is a way we can afford to be there. And with the baby and Emilia, too, it will give us more room.”
Emilia was their toddler, now almost three.
“I know we’ve signed the lease already. Only you asked us if we are moving? So we thought, maybe she has some other tenant.”
“I’m not sure,” I said. “But if you’d like to get out of the lease, of course we can figure something out.” As soon as I said it, I wondered if the events of this evening had changed Terrence’s mind about the apartment.
“Oh thank you!” Andrea said. “This is wonderful!”
“There is someone who might be interested. But in any case, it’s no problem. What a great opportunity for you guys.”
Andrea was nodding joyfully, as if it were all settled. “And so, in two months we can relocate?”
We talked for five, or maybe ten more minutes, and then agreed to meet on Saturday with her husband to finalize the details.
When I went upstairs I found that Jack was in the bath instead of the shower. His head was partially submerged, his eyes closed, and I had to tap his shoulder to get him to sit up.
“Why are you getting your hair wet?”
“I like the sound under there,” Jack said, rubbing his eyes. “Is she moving in?”
“Who?”
“Simmi!”
Whatever animosity there had been between them seemed to have evaporated over the course of the last hour, at least on J
ack’s part. He was looking at me with barely concealed delight.
“You mean because of Andrea?”
“Aren’t they leaving?”
Of course he’d been listening in. “I think so.”
Jack beamed at me. “It worked,” he said. “It wasn’t the way we thought—but that’s what you always say, right? You do an experiment because you’re looking for one thing, but then you sometimes find something else.”
I laughed. “Sometimes, yes.”
“Like, we thought it would talk to us. But instead—”
I closed the lid of the toilet and sat down. “Jack, what do you mean?”
Jack looked away. He was old enough to understand when I told him he wasn’t supposed to have a certain idea, but not old enough to keep it to himself. His voice was quieter, a little coy. “The ghost made them leave.”
“Jack—there’s no ghost!” I struggled to modify my tone. “Andrea and Günter want to go live with their friends in New York.”
Jack didn’t look at me. He was playing with a set of floating rubber vehicles in primary colors, toys he has outgrown but still refuses to give up.
“We know enough to know that magic things like ghosts aren’t possible in our world,” I said more gently. “It doesn’t mean they couldn’t be possible elsewhere, in a different kind of universe.” This is the explanation I normally give adults, when they ask questions about the megaverse or extra dimensions, concepts that have been (to my mind) irredeemably perverted by Hollywood.
“Of course they’re elsewhere,” Jack said.
I decided to let this go for a moment.
“But, Bug—we do need to talk some more about what Simmi said. About you wanting to find your dad.”
Jack stared at his own face, distorted in the stainless-steel dial underneath the faucet, which you turn to open and close the drain. His expression, as usual, was serious and older than his age, with his firmly defined brow and protruding upper lip. His head seemed especially large and heavy, held up by the thin, wet stalk of his neck.
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