by Mike Heppner
“Mr. Mason, yes, that’s right.”
“You’re the artist from New York!”
“Oh, now—”
“That’s so cool!” She raised an arm and flapped her loose sleeve. “You’re so, like . . . I don’t even know!”
“It’s been a while since I lived in New York.”
She nodded a bunch of times, getting into it. “And you still paint and everything?”
“Paint? Uh, no, that’s not really my thing.”
She covered her mouth, amazed. “What’s it like?”
“To?”
Shrugging, she gestured with both hands, scooping the words. “Just to keep going like that. And to have such a long career. Not that you’re so old.”
“Well, I’m getting—”
“You never hear about artists when they reach a certain age. Does that bother you?”
“C—”
“I think it’s so beautiful when an older person can stay creative, like Georgia O’Keeffe, who kept working until she was like a hundred years old or something.”
“Right.”
“With the flowers?”
“Oh, sure!”
“I’ve got one over my bed. I mail-ordered it from some place out in New Mexico. They’ve got a museum. Orchids. The Orchids. Do you know that one?”
“I’m sure I’ve—”
“Everyone says they look like vaginas, but I think that’s stupid. It’s a flower, it’s a thing of beauty, and we should appreciate it on its own terms without second-guessing the artist’s intentions.”
Julian shifted his weight, trying to keep his back straight. “I know the pictures you’re talking about.”
“Oh, they’re beautiful! And do you know how old she was?”
“Like a hundred—”
“Like a hundred years old. It’s pretty incredible.” She raised one leg, letting it carry her forward. “Dancers don’t live that long.”
Charmed, he felt a smile form on his lips. “Are you a dancer?”
The pose collapsed. “Yeah, sometimes. I’m moving away from it, you know?” Suddenly clumsy, she picked her nose, rooting deep with two fat fingers. “Do you think I could paint?” she asked.
Julian shrugged. “L—”
“Not that I would. I totally wouldn’t. Because painting is a spiritual thing.”
“Oh, sure.”
“And I don’t have that kind of spirituality.”
“Mmkay.”
“Do you know what I mean?” She leaned in, expecting something from him now.
“Yes, I do.” Julian fidgeted, head turning, tiny degrees. “You’re saying that people need to . . . get focused, and get in line with . . . one thing or the other. And sometimes you just gotta pick and choose.”
She frowned, disagreeing slightly. “Not that so much as knowing what you want to do. And knowing what’s right . . . for you.”
“That’s great,” he said, starting to go. The hill leading up the main road was dark and steep. A short walk. He thought about his home, the tub on the second floor, the blue basin, the way the porcelain felt against his naked back: sticky, a little grab and tug.
“But what’s right for me may not be what’s right for you.”
“That’s true.”
“And that’s why we need to give each other the space to say, ‘Okay, maybe I don’t understand you. And maybe I’m a bad person. But that doesn’t mean that I can’t...’ ”
“. . . understand . . .”
“. . . understand . . . the basic . . . situation.”
“. . . where you-all coming from . . .”
“Right. Because we’re all different. You’re a painter. That’s your gift. I could never do that.”
“Well, I’m not a painter.” He spoke emphatically, words stacked like blocks on the ground. “I don’t paint. I enjoy looking at paintings. I like that very much. But I don’t personally . . . work in that field.” Not wanting to disappoint her, he went on: “I design things, mainly. Books and such. Various types of . . . printed materials.”
“That’s so cool.” She grinned, entirely won over.
Julian felt something shrivel inside; this girl interpreted everything as the deepest revelation, and he felt uncomfortable and wanted to leave. “Well, it’s what I’ve done for a while now.” He laughed, trying to keep it simple. “We just gotta do our thing.”
“That’s so right.”
“But . . . I should be heading back.”
“You walked over?”
“Yes, it’s just through the . . .”
They both looked into the woods. Julian’s house was not visible, only the hill rising through the trees. “Oh, that’s real close.”
“Not too bad. But if you could—”
“Tell Olden.”
“About the business proposition, yes.”
“Will do. This was so cool! I’m so glad we could do this.”
“Well, I like meeting with a pretty lady.”
“Oh, stop.” She winked and flapped her wrist.
“And I hope you get inside soon, because it’s really gonna cool down.”
“I love it.” She smiled and shivered, elbows close, hands at her throat.
Pointing up the drive, he asked, “May I walk you to the door?”
“Oh, no, no.” Letting go of herself, she fanned one leg across a spot of grass, laughing as she turned. “I’ve got a gun. I’ll just shoot the motherfucker.”
The old man said goodbye and went away, his footsteps fading up the hill. Kicking her legs, Scarlet built to a handstand; the blood filled her cheeks, making her face feel super-inflated. She staggered for a few steps, then tipped over. Dusting herself, she crossed the yard and went inside, undressing with the door still open. Half-asleep, Olden turned in bed. He saw her shape coming toward him; reaching out, he felt her back, the soft fuzz on her skin. She kissed him once, keeping her mouth closed. “Take off your underwear,” she said.
He eased to one side, both bodies shifting as he stretched the elastic, then worked it down to his feet. He watched her as he did this; he wanted to see her seeing him. Scarlet busied herself with the covers, grabbing a good bunch and pulling it over her shoulders. She wanted to minimize the space between them, to make it flush. “Hi,” she said, too loudly, trying to annoy.
“Hi.” Olden wedged his hand between his chest and her chest, traced her throat with his tongue, then kissed it, a tiny bite. Her neck felt muscular, almost ribbed underneath.
“My name’s Scarlet.”
“Hi there, Scarlet.”
“Funny meeting like this.”
He pressed his knee between her legs, trying to create a place for himself as his mouth opened, making an O around her chin, then her lips, her tongue, sucking it in, drinking her groan. On top now, he braced himself and looked down, the cover drooping over his head. “Your feet are dirty.”
She smiled as a strand of his long hair fell across her cheek. Reaching up, she pulled out her hair bands. Her pigtails loosened and spread. “I was outside,” she said, feeling between the sheets. Olden shook, all nerves. She touched his face, his chest, marking the places, the muscles inside.
He pulled off the cover and threw it aside. “Let’s do it outdoors,” he whispered, starting to go, but she held him there, deep in the pillows. Her face was small; there was a dark dab on the pillowcase, water or maybe blue ink.
“No. Right here.” She felt down and guided him in. His cock stubbed against her ass, botching the angle. Her eyes glittered; she smiled like a proud mother, watching her child onstage. “This is all we need,” she said, and he rubbed his forehead, closed his eyes and tried to go away for a while.
XI
Seeds of Discontent
The Egg Code
Olden Field is a fifteen-year-old American male of English and Norwegian descent. His father, Martin, is a mathematics professor at Midwestern University in South Crane City. His mother, Celeste, works as a glaciologist for the Joint Ice Center in
Suitland, MD. She spends much of her time in Greenland, gathering information about sea ice in the North Atlantic. The research team records the following values for each sample: total concentration; partial concentrations (from thickest to least thick); stage of development (from thickest to least thick); and floe size. Arranged on the page, the figure looks like this:
This figure is called an egg code.
Total Concentration (C)
Olden is a tall, lean boy, and he wears his thick black hair down to his shoulders. He attends Lance DeGregory Public High School, and is currently in his sophomore year. Last semester, he earned a 2.75 grade point average, with a B+ in Metalworking, a C- in Physical Education, a B in Physics, a B in English Composition, a B- in U.S. History, an A- in AP Calculus, and a C- in Accounting. He explains:
Metalworking: “I just . . . I don’t know . . . I don’t really care.”
Physical Education: “That class sucked!”
Physics: “. . . And then he said, ‘Why did you throw the bottle?’ and so I said, ‘I didn’t throw the bottle!’ ”
English Composition: “My teacher is not a good person.”
U.S. History: “Who gives a shit?”
AP Calculus: “Okay, okay, wait . . .”
Accounting: “I just didn’t show up.”
Olden stands in a record store, flipping through the heavy-metal albums. His fingers dance over the tops of the records. He picks one up and examines the back cover. One of the songs, “Angry Dream of Youth,” is seven minutes and forty-nine seconds long. The album was recorded in Belgium. Olden looks at the record and thinks, Maybe I’ll get this one. He puts it back.
As we ride in a commuter bus, we see Olden crossing the street on his way home from school. It is windy and he keeps his face half-hidden in the zipped-up neck of his jacket. We are thinking about something else.
The manager of a haberdashery suspects Olden of stealing a pair of suspenders. He telephones mall security and says: “Yes, I’d like to report a shoplifter . . . I’m calling from Look Sharp! in east wing . . . Yes, that’s right . . . next door to the pretzels . . .”
The students stand on metal risers, rehearsing for an upcoming vocal recital. Participation is mandatory. The finale is a bombastic anthem entitled “We Are What We Are.” The choir director waves her arms after the tenth bar. She points at a boy with long hair and asks, “Why aren’t you singing?” A girl standing next to the boy says, “He’s got a sore throat.” Everyone groans as the soloists practice their gestures, removing invisible top hats and putting them back on again.
Partial Concentration (Ca)
I hate this place—hard chair, hard floor, a cold room in the basement— but at least I can talk to Mom from here, just a bunch of numbers, zero one zero one—egg codes, she calls ’em, that’s what she’s there to do, survey the ice for the government, a big military snow job if you ask me, just a short skip over the Arctic Circle and bammo! goodbye Moscow but hey, it’s still kinda cool, the way the numbers form an egg on the page, only one number at the top, and then the others below that, the thickest and then the second thickest and then the third thickest, a bunch of stupid stuff, I just write it all down and my dad helps me convert the numbers to words, and every now and then she makes up a few figures, and if you run it through the code you can read all sorts of things like “HEY OLDEN HOW’S SCHOOL GOING PAL? LOVE MA,” that sorta thing, lame I know but this is the only way I get to talk to her, it’s better than nothing, nine months is a long time and Greenland is really far away, takes forever to fly there, but it’s not so far in time zones so at least we’re both up at the same time.
Partial Concentration (Cb)
Martin Field and his son sit in the basement of the mathematics building at Midwestern University on Saturday afternoons, and together they decode binary messages sent electronically by Martin’s wife, Celeste. These messages are generally personal in nature and never exceed more than a few sentences. Martin enjoys spending this time with his son. Beyond the Internet, he and Olden have little in common, just the same last name, a few inherited mannerisms. A slight squint, a lopsided walk. A distinctive way of mispronouncing certain words. “Parochial.” “Contrivance.” “Entablature.”
Partial Concentration (Cc)
“Hey, buddy.”
“Hey.”
“What’s up?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“Mmmm.”
“Okay.”
“I’m gonna get a soda.”
“Sure? Don’t you want to wait?”
“Dad, I’ll be right back.”
“Okay, get me something too.”
“What do you want?”
“What do they have?”
“I don’t know. The usual.”
“All right. I’ll take a Schweppes.”
“What if they don’t have Schweppes?”
“Then I’ll take a . . . 7-Up. But hurry back.”
“O-kay!”
“Whoop! I just got the first packet.”
“I’m going!”
“Hurry . . . hurry . . .”
Stage of Development (So)
Olden is telling me to stop. He says, “Don’t write that about me, man.” He is trying to push me away from the computer. His fist is pressed against my jaw, but I’m going to keep writing, keep putting it down even though he is not being very accommodating. Now he’s kicking me under the desk. He thinks I’m not doing a very good job of writing his character. He says, “I’m not like that, man.” I may have to stop soon. He’s coming after me with a rock. Here he comes, closer, wow! whoops! Okay, okay, kay kay kkl;jasdfgjheuaowigafdtrfg43gf8du
Stage of Development (Sa)
Olden refuses to fight the other boy. The other boy is a few months older, a junior to Olden’s tenth grade. The conflict started earlier in the day, between fifth and sixth period. The other boy ran up to Olden in the hallway and stole his comb. From there the situation escalated, and now—just a few minutes after the last bell—the whole school is buzzing with rumors and breathless reports from the front line. The boy primps by the entrance to the cafeteria, flanked by an entourage of lesser, scrawnier boys. Olden walks by the cafeteria, carrying a heavy book: Tricks with FORTRAN. The other boy stands in his way and says, “All right, man, whassup?” A few more students gather behind Olden, including several girls who spend their evenings kissing his picture from the ’83–’84 yearbook (pages pink with lipstick splotches). For socioeconomic reasons, Olden is not officially “cute,” and he will remain underground for several more years. Olden looks at the boy and says, “Do you want something?” The other boy tries grabbing Olden’s book, but Olden holds it out of his reach. “What do you want?” he repeats. This is an abstract question; it flies right over the boy’s head. Olden continues past the cafeteria and leaves the building. The boy’s buddies converge in the middle of the hallway and say comforting things to their leader. “Man, that guy’s a punk,” one says. “A faggit punk, more like it,” adds another.
Stage of Development (Sb)
They sit in the school cafeteria, these boys, ages eight and nine. Neglecting their lunches, they straddle the steel bench and reenact key scenes from this year’s sci-fi blockbuster, using their three-inch-tall action figures as strange talismans to channel their dreams and delusions. A few of the action figures have plastic weapons that slide in and out of their wrists. The boys bat at each other with the weapons, their lips spurting high-pitched laser sounds as the plastic wands fold and bend and snap. Some of the boys are more particular about re-creating the scenes than others. A few insist on reciting the dialogue verbatim, while others are not quite so dogmatic. No one wants to play the princess. The bad guy is elite. A few of the boys—less aggressive than the rest—sit near the far edge of the bench, holding their inconsequential, wand-less bit players in their hands. They will never get the chance to fight.
“Hey, Olden,” one of the kids says to a boy reading at the next table.
Olden looks up from his book—Fun with BASIC—and swipes his long black hair out of his eyes. The other kid continues, “How come you never play Star Wars with us?”
Olden smiles and shuts the book, keeping his hand between the pages. “I don’t like Star Wars.”
The kid frowns as his cronies strike a variety of defensive postures. “Gotta like Star Wars,” he says, holding his good-guy action figure in a heroic pose—legs spread, wand extended. “I’ve seen Star Wars forty-seven times.”
“I’ve seen it fifty-eight times,” adds another boy. Then, with a leer: “How many times have you seen it?”
Olden shrugs. “I don’t know. Twice, three times.” Opening his book, he adds, “You understand what you’re doing, don’t you?”
“What’s that?” A boy makes a soft chhhhuuuu-chhhhuuuu laser sound, but his buddies shush him up.
“Buying all that crap?” Olden smiles as the other kid’s hand tightens around the action figure’s armor-plated torso. “That’s the idea. Total marketing, all the way.”
Retracting the wand with a practiced flick, the boy looks down at the chunk of plastic in his hand and asks, “What’s marketing?”
Stage of Development (Sc)
Martin and Celeste stand in a muddy field along with a few thousand concert-goers. Everyone is drenched, even though it stopped raining an hour ago. Celeste is holding the baby on her hip. Onstage, the third band of the afternoon, Sugarloaf, is playing through a crappy PA; their one big hit is a song called “Green-Eyed Lady.” The main group of the whole show—the one everyone is waiting for—is Three Dog Night. Celeste doesn’t know whether or not they will stay for the entire concert. The baby is fussing, and the music seems to be hurting his ears.
A young girl with a tiny bag of marijuana tied around her neck comes up to the couple and grabs the baby’s foot. “What’s his name?” she asks, a delighted smile making a crescent across her face. “Olden,” says Celeste, hefting the baby as he kicks away from the girl’s hand. The girl grabs his foot again, but Olden twists free, thumping her in the face with his heel. Surprised, she runs off, rubbing her sore cheek. Celeste smiles and kisses Olden on the nose. “Don’t let those stoners give you any guff,” she says. Martin pulls a couple of wadded bills out of his pocket and shouts over the music, “I’m gonna get a drink.” He returns twenty minutes later carrying two cups of warm, foamy beer. The band plays their one big hit, and the Fields walk back to the parking lot.