by Tammar Stein
We grab a sticky wooden table near the window.
“Show me what you’ve been working on?” I ask.
Gavin pulls out his laptop and opens an attachment that shows aerial shots of several farmlands with large water-retention ponds scattered throughout.
“I’m looking for a site that’s big enough for Isakson to set up multiple algae sites without cross contamination,” he explains as he clicks through various attachments. “It needs easy road access for distribution, but still has to be close enough to the Gulf, with plenty of inland ponds, that access to brackish water isn’t an issue.”
“Why don’t you show him what you’ve got so far? If he knows you’re working on this, it could really change how he sees you and—”
Gavin shakes his head.
“No, I need to find the right site. Once I’m sure we have a price point we can live with and a long-term lease with favorable terms, then I’ll see if Professor Isakson wants it. There’s nothing to gain from going over there half-assed.”
The words are assertive enough, like everything that comes out of Gavin’s mouth, but there’s insecurity in his voice and he isn’t a guy needled much by self-doubt. It’s kind of amazing that he’s putting this much work into something he’s half-convinced will never be used.
“But as soon as he sees your plans, even what you’ve got now, he’s going to love it.”
“You saw him on Saturday,” Gavin says. He logs out and gently closes his Mac. “He doesn’t trust me. He wants nothing to do with anything that’s associated with me.” He leaves his hands resting on the Mac for a moment, then pats it. “I know you’re sold that this will change his mind, but even if that’s true, I only have one shot at this. My best bet is to have everything solid, perfect and ready to go. And even then, Leni, it’s a long shot.”
“You should give Isakson more credit,” I say bracingly, even though Gavin’s right about it. I wince, remembering how the professor reacted when I made my offer. But Isakson’s going to look at Gavin’s program whether he likes it or not and I’d better sow some seeds of credibility.
“You know what Professor Isakson says at the start of every semester?” Gavin asks. “ ‘I don’t give second chances.’ ” He mimics the professor’s intonations perfectly. I heard that exact line, said exactly like that, this morning.
“Good thing you don’t need a second chance,” I say with false cheer. “You need an appeal process. This is your opportunity to show you never cheated in the first place. Because if you’re smart enough to write this business plan and negotiate a kick-ass lease and you’re willing to work this hard on a project with little chance of reward, there’s no way you would cheat for a class. It isn’t rational.”
“Humans aren’t always rational,” Gavin says. When he sees the look on my face, he shrugs. “I’m just playing devil’s advocate.”
“Scientists are always rational,” I say, making him laugh. “Besides, do you know where that phrase ‘devil’s advocate’ comes from?”
He shakes his head. I didn’t either until a couple of days ago but it came up as I did some useless research.
I explain as we stand up.
“When the Catholic Church examined whether a miracle happened or not, they sent special lawyers to talk to witnesses, to the doctors, whatever the situation was. As these investigators questioned the people, they pushed hard to find rational explanations for what happened. Those investigators were called the devil’s advocates because they were looking to explain away a miracle.” I pitch my used napkin into the trash can by the door. “You don’t even need a miracle,” I assure him as he holds the door open for me. The C-shaped scar on his arm stands out in relief, pale against his tanned skin. “You need a lot of hard work and a little bit of luck.”
Gavin steps out after me into the heavy humidity. For a second, something sweet and vulnerable crosses his face. But he catches me watching him and the expression instantly vanishes. He manages a self-deprecating half smile and the moment passes.
“That’s doable, right?”
He smiles at me, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.
I grab his hand and press it hard, as if to transfer some of my certainty to him, as if to squeeze the doubts away.
The devil doesn’t need any more advocates.
Gavin insists on walking me home.
“Some of those old farm sites looked really good. You must be close to finished.”
“Yeah,” he says. “There’re a couple of properties in particular that look promising. I’ll probably try to drive down there in the next couple of weeks to check ’em out in person and then if they both look good, it’ll come down to who’ll give the better deal.”
“Don’t wait a few weeks. Go tomorrow.”
Gavin looks at me strangely.
“You need to get this over and done with,” I say, improvising on the spot. “This is a cloud hanging over you and the sooner you finish and show it to the professor, the sooner you can move on with your life.”
“That’s extreme. There’s a lot of negotiation that needs to take place. There’s probably fifty man-hours of work left, maybe more. I could probably finish it in three weeks.…” He’s working out the hours, his free time, but even three weeks is too late.
“My birthday is Friday,” I say. “Finish it by then.”
The sun disappears behind thick and dark clouds and the temperature drops ten degrees. A cool, damp wind picks up and blows my hair in my eyes. I brush it aside, afraid to break eye contact with Gavin. This is what it comes down to. Can I convince him to drive to South Florida, wrangle and negotiate on behalf of a man who thinks he’s a liar, on four hours of sleep a night, tops?
He looks at me like I’m insane. Maybe I am, because I’m convinced that it all needs to come together on my birthday or it won’t come together at all. Isakson will lose his company, Gavin will never clear his name, never put this behind him and never achieve any of the great things that I know he can.
“Gavin, don’t sleep, if that’s what it takes. It won’t matter in a month or two. There’s a competitor on the market, another professor from Tech. He stole Isakson’s idea. If you don’t help Isakson soon, you won’t be able to help him at all. But if you give him the lease in four days, then he’ll have a chance to test his algae out of the lab and finalize his patent before this other professor presents his work at some really prestigious conference. Or it’s over,” I say. “This other guy will get all the investors. He’s got a fancy website, an awesome company name, and it won’t matter that he’s a sleazeball, or that he can’t take it to the next level. As long as he files for a patent first, he’s set.” The words are tumbling out so fast. “If Isakson won’t look at your plan with all that on the line, then you can put him behind you because it means he isn’t the man you thought he was. And if that’s the case, then you can move on with your life and get a degree somewhere else and forget him.”
The wind stirs a flurry of dust and dried oak leaves. Knots of Spanish moss tumble against my legs.
“How do you know all this?”
“Please,” I say, avoiding the question. “Will you do it?”
The sky is dark with charcoal-gray clouds, thick and low. The rising wind blows Gavin’s shirt, pressing it against his chest. A big raindrop bursts on his light gray shirt, leaving a dark circle. Another falls. And another. One lands on my cheek and slides down like a tear. The patter of drops picks up.
“Your computer!” I gasp.
As if waking from a spell, Gavin jerks and grabs his laptop bag protectively. There’s a bright flash of light.
“You need to get under cover,” I yell.
The hustle and bustle of Fourth Street is eight blocks behind us. We’re in a residential neighborhood now. We have to get indoors, fast. A loud crack of thunder booms nearby, vibrating in my chest. More people are killed by lightning in Florida than in any other state. There’s more than the computer to worry about.
“Ride your bi
ke to the ice cream shop,” Gavin tells me, pushing a little at my back to hurry me.
“I’m not leaving you!”
“Then leave the bike,” he yells as another crack of thunder drowns out our words.
He’s right. We need to run and it’ll slow us down if I push my bike along. I don’t have time to lock it. The raindrops come faster and faster. I lean my bike against a lamppost. The clouds are a dark, menacing gray and when lightning flashes again, it illuminates everything like a sudden burst of white-blue sunlight. Even though I know it’s coming, thunder cracks loud enough to make me jump. We only have a few minutes before the clouds open up on us. Gavin tucks his bag under his shirt and hunches over but that won’t be enough to protect it. No computer could survive the drenching downpour of a Florida shower. Gavin turns to backtrack to the ice cream store, but I know someplace closer.
“Follow me!” I yell. There’s a rushing sound as the wind picks up and the drops pick up their tempo.
We race down the sidewalk. I lead him through a narrow alley between two apartment buildings, not bothering to check if their lobbies are unlocked. They won’t be. Not in this neighborhood. I veer to the right at the end of the alley and Gavin follows close on my heels.
The streets are deserted. Everyone else noticed the storm rolling in and found shelter. We run to a back alley with a row of metal Dumpsters, a long brick wall and a series of doors. We’re both pockmarked with wet spots on our shirts and faces.
I stop in front of a metal door painted dull maroon and marked Steeped and pound on the door.
“Natasha!” I scream. “Let us in!”
Gavin pounds on the door with me, his fists making deep, rattling booms on the metal door. There’s a small overhang over the back door, enough to block the light rain, but it won’t be much protection once the storm is directly above us. It was a gamble to run here. If Natasha doesn’t open the shop’s back door, we’re stuck. But as I prepare to dash around the entire building, down the connecting street and to the storefronts, the door opens and we literally stumble in.
Thunder reverberates again, the clouds burst open and rain pours down so hard and thick that visibility drops to nothing. Everything looks white. Gavin leans against the hall walls in relief and I shut the door on the storm.
It’s dim in here, even after the gloom outside.
“Look what the cat dragged in,” says a smug voice.
I blink as my eyes adjust. It isn’t Natasha that opened the door. It’s John Parker. Though he did let us in and in doing so saved Gavin’s computer, I can’t help feeling an uncharitable disappointment to see him.
John Parker leers at me.
I glance down and see that my shirt is wet and that it’s quite obvious that I’m cold. I cross my arms defensively.
I always knew John Parker was a creep but there’s something aggressive about him now that makes me grateful I didn’t come in from the storm alone. Gavin picks up on it too, because he steps forward, half in front of me. That suppressed element of danger about him is suddenly not so suppressed. Gavin thrusts his hand out.
“Thanks for letting us in,” he says almost pleasantly, gripping John Parker’s hand. John winces and tries to pull his hand back. Gavin holds on to it for a second longer, making a point as his knuckles whiten, before letting go.
John Parker cradles his hand and looks at us sourly.
“Your sister’s not here again,” he accuses. “I had to open the shop by myself.”
“Okay.”
“She needs to tell me if she’s not going to open the shop,” he continues. “I can’t do it all, you know.” He runs his hand through his Lego-man hair, flexing his biceps, still thinking he’s awesome, trying to be charming and intimidating at the same time.
“Well, John,” I say coldly. “She’s your boss. If you don’t like it, find another job.”
His lips thin with anger and then without another word, he turns and walks back to the shop. I let out a breath I wasn’t aware I was holding.
“I’m thinking he wasn’t a great hiring decision,” Gavin says.
“You think?” I laugh, though it’s really not that funny. “I don’t know what my sister sees in him.”
The beaded curtain still swings from where John Parker shoved past it. Gavin sneezes, pulling my attention away from John. We’re both wet and cold in the air-conditioning.
“Come on,” I say. “Let’s see if we can find something in Natasha’s office to wear.”
Her office is unlocked. I root around in some old merchandise boxes and find an XL tea-shop–logo shirt for Gavin and a smaller one for me.
“Look, we’re twins,” I exclaim when I catch sight of us in the full-length mirror hung on the back of the door.
“Sick.” Gavin shakes his head. His shirt is cream with pink lettering and mine is pink with cream letters. We match.
Our reflection in the gilt-framed mirror shows the top of my head reaching his chin. My hair is wet and has tumbled down all around my face. There’s a hectic flush on my cheeks and the bridge of my nose; my eyes are bright and clear.
“I’m a mess,” I say.
“You’re beautiful.”
“You’re blind.”
He barks a sharp laugh and I instinctively turn toward him because Gavin has the best laugh and it doesn’t come out often. I giggle.
Florida afternoon thunderstorms, though fierce, are notoriously short-lived. By the time Gavin fires up his Mac to make sure it survived the trip, I no longer hear rain drumming on the ceiling and the last rumble of thunder was more than fifteen minutes ago.
We stay in Natasha’s office another few minutes and then head out the back door again, into the dripping alley. John Parker stays in the main shop speaking with a customer.
“Do you want me to walk you home?” Gavin asks, glancing at the shut door.
“Don’t worry about it. I live a few blocks away.”
He looks like he’s going to argue, so instead of giving him the chance, I stretch on my tiptoes and kiss his cheek. He exhales slowly, eyes closed.
“Thanks for stepping in with that creep,” I say. He opens his eyes and there’s so much in his gaze, it almost hurts to see it. In that moment, I know he’ll do anything I ask him to. “You’ll go to South Florida?” I ask.
He nods in acknowledgment. “I’ll be back by Friday.”
“Good luck.”
Then I turn and walk away, swerving around an old man getting out of a car he parked crookedly, taking up two spots in the alley. It only takes a moment before Gavin’s echoing footsteps head in the opposite direction.
I close my eyes in a quick prayer.
The trees still drip from the afternoon shower and the black asphalt steams in the afternoon sun. The grass is a new, clean sort of green, and a black cormorant stands in a grassy patch of sun, wings outstretched, looking like a totem pole topper as it dries its feathers. I pass an orange tree, its leaves glistening with raindrops. Green oranges the size of baseballs hang from its branches.
I’m a block and a half away from my house when I suddenly remember to go back for my bike.
I turn and lope, jumping over shallow puddles, running through the thin wisps of steam rising off the sidewalks. It’s only been a few minutes, I reassure myself. I arrive at the street where I left my bike. I walk up and down the block, then for good measure check the next two blocks in either direction. But every lamppost I pass is empty.
My bike is gone.
Melvin watched as the youngsters on the sidewalk separated. He figured the air around them might combust with all the heat and fireworks those two were putting out. He might be eighty-six years old but he wasn’t dead yet. Looking at them, so young and fresh, full of piss and vinegar, made him feel tired. A little wistful too. Oh, the fights he and Betty would get into some days. Neighbors three doors down could hear their shouting—you’d have thought the world was coming to an end.
He smiled a little. Of course, their reconciliation…we
ll, sometimes they’d fight just to have a reason to make up afterward.
Betty died eight years ago this October. It was hard to believe she’d been gone so long. Oh, how he missed her.
His daughter, Sally, kept telling him he should sell the condo, move closer to her. But what did he want with Connecticut? He’d lived there for sixty years. Snow and ice. People in too damn much of a hurry. There was a reason he and Betty retired down south. Sally always was too bossy for her own good. Now that her youngest was out of the house, she must be feeling bored, to start in on him. He’d stick with Florida. It was the last place he and Betty lived together, and the only way he was leaving the condo was feet first.
Still, he wasn’t doing so bad for an old fart. There were several lady friends who invited him to dinner on a regular basis. He knew each one hoped to be the new Mrs. Franklin, but although he was happy enough to eat their home cooking and take them to a show or a lecture, he knew that he would never marry again. There was only one Mrs. Franklin and she was resting in Connecticut.
He looked over his shoulder at the two whippersnappers and shook his head. To have the energy for those emotions, well, sometimes he was glad he was eighty-six and sometimes he wished he were twenty-six again. What he wouldn’t give to get to do it again. Not to do things differently, but to be in the thick of it again.
“Good luck to you,” he said to the empty street. “It goes by faster than you can imagine.”
Chapter Nineteen
I’m annoyed by the haunted-mansion creak of the rusty hinges on the front door, annoyed by my wet shoes squeaking on the marble, and completely pissed off at the thief who stole my bike. I had that bike for four years. Getting to school would be a real pain now.
As usual, no one’s up and about.
I stomp off to the kitchen for something to eat but our walk-in pantry looks worse than usual. Because it’s so large, the rows and rows of bare shelves seem like a post-apocalyptic grocery store. There’s an ancient can of baking powder; several mostly empty bags of rice; a dusty tin of smoked oysters that must have come in a gift basket years ago when my parents still gave and received things like that. Lately my mom’s been getting weird things at the store, food we don’t usually eat. Canned hominy. Powdered potatoes. Golden Puffs cereal. Grape jelly, though none of us like it. But even those odd foods have been devoured. I check the fridge for leftovers, but someone must have gotten to them already. In our giant stainless steel Sub-Zero French-door refrigerator with the freezer on the bottom, there’s a door full of condiments, a tub of ancient cream cheese and a half-empty jar of salsa.