Megan wore a simple sleeveless black dress with a blue silk scarf around her shoulders. Wide-eyed and nodding, she appeared to stay with Lindstrom’s every utterance, but Davis knew better. Still, she was tamping her romantic inclinations down nicely and had made only a few exclamations over how smart Lindstrom’s thinking was. Davis thought he had recognized a few blushes from Lindstrom, but maybe it was the heat from the prematurely lit fireplace at his back.
“I’d like to say Grace,” Jenny announced as soon as Lindstrom had finished speaking. Davis watched them all bow their heads, while he refused. “Bless us, O Lord, and these Thy gifts, which we are about to receive from Thy bounty, through Christ our Lord. And a special thanks today, Lord, for the creation of all of the animals and the livestock. For on the sixth day, God said, ‘Let the earth bring forth living creatures of all kinds—cattle, and creeping things, and beasts of the earth: and it was so.’ Amen.” She looked up brightly.
Davis smiled back at her.
“Amen,” said Lindstrom, picking up his fork.
“Cattle,” Davis said, after a moment’s consideration, “were created by man a little over ten thousand years ago, when they bred aurochs to be smaller and more docile. And aurochs, themselves”—he gave Lindstrom a look of concentration as though they were working this reply out together—“didn’t evolve until the global drying and cooling of the Pliocene epoch, when the grasslands greatly expanded. So God didn’t create all of the creeping things and the cattle on the same day.”
When he first met Jenny, she was not as Catholic as she had become since the troubles began with Megan, and he hoped she would lapse again after Megan went off into the world. Jenny had known he was an atheist from the start and had never pushed him so long as he consented that their children could be raised as Catholics. It was one of the reasons Davis had originally fallen in love with Jenny—because she had let him be, and not just on the religious front. There was no judgment about all of the time he spent researching and hunting his prizes. The woman he had dated before Jenny had finally dubbed him autistic (!) for the intense focus he gave the cryptids. And Jenny didn’t insist—as the previous loved one had—that reading was the same as doing nothing. So he had predicted a fulfilling life with such a companion.
“However cattle were created, I’m afraid I don’t eat them.” Lindstrom forked a green bean into his mouth.
“We never asked? Oh, I’m horrified.” Jenny set her utensils down in protest.
“God, Dad,” Megan said.
“It’s inexcusable,” Davis agreed. In the time, long before, when they used to have guests for dinner, no man was a vegetarian. “Please”—he stood to move the large wooden salad bowl next to Lindstrom’s plate—“the rest is all yours.”
“And it’s a beautiful salad, Jenny, so please don’t worry,” Lindstrom said, taking up the bowl.
“Well, I will! I’m mortified.”
“The salad has cheese on it,” said Megan. “From a cow.”
“Nope”—Lindstrom raised a hand—“cheese is okay. Cheese is A-okay.”
As he ate his salad, Lindstrom surveyed the labeled photos on the wall opposite him: Caspian Horse, Terror Skink, Night Parrot, Armoured Frog. “Your students must love coming here.”
“Well, I’ll tell you”—Davis reviewed the gallery with nodding pleasure—“it’s great to see an example of a Lazarus taxon. Gives everybody hope that other seemingly dead-ended evolutionary lines are actually hiding among us.”
“Maybe also hope for the many soon-to-be-extinct species. Which extinct animals would you like to see alive again, Megan?” Lindstrom asked.
She shrugged and faked shyness.
“What about a type of dinosaur? Wouldn’t that be amazing?”
“Megan isn’t so into animals,” Davis admitted.
“Pterodactyls.” She flashed Lindstrom a smile.
“Nice choice! Pterodactylus had teeth, you know. Modern birds don’t.”
“Now, I don’t know about that.” Davis forced a grin. “Geese have toothlike projections to help them graze.”
“They’re not teeth, though,” Lindstrom said.
“Penguins, too, of course,” Davis added. “In a way. They have these spine-covered tongues and upper palates to help them hold on to fish.” He made a grasping mouth with his fingers and thumb and moved it out toward Megan.
She jerked away. “Stop it!”
“I heard you have a coelacanth, Davis. Do you think we could display that on accepted-students’ day this year?” Lindstrom asked.
“Keep it,” said Jenny, waving her fork over her shoulder.
Ignoring her, Davis moved his upturned hands apart, as pans of a scale. “You want the coelacanth, Eric, but you don’t want the fur-bearing trout?”
“You should take the merman. He’s so creepy!” Megan stuck her tongue out. “Blech. It’s like a monkey sewed onto a fish. I think they chopped a monkey in half—”
“Enough, Megan,” Jenny patted the tablecloth near her daughter.
“—like with an ax and pulled enough of the guts out—”
“Okay, Megan.” Davis’s eyes bored into her and then quickly returned to Lindstrom, and he smiled away his frustration before continuing. “A trading post find. Probably a circus thing.”
Davis was forever defending his interest in what some called a pseudoscience by noting all of the animals that would have fallen into the same category as Bigfoot in the recent past: the animals pictured on his walls, for instance, along with many others—the megamouth shark, the komodo dragon, the mountain gorilla, and on and on.
“You should vlog about one of your dad’s cryptids. That would be a good one,” Lindstrom said.
Megan gathered up her hair and slowly coiled it on top of her head. “I already have a vlog topic.”
“What’s this?” Davis looked from one to the other.
Lindstrom smiled at his student. “Everyone in the class is exploring a Maine animal they don’t know anything about and reporting their findings in a video blog called What’s a Blank?”
“What’s your blank, honey?” Jenny pushed her still-empty wineglass away and then slumped back into her chair.
“Secret.” Her eyes were locked with Lindstrom’s.
Davis immediately dropped his napkin to get a peek at Megan’s feet, which were out of theirs shoes but still on her side.
# # #
The display cases along the walls of Davis’s den were each seven feet tall, a foot and a half taller than Davis, with fluorescent lights boxed into the tops that illuminated dozens of plaster footprint castings with their little tent labels. Glass shelves allowed the light to filter down through four tiers to the shadowed, least impressive specimens at the bottom. A large map of Maine took up a section of wall, with pushpins of various colors marking cryptid sightings that were explained in a key. But the central feature in the room was in a stand on his desk, a blue sea creature over five feet long. The fish’s sheen had faded through the years, and a few of the scales had dropped off, but it was still impressive—like a Frankenstein fish onto which a few extra fins had been haphazardly attached.
“Where do you buy a coelacanth, Davis?” Lindstrom asked with quiet reverence.
Davis placed a proprietary hand on the fish’s head. “It helps to know some of the exotic animal dealers around the Indian Ocean. The taxidermist told me that the brain was quite tiny. All but just a minuscule portion of the braincase was filled with fat; only a small fraction was actual brain tissue.”
Megan repeated the family joke: “They’re the blondes of the sea.”
“Eight fins,” Davis lectured, walking around to the other side of the desk. “Two dorsal, two pectoral, two pelvic, one anal, and one caudal. It can move in any direction it wishes, highly maneuverable. They’ve been seen doing headstands and swimming upside down.”
“So, is it that they sort of walk along the bottom with the pectoral and pelvic fins? Has anyone witnessed this?”
&
nbsp; “No, no, this fish doesn’t actually walk. It’s a drift-hunter. But it does belong to the same lobe-finned group as our own ancestors. It’s our closest fish relative. And it does move its fins in an alternating pattern, like a four-legged animal.” He turned to his daughter. “If you want to know what lobe fins are, Megan, they are fins—”
“I don’t.”
“—fins that are attached to the rest of the body by a single bone wrapped in muscle and skin, like our limbs.” He rubbed the dust off one of the fish’s pelvic fins in this performance for Lindstrom. “Most other fish have fins that are just these webbed rays, not a bone covered with muscle and skin. So, our ancestors were like this one, but unlike this fish, they moved into shallow waters and eventually onto land. This is a deep-water fish.”
“It was bluer before, almost as blue as your eyes.” Megan brushed around the back of Lindstrom to stand at his other side. “And look, Eric, teeth!”
“Real enamel teeth,” Davis agreed.
“This one was a girl,” she told him. “When they opened her up, they saw that eggs had hatched inside her.” Megan turned her wide eyes on Lindstrom. “Already hatched!”
“No kidding?” Lindstrom said.
“Size of swan eggs.” Davis found he’d broken out in pinpricks of sweat. “They’ve been known to have over sixty big eggs in there. This fish was thought to have been extinct for around sixty-five million years until one was dredged up in 1938. Yep, there’s a lot more in store for us on this planet.”
“Shall we move on to the footprint impressions?” Lindstrom had turned to peer at some plaster casts in a case.
“The yeti prints discovered by Eric Shipton in 1951 while climbing Everest.”
“An opposable big toe.”
“Right, an ape. Sir Edmund Hillary and Tenzing Norgay said they saw similar footprints on Everest, and Norgay reported that his father had actually laid eyes on a yeti, twice! From tracks we know that yetis are semi-bipedal, sometimes dropping onto all fours. So they’re a different species from Bigfoot, who is fully bipedal with more humanlike prints.”
Eric shifted over to examine a large footprint cast in the far corner of the same case. “What’s this? Three-toed?” He lifted a grin.
“Found in a soybean field in Fouke, Arkansas, 1971. The Fouke Monster, or Southern Sasquatch, they called it. Seven feet tall and weighing up to three hundred pounds. Big red eyes. Attacked a man and a woman one night outside their house. The man had scratches all across his back.”
Lindstrom opened his mouth, then closed it, then finally said, “Well, if this print came from a living thing, it would be the only known primate or hominid without five toes. It’s a dumb man’s fake.”
Davis nodded. “It would be unusual. But we ignore strange reports at our peril. Okay, here’s a Bigfoot track found in Washington state, 1986.” He had moved on to a plaster cast that looked like a giant human footprint, but with relatively shorter toes.
“Dad, take a picture of me and Eric with Sasquatch.”
“Well, he’s missing an arm right now,” Davis said, “but maybe Dr. Lindstrom can stand to cover that side.”
“Let’s do it!” Lindstrom said, but then Davis stopped the man from following Megan out of the room. “That three-toed footprint, that’s just a kitschy thing. I’m not suggesting that was a real animal.”
“Oh.” Lindstrom smiled and nodded.
“I wouldn’t want that to be a strike against me.”
“I’m enjoying the tour, Davis. I’m not making judgments.”
“Good. Good. ’Cause you know I’m up for tenure. It’s up or out now.”
“I’m sure your getting tenure or not will have nothing to do with all of this.”
“But, well, this—the study of cryptids—this is where all of my research has been, so it has everything to do with it.”
Lindstrom rubbed his cheek while resurveying the room, “Well, what was your dissertation on?”
“The legend of the jackalope as explained by the Shope papilloma virus.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Rabbits with viral warts that looked like antlers. I make a compelling case.” Davis then realized he hadn’t shown an interest in Lindstrom’s work. “What was yours on?”
“Zoological features tending to disprove the theory of evolution.”
“Ha ha.” Davis grinned. “Wait, is that the real topic?”
Lindstrom’s lips disappeared. “Let’s not keep Megan waiting.”
# # #
That night, Davis toured his collection again, alone, martini in hand. He’d seen his wife go up to bed with her own glass of clear spirits. Tomorrow the booze would have to be discarded for fear it would otherwise go straight down Megan’s throat. Davis took tiny steps along the cases and tried to relive the moment he’d first heard of each piece. He replayed the search for the owner and the careful negotiations, the magical arrival, the first touch, the cataloging, the perfect placement. But over time, most of the pieces could no longer render strong emotion. They were nearly thrill-less. Yes, he needed a new one and he needed it now.
TIM
When Tim made it down to the kitchen on Sunday morning, Mona was chopping mushrooms at the table, finishing a thought. “It’s a phase, like wearing black.”
Vinnie, stoveside in his Gaga T-shirt, whisked eggs in a bowl. “Put your order in to the chef!” he sang.
“What’s a phase?” Tim headed for the fridge.
“I’m just talking about Miles.”
“Miles is having a phase where he’s retreating from the world,” Vinnie answered. “But I never did have that phase. I just keep venturing forth. I am an onward person.”
Since there were no cooking smells yet, Tim could say it: “I’d better not eat. I’m going to the Olive Garden in a bit.”
“Olive Garden?”
“He takes his mother every Sunday.” Mona waved the knife.
“They have a lovely pasta fagioli.” Vinnie said the name of the dish with gusto, like introducing a musical act. “How is the mamma?”
“She’s fine.”
Mona leaned back to touch Vinnie’s furry forearm. “She’s been writing a book for women on how to build self-worth through sex.”
“No!” Vinnie stopped whisking and gave Tim a shy smile.
“Five years now. Right? She’s been writing it five years now?” she asked Tim.
“Is that shredded cheddar? I could have a small omelet.” He sat at the Formica table across from his wife and went over the to-do list again in his head. He’d been up most of the night, thinking about becoming Rusty. The sniper was already in him. He just needed to transform his shell—to renew himself. But each time he tried to focus on steps for his renewal and escape, three weights would tug at him: wife, son, mother. He would have to determine plans for setting all three of them to rights. He’d sketched some details on the inside back cover of the Ganjgal book, calling them the Fire Team Missions.
“Get a glass,” said Mona, as Tim reached for the juice carton in the middle of the table.
“I was going to.”
She slid the sliced mushrooms onto a plate. “Do you know enough about pianos to tell whether one is good or bad?”
Tim shrugged as he pretended to read the back of the OJ carton.
“One of our big opera donors, Sunny Straub, wants someone to look at a used piano she saw at an estate sale.”
“Oh, yeah?” He sat up. “Sure, I can make a recommendation. And then she’s a lifelong tuning customer. Did she say when?”
She shrugged, “I can call her.”
“Let’s make it today! Call her today. Let’s get going on this thing, Mona. It’s the beginning!” (Fire Team Mission #1: Make Enough Money to Buy Mona the Driveway.)
# # #
Before Tim left to get his mother, he knocked on his son’s door. “Miles.”
“Yeah.”
Tim pushed in to find him lying in bed with his headphones on. “You’re awake!” The
boy pulled aside the right ear pad.
“Listen, I want you to leave this room today.” (Fire Team Mission #2: Help Miles Move into the Real World.)
“Yeah.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Dunno.”
“Vinnie’s making omelets.”
“Yeah.” The boy barely rolled his head toward Tim, as though he’d suffered grave injuries.
“What’re you listening to?”
“Pathogenic.”
They were surrounded by Gothic fonts and long-haired, angry fat men on posters for bands named Gorguts and Bolt Thrower. “I don’t know how you stand that metal crap.”
Miles extended his long arms like Jesus blessing a crowd. “You don’t have to like it. You just have to enjoy a balanced diet with fiber and shit.”
“Give it to me, I’m going to listen to it on the way to Ma’s,” Tim said, heading toward the bed.
“It’s not a CD.”
“Give me the whole setup, the iPod, the headphones.”
“Can’t drive with headphones. It’s most illegal.”
Tim sat beside the boy’s knees, the unwashed smell of him like a fresh hoagie. “I need to figure out what the ideal me likes to listen to.”
Miles offered the gear. “This is the best song.”
Tim clapped on the headphones, awaited the song, and jerked at the start of the assault. “It’s worse than next door!” he shouted. It was only fifteen seconds before he raked the headphones off. “That’s dreadful. How do they get their voices to do that?”
The Futility Experts Page 3