"Mikie was here," I read. There’s also a silly face with a big nose and spikes for hair. "I bet he got in trouble for that one."
Lily laughs and stands up. I step back quickly in order to avoid her head crashing into my face. But when she turns around to answer me I am still very close. Too close. She steps away and points to the chair. I sit as directed. She curls into a loveseat opposite me. We’re in Michael’s office. Not the darkly paneled doctor’s study you'd see in the movies, this room is bright and well used. In addition to the chair and sofa we occupy, there’s a sprawling desk covered with computer gear, a printer, fax machine, phone, and stacks and stacks of papers and manuals and magazines. Lily cleared off a space for us to work, but it’s not much more than a tiny crop circle in a field of confusion. There are bookshelves on every inch of wall space, under the windows, over the door. There’s even a small fireplace at one end of the room with books across the mantle and piled like fuel on either side of the screen. Could anyone read this much stuff?
"Have you been sleeping alright?" Lily asks.
I must look puzzled, because she rephrases the question.
"When I have a cold coming on, I can’t sleep. That’s the first sign. It’s all downhill from there."
"I am a little tired. The storms these last few nights have kept me awake."
"Hasn’t the wind been incredible? They say another one’s coming through tonight. We can call it a day if you want."
"I’ll be fine. I just need to sit for a few minutes. This is a great chair."
Lily smiles. She must be picturing Michael sitting in the chair because her eyes look right through me. Maybe that’s why she doesn’t notice my overt leering; she can’t imagine herself with anyone but Michael. I reach for my coffee and the movement breaks her stare. She reluctantly returns to our conversation.
"I’ve been thinking we could go through Michael’s appointment planner on his computer," she says. "We might be able to find some mention about meetings or interviews with the original test participants. Remember you asked me about that? It’s been bugging me that I couldn’t answer you. I never stopped to notice that a lot of the time I had no idea where Michael was."
She takes a drink of her coffee and stares down into the mug rather than looking at me. I wonder what she sees in the blackness of the coffee. I don’t think you can read coffee grounds the way you can tea leaves, and either way, I know you can’t tell anything from the liquid that’s covering them up. I bet if you look at anything long enough it changes. We’re just not clever enough to recognize the minuscule shifts and movement. Everyone notices when they demolish a building. But sometimes, the difference is just an energy shift at the molecular level, just one leaf falling from a tree, leaving a hundred thousand behind.
"Such is the life of a doctor’s wife, right?" I ask, trying to lighten the mood. "A phone call away from desertion at all times."
Lily looks up at me and her smile takes an instant to catch up with her eyes. She had to remember to sweep back the curtain. What is it that drives us to be so stoic in the face of death? Where’s the tragedy? On television, you always see foreign women in black veils wailing over the coffins of their departed loved ones. Here, everyone puts on a brave front. Looking sad is acceptable, much more than that is undignified. I think there should be more crying.
"I was used to that part," Lily answers. "But when I try to put together a week, sometimes even a day of Michael’s life, there are giant chunks of time I can’t account for. I thought maybe if I looked through his schedule it would fall into place."
Outside the windows, shadows stretch forward, trying to hold on to the escaping afternoon. Day and night sometimes remind me of bickering siblings. Technically, it’s an equal split, twelve hours for day and twelve hours for night. But I think night is the older brother and usually gets more than his fair share. Day, the little sister, has to whine and cry and struggle to hold on to every single hour she can. The colors in the room dull in the vanishing light and the rustling of our small movements intensifies.
"It’s getting gloomy in here, isn’t it?"
Lily leans over and clicks on a table lamp. The sudden illumination pushes away the darkness to wait at the edges of the room.
"What did you find?" I ask.
"I haven’t looked."
"Why not?"
"I am so lame when it comes to computers. Give me a pen and paper any day. It used to drive Michael crazy that I still balance my checkbook by hand."
"Do you want me to take a look?"
"That would be great."
Lily reaches out to set her mug down on the table in front of her. There it is. Skin. And then it’s gone. She’s up and over at the desk before I can climb out of the baseball mitt.
I consider myself pretty adept when it comes to wrestling information out of a computer, but who knows what kind of program Michael used for his personal scheduling. However, I am more than happy to try to figure it out. It will divert attention from the task at hand and I’m all for that. I sit back down at the computer and open the Start menu. A pretty standard assortment of programs.
"Did you try Outlook?"
"I didn’t try anything."
"I use Outlook’s calendar. We may as well start there."
I click the icon and a box pops up asking for the password.
"What’s Michael’s password?"
Lily steps around me and leans in towards the screen. She reaches out and touches the prompt box with the tips of her fingers.
"How did you do that? How did you get that box to come up?"
"I clicked on the program icon, but it’s password protected. Do you know Michael's password?"
"No."
She turns away from the screen and sits on the edge of the desk. She’s looking at the floor and her bottom lip is clamped under her front teeth. Body language experts, of whom I consider myself a member, would tell you she is "biting back her words." She is afraid to let her real feelings tumble out. She fears emotional pain more than physical pain. Well, don’t we all? Her shoulders slump forward and she hammers on her thighs with two tight fists.
"Stupid, stupid, stupid," she says in rhythm with the pounding.
"Hey, it’s all right. I’m sure the password is written down somewhere."
Her head snaps up. She’s looking right at me now. Her eyes are sharp and dark, like bullets that could come flying out of their sockets and tear a path through my brain.
"Why would he put a password on his calendar?" Her voice strains out through her teeth. "Who was he afraid of? Me?"
I roll the chair over to her and tentatively put a hand over one of her clenched fists. It doesn’t relax. I cover the other one.
"Not you," I say. "I’m sure it wasn’t for you. I bet he used the same calendar on the system at the hospital. He probably didn’t want people poking around in his personal notes when he was out of the office."
Her hands relax under mine, but she slips them out to catch her head as it falls forward. My palms hover above her bare thighs, desperately wanting to land. Instead I sit back in my chair and place them in my own lap.
"I should know things like this, shouldn’t I?" she says, raking her fingers through her hair. "A wife is supposed to know this kind of stuff."
I don’t answer. I don’t know the answer. I don’t know what to say to help her. It’s like watching a building burn. You want to run in, but then you’d burn up too. So you stand there, helpless, burning up on the inside instead.
"He didn’t trust me," she continues. "I don’t mean he didn’t love me. I know he loved me. I just don’t think he trusted me to understand things. I could handle the parties and the press and the house, but I wasn’t supposed to worry about the details of his work. When he’d tell me about things, he’d always stop short of explaining the real focus. I tried to pester him into it a few times, but he always brushed it off as being too boring for me."
I’m listening to her. No, I’m watching her mouth move,
watching it form letters, watching the corners turn down and the lips pout. I press my back against the chair because every muscle in my body wants to reach out and kiss her. I try harder to listen.
"I don’t think that’s so unusual," I say. "I think a lot of husbands just give their wives the highlights. Not being a husband myself, I can’t guarantee this, but I am a guy, and I do know that when you’ve been working all day, the last thing you want to do is come home and relive the whole damn day."
She smiles just a little. "Maybe you’re right."
"Of course I’m right," I say, trying to be encouraging. I’m afraid if she gets sad enough to cry, I won’t be able to stop myself from wrapping her up in my arms. "All we need to do is figure out his password. Most people use words that mean something to them. And like I said, it’s probably written down somewhere."
"I’ve been wondering about that."
"About where it is?"
"About why you’re not a husband."
Whoa. Incoming from left field.
"You know an awful lot about Michael and me, but I don’t know very much about you. Is there someone special in the picture?"
Must not vault to conclusions. I’m sure she’s just curious. Wouldn’t anyone be? I’m curious about it myself. I should have someone special by this point in my life. Shouldn’t I? I don’t know many men who’ve gotten this far in the game without at least one serious relationship. Even I am not shallow enough to label any of my funeral flings as serious relationships. I could tell her the truth. That would be a novel idea.
"No one special. I’m not a particularly good catch. Mediocre looking, boring job, no hobbies to speak of."
Okay, mostly the truth.
"I guess I’ve never run into anyone who could put up with me for any length of time."
"You’ve probably never given anyone a chance," Lily says, pushing herself off the desk and crossing to the window. She stares outside for a minute then turns back to me. "You’re interesting and funny and certainly better than mediocre in the looks department. I could name a dozen girls right off the top of my head who would love to go out with you."
A cartoon balloon pops over my head and whizzes around the room, bouncing off the ceiling and walls. I can hear the escaping air whistling in my ears. As if. Like there was ever a chance in hell. She could name a dozen girls, huh? None of which would be her. Pathetic oaf.
"That’s okay," I say. "What would I do with a dozen girls following me around? We’d never get any work done."
Lily leans back and delicately balances on the edge of the windowsill. Framed by the window with the darkness behind her, she looks like a painting. What would it be like to hold her?
"I could say something here about all work and no play," she says. "But I think there’s more to you than a dull boy. I think you don’t want anyone to know the real Albert."
Yikes! She’s hit the nail on the head. Give the lady a Kewpie doll. People are usually more perceptive than they realize. If you go with your gut, ninety-five percent of the time it’s right and the other five percent, it’s hungry. We simply choose to ignore the message, especially if it’s something we don’t want to hear. I wonder what Lily would do if she knew interesting, funny, more-than-mediocre Albert Mackey doesn’t even exist.
"Very true, Dr. Rudolph," I say in a very bad German accent. "Perhaps I should stretch out on the couch here and you could delve into my fear of spiders."
"Okay, you win," she says, laughing and crossing back over to the computer. "Enough soul searching for today. In fact, enough of everything for today. Let’s call it good. Besides, I’m a little worried about you getting back before the storm hits. I’ll look around for that password and we’ll pick up tomorrow."
"Did Michael have a briefcase or anything that he carried on a regular basis?"
"About the only thing he always had handy was his flight bag. That way he could escape and go flying at a moment’s notice."
"That would be a good place to start."
Her eyes cloud.
"We lost it in the crash."
"I’m sorry. I am so sorry. That was such a stupid thing to say."
"You couldn’t have known."
"I could have thought for two seconds before speaking."
"It’s okay, really."
I stand and grab my coat from the back of the chair. I want to throw it over my head and slink out of the room.
"I know if I just think about it, I can come up with some good places to look for the password," Lily says. I can tell she’s trying to dissipate the tension. She’s probably also trying to stop pictures of the crash from filling up her brain.
I reach out and put my hand on her shoulder. Gently. A friend comforting a friend.
"Get some sleep," I say. "I know I always think better in the morning."
She reaches up and squeezes my hand. Her skin is soft and warm. Her nails dig into my palm.
"Don’t bother to walk me out; it’s too nasty out there. I’ll see you tomorrow."
She smiles.
"See you tomorrow."
EIGHT
As soon as I step outside, I can tell "nasty" was too mild a description for the weather. The wind blasts rain across my face. Lightning snaps in the distance. Lily’s gardener comes up the driveway sheathed completely in rubber and clutching a small chain saw.
"You better get a move on," he shouts over the howling. "The wind’s takin’ down limbs everywhere. I just cleaned up the end of the driveway. You should be able to get out of here okay, but I heard on the radio earlier that a couple whole trees went down on Highway 39."
"Is there another way into town?" I shout back at the man.
The wind whips the hood from his head. He doesn’t bother to pull it back up. He stands for a moment, thinking, the rain forming tributaries along the wrinkles in his cheeks. Ultimately the rivers merge and cascade off the end of his chin. He wipes a hand through the waterfall and points down the driveway.
"Go left out of here, like you’re heading toward Franklin Grove. Just follow the signs. You’ll eventually pick up 88 and that’ll bring you back around to 39."
"Sounds good. Thanks."
Actually, I have no idea what the guy is talking about, but it’s pouring out here. With no hat and a windbreaker that is not living up to its name, I’m already as soaked as he is. Vague generalities of direction seem sufficient. I run for my car, yank open the door, chuck my things onto the passenger’s seat, then hurl myself into the driver’s seat. It’s warm and dry inside the steel cocoon. The larger gusts of wind are tough enough to rock the car back and forth. I start the engine and head for the gate. Piles of limbs line the driveway, little sawdust pyramids marking the chainsaw’s targets. Sensors under the pavement warn the gate of my approach and it slides open to let me pass. I flip on my blinker to indicate a left turn. Force of habit. No other idiots are out here driving around. No one to notice which way I’m going.
The wipers are on high, frantically trying to hold back the rain. Movie rain.
About a year back, a Hollywood film crew came through Park Hills. It was one of Mayor Taylor’s finest moments of civic pride. Not only had he convinced the crew our fair city was the perfect location to shoot a car chase across a bridge, he had also wrangled a part for himself as an extra. There was just one little problem. The Mayor had promised rain. Of course no one can guarantee the weather, but rain in November is a pretty safe bet in our neck of the woods. Except that year. That year, it didn’t rain all month. A few threatening clouds, a couple foggy mornings, but not a drop of rain and certainly not a storm, which is what the film crew was really after. They spent several weeks tying up traffic, doing all the non-rain shots they could think of. It was all rigged and ready for the big chase scene. Finally, when they couldn’t wait any longer for nature to comply, they plumbed the bridge. They ran huge pipes parallel with the roadway. These fed dozens of smaller vertical pipes each of which had a massive sprinkler head. Everything was painted the s
ame color as the bridge so you couldn’t even tell it was there. Then the trucks came, giant tanker trucks of water. They hooked them up, opened the valves, and there it was. Lights, camera, rain. Torrential rain. The perfect illusion.
I don’t see any of the gardener’s promised signs, but I can’t really see much of anything beyond about a twenty-foot radius. There could be herds of wildebeests grazing along the road for all I know. I’ve passed exactly two cars since I left Lily’s. Both going the opposite direction. Maybe that’s the sign I’m looking for. You’re going the wrong way. The rain is tapering off a bit, but the wind is taking up the slack. Suddenly, there it is, an encouraging beacon, a green and white sign of salvation. Franklin Grove, 36 miles. I am on the right track.
I press down on the accelerator and confidently plow through the storm. The road to Franklin Grove curves and dips, but I stay the course. In the distance, my headlights reflect off the red of a stop sign. Its lone companion, a flashing red light, signals a new decision to be made. I slow to a stop. My road T’s into another road. Across the way, a new sign stands sentry, the flashing light illuminating its proclamation with pulsing regularity. Turn to the right, Scarboro. Turn the left, Eldena. No Franklin Grove. I conjure up a map of Illinois in my head and try to remember how all the little towns out here relate. That first sign for Franklin Grove wasn’t more than four miles back. Why wouldn’t it be listed here? Sometimes I think they deliberately hire the practical jokers to work for the Department of Transportation. There’s someone in a nice, warm office somewhere in Springfield, typing up signage orders. "Wouldn’t it be funny," he thinks. "If I put up one sign for Franklin Grove, and then never put up another the whole way there?" What a riot.
I turn left, if for no other reason than the gardener’s original instructions were to "go left." Maybe he meant to go left whenever given the opportunity. Sooner or later there has to be a sign. Ahead the road splits again, this one more of a knife in the road than the proverbial fork. Each side peels off at a clean 90˚ angle. I go left again. If I don’t hit something familiar before too long, I’ll eventually just make a giant circle.
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