by Mark Bomback
I swallowed, sitting back in the chair. Now I felt pressure. There was another password he used sometimes, but it wasn’t coming to me. My mother’s name? Beth’s name? My sweet and long-dead childhood cat, Bootsy? No. It had to be something with letters and numbers. My dad had often lectured me about Internet security, especially when I first started going online. He was afraid of some creepy cyberspace predator out there. A mixture of letters and numbers. His voice floated back from the past: “Something that’s meaningful only to you.” He had told me not to use names of family members but he had used mine—so had he broken his own rule, again?
My mind was blank. Connor sat beside me picking at the cuticle around his thumbnail. I saw him doing this from the corner of my eye, and turned, looking at him. He had had this habit since he was a kid. I had a clear memory of us, sitting in my dad’s outdoor shed right after his parents separated and his mother moved out. We were playing a game of checkers on a towel on the splintery floor. He was picking at the skin on his thumb so badly that he’d bled.
My head jolted up. I put my fingers on the keyboard. The poster in my dad’s shed, the picture on his office door, the cartographer that nobody else seemed to know or care about. That was it, the other password: Piri Reis.
Nothing happened. Nothing opened but nothing closed. The computer didn’t shut down. There was another part of the code. Letters and numbers. But what numbers? Maps were all numbers.
“Fifteen thirteen?” Connor whispered.
“The date the map was made,” I heard myself whisper back. Of course. Why hadn’t I thought of that? I hid a secret smile and shook my head, typing in the numbers. The screen unfolded, revealing a series of emails, and I felt a surge of relief. My eyes narrowed. The last was dated March 21. Five days before he died. I scrolled down the list. All were to and from C. Wright.
The name rang an instant bell. Cleo Wright: one of my dad’s oldest friends. “The hippie with the horse farm,” as Beth called her. She lived in New Mexico. Relief turned to suspicion. It couldn’t be. Had Beth been right? Was he having an affair with some old flame he’d passed off as a friend?
I read the subject line of the last email aloud: “Alaska is an inkwell.” I turned to Connor, who looked equally baffled. “What does that mean?”
He shook his head. I scrolled down to read the email before that one, sent from my dad.
Blackout Alaska. Stakes. 72 miles. 41 North. End.
I clicked the last email he received from her. It had never been opened.
Leave this alone and cease contact. Confirm receipt of this email.
There was no reply sent from my dad. Had he ever even received it?
“Wait, let me see this.” Connor reached for the keyboard, typing in Alaska. He pressed the SEARCH button. Alaska appeared seventy-two times. Connor’s face went pale as he frantically scanned the text.
“What is it?” I could see the pale blue light from the computer screen reflecting in his flitting eyes.
“I’m not sure yet. I overheard my dad talking about Alaska on the phone a couple nights ago. He was agitated. Not pissed … like, nervous. I’m not sure if he invested money in Alaska or what is going on.”
A sound came from the hallway, a door closing.
I gripped Connor’s arm, putting my finger over my lips.
We stared at each other. Silence. Had I imagined it? No. We both turned to see the dark strip beneath the door light up from the motion sensor. The office was dark, the door was locked, but there was no escape. I tiptoed to the window, peering out: nothing but a drop. Outside the office door, we heard footsteps and the muffled sound of voices. Lots of them. They drew closer, too many footsteps to count, until they seemed to be right outside the door.
My heart thumped wildly in my chest. But they kept moving.
Connor signaled to me to stay and put his ear against the door, listening. My mind raced through all kinds of nightmare scenarios of having to explain our break-in to Beth, to Harrison. I’d be fired, of course. Fired for trying to prove or disprove my dead father had been having an affair.
The last thing I heard were their footsteps walking upstairs to the floor above us.
“We better get out of here,” Connor whispered.
My pulse was still racing. Before I shut down the computer, I clicked on the emails from Cleo, sending them to myself. Then I turned the computer off. The office went dark. We quickly locked the door behind us and kept low, avoiding the motion sensor, as we made our way down the hallway—out the window to the back fire escape. The night air had grown cooler. The building was dark except for two windows from the floor above us. I didn’t feel safe. I don’t know what I felt. Confused. Exhausted. Angry.
For some reason, Connor didn’t climb down the fire escape; he climbed up, toward the lighted windows and the soft voices.
I glared at him. Did he want to get caught? But at the same time I was curious. Who else would be here so late at night? I found myself creeping up beside Connor, squinting through the bottom of the windowpane.
A group of five men and three women were looking at diagrams on a large computer screen. Grown-ups, in suits. It could have been a business meeting anywhere in the world. There was nothing strange about the scene at all, except for the hour. That, and I didn’t recognize any of the participants as MapOut employees. The only person I recognized was Harrison, Connor’s dad.
“I thought your dad was in Boston,” I whispered, turning to him.
Connor’s eyes were focused. “So did I.”
Rao’s was packed at 8:30 A.M. A line had already formed out the door and all the tables were taken. Music from the Amherst College radio station sounded from the speakers and the spaced-out sounding DJ’s voice came through reciting a public service announcement. My eyes felt dry and achy from only an hour or two of sleep.
I kept turning to the door every five seconds, waiting for Connor to arrive.
He was late.
Last night, after spotting Connor’s dad, we’d bolted back down the fire escape. Connor needed to get home. He was nervous, panicky, muttering about how he needed to put the office keys back in the hidden compartment under the front seat of Harrison’s car before his dad got back and noticed they were gone.
I ordered a latte and a toasted poppy seed bagel with cream cheese and slumped down at the one empty spot at the communal table. I tried not to check the time on my phone but couldn’t stop. At 9:02 I began to feel panicky, too. My hands shook as I lifted the coffee to my lips. I realized I was hungry. I chewed my bagel, listening to the chatter of the radio DJ. Anything was better than awful music.
Where was he? Maybe he had overslept? Forgotten to set his alarm? Somehow being the overachiever he was, that didn’t seem like something he would do. I double-checked our texts from the night before—starting at 1:55 A.M.—just to make sure I hadn’t missed something, that I wasn’t losing my mind or imagining things.
Connor
Dad’s still not home.
Tanya
Maybe it was some kind of emergency meeting.
Connor
Called his hotel in Boston—he never checked out. Do not disturb on his room.
Tanya
Strange. I can barely sleep.
Connor
Me too.
Tanya
I thought you hated texting.
Connor
I do. This is torture. What do those emails say?
Tanya
Can’t open them. They show as scrambled code on my computer. Obv. encrypted—duh. Tried emailing Cleo 10 X. All returned, undeliverable. Haven’t found Cleo’s number yet. I know she lived in Elk, New Mexico.
Connor
Same problem here. Can’t get into my dad’s emails. He put a double password on too. Searched Alaska on his computer. All that came up was a map of Alaska.
Tanya
Maybe Alaska is a code between my dad and Cleo? A meeting place? A hotel?
Connor
Hear
d my dad mention it too, remember? Am searching through old phone bills for numbers in the 907 area code. That’s Alaska by the way.
Tanya
Doing the exact same thing over here.
Connor
Paper phone bills date back two years ago but nothing in 907 code. His bills are online now—can’t access but pretty sure my dad wasn’t in contact with Cleo. I’m going to ask Dad about it when he gets home.
Tanya
What if he loses it again? Says it’s none of your business.
Connor
Btw he gave me 4% ownership. I have a right to know what’s going on.
Tanya
Found Dad’s old phone and charger. I kept telling him he had to recycle it but he never did. Guess whose number is on it?
Connor
Cleo’s?
Tanya
Yep. I’m going to call in the AM. She’ll be able to answer our questions.
Connor
I want to be there when you call. Meet me at Rao’s 8:30 AM. Try to get some sleep.
Tanya.
Ok. Good night.
Connor
Sleep tight.
When that last text came, I put the phone down on my bedside table and set the alarm for 7:40 A.M. I’d just turned off the lamp and sunk my head down on the pillow when I heard the cricket-chirp sound of another text.
Connor
Hey … ok you know I’m not the best texter in the world and it’s not my favorite way of communicating but I just need to tell you something.
Tanya
What is it?
The phone rang as I stared at it, waiting for him to answer my text.
“Connor?”
“Hi. I’m sorry. I know it’s late.”
“That’s okay. What is it? Did you find something?”
“No. I’m not calling about that.” He drew an audible breath. I pressed the phone to my ear. We hadn’t spoken on the phone since we were kids. I remembered having quick and stilted conversations with him from my pink princess phone in my room. Mostly what I remembered was tangling the cord around my finger over and over again until it got stuck, untangle-able. I was still wondering why he had to call. I clenched the pillow in my hand, listening.
“I just wanted to tell you in person, not in text, that it was really good to see you today. I mean …” He sounded flustered, his words rushing together. “I mean better than good. To spend time with you.”
I held my breath. Did he really just say that? Or had I misheard him?
“Tanya? You there?”
“Yeah.” My voice sounded weak, hollow. The dark room swam around me. I pressed the phone against my cheek and ear. I felt frozen, waiting to unfreeze.
“Okay, well, I guess I’ll see you tomorrow at Rao’s?” he finished.
I didn’t speak. Be brave, I thought. Tell him.
“Good night,” he said softly.
“Connor, wait.” I imagined I was shouting but my voice was just a whisper.
“Yeah?”
“Um.” I inhaled. “I wanted to say … I also missed you …” Now that I had started telling him this I didn’t know how to end it. I was aware I might be saying too much but at the same time I thought I had to explain what I meant in a way that would make it seem … casual. “I mean because we were friends when we were kids and our parents were friends. You knew my mom and my dad. I guess I just miss everything about that time. You know?”
Thank God he couldn’t see my agonized, contorted expression. Thank God he hadn’t FaceTimed me. Why did saying the truth feel so awkward and crazy?
“I do know,” he said, jumping in just before I plummeted.
“You do?”
“Yeah. Remember I told you I wanted to work for Habit for Humanity?”
“Yeah?”
“My dad was really pressuring me to work for him at MapOut, he kept using the term ‘family business’ to guilt me into it. When he mentioned you were working there, too … I guess it was part of the reason I said yes. A big part. The only part, really.”
I smiled, blinking rapidly in the darkness.
“That’s all,” he said, and then he was gone.
Connor had hung up at 2:47. I looked up from my phone into the crowded café, once again searching for him. Maybe he was still asleep. Boys slept a lot, like they could sleep all day. After our phone call I could barely sleep. I’d replayed the conversation about one thousand and fifty-seven times in my head. I wondered if he had, too?
It was 9:20. I imagined him asleep in bed, his face in the pillow, the sheet rumpled around him. I decided to send one more text. Maybe he was sick of the phone and would just show up. Or his phone was dead and he couldn’t find a charger. The possibilities were endless. I envisioned a bike crash, the gravel cutting into his hands and face. My thumb twitched over the SEND button, and I forced myself to press it.
Hey I’m still here. At common table in the back.
I put the phone down. I closed my eyes, resting them in the palms of my hands. When I open them, I told myself, he would either be here or there would be a text from him. If I didn’t leave in the next five minutes I would be late for work. I stood up, carrying the empty cup to the plastic bin.
Outside, the sun stung my eyes. I wondered if I should call Cleo, but I didn’t want to do it alone. As I walked to my bike, I rehearsed what I would say to her in my head. All versions of the story sounded crazy and seriously paranoid. I hadn’t seen her in years and now I was going to call out of the blue and say, “Hey, it’s Tanya. What’s up? I hacked into my dad’s personal emails and I’m wondering if you were having an affair with him? And what’s the deal with Alaska?”
Last night, when I was planning to make the call, all my thoughts felt clear, logical—but now standing in the bright sunlight I felt something I’d never felt before, a confusion I couldn’t name. But secretly I imagined that it was what someone like Beth must feel if she were lost. Someone with no direction, stuck without a map. So maybe I could name it “unhinged.”
I arrived at MapOut at 10:15. The receptionist with the short black hair and powder-pale skin was sipping a can of Diet Coke. She looked up at me, the can of soda in her hand as she chewed on the straw.
I kind of mouthed the word morning as I hurried past.
“Hey there,” she called out. Before I even turned around, I heard the sound of her soda can against the desk. She stared intently at the large computer screen on her desk.
“I don’t think we’ve formally met yet,” she said. She had a low voice, not soft, just low and quick.
“I’m Tanya Barrett. I’m just working for the summer.”
“I know. I remember your dad. I’m Alison.”
“Nice to meet you.” I smiled back at her. “Do you know if Connor is here yet?” I felt awkward asking, like maybe she would think I had a crush on him or something, so I quickly added. “He was supposed to show me how to use the Track program.”
She glanced at her screen, her eyes scrolling down what looked like a series of numbers.
“Nope. Not yet.” She smiled a smile that froze in place for at least three seconds or more.
“Okay.” I bit my top lip. “Um, is Harrison in yet?”
“Nope. He’s in Boston. He should be back this afternoon.”
She glanced back at her screen, her eyes following the scroll of numbers. “And your phone number is?”
“My phone number?”
“Updating contact info.”
I told her my number.
“Okay.” She typed in the number. “And you still live at 48 Lincoln Road, Amherst?”
“Yes.”
“Okay,” she said without looking away from the screen. “We’re good.”
One of the top ten most annoying expressions: we’re good. I walked past her and into the cavernous office space. Most of the employees had already arrived. The morning sun cast slanted rectangles of light across the wooden floors. All the white cubicles were full of the scruffy c
ollege types, inputting data, the keyboards making soft clicking sounds that filled the room.
The kitchen was empty. The coffee pot only had a drop of coffee left. I checked my phone again. Nothing. I poured the dregs of the coffee into my cup and walked to my cubicle. The guy working next to me sort of nodded a brief hello. He had his earbuds in and I could hear the tinny sound of music coming through. The pile of data reports I hadn’t finished yesterday sat beside me. I wanted to scream at it.
I picked up a page from the pile of data info, but could barely focus. At this point I was a combination of mostly worried, annoyed, impatient, and confused. What time was it in New Mexico? Should I just go ahead and phone Cleo without him? It was only 10:32 A.M.
Calm down, I thought. He’ll be here soon.
At 11:57 I broke my vow of not checking my phone until 12:30. I pressed SLEEP, and the computer screen went black and announced to the three walls of my cubicle that I was taking an early lunch break. I picked up my knapsack, went to the newly renovated toilets, and splashed handfuls of cold water on my face and the back of my neck. My eyes looked puffy and sort of bloodshot. If anyone saw me they would probably think I was a stoner. Of course, half the people who worked here were probably stoners. I smoothed my hair with my hands and pulled it back into a ponytail.
I can get away with taking my lunch break now.
I took the keys to my bike lock from my knapsack and retrieved the buried phone. As I neared Harrison’s office, I could see it was still empty. The receptionist was talking into her phone headset. I tried to hurry out without her noticing. But just as I was about to walk through the front door out into the sunshine, she looked up from her computer screen.
“Lunch break?” she asked, her eyes popping up.
“Yep.”
“You get forty-five minutes.”
“Yep. I know.”
“All good.” Her eyes flashed back to the screen. The quickness and intensity of her typing was more like a concert pianist than an office assistant. No wonder Dad and Harrison had hired her.