by Julia Stoops
Nancy gives Fetzer’s shoulder a push. “I was wondering if you’d figure it out!”
Fetzer grins, slaps his thigh.
Turns out in the seventies Nancy lived with some activists above a store that did exchanges. Fetzer was a regular. He’d bring in kitchen appliances he’d fixed and leave with 8-track tapes.
Fetzer rubs a hand over his scalp. “So, you listen to the show but you never got in touch? Jeez, Nancy.”
Nancy flips a hand. “Oh, you know. You get busy.”
“Wait. So, your daughter, she’s in twelfth grade, she’s born in ’83, ’84?”
“’Bout five years after I left, uh-huh.”
Fetzer spreads his hands wide. “And you never told me?”
Nancy glances at her feet. “It was hard, Irving. Having a kid makes you practical. Just focusing on surviving, you know. I kinda—” Her hand drops off her hip, hangs loose at her side. “Went to school. Got some office skills. Been working ever since.”
Fetzer looks at the ground and nods. Nelson knows what he’s thinking, how hard it is to stay on the margins as you get older. How hard it is to not cave under the survival pressures of neoliberalism. And what a shame it is each time they learn of another friend whose radical energies have been diverted by circumstance and necessity.
Nancy touches Fetzer’s shoulder again. “But I listen to your show, oh yes.” Her smile is enormous. “And I feel like I know you, John, and Jen. Well, sorta. And I do what I can for the environment,” she says as she moves away. “Except I cannot stop using paper towels, know what I mean?”
They follow her down the hall and into an office, where she hovers her hand—with matching yellow nail polish—above a speakerphone. “And I’d like to do biofuel in my car, like you all use? But without the infrastructure—” She leans toward the phone, presses a button, and says, “Dr. Reynolds? Mr. Nelson and his party are here.” She straightens up and drops a hand on her large hip. “And no way am I going to make it myself. I have enough to do, working and raising a daughter. You have any idea how much laundry a seventeen-year-old generates? Just because she’s a science nerd doesn’t mean she doesn’t go through clothes.”
The phone says, “Send them in.”
Nancy goes over to a door, opens it wide. The inner office is huge and wood-paneled. One wall is filled with photos of Portland’s bridges, each taken from the air. Apart from being late-middle-aged and white, William Reynolds doesn’t look like a typical engineering chair. Athletic and tanned, he looks like a man who’s made lucrative decisions and knows how to be in charge. A man who’s arrived. He looks a little like Nelson’s dad.
Reynolds says, “Have a seat.”
Three leather-trimmed chairs sit in a semicircle in front of the massive desk. Reynolds shakes Jen’s hand, Fetzer’s, then his grip is tight around Nelson’s. Nelson suddenly feels shabby and tugs his jacket sleeve over the frayed cuff of his shirt. He knew HLU had a big endowment, but this big?
“Thanks for, ah . . .” Reynolds sits in the executive chair behind the desk, spreads his palms. “Coming in earlier. Got called away at the last minute.” He smiles with his lips closed.
The bridges have been shot at different angles and at different times, and for a moment they seem to be tumbling together under an impossible gravity.
Nelson replies, “Thank you for taking the time to speak with us. We appreciate how busy your schedule is.”
Reynolds leans back in his chair. “Sure. Now, what can I do for you?”
Nelson says, “As I outlined in the email, we are a media group called Omnia Mundi, and we run an informational website about environmental issues, and we also have a monthly radio—”
Reynolds waves a lazy hand. “Nancy showed me your site.”
“Cool,” says Jen. “Our operation’s all Linux based, of course.”
Behind Nelson’s eyelids strings pull tight.
Reynolds looks straight at Jen for the first time and smiles faintly. “Idealists.”
Jen says, “Well, sure. Aren’t you guys into peer production?”
Nelson clears his throat.
Reynolds rests his elbows on the desk and hunches forward. “We’re, shall we say, rather uncomfortable with products that don’t come with a large degree of accountability on the part of the vendor.”
Jen fidgets. “I don’t mean necessarily office environment, I mean R&D—”
Reynolds’s mouth hooks up at both ends in another thin smile. “I hope you didn’t come here to preach open source to me, young lady.”
“I’m an alum of Harry Lane,” Nelson cuts in, and Reynolds shifts his eyes away from Jen. The strings pull tighter.
“It was, um, an honors year in botany.”
Reynolds’s face is the face of a man who is waiting for nothing in particular. Nelson almost adds that he was on a full merit scholarship, but he hates to brag. And by now Reynolds is no doubt wondering why the hell Nancy didn’t screen this meeting better.
“Anyhow, it’s come to our attention,” says Nelson, and he wishes he didn’t sound so officious, “that Harry Lane University was awarded a contract from the Pentagon—”
Reynolds brings his hands together on his desk.
“—to develop software to interpret surveillance video—”
Reynolds says, “That’s an interesting theory. How did you come up with it?”
Fetzer holds up the VIRAS document. “Here’s the RFP from the Pentagon.”
Reynolds’s smile has become permanent. The meeting is dangling by a thread. With contempt he says, “The DOD doesn’t send out RFPs for something like that.”
Fetzer checks the document. “Okay. It’s a ‘Broad Agency Announcement.’ Whatever. Our point is—”
“I’m curious to know how you came across that document.”
The bridges on the wall are tipping, tumbling.
“Fell off the back of the interwebs,” says Jen.
“Jen,” says Nelson. Wishes he hadn’t.
Fetzer says, “It’s actually freely available at”—and he holds the document at arm's length to read out the small-print URL.
Reynolds’s eyebrows go up. The meeting is in the toilet. “Well, this is interesting,” he says, “but I’m afraid I have another commitment.”
“Dr. Reynolds,” says Nelson. “We have just a couple of questions if you would oblige us a moment or two longer.”
Reynolds presses a button on his speakerphone. “Nancy? We’re done.”
Nelson tosses a look at Fetzer. Fetzer holds up a picture of an aerial drone. “These MQ-1 Predators fly video surveillance missions in Afghanistan and—”
The door opens and Nancy stands, smiling blandly, professionally. Reynolds says, “Escort them out, please.”
Nelson, Jen, and Fetzer stay in their seats. They won’t get another chance. Nelson holds up the maps of surveillance camera locations in Manhattan and Portland. “We’re concerned about the exponential growth of—”
Reynolds looks at his watch. “I have a schedule.”
Asshole. Nelson stands. His back is straight and he breathes in deep. The sore place isn’t sore. He says, “Congratulations on securing such a lucrative contract.”
Reynolds maintains that wire-thin smile.
“Thank you for your time,” says Nelson. He follows Jen and Fetzer over to Nancy with her hand on the doorknob.
“I’ll show you to the elevators,” she says, one hand out, and those manicured nails curl into her palm. They follow her ample yellow form down the hall. Near the elevators she stops and turns. Now she’s frowning.
“What the hell was that about?”
“Besides being a train wreck?” mutters Jen.
Fetz says, “Did you know this department’s creating surveillance technology for the Pentagon?”
Nancy’s face screws up. “Seriously?”
Nelson says, “Not officially, but, yeah.”
Nancy mutters, “Holy shit. I knew something was up.” She shoves a card betwee
n the covers of Nelson’s folder. “My home number’s on the back. We need to talk. But none of you are going to be coming back around here, that’s for sure.” She shakes her head. “When he smiles like that? He wants you dead. I’d bet money you’re going to get banned from campus.”
Nelson’s shirt is sticking to his skin. “Harry Lane bans people?”
“This guy?” she says, and jerks her head in the direction they came. “He gets what he wants. There was some communists tabling during Political Fair? And they painted this big ‘Eat the Rich’ slogan on the floor? Okay, dumb move, but he made a stink about it, and they got kicked out for good.”
Jen grimaces. “Shit.”
Nancy says, “I know. I got transferred here spring semester, and I tell you, it’s not like Linguistics. It’s weird.”
“This is not the Harry Lane University I know,” says Nelson. “But good to meet you, Nancy. We’ll be in touch.”
Nancy says, “Please do.” She touches her cheek and murmurs, “Look at that. I think I just reconnected with my old angry side.”
Fetzer tips her a salute.
The underground garage is cool and smells of fumes.
“That was terrible,” says Nelson. “What a waste of an opportunity.”
Jen has her hands in her hair. “We told you we should’ve rehearsed.”
Nelson snaps, “Well you weren’t helping. Linux based? What’s that got to do with anything? And who the hell cares?”
Jen drops her hands. “Who the hell cares?”
Fetzer says, “No plan survives contact with the enemy,” and gets in the driver’s side.
Typical. Jen can’t see past her personal agenda, and Fetz just sidesteps.
But when they emerge from the garage into sunlight and the shady trees of downtown, something in Nelson softens.
He says, “Even if we were coordinated, I doubt we would’ve gotten anything out of him.”
Jen says, “Yeah. It was bizarre.”
Fetzer says, “It certainly was, young lady,” and Jen huffs.
Nelson is sticky, but all the windows are down and the breeze is a godsend. As they cross the bridge he says, “It didn’t go the way we hoped, but hey, we met an ally.”
“Allies are good,” says Fetzer.
“Allies are good,” says Jen. “Allies are good.”
Fetzer turns onto Division. Nelson says, “Hey, could you drop me off at the diner? I want to grab a juice.”
“Got juice at home,” says Jen.
“Not grapefruit.” The diner has a carbonated kind now.
“Dude,” says Jen. “We’ve got, like, things to talk about?”
“What, that it was a bust? We know that already.” They pass Twelfth Avenue. “I’ll just be a minute. Can I get you guys anything?”
No one replies. Fetzer turns onto Thirteenth and pulls over. Nelson gets out. The car pulls away. Rounds the corner into Novi. Disappears.
He should have gone home with them. They’ll be discussing what to do next. But as he approaches the diner, through the plate glass window there’s Deirdre, wiping a booth table. She leans into each wipe, tired. He sees himself walking in and putting his arms around her, but when he does push open the door, she’s heading back to the kitchen. Mr. Nguyen looks up from behind the cash register.
“Hello, Mr. Nelson!” he says. His ball cap depicts Homer Simpson in tighty-whities. “Beautiful day! What would you like today?”
Right now a strong drink would go down well, but Nelson says, “I’m actually here to see Deirdre.”
Mr. Nguyen gets a knowing smile. “Second one today,” he says, then steps into the kitchen and calls out, “Miss Deerdra! Mr. Nelson here.”
Second one?
“Hi,” says Nelson as she comes through the swinging doors. But there’s something urgent in the way she steps out from behind the counter.
“Hi,” she says. “So, what would you like?” Even though she’s now on the wrong side of the counter to get him something to drink.
To put my mouth all over your skin and bite your hair between my teeth and push into you until you laugh and cry at the same time.
“You must have had a busy morning,” she says. She clasps her hands in front of her chest. A second ticks by. She’s squeezing her knuckles to the color of bone. His hug is stuck and won’t come out. She says, “You missed Sylvia by half an hour.”
“Sylvia?” He hopes he doesn’t sound as relieved as he feels.
Deirdre nods. “She dropped by for coffee. How about you? Want something to drink?”
“I can’t stay long. We’re busy.”
“Oh, just a wee glass?” She smiles, and warmth suffuses his chest. His hands feel naked, but he holds them toward Deirdre anyway, palms up. He looks right into her pale eyes, and she unties the bony knot of her own fingers and lays her hands on his. Her skin is hot.
“It’s good to see you,” he says, and rubs his thumbs across her knuckles. Her shoulders relax. The day is redeemed.
When they’re sitting down with glasses of grapefruit juice, he racks his brain for the list of conversation topics he’d written out in an earlier moment of determination. College—did she go to college?
She stirs the ice in her juice with a straw. “Got me master’s in classical studies.”
Nelson sits back. “Wow. I had no idea.”
Her smile is wry. “You were thinking I was a wee bit dense, were you?”
“No, no, not at all.”
She murmurs, “Just because I don’t know about computers and North American flora.”
“No. It’s not like that. You’re just so quiet about yourself.”
She looks sideways out the window. Parked at the curb is a red pickup with a plastic American flag on its antenna.
“I touched on the classics,” he says. “In undergrad. An ancient history survey, and a course in Greek drama.”
Her face opens out like she found a photo of an old friend. “Oh,” she says, “that explains the Denman’s Greek Plays in your bookcase. The playwrights said it all, didn’t they?”
Of course. That time she helped him take laundry upstairs. His collection is motley and lacks balance. He wishes she hadn’t looked through it. But how to explain the attrition from all the moves and the mildew? And there’s no time anymore to just browse in bookstores and explore.
“I used to have more books,” he says. “That one’s a survivor.”
“Oh, I know what you mean,” she says. “It’s hard to keep a decent library if you’re not settled.”
The kinship is a blessing, and their eyes meet for a few seconds before she looks away. He leans back against the cool vinyl. “So, what got you interested in the classics?”
She lifts out her yellow straw, licks it. “The Greeks weren’t Catholic. I loved how they told such big stories without Jesus or Mary.”
Catholic. Near the window a little sugar lies spilled on the tabletop. He’s seen her cross herself, heard her evoke Mary.
Her voice is slow, casual. “Who was your favorite playwright?”
He sits forward. His mind won’t give up any names. He scratches his nose. Anything. Please. He wants to say Oedipus, but that’s a play. Something that sounds like Oedipus, with an S in it. Oesipus? No. Aespilus?
He looks up. “Aeschylus.”
It must be the right answer because she says, “Oh, he was brilliant,” and she lifts her arm in an arc. “‘Well I know that men in exile make of Hope their daily food.’”
Exile. “Is that from Oedipus?” he asks.
Her fingers encircle her glass. “Agamemnon. Sophocles wrote Oedipus.”
The ways she says Sophocles, it’s like she’s in love.
“To be fair,” she continues, “I remember more from the Oedipus trilogy than from Agamemnon.” Her hands lift, and her chin lifts, and she is beautiful. “‘So, you mock my blindness?’” she quietly chants. “‘Let me tell you this. You with your precious eyes, you’re blind to the corruption of your life, to t
he house you live in, those you live with. All unknowing, you are the scourge of your own flesh and blood, the dead below the earth, and the living here above.’”
Nelson sits back. “Wow. That’s intense.”
Her eyes snap onto his. “As is life, don’t you think?”
The pink of the table reflects under her chin, and her pupils do a tiny searching quiver back and forth on his face. An image of her against his chest, of their bare chests, pressing together.
She murmurs, “You’ve hardly touched your juice.”
He picks up the glass, pulls out the straw. Grapefruit bubbles bittersweet in his mouth. He gulps, and he can take more. He’s going to drink it all. His head tips back, throat stretching. He doesn’t need to breathe, he needs sweet, bitter pink juice.
She has one eyebrow cocked when he puts the empty glass down. “Thirsty lad.”
He wipes his smile with the back of his hand.
“John,” she says, and the electric shock of it jolts him back to earth. “Why don’t you use your first name?”
“Oh,” he says, “Silly habit. Fetzer hates his first name, and he insisted on his last name when I met him, and so as a joke I said he had to call me Nelson, and it stuck.”
She smiles. “John’s a grand name,” she says. “Strong. Clear.”
“Thanks. I can’t take credit for choosing it. But you can call me John.”
Please call me John. I want to hear my name in your mouth.
“John,” she says, and her gaze slides over to the spilled sugar. “I should get back to work.”
She’s not looking so tired any more.
“It’s just canned tomato soup, with extra spices and tofu,” she says, and ladles some into Fetzer’s bowl. “No veggies from Mr. Nguyen today.”
Fetzer says, “Bummer if we can’t go back on campus. I want to look at the project firsthand.”
“I’m sure it’s delicious,” says Nelson.