Parts Per Million

by Julia Stoops

  The Chimp-in-Chief looks out at me. His stupid ears, the wrinkles of fake sincerity on his brow. There’s the snap of breaking paper and my finger is through the photo. Poke, rip, finger severs jugular. Up the through the face, through the headline, separating “Seattle” from “Times.”

  “You got some kind of problem with the guy?” says Fetzer. Nelson snorts. And Dee’s been clicking the camera the whole time.

  “Can’t a citizen,” I say, and turn around to her, “deface a photo of the unelected resident in peace?”

  “I love it,” she says, and clicks another one. Lowers the camera. That sharp smile.

  The car in front has a bumper sticker with an outline of the towers and an outline of the Pentagon, and it says, Never Forgive Never Forget.

  “Give it a rest,” I say.

  Nelson checks her in the rearview. “You bring the list?” he says, and they all start talking about her fucking darkroom. Crazy idea, shutting yourself up in total darkness to make pictures. And in the bathroom, no less. Seems vaguely gross, working in a bathroom.

  Dee sits forward again. “You’re all brilliant for helping out, thanks.”

  Her minty breath.

  This is such a waste of bandwidth.

  “No problem,” I say. “We’ve got plenty of time. We’re only trying to save the planet. It’s not like there’s any urgency or anything.”

  32: FETZER

  It was a cool morning in early fall when she came prancing up to the kitchen with the thing still wet. It sticks in my mind, because Franky had come by and brought in the morning papers. From which we learned of Tony Blair’s dossier of so-called evidence of the Iraqi arsenal of chemical and biological weapons, and Saddam’s plans to use them.

  “Me first print!” Dee said, and waved it in our breakfasting faces. It was a black and white of Nelson of course, with the light just right on his face as he gazed out one of her windows, his eyes searching the world for an answer. It’s a nice piece. I still have a copy.

  “Five more rinsing in the bath,” she said. “That system with the siphon? It’s brilliant.”

  I’d taught her about hydrostatic pressure, and to shove the hose down the sink pipe far enough that it was below the top of the bathwater. Good thing the sink’s strainer was missing.

  “Isn’t he beautiful?” she said.

  “Cool picture,” said Franky. “Black and white makes it look, you know, classic.”

  Jen turned down her mouth and nodded. High praise.

  Nelson said, “I don’t remember you taking that.”

  She kissed the top of his head. “You were watching Chuck and Eb and Sinclair wheel their carts down the street.”

  He took the photo from her. “For Christ’s sake, you can see my wrinkles.”

  “Smile lines.” She snatched the photo back and headed for the basement. “I loooove my new enlarger,” she sang as she went down the stairs.

  “You’ve been traded,” I said.

  “Yup,” said Jen, and she snapped her paper straight. “She looooves her new enlarger.”

  Nelson rubbed a hand over his eyes. “She started at six. Wouldn’t let me into the bathroom.”

  “Aww,” I said. “Missed your morning blow job. Too bad.”

  “Shut up,” said Nelson.

  Franky said, “It’s breakfast time, guys. Keep it decent.”

  The headline on page two was PLAN EMERGES FOR SHORT, INTENSE WAR.

  A couple of weeks later we were surprised by a visit from Sylvia. Deirdre jacked her within ten minutes, took her over to the “studio,” as it was by then called. We followed, and that’s when we got our first inkling of what Deirdre was up to. And when I say “we,” I’m not including Nelson, who spoke daily about how hard she was working and how great the show was going to be. We’d pretty much ignored him until we saw for ourselves that he wasn’t just blowing hot air. Half of Dee’s long, glue-stained wall was filled with a patchwork of glossy black-and-white photos. Nelson. Franky. Jen. Me. The car. The diner. The homeless guys. Even the damn shed.

  “Hey,” said Franky. “That’s me.” Like he’d never seen a photo of himself. Or more like he’d never seen one he hadn’t posed for. He was at the sink, and she must have been on the kitchen sofa to get him from that angle. She really was a master of natural light, and the way it played on his face was perfect. But he looked sad. Concentrating, I guess, on the dishes that were out of the frame, but his eyes were downcast and there was a sag in his mouth.

  “I look like crap,” he said. “You’re not putting that one in the show. Please say you’re not.”

  Deirdre just smiled. Sylvia stepped up to the photo. “You should definitely include it.”

  “But it’s horrible,” said Franky.

  Sylvia pointed at another photo and said, “This one’s good.” A sentiment she didn’t express lightly. It was a shot of Jen and me, pouring fuel in the shed. Again, the light. Catching the big glass flask. It must have been late afternoon with the sun raking across each slat on the shed wall, and me and Jen looking like a couple of pioneers oblivious to the larger world.

  “And this one,” said Sylvia, pointing at a photo higher up. She turned to Nelson and said, “Darling. Almost too darling.”

  Nelson looked embarrassed. Dee must’ve leaned out her foyer window as he was taking out the recycling. He was looking up at the camera, his face full of that joy and surprise that you see almost exclusively in the pure of heart.

  “Oh, that’s profound,” I said when I spotted one with my boots sticking out from under the Toro. “That one really speaks to the human condition.”

  “More like the Toro’s condition,” said Jen. But I had to hand it to Dee for the composition. Somehow, without me knowing, she’d gotten near enough that my boots were up close, taking up most of the picture. The bottom of the chassis was way in the background.

  Jen cracked a smile at a picture of herself, her hair and shoulders lost in the clutter of the basement, her hands on a keyboard.

  Sylvia stepped back and surveyed the wall-of-us. “This is going to be a knock-out show.”

  Deirdre smiled and hugged her shoulders.

  Then Sylvia realized the camp cot was Deirdre’s bed, and she offered her pillowtop because she was getting a waterbed.

  “Wow,” said Nelson. That’s very generous of you.”

  And, naively, I agreed.

  It was not long after that we got a call from Nancy at Harry Lane University.

  “It’s sure getting crazy around there.”

  “The protests?” I said.

  Nancy had told us earlier, after the first Students for Peace takeover of Sci and Eng, that she’d befriended the campus activists. A few words about Angela Davis visiting the co-op in the eighties seemed to win their trust, and she corresponded with them through a home email account.

  “Uh-huh. There’s a daily vigil outside Science and Engineering. It’s like a gauntlet.”

  “Interesting.”

  “Uh-huh. And Engineering’s split. A third of the kids are against the contract. They’re boycotting classes. The other two-thirds are pissy that they can’t work in peace.”

  “How’s Reynolds?”

  “He’s on the phone all the damn time. Now that he’s gotta walk through that vigil any time he wants to go someplace, he pretty much stays in his office and does his business by phone.”

  “He okay to you?”

  “Oh sure. He has no idea I got a brain between my ears that harbors opinions, so we get along. How’s that little Deirdre, anyhow? She taking pictures for the exhibition?”

  “Like gangbusters.”

  “She should come back here. There’s going to be a die-in next Tuesday morning at nine. Students are gonna lie all over the quad like the place has been bombed.” Nancy dropped into a snicker. “It’s secret, okay? But she might want to take photos.”

  I said, “Admit it, you’re having fun.”

  Nancy laughed so loud I had to hold the receiver awa
y from my ear.

  Thing is, we were distracted. With a war on the horizon and a peace movement picking itself up and dusting itself off after Vietnam, there was even more to do than usual. Part of me resisted getting involved in Harry Lane U again. We’d outed them, and now important stakeholders—the students—were protesting. We’d done our job, let them do theirs.

  But when I returned to the breakfast table and told Jen and Nelson about the divided student body, the vigil, and the die-in Dee could photograph, I got interested in that damn university all over again.

  I said, “Thing I don’t understand is, how does Reynolds get to throw his weight around? He’s the head of one department. The university has, what, dozens?”

  “Yeah,” said Jen. “Why’s this one guy got so much privilege and influence?”

  Out of habit we looked at Nelson to provide the next morsel of information, make a clever connection, remember some nerdy detail. But he was glazed like a donut, so full of Deirdre he could barely see straight.

  “Maybe we should all go see the die-in?” he mumbled instead. “Undercover.”

  33: NELSON

  Nelson tugs at a chunk of russet hair above Fetzer’s ear. “It’s crooked.”

  “It’s fine,” says Fetzer, and swats his hand away. “Quit it.”

  Jen turns the car around and heads for Twelfth. She says, “Can’t the guy wear fake hair in peace?”

  Dee sits forward from the backseat. Lays her hands on Fetzer’s shoulders. “You don’t want to be walking about looking gormless, do you?” she says, and Nelson smothers a laugh. Eight thirty a.m. and already he’s punchy. They really need to get more sleep.

  “It does need a wee bit of adjusting,” Dee says, and Fetzer submits to her tugging.

  “You brought your camera?” says Nelson, and Dee whacks his shoulder. Because of course he asked her that already. He reaches over the seat and pretends to whack her back and she ducks, then slumps across the back seat with a giggle.

  Jen sighs.

  “Sorry,” says Nelson, and he faces forward. Jen’s been so touchy lately.

  Nelson looks up at the sleek white structure. “This wasn’t here when I was here. It was an old Victorian house. I think it used to be Philosophy.” They all cup their hands around their eyes and peer through the glass. The gallery walls are empty, and a small ladder sits in the middle of the shiny wooden floor.

  “Dear God, it’s bigger than I remember,” says Deirdre.

  Nelson says, “I can’t wait to see your work in there.”

  To think he used to be ambivalent about her style. Now he can see how good she is. And watching her print—the ghost images burning their way onto the paper—it’s like magic.

  He’s never been so close to someone so creative.

  Jen looks at her watch. “We need to get to the quad.”

  People have started lying down. The ground is wet, but they’re just lying right on top of it. In all sorts of positions.

  “That the vigil?” says Jen, and she points across the quad to a clutch of people in coats. A handful of chairs. Signs leaning up against the steps to Hewell. Coffees are being handed around.

  “See the lady giving out coffees?” Nelson says to Deirdre. “She works in the cafeteria. I think her name is Claris. We used to chat about perennials.”

  Deirdre lifts the camera, zooms in, takes a picture. Then another shot of the growing die-in.

  But of course he can’t walk up to Claris and say hello because he’s wearing a longish blond wig, and if anyone asks he’s a Dutch exchange student studying violin for a semester.

  “I want to get a shot from above,” says Deirdre, and they all look up at the buildings framing the quad.

  “Funnily enough, your best bet might be Hewell,” says Fetzer.

  “Gah!” says Nelson. “Okay. Then let’s go to the top floor so we don’t bump into Reynolds.”

  But when the elevator doors open there’s Reynolds. Nelson’s effervescence vanishes. Reynolds is talking to another guy. They’re waiting to get on. Nelson’s limbs stall. Fetzer steps out and to the right, and he manages to follow.

  Only when they hear the lift doors close do they stop.

  Nelson’s heart is thumping on his ribs. “That was the guy,” he whispers to Deirdre, and she goes, “Ooooh,” and looks back at the elevator, smiling behind her hand.

  Jen clutches her cloth cap. “Seek shelter and cover head.”

  Fetzer rolls his eyes at the universe. “Got that over with, at least.”

  Large windows line the hall, and spectators have gathered to look down at the quad. Nelson squeezes in between students and guides Deirdre in front of him. The quad is now full of bodies. The bodies lie horribly still. Dozens and dozens of dead. It’s hard to watch.

  “Check it out,” says Jen. Nelson follows her gaze to a photographer with a giant camera and a black camera bag over his shoulder. He crouches to take a photo. “Maybe the Herald?” she says.

  “That’s exactly what they want,” says one of the students between Nelson and Jen. “Exhibitionists that they are.”

  “Fucking lame,” says another. “Lying on the ground like a bunch of retards.”

  Nelson catches Jen’s eye. The crowd around them is thickening, and he has to brace to avoid squashing Deirdre against the glass.

  “Shut up,” says someone else. “This is awesome.”

  “Is this a dance thing?” says a woman. She’s standing on tiptoe to see and cradling manila folders to her chest. Maybe a teacher, maybe not, it’s hard to tell.

  “Are you kidding?” says Jen. “They’re protesting a possible war against Iraq.”

  A voice behind Nelson mutters, “Gay bitches.”

  “Really?” says the woman, like she’s never heard of the buildup to war. “But what’s it supposed to be?”

  “Like lying down’s gonna stop a war,” says a voice.

  “Douchebag hippies.”

  “It does make you think,” Nelson says, “what this place would look like if it was bombed.”

  “So?” says a guy. “Who’s gonna bomb Harry Lane?”

  Nelson says, “Well, what any place would look like if it were bombed. The point is, modern warfare kills a huge number of civilians—”

  “Isn’t this about that Pentagon contract?” says a voice.

  “Should nuke the fuckers for harboring Bin Laden,” says another.

  Nelson says, “Iraq isn’t harboring Bin—”

  “Five million to make spy machines or something.”

  “Four and a half million. To develop software.”

  That voice behind Nelson was older. Male.

  “I think it’s actually five,” says Nelson.

  He can’t see Jen or Fetzer anymore. The bodies in the quad below are packed tight, and some of the building entrances are blocked.

  “It’s four and a half. I should know,” the man says, but when Nelson turns, he can’t tell who spoke.

  A fight breaks out in the quad below.

  Nelson whispers to Deirdre, “I’m going to guide you backward, okay?” and he wraps his arms around her and pushes back against the press of bodies. The last thing he sees out the window is campus security breaking up the fight.

  Every quad-facing window is packed with people, and for a moment Nelson imagines the building tipping over under the uneven weight.

  “Christ,” mutters Jen. “I thought this was a liberal school.”

  “It is,” Nelson insists. “It’s like it’s been infected.”

  “Let’s look around,” says Fetzer. “Since folks are so preoccupied.”

  Lecture rooms are empty, just book bags and coffees left behind like some academic Mary Celeste. In one lab a video is on pause, the chemical chain reaction diagram stopped in its tracks. Office doors are open, with nobody at the desks. A printer spits paper onto the carpet.

  “I reckon we should drop in on the fourth floor,” says Jen.

  “Just for fun,” says Fetzer.

&
nbsp; “Just for fun,” says Nelson, and the lightheadedness returns. He winks at Deirdre and together they all slip into the stairwell.

  Nancy’s office is empty. The door to Reynolds’s office is open.

  “Who’s going in?” says Jen.

  “What are we looking for?” says Nelson. The wall beside him seems to come closer, then moves away. He puts his hand out to steady it. “We haven’t thought this through.”

  Fetzer says, “I’ll go, you three keep walking.”

  “I’ll go,” says Deirdre. “He doesn’t know me.”

  “I’ll go,” says Jen, and next second she’s crossing Nancy’s office. She peeks around the doorframe, then she gives a thumbs-up, steps into Reynolds’s office and out of sight.

  “Shit,” says Fetzer. “We don’t have a plan.” He looks up and down the hall. “You two walk. I’ll guard.” He gives Nelson a push, and he and Deirdre amble toward the window crowded with spectators at the end of the hall.

  “Ohmygod,” says a woman nearby. Her hair is stick-straight blond and her eyes are wide on him. Who the hell is she? Oh, please don’t let this be some girl he dated. No, too young.

  “Oh. My. God.” she says again. Her hands cup her face, then press against her thighs. “You so look like Kurt Cobain!”

  “I do?”

  Deirdre squeezes his hand hard. “Excuse, please,” she says. “Not good English.”

  He’s supposed to be Dutch!

  “Hel-lo,” he says, and holds out his other hand to the stupid woman. “I am not Kurt Cobain. I am Jacob Meertens.”

  “Oh, but you soooo look like him,” the woman gushes, and she takes his hand in both of hers. “Like back from the dead, you know? Kaylee!” she calls, and she points down at Nelson’s head. “Come meet this guy! He totally looks like Cobain!”

  Heads turn, eyes look him up and down, slide away. Kaylee appears and studies him. “Kinda,” she says. “But friendlier. With glasses. Awesome.”