by Julia Stoops
He glances down, moves his hand, and behind him two stories high on the screen, the collage I made fades in, slow and silent.
Awesome.
“Our species,” says Nelson, then he pauses. Floating behind him in the dark are cornfields and obese bodies and dustbowls and buckets of grease. “Is the first . . .” He scans the audience. “To turn its food supply into a profound threat to its health.”
You’d think there was no one else in here for how quiet it’s got.
“This corn surplus has to go somewhere, and so the marketers have convinced each of us to consume about a ton of it a year, either directly or indirectly.”
Cool, here comes the long montage.
“Fast food is simply corn in disguise. Most meat is really corn consumed in the feedlot. Soda is corn syrup and water.”
Those transitions look so fucking cool.
“We’re not only eating this overproduction, we’re subsidizing it through taxes. And with each bushel of corn requiring a quart of oil to produce, from an ecological standpoint it’s an absurdly wasteful way to produce food.”
Fetzer nudges my knee. With his hand close to his chest he points down the row. Upturned faces all the way down the line, faint masks in the screen’s light. Even though she fucked up, I kinda wish Dee was here. She’d be so proud. Hell, I’m proud.
“. . . eating the culinary aftermath of Reagan-Thatcher fundamentalism . . .”
This is turning out so goddamn well. Need to make sure we get that video. Could make a new section on the site. Get him speaking more and build up a library. Right now there’s only that one other video, the lecture he did in Chicago in 2000, and the audio is crappy. Oh yeah, and that interview on Talking State. But they never gave us the footage in 3/4 inch, we just have the shitty VHS copy off the TV.
“. . . the food arrives on our plates seemingly stripped of consequences, but the consequences exist . . .”
Couple more like this and we could make a DVD. Even this by itself. Could intercut him speaking with other footage. Yeah. And next time he talks, gotta make sure there’s two cameras, one for close-ups.
“. . . crisis isn’t just about food, it’s a crisis of democracy, which has failed to prevent food corporations from hijacking the political agenda . . .”
Okay, final montage.
“. . . but these food and farming trends have occurred in the blink of history’s eye, and there’s nothing inevitable about them. They can be reversed . . .”
Pause at the earth from space, then rice paddies, yep.
“. . . but fundamental changes will happen only when the food system disengages from the logic of neoliberalism—”
The screen behind him fills with the small bean plant pushing out of the soil. Corny as hell, but you can see every grain of humus and it’s so fucking beautiful. Nelson’s eyes, big and round, connecting with the audience he can’t even see.
“—and engages with the logic of ecology. The next big social revolution will see the separation of business and governance. We can, and must, take responsibility to pressure that change at every opportunity. Thank you.”
Nelson shuffles his papers, and the applause cracks, hard and loud. He glances up, nods, keeps shuffling the papers. Why act shy now, dude? It’s over!
The applause keeps going. “Thank you,” Nelson says into the microphone. “I’ll take questions now.”
Fetzer’s eyes are buggy. He’s happy. Relieved. Me too.
Nelson’s smiling, making “quiet down” motions with his hands. “Thank you,” he says again.
The house lights fade on and it’s like waking up from a dream. Here we are, sitting on theater seats, everybody pretty ordinary. Academics, scientists, government types. A guy with black-rimmed glasses and hair to his shoulders, probably an architect. Everyone looks dazed and eager at the same time.
Finally the applause is dying down. A couple of hands go up, and Spike scuttles past with a wireless mic. A few seconds later a woman in the back says, “Thank you for such a comprehensive and wide-ranging analysis of the subject. I’m from Wilson University and our recent study found the largest major food multinationals have revenues that rival the GDPs of many countries. So my question is, how do you see the . . .”
Fetzer mutters in my ear, “I gotta clear out of here.”
“We can’t leave Nelson.”
Nelson is into his answer, gesturing; his eyes sincere on the lady in the back. He sure doesn’t look like a man who’s been screwed over and driven eleven hours and stayed up all night writing a lecture and delivered it nonstop for an hour.
“Come on,” I say. “He was awesome.”
“He was. But I am crashing here.”
Nelson finishes the answer and hands spring up through the auditorium like blades of grass.
“I saw them setting up coffee and cookies in the lobby,” says Fetzer. “Want some?”
“Cookies? Cookies? Did you hear anything he said?”
Fetzer flaps a hand at me and leaves.
38: NELSON
Nelson sits on the edge of the hard plastic seat, one knee bouncing. Franky picks up, answers with, “Omnia Mundi Media Group.”
“Franky, hi, it’s me.”
“Oh, hey, Nelson. How did it go?”
“Great. Listen, is Dee there?”
“Absolutely,” says Franky, and there’s the clunk of the receiver being put down.
Nelson’s stomach growls for breakfast. He’s in a phone booth in the hotel lobby, trying to get some privacy. All around him is an expanse of patterned carpet and the undulating chatter of conference-goers. He considered calling Dee on her cell, but the thought of her picking up Sylvia’s gift gives him the creeps. It’s bad enough she’s still sleeping on the bed Sylvia gave them. But he doesn’t want to think about it. Doesn’t want to talk about it, either.
It’s just a tiny little hole, the phone mouthpiece. Amazing that a voice can get through.
Faint sound of footsteps in the phone. The tiny hole is the open end of a thready tube that winds up into space and back down to Portland.
“Hello?”
He exhales. “Sweetheart.”
“I miss you so much,” she says. And there’s so much longing in her voice.
“Hah. Oh yeah, me too. Wait, I didn’t mean ‘hah’ like I didn’t believe you. I’m just keyed up. Gosh, sorry I didn’t call earlier.”
“How was it?”
He says, “Fantastic. The whole thing went without a hitch, and Jen’s slideshow was incredible. Sorry I didn’t call yesterday, but the questions went on forever, then we had to leave the auditorium to make room for another session, and so a group of us convened in this other room that wasn’t being used, then after a while about fifteen of us went out to a restaurant, which overwhelmed the poor restaurant, but they put us at these two round tables, and halfway through the meal I switched so I could spend some time with the other table. Then we were late for the reception, so we rushed back here and got to meet all these other people, like this amazing woman from Nigeria who is working on the oil exporting companies, and Spanish environmental ethics guy, aaaand, then what, then a few of us went out again to a bar after that, and I fell asleep in the cab on the way back, and I guess somehow I got into bed because that’s where I woke up.”
“I’m so proud of you.” She sighs. “Wish I could have been there.”
“Oh, me too. And today there’s a bunch of talks we’re really excited about. Actually, babe, I need to run. Jen is—” He laughs again. “Literally pulling me—pulling me out of this booth. Love you sweetheart.”
“I love you, John.”
“See you tomorrow night,” he says.
“I’m counting the hours.”
Then the tiny hole clicks shut and the thready tube is broken. For a second he imagines the end of it flailing somewhere in space.
Jen grabs his wrist. “Come on.”
And he sees himself tearing down the middle, as if a zipper was being pulle
d. One half follows Jen and carries on with the conference; the other half stays in the anonymous booth in the anonymous hotel lobby, and dials Deirdre again.
Jen says, “‘Decoupling Environmental Degradation and Economic Growth.’ We’re late.”
“I haven’t eaten.” Not that he cares. He’s running on adrenaline.
Jen hands him a banana. “Let’s go.”
Deirdre’s metal stairs wobble under his bounding feet. His hands are cold and wet from the railing and slip on the doorknob, but it pulls open of its own accord and there she is in the dark foyer. His wet hands catch in her hair. Drag over her skin. Slippery mouths. She breathes like a diver. “Forgive me?” she says—he thinks she says, but it’s more like an echo off his flesh. Her gray sweater tangles, then is over her head. “Forgive me,” he says. Slippery mouths. They’re both breathing like divers. She grunts, her head knocks against the wall, her hands pull on the small of his back. He shoves the door closed with his foot, and the rainy October night is gone.
39: FETZER
After the “blowup,” as it became known, Deirdre and Nelson were even more into each other. And he was also pulling his weight at work. Impossible, but true. He’d become a tornado of activity.
“Maybe he’s taking uppers,” I said to Jen.
“If you count Deirdre as an upper,” she said.
But Sylvia? It was like we’d never known her. The only evidence was Dee’s cell phone, which she offered to give away, but I thought she should keep it for emergencies. Nevertheless, she stopped taking pictures with it. Personally, I was just happy for the calm.
We met Kate Simms again at Nguyen’s diner, and again she brought the baby. He had a blob of blond hair, and shiny dribble on his chin.
I dove right in with, “Harry Lane U won’t let us rest.”
Kate laughed. “No rest till we die, right?” then she hitched the baby higher in her lap and grimaced. “You hear the news?”
Indeed we had. Paul Wellstone’s death was fresh news that morning. The reelection battle Wellstone was locked in was key to controlling the Senate, and the midterm elections were only days away. Things looked grim.
“I bet it was assassination,” I said.
Kate’s eyes widened. “Where’d you get that idea?”
“He was getting death threats. And you look at the statistics. Democratic politicians are way more vulnerable to air ‘accidents’ than Republican politicians.”
Kate put on a humor-the-crazies voice to say, “I don’t think statistics are enough evidence for foul play, Mr. Fetzer.”
“Let’s not get into that one,” said Nelson. He smiled and handed Kate a napkin in time for her to catch a thread of baby drool before it reached the table.
We didn’t tell her about the VIRAS budget discrepancy we’d found; instead we asked what she knew about the university’s finances. She filled us in on their endowment and major donors, but she didn’t have any info about unusual practices.
Then Deirdre joined us on her break, and within a minute she was holding the baby.
Her eyes closed and her nose sank into the baby’s hair. “He’s brilliant,” she whispered into the downy scalp.
“Not yet,” said Kate. “The neighbor’s cat is still smarter.”
Nelson stared at Deirdre.
Oh, here we go, I thought. Here. We. Go.
Kate saw it too, and she smiled and arched her eyebrows at me like the town gossip.
Nelson put an arm across Dee’s shoulders and let the baby grip his finger in a tiny fist. They were so absorbed it was like the rest of us had gotten up and left.
Nelson told me once, in private, that he and Lise had been trying to start a family. He hadn’t forgiven himself for breaking her heart. Or his own.
Jen folded her arms. “You hear Rumsfeld says Saddam’s got anthrax?”
Jen, on the other hand, told anyone who asked, and some who didn’t, that she was never having kids. “Shitty world to bring a kid into,” she’d say. “Starting with me being a shitty parent.”
“And mustard gas, sarin, and VX,” said Kate. “You surprised? He tortures children.”
Nelson muttered, “Oh god,” and Adrian let out a shriek and hit Deirdre’s chin.
“To force confessions from their fathers,” said Kate. “Journalist friend of mine was there in the spring. No one would talk to him, they were so terrified. He had to go far north before he found anyone who’d speak out.”
Our bagels were chewy, the coffee hot. Outside a young man walked by with two fluffy white dogs. Not for the first time I wondered how it was I got to live in a peaceful part of the world, considering how many people didn’t.
I said, “We can’t go in, though.”
Kate held up a hand. “I shouldn’t be discussing foreign policy.”
Nelson looked up. “It’s the U.N.’s call. Bush would be insane to go in without international backing.”
“He’s already insane,” said Jen. “And it would be a total disaster.”
“Listen,” said Kate. “I’m interested in your local investigative work, but I cannot be talking politics with you.”
“It’s that bad at the Herald, huh?” I said.
She frowned. “It’s not bad at all. It’s professionalism.”
The baby started crying, and Dee lifted him by his armpits to pat his feet against her knees.
Kate said, “Look, guys, thanks again for the information you’ve been sharing.” She took the baby and tucked his blanket around him against her soft bosom. “Let’s just stick to that topic.”
“Sure,” I said, but I was thinking, These journalists, they’re all the same. Even the so-called progressive ones. But I didn’t want to scare off our only, if partial, ally in the local mainstream media. “We’re going to visit one of Nelson’s old professors,” I said. “We’ll let you know if anything turns up.”
The crying got louder, and the kid seemed to be settling in for the duration. “And I’ll try to get hold of Reynolds again,” Kate said over the noise. “He wouldn’t comment last time.”
“Why bother?” said Jen. “It’ll just be the party line.”
Kate squished her mouth. “Because it’s my job. You advocacy folks, sheesh.”
“Advocacy?” said Jen, “Oh, and you’re not?”
Kate bounced the baby, but the wailing didn’t let up.
“Okay. I’ll admit the Herald and I rub each other the wrong way from time to time, but I do try to adhere to its stated creed of unbiased reporting.”
Jen put down her coffee and her smile was half a sneer. “No such thing. And at least we admit our biases.”
Kate said, “Hah! I see.” The baby thrust out his tiny arms and screeched, his open mouth purple and toothless.
40: NELSON
Nelson’s eyes are scratchy from staring at the TV. His stomach growls, but he can’t be bothered fixing food. On the other sofa Fetzer groans and covers his face. “This isn’t happening.”
“Dude. It’s happening,” says Jen.
Fetzer spreads his fingers to peek at the preliminary election results. “I’m moving to Canada.”
“Move to Canada, see what fucking good it does.”
Nelson presses his lids closed, but his eyes only burn more. A small earthquake bumps through the cushions from a sudden movement by Jen, then there’s the crash of a bottle landing in the recycle bin. Jen pops the top off another bottle and tilts back her head. Her hair across the back of the black sofa is like bundled copper wire, and Nelson is pricked with sadness that there isn’t someone in her life who loves that hair.
Franky clumps up the basement stairs. “How’s it going?”
“Not good,” Nelson says. “Mannix is gaining ground for the governorship.”
“Bummer,” says Franky. He sits down next to Fetzer.
Fetzer’s boot heels are way out on the floor, and his head is jammed against the back of the sofa. “Nationally, we are mega-screwed. Someone get me a beer?”
“Sure,” says Nelson, but when he gets up, his body is so leaden he wishes he hadn’t offered.
His neck hurts. He pulls his hand out from under him and it’s numb. He opens a sticky eye, the one that isn’t pressed into the black sofa fabric. The light is bluish, and the sound of soft rain outside is comforting, and then he remembers.
The mid-term elections are over.
It’s her feet on the basement stairs. He must have woken with the sound. He shivers when the morning air touches the parts of his body that had been insulated against the sofa. Something hard is between his ankles. It’s Jen’s foot. Jen is curled, fetal, at the other end. He’s never seen Jen like that—she’s more of a sprawler. Fetzer’s on his back on the other sofa, a soft snore coming from his mouth with each breath.
“Hi,” whispers Deirdre from the top of the stairs. “I missed you.”
Nelson shifts over and she sits between him and Jen’s folded legs. Dee’s gray sweater is beaded with dots of water, and she smells like wet wool and fall.
“It’s raining again,” she says.
He wraps his arms around her and is so very glad that she’s in his life, because out there winter is coming, and his country is going to hell in a handbasket.
At the diner the other day, watching Deirdre hold Adrian, he longed so hard for a quiet life and a child with her that he had to breathe against the sore place his chest.
What a baby would do for them all. When Adrian curled his little fist around Fetzer’s stubby finger, Fetzer’s face changed like water, his big mouth going soft. Then when Adrian was wrapped in Deirdre’s arms, Nelson could have cried for how perfect it was.
He drops his face into Deirdre’s sweater and inhales. At least he has her.
If Jen and Fetz weren’t sleeping right here, he’d peel that sweater off, and everything else. Since the blowup, he’s made love with her everywhere but on that bed.