Parts Per Million
Page 20
“Does it always rain this much?” Deirdre whispers. “Feels like you could drown.”
Light from the television flickers over Nelson’s tea. The scrambled tofu Dee made for them before she went to work sits in cold clumps on plates. The air is damp. Newspapers are spread all over the coffee table and the floor. Fetzer hands him one. “A commanding performance by the Commander in Chief,” it says. “‘Call it affirmation or reaffirmation, the midterm election has given a powerful boost to President Bush, the conservative agenda, and the long-term prospects of the Republican Party . . .’”
Fetzer stands, looks around the living room like he’s mislaid something. “Why are we Americans so in love with sending our kids to war?”
41: JEN
“This rain changes the light,” says Deirdre. She sets the soy spread in front of me. She’s been extra nice since the blowup. Just as well, ’cause there’s only so many crises I will tolerate.
“Thanks,” I say.
Nelson’s hair is messed up, and there’s a shadow on his jaw. He never used to come to breakfast without shaving.
She drives me crazy. So does he. They all do, but shit, I’d way way way rather be in here than out there.
“Well, this eases my mind,” says Fetzer, and he nudges the nearest paper around with his foot. “Bush’s top priority is to get that damned department of Homeland Security going.”
“Unaccountable to the public,” murmurs Nelson.
“Got to have a big building for Total Information Awareness,” I say. “Total takes up a lot of space.”
Deirdre helps herself to toast. “Let’s put this into some perspective, okay? At least you can still get on a bus and not be wondering if you’ll be bombed to bits on your way to work.”
Nelson looks up from his paper. “It’s not so much our personal safety we’re worried about.”
“Well, I kinda am,” I say.
“We all should be.” Fetzer holds a stumpy finger on the paper and reads out loud. “By winning control of the Senate and expanding their House majority, congressional Republicans are positioned to push their agenda of new tax cuts, an aggressive response to Iraq, and appointments of conservative judges.”
“They’re gonna rip ANWR to pieces,” I say.
Deirdre spreads peanut butter. “What’s ANWR?”
“Arctic National Wildlife Refuge. Most amazing fucking place on the planet. Happens to be sitting on oil.”
Deirdre groans and says, “Can’t believe me photos are due in three weeks.”
“Christ,” says Nelson. “Did you read this about that new Ashcroft policy? He’s ordering all males from Muslim nations to special-register in person at the INS.”
“Mega-creepy,” I say.
“What’s next,” says Fetzer. “Detention camps?”
Deirdre pulls her hands under the table. “I hope the curator doesn’t reject too many.”
Nelson says, “It’ll be fine,” to Deirdre, and do I detect a note of frustration?
“But what if it’s not?” she whines. “What if no one comes to the opening?”
“Oh, they’ll come,” I say. “I’ll send an announcement to our mailing list. Reynolds will be there, right?”
Deirdre shrugs. “Nancy hasn’t said otherwise.”
Deirdre stands up. “I have to get to work.” That red polish is flaking off her nails. Weird how it suits her better that way. She takes a mint out of her pocket and puts it in her mouth. She’s always eating those mints.
42: NELSON
He holds her hand. Squeezes it with pride. Her framed photos are only leaning against the gallery walls, waiting to be chosen, but he can’t stop looking at them. Away from her wall at home, separated by mats and frames, each one is a moment from their lives. Fetzer gesturing with a screwdriver, the tool a blurry arc in the air beside him, his eyes catching the camera the moment before self-consciousness sets in. Franky and Jen next to each other at the table the second after a joke, a twin smile starting between them. The eye misses but the shutter snaps and keeps forever.
“Good,” says the curator, Toshiko. She’s as humorless and efficient as Deirdre described. She picks up the one of Sylvia in the diner. Deirdre had asked him what he thought about includ
ing it. His first reaction was a knee-jerk “No.”
But in the photo, sitting alone at a table for two, Sylvia is fiddling with her rings, and her eyes are aimed sideways like she expects to be ambushed. He’s never seen her nervous, but the camera caught the moment.
“This one,” says Toshiko. Her mouth pinches. “I don’t know.” Sylvia goes back against the wall and Toshiko points with her toe. “Maybe. I’ll come back to it. She seems out of place. The others are a set, you know? But she’s different.”
Nelson’s scalp itches under his stringy blond wig. Toshiko had barely glanced at him in his hoodie and his ripped jeans, and now she’s ignoring him altogether.
Deirdre says, “She doesn’t live with us.”
“No,” says Toshiko, as if she knew this already. “But then neither does he, right?” and she points to Mr. Nguyen reaching up for a bulk can of paprika. “But he seems to be part of the same world.” Toshiko sighs and moves along the line. Franky at the sink. The one he hated. He’d relented and let Dee put it in. The homeless guys with their shopping carts. Chuck in this camo jacket. Eb’s shaking face turned away. Sinclair’s ducking-down smile. The moment self-consciousness sets in.
“I’ll take them all for now,” says Toshiko, “and see how they shake out when they’re hung. Maybe I’ll put that woman in the lobby. I usually put a piece or two in the lobby.” Toshiko’s hair is black and straight like Deirdre’s, but not as long. “Good,” she says again, and looks up. Whether she means the work is good, or it’s good Dee made the deadline, or it’s good that there’s more than she can use, Nelson can’t tell. And it doesn’t matter. Dee’s made it. Her show will open next week.
“Did you see the announcement cards?” says Toshiko.
Deirdre’s hand twitches in his. “Announcement cards?”
“Yes,” says Toshiko, like Dee should have known. She opens her folder and pulls out a handful of slippery postcards. ‘DEIRDRE O’CARROLL.’ it says in gray on white. ‘PHOTOGRAPHS.’
“I am so proud of you,” Nelson murmurs in Deirdre’s ear.
“We send out nine hundred, give a hundred to the artist.”
Dee stares and stares at the card in her hands. Deirdre O’Carroll. Photographs. The Center for Photography, Harry Lane University. Reception: Thursday, December 5, 2002, 6–8 p.m.
“This is who I am,” whispers Deirdre. “This is what I do. This is where I’ll be. And this is the time I’ll be there.”
Nelson isn’t sure what to say. He squats down to look closer at the photo of Jen ripping up Bush’s picture in the newspaper. Such determination on her face.
“Everything okay?” asks Toshiko. “That is the correct spelling?”
Deirdre says, “Yes. Yes. It’s brilliant. Thanks.”
The gallery door creaks and an apple-green shape moves into the room. It’s Nancy. “Well, hello there, Miss O’Carroll,” she says. Her teeth are bright.
Toshiko says, “See you at the opening,” and leaves.
“So here are my guys,” Nancy whispers to Deirdre. Her voice squeaks up with “guys” and her hands tighten into excited fists like she’s about to take off sprinting. “Oh, oh, oh, here they are.” She looks over her shoulder to check Toshiko’s gone. “She has no idea. I can’t wait for opening night.” Her shoulders do a happy hunch and she turns back to the photos. “Jen Owens with the heavy curly hair. Mmm-hmm. And John Nelson—is that really him? Girl, you make him look sexy. And dear old Mr. Fetzer. Heee. He’s so cute and bald now. He is something else.”
Nelson stays crouching on the floor and hides his smile.
Nancy stands in front of the one of Franky lounged along a sofa watching TV. “Oh, and who is that?” Franky’s hair is perfectly imperfect, his muscles visible under his T-shirt. Nancy turns her wide eyes Deirdre’s way. “You been keeping a secret all this time? Now that’s not fair.”
“I’ll be introducing you at the opening,” says Deirdre, and Nancy says, “You better, girl,” and laughs.
Then she’s looking at the one of the die-in from the eighth floor of Hewell. “You vote?”
“No. I couldn’t.”
Nancy’s fists bang onto her ample green hips. “You telling me you didn’t register?”
“I’m not a citizen.”
“Oh, I forgot.” Nancy then wags a finger. “Well, you make sure you’re a citizen next time around. We need the numbers, you hear?” She points at the one of Nelson sleeping. “If it means marrying sexy nerd boy, do it.”
Nelson stands up. Clears his throat. Deirdre’s silent laughter is turning audible.
“I’m not joking.” Nancy shakes her head. “Desperate times, girl. Desperate times.”
“Uh, hello, Nancy?” says Nelson. The green form whirls around, and he’s caught in her staring frown. She steps closer, and her manicured hand presses above her bosom.
“Holy shit! John Nelson! I took you for a work-study student.”
She points at him and says to Deirdre, “He’s good. He is good. Hah!”
After Nancy’s gone, Deirdre says, “Hey, sexy nerd boy,” and kisses him hard. He shuffles her backward until she’s against the wall. “The windows,” she whispers, and they shuffle around the corner and into a storage closet Toshiko had left open.
Afterward they pick up the tubes of plastic cups and packets of napkins that had tumbled down around them.
Professor Krakowski has aged. His hands are bent with arthritis, and there are brown blotches on his face. But there’s still that faint Polish accent and boyish smile, and he was so pleased to see Nelson after all these years. And so pleased to meet Deirdre. He took her hand in both of his. “John is a fine, fine person. I am glad to see he has found someone so lovely.”
And when they told him why they’re in disguise, and Fetzer popped off his wig, he laughed and laughed.
“Honestly, Professor K.,” Nelson said as he fingered the fabric of his hoodie. “I don’t usually look this scruffy.”
“Yes. I remember you always wore that jacket,” said the professor, and he gestured near his elbow. “With the patches.”
“You’re kidding,” said Jen.
“They’re very sturdy,” Nelson countered.
The professor nodded. “I had one like that for years, yes.”
Now, with their cups of tea refilled and the plate of cookies almost empty (thanks to Fetzer) Professor K. says, “Reynolds has been trying to make me retire. But this is my life. I will not go.” He surveys his cramped office. Piles of books on the floor. Stacks of folders. Rare plants on the windowsill. “But there is pressure, yes. And the young teachers, they are scared of him. If you have spoken out, and you are on a renewable contract, it will not be renewed.”
Jen asks, “Is he acting particularly weird or anything lately?”
Professor K. lifts a hand with his shrug. “Reynolds is always paranoid about one thing or another. Now it is hackers.”
Jen shifts her weight in her chair. “Any particular reason?”
The professor gazes at his monitor bristling with sticky notes. “Perhaps someone would steal the students’ personal information? The social security numbers?” He turns back to Jen. “But I don’t think student safety is Reynolds’s true motivation.”
“What’s he worried about?”
“Well, with this defense contract, I suppose he has legitimate reasons to keep secret the work. But it should not be such a big deal. The university upgrades security often. But these memos coming out—” The professor shakes his head. “He has become strident. Ah, but we do agree on one thing. Harry Lane University should contribute to the defense of freedom.”
“Excuse me?” says Nelson.
“Saddam Hussein is an evil man. He destroys minorities in his own country. He must be stopped.”
Nelson reaches for his tie but ends up fiddling with the zipper on his hoodie. Until now he’s never heard Professor K. express anything but the most peaceful opinions.
Jen leans forward. “You know when the
next security overhaul’s scheduled?”
The professor scratches behind his ear, and keeps absently rubbing the spot. “I think my computer is scheduled this week.”
“What kind of upgrades?” says Jen.
Professor K. laughs and waves a hand. “You young people, you are so interested in the computers. I have no idea.”
“What about President Wellesley?” says Fetzer. “How’s he doing?”
“Oh!” says Professor K. “It has become absurd. Reynolds is the indulged child. And now people are whispering strange rumors. It is sad. Sad for the university. This is a fine university.”
“What sort of rumors?”
Professor K. waves the rumors away. “Ach, stupid things. That they are homosexual lovers.”
“Could it be true?” says Fetzer.
“It is untrue. When you get as old as me, you know these things. They both have wives, families, grandchildren. I know sometimes a man can have a secret life, but no. These men, they are not homosexual.”
“What’s going on, then?” says Fetzer.
“Could it be blackmail?” says Nelson.
Professor K’s swollen knuckles rest in his lap. “That is my guess, yes.”
Jen leans forward again, urgency in her voice. “What about?”
Professor K. looks up at her. “I’m sorry, my dear, but I have no idea.”
“Okay,” says Nelson. “Next stop, Students for Peace.”
“That dude’s kinda cool,” says Jen. “Apart from being a hawk.”
“My favorite professor of all time,” says Nelson. “We used to call him Special K.” Nelson takes Deirdre’s hand. “This way, troops.”
The large basement room is crowded with people busy with sticks and cloth and glue guns. Everyone’s white. Nelson’s been noticing this more now since Fetzer brought it up after that big rally.
“We’re making puppets,” says a plump girl with ringlet hair, even though they haven’t asked. Tibetan prayer flags string the ceiling.
“Beatrice?” says Jen, and another woman steps forward.
“Finally get to meet you,” the woman says. She’s tall and slender, and shaved bald like Fetzer. Hugs all around. “You must be Deirdre the photographer,” she says, and she gives Dee a quick hug. The woman is built like Sylvia, and Nelson feels a twinge of jealousy. “Thank you so much, you know?” says Beatrice.