Parts Per Million

by Julia Stoops

  “What for?” says Deirdre.

  Jen goes, “Ohhh,” kind of loud, and grabs Beatrice’s arm. “Is that Brian?”

  At the sound of the name a guy looks up.

  “It’s Jen,” says Jen, “from Omnia Mundi.”

  The guy grins and wipes his hands on his pants. If it’s Brian, the dreadlocks are gone. Just brown curly hair.

  “Brian we met at Maryville?” Nelson says, and the guy is pumping his hand.

  “That would be me. Oh man, I’ve been meaning to get in touch with you folks.”

  Nelson points at the floor. “You’re—a student here?”

  “Yeah!” says Brian, as if he can hardly believe it himself. “Political Science.”

  “Brian joined us this semester,” says Beatrice. “Hey, look, I have a class. Will you guys be around long?”

  Fetzer checks his watch. “We need to leave by eleven.”

  “Okay. Let’s figure something else out. Maybe after your show opens,” she says to Deirdre, and Deirdre smiles.

  Nelson didn’t expect students to be anticipating the exhibition, but Jen must have told them.

  “Hey, can we, like, step outside a minute?” says Brian.

  Great. He’s going to give them more EFB instructions. Right when they’re busy with so much else. And Nelson really cannot take a trip so close to Dee’s opening.

  “Dudes,” says Brian when they’re outside. “I heard you were at the Bush protest.”

  “Wouldn’t have missed it for the world,” says Fetzer.

  “Like, I heard you saw what happened.” Brian puts his hands in his jacket pockets and looks aside. Looks back. “Emma told me you guys tried to help. But the cops pushed you back.”

  Nelson can’t recall seeing Emma, the girl who was apparently eyeing him at the Maryville firebombing, but he probably wouldn’t recognize her in daylight.

  “Ah. Yeah,” says Fetzer. “It looked really rough.”

  “I’m, like, so grateful, you know?” says Brian. “Feels like family, you know, when you hear that folks are looking out for you even when you don’t know they’re there.”

  Jen lifts her hands, lets them drop. “We felt bad we couldn’t reach you.”

  “How are your eyes?” says Nelson. He wishes they’d checked up on Brian afterward. All it would’ve taken was a phone call.

  Brian rubs a finger in one. “They’re still messed up. I can see fine, but they’re really sensitive. Like anything makes them sting, you know? Hey, and another thing—” He pulls his hand away from his eye, makes a disciplined fist, smiles through gritted teeth. “Gotta stop doing that. Anyhow, I want to apologize for the Maryville action. The way it worked out.”

  Fetzer folds his arms. “You mean making the horses run past the fire?” he murmurs.

  Deirdre inhales. “You! You did that?”

  “Shhh!” says Jen.

  Brian’s forehead crinkles like a potato chip. “Yeah. And it was stupid. I took this oppression awareness workshop, see? Made me confront the things I was doing to preserve my own power, you know? First thing I thought of was those poor fucking horses.”

  “I should bloody well think so,” says Deirdre.

  Jen hisses at her, “Shut up. You don’t know anything, remember?”

  “But she’s right,” says Brian. “We wanted this really awesome video. And we got it.” He puts a hand on Jen’s shoulder, then the other hand on Nelson’s and says, “Jen. And John,” and for a moment it’s like they’re about to be knighted or something. “Great work. It looks really good.”

  Nelson says, “Thanks,” and almost adds, for finally remembering my name.

  “But it came at a cost. It was perpetrating even more trauma on those animals.”

  Before he knows it, Nelson pulls Brian into a hug.

  43: JEN

  “Why’s the laminator unplugged?” I say.

  Nelson comes over. “We hardly need to do any laminating right now.” He bends down and plugs in another cord, and the stupid Christmas lights come on. Colored lights wrap around the basement stair banister, and go all the way down to the tool room door. Little white lights festoon the top of the map wall. Nelson’s got a silly grin.

  “Anyhow,” I say, “maybe the president has nothing to do with it. Maybe Reynolds is embezzling on his own.”

  Fetzer lowers his butt onto the vinyl sofa with a grunt. “How could he be that stupid? An audit would catch it in five minutes.”

  Nelson holds up one of the handwritten notes. “He’s obsessed with five hundred thousand of something, and the VIRAS budget he’s handling is a half a million less than we thought. Where did it go?”

  I say, “You realize the window for me getting back in might be rapidly closing, right? That admin workstation I used before has already been patched.”

  Fetzer examines the backs of his hands. “You think you can try one more time? Maybe get into accounting? Or payroll?”

  “Thought you’d never ask.” I sit down, crack my fingers, and launch Mole.

  “You want coffee?” says Nelson. He used to flip out when I hacked, now it’s like, doo-tee-doo, whatever. I am also pleased to note that he smells clean.

  Preparing for the port scan. The rush of a fresh hack is on me, but what the hell, coffee never hurts. “Sure.”

  Nelson goes upstairs. Fetzer watches.

  “Come on, come on. One little vulnerability is all I need.”

  Nelson brings some papers down with my coffee. He and Fetz hang out on the vinyl sofa and I hang out in #rezist until Mole prints Common Exploit Discovered! Music to my ears. Or eyes. Whatevs. I type exit stage left and quit chat before Vi can say good-bye. That’ll teach her for dumping me so fast last night.

  Nice. Dee’s made sandwiches. Fetzer takes one, shoves half of its approximately sixteen square inches into his mouth.

  “Time to gather around the electronic fire,” I say, and Nelse and Fetz pull up chairs on either side of me.

  “Tahini and cucumber?” Dee says to me.

  “Yeah, when I’m done. Okay, so this is what I found. Reynolds got a President’s Advancement Grant last month. A hundred grand.”

  Fetzer’s coffee breath near my ear. “Shit.”

  “Also got them in October, September, August, and July.”

  “Quintuple shit,” says Nelson. “What the hell is this mother of all grants?”

  Right when I look up Dee’s camera goes click. And for some dumb reason a smile pops out of me, and she clicks again.

  “Perfect,” she says, then, “You have fantastic hands.”

  “These?” My big white freckled hands. How many keystrokes have these fingers typed? Millions, probably. At home on a keyboard.

  Fetzer says, “Jen?”

  “Right. Yeah. It comes out of the President’s Advancement Fund.”

  The print emerges and I snatch it up. “Found this in a handbook: ‘The President’s Advancement Grant shall be awarded by the President to applicants whose proposals show potential for significant advancement of the university. The President may award multiple grants per fiscal year from the President’s Advancement Fund and other nondesignated or unassigned gifted funds, at the President’s discretion, and to the extent such funds are available’—blah blah blah.”

  Nelson takes the printout. “Is there an application process?”

  “Way ahead of you, tie guy. Got Reynolds’s applications right here. They’re all about testing software, and they are total BS.”

  Nelse and Fetz get to reading a couple of the applications. After a minute Fetz says, “I can’t understand a goddamn thing.”

  “Exactly. Assuming you’re an auditor, you’re supposed to be so blinded by the science that you don’t inquire further.”

  Nelson snaps a carrot stick between his teeth. “They do seem to be padded with a lot of jargon. I don’t even understand the outcomes.”

  Fetzer rubs a hand over his mouth. “If the prez thinks they’re real, then maybe it’s not blackmail.”r />
  Nelson’s shaking his head. “If this is out of the Pentagon funds, they’re not gifted or unassigned.”

  “Right,” says Fetzer. “No way the prez isn’t in on this.”

  There’s another click and I look up. With her free hand Deirdre sips on something cloudy with ice. Something about that sip makes me ask, “What’s in the glass?”

  She winks. “Lemonade.”

  Fetzer grabs the glass, sniffs. “Lemonade with some help. It’s barely lunch time.”

  “It’s just a wee bit of gin, Jaysus.”

  Again with the explanations of how stressed out she is. Again with Nelson’s acquiescence. Again with Fetzer starting out critical then rolling over like a dog getting its stomach rubbed.

  She offers gin and lemonade all around, then, “Let’s sit out the back. It’s all yellow with fallen leaves.” She picks up the plate of sandwiches and hands it to Nelson. “A picnic!”

  Charmed, Nelson says, “Maybe it’s a good time for a break?”

  “When was the last time we ate lunch in the sun?” says Fetzer. He pokes my shoulder. “You could use the vitamin D.”

  “You know I was born with a tag that said, ‘Store in a cool dark place.’”

  Fetzer just shrugs and follows Nelson and the sandwiches out the door.

  “Subject to change without notice,” I mutter, and I start backing out of Harry Lane U.

  44: FETZER

  A surprising number of people turned up to Dee’s opening: radio folks, infoshop folks, plus the students were drawn like moths to the free wine and snacks, and faculty and staff followed the whiff of rumor that this wasn’t going to be an ordinary Center for Photography reception. Within half an hour the place was packed and the air was full of chatty hubbub, as people mostly ignored Dee’s work and took the opportunity to catch up with each other.

  The photos looked great. And the framing—the result of several nights’ work by Dee and Nelson, with Franky’s help—was classy. However, Dee’s feet seemed to be nailed to that shiny wooden floor. Nelson stood close, greeting people who came by, while she maintained a fragile smile.

  Jen said, “Check it out,” and pointed at one of her doing the weekly filing, papers spread all around. I was caught in the top corner, small in the distance, emerging from the basement bathroom zipping up my fly. Made me laugh.

  Right then Students for Peace Beatrice and Brian came in. The atmosphere shifted. People made wary eye contact. Maybe it’s just rival student groups, I told myself. I waved at Beatrice when her scanning gaze swung into my quadrant, but she didn’t recognize me. I felt naked without my disguise.

  Then a guy with a backpack tapped Jen on the shoulder. Jen nodded and made a half-hidden gesture with her hand, and the guy moved on.

  “Who was that?” I asked.

  “Jordan. Students for Peace rep.”

  I didn’t recall him being there the day we visited those folks in their puppet-filled room on campus. He moved around the gallery, tapping people but saying nothing.

  “How come you know him?” I asked.

  Jen shrugged. “Been in touch.”

  I should have known right then that it wasn’t going to be an ordinary reception at all.

  The curator lady, an Asian woman, interrupted us with a glass of pee-colored wine in each hand.

  “Excellent turnout,” she said. Slight accent. “Do you want some wine?”

  Dee practically grabbed and gulped. Jen wandered off. The curator held the other glass toward Nelson and me, but we shook our heads so she ended up sipping it herself.

  “A different mix than usual,” she said. “Younger.”

  By then I figured about half of them were Students for Peace. A young guy with a long beard rummaged in his backpack. Two girls dressed from a dumpster that had gone through a black dyebath were watching the room like scouts. Something was up.

  Deirdre’s smile had relaxed. “I like the way it’s hung.”

  The curator dipped her head in what might have been a residual bow. “Thank you.”

  “Are art receptions generally like this?” I said. Meaning, such an ADD-infused waste of everybody’s time. Pity Sylvia wasn’t there. She would have livened things up with at least a stream of gossip. I sure missed her.

  “Like what?” asked the curator.

  “Excuse me, but are you John Nelson?” said a woman.

  Nelson’s hand left Deirdre’s, went out to the woman in a dark blue blouse. He smiled like a welcoming chaplain. “Yes, I am.”

  “Laurie Gefter,” she said, “County Commissioner.”

  The curator lady wiggled her fingers in good-bye and made a beeline for some richer-looking people in suits and jewelry.

  “I thought you looked familiar,” said Nelson. “Good to meet you in person.” Then he introduced Dee and me.

  The commissioner had a pointy greyhound profile. “Your investigation of those Pentagon contracts was quite eye opening.” She gestured with her wineglass. “And now you’re in this ironic exhibit—you’re becoming one to watch for surprises.”

  Nelson puffed out a self-conscious sound, put his hands in his pockets. “It wasn’t just me; we’re a team, Omnia Mundi.” He nodded at me. “Irving Fetzer and Jen Owens are my colleagues. And the exhibit is thanks to Deirdre, of course.” His smiling eyes, loving on her.

  You lucky girl, I thought. You better treat him right from now on. Hold on to what you’ve landed by some miracle of fate.

  The commissioner waved her glass so close to Nelson I thought her wine would splash. “I’m amazed the university approved. Was the exhibit planned before or after your investigation?”

  Nancy was by the snacks, her orange skirt and jacket flashing between other bodies dressed in wintery black and gray. I wished she’d come our way. I wanted to check up on Jen, too, but Dee was looking so vulnerable I felt obliged to stick close.

  “They happened independently,” said Nelson.

  The commissioner dragged her eyes around the room. “Fascinating,” she said, then the orbit of her wineglass swung again past Nelson’s lapel. “Your website is the first place my staff look when they need anything environmental. And your archive of city and county environmental policies is a goldmine.”

  I said, “Good feedback, thanks.”

  “And the site works so well thanks to Jen,” said Nelson. “Over there, long red hair?”

  The commissioner turned, her eyebrows up, searching. Jen had a circle of scruffy young people around her. Two guys were balancing skateboards on their ends. It was dark outside the plate glass windows, and the sidewalk was full of people coming, going, staring in. Franky came through the door and I waved, but he saw Jen instead, and headed in her direction.

  Across the room Nancy was talking to an elderly man. She sent me a wink.

  Dee whispered in my ear, “Can you get me another glass of wine?” But there was such a long line at the wine table I said, “In a minute.”

  With a commissioner as an audience, Nelson was in his element. He said, “Ms. Gefter, I wanted to ask you what you thought about the Bull Run watershed. Whether anyone’s proposed building a second reservoir.”

  “Oh, call me Laurie, please,” said the commissioner.

  Right then the air in the room changed. Faces swiveled toward the door. Two men in dark suits had come in from the night. Both broad-shouldered, both white. One was Engineering chair William Reynolds. I guessed the other was the university's president, Gary Wellesley. They walked the floor like it was their own.

  “Here come the big guns,” murmured Nelson.

  The men greeted people, shook hands, moved under halos of magnanimity.

  The curator nodded at them, her hands folded precisely. Right behind Reynolds was a photo of Jen stretched out on a sofa with a laptop on her knees.

  The commissioner shook her head and whispered, “I have to say I’m surprised they’re being so gracious about it.”

  Nelson turned his back to the two Big Men and bit down on a
smile. Jen had seen them, and was ducking behind people. She pointed us out to Franky, and Franky pulled his hands out of his pockets and headed over.

  “Hey, Deeeee,” he said, and he engulfed her in a hug. “This looks awesome. Hey pardners,” he added to me and Nelse. “Labels go up okay?”

  “Sure did,” I said.

  “Thanks for all your hard work,” said Deirdre.

  “Nahhh.” Franky flapped a hand. “It was nothing. You’re the artist.” He looked around at the crowd. “Wow, look at all this, huh? You rock.”

  “She certainly does,” said a familiar voice.

  “Kate Simms!” I said. Finally, someone I could talk to. Then it was introductions time. Turns out the commissioner and Kate knew each other: no surprise, considering their lines of work. The talk got small, and soon the commissioner was staring into her glass like she just realized the wine wasn’t all that good. Deirdre stared at the commissioner’s glass like she wanted to take it off her. Kate wandered away to look at the work.

  I watched President Wellesley peer at the photo of Sylvia in the diner. I was surprised that one had made it past Nelson, but after checking it out, I could see why. Sylvia looked so out of character, it was almost a vengeance piece for him.

  “Can you get me another wine?” Deirdre asked again.

  “It’s not particularly good,” said the commissioner.

  “How about orange juice?” I asked. The juice end of the table was almost free of people. I ignored Dee’s desperate stare and watched Jen watch Reynolds from behind a group of West Hills matrons. Nelson took quick glances over his shoulder. I myself was shifting from side to side to keep at least one body between me and the Big Men’s line of sight.

  Nelson said, “Anyhow, Laurie, about Bull Run. From an environmental perspective, ironically, another reservoir might turn out to be better than augmenting the supply with well water like we do.”

  Across the room Reynolds said something jokey to the curator, then turned to look at a photo. The bottom of his suit jacket rucked up around his hands in his pants pockets. He leaned in closer. His hands exited their pockets. Glasses came out of a case. Glasses went on. Head zoomed in close. He checked the label. It said, “John Nelson, consulting wall map.” I knew, because I had typed it out.