The Two That Remained
Page 25
They hold their breath in hope for the next inning.
So much life locked in memory. I think, therefore I am.
Ryan checked over his shoulder to see if the mannequin had followed them here. It hadn’t.
“Dada, hold.” Emily reached up. “Pweeese.”
He took her in his arms and pressed onward, stomach twisting from conflicting impulses.
They followed Laclede through the defunct St. Louis University, past the old arena and onto Market.
Strolling alongside still-beautiful Union Station, he tipped his imaginary hat at imaginary passersby, finding his feet had a mind of their own. Emily tried to pull him elsewhere, having gotten back down, but he hardly listened. As they approached downtown, the Southwest Bell, Judicial, and U.S. Appeals Court buildings rising up ahead, his mind began to wander. The borders between this grim, unresolved reality and his luminous, concrete memories had become thin as vellum. Light shone from beyond the translucent veil. His feet ceased their advance and became rooted in place.
He held tight to Emily’s tether and squeezed his eyes shut.
Ryan was stuffed into a pair of black dress slacks, and a blue, long sleeved oxford with red tie. Locked arm in arm with him, as they fled the parking lot heading north on South 14th Street, was the most interesting and beautiful woman he had ever known. She was having difficulties moving at this clip in a knee-length dress and stiletto heels. She’d insisted on wearing these heels instead of flats, and who was he to argue, but when you’re running late for an opera at the Peabody, it seemed a bad idea in hindsight. The parking attendant had hassled them for ten minutes—story of Ryan’s life—saying the lot was full despite the fact that they could see five open spaces. Ryan had refused to park in the deck, so that they could save three dollars and exit quickly after the show, and he was regretting this decision already.
“Come on,” Lillian said, kicking off her heels and sprinting, stockings on asphalt. “You’re such a slowpoke.”
“Am not!”
“Am too. And a cheapskate. We’re gonna miss the show because of you. Wanna talk money? You know much these tickets were?”
“I’m sure they’ll let us in,” he replied, catching up. “It’ll be fine.”
“This is opera. They can, and will, lock the door if it’s already started. You just had to save a few bucks.”
A dozen feet from the entrance, Lillian slid her shoes back on and smoothed down her hair. She took a tissue from her purse and dabbed at her neck.
“You know I’m not big on the opera,” Ryan whispered. “Remember what happened at Don Giovanni?”
“Shh. You’ll love the show.”
“You haven’t told me anything about it. I don’t even know its title. This is my celebration for getting the assistant professorship at Washu. Don’t I get a say?”
She grinned, her eyes sparkling. “Even better.” And kissed him on the lips, making his heart skip a beat. She reached under his jacket’s tail, pinched his butt, and led them inside.
They turned in their tickets and made to their seats just as the overhead lights dimmed. Ryan didn’t think he’d had enough beer at dinner to bridge the gap between his interest in opera, and ensuring this evening went smoothly. He was going to be bored.
The audience clapped as the opening music started. It wasn’t the usual swell of orchestral strings, but rather a jaunty collection of dueling woodwinds, cello and xylophone accompanied by a chorus of baritone voices. Something about the music was fascinating, and yet unsettling, like the discordant nature of the score to Sweeney Todd, intrinsically English and sorrowful in an intangible way. The actors took the stage in a flurry, and as the spotlights brightened, Ryan could see three things; a pot of stewing cabbage, a street urchin in rags, and four elderly folk lying in a bent bed with tarnished brass poles, two on each side, their legs reaching past one another.
Lillian took hold of Ryan’s hand. She was grinning smugly from the strength at which she squeezed. He leaned forward, breathless. It was an opera, make no doubt, but not a classic like Don Giovani. This wasn’t merely a collection of fat Italians capable of shattering glass with their voices as they bellowed about a sexually promiscuous youth. It was a modern telling, an adaptation, of a boy’s journey from a loving and desperately poor family, to the acquisition of a Golden Ticket, and realization of all his dreams—his triumph made all the sweeter with more chocolate than he could ever eat in his life. Charlie began his heartening tale to find his Golden Ticket, and for reasons Ryan cannot explain, during the show something dislodged in his own heart.
After the show was done, they strolled back to the car with much less urgency than before. Both of them were buzzing from the spectacular performance, being transported through time with its genre-shattering concept. They were kids again, no worries, no fears.
The sky was clear, and even through the haze of the city lights they could see the moon and a sprinkling of stars.
Her back was up against the passenger door, arching slightly, as she drew him in by the lapels of his coat. “I’m so proud of you,” she whispered, then kissed him hard on the lips. His trousers stirred and his head felt light. She pulled away and put an open palm over his heart. “You have worked so hard to get to where you are, and yet I’ve never felt neglected. I know our first couple years of marriage were, well, interesting, but we’ve made it, haven’t we?”
“We have,” he replied, and put his hips against hers, hands holding on. “The house is almost done. School is far behind us. We have money in the bank—finally. And now, the new job. Even without you working, we’re fine. And I was thinking that, maybe you should keep that up for a while.”
She bit her lip and glanced at the ground. The parking attendant was staring at them for lollygagging. They didn’t care.
“Keep what up?” she asked, running fingers through his soft hair. “Not working? But you know I get so bored at home, all alone. If I keep it up too long I might just find myself in someone else’s company.” Her voice was a mocking purr.
“Like that would ever happen to one of us. No, I’ve been running the numbers.”
She stopped playing with his hair, fingers stiff. “As much as I find numbers sexy on most occasions, they might just ruin it tonight.”
Cars were leaving. The lot was almost empty.
He gave a start. “You misunderstand me, love. I think it’s time.”
“Time for what? You want a little warm-up in the car on the way home? Why not? I’m feeling in the mood. We can do all kinds of things I wouldn’t normally do.” She lowered her voice. “I’m not wearing panties either.”
A tent was pitched in Ryan’s pants. “That’s great to know,” he mused. “And I suppose part of what I mean to say… Well, I… You see...”
“Well, deeba deeba deeba, spit it out, Porky Pig.”
He wrung his hands and took a deep breath. It was something she’d talked about for a long time, but he was just now ready. “Let’s start trying.”
Her bright eyes went wide, city lights reflecting in them like exploding novae. Her breath caught in her chest. “Are you serious?”
“I am. It’s time.”
She threw her arms around him, her body shaking. The parking attendant was coming over to tell them to leave. Ryan saw this and held up a hand. Made a face. The man paused.
“What brought you around finally?” she asked, eyes fixed on his.
“I don’t know. Tonight? Today? Where we are in life? Maybe I’m ready, maybe I feel the deep need to be a progenitor. Like Charlie was told in the opera, ‘Take the chance while you can.’ I’m ready to make a family. And, I think you are, too.”
“What an unnecessary use of that word. Progenitor.” She swallowed. “And so very you. Okay, yes, I’m ready, too. Let’s do this. I love you, Ryan Sharpe, my number machine with feelings, always running the math.” She shook her head and licked her lips.
“I love you, too, my guide into the world of unseen things.”
“I miss you, Lillian,” he coughed. “I miss you so bad. Show me the world of unseen things. Show me what I’m missing.” He was so cold, so empty.
Emily clung to him though she didn’t fully understand. This cross was his to bear alone.
Chapter 42
“Can you believe I drank that whole bottle in one pull?” Melanie, the girlfriend Lillian had invited to the party, asked Ryan from the passenger seat of his Volkswagen Golf. “And I like don’t even feel it.”
“Just wait, it’ll catch up.” He was trying to stay focused on the road. The party had left him pretty buzzed, toking and all, and he was starving for some Denny’s. He took a right turn, tightened his fingers around the wheel, and glanced at Lillian in the rear view mirror. She’d been quiet the entire party, letting her loudmouth friend Melanie do most of the talking. Now Melanie was pretty, sure, in a Jennifer Love Hewitt sort of way, but she was loud and getting on his last nerve.
“And like,” Melanie started up again, sweat rolling down her forehead, “what was the deal with those Jell-O shots? Did someone forget to put the vodka in them? They were like, going over to my Grandma’s house to have a snack. So weak...”
“I think they had Everclear in them,” Lillian supplied. “Plenty strong enough for me.”
“Whatever.” Melanie started laughing.
Ryan flipped the radio station. It landed on “Where It’s At” by Beck. He bobbed his head and grinned. His drunken driving might have suffered a little.
“Ugh, I hate this song,” Melanie spluttered. Her fingernails raked up and down her arms as if they itched. There was a small bump halfway to her elbow she focused on. “Beck is a talentless hack.”
“I like Beck,” Lillian said, leaning over the back seat into the front. “He can play damn near any instrument, too. I think he’s kind of cute. I wonder what Punnett squares would reveal about our breeding?”
“Three-eye’d monsters, that’s what. It’s just a bunch of crap. Blah blah blah. Nothing he sings has any real meaning.”
“You like Beck?” Ryan asked Lillian, ignoring Melanie. He licked his lips and slowed down the car, narrowly avoiding a parked cop’s attention.
“Totally.”
“Sweet. I saw him play at Memorial Auditorium a few weeks back. Great show.”
Her eyes sparkled. “Oh, my God, I hate I missed that. Had to work that night.”
“Oh, Beck?” Melanie leaned in close to Ryan, fingers tugging on his shirt. “I was confused. I love Beck. I thought you said Weezer. He’s like—” Her words all ran together. “—where it’s at. Like with two turntables and a loser.” Her face was inches from his, smelling of sweat, vodka, and cheap perfume.
Ryan kindly nudged her back into her seat with an elbow. “Lookie lookie, we’re here. Who wants a Grand Slam?”
“I, eh—” Melanie’s back bowed up and she began to convulse. Lillian took hold of her hair, a smirk on her face.
“Well then,” Ryan mused, “guess I better do a little cleaning tomorrow. Get it all out, girl. There’s nothing a little hot coffee and pancakes won’t fix after puking in a dude’s car.”
“Sorry,” Lillian mouthed and Ryan shrugged.
Chapter 43
It was the following day before Ryan and Emily reached the lab. After the incident at the Peabody, Ryan was left drained. Traveling across the city in the heat hadn’t helped. Emily was cranky and loud, difficult to calm.
They bedded down in a trendy loft apartment off Spruce Street, whose powerless fridge was full of Fiji Water and Perrier. The bed, covered in red silk sheets and furry pillows, was nasty from where the owner had passed, and so they took the hard leather futon instead. It wasn’t long before both of them were out, sun still bright. Exhaustion carried them through without movement until the following dawn.
As they crossed the Mississippi, he noticed the water level was high for this time of year. The trail along the bank was submerged. Even the first few steps leading up into Gateway Park were wet. They entered Illinois, following their previous path along I-64, stopping briefly at the 7-11 along the highway. Emily got her sucker. Ryan grabbed a glass bottle of 7Up, but didn’t drink it.
UBL loomed before them, a grey monolith standing forgotten under featureless skies. Time had left its mark, vines seeking purchase having worked around the sides to form a triangle. The sight of this filthy place made Ryan’s stomach twist in knots. They were here again. He knew what had to be done. It wouldn’t be easy.
“Mama work?” Emily asked.
He nodded.
When they reached his Toyota Matrix, he popped the hatchback and left everything they wouldn’t need in the car, taking only the wind-up flashlight, a hammer, snacks and water.
Before leaving the parking deck, however, he recovered the battery jumper, lifted it up and glared at Peter’s BMW with its two broken windows.
“Might as well finish the job,” he mumbled and dusted off his hands. “I don’t do things halfway.” He tossed it through the back window with a satisfying crash.
Emily laughed. “Me me!”
He stared at the ceiling. “God, I’m setting a terrible example, aren’t I? Should we really do this?”
“Do it!” was her response.
He shrugged and removed the tire iron rod and a pair of safety glasses from his hatchback. “Here you go.” He handed her the eighteen-inch metal rod and put the safety goggles over her eyes. They were almost too loose to fasten.
They swung at the car together, cracking tail lights and bits off the bumper with their metal instruments. Flecks of red and white plastic showered the ground, crunching under foot. They worked their way from back to front, swinging again and again. Emily ran her bar down the passenger side putting a deep gouge in the paint, laughing all the while.
“More gen! More gen!”
Ryan hopped onto the hood flat footed, jumping in place and smashing the windshield like a caveman with a club. This made him feel pretty good, all things considered. The safety glass spidered and flexed, bending into the car. He kicked the remainder of it inside, taking with it shards of pinned up anger. Emily started using the alloy wheels as a sort of drum, alternating between them and the quarter panels. Ding ding, da ding. Ding ding.
“I do it!” she shouted. Ding ding, da ding. Ding ding.
“Yes, you did.” Ryan leap down from the hood. “You do it so good.”
Soon, both their arms became tired. They dropped their tools at almost the same moment.
“Again!” She picked up the rod and threw it. Ryan laughed along with her.
“Now that right there, was therapy.” He took a moment to catch his breath. “Come on, squirt, let’s go. I think we’ve had enough for now.”
“I do it good,” she declared under her breath as they went inside.
The institutional smell of industrial cleaner and its accompanying chemical laboratory tang had not diminished with time. This familiar, dead scent had often clung to Lillian’s clothes and hair, like the occupational perfumes of a fry cook or barista, just after their shift. It hit him like a wall, reminding him of the times they’d gone straight into the bedroom the weeks following her job acceptance. The aroma was heady and exotic, the memory of her skin tasting both salty and sweet on his lips. He could never quite figure out how a smell so repulsive under normal circumstances could excite him so much. He wanted to bury his nose deep in Lillian’s neck and let it envelop his mind.
It only made his shoulders ache.
They passed the front desk, waving to what was left of Phyllis, and went up to the second floor. Ryan wound the flashlight and turned it on. It was dark inside, light from overcast skies filter
ed by grimy windows. Emily hopped from tile to tile, white square to black. Ryan followed along with her game, trying his best to hide his nerves. He began mumbling the song, “Mother Knows Best,” from Tangled, matching his rhythm to their steps. Emily tried to emulate his singing but didn’t remember the words. It had been a long time since they’d watched that movie.
They approached the break room door and froze in place. Ryan gripped the hammer in his right hand.
In a flash, he was standing over his wife’s skeleton, bones dressed in jeans and a Paper, Rock, Scissors, Lizard, Spock t-shirt. Emily was just behind him, silent in the moment. He shook his head and went back into the hall, swallowing. He knew what had to be done but he couldn’t yet find the courage. There was time. Plenty of time. But not yet.
“Okay. You can do this, Ryan. Where’s the lab? We’ll start there.”
He led Emily down the empty halls, feet echoing, to a heavy door that said “Micro” on its silver placard.
“Stay close to Daddy. Okay?”
Emily nodded. “Okay. I stay.”
“Good, baby.”
It was a large, long room with three islands that included several work stations. The islands were covered in an array of colorful agar dishes, optical microscopes, plastic sample racks, centrifuges, and piles upon piles of scribbled-on note paper. At the far end of the room was a fume hood, samples still beneath, and before it on the floor a skeleton in a dirty lab coat. The embroidery on the left chest said “Steven Long.”
Ryan found a pair of purple latex gloves in a box on the wall. He found a smaller pair for Emily so she wouldn’t feel left out, and rubber banded the wrist in place so they’d stay on. He wasn’t procrastinating. He procured paper facemasks and made use of them as well. There was no telling what was in this room. It was best to be careful than to end up dead.