The Professor of Immortality

by Eileen Pollack

  “You think poets are ignoramuses,” Jackson says. “Would you respect me if I told you I have a physics degree from Cal Tech? Would that make you want to fuck me?”

  “Do you?”

  “Do I what?”

  “Have a physics degree from Cal Tech?”

  “Are you crazy? The only thing I’m an expert on is beauty. And longing. And loss.”

  Maybe Rosa was right. Maybe a poet is exactly what she does need.

  “What is it?” Jackson asks. “Why won’t you give me a chance?”

  She can’t think of a lie, so she tells the truth. “You’re too old. I’m afraid I’ll fall in love with you and you’ll die.”

  He exhales. “Got me there. I fool myself into thinking I’m still a relatively young man.” He bares his arm and strikes a pose like Popeye. “Not quite as muscular as when I worked at the GM plant. But I take good care of myself. Besides, you might be the one to die first. That’s what happened to the poet who wrote those lines. Donald Hall. Married a woman twenty years his junior—wonderful woman, Jane Kenyon, grew up not far from here. Don got colon cancer. Metastasized to his liver. Doctors gave him a one-in-three chance of surviving. And what happened? Jane came down with leukemia and was dead in eighteen months. And Don? He’s still ticking, well into his eighties, writing poetry about how much he loved Jane, how no one will ever take her place. Although, to be honest, he chases any woman who will have him.”

  Maxine wants to say this poet and his dead wife have nothing to do with her. But Jackson’s story proves her point. “Who cares which one of us dies first? One of us will get sick, and the other will need to go through … I could never stand it again. I would have two husbands to miss, and that would kill me.”

  Despite the graying canines, his smile is winning. “What if I told you my brother-in-law is an actuary for a major insurance company and he’s given me a seventy-five percent chance of living another fifteen years?”

  “That isn’t true, is it?”

  “No. Whenever I use a percentage, you know I’m lying.”

  She gets up. “I have a class to teach. But maybe we can go for a walk. When everything settles down.” Although she realizes he doesn’t know what she means by “everything.”

  Jackson cranes his withered neck to look up at her. “Go on. I don’t want you watching how difficult it’s going to be for me to get to my feet.”

  She thinks of offering him a hand. But she doesn’t want to rob him of his manhood. She thanks him for the hot dogs and turns to go. But she can’t help glancing back. He gets up on all fours, like a dog, and struggles to stand from there. This breaks her heart. From pity? From love? Sometimes, it’s difficult to tell the difference. But in this case, yes, she is beginning to think the latter.

  When she arrives in the classroom, the early birds are busying themselves with their phones. They can’t know about Thaddy. But she gets the impression they are avoiding her. Narissa Hymes saunters to Maxine’s desk, lifts her sunglasses, and asks for an extension on the paper due that afternoon. “You can’t imagine what my weekend was like. My laptop crashed. Then someone borrowed my car—really, it’s my parents’ car—and totaled it. So I’m hoping I can have an extension until, like, Thursday?”

  Maxine refrains from pointing out her own weekend has been even more eventful than Narissa’s. To make up for her lack of generosity, she gives Narissa until tomorrow to turn in the paper. The students stow their phones and take out the readings Maxine assigned. A few open the material on their laptops, although for all she knows they are using their computers to shop or watch videos of dancing cats. What does she really have to teach them? Where will these young people be in twenty years? As much as she cares for them while they are in her class, she rarely keeps track of them once they graduate. Oh, some students email her later to ask for letters of recommendation. But once they find a job, they rarely remain in touch.

  Then again, which of her professors kept track of her? Is she only faking her concern for Patti or Obayo? How can anyone predict the future of the human race when predicting the path of even one student remains impossible? Like her, most of these young people will stumble toward their destinies. A detour here. A setback there. In all her years teaching, she has never seen so many students so apprehensive about getting into medical school, law school, business school. An alarming number have developed anxiety disorders—some so severe they end up in the hospital. They tell themselves if only they get good grades, they will be able to afford a decent house, a nice car, enough gadgets and games to distract them. But they aren’t convinced they will be happy living the lives their parents have tried to persuade them they want to lead. Nothing she says in Intro to Future Studies will help them get into graduate school. And yet, they enroll in her class. They want someone to advise them. How can they find meaningful work? Contentment? Courage? Love? She wants to tell them a young man once sat in these same seats, and if she had been a wiser teacher, she might have been able to make him see that his arguments were flawed, his extremism wasn’t warranted, his anger needed to be tempered by compassion.

  Instead, she launches into the lesson she has planned on genetic engineering. Recent advances in biomedical science will allow doctors to insert specific genes into a set of chromosomes and create a child who will exhibit selected traits, whether blue eyes, an impressive height, or certain types of athletic or intellectual ability. Most traits remain far too complex to select for. But, for the sake of argument, she asks the students to take out a sheet of paper and list the traits they would select if they had a child.

  Most sit biting their pens. One student asks her to repeat the question. A few begin scribbling furiously.

  “Now,” she says, “I want you to list the traits your parents would have chosen if they could have designed you.”

  She has never asked this before, has no idea how the exercise will turn out. The silence hangs heavy. No one is writing anything.

  “Can you select for your kid to be a nice person?” Marcos Costello asks. “I guess you could ask for your kid to be smart and nice. But if my parents had only one choice, I think they would have wanted me to be smart. If I get to choose my kids, I would choose that they not feel crappy all the time about how badly they’re fucking up and disappointing all their relatives.”

  “Yeah,” says Tommy Bruce. “My mom, all she cared about was I be a good person. She cheered for me, no matter what happened on the field. But my dad, he would have asked the genetics person to select for more muscle. More speed. He would have wanted me to make the pros.”

  Then she hears someone sobbing. It is sweet, Gothed-out Margo Korck, her black eye-makeup distorted by her tears. “Why do you always make us think about upsetting things? If you want to know the truth, my parents probably would have checked the box that I shouldn’t have been born at all.”

  Somehow, after she and the rest of the class have convinced Margo she is a lovable, worthwhile person, Maxine makes it through the rest of the day. Maybe the FBI hasn’t found Thaddy’s cabin. Better yet, the agents found him, conducted a painstaking search, interrogated him thoroughly (but not too harshly), and concluded any claim he might be the bomber is ridiculous. Thaddy has been living quietly. Growing vegetables. Raising goats. He found a shy Montana girl who is awed by his intelligence, his good looks, his gratitude for the simplest kiss.

  And so, when her phone rings and the female voice introduces itself as belonging to Special Agent Jill Markham, Maxine expects to be informed that Thaddy has been checked out and cleared. Instead, what Special Agent Markham says is the agency’s investigations intersect on the very real possibility Mr. Rapaczynski is the serial bomber for whom they have been searching since 2006, and Maxine’s son is needed in Montana to help the agents be absolutely certain the cabin they are keeping under surveillance is Mr. Rapaczynski’s. More than one cabin fitting the description Zach
provided is located in the vicinity, and the last thing the agency wants is to rush in and find out they have targeted the wrong structure, thereby allowing the suspect to be alerted, destroy the evidence, and take off into the Montana wilderness. In addition, the agency would like Zach on hand in case they end up in a standoff. If Thaddy is alerted to their presence and refuses to leave his house, they might need Zach to talk Thaddy into surrendering.

  “We have a flight leaving tomorrow morning from DTW. We will be sending a car for your son, so if he could be ready at four-thirty a.m.—sorry, I know that’s not ideal—that would be of tremendous assistance.”

  Maxine feels sick that Zach will be called on to inform on his former friend. But this might provide him with the opportunity to work off his guilt that he didn’t turn Thaddy in earlier. Then again, with Zach in Montana, so much might go wrong. What if he gets caught in the crossfire? What if Thaddy finds a way to exact vengeance for what he can’t help but perceive as the most intimate of betrayals?

  “I need to go with him,” Maxine says, although she isn’t sure what argument she can offer. Maybe, if Thaddy barricades himself in his cabin, she could be the one to persuade him to give himself up.

  “Actually,” Special Agent Markham says, “we were hoping you would be willing to travel to Helena with your son. We might need you to persuade the judge issuing the warrant that the language in the manifesto justifies our belief that Mr. Rapaczynski is the bomber.”

  “Of course,” she says. “We’ll be ready on time, I promise.”

  As soon as she hangs up, she is paralyzed by indecision. Should she call Zach? Why does she think if she tells him what the FBI wants him to do, he will refuse? Run away? If she waits until Zach and Angelina get home, Angelina will take Maxine’s side. Won’t she? But what if they don’t get back until very late? Or tomorrow? In the end, she calls Zach on his cell and, when he doesn’t pick up, leaves a message that he needs to come home right away, she will provide the details when she sees him.

  Then she runs upstairs, pulls out a suitcase, and tries to figure out what to pack. Jeans. A few long-sleeve shirts. Toiletries. She checks the weather in Montana, then adds a sweatshirt and heavy socks. And for Zach? She hasn’t packed for him in years. Not that it would matter. He could get by with the same pair of jeans and underwear for a month.

  She goes back downstairs and remembers to call Greenglass, who tells her that she and Zach should do whatever the agents tell them to do, nothing more, nothing less, and she should call him any time of the day or night if she has questions. By the time Zach and Angelina get back from wherever they have been, it’s after ten. When she tells them what the agent told her, Zach says, “So Thaddy will see me? He’ll know I was the one who turned him in?”

  She starts to say this isn’t the same as ratting out some kid who set a playground on fire, but Angelina steps between them and says Zach has made his peace with what he is being called upon to do. And then, to Zach, “Why don’t you go upstairs and pack? Then you can drive me to my parents’ house so I can stay there while you and your mother are in Montana.”

  He nods and kisses her and climbs the stairs, but instead of going into his bedroom, he slips into the bathroom and shuts the door. This is something he used to do when he was a kid. On the outside, he seemed indifferent to whatever calamity had befallen him. A failed exam. Some argument with his father. But he would retreat to the bathroom, lock the door, and give in to the demands of his volcanic insides.

  “Professor?” Angelina has come up beside her—they stand looking up the stairs. “I know Zach has to do what the FBI is telling him to do. But I have this very bad feeling.” She puts her hand on her belly. “If something bad happens to Zach …”

  Maxine lays her palm to Angelina’s surprisingly hot cheek. “I won’t let them put Zach in danger. They wouldn’t anyway. They don’t let civilians risk their lives.” At least, she doesn’t think they do. “And if anything did happen, which it won’t, I would take care of you and the baby. For the rest of your lives.”

  Angelina nods, kisses her, thanks her, but says Maxine misunderstood. “I don’t need anyone’s help to raise my child. If I do, I have parents of my own. I only meant my baby would grow up without a father, the way Zach grew up without his father, and that did such terrible things to Zach. You think his troubles are because of you. But most people … their troubles are because of what is missing in their lives. And there is no way you could make up for that.”

  … Embraces Reality

  The next morning, Maxine and Zach step outside into the gray predawn murk to wait for the black sedan that picks them up. Zach must have cut himself shaving—Maxine is tempted to lick her finger and wipe the blood oozing from his chin.

  At the airport, they proceed to the executive terminal, where Special Agent Burdock stands tapping his foot and glancing at his watch.

  “I just want you to know,” he says, “I’m not in favor of either of you flying out there.”

  In broody silence—not that Maxine is dying to make small talk—Burdock leads them to the tarmac, where a military plane awaits them.

  “We’re hitching a ride,” Burdock says. The plane seats about twenty; everyone but Burdock, Maxine, and Zach is in uniform.

  Zach tucks himself against the window, plugs in his earphones, and slips into real or feigned sleep. Which leaves Maxine to watch Burdock take a magazine from his carry-on and read it cover to cover before completing the crossword at the back—in pen.

  “You know,” Burdock says, folding the magazine, “he worked his way up from a beat cop. Back when he got his degree, profilers weren’t taken seriously. After all the time he put in, they took away the case and moved it to San Francisco. And then, who ends up breaking the damn thing wide open? Even now, he had to argue to be included in the stakeout.”

  “I’ve only just met him,” Maxine says. “But I can see where you would feel … I can see why he would want to be there.”

  Burdock snorts and reverts to silence. Out of ideas for passing the time, Maxine curls against her son and pretends to sleep. Maybe she does sleep. Or maybe the flight is shorter than she assumed. As they skim in over the misty, snowcapped Rockies, the view is so sublime they might as well be landing on Mt. Olympus. The name of the city—Helena—gives her the sense they are arriving at the launch of a battle between the mortals and the gods.

  When they land, it is still midmorning, Montana time. She has on jeans, hiking boots, and a parka that once belonged to Zach, which is a good thing because the temperature is a good thirty degrees colder than in Ann Arbor, as if Thaddy, by his mere presence, has managed to fend off global warming. A female agent in a white Bronco drives them to downtown Helena. On the third floor of an unassuming building, the FBI maintains a fusty office. Dozens of agents in down vests, hiking boots, and fanny packs stand around consulting documents and each other. The atmosphere is both tense and relaxed, if that is possible. Shauntz is nowhere to be seen.

  Burdock leaves them standing against a wall. When he returns, he tells Maxine they won’t need her help persuading the judge to issue the warrant; the agency’s lawyers and the US attorney managed to make the case without her. But they still might require her assistance in talking Rapaczynski out of his cabin; Maxine can’t figure out if she hopes they do or she hopes they don’t.

  He leaves them awhile longer. Someone brings them sandwiches. Zach tells his mother he isn’t hungry, but Maxine urges him to eat, as she used to do when he was a little boy. “You don’t know the next time you’ll get the chance,” she says, and he makes a show of taking a few bites, to please her. Then the agent who drove them from the airport requests they come with her. She is a petite woman in chinos and a blue FBI windbreaker; her dark hair seems to have been cut in the shape of a cereal bowl. They get back in the Bronco, Zach in front, Maxine in the rear, and the agent drives them out of the city along a two-
lane highway on which the traffic quickly thins. Zach tips his head against the passenger window and peers out, no doubt comparing who he was the summer he spent here with Thaddy with who he is now. His lips move, as if he is arguing with himself. Or maybe he is wishing he were back in bed with his future wife.

  The driver must be local; she can’t help commenting on the landmarks, the names of which come straight out of the westerns Maxine’s mother used to watch. The Continental Divide. Lewis and Clark National Forest. Little Blackfoot River. Whiskey Gulch. Patches of snow stipple the muddy, matted fields. The narrow highway passes over a lake the same color as the sky. Up seems down and down seems up.

  They turn west on Route 200, which becomes the main thoroughfare of downtown Lincoln. They pass the library and public high school. A store called Grizzly Hardware—Maxine wonders if this is where Thaddy buys the components for his bombs. A grocery store. A shack called Coyote Coffee—it’s not Starbucks, but she hadn’t expected Thaddy to live within biking distance of a café where he could, if he so desired, pick up an espresso. They turn right at Lambkins Restaurant Lounge Casino—a sign out front promises “karoke,” but Maxine can’t imagine Thaddy stopping here to show off his singing skills. A hundred yards farther, their driver pulls in at the Hotel Lincoln. The hotel appears to be made of logs, whether because Abraham Lincoln grew up in a log cabin or the local businesses are trying to play off the whole wilderness vibe. The agent checks Maxine in, then says she hopes Maxine won’t be bored but she can get dinner at the hotel—the sign here advertises something called the DUCKS UNLIMITED BANQUET.