The Speed of Dark

by Elizabeth Moon

  “I want to be sure you really are—you really do want the treatment,” he says. “There’s absolutely no pressure—”

  He is wrong again, though he may be right that there is no pressure from the company right now. Now that I know change will come, now that I know this change is possible, the pressure grows in me, as air fills a balloon or light fills space. Light is not passive; light itself presses on whatever it touches.

  “It is my decision,” I say. I mean, whether it is right or wrong, it is what I decided. I can be wrong, too.

  “Thanks, Lou,” he says. “You—you all—you mean a lot to me.”

  I do not know what “mean a lot” means. Literally it would mean that we have a lot of meaning in us, which he can take, and I do not think that is what Mr. Aldrin is saying. I do not ask. I am still uncomfortable when I think about the times he talked to us. I do not say anything. After 9.3 seconds, he nods and turns to go. “Take care,” he says. “Good luck.”

  I understand “Be careful,” but I do not think “Take care” is as clear. Care is not something you can take and walk around with, like a box. I do not say that, either. Afterward I may not even think about that. I should start now to think what afterward is like.

  I notice he does not say, “I hope you are cured.” I do not know if he is being tactful and polite or thinks it will not go well. I do not ask. His pocket tagger bleeps, and he backs out into the hall. He does not shut my door. It is wrong to listen to other people’s conversation, but it is not polite to shut the door on someone in authority. I cannot help hearing what he says, though I cannot hear what the other person says. “Yes, sir, I’ll be there.”

  His footsteps move away. I relax, taking a deep breath. I take down my favorite spin spirals and take the whirligigs off their stands. The room looks bare, but my desk looks cluttered. I cannot tell if it will all fit in Linda’s box. Maybe I can find another box. Soon begun, soonest done. When I get into the hall, Chuy is at the door, struggling to hold it open and carry in several boxes. I hold the door wide for him.

  “I brought one for everybody,” he says. “It will save time.”

  “Linda brought a box I am using,” I say.

  “Maybe someone will need two,” he says. He drops the boxes in the hall. “You can have one if you need one.”

  “I need one,” I say. “Thanks.”

  I pick up a box that is bigger than the one Linda brought and go back to my office. I put the manuals in the bottom because they are heavy. The colored pens fit between the manuals and the side of the box. I put the whirligigs and spin spirals on top and then remember the fan. I take them out and put the fan on top of the manuals. Now there will not be room for everything else. I look at the box. I do not need the Employees’ Manual, and no one will be angry with me for having a copy in my office. I take it out and leave it on the desk. I put the fan in, and then the spin spirals and whirligigs. They just fit. I think of the wind outside. They are lightweight and might blow out.

  In the last drawer, I find the towel I use to dry off my head when it is raining and I have walked in from the car in the rain. That will fit on top of the spin spirals and whirligigs and keep them from blowing away. I fold the towel on top of the things in the box and pick up the box. Now I am doing what Mr. Crenshaw was doing, carrying a box of my things out of an office. Maybe I would look like Mr. Crenshaw to someone watching, except that no security guards stand beside me. We are not alike. This is my choice; I do not think his leaving was his choice. When I get near the door, Dale is coming out of his office; he opens the door for me.

  Outside, the clouds are thicker and the day seems darker, colder, fuzzy around the edges. It may rain in a little while. I like the cold. The wind is behind me, and I can feel it pushing on my back. I put the box down on the front of my car, and the towel starts to blow off. I put my hand on it. It will be hard to unlock the door while holding the towel down. I move the box to the passenger side of the car and rest my foot on the edge. Now I can unlock the door.

  A first drop of icy rain flicks my cheek. I put the box on the passenger seat, then close the door and lock it. I think about going back inside, but I am sure I got everything. I do not want to put current project work in a stack for special storage. I do not want to see that project again.

  I do want to see Dale and Bailey and Chuy and Eric and Linda again, though. Another flick of rain. The cold wind feels good. I shake my head and go back to the door, insert my card, and enter my thumb-print. All the others are in the hall, some with full boxes and some just standing.

  “Want to get something to eat?” Dale says. The others look around.

  “It is only ten-twelve,” says Chuy. “It is not time for lunch. I am still working.” He does not have a box. Linda does not have a box. It seems odd that the people who are not leaving brought boxes. Did they want the rest of us to leave?

  “We could go for pizza later,” says Dale. We look at each other. I do not know what they are thinking, but I am thinking it will not be the same and also too much the same. It is pretending.

  “We could go somewhere else later,” Chuy says.

  “Pizza,” says Linda.

  We leave it at that. I think I will not come.

  It feels very odd to be driving around in the daylight on a weekday. I drive home and park in the space nearest the door. I carry the box upstairs. The apartment building is very quiet. I put the box in my closet, behind my shoes.

  The apartment is quiet and neat. I washed the breakfast dishes before I left; I always do. I take the container of coins out of my pocket and put it on top of the clothes baskets.

  They told us to bring three changes of clothes. I can pack those now. I do not know what the weather will be or if we will need outside clothes as well as inside clothes. I take my suitcase from the closet and take the first three knit shirts on top of the stack in my second drawer. Three sets of underwear. Three pairs of socks. Two pairs of tan slacks and a pair of blue slacks. My blue sweatshirt, in case it is cold.

  I have an extra toothbrush, comb, and brush that I keep for emergencies. I have never had an emergency. This is not an emergency, but if I pack them now I will not have to think about it again. I put the toothbrush, a new tube of toothpaste, the comb, brush, razor, shaving cream, and a nail clipper in the little zipper bag that fits into my suitcase and put it in. I look again at the list they gave us. That is everything. I tighten the straps in the suitcase, then zip it shut and put it away.

  Mr. Aldrin said to contact the bank, the apartment manager, and any friends who might be worried. He gave us a statement to give to the bank and apartment manager, explaining that we would be gone on a temporary assignment for the company, our paychecks would continue to be paid into the bank, and the bank should continue to make all automatic payments. I bounce the statement to my branch manager.

  Downstairs, the apartment manager’s door is shut, but I can hear a vacuum cleaner moaning inside. When I was little, I was afraid of the vacuum cleaner because it sounded like it was crying, “Ohhhh… noooooo… oohhhh… nooooo,” when my mother pulled it back and forth. It roared and whined and moaned. Now it is just annoying. I push the button. The moaning stops. I do not hear footsteps, but the door opens.

  “Mr. Arrendale!” Ms. Tomasz, the manager, sounds surprised. She would not expect to see me in midmorning on a weekday. “Are you sick? Do you need something?”

  “I am going on a project for the company I work for,” I say. I have rehearsed saying this smoothly. I hand her the statement Mr. Aldrin gave us. “I have told the bank to make the payments for my rent. You can contact the company if it does not.”

  “Oh!” She glances down at the paper, and before she has time to read all of it, she looks up at me. “But… how long will you be gone?”

  “I am not sure,” I say. “But I will come back.” I do not know that for sure, but I do not want her to worry.

  “You aren’t leaving because that man cut your tires in our parking lot? Tried
to hurt you?”

  “No,” I say. I do not know why she would think that. “It is a special assignment.”

  “I worried about you; I really did,” Ms. Tomasz says. “I almost came up and spoke to you, to express—to say I was sorry—but you know you do keep to yourself, pretty much.” <

  “I am all right,” I say.

  “We’ll miss you,” she says. I do not understand how that can be true if she does not even see me most of the time. “Take care of yourself,” she says. I do not tell her that I cannot do that, because my brain will be changing.

  When I get back upstairs, the bank’s automatic reply has come through, saying that the message has been received and the manager will make a specific reply very soon and thank you for your patronage. Underneath it says: “Safety Tip #21: Never leave the key of your safe-deposit box in your home when you leave for a vacation.” I do not have a safe-deposit box so I do not have to worry about it.

  I decide to walk down to the little bakery for lunch—I saw the sign about sandwiches to order when I bought bread there. It is not crowded, but I do not like the music on the radio. It is loud and banging. I order a ham sandwich made with ham from pigs fed a vegetarian diet and butchered under close supervision and the freshest ingredients and take it away. It is too cold to stop and eat outside, so I walk back to the apartment with it and eat it in my kitchenette.

  I could call Marjory. I could take her to dinner tonight, or tomorrow night, or Saturday night, if she would come. I know her work number and her home number. One is almost a prime, and one is a nested multiple of pleasing symmetry. I hang the spin spirals in my apartment where they twirl in the air leaking past the old windows. The flash of colored light across the walls is restful and helps me think.

  If I call her and she goes with me to dinner, why would that be? Maybe she likes me, and maybe she is worried about me, and maybe she feels sorry for me. I do not know for sure it would be because she likes me. For it to be the same in opposite directions, she would have to like me as I like her. Anything else would not make a good pattern.

  What would we talk about? She does not know any more about brain functionality than I do now. It is not her field. We both fence, but I do not think we could talk about fencing the whole time. I do not think she is interested in space; like Mr. Aldrin she seems to think it is a waste of money.

  If I come back—if the treatment works and I am like other men in the brain as well as in the body—will I like her the way I do now?

  Is she another case of the pool with the angel—do I love her because I think she is the only one I can love?

  I get up and put on Bach’s Toccata and Fugue in D. The music builds a complex landscape, mountains and valleys and great gulfs of cool, windy air. Will I still like Bach when I come back, if I come back?

  For a moment, fear seizes my whole being and I am falling through blackness, faster than any light could ever be, but the music rises under me, lifts me up like an ocean wave, and I am no longer afraid.

  FRIDAY MORNING. I WOULD GO TO WORK, BUT THERE is NOTHING in my office to do, and there is nothing in my apartment to do, either. The confirmation from the bank manager was in my stack this morning. I could do my laundry now, but I do my laundry on Friday nights. It occurs to me that if I do my laundry tonight as usual and then sleep on the sheets tonight and Saturday night and Sunday night, I will have dirty sheets on the bed and dirty towels in the bathroom when I check into the clinic. I do not know what to do about that. I do not want to leave dirty things behind me, but otherwise I will have to get up early Monday morning and do a wash then.

  I think about contacting the others, but I decide not to. I do not want to talk to them, really. I am not used to having a day like this, apart from planned vacation, and I do not know what to do with it. I could go see a movie or read books, but my stomach is too tight for that. I could go to the Center, but I do not want to do that, either.

  I wash the breakfast dishes and stack them. The apartment is too quiet, too big and empty suddenly. I do not know where I will go, but I have to go somewhere. I put my wallet and keys in my pocket and leave. It is only five minutes later than I usually leave.

  Danny is going downstairs, too. He says, “Hi, Lou, howyadoin’,” in a rush. I think that means he is in a hurry and does not want to talk. I say “hi” and nothing more.

  Outside, it is cloudy and cold but not raining right now. It is not as windy as yesterday. I walk over to my car and get in. I do not turn the engine on yet, because I do not know where I will go. It is a waste to run the engine unnecessarily. I take the road map book out of the glove compartment and open it. I could go to the state park upriver and look at the waterfalls. Most people hike there in summer, but I think the park is open in the daytime in winter, too.

  A shadow darkens my window. It is Danny. I open the window.

  “Are you all right?” he asks. “Is something wrong?”

  “I am not going to work today,” I say. “I am deciding where to go.”

  “Okay,” he says. I am surprised; I did not think he was that interested. If he is that interested, maybe he would want to know that I am going away.

  “I am going away,” I say.

  His face changes expression. “Moving? Was it that stalker? He won’t hurt you again, Lou.”

  It is interesting that both he and the apartment manager assumed I might be leaving because of Don.

  “No,” I say. “I am not moving, but I am going to be gone several weeks at least. There is a new experimental treatment; my company wants me to take it.”

  He looks worried. “Your company—do you want it? Are they pressuring you?”

  “It is my decision,” I say. “I decided to do it.”

  “Well… okay. I hope you got some good advice,” he says.

  “Yes,” I say. I do not say from where.

  “So—you have the day off? Or you’re leaving today? Where is this treatment going to be given?”

  “I do not have to work today. I cleaned out my desk yesterday,” I say. “The treatment will be given at the research clinic, at the campus where I work but in a different building. It starts Monday. Today I have nothing—I think I may go up to Harper Falls.”

  “Ah. Well, you take care, Lou. I hope it works out for you.” He thumps the roof of my car and walks away.

  I am not sure what it is he hopes will work out for me: The trip to Harper Falls? The treatment? I do not know why he thumped the roof of my car, either. I do know that he doesn’t scare me anymore, another change that I made on my own.

  AT THE PARK, I PAY THE ENTRANCE FEE AND STOP MY CAR IN the empty parking lot. Signs point to different trails: TO THE FALLS, 290.3 METERS. BUTTERCUP MEADOW, 1.7 KM. JUNIOR NATURE TRAIL, 1.3 KM. The Junior Nature Trail and the Fully Accessible Trail are both asphalt-surfaced, but the trail to the falls is crushed stone between metal strips. I walk down this trail, my shoes scritch-scritching on the surface. No one else is here. The only sounds are natural sounds. Far away I can hear the steady humming roar of the interstate but closer at hand only the higher whine of the generator that powers the park office.

  Soon even that fades away; I am below a ledge of rock that blocks the highway sound as well. Most of the leaves have fallen from the trees and are sodden from yesterday’s rain. Below me, I can see red leaves glowing even in this dull light, on maples that survive here, in the coolest areas.

  I can feel myself relaxing. Trees do not care if I am normal or not. Rocks and moss do not care. They cannot tell the difference between one human and another. That is restful. I do not have to think about myself at all.

  I stop to sit on a rock and let my legs hang down. My parents took me to a park near where we lived when I was a child. It, too, had a stream with a waterfall, narrower than this one. The rock there was darker, and most of the rocks that stuck out were narrow and pointed on top. But there was one that had fallen over so the flatter side was on top, and I used to stand or sit on that rock. It felt friendly, be
cause it did not do anything. My parents didn’t understand that.

  If someone told the last maples that they could change and live happily in the warmer climate, would they choose to do it? What if it meant losing their translucent leaves that turn such beautiful colors every year?

  I draw in a deep breath and smell the wet leaves, the moss on the rock, the lichens, the rock itself, the soil… Some of the articles said autistic persons are too sensitive to smells, but no one minds that in a dog or cat.

  I listen to the little noises of the woods, the tiny noises even today, with the wet leaves mostly flat and silent on the ground. A few still hang and twirl a little in the wind, tip-tapping on a nearby twig. The squirrel’s feet, as it bounds away, scritch on the bark as it catches and releases its footholds. Wings whirr, and then I hear a thin zzeeet-zzzeeet from a bird I never actually see. Some articles say that autistic persons are too sensitive to small sounds, but no one minds that in animals.

  No one who minds is here. I have today to enjoy my excessive and unregulated senses, in case they are gone by this time next week. I hope I will enjoy whatever senses I have then.

  I lean over and taste the stone, the moss, the lichen, touching my tongue to them and then, sliding off the stone, to the wet leaves at its base. The bark of an oak (bitter, astringent), the bark of a poplar (tasteless at first, then faintly sweet). I fling my arms out, whirl in the path, my feet crunching now the crushed stone (no one to notice and be upset, no one to reprimand me, no one to shake a cautionary head). The colors whirl around me with my whirling; when I stop they do not stop at first, but only gradually.

  Down and down—I find a fern to touch with my tongue, only one frond still green. It has no flavor. The bark of other trees, most I do not know but I can tell they are different by their patterns. Each has a slightly different, indescribable flavor, a slightly different smell, a different pattern of bark that is rougher or smoother under my fingers. The waterfall noise, at first a soft roar, dissolves into its many component sounds: boom of the main fall hitting the rocks below, the echoes of that blur that boom into a roar, the trickles and splatters of spray, of the little falls, the quiet drip of individual drops off the frost-seared fern fronds.