An Elegant Theory

by Noah Milligan

  “He was very instrumental in Coulter’s own habits,” Sara said, and everyone did indeed laugh now.

  “How many letters?” Dr. Cardoza asked.

  “Five,” Coulter answered.

  “No,” Sara said. “That’s not right, sweetie.” She patted Coulter’s hand like he was a child. “There are eight letters.”

  “No there isn’t,” Coulter said.

  “Of course there is.”

  “There are five letters.”

  “Eight.”

  “Five.”

  “Eight.”

  “Five!”

  “Eight.”

  “Stop!” Coulter stood. The guests all looked awkward, fidgeting in their seats and avoiding eye contact. “You’re insane,” he said.

  “You seem to be confused, sweetie,” Sara said calmly. “Are you feeling all right?”

  “Don’t turn this around on me. You know damn well the name is Isaac and not Finnigan.”

  “Coulter,” Dr. Brinkman said as he stood. “Maybe you should take a second.”

  “No,” Coulter said. “This is crazy. She is lying to all of you.”

  “You are really starting to worry me, Coulter. Maybe you should slow down,” Sara said, pointing to Coulter’s drink.

  “I am not drunk.”

  “Regardless.”

  “Stop treating me like I’m a child!”

  Sara stood, her hands clasped in front of her, prim and proper. “I think we should probably go. Thank you for such a wonderful evening.”

  “Now you thank them?”

  “I’m sorry?” Sara asked as she blinked at Coulter in mock confusion.

  “You couldn’t thank them before, but now that you’re putting on this charade, you can thank them now?”

  “Coulter,” Dr. Brinkman said. He approached and laid his hand on Coulter’s arm, either to calm him or perhaps ready to subdue him, if it came down to it.

  The others didn’t know what to do, whether to turn away or to continue watching—it was, after all, a guilty pleasure, being a spectator to the train wreck of a faltering relationship.

  “I’ll be waiting outside.” Sara grabbed her purse, bowed her head, and headed for the door.

  Coulter remained standing there, watching her leave. The guests all seemed to find something else to stare at now that Sara had left, ending the fight. Looking on as Coulter blew up was one thing, he knew, but now that his implosion had ceased and all that remained was him standing there, defeated and humiliated, a sort of empathy returned to them: they never, for the life of them, wanted to be in Coulter’s position.

  At home, Sara no longer played dumb. They were getting undressed and readying for bed, she trying to pull off pantyhose despite her swollen, pregnant belly, and he pulling off his tie, thankful to not be choked by it any longer.

  “I’ve changed my mind,” she said.

  “You can’t do that,” Coulter said.

  “Sure I can,” she said. “He’s growing inside of me. I get to choose his name.”

  “We’re married. This is a partnership.”

  “You have watched too many romantic comedies,” she said. “This is a dictatorship.”

  It was then, right after the word “dictatorship” slipped off her tongue, that he first wondered how it would feel to wrap his fingers around her throat. The thought came to him in an instant, unpremeditated, and seemed to belong to another consciousness, lodged within his own mind. It was almost a form of schizophrenia, he imagined, or Descartes’ demons, like the daydreams he was apt to have. It wasn’t him who imagined her eyes bulging from their sockets in concern, her mouth writhing in agony as she realized she could not, no matter how hard she tried, breathe. It was someone else thinking that horrible thought. Someone outside his responsibility.

  “We agreed. We talked about it,” he said. “We each got to write our favorite choices on a piece of paper, and then whichever one we chose, we would name our son.”

  “Like I said. I changed my mind. People do that, you know.” Having gotten her pantyhose off, she now tried her dress, reaching back to try and snag the zipper, but her outstretched fingers couldn’t quite reach. “A little help here,” she demanded.

  Without even thinking about it, he went to her and grabbed the zipper. Her flesh was cold to the touch, goosebumps forming around the hemline. If he wrapped his hands around her neck, he would be able to feel her skin warm. Her muscles may even relax at first, responding to his familiar touch. She wouldn’t be any wiser, but then his grip would tighten, and she would grow tense. She would struggle for a bit, but she would be too weak to fight him off. Soon, she would convulse. She would collapse, and her tongue would hang limply out of her mouth. Spittle would form in a little pool underneath her chin, and she would be dead.

  He unzipped her dress and returned to his side of the room, unbuttoning his shirt.

  “Is this how it’s going to be in the future?” he asked. “If you don’t get what you want, then you’ll demand that you get your way.”

  “Don’t fool yourself,” she said. “You won’t even be consulted in the future.”

  I scoffed.

  “I’m leaving you,” she said. “I’m moving back to Oklahoma. I’m going to stay with my parents for a while, and you’re going to stay here.”

  “I don’t get a say in this?”

  “My son’s name will be Finnigan. He will be raised by me. We will live in Oklahoma, and you, if you can find the time, can visit him on the weekends.”

  “I know we’ve been unhappy,” he said.

  “This isn’t a debate, Coulter. You’ll receive divorce papers through the mail, sent by my attorney. You will sign them. We will not divvy up possessions. You can have all of it. I don’t care. I just want out.”

  “This isn’t how it was supposed to happen.”

  She stood and walked to the bathroom, only wearing her bra and panties now, her stretch marks snaking across her pregnant belly, and fiddled with her earrings. Her hair had been tied back into a ponytail, and Coulter could make out her pale, slim neck. Ever since she’d gotten pregnant, her skin seemed more sensitive than before. The slightest touch and her flesh would turn pink under the pressure. A bump against a corner of a table would lead to a weeklong bruise, purple and deep. If he were to grab her, he would leave a mark, a bad one, one that he wouldn’t be able to explain.

  “Lots of things don’t work out as planned,” she said, not even looking at him, her eyes locked on her reflection.

  He approached her, his palms growing itchy.

  “I thought you would know that by now,” she continued. She turned her face to the left, admiring the right side of her face, then turned to the right to scan the other. “Just look at your failed dissertation.”

  He was only five feet away from her now. Four. Three. Two.

  “You’re going to end up some washed up high school teacher in the middle of nowhere. A nobody in nowhere. Fitting, I think.”

  Instead of the neck, he grabbed her head. His left hand covered her mouth, and the right lay where the spine and skull attached. She jerked under his touch. Her back went rigid, and she grabbed the bathroom counter. Now she looked at him, her eyes popped as wide as they could go. She didn’t seem like Sara at that moment. When he looked at her reflection, she was not her confident, abrasive self. Instead, she appeared timid and submissive. She would do anything he wanted, anything he asked. All he had to do was form the words. This made it easier. She was a stranger, not his wife, not the soon-to-be mother of his child. She was an acquiescent stranger, pliant to his whim. So he threw her. He tossed her like a shot-putter, and her head smashed against the toilet bowl. Blood splattered like a water balloon bursting, and her skull bounced against the tile floor.

  She didn’t move.

  He had expected her to. He’d expected her to gasp, to convulse, to writhe in pain and agony. Instead, though, her torso didn’t even rise and fall with breath. Before he even went to her, he knew she was dead.
It was a strange feeling. Oddly, relieving. The air even felt lighter, like a burden had been abolished from the earth.

  After Becky had left, I waited for the police to arrive. I sat on the couch, the television on in the background, tuned to SportsCenter, Chris Berman’s voice booming about the return of some heralded running back, and expected to hear sirens at any moment, the clog of police boots as they trampled up the stairs, the pound of a determined SWAT team member, his finger poised next to his gun’s trigger, ready to take me down if necessary. It wouldn’t be necessary, though. I was resigned to my fate, relieved somewhat that this ordeal would finally be over.

  I did regret, however, not being able to travel to CERN to see my discovery proved. It was selfish, I admit, to want to be present when CERN proved the universe consisted of eleven dimensions. I wanted to feel the congratulatory handshakes, experience the approving look from Dr. Brinkman, embrace him as he hugged me, his prized pupil, destined to win the Nobel. I yearned to record the phone conversation when the academy called, informing me of my prize, and I desired more than anything to bask in the revelry as I accepted the award to the raucous applause of an idolizing crowd. This pride and ego made me feel ashamed, yes, but it did nothing to subdue my desire or purge my wish. It was, after all, undeniably human, to want to accomplish something great, to leave behind something lasting, a legacy. That, I don’t think, is a crime.

  It didn’t take long for the knock to arrive. When it did, I first stared at the door, confused. The knock was not decisive, and it was not followed by the announcement that it was the police and that they had me surrounded. Instead, it sounded like any other knock, tempered, a bit melodic. At first, I thought maybe Becky had returned, and a jolt of excitement rushed through me: perhaps she didn’t think I’d killed Sara. Perhaps she would hear me out, let me explain. Perhaps I could, after all, get a chance to see my dissertation proved.

  I hurried to the door, but it wasn’t Becky. Detective Landsmen stood in the hallway, hands clasped behind him like a man waiting for an elevator, alone. He looked much as he had before, clad in blue jeans and a plaid shirt, covered by a green down vest. Since the weather had turned colder, he’d grown a beard. It was neatly trimmed, short and meticulous.

  “Mr. Zahn,” he said. “Feeling better, I hope.”

  “I’m sorry?” I asked, confused at his question.

  He blinked. “Losing your wife must have been hard on you.”

  “Of course. Sorry,” I said. “I’ve just been scatterbrained lately.”

  “Aren’t you going to invite me in?” he asked. I opened the door wider and stepped aside. He came in and studied the place. “How are things going?” he asked.

  “As well as can be expected.”

  “I couldn’t imagine what you must be going through. I’m married myself. Two children. If I lost any of them, I don’t know if I’d be able to cope. Losing both a child and a spouse, it must be devastating.”

  “It has been tough.”

  He walked toward the wall where Sara had hung family pictures. Most were of us when we’d been dating, vacationing in Colorado, self-taken shots in front of shops in Estes Park, or us down on St. Thomas, lounging on the beach and drinking cocktails donning little, pink umbrellas. When she had been working, we were able to take little vacations like that. We could afford to travel, to shop, to eat out at restaurants when we wanted. As soon as she’d lost her job, though, our lives had changed. I suspect that’s why there were no recent pictures hanging on the wall, with the exception of the 3D ultrasound of Isaac we’d taken earlier that year. As soon as we’d left the doctor’s office, Sara made us go to a little arts and crafts store just outside the Dot to pick up a frame. “If we don’t now,” she’d said when I’d asked her why it was so important to do just then, “it’ll never get done.”

  “You know,” Detective Landsmen said, “there is a word for losing a spouse, widow, and a word for losing a parent, an orphan, but there is no word for losing a child in the English language. Don’t you think that’s odd?”

  “It is,” I said.

  “Perhaps because it’s the hardest to deal with we’ve refused to name it, opting to ignore it rather than to legitimize it with a moniker. A bit childish, don’t you think? Ignoring the problem in hopes it will go away on its own.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Distractions help,” he said as he moved further into the apartment. He now stood by the coffee table, continuing to study the room, peering into the kitchen and down the hallway towards the bedrooms. “In dealing with the grief, I mean. A lot of widows take up hobbies. Painting, writing, some sort of creative outlet. Others bury themselves in work. They keep busy. Which is a good thing. If they don’t, all they do is dwell upon the past. What they could have done differently. Blaming themselves. Survivor guilt. That sort of thing.”

  “Is there news regarding the investigation?” I asked.

  “Since our last talk, I’ve been asking around about you. Seems you’re quite the big deal. People are likening you to Einstein. Some big discovery about the shape of the universe. You’re soon to be quite famous. Once, I hear, you take a trip to Switzerland.” He paused. “See, this confused me. I thought we’d recently discussed you staying here in Boston. Your wife has been murdered, Coulter, and by reason of deduction, you have now become the primary suspect.” He picked at his fingernails, scraping a bit of dirt from underneath the cuticle, and then flicking it off to the side. “You’re a smart guy. You do realize you’re the only suspect, correct?”

  I didn’t answer.

  “Let me tell you two scenarios, Coulter. In the first, you continue to lie to me. You tell me your wife went for a walk, was attacked, was brutally murdered. This will not bode well for you. I will have to tell the prosecutor and the judge that you were unwilling to cooperate with me. This will cause them to seek the maximum penalty possible. You’ll serve the rest of your life in prison. You will not be eligible for parole. You will most certainly die in prison. You will be forgotten. You will not be as famous as Einstein. You will be just a number. A statistic of the Department of Corrections. You will be a $40,000 per year itemized expense in the state budget. Do you understand me?”

  I nodded.

  “Good.” He sat down on the sofa and crossed his legs. “Or you could tell me what happened. You don’t seem like a killer to me, Coulter. You didn’t plan for this to happen, did you? This was an accident. Maybe self defense. Who knows? Charges could be lowered from Murder One to Murder Two or manslaughter, even dropped. You didn’t come forward because you panicked. That is understandable. The prosecutor will understand. I will understand. A judge and jury will understand. Do you see where I’m going with this? Don’t you see that I am trying to help you?”

  He reached out and laid a hand on my forearm. It was an intimate act. Practiced. Calculated. His whole speech was.

  “Detective Landsmen,” I said, “am I under arrest?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Am I under arrest? I believe you must tell me if I am.”

  “No. You are not.”

  “Do you have a search warrant?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Then, by using my deductive reasoning, it appears you do not have much of a case, otherwise you would have obtained one.”

  He nodded as if considering my response.

  “You, by your own admission,” I continued, “do not appear to have attributed a motive to the murder. Most of your deductions are the result of circumstantial evidence. She didn’t know many people. She must have known her attacker. The killer, therefore, must be her husband. Perhaps admissible in court, but not enough to overcome reasonable doubt. She lived here for several years. How could it be that she only knew me? It was dark, after midnight, when she was last seen. Could she not have been surprised by her attacker?”

  “Valid arguments.”

  “Since I am not under arrest, Detective Landsmen, it would appear that I am free to go and to travel when and whe
re I please.”

  I got up to leave, but stumbled. My foot had fallen asleep, and I had to grab the armchair to steady myself before I made my way, limping, toward the door. Detective Landsmen remained seated as I walked away.

  “Coulter, this will be your last chance,” he said as I opened the door for him. “Evidence will be found. Believe me. Evidence is always found. There will be DNA. A witness will come forward. They always do. It’s only a matter of time.”

  I opened the door and stood as still as I could, too scared to look at him, too scared to look anywhere else.

  Detective Landsmen sighed. “Fine,” he said as he stood. He slapped his thighs like an impatient child, waiting for his mother to give the okay for him to be excused. “Have it your way.” Once out in the hallway, he paused. “I recommend you confess, Coulter,” he said. “I really do. It may not seem like it, but I am trying to help you.”

  Without answering, I shut the door, the latch clicking shut, but the detective didn’t leave right away. I could see his shadow underneath the door. He was lurking there, as if listening for my movements, shifting his weight from left to right. Not knowing what else to do, I did the same. When he moved, I moved. He swayed left, I swayed left. He swayed right, I swayed right. He moved forward, I moved forward. He placed his ear against the door. I placed my ear against the door. We mirrored each other, like twins, separated by a few inches of solid wood.

  The pills Dr. White had given me, the ones that would quicken the frequency of my daydreams, tasted chalky, like an antacid tablet. They coated the inside of my mouth and my throat, numbing them. As soon as the chemicals began to seep into my system, my body felt like it vibrated. My hair rippled. Teeth chattered. Palms went dry, tingled. It was an odd experience, but it wasn’t alarming. Instead, I felt euphoric, better than I had in years. I didn’t understand why I hadn’t started taking them sooner. My fears of losing touch with reality appeared unfounded, laughable even.

  We were on our way to the airport, my mother and I, so that she could see me off to Switzerland. Since the interrogation by Detective Landsmen, my mother and I had hardly spoken to one another. Our plans for the future had been halted. We no longer discussed moving to sunny southern California nor what breed of dog we would adopt, workout regimens, apartment decorations. Instead, we largely remained silent. She’d flip through sitcoms, never staying on the same channel for longer than a scene, and I would work on my dissertation, revising and revising, sometimes working upon a single sentence for hours upon a time. When we did talk, we skirted the proverbial elephant in the room, opting for curt, one-sentence remarks: “How was your day?” she’d ask. “Good,” I’d say. “Productive.” I could tell she worried, though. Despite the television being on, she wouldn’t even look at it, her eyes glazed over, lost in thought and chewing her hair. The object of her concern, however, eluded me. Did she worry she’d lose her son again after all these years of estrangement, or was she rather fraught by the notion that she may lose her own freedom, be punished for her role in Sara’s death? It was hard to say. Despite living together for the past several months, I was still having a hard time reading her.