An Elegant Theory

by Noah Milligan

  In the cab, however, I could tell she wanted to say something. She cleaned her fingernails and ran them through her hair. She held her breath and popped her wrists, clicking her hands inward toward her chest like she was having a seizure.

  “I don’t think you should come back,” she said.

  She looked afraid, like a child might, sleeping alone for the first time during a storm. It seemed odd to me that she was so afraid, empathy, somehow, beyond my faculties under this medication—I felt so good; how could anyone else feel any different?

  “Why?” I asked. “There’s no other choice but to come back.”

  Traffic was at a standstill. A Patriots football game was scheduled for later that day, and everyone was heading toward the stadium. In the car next to us, two grown men donned red and blue face paint and colored wigs. When they caught me staring at them, they blinked at me like I was the one who appeared out of the ordinary. Unsure what else to do, I waved. They, hesitantly, waved back.

  Mom glanced toward the driver. He was Arabic, and every once in a while, he peered at us through the rearview mirror. His look wasn’t sinister by any means, not distrusting, but almost quizzical, like he wanted to tell us something important but couldn’t quite muster the courage to.

  “You know why,” she whispered so the cabbie couldn’t hear. “That detective. He’s been snooping around asking questions. I’ve seen him in the building.”

  “He’s doing his job,” I said. “I’d be more suspicious if we didn’t see him around.”

  “He’s going to find out what happened, Coulter. Aren’t you worried about that?”

  “Yes,” I said. “I am.”

  “This will most likely be your only chance to get away.”

  “And what about you?” I asked. “What will you do?”

  “I’m going to confess,” she said. “I’ve lived a full life. You haven’t because of me. Let me do this for you.”

  “You want to take the fall?”

  “I want to give you a life.”

  “You, a martyr?”

  “Hard to believe, isn’t it?”

  The cabbie cleared his throat, both my and my mother’s attention turning to him. He peered at me through the rearview mirror, glanced back at the road to see if the traffic had moved at all—it had not. “You,” he said. “I know your face.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “I’ve seen you before. Where do I know you from?”

  “I think you may have me confused with—” I said.

  “You’re famous.” He clicked his tongue as if he could propel the answer from his mouth. “You’re a scientist. I read about you. String theory. Yes!”

  “Yes,” I said, admittedly proud to be recognized on the street. “That is me.”

  “Wow,” he said. “Wow. Wow. Wow. In my cab, a celebrity.”

  “I don’t know about celebrity,” I said.

  “Like Tom Cruise. Ha!”

  “Yeah,” I said. “I guess so.”

  Traffic began to move, and the cabbie returned his attention to the road, shaking his head as if in disbelief: in his cab, a famous scientist.

  We arrived at the airport shortly after, and Mom helped me with my bags, pulling them out of the trunk instead of allowing the cabbie or I to do it. “I need the exercise,” she said.

  The cabbie returned to his driver’s seat, and I waited on the sidewalk as Mom pulled the last bag out of the trunk. Once she struggled to get them up onto the curb, she stood in front of me like a mother dropping her child off at school for the very first time.

  “I am so proud of you,” she said.

  The airport was busy, cars pulling in and out of the loading drive, the sound of plastic wheels scraping against pavement, the stench of car exhaust fumes billowing around like a chemical gas cloud.

  “Thank you,” I said, genuinely sincere. The medicine made me bounce.

  “You’ll call me when you land?” She picked lint off my sweater, flicked it onto the street. “I know it’s irrational, but flying has always frightened me.”

  “You have a better chance of being killed by a terrorist. Or a tiger shark.”

  “You always were full of interesting facts like that.”

  “I read a lot.”

  “But you’ll call.”

  I nodded. “You’ll answer?”

  “Yes,” she said. “Of course.”

  Mom wrapped her arms around me and dug her face into my chest. She held me right above my elbows so that I couldn’t lift my arms to hug her back. The pressure against my pectorals caused them to vibrate even more, like they were being pulsated by moderate voltage. The feeling sort of reminded me of my undergraduate days, popping Adderall in order to pull all-nighters. I felt nostalgic in a way I hadn’t in years.

  “So you’ll let me do this for you?” she asked. “You’ll stay there?”

  The cabbie honked, rolled down the window. “You coming, ma’am?” he asked. “I’m blocking traffic here.”

  “One second,” she said. She turned back to me. “Will you please let me do this for you?”

  “Yes,” I said, glad that I could give her what she wanted. “You can do this for me.”

  “Thank you.” She pulled away and looked up at me. “Thank you.” She patted me on the chest. “You should be going. You don’t want to miss your flight.” Before pulling away, she rubbed her thumb across my chin, then kissed me goodbye.

  At first it started out as itchy and red, a little spot on the inside of his elbow. He thought it might be eczema. He bought lotion. Jergens and Aveeno and Lubriderm. He tried Vaseline. Yet it still itched. It got bigger. It got redder. When he looked down, tiny spots of blood dotted his forearm. Not good. Not good at all. Sara asked about it, said he should probably go see a dermatologist. Coulter said he would if it got any worse. How much worse? It’s like pornography, he said, I’ll know it when I see it. They both laughed.

  It got worse. It started to smell like copper. Coulter tried to convince himself that this was a good sign. Antibodies were in action. White blood cells. An immune system at work. Sara noticed this, too. Coulter could tell by the way she sniffed the air, trying to surmise the source. It didn’t take long for her to locate it. This time, though, she didn’t say anything.

  A few more days passed. It got worse still. A small sore materialized. It looked bad. He could see the sinewy fibers inside his arm. Connective tissue. Capillaries with a slight tinge in there. Not long thereafter, pus oozed from it. It was a neon green color and had the consistency of infected mucous.

  Okay, he told Sara. I’ll go to the doctor.

  He went to his general practitioner first. Nasty little bugger, he said. Bet that hurts something fierce, he said. Have you tried Neosporin? Yes. Have you tried other topical solutions? Not yet. Well, it’s some sort of infection; that much is for sure. I’m going to get you set up with some antibiotics. That should fix you right up. By the way, how’s your wife doing? Sally, right?

  Good.

  He took the antibiotics and a topical solution. He took these for several days. The pills were huge and got caught in his throat. It hurt to wipe on the cream, even when careful, hovering his fingertips just over the wound. He hoped this would cure the sore. He had faith in medical advancements; it was, after all, a simple infection. Yet it still grew. He applied more topical cream liberally. He doubled up on the antibiotics. It hurt worse. It smelled worse. He was scared.

  The doctor appeared to be scared, too. Huh, he said. He refused to touch it; instead, his gloved fingers rested several inches down Coulter’s forearm. What does that mean? That ‘huh?’ It doesn’t look good. No shit, doc. Look at my arm, Coulter said. I can see the goddamn bone. I do, too. We need to run more tests. For fuck’s sake, Doc. Ya think? The doctor sent him to the lab where they took blood samples. A technician named Ralph who had a daughter and an Afro swabbed his elbow with a Q-Tip and jarred the gooey substance for further evaluation.

  It hurt so badly Coulter couldn’t
move his arm any longer. It was growing at such a pace that Coulter believed he could actually see the perimeter of the wound expand. He went to a dermatologist who kept him waiting in the lobby for two hours after he’d completed the paperwork, after he’d written down his general physician’s name, his insurance company, his billing address, his permanent address, his emergency contact person, his occupation, his work address, all of his allergies, Benadryl yes and sulfa drugs sure, but he could take penicillin just fine, and he listed the entirety of his medical record, how he’d had measles years before, when he was like seven or eight or something like that, how he sometimes suffered from high blood pressure, more than likely the result of stress caused by a damn toddler that wouldn’t stop crying and his damn dissertation defense that was coming up and all the revisions he wouldn’t be able to get done in time, how he had TMJ and how his jaw clicked when he ate tough steak, and even how he’d gotten his wisdom teeth taken out when he was eighteen. Even that for Christ’s sake. Written left-handed, the ink scribbled all over the paper like a child had filled out the form.

  He kept his arm elevated, which alleviated the bleeding and the throbbing a little bit. Each morning, he and Sara had wrapped his wound in gauze several inches thick in order to keep the infection from spreading, and to prevent dirt or gravel from getting caught somewhere inside of him, gnawing raw his muscles like sandpaper. It didn’t help. The tape would come loose, the adhesive worn thin by his sweat, and the pad kept moving on him, allowing particles of dust to seep in through the edges. He had also taken painkillers to ebb the pain, which didn’t help either. Advil and Tylenol and Motrin and Ibuprofen and leftover Oxycodone from a surgery he’d had a couple years before on his foot, by themselves and in different mixtures, one or two or more taken together at different doses. Nothing helped. He couldn’t sleep because of it. He couldn’t drive. He couldn’t work. He couldn’t make love to his wife or hold his son or take a shower or eat or sit or watch television or water his plants or lecture or boil water or even open a bottle of beer. He couldn’t do anything. Nothing. It’d been so long since he’d slept, he was afraid he was starting to hallucinate. Light refracted against his irises like it would a fractured prism, beams shooting through at awkward angles and glaring at impossible hues so that the world turned into a kaleidoscopic nightmare akin to a hall of mirrors. Everything was out of proportion. His son’s head was larger than a basketball, his wife’s eyes the color of a Dr. Pepper can. He was scared all the time. He scared his wife all the time. His son cried every time he saw him. Sara was at home with him now. She’d offered to come, find a babysitter, he needed her help after all. Coulter declined, though. He wanted to go at it alone.

  A nurse called him back, finally. She took his blood pressure. It was high. She smiled reassuringly and called him sweetie and had hair pulled back so tightly that her forehead resembled a rubber band threatening to break. The doctor arrived a few moments later. He was older and smelled of hand sanitizer and alcohol-free mouthwash. How are you? he asked. I’ve been better. So what seems to be the problem? My arm. There’s some kind of infection. The doctor carefully unwrapped the gauze. Pain rocketed through Coulter’s nerve endings. His arm trembled. He bit his tongue. Jesus! the doctor said. Oh wow, oh my, oh goodness. How long has it been like this? A few days now. It’s getting worse. In fact, it’s grown since this morning. The edge of the wound was only a few inches from his wrist now. Each time he wiggled his fingers, he could see the bones and muscles move inside of his arm. It was like an anatomy exhibit, showing the inner workings of the human skeleton and muscular system. What do you think it is? Coulter said. What the hell is happening to me? It’s hard to say. Until we run some more tests I won’t know for sure, but it looks like necrotizing fasciitis. Necrotizing fasciitis? Flesh-eating bacteria.

  GENEVA WAS BRILLIANTLY WHITE. ICE COVered cars and hung from gutters. The Alps and the Jura were blanketed in snow. The buildings were warmed with stove fires and overworked heaters. The place smelled of electricity and coal and fish. The streets were crowded, and the people were happy—teenagers teased one another in the streets, lovers crossed arms and strolled, looking through hooded coats at merchandise hanging in shop windows—and so was I. I was happy.

  During the flight, I had dreamt mostly, though if I were actually asleep or hallucinating, induced by the prescription, I wasn’t quite sure. It had been very vivid, the dream. I had been suffering from a wound on my arm, a flesh-eating bacteria, and was about to be put under for surgery when I came to. When I did, I was still on the plane, my arm throbbing from pain. I reached down to the inside of my elbow, half-expecting to find blood there, the cotton soaked with pus, or, worse yet, my arm amputated, but it wasn’t. It was still there, and dry, and for some reason this disappointed me, like I wished my daydreams were somehow real. This desire should have worried me, I knew, but the thought enthralled me. I took another pill, ran my tongue against the roof of my mouth, liking how it felt, and yearned for my dreams to manifest themselves in reality.

  In front of the hotel entrance, warming his hands by blowing into the palms, was Dr. Brinkman, waiting for me. “Come,” he said. He grabbed my arm like a father would, and we pushed our way into the hotel. Inside the lobby, a welcoming committee greeted us. Busboys carried our luggage, and the concierge offered us cigarettes and a bottle of wine or champagne maybe and to take our coats and told us no need to check in, our hosts were already waiting for us in a conference room on the second floor, just get comfortable in our room and meet them when we were ready, and he handed us an itinerary filled with dinners and interviews and briefings and press conferences and closed-door meetings with top CERN scientists, Dr. Hutzinger and Dr. Widhouse and Cal Thomas, one of Dr. Brinkman’s former students actually.

  Upstairs we had a moment alone. We had a suite that overlooked the lake. It was frozen and glass-like. Not a perfect sheet by any means but like glass blown by an amateur, full of air bubbles and fissures. The room itself sprawled. It was spacious and luxurious and smelled of sandalwood and papaya. Dr. Brinkman searched for the mini bar, and I went to the window, touched the glass, smelled the curtains, rubbed my feet against the carpet, and then touched the silver fixtures on the windows. An electrical charge shocked me.

  “You look good,” he said. “You look happy.”

  Outside, across the lake, I could make out smoke billowing up into the sky. It came in puffs, like someone was using smoke signals to call for help.

  “Dr. White has put me on a prescription,” I said.

  “It seems to be working.”

  “It is.”

  “I’m glad to hear that.” I could hear ice clink against the bottom of a cocktail glass. “You want a drink?” he asked.

  “I shouldn’t.”

  “Just one. A celebration.”

  “But the medication.”

  “Did Dr. White say you couldn’t drink on it?”

  “No,” I said.

  “Then I’m sure it’ll be fine.”

  A gaggle of geese stood on the side of the road, trying to cross despite the heavy traffic. It seemed bizarre geese would be around this time of year. Being migratory birds, I had expected them to have already flown south for the winter, but there they stood, tempting death.

  “What’s your poison?” Dr. Brinkman asked. “We have vodka, scotch, Irish whiskey, bourbon, gin. Good stuff, too. Top shelf.”

  “I’ll have whatever you’re having.”

  “Whiskey it is,” he said. “Middleton Very Rare. Ever had it?”

  “I’m not much of a drinker.”

  “Sheltered Coulter. Yes,” he said. “I remember.”

  He handed me the drink and stood next to me at the window. “It’s supposed to be served neat, but I prefer on the rocks. I hope you don’t mind.”

  I didn’t say anything. The medicine started to kick in again. I could feel my blood coursing through my veins, like it was filled with insects rather than liquid, their wings fluttering.

&n
bsp; Dr. Brinkman took a sip of his whiskey, puckering his lips from the bitter taste. “We’ll never forget this, you know.”

  “I know.”

  “Moments like these, they don’t come around very often. Eddington when he proved Einstein’s theory of relativity. Rutherford and the Higgs Boson. Batelaan and the double-slit experiment. This is going to be one of those moments, Coulter. You realize this, yes?”

  “I do.”

  “And you’re the one who cracked the code.” He took another drink, sighed in satisfaction. “I have to admit, I’m a bit jealous of you.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes,” he said. “I am.”

  “You’ve won a Nobel.”

  “Yes,” he said. “But it’s not about the prize, Coulter. That’s not what I’m jealous of.”

  “Oh?”

  “Your manifold,” he said, “is the greatest scientific discovery since relativity. You’ve determined the exact shape of the universe. The models we will be able to construct. Synthetic elements. Quantum computing. Conservation of energy. Deep space travel. The implications are mind-boggling. Infinite even.”