Choked, Reyna managed to say, “I never meant to lie. I just didn’t want you to worry. I was afraid you’d think I was ruining my life. And you would worry.”
“If you had told me before lupus I honestly might have felt like you needed help. I would forget you went out with men, but those were arranged by your father, weren’t they? But I would forget that I had been so sure you weren’t interested in men. But now…” She sighed and Reyna saw deeper lines of pain settling into her face. “What does it matter? If it makes you happy, that is what I want for you.”
“Thank you, Mom. I I don’t know what to say.”
“Can I meet her?”
“No we have a date next Friday, but I don’t have her phone number. I…” She blushed. “I don’t know her last name.”
“Reyna,” her mother admonished. “That’s not exactly sensible.”
“I know”
“You should have gotten a phone number. What if something comes up?” Incredibly, her mother laughed.
Reyna joined her. “I’ll remember your advice. Last name not important, but phone number is.”
“So I can meet her after that.”
“I don’t know if she will ” She stopped then, because the fantasy of bringing Holly to meet her mother stopped dead. It would never happen. Just seeing her again, for just one more night, was risk enough.
Sternly, she told herself the hard facts. You know nothing about her, and love isn’t part of the equation. There’s no reason to even want her to meet Mom, just get that through your head.
“It’s too early?”
“Yes. I’ll get Jean now.”
Her mother nodded tightly and Jean came right away with the syringe that would bring sleep. Reyna waited until her mother was all the way under, thanked Jean, then stood on the porch of the house where she had grown up, feeling the sunshine on her cheeks.
It should have been a joyous moment. She had come out to her mother and her mother had already known and lovingly accepted it. But it only intensified the cage she endured, because even if there was someone special to her, she couldn’t let her mother know. Because just down the street sat a tan sedan, and she had no guarantee that Mark Ivar would overlook her bringing a woman to her mother’s home. Her father would find a way to ask who it was and her mother wouldn’t know how much depended on a shameful lie. She did not want her mother to know about that.
And what if her mother knew, and was willing to risk her care, the loss of her house and the nurses, what about Hoi what about that someone special? Her father would find a way to ruin her or remove her from Reyna’s reach, the same way he had found ways to pressure Margeaux into simply moving home again.
At home she stepped over the clothes she had stripped off in the early morning hours. She took off the clothes she was wearing now and got into bed, though it was not even four in the afternoon. She wrapped her arms around a pillow and decided that bed was the only safe place for fantasy. She closed her eyes and Holly was there with her. Holly’s hands were on her as they had never been last night, and their bodies twisted together, naked and eager. It was just sex, she told herself, then stopped. This was a time for fantasy, and so it was okay to imagine that Holly liked muffins for breakfast and Bergman films. She lost herself in a beautiful dream that had no sex in it, because sex no longer mattered. After last night, her deepest fantasy was about tomorrows.
Jo was delighted to hear that Holly’s Orgasm Quest had succeeded, and demanded full details. Holly put her off, promising more news when there was any. She didn’t want to explain that she wasn’t going to see Reyna again for a week, that she had no idea where Reyna lived, didn’t have a phone number or a last name. It didn’t seem, well, like something anyone else would understand.
As the next few days went by, she began not to understand it herself. By Tuesday the days seemed endless, and she was back to her old life of reading online journals and thinking that her dream of going back to school was a foolish one. As foolish as her idea that she had some sort of relationship with Reyna, just because she’d agreed to meet her again at a motel for another night of sex. It was just for the sex Reyna had said there would be nothing else. That did not equal a relationship.
She wondered if there was a cure for the U-Haul Syndrome, but she didn’t want to ask Jo. Not yet. Another night with Reyna might change how she felt. She would wait and see. In the meantime, she would celebrate that she knew who she was. She would face her future without flinching. So maybe going back to school was a pipe dream. She would start looking into a teaching credential.
She made up her mind to lower her expectations for the future, and then everything changed.
She almost didn’t read the topic stochastic walk was interesting enough, and the stock market gurus loved the subject. But it wasn’t her favorite, and sleep was calling to her. It was actually a slip of the mouse that opened the new message instead of removing it from her to be read stack.
She read, “Since they solved Ramsay 4,5, has anyone else considered that the original Ramsay formula of l+2hoch(k-2) might be more accurate than previously supposed?”
She didn’t read the rest of the message, which detailed the writer’s theory that Ramsay’s stranger-friend design had applications for calculating stochastic walk. All that mattered was the first sentence. Not even that. The first clause: Ramsay 4,5 had been solved.
She deployed all her search engines, trying to find the published paper that would have described a discovery of such huge interest to mathematicians. Ramsay theory, which primarily dealt with inevitable patterns in very large numbers, also advanced the concept that any given set of circumstances had a minimum universe in which to exist. Discovering that minimum universe would naturally reduce random chance and coincidence. The concept informed a wide variety of science and engineering applications, chief among them telephone and server networks where random connections made chance a significant factor in planning.
She had written a paper about Ramsay theory and the formula that Ramsay had suggested when she’d been a freshman in high school. It had been the basis of her application to go to U.C. Irvine for advanced mathematics courses. In it she’d proposed a solution for Ramsay 4,5, based on further refinement to the original Ramsay formula. Using her proposal, she’d predicted that the smallest possible gathering of people that allowed for a certainty that four people were acquaintances and five people were strangers was twenty-five. She’d lacked the computer processing power to prove her theory. Cracking Ramsay 4,4 had taken two years of nighttime use of the available capacity in several university networks, and the result was only 18. If Ramsay 4,5 was 25, it would take twice that computing power to solve. But apparently somebody had done it.
She flipped from link to link, looking for the answer. Finally, she found herself at the site for the Australian National University Mathematics Department, which had announced the solution to Ramsay 4,5. She waded through extraneous Web pages that listed faculty and accolades and finally found her way onto a file transfer page. From there she downloaded the Ramsay 4,5 paper, written by Brendan McKay of the Australian National University, Stanislaw R Radziszowski of the Rochester Institute of Technology, with attributions to Anonymous, Research Assistants, et al.
Lots of theory she couldn’t wait to read it all. But right now, no longer in the least bit sleepy, she just wanted the answer. And she found it, on page seventy-three.
Four years of devoting all off-capacity hours of individual networked computers at two universities had tested every possible permutation of Ramsay 4,5.
The answer was twenty-five.
That was her answer, in a paper she’d written eleven years ago, when she was fifteen.
Wednesday afternoon found her at her old high school. She’d talked it over with Audra in an early morning phone call, and Audra’s practical position had been that she had nothing to lose from asking her old teacher if he recalled the paper and would be willing to authenticate her
copy of it.
The school seemed smaller, of course, and more rundown, but she remembered the musty hallways and had no trouble finding the math department. When she’d called at nine to ask if Mr. Frazier still taught there, the school secretary had told her that her old teacher would be finishing his last class for the day at about that time.
The kids looked so young, but they were almost adults. The bell rang and teenagers poured out of the room, only noticing her as an obstacle to get around on their way to freedom for the day.
Mr. Frazier was packing up his case. It might have been the same one he had used ten years ago. He seemed older than she remembered, but younger than she expected perhaps forty. She pushed away an illuminating revelation. Larry Frazier was an attractive man, in some ways much like Clay. Had Clay been a substitute for an adolescent crush on her math teacher? Poor Clay, she thought. He never had a chance to have any part of me I valued.
Mr. Frazier looked up. “Can I help you?”
“I don’t know if you remember me. I was a student of yours about ten years ago. My name is Holly, Holly Markham.”
“Holly Markham,” he echoed, looking stunned. “I wouldn’t have recognized you, but I’ve never forgotten the name. You’ve come about Ramsay four-five, finally.”
It was Holly’s turn to be stunned. “Yes, that’s why I’m here. You’ve been expecting me?”
“For the last three years, yes, since they proved your theory.” He grinned.
“I’m … confused, to say the least.”
“You’re not here because you finally heard from your aunt?”
“Uh, no. I read about the solution just yesterday. I want to go back for my master’s. I left college after my undergrad work. So I thought I might be able to get you to write a letter for me, authenticating my paper.” She held out the copy she’d found in one of her boxes with her Irvine application.
He spread his hands, unconsciously offering the gift of knowledge. “But Holly you’re Anonymous. On the paper they published. Anonymous is you.”
She groped for the nearest desk and sat down. “How did they know?”
“So your aunt didn’t tell you? I found your old phone number in the school records and left several messages with her. She got quite exasperated with me. Ramsay numbers have always been a pet game of mine, and I never forgot your paper. It was so intriguing, but there was no way to prove it. So about five years ago, a friend of mine was heading Down Under for a research grant to work with McKay, the Ramsay guru. So I asked if he’d take your paper along. He was happy to, especially after he read it.”
“I don’t believe it.” Holly had to clear her throat. “What possessed you to do something so kind?”
His eyebrows came together slightly, as if he didn’t understand why she would have to ask that. “I did it because I could.”
She heard the echo of her telling Clay the same thing, that she had quit to support Tori because she could. “So they liked the paper?”
“Liked it? They were ecstatic. They altered their routines for a test set of the computers and shaved a year off the entire compilation. They wanted to talk to you, give you full credit, and see what you were working on. So I called your aunt.”
“She never gave me the messages,” Holly said numbly. Another black mark on her aunt’s tallies.
“I wondered. I tried to find out where you had gone from Irvine, but there had never been a request for your transcript from another university except for MIT, and you weren’t there. There was no local phone listing for you.”
“I wow.” What if they’d put the phone in both their names instead of just Clay’s? She would have known about this miracle sooner. But would she have recognized the magic of it then?
He grinned at her. “This has just made my day. My week heck, my semester. It bothered me, not knowing if you’d ever gotten your due. They’re working on Ramsay five-five now. I know they’d still like to talk to you.”
“I’m having trouble taking it in,” Holly admitted. “I’ve been desperately wondering how to get anyone to take an interest in my transcript, which is four years out of date.”
He laughed with a shrug, a gesture she remembered from her struggles with problems he had lobbed at her. “Before they published the paper they told me if I found you to let you know you had a ticket to Australia waiting. I don’t know if they still have the funds, but I’ll send an e-mail the moment I get home. Do you have an e-mail address?”
“Yes.” She wrote it out on the notepad he proffered.
“I’ll cc you. So you never went on for your master’s?”
As they walked together to the front of the school, she told him a little bit about what she had been doing, not owning up to her bad choices because it was too personal to share. They parted with a promise to keep in touch and she watched him whistle his way to his car. He was just a high school math teacher and yet had given her a large part of her future, all because he could. Teachers had a magic all their own. She felt a transformational obligation to pass the magic along, one that could shape the rest of her life.
“I missed you at church.” Her father adjusted his tie in his bathroom mirror while Reyna waited near his desk.
Reyna had expected him to tax her about it first thing Monday morning, but last-minute details for the summit had apparently kept him occupied. “I spent the day with Mom. Besides, I knew I’d be here today, in the presence of an abundance of righteous fervor. It seemed like my quota for the week.”
He ignored her sarcasm, too caught up in the entrance they would both soon make to the gathered clergy in the institute’s boardroom. Day one of the Values and Faith Summit was tightly scripted. “How’s your old man look?”
Honesty compelled her to admit, “Handsome.” The hand-tailored suit, just a little too large, gave him the physique of a young Orson Welles. The matching silk tie and shirt were exceedingly elegant. She had never had any trouble understanding how he had seduced her mother. Nevertheless, he compelled her to work for him, and she had managed to meet his exacting standards without giving one iota more than was required. So why did she volunteer information now? “But you’re not even a candidate yet. You look like a victor, not an ally.”
He glanced back in the mirror, then regarded her again. She wore an everyday plain business suit. “Thank you,” he said. “Give me a minute.”
He disappeared into the recesses of his closet, which Paul kept meticulously stocked with every possible combination of attire. Grip Putnam didn’t always have time to go home to change.
Paul bustled in and frowned at her. “The press representatives we wanted have all arrived. They understand that the photographers will have to leave before anyone sits down.”
“Good,” her father said from the closet. He emerged in different suit trousers, and with a workaday but pristinely pressed white cotton shirt half-buttoned. “Reyna has convinced me I was overdressed.”
Her father was too busy with his cufflinks to watch Paul, but Reyna saw the massive effort of will it took for Paul to stop watching her father dressing. He turned blindly away and fumbled toward the door.
She followed him, swept away with compassion. She had many reasons to hate herself, but none of them had to do with something as elemental as what made her happy sexually. She had Holly tucked away in her mind. No matter what the future brought, she had Holly and Kimberly and
Margeaux and her pride. Paul had only a lie, a lie he’d perpetuated on a wife and family. “Self-hatred will kill you,” she whispered.
He hadn’t heard her behind him. “I’m busy.” His voice was shaking.
“You only feel that way about him because you won’t let yourself feel it for an ordinary man. You’re telling yourself it’s hero worship, not love based on homosexual feelings.”
“Shut up,” he snapped.
“I don’t know why I’m bothering,” Reyna said quietly. “But I’d stop to help an animal by the road in pain. Abideth faith, hope and charity,
Paul. The greatest of these is charity. You have mine if you want it, but you need to find some for yourself.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about. How dare you quote Corinthians to me, you of all people?”
“You’re right, St. Peter has his flaws. But what about Jesus, Paul? He gave us two commandments, and said they are more important than anything else, even more than believing in him. You know what they are, don’t you?” She’d written so many papers quoting explicit scripture that seemed to unequivocally condemn homosexuality, but she knew the simple words that balanced the scales of hatred and abuse. Christ’s commandments negated all else as the cornerstone of true Christian philosophy. She’d never wanted to speak them before, never thought her truth would help anyone but herself.
“Stop.” His breathing was ragged.
“You love God, don’t you? That’s the first. You wouldn’t be suffering like this if you weren’t trying to love God.”
“Please, don’t.”
“You know the second commandment from Christ, I know you do. But you can’t love your neighbor as yourself if you don’t love yourself first. That’s all you have to do to find the reward of heaven. Love God. Love your neighbor. But can you do either if you are consumed with hatred for yourself? Hatred for anyone?”
He walked out of the room without answering. The door closed behind him just as her father’s office door opened. “Is this better?”
She turned and realized that this was the first time he had ever taken her advice on a personal level. “Yes, that’s much better. You look like one of the people, not their king.”
“Where did Paul go?”
“I’m sure he has many things to take care of,” she hedged.
“I’m ready, then. Shall we?”
They had done this before, walked side-by-side into important meetings. She had always resented the inference that she was his heir apparent, that she supported everything he did and said. It wasn’t as sharp today, possibly because she was living in denial that he would act as he always had before when her behavior conflicted with his goals. He had acted as if he respected her, but that would change the moment he found out about Holly.
Substitute for Love Page 21
