The testing center was in an office building on West Forty-eighth Street. Conrad arrived half an hour early. On the ninth floor there was already a line of people waiting to check in. He stood behind a short brown-haired girl wearing a blue parka. The parka rustled when she moved. No one talked. They were all moving slowly, step-by-step, toward a young Asian man who sat at a desk behind a glass barrier. When Conrad reached him, he asked to see Conrad’s ID.
“Look at the camera, please.” The man looked Korean, square face and short black brushy hair. He was a geek, of course, with a short-sleeved white shirt and glasses. Everyone here was a geek, it was Geek Nation. This guy was probably already at B-school himself, working his way through with this job.
The geek typed things on his computer, then handed back Conrad’s ID. He told him to go to the locker area.
“The proctors inside will explain the rules.”
Conrad nodded. “Okay.”
“Good luck,” the Korean said, and smiled.
“Thanks,” Conrad said.
The lockers were beige, little cubicles stacked on top of each other. Each had a padlock. People opened the lockers and stood in silence, taking off coats, watches. Everything personal had to be left in the lockers—watches, cell phones, all printed material. Nothing could be taken into the test—no pens, pencils, or markers. Conrad was impressed by the resourcefulness of the cheating that all this implied. No pencils? That would mean microchips. For scribbling you were issued a noteboard, a laminated-paper notebook, with pens.
Conrad chose a locker and stashed his jacket and wallet, his watch and cell phone, inside it. The girl with the blue parka was next to him, silent and preoccupied. She took off her rustling parka and hung it up. The narrow aisles were full of people, lockers clicking open and clanging shut. No one spoke.
The testing area was bland and modern, a beige warren of three-sided cubicles, with walls that went halfway to the ceiling. In each cubicle was a chair and a laptop. The cubicles stood in rows down the center of the room; on either side were glassed-in observation rooms with video cameras and screens. There were monitors and observers everywhere. They could watch him, but he couldn’t watch them. He wouldn’t be able to put his back to the wall, and once he was seated, he couldn’t see over the partitions. People would be walking behind him, unseen. It was a bad tactical position: facing inward, exposed behind. He wasn’t going to think about that.
Ten minutes left. People milled around, their faces stiff and empty. Everyone seemed younger than he. No one spoke, as though they were filled to the brim and any conversation might cause them to spill. A young man at the front of the room began to talk, and everyone swiveled toward him. He was a proctor, solid and blond, reliable-looking. He explained the rules, though everyone knew them. The test took four hours, with two optional breaks. You couldn’t leave your cubicle otherwise. If you needed to leave, you raised your hand and a proctor would escort you out. Conrad half listened. He could feel the headache, small, heavy, poised.
They were told to choose a cubicle and sit down. Conrad took a place at the end of a row. It was good that the test was so long: panic wouldn’t last four hours. If it hit him it would pass, and he’d have time to recover. There’d be parts when he’d be fine.
He sat down and pulled his chair in. It made no sound on the carpeting. He settled himself in front of the computer. The screen lit up. Welcome to the Graduate Management Admission Test.
The first part was writing, two essays: one on poorly made products, the second on safety in the workplace. He thought it would be all right, though he felt a little dizzy as he approached the subjects. As though his brain were slightly off-kilter. He knew what he was saying, but he couldn’t seem to set it down logically. He had the feeling that he was repeating himself; then he thought he hadn’t been clear. He read each one over. He thought they were all right. Each essay was meant to take half an hour. There was a big clock on the wall, and at the end of the first hour he had finished the essays and the headache had not descended. He thought it might be all right.
At the start of the quantitative section his chest began to tighten. The computer screen was relentless: lines of mathematical problems. There was no end to them. He felt claustrophobic at the sight. You had to solve them in order, you couldn’t skip one and come back. It felt oppressive, the screen covered in lines of equations and charts and diagrams.
By the first optional break, his head was pounding. He was screwing it up. He couldn’t think his way through the equations. He kept starting over and getting stalled. He wrote down the problems on his noteboard, to try to get his mind working, like priming a pump, but it didn’t help. His mind was blurred. This was like being on drugs, everything looming and distant by turns. He couldn’t think his way into these things. He couldn’t manage his mind.
When the break was called, he stood up and went back to the lockers. Don’t fuck this up, he told himself. Just don’t. His head was on fire, as though someone were loose in there with a blowtorch. Against the wall was a table packed with rows of bottled water. He took a bottle. He opened his throat and let the water run down inside. This was how they drank it in-country. Almost without swallowing, letting it run straight down.
His chest felt constricted. All of him felt constricted.
For the rest of the break he walked around, his pulse racing. He told himself to calm down. He told himself he wasn’t fucking it up. If worse came to worst, if he really did, he could have the whole thing erased. But the thing was that, actually, he knew he was fucking it up. He was fucking it up.
The room was getting warmer. He could smell the sweat in the air, hear the whisper of arms shifting on the desktops, the sighs as people drew quiet breaths, the silvery slither of chairs across the carpet. Palms rubbing on thighs, a fingernail tapping on the desktop. The quiet, steady clicking of keyboards. The silent grinding of people’s minds.
He was screwing it up. It was getting worse. He couldn’t pound the little things into any kind of sense. It was getting worse, and the worse he felt, the worse he did. He was in a long panicked slide backward. He could feel himself going and couldn’t stop himself.
At the second break, he walked around again. He wondered if people were looking at him. He had the feeling that the panic was visible, hovering over him like a tornado funnel. Did he give off that aura? He breathed carefully, long, deep breaths. He made no eye contact. He drank some more water, then went to the men’s room. He took a long piss. He was fucking it up.
He did the last four questions in twelve minutes and finished with two minutes still to go.
After he typed in the last answer, the screen changed.
Just one moment, please.
It was tabulating the scores.
You have the option to delete your scores at this time. If you delete them, they will never be posted on any record, but the fact that you took the test and deleted them will be recorded. You must decide now, before you see your scores, whether or not you choose to delete them. To delete, click on DELETE. To see the scores, click on SEE SCORES.
Conrad stared at the screen.
He’d screwed it up. He knew it. He couldn’t bring himself to press “Delete.” He should. He should just delete the whole thing. What if he’d done better than he thought? He couldn’t be sure. Deleting the whole thing would be like erasing himself. He couldn’t do it.
He clicked on See Scores.
And there they were. He’d fucked up.
These scores would get him in nowhere.
He clicked through and turned off the computer. He pushed his chair back and stood up. Everyone was standing up. Now what? he thought. The headache was thundering inside.
* * *
On the way back uptown, he sat in the subway and stared at the ads for computer school in three languages. Okay, he told himself. Okay. Then he thought, Fuck.
No plan survives contact with the enemy, he told himself. New plan.
The next plan was: Do all ri
ght on the econ exam, take another econ course next semester, and take the GMAT again in the spring. Because here was the thing: Once he started treatment at the VA, everything would be different. They’d fix his brain and he’d be able to focus on problems, he’d be able to take a four-hour test without going off like a rocket. He’d be able to think again.
* * *
That night, Jenny asked him about the test as soon as she came home. She stood by the door, unwrapping the long wool scarf from around her neck. “So, how was it?” she asked. “How’d it go?”
By then he was able to shrug his shoulders.
“It didn’t go too well,” Conrad said. “I’m going to take it again in the spring.”
She looked at him for a moment. “What happened?”
He shook his head. “Gonna take it again in the spring.”
“Sounds good,” she said.
She unzipped her coat and turned to hang it up. He saw that his own response would govern that of others. She couldn’t see his fear, which he had strapped and throttled and was holding underground.
“When do you want to come out to Katonah?” she asked. “They’re giving us the day off on the twenty-fourth, so I’m going out after work on the twenty-third. Want to come on the same train?”
“I’m not coming until the next day,” Conrad said.
“Christmas Eve?” Jenny said. She turned to look at him again and pushed up the sleeves of her sweater.
“Stuff to do,” Conrad said. “I’ll see you out there.”
She gazed at him for a moment but didn’t say anything more.
“And I’ll move out as soon as we get back,” he said.
“Don’t worry about it,” she said.
“No, I’m gone.” Conrad shook his head and smiled.
He dreaded going out there. He dreaded Christmas itself, the whole noisy, tinselly passage, the glittering decorations and the flickering candles and the high-pitched songs and the mound of presents. He dreaded everyone’s eyes on him, filled with expectation. He dreaded the silent plea to be one of them, to be part of something he did not feel part of, dreaded the joyful and unspoken declaration that everything had returned to normal.
Here he was, went the declaration, back home again, and all the golden cogs and gears had clicked silently back into place. The great machine of family life had started up once more, spinning and gyrating and humming in harmony, as if nothing had ever interrupted it. He’d been hearing that silent declaration for weeks, for months, in all those cheery notes and bright pleading messages. He dreaded seeing his mother’s eyes on him, he dreaded the moment when she realized how wrong things had gone, when her face flooded with worry. He couldn’t pretend he was back, and one of them. He couldn’t pretend everything was fine. He dreaded telling them he’d fucked up the GMAT.
* * *
On the twentieth, the econ exam went all right, or he thought it did. He’d worked on it all semester; he knew the ideas, he understood the premises. He wasn’t sure how well he’d done on the essay; he was afraid his writing was kind of confused. That’s why he was going to the VA. Mental confusion: that was a symptom. That’s what they addressed.
Conrad emailed the guys who would not be coming home for Christmas.
Molinos, Hang in there. Hope they serve up something good in the chow hall. Next year, this time, you’ll be home. Have a good one. Semper Fi, Farrell.
Turner had news about Dail:
So now she’s not allowed in the living room unless Abbott is there. So she goes into his bedroom and cranks up the music. We can all hear her while we’re in the living room watching TV. It’s wild. And now when she sees us she pushes out her tits. In case we aren’t aware of them.
Conrad wrote back:
Try teaching her Scrabble. I think there’s a special “Scrabble for Strippers.”
He heard from Anderson, who had decided to hang in there with the job.
I’ll be goddamm if I quit a job just because other guys are assholes, was what he had actually written. He was spending Christmas with his family. Looking forward to it, LT.
Conrad answered:
Sounds very good. Me, too, spending Christmas with my family. Have a good one.
Conrad dreaded going into the stores and buying presents. The crowds and the noise, the loud, pealing music and the artificial cheer. He put it off, but on the twenty-fourth he put on his parka and set off to Bloomingdale’s. He took the subway down to Fifty-ninth Street and walked east.
The streets were packed with drifting out-of-towners, inattentive, slow, gawking. Those who weren’t tourists were New Yorkers, walking fast and talking on cell phones. Conrad wouldn’t use his on the street; it was too distracting. You wouldn’t know what was happening around you if you were yammering about the football game. These people strode along, talking loudly, preoccupied, heedless.
The traffic was near gridlock, cars and trucks jamming the avenues, honking and impatient. Everyone in the world with a few days and a few dollars to spend had converged on the city. Conrad heard people talking in French, Swedish, Japanese, Polish. He hated being jostled, hated it when tourists stopped in front of him on the sidewalk or slowed suddenly or bumped into him.
Chill, he told himself. It’s Christmas. It’s their sidewalk, too.
On Madison he saw a family of tourists, apparently overwhelmed by the city. They were fair and solid—maybe from Scandinavia, or Iowa. The parents wore muted colors, dull parkas and loose jeans, clunky running shoes. The father held up a map, frowning. Two daughters stood near him, one five or six, holding her mother’s hand, the other nine or ten, already chunky. She wore tight jeans and a red parka, and she carried a pink plastic purse looped over the shoulder. Her hair was shoulder length, with heavy bangs. She was gazing into the crowd, frowning faintly. Someone walked quickly past them, between her and her mother. The girl moved sideways, staring at a store window. She meant to move back to her mother, but it was Conrad she bumped into, leaning familiarly against his thigh.
“Whoa,” Conrad said, taking her by the shoulders.
She looked up at him, startled.
“Your mom’s right there,” Conrad said, and the whole family’s gaze suddenly converged on him, a stranger holding their daughter. The mother opened her mouth to speak. But Conrad was smiling, and just as everyone realized the possible risk, they recognized that there was no actual risk. In fact, the opposite: their daughter had stepped into the hands of a man who would protect her. Watching their faces shift into relief gave Conrad a lift. The little girl moved awkwardly back to her mom, who folded her under her arm.
“Thanks,” the mom said, smiling primly—they were Midwestern after all.
Conrad nodded.
The husband said, “Can I ask you something? Where is Thirty-fourth Street from here? We’re looking for the Empire State Building.”
Conrad took the map. “Here’s where we are.” He was pleased to do this. “Here’s the Empire State Building.”
“Great, thanks,” the man said, nodding.
Conrad nodded back. “Have a good time.” As he spoke, his cell phone rang. He turned away to look at it. The caller was his CO, Captain Glover. He moved out of the thronging stream, over to the side of a huge office building. He clicked on the phone.
“Afternoon, sir.” Conrad straightened his shoulders. A deliveryman pushed past him, a short Latino man in a white uniform, carrying a take-out bag. Conrad frowned, listening. “What did you say, sir?” He put his hand over the other ear. He listened again and then asked, “When did it happen, sir?”
The crowd moved past him in floods, drifting and pushing, inattentive. A young bike messenger in spandex biking pants and a red helmet wheeled his bike up to a parking meter. Anderson had gone to his uncle’s barn with a deer rifle in the middle of the night. Conrad pictured the barn, damp and cold, full of shadows. The messenger took the chain from his bag and crouched down to padlock the bike to the meter.
“Fucking hell, sir,” Conrad
said. “Anderson.” He paused. “That’s really bad news, sir. I’d been in touch with him. I knew he was having some trouble, but he never let on that things were this bad. It sounded as though things were getting better. I thought he was doing fine.”
“I’m really sorry to have to give you this news, Farrell,” Glover said. “I’m sorry. It’s really bad. Christmas. Christ.”
There was silence. The bike messenger snapped the padlock shut. He took off his helmet.
“All right,” Conrad said. “Thanks. I’ll tell the others, sir.”
When Conrad clicked off, the messenger was taking the front wheel off the frame. It would be a pain in the ass to carry the wheel around, Conrad thought. Anderson opening the door into the cold, dark barn. The silence of the barn at night, the glow from a bare bulb on an overhead beam. Two days before Christmas.
It felt like a kick to the chest.
He kept moving down the sidewalk, through the Christmas crowds, past the steady jingling of the Salvation Army bells. On the corner was a woman in a bonnet, singing with a man, both wearing the Salvation Army uniform. Conrad was seeing the burning Humvee in Haditha, the bright flames engulfing it. The noise was too great to be noise, and the heat was a separate universe. Conrad was shouting and grabbing for Anderson, who was in the thick of the flames. Anderson was trying to wrench open the door with his bare hands, and Carleton was inside, screaming.
* * *
He took the train to Katonah later that afternoon. The car was nearly full, but he found a seat by the window. The trip started in darkness as the train slid swiftly beneath the streets of Manhattan. Later the cars rose up to the surface, rattling past the towers of Harlem, on through the outer regions beyond the city, where the buildings were lower and farther apart, the cars and lights fewer as the train passed from urban density to suburban sprawl and finally to the open countryside.
As the light faded, the train’s big glass windows became opaque and reflective, and it became harder to see into the darkness. It had snowed earlier in the week, and a light covering was still on the ground. As the train rattled through the countryside, Conrad leaned close to the window, nearly resting his forehead on the glass. The snow glowed faintly in the dimness, a pale, lambent carpet, smooth and undulating, that lay below the dark houses and trees and the gray sky.
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