by Lia Matera
“Well, if you’d control your—”
Galen’s advice was greeted by a look so patently furious he turned away.
The paunchy man sighed. “We’ve got a sink and some tissue. Come on back with me.”
“Okay.” My voice sounded nasal. The man led me to a corner behind a screen. I saw a rather unprivate toilet, seat up, a sink, and a table with a coffee urn.
“My name’s Louis. Hi. Sorry about your nose.”
I ran water, washing blood off my face, my shirtsleeve, my hand. “I’m . . . ” I hadn’t thought this through. I didn’t want to give my real name. “I’m sorry—did you say Larry?”
“Louis.” He handed me a stack of paper towels. “I wish I could tell you things aren’t usually this crazy around here. Well, maybe this is a little out in left field, even for this place.”
“I wouldn’t have walked in like that if I’d known—I assumed you had a front desk.”
“We don’t get many walk-ins. You’re looking for work, you said?”
“Mm.” I blotted my nose with the towels.
“We’re not that kind of company,” he apologized. “We’re more like, oh, I guess you could call us a design team, a think tank, something like that. We don’t interview people. Ever. Occasionally, some fool of long acquaintance is compelled by the forces of destiny—and Galen—to join us.”
“Oh.” I tried to sound like a disappointed job-seeker. I sounded like a dumb kid with a head cold.
I could hear Toni lecturing Galen: “If you want to know what the truth is, I’ll give you a goddam dictionary, because your idea of the truth is—”
“Toni.” Galen’s voice carried a backlog of frustration and defeatism. “Must we do this now? Must we do this over and over and over?”
“Yes! Because I’m that angry, Galen. You want me to put it away. Well, I put it away every single day, don’t I? Every day I live with you.”
“No, you don’t.”
“And there it is the next morning bigger than ever, bigger than both of us, bigger than this mountain.”
“Then what the hell, go ahead and feed it the relationship, feed it your sanity,” Galen replied. “But we can’t keep taking time to let the world revolve around you, Toni. We’ve got serious work. Could you try to be a little cognizant of what we’re trying to do here?”
Within seconds, she was running past me and Louis, my blood still splotching her arm. She slammed out the back exit again.
Galen stepped behind the partition. “Are you all right? Is it broken?”
He had streaks of blood across his cheek. Toni had slapped his face with bloody fingers.
“I don’t think so,” I replied. “I’ve gotten these before.”
“When strangers punched you in the nose?” He had the pale skin, aquiline nose, and pronounced cheekbones of a medieval portrait. He looked like some brooding, disinherited younger son. “That was my wife.”
“Oh.” I wanted to add, I’m sorry.
“Why don’t you come and sit down. Aren’t you supposed to tilt your head back or something? Do you want coffee or—”
“Yes! Please.” I was used to a lot more coffee in the morning.
I followed him back around the partition. He pointed to the young, golden-haired man, now tapping at a keyboard. “That’s Jon.”
Without looking up, the man corrected him. “Jonathan.”
Louis rolled a chair over. I sat in it. The blow to the nose had dulled my wits. I needed to offer a name, but I hadn’t thought of one I liked. “I’m . . . Alice.”
“In Wonderland?” Jonathan laughed, Beavis-like, at his own joke.
But he was right about the name’s genesis. It didn’t say much for my imagination. I was determined to do better for a last name. “Alice Jung.”
“Well, young Alice,” Galen said, inverting the name he thought he’d heard, “you certainly walked into round one—or, more accurately, round one hundred.”
“Galen.” Louis settled into a chair. “Dirty laundry and all that?”
“My dirty laundry, as you call her, just socked Alice in the nose, Louis.”
Louis merely shook his head.
“Tell us again what we can do for you, Alice.”
No one seemed very anxious to get me the coffee they’d offered. And I hated to say I was looking for work now that I knew they never hired. Nor could I think of any clever pretext.
I pretended to be troubled by my nosebleed.
Louis sat forward, obviously expecting me to say something. Galen looked merely ironic.
“I guess, really, I was hoping to talk to you. I was, um, looking for a job. But I’m also freelancing, hoping to get an article into Mondo”—Mondo 2000, the hip cybernetics magazine—“about your project and some others like it.”
Galen frowned. “There are no others like it, Alice.”
His repeated use of the name struck me as patronizing. Maybe his wife had her reasons.
“Digital Group,” I said. There were myriad businesses with those words in their name. Surely one of them was doing something arguably of the same type.
Galen’s frown lifted. “That’s airy-fairy bullshit. A bunch of FX crap for Hollywood.”
I raised my brows as if I knew better.
“Don’t write about us yet.” Louis rocked in his wheeled steno chair. “When we’re sure we have a product, we’ll call you.”
“By then, there’ll be more interesting trends.”
“No there won’t.” Louis seemed certain.
“My angle is that computers are becoming like drugs, and drugs are becoming like computers.” I quoted Arthur, hoping it made me sound informed.
Jonathan looked up from his keyboard.
“Wouldn’t you say so?” I pressed on. “That we don’t want to take the risks associated with ayahuasca or LSD, so we’ve turned to computers?”
“Maybe that’s what the glossy magazines would say.” Galen crossed his arms. I noticed he was completely dressed in black: shoes, jeans, shirt, belt. “But as Louis pointed out, we don’t discuss products in development.”
I sensed a big hook coming to pull me off stage. “Billy Seawuit believed that risk is the most important precondition for that kind of experience, didn’t he?”
Galen’s posture sagged. He turned away.
Jonathan stopped what he was doing and stared at me.
Only Louis seemed unaffected. “The precondition for what kind of experience?”
Arthur had told me the name of the program. Was it Cyber-Guru? No: “TechnoShaman.”
That got a reaction out of Louis. “How did you find out about that? Did Billy tell you?”
“Kind of.” I felt sleazy, to say the least. “I came up here to interview him. I was told I could find him through you guys.”
Louis’s eyes narrowed. “Why didn’t you ask for him when you came in?”
Because I’m not that quick-witted, alas. “Actually, if you’d had any kind of job available, I’d have jumped at it.”
“Frankly, Ms. Young,” Galen turned, standing very straight now, “I don’t believe you came here to talk to Billy. Who sent you?”
I could see I’d walked into some sort of mine field. “No one. I’m freelancing. And I was told about this, um, being a power spot, that’s all. I thought I could pay for the trip here with an article.”
Louis shook his head. “If you’d like to be contacted by our attorneys, fine. Lie to us some more.”
“This is really bullshit.” Galen nodded without pause, nodding and nodding. “Damn you people! Who sent you?”
You people? Who could he mean?
“I’m not with anybody. If I can’t get work in the field, I thought I’d freelance. Billy Seawuit was supposed to be here teaching about power spots, so I came. I know this area got cast up out of the ocean millennia ago, and that . . . ” I ran out of steam. It’s exhausting—and creepy—to lie so elaborately.
Louis said to Galen, “That does sound like Seawuit.”
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“Can we see some ID, please?” Galen remained unconvinced I wasn’t one of “you people.”
“I’m sorry I bothered you. Obviously I’ve done something gauche here, which I didn’t mean to do. Could you just let me know where to find Billy Seawuit?” I was desperately uncomfortable, more than ready to leave. Earlier, I’d referred to Seawuit in the past tense; had they noticed?
They all watched me. In silence.
I’d come for information. I had to try. “He’s supposed to be staying with someone here?”
“Is this a sincere question?” Louis asked.
Had they seen me reading the morning paper out in front of the drugstore earlier?
I felt thoroughly ashamed of myself, embarrassed by my insensitive gambits. The need to confide my perfidy almost overwhelmed me.
But I said, “Yes.”
Galen sat down with a sigh. “He was killed sometime Saturday. He was found on Sunday.”
“What happened to him?” They’d expect me to ask. “How did he die?”
“He was stabbed.”
“Stabbed?” This time my surprise was genuine. We’d heard he’d been shot. I assumed I’d thrown away the murder weapon. I’d fretted incessantly over whether I’d wiped away every trace of fingerprints. “Stabbed? With a knife?”
Galen nodded. “Presumably. They didn’t actually find the weapon. But he was . . . ” He stared into the middle distance.
“He was slashed,” Louis said quietly. “Practically disemboweled.”
I guess the last two days got the better of me. I started crying. I hadn’t even met Billy Seawuit, but his manner of death suddenly became the last straw.
I got up and walked out.
I hadn’t made it half a block down the street before Toni Nelson ran up behind me, taking my arm and stopping me in my tracks.
I was overloaded, didn’t want to deal with her now. I wanted to go back to Edward’s cabin, take a hot shower, and pretend I’d had a lobotomy.
Toni said, “Your nose looks better. I didn’t mean to hit you.”
I was still carrying the bloody paper towels. I stared down at them. I’d forgotten about my nose.
She linked her arm—now in a fisherman sweater—through mine. She started us walking again. “Where are you going? I’ll come with you partway.”
“I was going to take a hike.”
“I’ll show you a good one.”
She must have been five-ten to my five-two. And determination added to her stature. For the moment, I walked along with her.
Our growing silence was less than companionable, at least on my part.
I asked, “Are you a computer designer?”
“I’m an artist.” Toni Nelson’s voice was unthinkingly, almost regally blunt. “I met Galen when he needed some art to digitize for one of his programs. He’s good with the mechanics and the conceptualization, but he’s not artistic. He’d seen my work at Menzies.” She pointed toward a tiny gallery down the street.
Her face, blue-eyed and bow-lipped, was as sweet as a doll’s—when she wasn’t pitching a fit or smacking strangers in the nose.
We traversed the main street at quite a clip. She steered us up a road with a sign giving the miles to Big Basin. We were heading in the exact opposite direction from Edward’s. If we walked far, I’d be a mass of aches and tight tendons tomorrow. I was about to demur when she spoke again.
“I’ve made a garden trail on our property. A work of landscape art. Only no one ever walks it but me. Galen moved up here because he’s antisocial, basically, not because of the scenery. When I met him, he lived in a studio with almost no windows.” She looked down at me. “He was rich. I lived in a garage, but not because I didn’t want a house. Our business—mine and my ex-husband’s—went bust.” She shook her head wonderingly. “Can you imagine living up here, and not noticing?” She waved her arm at the scenery. “Look at all the greens—every shade you could mix. And the smells. Can you imagine becoming an expert in nasal ganglia, in the way we smell, without snorting this up like cocaine?”
I caught the scent of warming fields, of tall grass and wild-flowers and manure.
She watched me, apparently satisfied that I was making more of an effort than Galen.
We veered into the woods, taking progressively narrower paths. She seemed lost in thought, paying little attention to the scenery she’d just accused her husband of ignoring.
I began to worry: Would I be able to find my way back to Edward’s before dark? I didn’t want to test Arthur’s theory about enlightenment through terror.
As we rounded a bend, I saw a house. Its appearance was so sudden it might have sparkled into being a moment before. The path was in solid wooded shade, but the house was in a tiny clearing, at this moment dazzled with afternoon sun. It was two-story, of chicly stained wood, with a wraparound deck and a profusion of hollyhocks, gladioli, and other tall flowers. It was as splendid as a Town & Country layout.
I stopped, unaccountably afraid of the place. Maybe it came of being marched here by someone who’d recently socked me in the nose. I felt like Gretel, getting her first glimpse of the witch’s house.
“Everything bloomed when Billy Seawuit came. Everything. The bulbs weren’t ready. They shouldn’t have bloomed yet, but they did.”
“An early spring?” I didn’t know anything about flowers; but I didn’t want to believe they bloomed magically for certain people.
She walked swiftly, leaving me to trail behind. She was quite a sight: big-boned, big-hipped, big-chested, striding along in perfect fitness, not overweight but decidedly large in her jeans and bulky sweater. Her hair streamed behind her, partly caught with a ribbon, partly trailing like that of Venus on a half shell.
I followed, feeling like her small, drab echo. Perhaps that was why Galen Nelson seemed so reserved and self-contained. Maybe he’d faded by comparison to his wife.
When she reached the sunny clearing, she beckoned impatiently. “Come on, we don’t have much more daylight.”
When I caught up to her, she walked me alongside the house, past more hollyhocks and gladioli. Behind the house was a tiny bungalow. Beyond it, flowering shrubs framed a winding path. It looked like a Middle Earth poster.
Toni Nelson stopped, touching the bungalow wall. “This is where Billy stayed.”
I hurried closer, looking in through a window.
“You won’t see anything,” she told me. “Nothing that belonged to him.”
“Did the police take his stuff away?”
“No.” She stepped up beside me. “Galen took it, he took it all.” Her eyes burned with anger, her cheeks flushed. “He denies it. He says Billy didn’t bring anything. What a lie!” She leaned her forehead against the glass. “I saw those things, I handled them. I just wanted to touch them again.”
“Is that what you were . . . talking to him about? Just now?”
“No.” She didn’t elaborate.
Through the window, I could make out a small room, its dry-wall unpainted and its plywood floor partly hidden beneath throw rugs. It was sparsely furnished, with only a duffel bag to show anyone had occupied it.
“Is that Billy’s duffel?” I wondered.
“Just his clothes and some books. But where’s the rest of it; that’s what I want to know. Where are the rattles and drums and carving tools? Where are the cedar blocks? The notebooks?”
I scanned the room again. “In a cupboard?” But I didn’t see any. “A closet?”
“No. I’ve looked everywhere! I’ve torn Galen’s room apart. They’re gone.”
“Could I . . . ” I hated to be pushy, but this might be my only chance. “Could we look around?”
“I told you! There’s just his clothes and some books. The police went through them, then Galen packed them up.” Again, her voice deepened. “But Galen hid the good stuff.”
“Before the police saw it?”
“Yes. Everything the police found here is in that bag. But there was more. Billy
had more. Galen swears he didn’t. He swears I didn’t see the things I know I saw. He’s such a liar. He lies constantly.”
“You actually handled the other things? The drums and notebooks and all that?”
“Why?” She tilted her head mistrustfully. “Why do you ask about them?”
“Only because you brought it up.” I stifled an urge to protect my nose. “Are you sure the police didn’t take them? For their investigation?”
“I told you: Billy’s things weren’t here then. Galen already hid them. If they’re found, he’ll say he didn’t know about them, that he never noticed them here. But it’s a lie.” She turned to me. “He denies things all the time, out of habit.”
“Habit?”
“Like a politician. He’s so careful, so stingy with what he knows.” Her shoulders rose. “Because everyone wants Techno Shaman.”
“I guess he has to be discreet,” I agreed.
“No! No, really. What’s the point?” She chewed her lower lip, pale brows furrowing. “Why should he tiptoe around doing things at night when he thinks I’m sleeping? Why should he keep the office in town when everyone could come here and be more comfortable? If he doesn’t trust me, he should just say so.” She stood taller, suddenly haughty: “He thinks he’s hiding something from me!”
Didn’t she have anyone to talk to up here? Why unload on a stranger?
I wished I could think of a way to take advantage of it. “I guess it’s hard to keep computer technology secret.”
She smiled as if I just didn’t get it.
I waited a polite moment before changing the subject. “Would it be all right if I went inside?” I tried to think of some pretext. I was researching guest houses? I appreciated a good drywall? “Um, to use the facilities?”
To my relief, she strode to the unit’s front door and flung it open.
I followed her in.
The room was hardly large enough for a sofa and a rocking chair. A clock radio sat atop a lone end table. A waist-high refrigerator and a toaster oven took up most of the counter space beside a sink. An open door showed a closet-sized bathroom, bare of toiletries.
I went in and washed away the last traces of my nosebleed.
When I came out, I crossed to the duffel bag. It was unzipped. I could see clothing and the spine of a trail guide.
