It wasn’t until Eve was several hundred yards out, shouting in sync with her strokes, “Calme toi mon petite. Ça va mon trognon de pomme,” that her brain finally began to decipher the semiotics of the situation that her body had already resolved. It wasn’t until she was choking on seawater that she could consciously see the vibrant apricot float bobbing on the water not as a weathered lobster buoy that had broken free, but as Ecco’s water wings.
Ecco smiled back at Eve, his extended arms still patting the textured surface of the current that was carrying him out to the deep. Ecco still rejoiced in the newness of it all, completely ignorant of the unknown. He even took to mimicking his . . . Eve. With a giggle, he kicked his feet back and forth and a flurry of white erupted behind him as he accelerated further away from her.
“Mais arrête! Arrête ça! Ça suffit!” Eve shouted with a furious, almost hysteric tone.
Ecco stopped kicking.
Eve caught up with Ecco over half a mile out. The current and undertow had done most of the work. She had felt nothing but unadulterated intent on the way out. On the way back, with Ecco holding on to her shoulders and giggling in her ear, she felt nothing but exhaustion. Every striation of muscle tissue burned with lactic acid. The inside of her lungs had been scraped raw by CO2 and salt water. Intent might have gotten her out to sea, but anger is what got her back.
The mud was a relief under her toes. Well before it was shallow enough to stand, Eve would let herself sink down a foot below the surface. The cool water would briefly snuff out the heat rising off her head. Her pointed foot would tap against the ocean floor, and she would float down into a demiplié. Her arm extended upward, a perfect écarté with which she held onto Ecco’s hand while he bobbed at the surface. The world above was muted out for a moment, and her muscles stopped screaming. Then she would leap upward, completing her adagio underwater ballet, back up to Ecco, back up to the world, and a few feet closer to land. Incapable of swimming any further, Eve danced her way out of the sea. Finally, waist deep, Eve stood up, put Ecco on her hip, and walked out.
Reidier was still standing where she had passed him on the way in, a statue anchored in the knee-deep water. She stood in front of her husband, adjusted Ecco higher up on her hip, and slapped Reidier across the face.
Otto waited for Eve at the water’s edge. Eve scooped him up onto her other hip and headed back down the beach, a boy in each arm.
Eve and Reidier didn’t speak for the entire thirty-minute drive home. Nor did they speak that evening. That night, in her journal, Eve wrote, “My husband, the destroyer of distance, whom I’ve never been further away from.”*
* * *
* “One, two, three, four,” bills dropped on the library counter. I wanted to tell her to keep the $31.28 of change, but didn’t want to come off like a prick, and a memorable prick at that. Save the douchebag charity for another day.
She counted out my change, gave me a receipt, and asked me to wait while she retrieved the reserved material from my shelf.
It had to be Hilary. Who else? Who else would’ve—could’ve—taken out a shelf in my name? It had to be her.
The librarian returned with “my” material. Slid it across the counter. I didn’t give it a second look. Why would I? If it’s my material, I knew what it was. I smiled at her, picked it up, and asked her to direct me to a private reading room.
There were three items: a CD-RW in a plastic case, with RT, PE written on it with Sharpie; also there was not one, but two different copies of Faust. The first was from the
Collegiate German Reader in Prose and Verse
James Henry Worman
Kessinger Publishing, LLC (July 25, 2007)
and
Faust
A Tragedy
By Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
Translated, In The Original Metres, by Bayard Taylor (1870)
Both books had half a business card stuck in them as bookmarks. The former’s between pages 129 and 130. On page 130, lines 382-385 were circled in pencil with a “?” in the margin next to it. It was Hilary’s handwriting.
Daß ich erkenne, was die Welt
Im Innersten zusammenhält,
Schau’ alle Wirkenskraft und Samen,
Und thu’ nicht mehr in Worten kramen.
German. Get fucked. German?!
Over to the other book where the business card was wedged between pages 18 & 19. Wouldn’t you know it, lines 382-385 (page 18) were circled in pencil.
That I may detect the inmost force
Which binds the world, and guides its course;
Its germs, productive powers explore,
And rummage in empty words no more!
Just another quotation. An epigraph to resonate with some new chapter she had yet to write into the report. It might as well have read, “Be sure to drink your Ovaltine.”
The exhaustion hit me like an airbag. As did the nausea. I had to put my head down, rest it on my hands. Breathe in the darkness. At this point I didn’t give a damn what RT and PE stood for, unless the CD contained an animated treasure map or the new Imagine Dragons album.
My inhales were warm this close to the desk.
The sensation started in my colon and bubbled up with a fierce velocity until it erupted out of me. A belly laugh shook my entire body. All the time, all the effort, all the Maseratis, and I wasn’t solving riddles, I was chasing down nursery rhymes.
I should’ve held on to her. What was the use in setting Lorelei free? Protecting my mother’s “legacy”? All it got me was a couple of overdue library books. Who cares if Lorelei’s with the Department or not? Christ, I’d been doing the Department a favor keeping this report from them. Saving them from the labyrinth in the rabbit hole that wasn’t a maze at all, just a downward spiral with a bunch of shit at the bottom.
With my forehead still resting on the back of my hands (which were still resting on Goethe), I shook my head back and forth. A beleaguered denial that ended with my cheek atop my pillow of fingers. The cubbyhole desk in the private reading room was still in pretty good condition, with only a handful of pencil marks and a couple of ink stains on its walls and tabletop. A shelf ran across the back of the cubby-desk. From my vantage point, I could see underneath it. Someone had carved: What do I do when the puzzle pieces don’t fit? Someone else had carved a response: Use your knife.
I smiled at the zeugmatic call and response.
My gaze dropped down to the desktop. I fidgeted with the first bookmark, brushed my fingertip against the soft fibers of the torn edge. The irony of it was pleasing, how violently ripping something in half can leave behind such a soft centerline. I pinned it down with my index finger and spun it with my thumb. Like I said, fidgeting. Something about the rotation of it caught my eye, though. Some subliminal hieroglyphic effect that I couldn’t quite put my finger on. I stopped spinning it and read:
Steven A.
Director, Obsessive-C
Butl
345 Black
Provid
T:(40
Steven meant nothing to me. As far as I could recall there was no Steven anywhere in the report. Still there was that feeling, that hooked hieroglyphic hanging off my anterior superior temporal gyrus, creaking around the right hemisphere of my brain like one of those plastic hanging monkeys from the old board game.
I lifted my head up and unwedged the other bookmark half from beneath Goethe.
Rasmussen, MD
ompulsive Disorder Program
er Hospital
stone Boulevard
ence, RI 02906
1) 455-6200
The hook of insight sharpened, slicing into my cerebrum, but still not yet pulling back the curtain. I held my breath as I pushed the two halves together.
Steven A. Rasmussen, MD
Director, Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder Program
Butler Hospital
345 Blackstone Boulevard
Providence, RI 02906
T:(401) 455-6200
/> The two places leapt out at me as the hook ripped back the curtain, and I was face-to-face with Oz.
Butler Hospital.
Both Lovecraft’s father and mother went crazy and died in Butler Hospital just a few miles from his home, Lorelei had said. Just a few miles from 454 Angell.
Blackstone Boulevard. Blackstone.
While the right state of mind might prove a dead end, the left proves infinitely versatile. Especially if you have a philosopher’s stone on black stone. It wasn’t a Hilary typo. It wasn’t a black stone, some oracle onyx, philosopher’s Rosetta Stone cypher. It was an address. A goddamn location!!
I wrapped up the two Goethes in my coat and tucked them under my arm before my brain caught up with everything and then leapt ahead. I slid the CD in my back pocket, stopped at the librarian counter, and casually asked for some Scotch tape on my way out the door with two stolen books.
* * *
The next morning, Eve and the boys are gone. Reidier finds only a cup of cold coffee and a note from Eve.
R,
I had another dream last night. We were sitting in my père’s study, in Provence. You and I on the leather sofa, him in his Louis XIV chair with his back to the French doors. It was evening, but part of the garden was lit up by a distant floodlight.
We were enjoying some wine, laughing, telling stories. My father was in the middle of telling an animated tale, when behind him, outside the French door, I saw a figure. A silhouette of a man. Neither you nor mon père noticed as he opened the door. At first I was more curious than frightened, until he leaned into the light, and I saw that the man outside was my father.
The apparition simply stood there for several minutes, staring at himself in the flesh. Finally, he beckoned to my father sitting in the chair, held out his hand and gestured for my father to follow him down to the river. I looked to the two of you, and you both kept on in your conversation, completely unaware.
When I looked back the scene repeated itself. The silhouette outside, the opening of the door, the beckoning to my father, who this time nodded at the apparition and waved him on. Then the man was gone, but the door was still open. I ran to the door and saw the ghost of my father heading down the garden path. I was furious, full of rage at this phantom for trying to lure my father away from me. I ran after him, but by the time I made it down the path, the ghost was already on the other side of the river, glimpsing through the trees. I yelled after him, screaming, cursing . . .
I woke up shouting in our empty bed.
I need to not be here for a bit.
I am taking the boys to New York for a few days. We will be back Sunday.
~Moi
ECCO III
Reality is obscured by the clutter of the world.
~Heidegger?
Ring
. . .
Ring
. . .
Ring
. . .
Ring
. . .
Voice mail—
“Hi. It’s me. I, uh, I hope it’s ok that I’m calling. I know you wanted some space. For you and the boys. How are the boys? Any problems? I know it’s irrational, I’m sure everything is fine. Just worried about them. And you.
“Are you all still coming home today? It’s ok, if not. Just wondering. I’m roasting a chicken, some baked potatoes and salad for dinner. If you guys make it back in time, great. If not, a little delicious leftovers never hurt anyone. So just let me know. Hope New York was, great. Love you all.
“It’s Sunday, just about five fifteen.”
. . .
Ring
. . .
Ring
. . .
Ring
. . .
Ring
. . .
“Hey, me again. Not trying to, I mean it’s not a problem if you don’t want to answer. I hope my calls aren’t, well. Ok, so just checking in again. I painted a mural down in the basement. Well, copied one. Clyde helped me. It’s Picasso’s bullfighter. Really livens up the lower level.
(Long sigh.)
“Assuming today is a no go. Either that, or you hit some really horrible traffic in Connecticut. When it’s not the traffic, it’s the construction in that state. You can’t win, really. Well, in case you’re headed home right now, there are plenty of leftovers in the fridge. If you’re still taking more time, then I guess whatever you need.
“Hope the boys are behaving. My love to you and them.”
. . .
Ring
. . .
Ring
. . .
“Eve, I respect your need for space. And take as much time as you need. Honestly. But if you could, please, text me. Let me know when—that you’re all ok. I’d really appreciate it. I’m worried.
“It’s Monday. 7:42. I love you.”
. . .
Ring
. . .
“Eve, whatever it is you need, however much space, the way you’re going about it, is completely uncool. And irresponsible. Go wherever you want, for however long you want. Don’t talk to me. Whatever, that’s fine. But fucking check in. Whatever you might think, I at least deserve an update on the boys’ well-being! I mean, how hard is it to send a goddamn text or e-mail? Seriously. Enough. Whatever punishment you think you’re doling out, it’s . . . you’re not keeping the high ground. I went to see Spencer. Don’t make me get the police involved. Or the Department.
“Tuesday. One thirty.”
. . .
“Hi, it’s me. I haven’t, I couldn’t sleep. Can’t do much of anything, really. I painted over the—Ecco’s, I painted the wall. Sun’s coming up. Please call me. I’m uh, I love you so much. At least just text me that everything’s ok with you, Otto . . . Ecco.”
. . .
Ring—
“Hello?”
“Monsieur Reidier?” asked the aristocratic voice.
“Yes.”
“It’s your old friend from the Fontainebleau, do you recognize my voice?”
You need two things for your work: funding and autonomy.
“Yes. I do.”
“Bon. Of course you do. Well, we received your e-mail to our health spa and have some wonderful packages to offer you.”
Reidier sighs. “Great. Where should I—?”
“I’m actually having trouble hearing you. Cell interference perhaps.”
“Oh, I’m in the CCV,* is this any better?”
* * *
* Center for Computation and Visualization, part of Brown’s CS (computer science) department. It provides both virtual and physical hosting of Linux servers. The physical hosting is located in CCV’s machine room and allows for individual maintainence.
* * *
“Alas, no. Perhaps if you went outside?”
It was the same driver as before. The same taxi. And the same intimation that it was in his and his family’s best interest that he take a ride. The same subtle, dull pulse, like a deep bass beat, washing over him when the door closed behind him. It was not the same destination though. No strip club. No crowd. This time it was in one of the old abandoned factories off of Route 10.*
* * *
* “You boys going to do the honor for us?” the voice asks, practically an accusation of excitement.
Hilary’s CD-RW apparently had an .mp3 on it. One of the Department’s myriad of NB audio recordings. The Lexus’s Bose surround-sound system put me right in the center of the conversation while I sped my way through the residential streets of Providence’s East Side, like a bat out of hell, a homing pigeon on meth and Angel Dust streaking its way to roost at Butler Hospital.
The aggressively boisterous voice continues, “How’s that, Eve, not only does your family get to watch your husband make a miracle, your boys get to be a part of it and start it all off?”
“It’s quite compelling, Pierce,” a woman’s voice responds.
Eve’s voice. For months I had lived with this demigoddess, and this was the first time I had heard her
voice.
“I had to pull quite a few strings to get all of you in here.” Pierce waits for a response of gratitude. There isn’t one. He continues unfazed, “A momentous day indeed! Not just the final frontier, beyond the frontier. No. It’s the destruction of frontiers altogether. The finale of frontiers.”
The words clicked into place like the numbers on a flip clock. I knew this exchange. It was from Hilary’s first chapter. It was the final exchange between Pierce and the Reidiers right before The Reidier Test went off. This was the audio file. Why would Hilary go to such lengths to stow away an audio recording of such a long-ago documented segment? It’s a chapter I’m almost sure she had already shown the Department.
“Nothing is ever created or destroyed,” another male voice cuts in.
That would be Reidier.
Pierce starts to say something, but Reidier cuts in and announces, “We’re ready.”
“It will work?” Pierce isn’t so much asking as ordering.
“Is your floating battery out there going to give me the BEEP watts of power I need?”
The beep was clearly Department censorship. This wasn’t even a raw recording. It was Department edited and approved.
“Absolutely.” Pierce responds with a laugh and what sounds like a slap on Reidier’s back.
“Then my physics will work.”
Beat.
“You’ve definitely earned yourself a vacation,” Pierce says with overdone good spirits. “Let’s change the world. Wait till I’m back in the observation deck.”
Sounds of Pierce walking out of the room, opening the security door, and it closing behind him.
Sounds of some shuffling around. If I remember correctly, Reidier was putting on his tweed sport coat, upon which QuAI, disguised as a pin, perched with a watchful eye on his lapel.
Here & There Page 48
