by Laird Barron
Of late the going has been slow. Some days he sees clearly and writes up a storm; other days his vision is clouded, cataracted, and he produces little of worth. The epigene will not give up its secrets lightly, and the closer he gets, the more it seems to resist his efforts. Now and then he feels as if he’s in a dogfight, much as he feels when he goes downstairs. But it will yield to him: in time it will yield completely. Of this he has no doubt.
The perigene, he hopes, will also yield, though the when and the how are less certain. The task confronting him is so much greater and will therefore require commensurately greater, deeper, and more profound levels of imagination and thought. For as the epigene is to the gene, so the perigene is to the epigene: more complex by far, cryptic, Delphic, cosmic, grand, and elusive. It will be the final section of the book and its crowning achievement, the centerpiece of the Unifying Theory of Life.
He can’t wait to get started on it and at the same time is almost afraid to begin, a paradox common to all great endeavors and forays into the unknown, and the perigene most certainly is this. Its existence, far from being the subject of a healthy debate, is on nobody’s radar, nobody’s tongue. It’s a mystery of the most mysterious sort—one that is never mentioned, never acknowledged, never discussed. One might say it’s his own conceit and creation.
To which he would respond: not a creation but a prediction, along the lines of gravity, relativity, and the Higgs boson. The perigene is a fact of life and law of nature, merely waiting for the proper experiment to be observed firsthand.
But that’s in the future. His present task is to do justice to the epigene, which is taking all his considerable mental muscle and then some. In periods, like now, when the going is slow, frustratingly so at times, calculated, or so it feels, to bleed a man of his confidence, he gives thanks for the two pillars of his life, without whom he would almost certainly crumble:
First and foremost, his wife Carol, an impeccable woman of energy, stability, self-discipline, and mental prowess. She heard him lecture once when she was in graduate school, was duly impressed, ran into him years later as a post-doc, and from there things evolved. Like him, she values the life of the mind, but she’s not apt to go overboard and lose her mind—to impulse, say, or whim, or folly. She’s as balanced as a judge, as organized and orderly as a statistician. She’s driven, but not to distraction, has a clear vision of her future and feet that are planted firmly on the ground.
Second and also foremost, the creature downstairs, who is nameless. He gives himself no name, and Dr. Jim is not about to give him one either. Providing him a name would be like bestowing on him a quality he lacks, legitimizing and at the same time compromising him, robbing him in a sense, like offering a man a suit of clothes in exchange for the man himself.
From Dr. Jim’s Diary:
Wednesday, October 14th. Wake up, roll out of bed, throw on some clothes, go downstairs. He’s waiting for me, as usual.
We fight.
I win.
Hunker down with Chapter Seventeen (Epigenetic Control of Transcription). Progress slow, then sudden. Inch inch inch along, then leap ahead.
Very much like evolution.
Which had a middling good day.
Thursday, October 15th. Wake up, stagger out of bed, take a leak, stop in the kitchen for a mini-bowl of Mini-Wheats, then down to the frigid basement. There’s a twisted hairline crack developing in the concrete floor. Resembles a helix, smashed and flattened like a bug on a windshield. The bars of the cage are icy cold.
He looks sleepy. I’m unimpressed. He has a million looks.
We fight.
I win.
Get stuck on the idea of the histone as a spool of thread. Perseverate. Get nowhere. Rescued by Carol, who takes me to lunch.
Tuesday, October 20th. Get downstairs later than usual on account of last night, when Carol came to bed after I was half-asleep and made it known by lying absolutely and unnaturally still and quiet that she was not about to fall asleep anytime soon but was determined not to make me pay the price for that, bless her heart, although if I, of my own free will, chose to wake up in order to find out what was bothering her, not that I need to know everything, or that she even wants me to, but it’s a relief to talk and have someone listen, or even pretend to listen as long as it’s convincing (and why that is I don’t think anybody knows for sure . . . question: does talking upregulate genes, leading to more talking, and is this Lamarckian, i.e., inheritable? Will future generations of upregulated talkers increase their affinity for oxygen so they don’t turn blue in the face, or talk themselves to death? Will listeners similarly upregulate their listening genes? Crazy people often talk—and listen—to no one, and no one wants to be like that, but I digress), then that would be a mark in my favor. It’s the little sacrifices that keep the marriage ship on course.
So we talked, and after that we made love. Carol was a hellcat, which talk can do to a woman. She tore off my clothes, then pushed me down, sat on my chest, and raked my sides with her nails. While she was doing that, she bent over and poured her tongue into my mouth, soft and sweet as honey, then hardened it and rammed it at my throat, like I was ramming her. She bit my neck, then moved south and had a go at my nipples. I wasn’t complaining through any of this, except when she got carried away and took the poor little nubs between her canines. I yelped then and she stopped, no blood drawn.
Woke in the morning with the sun on my face. Still wiped out from the previous night, but do what I have to. He’s standing on the other side of the cage when I stumble down, big and tall and hairy, puffed out in the chest like a bag of Cheetos. He smiles that toothy smile of his, looking smug, and sensing an advantage, takes a step forward. The punk. Trying to get me to make a false move. That, and pull me down to his level. That low-ass level of his. Daring me to dirty my hands.
Thing is, I got no problem with that level. I like that level. He of all people should know.
We fight. Boom boom. It’s over in an instant.
I’m buzzing with energy when I get upstairs, but for some reason it doesn’t translate into progress on the book. This is becoming more and more of a daily occurrence, and I can’t begin to describe how frustrating it is. It’s not like the epigene isn’t known. It’s been studied and characterized in a fair amount of detail, and while it’s true that I’m breaking new ground, it shouldn’t be this hard. The damn thing should be there for me, but I keep hitting a wall, and I know it’s a wall of my own making. Can’t see over it and can’t quite punch through it. As if something besides the epigene is at work, raising and thickening the wall, making it impervious to me. This, I’m convinced, can only be one thing: the perigene, its commander-in-chief.
So elusive. So potent. Taunting, humbling, and, so far, defeating me.
Carol’s in the kitchen when I come downstairs from a wasted morning in my study.
“How’s it going?” she asks.
I grunt my displeasure.
She motions toward the basement. “How about down there?”
I shouldn’t have to tell her that conversation’s off-limits.
There’s an awkward moment, then she hands me a king-size box. “I bought you something yesterday.”
Inside is a brand-new shirt with a matching tie and a crisp new pair of pants. The woman is devious.
“A little pick-me-up,” she says. “That’s all.”
“Dress for success” is one of her mottos. Meaning, do something for yourself, and your self will thank you. She’s very Lamarckian that way.
“You might want to shave, too.”
It’s been a few days. I see where she’s going with this.
“Don’t worry,” I tell her.
“I’ll wait,” she says.
I end up doing the whole works—shave, shower, shampoo, new duds. Half an hour later I return to showcase the updated product.
“How do the pants fit?” she asks.
“Perfectly.”
“You look good.”
“I feel good.”
She nods, as though this were obvious. “I’m going to be gone for a couple of days. There’s a conference I need to attend. It’s a last-minute thing.”
“I’ll miss you.”
“I’ll call.”
She’s standing by the window that overlooks our weedy and neglected yard. Usually she keeps the curtains drawn because she hates how it looks. She hates clutter and chaos of all sorts, whether natural or man-made. You’d think we’d get out there and do something about it, but neither of us has had time.
Today, for whatever reason, the curtains are open. I find myself staring.
“See something?” she asks.
“I don’t know. I had a thought.”
“Which was?”
“The weeds. Look at how they grow—higher and higher, as though reaching for something.”
“The sun.”
“In their case, yes. But something else could reach for something else.”
“Such as what?”
“I’m not sure.”
“You going to cut them down?”
“The weeds? I might.”
“Do you know how happy that would make me?”
“Put something else in their place.”
“Anything would be better.”
“Not just anything.”
She gives me a look. Her eyes like diamonds. Her short blond hair (which is how she wears it, having no use for the long and messy curls nature gave her) rimming her perfect face like a nimbus.
“You had a glimpse of something,” she says. “What?”
I shrug.
“C’mon. You did. What was it?”
“It’s gone.”
She comes up and punches me on the arm. “It’s not gone, bozo.”
She tightens the knot on my tie, straightens my collar and smoothes my shirt. Making me neat and tidy, folding me—like the stuff she brought in the box—into the right shape, bringing order to chaos, bringing me, that is, into her own special universe, accepting no less. In response, I throw back my shoulders and straighten my neck, as if rising to her expectations, and in a flash it comes to me, like a bolt from above: the epigene is a marriage. It’s the union of two separate and complementary entities, two lovers—gene and protein—in an ever-changing dance. And if all goes as it should, an ever-changing harmony. It’s a piece of work that’s never finished, like a building under continual construction and remodeling. One small alteration—to the histone, say, the protein scaffold—and the entire complex changes. If one were to build the epigene, represent it visually, in space, it would be a structure of constant self-adjustment and shifting shape, with a default of perfect balance. It would be mobile and highly internally interactive. A thing of perfect logic and supreme beauty.
A ballroom of coupling and uncoupling molecules.
A church, wedding form and function. A reflection, however pale, and a conduit, however hidden at this point, to the Highest Power, The Unifying Principle of Life.
This is the epigene, and I can demonstrate it.
And the perigene? The Highest Power itself?
That comes next.
All this occurs to me in the blink of an eye. Carol, my delivering angel, smiles a knowing smile, takes me by the shoulders, turns me around and gives me a gentle shove in the back.
“Go get ’em, champ.”
It’s a huge relief to use his body instead of his head. He spends a good week clearing out the yard. Gets rid of junk, pulls weeds, digs up roots, cuts down shrubs and the one small, disease-ridden tree. When he’s done, there’s a clearing about half the size of the house’s footprint.
For the next stage, he’s jotted down some notes and drawn up a preliminary design. The idea is that the structure will be a bridge to the book. When completed, it will loosen his tongue, unblocking whatever it is that has him at such a standstill, and the rest of the epigene section will write itself. That’s the plan, and why the hell not? Man had hands long before books, and he used them quite nicely to express himself. Caves were painted long before the Dead Sea Scrolls were inscribed. Pots were thrown. Figurines were sculpted. Cairns and henges were built to communicate complex ideas, only much later transcribed with ink and pen. All of which merely goes to show what every monkey knows: the spatial brain underlies the speaking brain, just as the roots and trunk of a tree prefigure its crown. Dreams and wordless visions traffic between the two, and Dr. Jim intends to take advantage of this by writing his dream and his vision in space.
He’s no Michelangelo. But what he lacks in expertise, he makes up for in panache. He uses bought, found, and scavenged materials—from copper pipes to plastic tubes, from lengths of wood to auto parts (axels, shafts, and rods), from moving gears to strips of sheet metal, from circuit boards to computer screens—basically anything he can lay his hands on. These he attaches and assembles in whatever way seems most suitable and appropriate: by bolt, nail, glue, duct tape (naturally), wire, rivet, weld. A fat extension cord snakes from the house to power the electronics as well as the small motors that move the various ball joints, winches, chains and gears. The years he spent in his uncle’s machine shop, daydreaming and slaving away, are finally rewarded. In a month, his creation stands five feet tall and ten feet wide. It moves with a ceaseless, jerky, rickety-rackety energy, somehow managing not to tip over. It resembles a spastic, multi-limbed robot that can’t make up its mind what to do with itself. That, or a primitive, possibly alien, probe. It also resembles what it is: a junkyard raised by its bootstraps. To Dr. Jim, however, who knows that the epigene is comprised of molecules at least as odd-looking and diverse, it’s just the beginning of his life-sized model of reality.
He works nonstop, from dawn to dusk, breaking only when Carol happens to come out. He loves her visits, which never fail to take him by surprise, so absorbed is he in his project. He loves her fearless eye and supple intelligence. He loves how she keeps her distance, allowing him his freedom, and at the same time finds ways to encourage him. He loves her face and her body, and how, on occasion, usually at his instigation, that face and that body attach themselves to him.
She, in turn, loves to see him being productive again. She loves to watch him from the kitchen window, half-hidden, before she leaves for work. His boundless energy. His brain. His hair, which is lengthening, and the way he tosses his head to get it out of his face. His shirt (she makes sure he wears a clean one every day) stained with sweat. His facility with tools. His creative bursts. It’s as though, through this new, sideways endeavor, this temporary substitution of one form of expression for another, he’s been unchained.
Like Hercules, she thinks proudly.
Like Samson.
Like that animal . . . what’s its name? The one with three heads. The dog, straining at its leash. Cerberus.
But no. That would not be her Dr. Jim. Dr. Jim has freed himself of his leash.
Cerberus would be someone else.
Carol’s Diary:
Carol’s diary is blank.
Carol, née Schneeman, now James, took her degree in anthropology, with a minor in biology, and parlayed these into a doctorate in one of late-century academia’s favorite inventions, the hybrid career. Hers is called ethnobiology, and her particular area of interest is inheritance, specifically the interplay between individual inheritance and group inheritance, between genetic and non-genetic modes of transmission of human information and behavior. The dance, as she likes to say, between molecules and memes. She teaches and does research at the local university, and unlike her formidable husband has no trouble fitting in and getting along.
On the contrary, the job is nearly a perfect match. She likes being part of an institution, likes the stability, the structure, the hierarchy, the clear expectations and tiered chain of command. Having rules frees her from havi
ng to waste time ruling herself, and knowing her role frees her to inhabit that role fully. She’s a star on the rise and has been steadily climbing the academic ladder. Her sights are set on tenure, and a decision on whether or not she receives it will be made before the year is out.
The chances are good, but there’s no guarantee. The field is small and highly competitive, and budgets everywhere are tight. What she needs is another publication. And not just any publication, but something exceptional, to put her name squarely on the map.
She has no dearth of ideas and has made a list of the seven that excite her most. She has put in countless hours of preliminary research, drawn up detailed outlines, including a meticulous inventory of the pros and cons of each. She is nothing if not conscientious, which for her is merely another word for doing the job.
She has set herself a deadline of December 1st, so she’ll have the winter break to get a jump start. By the end of November she has whittled the list to three topics. She saves then emails the list to herself, intending to have a final look at it that night. If necessary, she’ll sleep on it and come to a decision in the morning.
Arriving home, she finds her husband hard at work, and she takes a moment to watch him unobserved. The piece is growing, in both size and strangeness. No surprise there. Nor is she surprised by her reaction to it: amazement and indigestion. The thing has not yet reached above the fence, and they have an agreement that he will stop before it does. The question is, will he honor the agreement? And how far is she willing to go to enforce it if he doesn’t? A clash seems inevitable, which she’d prefer to avoid, not for fear of conflict so much as for the chaos of emotion that is sure to follow in its wake. As a preemptive measure, a sort of prophylactic antidote, she goes inside and straightens up the house. Afterward, she feels better, and better still after swigging down a healthy helping of antacid, its viscousy chalkiness dulling the burn like a protective coat of paint.
