I punched in the pass code, wondering what game the judge was playing. But I was too stressed to bring it up just then. Carthage’s odd behavior had rattled me, an unexpected warmth that aroused all my suspicions. In the corridor Dixon wanted to stop us for some questions but I pushed past, explaining that we were running late. I pressed the elevator call button, feeling the heat of his eyes on me while we waited.
When we reached the security desk, Gerber was slumped there like a sad clown. “I forgot my badge,” he said to me. “Please tell this brave protector of our safety that I do work here.”
“He works here,” I said, writing my name and Jeremiah’s into the register.
“Hey, Judge Rice, quick question,” Gerber said. “I know we’re cool on not monitoring you anymore, and giving you privacy. But I was wondering if you would mind I attached just one diode, just one little electronic thing, when you’re asleep at night?” He held his thumb and forefinger an inch apart. “You’d barely notice. And we’d learn a ton. It would be a contribution to science.”
“Is that right?” Jeremiah asked. “Then the answer is yes.”
“Could we talk about this later?” I said. “We’re late.”
“One moment,” the guard said. “If this gentleman does work here, I’ll need you to sign a voucher.”
“Please go ahead.” I waved Jeremiah on. “I’d rather our friends in the red shirts don’t see you again. The car should be waiting in back.” He ambled off across the atrium while I bent over the page. “I’ll sign, but is this really necessary?”
“We’re just following Dr. Carthage’s rules.”
Gerber chuckled. “Apparently I am just the sort of person that I need to be protected from.”
When Jeremiah was out of earshot, I turned to Gerber. “What’s this night monitoring all about?”
He shrugged. “Nothing. Maybe nothing.”
“Maybe?”
“I’ll tell you later. Go. Thank you for letting me work today.”
I hustled across the atrium. “Send me an e-mail about what you’re doing.”
Gerber wiggled his fingers in my direction. “Go go go.”
Jeremiah stood by the car but had not moved to climb in yet. Instead he was talking to a slender woman in a white beret. She stood between him and the open door, and instantly I felt my hackles rise.
“Excuse me,” I called, breaking into a run. “Excuse me, is there something I can do for you?”
The woman turned to me with complete calm. Still, my usual self-possession was eluding me. “No thank you.” Then she faced Jeremiah again. She was holding his hand, their eyes locked on each other.
He stood like a statue. “Do I know you?”
“No,” she said, “but we are a part of one another.”
“How can that be?”
She shook her head. “It doesn’t matter. Everyone wants something from you, but I thought it was important for you to know that I don’t. Want anything, I mean.”
“Who are you?” I said. Closer, I saw that she was beautiful: high forehead, brilliant blue eyes. “What do you want?”
“I’m Hilary,” she answered, keeping her eyes on Jeremiah. Then she stepped back, releasing her hold. “And all I wanted was this. Just this.”
The tenderness of her voice kept us all still for a moment. Then I broke the mood. “I’m sorry, but we have an interview to get to.”
“Of course.” She backed away. “Sorry if I delayed you.”
“Thank you, Hilary,” Jeremiah said, almost whispering.
“You’re welcome,” she said, stopping at the curb. We climbed into the car, quieted, I told the driver the address. The woman was still standing there, melancholy, dignified, as we pulled into traffic and away.
I settled back in the seat. “Who was that woman?” I asked Jeremiah. “Have we seen her before?”
“Hilary someone.”
“What was that all about?”
“I don’t know.” Jeremiah directed his gaze out the window. “I’m not sure.”
The drive gave me time to wonder why I had reacted so protectively. Clearly this Hilary woman wasn’t one of the protesters, so she didn’t pose that kind of danger. Plus we had interacted with thousands of strangers in recent weeks, without my defenses being so triggered.
Was it jealousy? There was a definite intimacy to the moment I’d interrupted. So what? Who am I to barge in like that? Of course I’d felt urges toward Jeremiah. How could anyone spend that much time in the presence of an intelligent man, who oh-by-the-way happens to be jaw-dropping gorgeous, without experiencing occasional stirrings? But I had no delusions. I knew he belonged to me in no way whatsoever.
Still, I wondered once again about sexual changes across the century. After the snarky men of recent years, promise-today-disappear-tomorrow guys, it might be nice with someone less sexually sophisticated. Jeremiah’s reactions to billboards, the covers of women’s magazines promising 22 WAYS TO MAKE HIM SCREAM TONIGHT, the provocative clothing people wore at Gerber’s disco, all revealed to me his reserve. By contrast, I had a hard drive full of memories of men pawing at me, urging me to enact a fantasy they’d had, trying to talk me into some scenario I suspected came from the most recent porn video they’d seen online. Probably every woman wonders at some point: what portion of the love professed in my ears was base desire, and what part genuinely for me? Maybe, with a man from a simpler sexual time, answering that question would be easier.
Jeremiah stared out the window, watching the city with bright eyes. I felt an odd reversal. If we were ever lovers, an impossibility yes, maybe I would seem like the callous sophisticate to him. In relative terms, I might be worse than the most caddish of the oafs who’d made moves on me.
Or was Hilary a different kind of danger altogether? The connection between them had been visible the moment I stepped outside. But it was not quite sexual. It seemed, possibly, a bit spiritual. Maybe I’d felt threatened needlessly. There was nobody I could ask, no person I could discuss these things with. Not Chloe, not Billings anymore, no one.
“I am remiss,” Jeremiah said, turning abruptly. “I have neglected to ask what the purpose of today’s interview might be.”
I released my reverie like a twig to float downstream. “Funny thing, I was just speaking with Carthage about that.”
“About today’s meeting?”
“No, about your interest in serving a larger purpose.”
“Is today an opportunity to end the lark, and consider the greater good?”
“Well, he certainly thought so. Carthage has people interested in building the project into something bigger. He wants you to help, with raising money, I suppose.”
“That is not what I meant at all.” Jeremiah pounded a fist on his thigh. “That Carthage. He annoys me like a wasp.”
“What?” I shifted in my seat. “I didn’t know you had formed a judgment of him.”
“That man would not bother to breathe if it did not contribute to his self-aggrandizement.” He smoothed his hand over where he had pounded. “I have observed his conduct toward others.” His voice fell. “I have noted his treatment of you.”
“But we all see that. We just tolerate it because it enables the project to exist. If not for Carthage, I would not have a job, much less a . . . well, a you.”
“Kate.” Jeremiah turned sideways in his seat, taking both of my hands. “I cannot imagine why I out of all humanity received the gift of a second life. Nor do I much understand why the people of here and now exhibit such fascination with me. But I do not need to fathom these things to know that they present me with an opportunity to achieve something many, many times greater than what we had hoped to accomplish with our modest expedition to the north. If I were to squander that chance on something as small as Carthage’s desire for money, it would be akin to wasting this second life.”
“Then the time to seize that opportunity is now,” I said. “Right now.”
“Here we are,” the driver said,
pulling over. He hopped out, clambering around to open the curbside door.
Jeremiah looked down at our hands, smiling. “We seem to have arrived.”
“I’d say so.”
“Hoist anchor, Kate. Here we go.” He scrambled up out of the seat. I hurried along after him.
“You’re late,” said a ponytailed woman who’d suddenly appeared by our car. “Follow me.”
She spun on her running shoe and we did as we were told. She was young, barely thirty, carried a clipboard, wore a headset around her neck which she raised to bring the mouthpiece near. “They’re here, we’re going straight to makeup.” She called back over her shoulder, “You do know this is live TV, don’t you? Time matters.”
“Excuse me, miss?” Jeremiah said.
“Yes?” She did not break stride.
“What is your name?”
“Oh.” She slowed. “I’m Alex.”
“Hello, Alex.” He held out his hand. “I’m Jeremiah Rice.”
“Hi, then.” She shook his hand. “Right.” Again Alex strode ahead.
Of course Jeremiah was the featured attraction, I merely the protective caretaker. So I followed mutely while they rushed him to makeup, where they sprayed his hair in place, then to wardrobe, where a man with a tiny whisk broom brushed Jeremiah’s jacket, picking at invisible pieces of lint. Each department had a name for him: “talent” in one, “our guest” in another. Everywhere Alex led us, a TV hung near the ceiling, showing the program Jeremiah would appear on momentarily. It was The Tom and Molly Show, half news, half talk, two hosts: a tall blond woman with a chest that I would have bet cash was doctored, who seemed to have the role of the serious one, the asker of tough questions, beside a shorter man with a perfect tan, jaw square like a backhoe, a yuk-yuk laugh like a cartoon character.
Finally they led us onto the set. In a word: dingy. The floor was filthy cement, sticky from coffee spills, cables running underfoot, with a little raised island of carpet and chairs that sat in the bright lights. I noticed a poster on a side wall, a giant enlargement of Jeremiah shaking hands with the vice president. Over Gerald T. Walker’s head someone had pasted a thought balloon: I AM USING YOU. Over Jeremiah, there was a reply: YOUR ZIPPER’S DOWN.
Jeremiah tapped my arm, pointing to the opposite offstage side. There were action shots of baseball players all along that wall: hurling a pitch, diving for a grounder, swinging for the seats. “I love that,” he whispered.
“I wonder if the station has a box at Fenway.”
“What is Fenway?”
“Shhh,” said Alex, silent in her sneakers, rushing past.
Up in the lights, a woman in an apron was teaching Tom and Molly how to whip cream properly. A staffer approached Jeremiah with a mike, threading the wire up his sleeve. Another man stood at Jeremiah’s elbow, pointing at a camera. “When the red light is on, that one is shooting you. Look right at it for the intro and exit. Otherwise just face Molly and Tom when they speak to you, okay?”
“It’s just like a conversation,” the soundman said.
“Only fake,” the cameraman added.
“Thank you, gentlemen. Would you please tell me your names?” Jeremiah held out his hand.
They told him, shaking hands in turn.
“Time-wasting assholes,” Alex said, breezing up. “We’re about to cut away, then you’re on. Stay here. You.” She pointed at me. “Follow me.”
“Good luck,” I called to Jeremiah.
“I’ll do my part,” he answered.
The booth was a bank of controls and mixers, back behind the cameras. Two men in headsets worked computers while a screen to the side showed what was being broadcast. Just beyond stood a man I imagined to be the director, because he spoke into his mouthpiece to control which cameras shot next. When he said, “Cut to four and zoom,” a different angle appeared on-screen.
“And that,” the current guest was saying, handing out servings as the camera neared her face, “is how you make the perfect strawberry shortcake.”
“Cut to one, closing shot.”
“Thanks so much, Elise,” Molly said, smiling. The show’s theme music came up, stirring strings above a marching band of horns. “We’ll take a quick break now, and be right back with the national weather. Stay tuned.”
“Let’s see if I can clean my plate before the break is up,” said Tom, yuk-yukking until the moment the lights blinked out.
The onstage smiles vanished just as quickly. Tom hurried off, handing his plate to an underling just offstage. Molly trotted to a table where she picked up her cell phone to poke at its screen. The woman in the apron sat alone for a moment, then stood.
“This way, please,” someone called, and she wandered forward in the dark. Then the houselights came up, bright as day. I stood still, blinking. The dirt showed even worse.
All at once a slice of my past returned to me, from interviews in those weeks after we first returned from the Arctic. All the news outlets wanted us. I remembered the smell I found on my clothes, somewhere between excitement and fear. Everything was speculation then, or hope. Meanwhile, back in the chamber, a body lay encased in ice, which became the man now standing fifteen feet away, wearing a yellow tie I was the first to knot around his neck.
Alex led Jeremiah to a seat, then came to stand beside me. “He’ll be fine,” she said, scanning the set as if hunting for something amiss.
A dowdy older man waddled to a side area, wearing tweedy clothes like someone’s bad idea of Sherlock Holmes. He scanned his notes, tucked them in his jacket pocket, folded away his glasses. He took out a curved pipe, biting the mouthpiece, then stared into space.
“Places,” called a voice overhead. The houselights dropped. “Three, two—”
“Lights up,” said the director. “Give me three zooming to Waldo.”
Spotlights flooded the side area, where the man in tweed took an imaginary draw on his pipe and blew out clear air. “Waldo’s Weather welcomes you back with windy, good-morning wishes,” he said, “and today’s question of the day: How do weather forecasters know the future? And why are their predictions often incorrect? Elementary, my dear Watson.”
He continued with his patter, explaining barometric pressure, the prevailing wind direction for different kinds of fronts. Screens behind him displayed a series of simple graphics, puffs of white for clouds, blue arrows to represent wind. His segment lasted about three minutes. Jeremiah sat in the dimmed main stage. I felt his solitude. When Waldo started the forecast, a national map depicting various storms or calms, Tom ambled up while Molly put down her phone. They took their seats, adjusted their clothes. Tom angled his head side to side, stretching his neck muscles. The lights came up.
At first it was a game of softball: What had Lynn been like? Were the people of nineteenth-century Boston friendly? Then Molly began homing in.
“What do you make of our society today? What are our shortcomings?”
Jeremiah answered instantly. “You’re vulgar.”
Tom laughed loudly. “Ya think? Ya think?”
“I hear obscenities everywhere. Also I find a needlessly heightened sexuality in all manner of transactions, from advertising to news to how people dress in public.”
“Wow. Any other criticisms?”
“Your culture today is violent. I have seen bloody entertainments, vicious computer games. It is no surprise that violent crimes are an everyday occurrence.”
“Isn’t solving those problems the responsibility of the political world?” Molly asked. “And if so, what about your great friendship with the vice president?”
“I would hardly describe a single meeting at his request as a friendship. If that were so, I could claim a closer bond with a president.”
“Wait a second,” Tom said, pretending to scratch his pate like a hayseed. “You met the president, too?”
“Not the current one, no, sir. But in 1902, President Roosevelt conducted a Progressive Tour of New England, with a dinner stop in Lynn. As a
judge and civic leader, I spent three hours in his company, far more than with Vice President Walker.” He leaned toward Molly with a pinched grin. “You might say we were great friends.”
She smiled, too, but coldly. Some kind of game was on. “Would you say you have led a charmed life, Judge Rice? I mean, Harvard Law School, the youngest judge in the state at the time of your appointment, grand adventures exploring the northern seas—”
“Do you mean aside from the fact that I died? And lost everything, friends and home and family?”
To me, Jeremiah was beginning to sound like a scold. But I understood his intent, his interest in using this moment in the lights.
“Well,” Molly persisted, “your life has been one great spectacle since reanimation, wouldn’t you say? One crowd after another?”
“People have been incredibly generous and kind, for which I am grateful. Honestly, though, I encountered larger crowds in my past life. The energy people spend today on gossip about celebrities was, in my time, directed toward exploration and learning. Once our group announced that we were sailing above the Arctic Circle, people waited in line to see us. We drew thousands, filling churches and opera halls. I never drank more champagne.”
“Now you’re talking.” Tom guffawed. “Good times.” Molly narrowed her eyes but he pressed on, oblivious.
“Hold on three,” the director said. I noticed that the cameras did not cut to her face, so the audience would have no notion that she was annoyed.
“So tell me,” Tom said, “what sort of fun do you like to have now? Is there anything good on TV?”
“Little,” Jeremiah said. “It is mostly shallow, false, and predictable.”
“Ya like any of it?”
“Oh, yes. Twice I have seen the Red Sox play on the small screen. Those games struck me as entertaining and full of surprises. A fine ball club.”
“You can say that again,” Tom yukked. “Did you know this station is part owner of the Sox? Hey, we could catch a game, ya know.”
“Honestly? In the stadium?” He sat up straight. “That would be splendid.”
The Curiosity: A Novel Page 24
