A flurry of movement out of the window caught Samuel's attention. A pack of bicyclers wobbled by on Whitaker Street. All were old men—none were a day under seventy, and some looked to be well into their nineties, their shriveled parchment faces utterly out of place under the smooth bubble helmets.
“Why us?” Tuesday asked. “Why do you think the accident rate goes down when we're in the vicinity of each other?"
“It doesn't. It's bullshit."
“But what if it turns out it does?"
* * * *
Typically Samuel liked to stay through the credits, to get the full moviegoing experience, but Tuesday stood as soon as the lights went up, and Samuel deferred.
“So, what'd you think?” Tuesday asked.
“I didn't expect to like it as much as I did,” Samuel said. “It was slow, and I usually get impatient with slow films.” Someone had dropped a bucket of popcorn in the aisle; it crunched underfoot as they headed for the exit. “I'm wary of movies that are described as ‘sweeping sagas,’ and if anyone in a film is wearing a powdered wig, I avoid the film like the plague."
Tuesday threw back her head and laughed, loud enough that others glanced at her. Samuel wished he could laugh like that. When was the last time he'd laughed really hard, totally out of control?
“So, tell me more about yourself,” Tuesday said as they emerged onto the sidewalk, under a streetlight painting a circle in the darkness. “I know you're a retired philosophy professor, and you live in a condo in Wilmington Park."
Samuel shrugged. “Let's see. I like to paint, I have an old dog named Riley, and every Christmas I work as a Santa in Macy's."
“You do not."
“You're right, I don't."
“So, you never married?” Tuesday asked.
“In other words, what's wrong with me?"
“I didn't mean it as a criticism. It was just a question."
“Sorry. I get a little defensive about it. It's like your entire life was a failure if you don't get married and have kids. I don't want kids. Women say men who don't want kids are immature, not because they aren't able to have a healthy relationship, but because they don't want what women want."
“Mmm. You are a little defensive on that topic. Let's move on. What were your first words?"
“You mean, when I was an infant? I have no idea."
“That's a shame. Maybe your sister knows? It's important to know.” They'd reached her car. Samuel tensed, feeling the awkwardness of being in a date moment with this woman he wasn't dating. He stuffed his hands in the tight front pockets of his jeans. “See you Tuesday."
She laughed, and he realized the dual meaning of that phrase and chuckled. He tried to let go and laugh hard, but it just didn't come.
* * * *
The square was strangely deserted, save for an old man walking a Pomeranian. When Samuel was younger, he rarely noticed the old people. Now it was the young people who were more likely to escape his notice. He loved the squares scattered throughout downtown—how they broke up the landscape, a perfect melding of urban and green, movement and stillness. A horse-drawn tour buggy circled the square, filled with tourists clutching maps, the clopping of the horse harmonizing with the low hum of the engines of cars creeping along, caught behind the buggy. It was all perfect. He emptied, and the city filled him.
“Nice day.” Dr. Berry said behind him. Samuel turned and smiled.
“Certainly is. Have a seat.” Berry settled on the other side of the green park bench.
“Well?” Samuel said.
“You believe in numbers, right? Here are your numbers.” Dr. Berry spread a data printout across the bench, facing Samuel. “The means are composites of vehicular accidents and emergency-room visits involving miscellaneous accidents—lawn mowers, steak knives, skateboards and so on—from noon to five PM daily.” He ran his finger down the column. “This is Monday, when you and Tuesday had lunch. Here's a Tuesday, when you didn't meet with her..."
He went through the entire week. The pattern was hard to miss. In fact, the pattern was nearly perfect.
“This can't be,” Samuel said. The muscle in his cheek twitched. “No. Bullshit."
Berry held his hands out, palms up, and shrugged. “Go confirm the numbers yourself ! Call the hospitals, call the police department. We collected the data blind, meaning the person who compiled the numbers didn't know when you and Tuesday—"
“Thanks, I know what a blind experiment is.” Samuel's heart was racing so hard his chest hurt. He wanted to get off the bench, but he didn't trust his legs. “How do you explain this?” He stared at an errant brick, kicked from the sidewalk, not wanting to look at the printout any more.
Berry shook his head. “I don't. I'm a statistician; I compile huge data sets and find connections that no one else has found because no one else has bothered to look."
“But this connection is nonsensical. How can Tuesday and I going to a movie possibly affect whether two cars collide thirty blocks away?"
“The connection is unlikely, yes. But just because we don't understand how things connect doesn't mean they don't. That the moon and tides move together seemed damned miraculous before Newton."
* * * *
The waitress with the baseball cap, the same one as last time, gave him a big, sloppy, rib-straining hug as he stepped through the door.
“We're honored to have you here,” she said into his shoulder.
Samuel looked over at Tuesday, at a total loss for what was going on. Her shoulders were bobbing with laughter.
“She hugged me too,” Tuesday said when Samuel finally made it to their table. “We've been outed.” She slid a folded Savannah Morning News across the speckled Formica table:
The Saints of Safety: A New and Controversial Program to Prevent Accidents.
“Oh, Christ,” Samuel said. His phone rang. He pulled it from the pocket of his flannel shirt.
“Why didn't you tell me about this?” It was his sister Penny.
“Because it's stupid!” he said.
“Are you with her now?"
Samuel sighed. “Yes. Look, I have to go, I'm being rude.” Tuesday waved the comment away, shaking her head. She opened the newspaper.
“Just one more thing,” Penny said. “What's she like? Is she pretty?"
“Bye, Penny."
“Because you know what this means, don't you? The two of you were meant to be together."
Samuel hung up.
* * * *
The parking meter was in dire need of a gunmetal grey paint job, its pole skirted in remnants of duct tape left over from lost kitten signs.
Samuel sat parked on Liberty, under the outstretched arms of live oaks, watching traffic lights flip from red to green, red to green amid the Spanish moss. His car reeked of rotting bananas and moldy apple pie. He'd forgotten to toss his trash into the dumpster on the way out of his condo complex; it was festering in the back seat.
Hissing bursts across the street drew Samuel's attention. A block down, a guy wearing a safety mask was spray painting a red fire engine green.
He spotted Tuesday passing the engine, her vaguely pigeon-toed gait unmistakable. He got out of his car and waved to her.
“Feel like going for a walk?” she said as she crossed the street, gesturing toward Forsyth Park.
“Sure."
They wandered down Abercorn Street, past stately old row houses. Most had steel black bars on the lower windows, tempered with ornate spirals, or crafted to look like branches, to make them not look like what they were: fortification. After a dazzling decade-long revival, the city seemed to be sinking back into decline.
The aroma of onions and peppers wafted from Queenie's.
“Mmm, smell that?” Tuesday asked.
“Nice,” Samuel said.
“Do you like to cook?"
“No. I've been cooking my own meals most of my life, and still, opening the refrigerator is always a humbling and confusing experience, and I guess it always w
ill be. My meals are mostly failures, eaten quickly, primarily to dispose of the evidence."
“Sometimes you talk like you're a character in a Carl Hiaasen novel, did you know that?"
“No. Did you know sometimes you talk like a character in a Shirley MacLaine autobiography?"
Tuesday laughed and gave his shoulder a good shove.
“Then you remember Shirley MacLaine's new-age tell-alls? I figured I'd get a blank stare.” They passed the Turning Leaf bookstore, tucked a few steps below street level, and Samuel peered in as they passed, admiring the ancient brick walls lined with books. He saw that Tuesday looked in as well. “One of the bad things about aging is that everyone thinks what you like is hokey. My record collection is a never-ending source of amusement to my nieces and nephews."
“Record?"
“Yes, record. I don't care if they're recorded on tapes, CDs, or flying butt monkeys, they're still records."
“Flying butt monkeys?"
They crossed East Henry Street. Two women lounged on a bench at the edge of the park—art students, from their bohemian dress and creative hairstyles. One of them pointed at Samuel and Tuesday.
“That's them!” she said. “The accident people! There was a story in the paper about them. Hey!” She sprang from the bench, the rings in her nose and lower lip swinging. “Wait, can I take a picture with you?"
Tuesday stopped, so Samuel had little choice but to stop as well. The young woman (who looked to Samuel like she'd fallen down a flight of stairs with a tackle box), directed them to stand in front of the big fountain. She squeezed between Samuel and Tuesday, and her friend snapped the picture.
“Now could I get one with just the two of you?” the art student said, backing out of the shot. Samuel gritted his teeth, his hands in his pockets, as her friend snapped the photo. He was becoming half of a talisman; the city rubbed their bellies for luck.
“Let's go,” Samuel said. Tuesday nodded, and they continued through the heart of the park.
Two squirrels were digging around in a patch of ivy separating the sidewalk from the lawn.
“Look at how well they get along,” Tuesday said. “No fighting, nobody trying to hoard all the nuts. If only humans could be more like other animals."
“All animals are greedy, not just humans."
“Yes, but there's a difference. If a lion kills a gazelle, sure, she'll drive away a hyena or buzzard that tries to horn in on her kill, but only until she starts getting full. Then she doesn't mind if other animals start eating on the other end of the gazelle."
“That's only because she doesn't have a refrigerator."
Tuesday let out an exasperated sigh. “Why do you want to suck all of the joy and beauty out of the world? Do you ever look around, and just marvel at all of this without picking it apart?"
“Absolutely. I'm always looking. I love looking at this city—every brick, every tree, every squirrel. The thing is, it's remarkable enough that things can be so vividly, without having to believe there's some magical undercurrent hidden underneath it all. I don't believe in the numinous; that doesn't mean the world is any less beautiful to me."
Tuesday was smiling at him, her brow knotted. “Now that surprises me. You're not who I thought you were at all. You sound like a Buddhist."
“I'm not a Buddhist. I'm not an ist of any kind."
“You stole that line from Ferris Buehler's Day Off."
“I did not. All of my material is original."
“Ferris said ‘I don't believe in isms of any kind.’ You paraphrased, but it's still borderline plagiarism.” Tuesday stopped walking. “Hold on. There's something I wanted to give you.” She unzipped her purse and dug around, pulled out a little plastic baggie and held it out to Samuel. There was a little tooth inside.
“What is this?” he asked.
“While I was growing up I kept all of my baby teeth. I refused to trade them in for quarters. There's power in them—the power of innocence. Intuitive power. Once in a while I give one to someone important in my life. I'm giving one to you."
“Tuesday, that's really thoughtful of you.” He squirmed in the moment, wondering if he had done something to give her the wrong impression.
They walked on, Samuel clutching the baggie, feeling as if sticking it in his pocket would be somehow sacrilegious.
“Look, I hope I haven't misled you in some way,” he said. “You ... I like my life the way it is. I don't want to complicate it."
A young couple passed, their arms wrapped tight around each other's waists. Tuesday was staring at Samuel, her eyes blazing with—something. Hurt? Anger? Maybe both.
“I didn't mean it like that,” Tuesday said when the couple had passed. “Look, despite what you seem to think, this whole situation is not some elaborate setup so I can find a boyfriend. I'm not doing this for me. If us spending time together means fewer people will suffer or die, would it kill us to spend a few afternoons a week together, and maybe have fun doing it? Do you find me that intolerable to be around?"
“No! I—"
But Tuesday had already spun around, and was storming off. Evidently it had been a rhetorical question.
* * * *
She'd already bought her coffee and was sitting by the window, the newspaper spread in front of her.
“Hi,” Samuel said.
Tuesday glanced at him. “Hi.” She smiled, but the smile didn't reach anywhere near her green eyes.
“I'm sorry. You're right, I was making assumptions that I had no justification for making, and I'm very sorry."
Tuesday squinted up at him, half-blinded by the sunlight pouring through the window, her smile more natural now. “I was going to suggest we sit at separate tables, but I've got to say, that was a decent apology.” She kicked out the seat across from her.
Samuel sat, leaned forward. “I keep running this over and over in my mind, looking for an explanation, but I can't find one. I haven't had a good night's sleep in a week. And I never have problems sleeping.” Tuesday scanned the paper, as if she were only half-listening. “What do you think is really going on?"
“If you're expecting a nice, neat ending to all of this, I think you're going to be disappointed,” she said.
“There has to be an explanation that makes sense."
“Oh, I'm sure there is.” She closed the paper. “The question is, is there an explanation that makes sense to you? You act like your own personal perspective is some sort of Ultimate Reality"—she gestured grandly, as if the words were floating on a giant billboard above them—"and everyone else is right to the extent that their worldview matches yours."
“You're still angry with me, aren't you?"
“A little,” Tuesday said. She sipped her coffee.
A group of seven or eight bicyclists rolled up outside. All of them were old men. They puffed and struggled to pull their bikes up against trees and lamp posts and chain them up.
“I saw those same guys last week, when we were at the Metropolis Diner,” Samuel said to Tuesday. They watched as the men entered, talking and laughing, taking shuffling old man steps toward the counter.
“You guys a club?” Tuesday called over to them.
A little man, his spine so curved he had to crane his neck to look at them, shook his head. “Nope, we're city employees. New program, supposed to help with the tourism or something."
Samuel and Tuesday looked at each other. “Tourism, my ass,” Tuesday said.
Samuel pulled out his cell phone and dialed Berry.
“We're not your only talisman, are we?"
Berry laughed. “You're very observant. No, we've got nearly a dozen projects running, with more in the pipeline."
“What are the old men on bicycles for?"
“Violent crime. The denser the population of males bicycling, and the higher their average age, the lower the incidence of violent crime."
“Why didn't you mention this?"
“Sam, you're kidding, right? You don't even believe the connectio
ns are real! What do you want to know? Remember that influenza virus that went around last January? It only affected people who own red cars. People who use their library cards at least twice a month are less likely to be burglarized than those who don't have library cards. Is that enough? I can go on."
Samuel felt dizzy. He sat. Tuesday gave him a questioning look; he shook his head slowly.
“Sam,” Berry said, “this is going to change everything. It's going to change the world. Can you see that?” His voice hitched with excitement.
Samuel could see that, yes. He could probably even get excited about it, if he wasn't part of it. How did the connections work, and why was he involved? He knew this would haunt him for the rest of his life. It was a jigsaw puzzle missing most of its pieces, an itch he would never scratch.
“I need to go,” he said to Tuesday. “I have to get out of this city for a day."
“Want some company?"
“Sure."
They walked back to Samuel's car in silence.
“Where should we go?” Samuel asked as they climbed into his Toyota.
“North? Smells like bananas in here,” Tuesday said.
“I forgot to dump my trash."
“Charming."
He wasn't in the mood for banter, and he didn't want to talk about Berry's project. He grasped for a topic as he pulled out, onto Drayton Street.
“How long ago did you lose your husband?"
“Six years,” Tuesday said. “It was hard, but you move on. He was much older than me—seventeen years—so he wasn't a young man. That helped a little."
“Have you dated anyone since?"
“Mm, a few. Nothing serious.” She lifted her sneaker onto the dashboard and retied it. Today they were pink. “So really, why haven't you ever gotten married?"
“I don't know. I really don't. I've never met someone I love who loves me. I guess it's as simple as that."
“I didn't know that could happen. Not for a whole lifetime, anyway,” Tuesday said.
“How many people have you met in your entire life that you truly loved, who truly loved you?"
“Two, I guess."
“And what if you hadn't gone into that certain restaurant, hadn't enrolled in that literature class, whatever, where you met those two people? Then you would have met no one. Maybe I didn't happen to make that one left turn that would have led me to her. Though I'm not dead yet. I may still meet her."
Asimov's SF, January 2008 Page 13
