I shook my head with mock empathy. “I’m not sure.”
She glanced at her reflection in the glass door and jumped in fright. “Oh my god, I look awful.” She glanced at her Tissot watch. “And it’s getting late. I’ve got to get ready for my date.” She started scooping up her papers and book.
“Sure you don’t want me to help you with a few word problems?” I asked.
“No, no, I’ve got it now, and I’ve got to go,” she blurted as she dashed out the door.
I shook my head. I was pretty sure she wouldn’t remember tomorrow, but what can you do? I turned back to Orwell. After a few pages Julia yelled at me, “Time to go.” I added up my statistics and put the “numbers” into data tracking and closed out the computer just as David walked up to lock up.
“Any students?”
“One, calculus.”
He nodded, “Fresca’s doesn’t take reservations, but can I pick you up at 6:30pm?”
“Sounds good.”
“Great, see you out front then” he looked relieved like I might turn him down. “I’ve got to return some books to the library.” He waved a few books in my direction. “See you tonight.” He leaned over and gave me a chaste kiss on the mouth then dashed off.
“What was that about?” asked Julia.
I looked down and blushed, “David’s taking me to dinner.”
“Really? I’ve never heard of David taking someone out on a real date. The best I’ve ever heard him do is to take someone to a department function—he’s not really a romantic. He’s kind of cheap.”
I shrugged. “I guess he wanted company to eat with.”
“Maybe,” Julia replied looking me over suspiciously then put it out of her mind. “Bye,” she waved as she headed out of the building.
“Later,” I replied and headed for the elevators and my room.
*
Right at 6:30, my phone pinged with a text from David announcing that he was heading over from the parking lot. Since tonight was a date, I opted for a vintage green Donna Karan wrap dress I had found at a consignment store and some khaki espadrilles. I was pretty sure David would be impressed with my new found ability to dress properly without his assistance.
Just as I stepped on to the sidewalk, David came around the corner in his red Honda. He stopped the car, and I waited for him to get out and open my door for me. “You look great,” he told me as he simultaneously kissed me on the cheek and helped me into the car. Then the darted around and got in the driver’s side. Of course, David looked great too in a purple dress shirt open at the neck and navy slacks that fit him like a dream. As we headed south through town, David asked, “What’s good at this place?”
“Supposedly they have great roasted chicken, but also unusual sides like grilled sweet potato and street corn with a twist.”
“Sounds delicious.” An awkward silence fell on the car. I sighed and watched downtown fly by. David broke the silence with a topic even more boring than the weather. “Have you finished Baker’s homework yet?” asked David.
“No, that’s what’s on the agenda for tomorrow: Baker’s homework, history reading, quantum physics homework, and writing up the lab.”
“Geez, you’re already up against it!” David let out a low whistle.
“Yeah, everything hit at once. You see why I had to finish 1984 today,” I explained.
“Did you? Finish 1984, I mean,” queried David.
“Yep, you were right. In fact, if not for one frazzled sorority girl, I might have gotten to some of the history too. The study time is really helping me out.”
“I’ve still got the Baker, of course, and I wanted to study for the GRE. I’m taking it in a couple of weeks,” I explained.
It was my turn to whistle. “Cutting it a bit close, aren’t we?”
“I should have plenty of time to get the scores before my applications are due. I just won’t have time to take again if I bomb,” David shrugged.
“That’s what I mean,” I said.
“So tomorrow let’s meet around 2 to study. Let’s go to the Fine Arts library in case we want to talk about Baker’s work or the quantum physics. I can help you with that,” David offered.
“Sounds good.”
And silence again. I watched more buildings pass by. At the restaurant, we sat outside; I stared up at the sky through the oak trees, but it was too light to see any stars. David beat on the table in time with a tune in his head. The waiter brought drinks. We sipped them. I looked at David expectantly. He stared back. Finally he asked, “so what applications are you looking at for Dr. Hrezecovic’s research?”
David
What was wrong with me? Normally I have no trouble chatting, but it’s like my brain has been drugged. I know I’ll ask abut her work in Dr. Hrezecovic’s lab.
“So what applications are you looking at for Dr. Hrezecovic’s research?” I asked, lamely.
B.D.’s eyes lit up as she launched into her explanation. “As you know, I’m only doing medical applications, but so far we’ve managed to consistently identify tons of medically significant markers like swelling, broken bones, fluid in ears, inflamed throats and noses, discolored scelera, and we’re just getting started.”
I watched B.D. as she spoke about her research and how it would improve people’s lives. She spoke with the fervor of an evangelist minister in the language of a scientist. Her eyes shone. She gestured with her hands and emphasized points with her inflections. She wasn’t working in the lab for resume padding or to improve her graduate school applications. She really loved this stuff, and she had the brains to contribute.
“It’s so great talking about this stuff with you, because I don’t have to stop every other word and define something or explain a process. You already know this stuff,” she gushed.
I nodded uneasily. The reality was that I was just barely keeping up. I could understand what she was doing, but no way could I have done the same. I didn’t understand these concepts on the visceral level that she did. And I certainly didn’t get excited about it. I guess Dr. Hrezecovic knew what she was doing when she picked B.D. for the position.
Back at the dorm, I convinced B.D. to stay in my room. I had never spent the entire day with someone and then wanted to spend a second night with them. I was more of a wham-bam-thank-you-m’am kind of guy, but I actually wanted B.D. to spend the night. She put a few toiletries, a change of clothes, and a sleep shirt in an over-sized bag. When I saw her stuff the night gown into her bag, I smirked and stated, “You won’t be needing that.”
“I’m a good girl scout. I’m always prepared.”
In my room, I opened a bottle of red wine that I had stashed in my fridge.
“I’m underage,” she reminded me as I filled her glass.
“I think you can handle it,” I flirted back. We both sipped some wine as we looked into each other’s eyes.
“So what did you want to be when you were little?” she asked wistfully.
“I wanted to be the candy man,” I answered with conviction.
She lifted one eyebrow.
“It’s not a euphemism for something else. I really wanted to be the candy man. A few doors down from Neimans downtown where my mother worked there was a real, live candy shop with cases full of chocolates and a counter lined with jars of hard candy, licorice, chews…just like an old-fashioned candy shop. I wanted to be the candy man—the guy that put the candy in the bag. At this shop he wore a red striped apron—sort of like Mr. Peppermint—and he’d put whatever you wanted in the bag. Sometimes I had to spend the day at Neimans because my mom had to take me to work if my grandmother couldn’t watch me for some reason. For a reward, my mom would take me to buy whatever I wanted if I was good—I.e. sitting in her office and coloring and not bothering her. Because of the candy, I was always good. I loved going to the candy shop not just because I loved candy. I did. And I almost never got it, because my mother had the eating habits of a model. I loved the candy shop because everyone was in a good
mood. No yelling or crying or wringing of hands occurred in the candy shop. Occasionally a kid would cry because he wasn’t getting what he wanted, but usually a threat from their parents shut them up. Most people had a big smile on their face. When I was young, we didn’t have that much money or rather my mother was adjusting to life as a working stiff as opposed to the wife of a wealthy man, and she worried about money--a lot. In the candy shop though it was like we were surrounded by a magical bubble that repelled worry. And I was careful not to shatter the illusion by asking for too much. I’d always get three fruit creams—my favorite—and three jolly ranchers for later. They wouldn’t melt in the car. My mother always got one, dark chocolate coffee cream. I figured if I worked in the candy shop, I could wear a cool candy-striped apron, eat all the fruit creams I wanted, and make everyone—mostly my mom--smile. It was a win/win as far I could tell.”
B.D. smiled at me. “I didn’t expect you to say that. I expected you to say astronaut like every other boy in Houston. Or at least an oil tycoon.”
I shook my head, “Not me. You forget that I knew an actual oil tycoon, and he made my mother cry, so I was not interested in that deal. And who wants to be far away eating dehydrated food. I went on a NASA tour in second grade and they gave us a taste of the stuff that astronauts eat,” I stuck my tongue out. “You will never catch me in a situation stuck eating that crap.”
“And you have a grandmother. You never mentioned your grandmother before.”
“Had. I had a grandmother. She died when I was a freshman. My mother was her only child. My grandfather was a rough necker in the oil fields, but of course, died in an accident at work when my mother was twelve. The company paid my grandmother some money, and my grandfather had a small life insurance policy, but it wasn’t enough to live on for the rest of her life—just enough to pay the funeral bills and pay off the mortgage on the crummy house they owned in Texas City. She got a job as a lunch lady to pay the rest of the bills. When my mom was married, she supported her. Then we went back to Texas City to live for a few months until Mom got the Neimans gig, and we all moved to Houston. Mimi (my grandmother) sold her house in Texas City, and we used the proceeds from the sale of that house plus the paltry settlement my mom got from my dad to buy the house my mom still lives in—the one near your house. Mimi got another job as a lunch lady—there are schools with hungry kids everywhere—and that’s how I grew up. You’d think we would have had plenty of money, but my mom didn’t get paid very well until she became a senior buyer. When she was just a sales clerk, we lived and died by commission, so we learned to get by on nearly nothing for those months when Mom didn’t make many sales. Honestly though it was nice living with Mimi and Mom—nicer than when I lived with my dad and Mom. I had dinner with Mom and Mimi most nights. My grandmother picked me up from school everyday. When I was older she would drive me to soccer or baseball or swim practice or scouts. Mimi always cheered for me at my games, and sometimes Mom could make it too.”
“Sounds nice,” she replied wistfully. “My mom was that for me too, but my dad was the one to work with me on school projects and appreciate my science fair entries. He was really involved in my education—way more than my friends’ dads. He made sure I went to robot camp and math camp and programming school. He made it to all my swim meets and softball and soccer games. He helped me research and set up every science fair project. He asked leading questions and helped me make fancy posters to go with the projects just like graduate students did. We had dinner together every night too.”
“I remember seeing your dad at the swim meets. He always wore the most obnoxious plaid shorts and Teva sandals. It was a weird combo.”
“That’s my dad. I think he thought plaid shorts were more respectable than just polyester athletic shorts, but he liked wearing the Tevas because they were comfortable.”
“I guess you stopped competing in swimming when you got to junior high,” I commented.
“Nope, I just competed with private school kids at Regents. That’s when Dad started working for Ene-tech. At first he just took consulting jobs on the side to pay for things like our private school tuition, but eventually he left his tenured position at Rice for the big bucks at Ene-tech. We moved to River Oaks then, but fortunately didn’t sell the house. We rented it out, so when it all came crashing down, at least we had a place to live that they couldn’t take.”
“What happened to the River Oaks house?” I asked.
“That was the first thing to go. Dad came home early with the real estate agent who had been trying to lease our old house. She toured the house and made recommendations about staging and listing price. Dad told us to start packing. He even had us stay home from school a day to finish packing. The movers would be coming on Friday—this was a Tuesday—and that the open house would be Sunday. Fortunately, Dad maintained the house perfectly and Mom kept it spotless, so it wasn’t that big a deal to move out. We sold the house for a little more than we bought it for. An NBA veteran in the last few years of his career had just signed with the Rockets, so he bought the place and most of the furnishings that weekend sight unseen. His agent actually toured the house. Everyone thought my Dad was crazy, but a week later the first indictments against the Ene-tech people were handed down and Dad didn’t look so crazy then. A friend of mine, Sara, whose dad also worked at Ene-tech and eventually got indicted tried to hang on to his River Oaks house—which was bigger and nicer than ours—but eventually had to declare bankruptcy and sell it. He didn’t have to sell the house—in Texas they can’t take your house during bankruptcy—but did anyway because they couldn’t afford the mortgage anymore and his wife couldn’t keep it up. I don’t think they managed to get enough from the sale to cover what they owed on it though. Prices fell so quickly when Ene-tech went under. Last Sara told me was that her mother was divorcing her father, and they were moving to North Carolina to live with her grandparents. I guess I’m lucky that we still have a place to live, although my sister and mother are having a hard time getting by on Mom’s teacher salary even without a mortgage.”
“That was a nasty business—that Ene-tech collapse. So many people lost their savings and jobs and even their houses,” I observed.
“I guess we’re doing better than a lot of people. Even though the government and the attorneys took every red cent we had, Dad still has his retirement at Rice—no one can touch that—and Mom’s starting to build her own teacher’s retirement. And now that your mom hooked my mom up with a jewelry buyer, Mom and Veronica should have a bit of a cushion when she sells a few things.
I squeezed her hand and kissed her brow for reassurance.
She nodded. “We might even be able to visit Dad this Christmas. We haven’t been able to visit at all.”
“Where’s he at?”
“Florida. They’re holding him in a Federal Prison in Florida. He says it’s not too bad, and he jokes that his tennis game is better than ever. We play chess together via a letter. He writes me with his next move then I write him.”
“Ahh, that explains the chessboard in your room.”
“Yes, I’m just not good enough at visualizing without an actual board set-up. Dad has one too, but I don’t think he really needs a physical set-up, but that’s one of the privileges he’s earned—to keep a chess board set-up in his cell.” She continued. “It’s kind of a fun way to play chess. It forces you to consider the board and your next move, because you have to wait for your opponent’s reply. It usually takes about five days for me to send him a move and then to have him decide on his next move and mail it to me. The entire time I’m thinking about what he might do and how I’ll respond.”
“What happens if someone bumps the board?”
“I have all the moves written down, so I can recreate the board if necessary. It would just be a hassle since we’re more than 20 moves in.” B.D.’s eyes looked glassy and her lip started to quiver.
“I guess it’s a good way to stay in touch with your dad,” I offered trying to s
ound consoling.
“Yes,” she nodded.
I wrapped her in my arms as she tried to choke back sobs but as I gently patted her back she gave in to emotion. Her body shook and she ducked her head into my chest. After a minute or so, she took a deep breath and explained even though her voice was cracking. “I know we’re lucky. I’m lucky that I have such a good relationship with my father that we can stay in touch even while he’s in prison four states away. That we both enjoy playing chess by mail. That we both can express our thoughts in letters. We’re lucky we have a place to live. That we didn’t have to declare bankruptcy. That my mother has a degree and a teaching certificate and can support herself and my sister. Many Ene-tech executives were left destitute and jobless. My dad got the lightest prison sentence of any of the convicted executives, although some of them are still in court. Most employees lost their life savings. I know we’re lucky, but it still doesn’t seem fair. My dad didn’t know the company was lying to stock holders. He didn’t falsify the financial records. He had nothing to do with reporting. He analyzed data and made forecasts and he was right. The decision makers in the company just didn’t believe him and didn’t take his advice. It’s not fair that he had to go to jail just because he didn’t turn in his bosses. That’s essentially what he went to jail for—not reporting the wrong doing of his superiors. Wrong doing that he wasn’t even sure was wrong doing. He’s a mathematician not an accountant. But the feds felt like he could have done more to stop the lying—become a whistle blower or something—so he got the 36 months in federal prison. Did you know you can’t get parole in federal prison? You just do the whole time. And they only have a few minimum security prisons, so he ended up in Florida. They don’t have any facilities in Texas for men. It’s not fair to him, but mostly it’s not fair to us!” she wailed.
I took her face in my hands and stared into her eyes and said as firmly as I could, “I know it’s not fair. Lots of people must suffer because of the poor decisions of a few.”
She sniffled and one final tear traveled down her cheek. I leaned over and kissed her slowly, gently. She kissed me back and gripped my forearms. Her breathing shifted from sobs to pants even as my own breath quickened. As her grip on my forearms loosened her kiss became more urgent and harder--almost violent. She let go of my forearms and clutched my belt to pull me closer, then she started frantically unbuckling my belt then my pants. When the cool air hit my bare thighs, something primal washed over me. I ran my hands down her front and started unbuttoning her blouse as fast as I could. She broke the kiss and tore my t-shirt over my head. I unhooked her bra in back and ripped it and her dress off. She hooked her fingers into the waistband of my boxers and yanked them down. I slid my hands into the back side of her pants and grabbed her ass and ground my penis into her crotch. She kissed me forcefully almost painfully while she grabbed my shoulders and fell onto my bed pulling me down with her. She broke the kiss to breathlessly gasp, “Condom!”
Waves and Light: Opposites Attract Series Page 13
