Читать книгу While Galileo Preys - Joshua Corin - Страница 12

F or their Valentine’s date, Rafe bought his wife a wrist corsage. He spent most of his office hours in line at the florist’s down the block from the university. Apparently every married man in Long Island was both a romantic and a procrastinator.

“A kelly green carnation,” he requested. That’s what she’d had in her wedding bouquet, so he knew he was on safe ground. He didn’t want to screw anything up, not today, not for Esme. The florist secured the delicate flower, still dappled with water droplets, in its plastic container.

He stored it in the fridge in the faculty lounge. He made sure to stick on a Post-it with his name on it, and hoped that would be enough to dissuade thieves (although he knew in academia no property—especially intellectual—was ever sacred). Fortunately, the corsage remained undisturbed, and by 5:30 p.m. he was carrying it (and a valise heavy with student papers) to his Saab.

It was a long walk. Rafe was out of breath by the time he reached his car. The arctic weather didn’t help; he could feel his ears and bare hands ache with each blast of wind. How peculiar, he thought, that both extreme heat and extreme cold turned bare skin red. He surmised it had something to do with blood. But Rafe Stuart was an associate professor in cultural sociology. He dissected demographics and memes. Anatomy was two quads away, in an oblong, curvaceous building shaped roughly (and somewhat appropriately) like the starship Enterprise.

Rafe tossed his valise in the trunk but very, very gently placed the corsage on the passenger seat. He was a little nervous. Big romantic evenings were not his forte. He much preferred a quiet night at home where he wasn’t under pressure to be Casanova. He loved his wife dearly, desperately, but loathed the typical dinner-and-a-movie rituals that society demanded, especially on days like this. Romance, he always had believed, should be a private affair. But today was Valentine’s Day, and so a corsage (for charm) and Il Forno (for pasta by candlelight). All for Esme. Anything for Esme.

Stuck in traffic on the way home, Rafe adjusted his rearview mirror to verify his necktie’s knot. He’d changed into a suit before leaving campus but hadn’t felt confident about his knot. Sure enough, it canted to the left. As soon as he exited the expressway, as soon as he reached his first red light, he tried to fix it. Loosen—straighten—tighten. Nope, try again. Drive another mile. Next red light. Loosen—straighten—tighten. Close, but still a bit askew, no? Drive another half-mile. He’d reached downtown Oyster Bay. Sophie’s school was to his left. He braked at a red light by the school and gave the knot one last go. Loosen—straighten—tighten. Some of his colleagues in social sciences wore ties year round. How could they breathe?

He angled his Saab into his subdivision. While questions like why one’s skin turned red were well beyond his field of knowledge, the matters of appearances and social perception were very much in his reach and grasp. Although he rarely wore a tie to work, he always wore a long-sleeved, iron-pressed, button-down shirt, even in the summer. Neutral colors, nothing flashy or flamboyant. Respect had to be earned, and man was the most superficial of God’s beasts. When they first met, Esme would have been happy attending a cocktail party in a T-shirt and jeans. He’d shown her the error of her ways.

Butterflies zipped around inside him. Did what was left of his black hair look adequately flat? Were his eyeglasses clear of specks? He shuffled out of his Saab and headed to the front door. He adjusted his tie knot one last time and rang the doorbell to his own house. Their teenage sitter greeted him with a mouthful of braces.

“Hello, Mr. Stuart. You look very nice tonight.”

“Thank you, Chelsea,” he replied. He didn’t want to come in. That wasn’t what he’d planned. Esme would meet him at the door. It would be like a prom date. That’s what he’d planned. That’s what would have been romantic. He was sure of it. But instead here was their brace-faced babysitter—

“Daddy!”

Sophie rushed from her homework to the doorway and slapped her arms around her father’s belly (well, as much of it as she could circumnavigate) in a snug embrace.

“Hi, sweetness.” He kissed her scalp. She gleamed up at him with blue eyes. For a moment, he forgot about his plans, his tie, Valentine’s Day, brace-faced Chelsea, the corsage he’d left in the car, the papers he needed to grade, the chill of the wind, the tilt of the earth’s axis, everything. Rafe’s little girl could induce amnesia, yes, she could. But ah, only temporarily. “Where’s Mommy?”

On cue, Mommy strolled down the stairs. She wore a form-fitting evening dress, red for the occasion. It brought out the freckles on her nose. For the second time in two minutes, Rafe’s mind went ecstatically blank.

Esme, responding to the awed expression on his face, shyly tucked a loose strand of hair behind an ear. Even after eight years, he still found her beautiful. She took his hand, they bid good-night to Sophie and her sitter, and walked out into the night.

They arrived late at the restaurant, but after a minimum of fuss the cheery mâitre d’led them to their table. Il Forno rested on a cliff and overlooked the dark blue Long Island Sound. Esme and Rafe took their seats by the window and stared out through the glass at the undulating waves.

Her right wrist sported the green carnation. She’d almost sat on it when she’d opened the car door, back in their driveway, but a last-minute warning from Rafe averted disaster. Rafe hurried to her side of the car and placed the corsage on his wife’s wrist.

Esme grinned. Was anyone more adorable than her husband? She kissed him full on the lips and whispered into his ear, “Thank you.”

Their tuxedoed waiter introduced himself—but needn’t have, as he was one of Rafe’s Meme Seminar students.

“Great to see you, Professor!” Nate said. “I didn’t know you came here!”

Rafe maintained his friendly smile. Had he known any of his students would be here, no, he wouldn’t have come. If romance couldn’t be a private affair, it at least could and should be shielded from his college girls and boys. While students were often cavalier in class about their personal lives, an instructor’s personal life was sacrosanct.

Once Tuxedo Nate took their drink orders and left, Rafe leaned in to his wife and casually inquired if she’d prefer to go somewhere else. But Esme laughed it off. “Because of our waiter? I think it’s funny. Why—is he failing your class? Are you worried he’s going to poison your food?”

Rafe winced. This was not the evening he had planned. But at least Esme had loved the corsage. And hopefully the food would be good. He gave the rest of the restaurant a cursory scan. No other students, either waiting on table or on dates with their significant others. Good. Il Forno was a little out of their price range, anyway.

Nate arrived with their merlot. He poured each their glass and left them the bottle in its decanter.

“Are we ready to order?” he asked.

They were. They did. He left.

“So,” Rafe inquired, savoring his wine, “what did you do today?”

“Not much. Did some laundry. Finished that crappy novel I had to read.”

“Sounds like a peaceful day.”

“Oh, and Tom Piper called.”

Rafe gently steadied his wineglass back on the table. “To wish you a Happy Valentine’s Day?”

Esme sighed. “Rafe…”

His azure gaze fixated on the waves in the moonlight. They followed the dark water as it lapped against the shore, then back into the void.

“He just wanted to talk to me, you know, about what’s been going on down in Atlanta and Amarillo. Get my take on it.”

“Did he get it? Your take, that is.”

His eyes shifted from the ocean to his wife. Sometimes she could make him forget about the world, true. But sometimes she could make every memory caged in his brain explode at once into searing clarity…

“I didn’t call him back,” she replied, and clasped his thick hands in hers. “My responsibilities are here now. Aren’t they?”

Romance should be a private affair? Fuck that. Rafe reached over and in the presence of the entire restaurant (including Tuxedo Nate) kissed his wife full on the mouth.

When they got home, Chelsea was sprawled across their divan, gabbing on her cell and noshing on carrot sticks. She said her regretful goodbyes to whoever was on the other line (her boyfriend, probably—today was Valentine’s Day) and hopped to her feet.

“Sophie’s asleep,” she said.

Esme nodded. Sleep was not a bad idea. She’d consumed more than her share of the merlot and was feeling its hypnotic tingle all through her body—but especially in her legs. She leaned against the kitchen counter, aiming for nonchalance and achieving full-out drunken goofiness.

If Chelsea noticed, she didn’t say anything. She seemed too intent anyway on the greenbacks Rafe was counting out from his wallet. Not a bad salary for carrot stick noshing and divan sprawling. Rafe offered to drive her home, but she lived only a few blocks away.

And she just wants more alone time with her boyfriend, mused Esme. Oh, to be young and in love. Although being in love in your late thirties wasn’t so bad either…

Esme’s lips stretched into a loopy grin. She wandered toward her daughter’s bedroom and peeked inside. Sophie slept curled up like a corn chip. Her small fists had her pink comforter pulled up to her chin. Esme knew she used to sleep like that, when she was younger. She would wake up with her bed sheet wrapped around her body like a protective cocoon. But Sophie had many cocoons protecting her. Esme suddenly felt the urge to embrace her daughter, but relented. Better to let her sleep, she decided. Sleep, dream and grow.

Esme strolled back into the living room. Chelsea was gone, and Rafe was returning the carrot sticks to the fridge.

“I’m just going to check my e-mail for a minute,” said Esme. She hoped he caught her subtext: and then we’ll retire to the bedroom for some appropriate Valentine’s Day sex games. But if he noticed, he didn’t say anything. Instead, he was sniffing the milk for freshness.

She sat down at her desk. It was time to reply to Tom’s e-mail. As the computer booted up, she went over in her mind how she would phrase her rejection. Above all, she needed to remain compassionate but firm. Of course she recognized how horrible his situation was. Of course she would help if she could—but she couldn’t. Her heart went out to all those victims’ families…but her heart then was obliged to come back here, to her home.

As she waited for the e-mail software to load, she occupied her mild ADD by also opening her Web browser. What was happening in the world today? Her browser went to its MSNBC home page and she scanned the headlines. Earthquake in Pakistan, rally for Governor Kellerman in his home state of Ohio, Congress reinvestigating farm subsidies in Nebraska and Wyoming…

Her eyes then found the story about the shooting at the hospital.

In the kitchen, Rafe had poured himself a glass of milk. His chicken marinara had been a bit too spicy and he was hoping a cold glass would soothe his indigestion. Or perhaps, he pondered with amusement, indigestion was just symptomatic of the warm glow he had felt ever since the restaurant.

And then his wife said, “Fuck,” and began to fumble through her purse. She took out her cell phone and began dialing.

“Who are you calling?” he asked calmly. The kitchen clock read 8:26 p.m. Not terribly late. Maybe she was calling Amy Lieb. After all, they both were in that silly book club and—

“Tom,” she said. “It’s me.”

That’s right. She hadn’t called him back yet. Rafe tried not to eavesdrop, but his better angels were asleep on the job. Make sure you let him down easy, babe. We don’t need to piss off the federal government.

Esme was fiddling with her computer. “No, I just read the story. I was out with Rafe.”

Rafe sipped his milk. Good girl. Name-drop the husband.

Wait—just read what story?

“I’m checking the flights now,” she said. “The earliest I can take is a 6:05 a.m. flight out of LaGuardia. I’ll have to change planes in Dallas, but I should get into Amarillo at 11:45 a.m.”

Rafe placed the glass of milk in the sink. “Esme.”

She didn’t look at her husband, but instead put up her hand to shush him. “No, Tom. I’ll pay for it. The Bureau can reimburse me.”

“Esme.”

Rafe marched into the living room.

This time she looked at him.

“Tom, I’m going to have to call you back. Okay. Talk to you soon.”

She hung up.

Rafe stared at her. Then:

“Esme, what the hell was that?”

“Rafe, listen, there’s been another shooting. At the hospital in Texas. The fire chief, the one who survived the thing at the aquarium—the sniper walked right into the hospital and shot him.”

“So—”

“He shot Tom, too.”

Rafe could swear there were tears in her eyes. He threw up his hands in exasperation. “Tom has a very important and dangerous job. People in dangerous jobs get hurt. It happens.”

“Don’t talk to me like I’m a—”

“Then don’t act like one! Your going down there isn’t going to make him heal any faster, Esme.” He cocked his head, studied his wife for a moment. “But that’s not why you’re going down there, is it?”

She stood up. “Listen…”

“How long?”

“What?”

“How long do you plan on being away? A week? A month? Sometimes it takes the FBI years to catch these guys. Are you going to be gone a year, Esme? I need to know so when our daughter asks, I can tell her.”

“That isn’t fair.” She balled her hands into fists. “I fly down there and—what? What do you expect is going to happen? I’m going to rejoin the fucking Bureau? I’ll be there as an extra pair of eyes. I’ll be there to put in my two cents—which shouldn’t take very long—and then I’ll be on the next plane back home. I promise.”

“What about Sophie? Who’s going to pick her up after school?”

“We can let Sophie stay after school with the Kleins or the McKinleys. It’s not a big deal. I’ll call Holly McKinley right now to make sure.”

She started dialing.

Rafe wanted to smack the phone out of her hand. A part of him even wanted to smack her—and that’s what gave him pause. He would not be the villain here. He was not the one who…

But being stubborn would accomplish nothing. Correction: being stubborn would just carve out an abyss between them which would widen and deepen with time. Sophie would notice. Their neighbors would notice. He was a sociology professor. Inflexible societies eventually snapped like twigs. Was he so implacable? Was he willing to risk so much?

“Three days.”

She stopped dialing. Looked over at him. “What?”

“You can have three days. Anything more than that and you’re not just putting in your two cents. Anything more than that and you’re on the task force. And then your responsibilities will be even more divided than they already are. You’re there three days and you’re a consultant. You’re there any longer and they’ll start counting on you. I’m pretty sure I’m right.”

She shook her head. No, he wasn’t wrong.

“But just so we’re clear,” she added, “you don’t get to ever—ever—give me an ultimatum like that. You don’t think I’m torn up over this? You made your point and you’re right. Three days it is. But that’s my choice.”