Interlude
Chaotic Theory
Gloucester, Massachusetts
September 18, 1995
A man sat down at a cluttered kitchen table, precariously balancing a cereal bowl and a banana on top of a thick book. His reading glasses clung to the end of his nose as he peered over them to watch the female news anchor on a small television perched atop the refrigerator. As she concluded one story, her features fell into a somber pattern and she sat up a little straighter in her chair, looking directly at the camera.
"Authorities are still investigating a strange series of events in London that occurred earlier this evening. Witnesses say they saw flashing lights over the Thames River—"
"It's the River Thames, you idiot," he growled at the television set.
"—watched as Victoria Tower, part of the Houses of Parliament, blew up right in front of them. Following soon after, several other buildings nearby were also attacked, including the Clairmont hotel and two small businesses. Arthur Nielson, an expert on public security and terrorism, claimed in a press conference this morning that he believed the attacks were intentional and aimed at the Parliament to send a message to Britain.
"We have not concluded what—or who—caused the attacks," a man's voice boomed as video footage of the press conference began to play on the television, "but since Parliament and its surrounding buildings were the only establishments to be damaged, we have reason to believe the attack on London was deliberate. We are still taking several leads into consideration, but we have not been able to conclude anything yet."
"This morning channel seventeen news received video footage of the attacks, taken by a passerby in London. What you are about to see is strange and shocking, but as authorities cannot tell us what is happening, we cannot determine whether it is proper to censor it."
The man sat forward in his chair at the kitchen table. The banana he had been cutting up to put in his cereal lay on the table, forgotten, and the paring knife he had been using hung limply in his hand.
"Max!" he hollered.
"What?" A young boy of sixteen appeared in the doorway, hoisting a backpack stuffed with books over his shoulder. He moved over to the table and dropped the backpack on the floor with a heavy thud beside the chair pulled out for him. "You know, the yelling isn't very effective if I've already done my homework." He sat down and grabbed the banana off the table and the knife from his father's hand, seemingly unaware of the older man's anxious state.
"Look!" his father urged, pointing at the television.
Max turned and watched the dazzling light show on the set for a moment, feeling a bit dizzy at the camera's unsteady position. "What the hell is that?" he asked around a mouthful of banana.
"That," his father said determinedly, jabbing his finger at the television, "is witchcraft."
Max rolled his eyes. "Oh, come on," he said. "There's no way. That's an outdoor laser show."
"Max, those lasers blew up Victoria Tower!" his father said exasperatedly. "The proof is right there!"
"You're a particle physicist, remember? You don't believe in hocus pocus crap," Max reminded. "Living on the North Shore's getting to you—can't wait to see what you're like on Halloween."
His father got up from the table and dumped his cereal bowl in the kitchen sink. "What you just saw can't be explained by physics," he argued. "Haven't you read any of the books in my study?"
Max snorted and swallowed the last of the banana, tossing the peel into the trash can on the opposite wall. "Nope," he said. "They're huge and boring. I've got better things to do with my time, like not read them." He picked up his backpack and swung it over his shoulder, staggering a bit under the momentum of it.
"Max, my whole career is devoted to proving that things like what you just saw are possible," his father insisted. "It would do you well to pay attention to things like that in the media."
"Wait a second. So, you're examining the smallest known parts of science... to prove the existence of something that can't be explained by science?" Max supplied. "Hate to break it to you, but that doesn't make any sense, Dad." He grabbed the keys off the hook hanging by the front door and threw it open, breathing in the fresh air tinged with salt. "I'm off to the library. I'm taking the truck!"
"No you're not!"
But the door was already closed. Max's father sat back down at the table and stared at the TV as the report broadcasted once more before another anchor came on to report about the economy. He doesn't understand, he thought darkly. Maybe he's too young. He has the potential, but he still believes only what he sees.
He'll learn, another part of his brain chimed in. He's your son. It won't take long.
With a sigh he reached across the table and picked up the heavy book with the words The Role of Protons in the Unexplainable Universe stamped into the leather spine, opening it to where the bookmark had kept his place among the tiny font and months upon months of handwritten notes scribbled into the margins.