CHAPTER NINE
It was lonely in New York. No matter how hard he tried, he could never quite like this city. There was something so… wrong about it. The crowds, the smog, the traffic that never paused for sleep. Even Columbia, where he had finished his doctorate in modern languages last spring, was not quite the beautiful campus he had had in Massachusetts. In any case, Columbia wasn't his school any longer. They had offered him a postdoctoral fellowship, but the sad reality was that, although languages was a pleasant diversion, it was far from being what he wanted to do with his life. It was fun, but it wasn't heaven.
He wanted to go home… but of course, there wasn't any home to go to. More than a century they had been on that land, and now it was gone. Of course, keeping it had not been an option. He didn't want to farm for a living any more than he wanted to parse.
What he really wanted to do—all he really wanted to do—was bury himself in the world of research. There was so much potential for practical, wondrous applications of the kind of physics that was so theoretical it was nearly fantastical, if only someone would take the time to listen. No one ever did. No one but his first and best teacher, who had tenure to think of and a call to be a professor that his star pupil, the prodigy from the Midwest, had never felt. What was needed was a great deal of money: some kind of corporate sponsorship, or the support of a large and prestigious university…
But no university had the money to lavish on a wager like this. The kind of physics that this overqualified young dreamer loved was too abstract to gain funding. His theories were too absurd to gain credibility. He had been trying for years to get something published in some kind of worthwhile journal. Even attaching Professor LoNigro's name to his papers hadn't given them the punch that they needed to garner the respect of the scientific community.
He was beginning to despair of ever making anything of himself. Maybe he should just take the fellowship at Columbia, and settle down to a quiet life as a linguistics professor. It wasn't what he wanted to do, but it was better than the existence he had now, picking up the occasional guest lecture here or there in one of his six areas of expertise, and lying awake in the small hours of the morning, dreaming of something more. Dreaming of the chance to make a real difference in the world of quantum physics. Dreaming of the opportunity to do what his brother had always encouraged him to do, to follow his true talent and do what he truly loved, when in fact he had a better chance of meeting his own great-grandmother.
The problem wasn't his theories. He knew they were sound. They would work. The problem was that no one else could see that, and he had absolutely no idea how to help them understand.
He had mastered eleven languages—seven modern, four dead—but for the life of him he couldn't speak layman physics.
MWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMAt one in the morning, the night shift at Starbright Human Resources was at its absolute slowest. Never one to waste time, Daniel Penvenen was sharpening his pencils. He liked to keep one dozen ready and waiting at all times. One never knew when they would come in handy.
In his experience, commercial pencil sharpeners produced substandard results. Instead, he used a four-inch stainless steel pocketknife. Because of the crest emblazoned on the handle, it was a risky article to carry around, but no one was really very likely to notice it—or to make the most logical conclusion if they did. They were far more likely to suppose he had obtained it from a friend or a family member, or even purchased it. Carrying it was a calculated risk like any other, and Dan was very careful how he calculated his risks.
Unlike Captain Calavicci.
Nepotism was a very risky game to play. It would have been one thing to give the girl a job as a secretary or a cafeteria server. Creating a whole new full-clearance position, however, was a grave political gaff. He had been astounded to hear that Congressman Davies—his contact on the Committee—had thought it was a workable suggestion. When Calavicci had dragged him down to his office to draw up the papers, Dan had scarcely been able to believe his luck. He was digging himself deeper and deeper. At the rate he was going, he would be discreditable within the year.
The only trouble was that it was a shame to bring down charming young Mrs. Calavicci with her useless, lecherous post-traumatic-stress-disorder-riddled rummy of a husband. She was a delightful young lady: thoroughly likeable. Her idea of introducing intramural sports into the Starbright environment was an excellent one. It had struck a cord with Dan, who knew first-hand the importance of a high level of physical fitness.
Of course, he reflected as he swept the pencil shavings into his wastebasket, these days his work was a little more sedentary.
He glanced at the four composition books full of evidence against Calavicci and smiled.
But no less rewarding.
MWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMW
Al locked the door as Maxine strode into the living room and deposited her packages on the spare sofa. "Have a nice evening?"
"Oh, yes!" Maxine breathed. "It was wonderful. Wasn't that a great movie?"
"I dunno," Al said. "I think I liked the last one better."
"Oh, well, yeah, but you can't improve on perfection," Maxine said, opening the box and taking out her new skates. "God, they're gorgeous," she sighed happily. "I wish I knew how to use them!"
"You'll learn," Al told her, moving into the kitchen and digging out a tray of ice. "You want anything?" he asked.
"Orange juice," Maxine said. "You know, you really shouldn't drink so much."
"Why not?"
"It's not good for you. It's hard on your… uhm… your… it's hard on something."
"Liver," Al said, taking a long draught of whiskey and rummaging in the fridge for the pitcher of orange juice. "Alcohol is hard on the liver."
"Well, there you go," Maxine said, spinning the wheels of the left skate. She had settled, after much deliberation, on canary yellow ones with neon orange wheels and crimson laces. She had picked out pads and a helmet to match, and then talked Al into taking her to a boutique where she had bought herself three sets of legwarmers, three leotards, three pairs of satin running shorts, and three mesh shirts—one in each color. "It's hard on your liver: you shouldn't do it."
"I like it," Al argued. "And believe me, baby, if my liver's survived the things that have gone into this mouth, a little bit of scotch isn't going to finish it off."
There was a pause during which he brought her a glass of orange juice on the rocks, and settled on the sofa to watch her exploring her new equipment. Presently, Maxine spoke again.
"Do you like being drunk?" she asked.
"Do I what?" Al drained the liquid from his glass and reached for the bottle.
"Well, I don't really like being drunk," Maxine continued, "having no control over what I'm doing or saying, the way the whole room seems to spin. It's all right to be tipsy, maybe, but not drunk. And then you wake up with a hangover, and your head feels like it's been run over by a bulldozer, and—"
"Are you trying to turn me into a teetotaler?" Al asked, frowning at her.
"No," Maxine said. "I was just thinking, maybe, if you cut back a little bit…"
Al stiffened defensively. "Does it bother you?"
"No-o…" she said. Then she put her roller-skate back into the box and slipped onto the couch next to him. "No, it doesn't." This time there was more conviction in her voice. "Not really."
"Good," he said. Yet somehow, the whiskey didn't taste as good anymore, and he set the glass aside, wrapping both of his arms around her. She smiled and leaned back against him.
"You ready to go to bed?" she asked. "Or are you in the mood for something new?"
He snuffled in her hair as he spoke. "Maxine, Maxine," he breathed. "I am always in the mood for something new."
"Good. Go into the bedroom," she instructed. "Take off your clothes and lie face-down on the bed."
Al laughed. "You're not going to see much action with me in that position!" he teased.
She leaned back far enough that she could kiss his chin. "You'd be surprised!" she said. Then she got up and shooed him towards the bedroom. "Hurry up!" she said. "You have two minutes!"
Shaking his head, Al complied. He undressed. "Lights on or off?" he called.
"Turn off the overheads, and turn on the bedside lamp," Max shouted back.
"What're you doing out there?"
A silvery laugh rang out. "You'll see!"
As instructed, Al lay down on the bed. Then Maxine appeared in the doorway. She had stripped down to her camisole and panties, and in her hand was a little jar of something white.
"What have you got there?" Al asked.
"Cocoa butter lotion," Maxine said. "I thought I could do some finger-painting."
Al stared at her. "Finger-painting?"
She crept onto the bed and sat down on his knees. Then a cool tendril began to trace one of the scars webbing his back. Al hissed. "What the…"
"Ssh, relax," Maxine said, massaging his shoulder with the hand that wasn't busy applying the lotion to his back. "You're too tense."
Another scar was given similar treatment. It felt so strange to have gentle fingers following these lines of misery and hate. Al didn't know whether he should scream at her to stop touching them, or burst into tears of pathetic gratitude because she didn't seem to mind them.
"Most guys," Maxine said, kissing his eighth vertebrae; "I need to do free-form. It's harder. With you, I have some guidelines." She followed another scar, this one made by a strip cut from an old truck tire.
"Most guys, huh?" Al breathed. He was beginning to loosen up in spite of himself. "You've had a lot of boyfriends, have you?"
"Too many," Maxine murmured. The heel of her hand began to kneed a place between his floating ribs that he hadn't realized was so sore. "What about you?"
"Boyfriends?" Al teased. "Me?"
"No, silly. Women."
"Can never have too many women," he mumbled. The effect of her massage was almost hypnotic. He was dimly aware that this was the wrong thing to say, but he was growing too tranquil to care. "Have to try to find…"
Her left hand had worked its way up his neck, and was now toying with his hair while the right applied more lotion to his back. "That's right," she breathed. "Relax. You've had a long day. I wrecked your morning. You deserve to relax."
"You keep doing this," Al said drowsily; "and I'm going to fall asleep right here."
She kissed his right shoulder. "Mm-hmm."
"Isn't that a problem?"
"I know where you live. I'll take a rain check."
The laugh liberated him from the last of his inhibitions, as surely as half a bottle of scotch would have. Caring nothing for the greasy semisolid covering his back, he rolled over, twining his arms around her body. His own personal goddess. She laughed and he kissed her, deeply and passionately.
"You're something else, beautiful, you know that?" he asked.
She giggled a little, taking his head in her hands and letting her eyes glitter gorgeously. "Am I really?" she asked.
He didn't play games this time. He knew what she was asking, and she deserved to hear it. "Yes, yes you are," he said. "You're beautiful. Very, very beautiful. The most beautiful woman I've seen in eighteen years."
"Who's the most beautiful you've seen, ever?" Maxine asked coyly, stroking the side of his neck.
Al shook his head and kissed her again, feasting on her innocent loveliness and her joyful heart, and trying with all his might to forget.