Mourning Becomes Cassandra (21 page)

When I was right next to him, Kyle looked up at last and nodded. I heard him say, “Thanks, Man,” before removing his headphones.

“Peace,” answered Murray, barely glancing at me as we left.

After I shut the door behind us, I burst out, “Sheesh, Kyle! How did you ever manage to charm Murray?” He looked at me questioningly. “I couldn’t get two friendly words out of him all afternoon, and there he was talking to you and showing you things!” Kyle only gave his usual shrug, and I added resignedly, “I guess it was all downhill after I asked him what some of the ‘doodads’ in the recording booth were. He seemed offended by my technical jargon. Come on, you want to get coffee with me?”

“James said to grab him when we were done,” said Kyle tonelessly.

“Oh, okay then,” I agreed. We didn’t even make it as far as James’ cube, however, because we found him crammed in Riley’s, where the two of them were having an animated discussion.

“Dude, everyone knows there’s no sound in space,” Riley exclaimed, holding up a hand to greet me. “You put sound effects in the spacewalk sequence, and nerds around the world are gonna flame us in their blogs.”

“Ri, you can’t have an extended silent sequence,” objected James. “Everyone’s going to think their console or their TV or computer is on the fritz. It’s a convention to have sound effects in space. Think of every space movie you’ve ever seen. Even nerds suspend their disbelief. It’s like when you call someone—you know the ringing sound you hear has nothing to do with the ringing sound the physical phone generates. Kyle, you with me on this one?”

Before Kyle could respond, Riley blurted, “Think about it, Bateman. It’s not a battle scene—it’s a spacewalk sequence. You know, the astronaut’s got to fix the friggin’ mirror that isn’t pointing the right direction anymore and that kind of crap. What do you want, power drills and hammering?”

“Silent,” judged Kyle.

James threw up his hands in mock despair. “Overruled by a 15-year-old. Who’s mentoring this kid anyhow? He should be fired instantly.”

“How about music?” I suggested. “Floating-in-space kind of music. Fixing-mirrors-and-tightening-screws-in-space kind of music.”

Riley gave a loud guffaw. “God, Murray will be all over it. All his crap-o music sounds like synthesizers falling into bathtubs—perfect background music for spacewalks.”

“Or you could do loud, in-helmet breathing,” I went on. “You know, the spacewalk from the astronaut’s perspective. I could record some breathing sounds for you.”

“No way,” said Riley. “If we put in girl-breathing, the game won’t get an ‘E for Everyone’ rating. On the other hand, if we could get Jeri to record the breathing, it would be more androgynous.” Predictably, Jeri’s hand appeared over the cubicle wall, flipping him off.

“Riley,” I protested, “no one can tell the difference between girl- and guy-breathing—and I didn’t mean panting breathing, you pervert.”

“We’ll give Murray the final say on the sound,” said James, cutting off any further debate. “But there will be some kind of sound. Let’s get some coffee. You coming, Ri?”

The coffee break was a riot. Riley and Kyle got into a big argument over some bit of
Star Wars
arcana that I couldn’t follow, even after the hours of research I put in on my novelization, with James throwing in his two cents’ worth from time to time without measurable results.

“You hide your nerdiness well,” I remarked to James, when Riley and Kyle escalated to drawing dueling diagrams on the unbleached paper napkins. I couldn’t recall ever seeing Kyle this lively.

“You wouldn’t say that if you saw me in high school,” James answered easily. “It’d be another few years before I finally grew into my head, got contacts, changed the wardrobe. A girlfriend made me over freshman year in college.”

I smiled. “It’ll do. You could pass easily now for someone who did tennis team in high school.”

“You mean it? The marching band and Academic Decathlon don’t show anymore?”

“Not a bit. But tell me how the Ducati fits in—all the nerds I knew in high school didn’t tool around on any cool bikes.”

“Yeah, my motorcycle interest was something I had to hide from my friends and my enemies, since they both would have given me grief for it,” James admitted. “Lucky for me my parents wouldn’t let me have a bike in high school. Riley and the guys still give me hell for it when I get it out in the spring—it’s like I bring up bad memories for them of being stuffed in lockers.”

“Stuffed in lockers?” I gasped. “It’s hard to picture Riley ever being able to fit in a locker, even with some determined jock pushing on him.”

“You may be right about Riley,” James conceded, “but I was the perfect size to stuff in a locker.” When I groaned and covered my eyes in dismay, he added laughingly, “I’ve told Kyle he doesn’t know how lucky he is to be tall—if he ever got folded into a locker, he could at least see out the vents at the top.”

Hearing his name, Kyle looked over, his rare smile lighting his face. He was having a grand time. If he hadn’t been sold on the mentor program to begin with, he was a true believer now. Suddenly dispirited, I wondered if James had ever had a knock-down, drag-out fight with Kyle like I had with Nadina. Doubtful. On the other hand, it was equally difficult trying to imagine them talking about God and prayer—not James so much as Kyle. For all Nadina’s volatility, she plainly had a deep streak to her that she would let me glimpse occasionally; it was like staring down into a crevasse and seeing something bubbling down there. But Kyle was such a hard read. What would James use as an analogy for faith?

Riley slammed his hand down on the table to make some point, jarring me from my reverie, and I was surprised to find James’ eyes on me, a troubled expression on his face. When I raised my eyebrows questioningly, he suddenly looked extremely uncomfortable and, fumbling for his cell phone, said abruptly, “Oh, I think that’s Murray, wanting to know where we went, Ri. We’d better get going. Cass and Kyle, great work today. We’ll be in touch.”

“Tell Murray to keep his wig on,” said Riley without budging. “I’m on coffee break.”

James hesitated, then knocked on the table. “Okay, then. I’ll see you back at the office.” With his usual quick movements, he was gone.

Riding the bus home later I reflected with satisfaction on the day. Though Murray hadn’t said one word of approbation, I assumed with him that if he didn’t make me redo it, the voiceover work met his standards. Riley had likewise been content with my last revision of the
Antarctiquest!
Amundsen sections and just wanted me to edit for length. Free Universe might pay their contractors peanuts, but they more than made up for it in sheer fun. James’ odd behavior at the end was puzzling, but maybe he really did have to dash back. And his frowning, thoughtful expression might have been no more than a reflection of mine, as I thought about how comparatively disastrous I was as a mentor.

The bus turned the corner, heading past the park and up the main arterial into Clyde Hill, and I forgot about James when I noticed that they were already putting up the tent for the seasonal skating rink. I’d skated for years in elementary and middle school when we lived closer to an ice rink, but when we moved downtown it had become too much of a hassle. It would be fun to try it again now and see if I could still do any of my old tricks.

Friday evenings were usually very quiet around the Palace, since everyone usually had a date or, in Daniel’s case, someone to wine and dine before he slept with her. Heating up some leftover enchiladas, I brought my laptop down to check email while I ate. Two from Raquel, one from Nadina. Predictably, Raquel was reiterating her Thanksgiving invitation, and I was grateful to have Perry coming and a legitimate place to be, but to throw her a bone, I promised to visit the weekend before. Nadina, for her part, had two entirely new bits of news for me:

Ohio? What on earth would they be doing in Ohio? Not that I wasn’t glad that Nadina was going with her mom and getting away from Mike for a little bit. I had thought briefly of inviting Nadina and her mom to Thanksgiving dinner, weird though that would have been with my housemates, but had abandoned the idea when I figured I might also have to invite Mike and his dad. Although Nadina had been very quiet about Mike’s attitude toward me since our fight, I still had visions of him bludgeoning me to death with a turkey drumstick.

Shutting down my computer I moved it away and reached for my new library book about Captain Cook’s travels. Next to 19
^th
-century novels, I loved a good armchair voyage with the Royal Navy. Before long my surroundings were forgotten, and I was stepping ashore in Tahiti, the air smelling of flowers and my footprints appearing and disappearing in the black sand.

I had just gotten to the part where the Navy men observe the Transit of Venus when I heard the garage door opening. Frowning, I glanced at the clock: 7:30? That could only mean someone’s Friday night had gone awry.

It was Daniel. He gave a curt laugh when he saw me, dumped his usual gear by the barstools and went right to the sink to start scrubbing his hands.

“Doing a little surgery tonight?” I asked dryly, after his unusually vigorous hand-washing went on for some time.

“Kelly vomited at dinner with me,” he said shortly, getting another pump of soap.

“Did the poor girl at least make it to the bathroom? Tell me she didn’t throw up at the table.” If she did that might be the new winner for World’s Worst Date.

“She made it to the bathroom. We were just finishing up,” he answered carelessly.

“And she didn’t barf all over your Corvette?” He didn’t bother replying. Coming over to the table instead, he made to reach for my Captain Cook book, but I scooted it away. “How do I know you’re not still contagious? You might have kissed her.”

“Are you flirting with me, Cass? Because, seeing that I just washed my hands for five minutes, the only way I could then infect you would be if I kissed you.” When my eyebrows zoomed together in response, Daniel said softly, “Easy there.” He sat down opposite me and very deliberately took the book from my hand. “More of your Antarctica research?”

I shook my head. “No, he’s only reached Tahiti.” I couldn’t resist adding, “You would have been in your element there—all those topless women rowing out to meet your ship.”

“Yes, too bad the Christian missionaries ever had to get to them,” he replied. “Taking something natural like sex and calling it dirty.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” I considered. “Do you think it did more damage to have Christian missionaries come and ask people to slap a shirt on and get married before they had sex, or to have people like Cook’s sailors come, who loved ʼem and left ʼem in every port and brought venereal disease and prostitution to Tahiti?”

“Point taken,” he conceded, “but I’ve wondered about you church girls. Tell me that even church girls nowadays don’t wait till they’re married to have sex.” If he had once told me he never knew what I was going to say, I could now return the compliment, except that his surprising comments could usually be tied back in some fashion to sex.

“I bet you could find lots of church girls who would have sex with you.”

“Sex with guilt,” he clarified. “Girls who would have sex but feel guilty about it.”

“No, I’m sure you could find lots of church girls who would have sex with you without feeling the least twinge of guilt, if they thought you loved them and they loved you.”

“But not girls like you,” he persisted. My predictable blush came and went, and he added, “I mean, you don’t sound like you’d put yourself in that category. Women who think like you, or Joanie, or Phyl, for that matter, wouldn’t do even the sex with guilt. What’s that about?”

I couldn’t suppress a squirm. Embarrassment-wise, this was about on par with the junior high Discussion with the parents. I hoped Daniel wouldn’t say “penis.” After a pause I said cautiously, “Well, what girls like me think wouldn’t make any sense to you.”

“Try me.”

I sighed. “Okay, but I know you hate this stuff, so remember that you asked me.” It took me a minute to gather my thoughts. “In the Bible, marriage is an analogy for our relationship with God. It’s total: body, mind, and spirit. You love a person your whole life long with all you’ve got inside you, and they love you the same way, just like God asks for total commitment, and he offers total commitment. You can’t be intimate—really, truly known and loved—if there’s always the fear that the other person doesn’t love you and might leave you. You’ll always hold back. Having sex outside of marriage is like giving precious, intimate parts of yourself to someone who’s just going to throw it all in the trash when he’s done.”

“Plenty of church people get divorces and throw all kinds of stuff in the trash,” he pointed out.

I sighed again, thinking of Phyl and Jason and now Perry and Betsy. “Yeah, well I was giving you the ideal situation. Just because it sometimes fails doesn’t mean it’s not worth shooting for.”

His cell phone rang, and he pulled it out of his pocket, turning it off without glancing at it. Holding it in his hand, he flipped it over and over absently. “So you think, when I sleep with different people and then move on, I’m throwing precious parts of them in the trash.”

Well, wasn’t he? I remembered Missy’s unhappiness months ago at our first open house, but I couldn’t speak for all of them. Michelle had seemed as content as Daniel to sleep together when it suited them. “Daniel, you asked me what I thought, and I told you. I guess if both people don’t care it doesn’t make much sense.” If only he were Mom and Dad—then I could whine, “Now can we
please
change the subject?” Instead I said, “So anyway, what’s your Plan B when Plan A gets the stomach flu? Do you whip out your little black book?”