The Great Perhaps (15 page)

“What do we got here?” Burt asked, staring at a large gaping hole in the plaster wall. “Look’s like Mr. Silber here has been keeping secrets.”

“Maybe he didn’t know working for the Germans was against the law,” Pete said with a grin.

“Maybe he forgot which country he was living in.”

Henry did not make a sound, only watched in horror as Mr. Miner, glancing out of the corner of his eye, flung himself up from the couch toward the shiny white-paned windows. By the time the two agents noticed what was happening, Mr. Miner had lifted open the window closest to him, his handcuffed hands shoving the latch upward, and had gotten one of his red slippers up onto the ledge. Henry stood watching, his heart beating wildly, his mouth open, but unable to make his tongue and teeth work.

“Silber, my God, don’t move,” one of the agents shouted.

The last thing Henry saw was Mr. Miner’s black eyes, as he winked just once, and then disappeared into the cloudy air, the red sash from his robe flapping like the tail of a kite as he flew decisively from the ledge. In his heart, Henry hoped that the man had somehow flown away, but he knew it was impossible.

B
Y NIGHTFALL,
a gang of federal agents had surrounded the Caspers’ little tailor shop, and had torn the place apart from floor to ceiling—wrecking their old twin sewing machines, cutting up newly stitched garments, smashing the honey-colored radio. Henry, watching it all from atop his bicycle in front of the shop, saw his father and his uncle Felix marched out in shiny silver handcuffs, the yellow measuring ribbon still in his father’s vest pocket. His father’s face did not look outraged: only ashamed, his dark, wrinkled eyes small, his mouth weak-looking with embarrassment. While Felix, younger, full of fight, shouted and shoved at the empty-faced agents in their matching gray hats, Henry’s father Len looked down at his feet as he was led past neighbors and customers. The shop—the thing Len had been most proud of in his life, even more than his ailing wife and his three children—was in ruins. His son, with his bright, questioning eyes and quiet, piercing gaze, sat atop his green bicycle, watching its destruction from outside.

“Tell your mother what has happened,” his father said as he was led past. “Tell her I am not a spy. I did not do what they say I have done.”

But as he stared at his father’s long face, while the agents shoved him through the December snow into the backseat of a black sedan, Henry knew he had seen that same look on countless men, in serial films and in the final pages of dozens of
Airship Brigade
comics. It was the look of a guilty man, a villain, a crook. Henry’s father was one of them—the black-hearted enemy. Having seen Mr. Miner step from the ledge of his own window, Henry did not wonder if his father and uncle were lying. Why else would the FBI be arresting them? No, it was becoming clear now. There was no longer any doubt in his mind. His father
was
guilty—of what, Henry wasn’t exactly sure—but by Len’s dull, weak-lipped expression, it was obvious he had been caught at something. Maybe he was a villain and, worse, a traitor, a spy—the most cowardly villain of them all. And now, having been captured—as spies in comic books never succeed, always crumbling at the feet of the hero in the final panel on the final page—his father was gone, abandoning Henry and his family, and for what? What do spies in comic books ever hope to gain? Money? Secrets? Power? All of it was useless now. And worse, without his father, without Uncle Felix or the tailor shop, how would the family live? A deep hatred began to glow silently within the boy’s chest as the first sedan pulled away, then the others, all disappearing into the wintry light. Watching them go, Henry climbed from his green bicycle, then crept into the ruined shop, his heart beating hard in anger and shame.

Henry could barely look. Bolts of linen, silver tools, spools of thread, had all been upturned along the front of the shop. The stores of fabric strewn about, the recently mended garments had been trampled upon by wet, dirty shoes. Looking around the tiny shop until his shoulders began to tremble, Henry climbed behind the counter, then through the black curtain into the back of the store, searching through the unmended clothes that had been tossed about in mismatched piles. Leafing through the yellow claim tags one after the other, then moving to another pile, then another, he finally came upon what he was looking for: hidden beneath an inconspicuous black suit coat and white dress shirt was a yellow paper tag marked
Nachtfalter
in his father’s writing. Henry tore through the plastic cover and found a pair of gray slacks, hemmed in the style Mr. Miner preferred. The waist needing mending, or so the note on the tag said. Henry moved his fingers along the waist and saw that the hem there was perfectly intact, the white thread as steady and unbroken as any he had ever seen. Moving his finger along the stitches, he felt what he had been searching for against his fingertips: there was an almost identical hem, all around the waist, but broken, in short lines and dashes. Holding the pants up to the fading winter light, Henry could see the thread was not stitched to hold the hem in place. It was a message, a secret code of some kind, left in his father’s infinitesimally small stitches just a few millimeters below the real hemline, the evidence hanging there in his grasp: his father, with his cunningly small hands, was a spy, a traitor, a coward. Henry ran his finger along the message and felt his small heart shrink in his chest. He stormed from behind the black curtain, found a pair of scissors on the floor, and began to tear the false stitches apart, splitting the pants at the same time, until they no longer resembled a garment of any kind.

One by one, he searched through the other clothes in the narrow back room, flinging them from the shelves. At once, a tiny brown moth flittered from its hiding place, frightening Henry as it swooped to an empty spot on the bare wall. He stared at the small creature for a moment, and then squinted his eyes, before he slammed the palm of his hand against the insect, watching the delicate-winged moth drift heavily toward the floor. He did not bother to lock the door of the shop behind him as he climbed onto his bicycle and pedaled the three blocks back to the tenement, overcome by the terrible feeling that the world, like the little tailor shop, like all of the garments within, had suddenly come undone.

When Henry has finished scribbling this new letter, this last memory of his fading childhood, he folds the note inside the envelope, licks the seal, scrawls down the address, licks the stamp, and wheels himself toward the front desk. Without a word, he hands Nurse Rhoda the letters, then rolls himself forward, pausing before the glass security doors.

“Keep moving, Mr. Casper,” Nurse Rhoda calls out, glancing suspiciously over the counter at him. Henry does not respond to her command, not immediately. Instead he stares at the smudgy glass divider, memorizing its exact shape, already planning his next escape: “Once I’m gone,” he mutters, “please don’t remember me.”

A
S
J
ONATHAN FINDS HIS WAY BACK FROM THE RESEARCH
lab to the unlit den late that Saturday evening, tired from visiting with his father all afternoon, he pulls off his double-knit sweater, unbuttons his shirt, and, on his hands and knees, crawls beneath the white sheets that hang like long tent flaps. He is startled to find Madeline there, in her white nightgown, bare shoulders freckled and glowing. He starts to mutter something, but his wife puts her narrow finger to his lips and then helps him unbutton the rest of his shirt, and soon they are kissing, their tongues exploring each other’s mouths, and Jonathan cannot remember the last time they kissed like this: they are like grad students all over again, making out in the stacks of the university’s library or in her tiny apartment afraid that her ditzy roommate might stumble in at any minute. Off come his pants, off comes her nightgown, and soon they are having intercourse, her limbs pressed against his limbs, their bodies tensed and moving in one delightful motion, Jonathan staring deeply into his wife’s brown eyes, wanting to say something, to thank her for waiting here for him, for knowing everything, but as soon as he opens his mouth to speak, she shushes him again, closing her eyes, a narrow smirk across her face. When they are done a few minutes later, Madeline pulls down her nightgown and crawls away through the flaps of the fort. Jonathan reaches out for her shoulder and asks, “Wait, where are you going?”

Madeline smiles and says, “We’re still fighting.”

“What? We are? Why?”

“Why? Why do you think, Jonathan?”

“I got to be honest, I really don’t know.”

“Well, for one, because you are totally in your own world. For two, you expect me to take care of you and the girls and the house and the bills but you’re not willing to do the same for me.”

“But you just had sex with me,” he mutters.

“It doesn’t matter. We’re still separated,” she says, then disappears into the darkness of the poorly lit house.

T
HE NEXT DAY
is a Sunday, and in his office on campus Jonathan searches through the long list of his electronic correspondence. There is a response from
Dragonflydr.
Jonathan clicks on the miniature white electronic envelope and begins to read:

Sighing, he deletes the message and tries to finish his notes for tomorrow’s lecture, which is supposed to be about the evolutionary connection between physical traits and emotion. When the dull beige phone on his desk begins to ring, Jonathan, apprehensive, glares at it and lets it buzz once, twice, a third time, before answering.

“Hello?” he mutters.

“Jonathan? It’s Ben Brandt. From the Hausman Institute.”

Jonathan cringes. “Hello, Ben.” He pinches the spot between his eyes and begins to shake his head. “You’re calling me on a Sunday?”

“I wanted to try to get ahold of you today before you got the bad news from someone else tomorrow morning.”

Jonathan sighs.

The Hausman Institute is a benevolent, though not very imaginative scientific organization, and the major funder of Jonathan’s stalled prehistoric giant squid project.

“It’s about your grant. We…we’ve had to pull your funding for next year.”

“Why?” Jonathan whispers. “Why are you doing this to me?”

“Jonathan, we just wanted to let you know that we think you are doing incredibly important, really sophisticated work. But because of financial constraints and the sheer number of new applicants this year, we’re unable…well, we’ve had to make the hard decision to no longer continue your funding.”

“What am I supposed to?” Jonathan hisses, his teeth clicking against the phone. “What am I supposed to do now? This is my life. This is the only thing in the world that matters to me and you’re cutting me off at the knees. You’re fucking—” and, promptly remembering himself, his voice, his tone, “You’re fucking castrating me.”

“Jonathan, I know you’re upset, but I’m sure there’ll be other funding opportunities for you. I was speaking with Laura Hamlin, from the Manguson Foundation—”

“Laura Hamlin is an evangelical Christian. Those guys, those guys don’t want anything to do with evolution. They’d like us to spend our time searching for Noah’s ark.”

“Jonathan, I hear your frustration, but the last thing I want to do is give you the impression that we don’t believe in the work you’ve been doing. We’re just not able to fund it any longer.”

“Ben?”

“Yes?”

“Fuck you.”

Jonathan slams down the phone, holding his hand over his face. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

W
HEN
J
ONATHAN PULLS
the Peugeot into the garage that evening, he notices the Volvo is missing. He crosses the small backyard, pushes open the back door, which is unlocked, walks down the hall to the family room, and collapses into his gray chair. Amelia and Thisbe are lying in front of the television, watching some drama about teens in southern California. Jonathan glances around and asks, “Where’s your mom?” but the girls only shrug.

“Did either of you guys eat yet?” he asks.

They both mutter a depressed no without turning from the TV.

“Does anybody know what time it is?” Jonathan asks.

Amelia sighs and looks at her wristwatch. “It’s like eight-thirty.”

“How long have you been watching TV?”

“An hour,” Amelia lies.

“Then you’re done after this show.”

“Fine,” she whispers.

“Well, do either of you guys want something to eat?” he asks.

“No,” Thisbe says, staring expressionlessly at the TV.

“No,” Amelia says, turning over on her back.

“Well, I’m going to go make myself something to eat.”

“Good,” Amelia mutters.

“Good.”

Jonathan sucks in a breath and pulls himself out of his chair. He putters around the kitchen, opening and closing the cabinets, the refrigerator, not interested in anything he sees. He finds a half gallon of milk and drinks a long draught, then caps it and places it back in the fridge. He sniffs around again, opening and closing the same cabinets. Why is there no junk food anywhere in the house? Why not a Ding Dong or a Twinkie? Why not some hot dogs or frozen pizza? Where the fuck is Madeline? It’s eight o’clock on a Sunday night. What is happening to them? Does she still love him? Is she getting fucked by some dude with enormous biceps right now? Why can’t they just be unhappy together? Why can’t they just live like regular miserable people?

Glancing down the hallway at his two daughters, both of them lit up like zombies from the blue glow of the television, Jonathan skulks off to the den, where once again he switches off the lights, climbs through the opening of his fort, and pulls the sheet over his head. With the flashlight resting in his lap, he imagines he is at the bottom of the ocean, the sandy silt of silent, undisturbed civilization far above him. He starts to cry, the sound bursting like bubbles of dismay, rising through the air.

A
SLEEP LATER THAT EVENING,
beneath the shadows of the white sheet, Jonathan is awoken by the sound of the telephone ringing somewhere beneath the rubble of the den. He crawls through the opening of the fort, searching frantically for the phone, finding its cord, then follows it to the receiver itself. On what may be the third or fourth ring, Jonathan answers it groggily.

“Hello?” His voice sounds like he’s still underwater.

“Dr. Casper?”

“Yes. Hello?”

“Dr. Casper?”

“Yes, this is him. Who is this?”

“This is Ted,” and then some mumbling on the other end. “And Catherine is here next to me.”

“Who?”

“Your grad students, Dr. Casper.”

Jonathan nods, though there is no one around to see him do that.

“Ted?”

“Yes?”

“Do you have any idea what time it is?”

“It’s about two in the morning, sir. Two-twelve actually.”

“Why are you calling me at two-twelve in the morning, Ted?”

“Sir, we didn’t know if it was appropriate to phone you but we both felt it was important.”

“Okay.”

There is more mumbling on the other end.

“Catherine wants you to know she did not think it was appropriate to call you.”

“Okay.”

“But we both agreed that we thought maybe you’d like to know.”

“Know what, Ted?”

“It’s the French, sir.”

Jonathan then realizes he is standing. He is standing and sweating all of a sudden.

“The French?” His heart is beating hard now, his hand clenching the phone tightly. “What about the French?”

“Sir…” He can hear the grad student thinking, the sound of his lips parting and his tongue against his teeth. “Sir…”

“Just say it, Ted.”

“They found it, sir.
Tusoteuthis longa.
They think they got one. It was just on CNN. Catherine saw it and then came over and woke me.”

“CNN.”

“That French scientist, Albert, he was on TV. I guess they found it near Japan.”

“Japan.”

“It was in international waters. That’s how they got it so fast. Do you want to meet or something, sir? Catherine thought maybe you’d like to discuss a—”

“No,” Jonathan murmurs. “No.”

“Well, we can be at the lab as early as you need us, sir.”

“Ted?”

“Yes?”

“Go back to sleep.” Jonathan hangs up the phone, setting the device back on the carpeted floor where he found it. Staggering, he stumbles through the dark, down the hallway, and finds the television remote. He switches the TV on and then begins flipping through the channels, finally finding CNN. There behind the anchor desk is a bright-eyed woman, finishing up some news story about the latest tragedy in Iraq. Then the camera switches angles and she turns, her expression changing, softer now, pleased to introduce something less awful, less dreadful, a pixelated photograph appearing in a box above her shoulder announcing:
SEA MONSTER DISCOVERED
!

Jonathan, leaning forward, turning the volume on the television set up and up and up, stares in both wonder and a wretched sense of sadness as the news anchor announces, “And now some breaking scientific news: a few hours ago, researchers announced the discovery of a species of giant squid thought to be extinct for millions of years. An international team led by Dr. Jacques Albert of the French Sédimentologie Association made this surprising scientific find off the coast of Japan. Considered by many as the leading expert in the field of evolutionary science, Albert has been searching for this particular species of squid for more than a decade…”

Jonathan switches off the television, his face falling into his hands. All of his work, all of his work is nothing now, completely useless. Gone, gone, gone. He is too upset to even cry, to even make a sound, though he hears himself gritting his teeth. He looks up, staring into the darkness of the television room, wishing he were dead. A glow, a glimmer of light suddenly catches his eye. He turns and stands, staring out the curtained windows. There is something standing in the backyard. There is someone standing in his yard at two in the morning. Slightly panicked, Jonathan carefully parts the curtains and sees it is Madeline, in her white nightgown and robe, staring up at the trees. She is holding a flashlight in her hand and she is looking up at something.