The Fearsome Particles Part 11

"Shoo," whispered Gerald. He lifted one hand off the shears and waved it feebly in the air between them. "Get lost!"

Except for its tail, which never stopped twirling, Rumsfeld didn't move. Gerald couldn't see its face in the dark, couldn't gauge the cat's mood, but he took disdainful as a given. He calculated the risk factors and chanced taking his eyes off the cat long enough to give a glance at the digital clock, and he felt his heart freeze at nearly the precise moment Rumsfeld alighted on the edge of the bed. It was 1:52.

"f.u.c.k off," Gerald wheezed.

The cat nestled in a duvet gorge, out of his reach, bullying him with its presence, apparently fascinated by what was going on at the foot of the bed. And what was going on, Gerald could see now, was lunacy, a breach of the bounds of normalcy so clear-cut he briefly considered the possibility that he was ill. How short it was, he marvelled, how astonis.h.i.+ngly straightforward, the path from cohesion to chaos. Gerald took in the dim-lit scene before him his wife, asleep; her bare foot, exposed; his hands applying gardening shears to her toe and with clarity of a sort he supposed unique to d.a.m.ned or married men, he knew that his only hope was to finish the nail off in one clean slice. He leaned into the shears with everything he had.

When he recalled the moment later, Gerald was able to picture the slice of Vicki's toenail as it flew. The shape of the arc it followed seemed less parabolic than he might have expected, the path it took to its destination more direct than, say, that of a volleyball lobbed over a net. He was able to picture, too, at the edge of this remembered vision, the head of the cat, Rumsfeld, as it turned and, with eyes able to track the darting movements of small birds, followed the flight of the toenail as it sped toward, and lodged in, the corner of Vicki's sleep-slackened mouth, so that she looked a bit like pictures of that old Hollywood movie star, Edward G. Robinson, sporting a tiny, scythe-shaped cigar.

How he made his body move as quickly as he did is a thing Gerald was never able to fathom. But somehow he managed to spring from where he knelt on the floor toward Vicki's head and at the same time block Rumsfeld's apparent attempt to pounce on and kill the toenail fragment. He flicked the nail from between Vicki's lips in the same motion that he knocked the cat off the bed.

Gerald's momentum, however, sent him shoulder-first into the still mound that was his wife's shrouded torso and, in the midst of the tumult, Vicki came to. "What's happening?" she gasped, her eyes wide and searching in the dark.

"The cat," said Gerald, as he slid the shears under his pillow and kicked the duvet to cover Vicki's bare feet. "f.u.c.king cat was on the bed."

She sat up against her pillows and tried to focus on the cat, which was now bouncing and tumbling on the floor in the light from the hallway.

"What's it playing with?" she asked.

Gerald made his head move side to side. "I don't know."

At 6:45 in the morning, real-world time, Gerald forced himself out of bed so that he could meet with Vicki in the breakfast nook before she left for the Lightenham house.

Downstairs, as he sat in a tannic haze thumbing the serrated edges of the news pages, he watched his wife at the counter. He saw her pour the entire contents of the coffeemaker's utilitarian carafe into a tall porcelain pot decorated with blossoming trees and blue paG.o.das, then pour coffee from the porcelain pot into his mug and her Wedgwood cup. This was something she had done every morning, so far as he could remember, for the last six or seven years. And whether he was afraid of what the answer might reveal, or the question, he had never been able to ask why.

She took a spoon from the drawer and set it musically in the Wedgwood saucer, then paused at the counter, apparently looking down at her stocking feet.

"I'm worried about Kyle," Gerald said.

She lifted her head and brought the cups to the table. "Just give him time," she said.

With the sharp clarity of guilt, he saw Vicki now more keenly than he could remember seeing her before; he saw the silver hairs threaded into the gold, the softness of her jaw, and the etching around her eyes, like the faint fossil impressions of evergreen needles. It was as if time had been sped up, unannounced, and its effects cruelly focused.

"You're probably not aware," he said, unable to stop staring, "what Kyle has been doing in his room."

"What are you looking at?"

He dropped his gaze to the table. "He's in there gambling, Vicki. On the Internet."

His wife lifted her cup with two hands her fingernails, he noted, were in reasonable shape and pushed its fine edge against her lower lip. When she took it away, it had left a piping of moisture between her lips.

"I'm sure," she said, "it's just a way of relieving tension."

"No, it's not. It's a way of creating tension, by losing thousands of dollars."

She smiled serenely. "Kyle would not bet that much money, Gerald. He's not like that. How do you even know he's betting?"

"I saw it, on his computer screen."

The toaster popped, and she rose out of her chair. "I've done two halves," she said. "Do you want one?"

"What is it, one of your poppy seed bagels? No thank you." The little seeds always ended up in his teeth, looking like bits of rot. "We should never have allowed him to have a computer of his own."

"Every student needs a computer, Gerald."

"Now it's in there and he's being corrupted by it."

He heard Vicki, at the counter, sigh.

"We shouldn't have given him his own ensuite, either. He never has to come out of his room! He's like a tenant!" Gerald was aware of flitting waterbug-like from worry to worry. "And you exacerbate the situation by taking him his food. He might as well still be over there, for all we see of him. For all we can help him."

Vicki came back to the table with a plate bearing two b.u.t.tered bagel halves. She checked her watch as she sat down. "I'm going to need to leave soon."

"What time do you have?"

"It's a little after seven."

"No, what time do you have, on your watch?"

She looked at him with her back straight, her shoulders square, and breathed very deeply. Gerald had a sense of himself being scattered; he was not one waterbug but many, he was rays of light broken up by leafy branches. It came with a physical sensation, a fluttering in the middle of his chest. He needed to focus on a single issue at a time, and the gambling was the biggest concern right now; the computer was the problem.

"We need to get rid of that computer," he said.

She was spreading her bagel halves with raspberry jam. "That's ridiculous."

"I think it's necessary."

"How is he going to study, Gerald? How is he going to write his papers?"

"He's not in school any more, Vicki. He quit school."

She sniffed. "I'm sure he will go back. He's very talented." Her teeth made a careful incision in the bagel's raspberry layer.

"I want you to support me on this. I want you to go up there with me, right now, and be supportive."

Vicki set down the bagel and rubbed her fingertips together over the small china plate, as if salting it with crumbs. "A great deal depends, I think, Gerald, on what you are planning to do."

What he should have done, after he got home last night, was ride his profound sense of purpose right into his son's room. The computer had come inside and, while not dangerous in itself, it was a carrier of danger. Who was there to deal with it but him? He should have seized the computer and pulled it out of the wall, no matter what Kyle's objections.

He looked at Vicki now, working her lower jaw, brus.h.i.+ng crumbs from her fingertips to the plate, and he knew that she would not support the removal of the computer unless she saw the danger first-hand.

"All I want to do is talk to him," said Gerald. "Come upstairs with me and let's talk."

She appeared to study him as she chewed. She took a sip from her cup and considered him further. "All you want to do is talk? A proper talk, that is, not yelling."

"At the moment, that's all."

She gave him a small smile. "I would enjoy that."

At Kyle's door, Gerald knocked. "Son? Are you up? It's your mom and I." He waited. "We'd like to come in and chat for a minute." He looked at Vicki to confirm that she was still onside and as ready as he was to confront hard truths. Vicki was adjusting her blouse. "Son?"

From behind the door, they heard the creak of a chair, and Kyle's lazy voice: "It's your f.u.c.kin' house."

Gerald shot Vicki a did-you-hear-that? look, and couldn't be sure that she had. "Hear that?" he murmured. "That's very odd."

"Oh, Gerald." She rolled her eyes. "He's a young man. Young men sometimes speak coa.r.s.ely."

Not Kyle, he wanted to fume at her. Not Kyle. He turned the k.n.o.b of the door and gingerly pushed it open. As he had expected as he had explained Kyle was seated at his computer, and he was clicking the BET MAX BET MAX b.u.t.ton of StarfishCasino.com. b.u.t.ton of StarfishCasino.com.

"Kyle?" said Gerald, motioning for Vicki to look at the screen, look at the screen look at the screen. "Here we are, son. Both of us, your mom and I, together."

Kyle turned away from the screen and pa.s.sed his gaze over Gerald. His eyes s.h.i.+fted to the right, where Vicki should have been, but Gerald could see that he had not opened the door wide enough. He reached in and pushed it farther.

"h.e.l.lo, darling," said Vicki, as she was revealed.

Gerald began to ease into the room. He tried to catch Vicki's elbow and bring her along, but she lifted her arm up and out of his grasp. A ding ding came from the computer and pulled Kyle back to the screen. "How long have you been going at it there, son? Since you got out of bed? How long have you been up?" He glanced around his son's room for daylight signs of disorder, for typifiers of a pre-dawn struggle between anarchy and reason. But aside from the rumpled bed, it looked the way Kyle's room always had. Nothing had changed on the walls; the black and white picture he had taken of Kyle at age seven, cupping moist garden earth in his hands, still hung between the two leaded-gla.s.s windows. The three framed periodic tables still sat over his desk, all of them gifts from Vicki, antiques showing the table's evolution from Mendeleev's version in the 1860s, when the world knew of fewer than seventy elements, and so many perils had yet to be introduced. came from the computer and pulled Kyle back to the screen. "How long have you been going at it there, son? Since you got out of bed? How long have you been up?" He glanced around his son's room for daylight signs of disorder, for typifiers of a pre-dawn struggle between anarchy and reason. But aside from the rumpled bed, it looked the way Kyle's room always had. Nothing had changed on the walls; the black and white picture he had taken of Kyle at age seven, cupping moist garden earth in his hands, still hung between the two leaded-gla.s.s windows. The three framed periodic tables still sat over his desk, all of them gifts from Vicki, antiques showing the table's evolution from Mendeleev's version in the 1860s, when the world knew of fewer than seventy elements, and so many perils had yet to be introduced.

"I'm not up, Dad," said Kyle. "I'm down."

Gerald turned and flung his eyebrows at Vicki. You see? You see? He said, "Your mother wants to know how you're doing too, son." He prompted her with a jerk of his head. He said, "Your mother wants to know how you're doing too, son." He prompted her with a jerk of his head.

Vicki smiled at the back of Kyle. "You're doing just fine, aren't you, dear."

He stared incomprehensibly at his wife. Everything, everything everything, was up to him. Outside Kyle's window the ravaging squirrels skittered along stone ledges, looking for tender new wires, and Gerald knew he was the only one who heard. "The thing is, son," he said, "I have some concerns." He laid his hand lightly on Kyle's shoulder. "You seem to be spending a lot of time on that particular site. You seem to be betting a lot of money. Am I right there?"

"You're right, Dad."

Gerald nodded. Over his son's shoulder he watched the hams and pineapples and cherry colas spin. He watched rum bottles and lime wedges line up with coconuts, and nothing good ever came of that. Beyond his general unease over Kyle's betting spree lay a more specific distress: slot machines. Why, he wanted to know, was his son genuflecting before aimless chance? At least a game like poker required some skill, at least it offered a semblance of control. And the father-son opportunities he could teach Kyle how to calculate pot odds! But his son was in trouble and this was no time to be drawing fine distinctions.

"Where's this money coming from, son?"

"It's coming from my f.u.c.kin' bank account, Dad."

Gerald nodded and as he nodded he turned and tried to include Vicki in the envelope of parental concern. Vicki smiled. "Is this your tuition account or some other account?" he said, turning back. "I'm just wondering."

"Gerald." Apparently Vicki had something to contribute. Hurrah. "I don't know whether it matters which account, does it? It's Kyle's money, either way. I'm sure he knows what he wants to do with it."

He took a very long, very deep breath. He found that pressing his lips together while doing so mostly quelled the urge to rave, and as he waited for the sudsy fury that filled the s.p.a.ce behind his eyes to subside, he looked again at the periodic tables, framed and mounted over Kyle's desk. On the far right, in a table printed in the 1950s, he could find the metals and gases that used to fascinate his son Pm for promethium, Am for americium, Np for neptunium and others. He heard, as if it was fresh, the delight in his thirteen-year-old son's voice when he'd detailed the insanities of an age that equated radioactivity with the miracle of sliced bread.

KYLE: You wouldn't believe it, Dad. See the Rn? That's radon. They used to put that in bottled water, 'cause they thought it made you healthy, until everybody who drank it, like, You wouldn't believe it, Dad. See the Rn? That's radon. They used to put that in bottled water, 'cause they thought it made you healthy, until everybody who drank it, like, died died. The Th is thorium. They put that in camera lenses and in those cloth things in camping lanterns, because it made everything brighter. And polonium, that's Po, they used that for anti-static brushes to get the dust off vinyl records. All this stuff can kill you, Dad! And people just treated it like nothing!

And when Gerald had told Kyle that as a boy he had worn a watch with a face that glowed in the night under the blankets of his bed, because it was painted with radium (Ra), his son's mouth had opened and his forehead crinkled with such astonishment at the news that this stupidity had touched his own family, Gerald had felt himself blush.

At the sound of a ding ding he took his hand off Kyle's shoulder and resisted the urge to look back at Vicki. He didn't need her approval to do what was right. "Son," he said, "it's important that you stop this. All right? It's not healthy. It's not wise. And really, I think something else is going on here, something you should probably talk to someone about. If it's me or" here came his gesture to Vicki, he hoped she appreciated it "your mom, that's great. But if you want to talk to someone else, someone professional, that's fine too." he took his hand off Kyle's shoulder and resisted the urge to look back at Vicki. He didn't need her approval to do what was right. "Son," he said, "it's important that you stop this. All right? It's not healthy. It's not wise. And really, I think something else is going on here, something you should probably talk to someone about. If it's me or" here came his gesture to Vicki, he hoped she appreciated it "your mom, that's great. But if you want to talk to someone else, someone professional, that's fine too."

"I don't want to talk, Dad."

Gerald nodded; this was a wave he was riding and he was still on the board, it was a bull and he still had the reins. "Okay, I understand. I get that," he said. "You're not ready to talk and no one's rus.h.i.+ng you. But this betting is a problem, son. I need you to see that it's a problem. I" Gerald touched himself on the chest, at his heart, even though his son wasn't looking "I have a responsibility here, as a parent. So, listen, what if I asked you to stop what you're doing, right now, stop betting all your money away. Would you do that for me?"

"Why don't you ask me, Dad, and find out?"

"I'm asking, Kyle. I'm asking. Please stop betting."

"No."

"But this isn't like you, son. What's gotten into you?" What's gotten into you?"

Kyle turned and shrugged, his hand still on the mouse. "I'm just trying my luck, Dad. It's no big f.u.c.kin' deal."

Now he looked back at Vicki, for help. But Vicki didn't appear to be listening to what Kyle was saying, she was surveying the room, with her hands on her hips.

"Vicki?" he said. "What do you think?"

She faced him, her eyes sharp. "I think it's not important what I think, Gerald. And as I've told you before it's not important what you think, either. How old is our son? Twenty? Did you know that he lived in Afghanistan? For nine months?"

She seemed to be waiting for an answer. "Yes," he said, helpless.

"He's old enough then to do whatever makes him happy, and our job is to support him." She spread her hands. "This is Kyle's room. You have no business being in here, trying to impose your wishes, and neither do I. Do you see me standing here telling Kyle it's time for new window treatments? I'd like to, Gerald, believe me. But I'm not."

What was left to him? When reason and concern couldn't penetrate, what could he do? Gerald heard scrabbling and looked at the window in time to see a squirrel's black tail brush the gla.s.s. He turned back to the computer and stared, not at the images on the screen, but at the physical thing itself, the box through which the images came. The box, he understood suddenly, was not the problem. It was only the venue, the intersection where two problems met. And if he couldn't get through to Kyle, and it wasn't right to impose his will in his son's room...

"You win, Vicki." He turned and strode past her to the door.

"Oh, Gerald, it's not about winning."

He was in the hall, heading for their bedroom. The sound of Vicki's footsteps followed him but he didn't care. He reached under his pillow and pulled out the red-handled shears, then headed out of the bedroom past Vicki, toward the stairs.

"What are those?" she said as he went by. "Why were they in our bed?"

His feet drummed down the stairs and took him through the centre hall, into the kitchen and on to the mud room that led to the back porch. Outside, the trees at the edge of the ravine displayed budding leaves of a milky, naive green, a green unprepared for August, with no concept of October. Gerald headed around the house, to the side where the Linders' s.h.a.gbark hickory loomed over the fence. He saw Tracey Linder at the edge of her flower garden, clutching her housecoat close as she bent to pick the morning's bagged newspaper out of the recently tilled soil. And when she saw him and waved a greeting, he carved a h.e.l.lo wave in the air above his head as he went straight to the side of his house, where the aluminum ladder lay.

It was an extendable ladder, and it felt light in his hands. He stuck the shears in his back pocket, gripped the base section of the ladder and released the spring-loaded catch, then he slid the extension to its clacketty limit. When it banged to a stop, he hoisted the ladder vertical, leaned it against the wall, and began to climb up.

Mounting a swaying ladder typically gave Gerald pause, typically triggered a flood of plunging-related imagery, but that was when his objectives were mundane examining the flas.h.i.+ng around the chimney, clearing vegetation from the eaves but this time his objective pushed him through all his misgivings, until he could see his son, still at his computer, through the leaded window. He watched him for a moment, the light of the screen pale on his face. Then he plucked the shears out of his back pocket, reached up and, doing in a second what might have taken the squirrels months, cut the cable to Kyle's room.

5.

Edward Caughley swept back his blond wisps of hair, leaned over the display table, and picked up a small tin car. It was about the size of a whisky flask and painted a gas-flame blue. It had a metal key in a slot in its trunk, just above an outside-mounted spare tire the diameter of an old silver dollar. He held it so that its wheels rested on the platform of his hands, and presented it to Vicki.

"This just came in on Tuesday," he said, his voice a reverent murmur. "It's a J. Distler clockwork sports coupe. Circa 1949."

She picked it up and turned it over in her hands out of a sense of courtesy. The morning was ruined she had planned to spend a good two hours searching all of her Yorkville shops for the crucial elements of the Lightenham boy's room, while h.e.l.la worked at the house, supervising the last delivery of furnis.h.i.+ngs and accents, and beginning the final stage of setting tables and making beds. But after the ridiculous business with Gerald and having to drive him to work, she had been left with time to visit only one of the stores, and so of course she chose her favourite. It was at Caughley Antiques, some years ago, that she had found the set of three stone bisque-headed dolls from Sweden, with their lovely, almost marbleized finish, that were such a popular addition to her young girl's rooms. And it was Edward who had researched Russian samovars for her and found a wonderful silver one with bone handles from the late 1800s, which she often used as a focal point on the William iv mahogany side table (and was in fact having delivered today).