God is an Astronaut (15 page)

“Oh, here we go,” said Helen under her breath, but there was a trace of admiration to it. All the people in the front rows had turned around and were craning their necks to look back at Kramer. The rest of the room had their hands raised and were trying to yell over one another. I could hear Liam still talking into the microphone, saying something like “Look, I’m not disputing the
Times’
right to cover the story, I’m just saying it’s a little strange that this story fell into the purview of someone whose previous work has focused on, what—coverage of the EPA and environmental law?”
Then someone cut the mike, either on purpose or accidentally. The room had exploded into chaos. Everyone had jumped from their seats. Everyone was yelling—questions or accusations, it was impossible to tell which. A couple of the other Spaceco execs were standing up from behind their card table and holding out their hands like choir directors, but it was too late. Any pretense at restraint was gone, and the air was practically electric with hostility. It seemed like folding chairs might start flying at any minute. Some self-preserving instinct made me stand up, reach for my purse, and start looking for the exit. Several years ago, Arthur, I got caught in a mob outside the In-N-Out. It was right after an MSU game. I’d stayed late at the lab, and I was walking down the sidewalk with my headphones on, not paying attention. The next thing I knew, there were people everywhere, yelling and shoving up against me, absolutely churning with rage. They sucked me up, and for a few adrenaline-filled seconds I was dragged along with them until I was able to bail out into some bushes outside of East Quad. The headphone cord had gotten tangled around my neck and was practically strangling me, but Alison Krauss was still singing away in my ears, with her usual spooky sweetness, about death, death and mercy, as though nothing had happened, nothing at all.

The point is, I wanted to get a head start if things were going to get ugly. The press conference was over.

That’s how it went down, Arthur.

More or less.

Jess

From: Jessica Frobisher

Sent: Friday, May 30, 2014 12:37 am

To: Arthur Danielson

Cc:

Bcc:

Subject: a little more

I did too.

While we were in the press conference, it rained. Hard. We never saw a drop, but when we came out everything looked like aftermath. The pavement had a dark, soaked look. All the bright new leaves on the trees looked battered. All the shimmering dust hanging above the parking lot, churned up from the gravel by spinning tires, had vanished. I know you’ve been practically living in a monsoon up there, but down here in civilization we’ve barely seen rain for weeks. All the meteorologists checking their overflowing rain gauges would later say “Thank goodness” and “It’s about time,” all of them would say we so desperately needed the relief.

The field was a sodden mess. It took us twenty minutes to get out, to propel ourselves out of the muck, and we only escaped thanks to Liam’s fancy footwork with the clutch, and his willingness to torque the tires at breakneck speeds until we could smell the engine burning and chunks of earth were flying sky-high.

He had to concentrate, and neither of us could talk. This was a good thing. The silence allowed me to inspect my hands, my digging calluses, the faint gray traces of greenhouse dirt trapped in the half-moons of my fingernails. (Our soil seems to have these magical, soap-proof, detergent-proof properties. It’s unscrubbable. Whatever it stains, it stains.)

When we had finally rocked our way out of the rut, it was Liam who broke the silence first.

“Well,” he said. “That could have gone better.”

“No, no,” I said. “You handle a battle-ax beautifully.” I dropped my hands into my lap, pressed my face against the window, and closed my eyes, surrendering briefly to the cold clarity of the glass. “Christ, Liam.”

“I didn’t say anything that wasn’t true.” He must have seen me opening my mouth, because he added: “About
her
. About
her.
Jess, those people weren’t there to get the facts. They were there to crucify us. They’re pretending they’re on some sort of noble quest—that they’re bringing some sort of painful truth to light—but they’re not. They don’t know even the first thing about it.”

“Let’s please have the debate about journalistic integrity later,” I said. “You guys do realize that that’s the least of your worries right now, don’t you? Although that was a nice touch, by the way, going after the
Times
. Liam,
you lied
. You stood up there in front of all those people, and
you lied.
And you made me a party to it. I got all dressed up in this stupid suit, and I—” I had to raise my voice to be heard over Liam’s phone, which was sitting on the console between us. It had been angrily buzzing nonstop since we’d gotten in the car.

“First of all,” said Liam. “I didn’t
make
you anything,” Liam said. “Second of all, if I was you I’d think long and hard when I was picking which high horse to climb up on. Honesty? Is that the one you want to go with?”

“What are you talking about?” I said. But I could feel myself shrinking back a little into my seat.

“We don’t need to talk about this now. There’s no rush.” Liam jerked us into second gear and gestured impatiently at the line of muddy cars that were bottlenecking in front of us. “Seriously. Every single person here is making a left turn? You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

You’ll want to know what I said next, of course, Arthur. Well, here’s your answer: a big fat nothing. I didn’t even open my mouth. Not because I was afraid to—although I know that’s what you’re thinking.

No, it was because right then, I spotted a man in my rearview mirror. He was a ways back, but jogging steadily up the line of cars, and he appeared to be making a beeline toward us. He had both arms above his head and was waving them—clearly he was trying to flag someone down, and as soon as I saw who it was, I knew that someone was us. Do you know who it was, Arthur? I’ll give you one guess and only one, because I’m sure that’s all you’ll need. You’ve always been better at guessing than a person should be. A person can be too astute for his own good, you know. My mother told me once that all gifts are double-edged swords. They cut both ways, she said. So watch out.

Time’s up, Arthur. Do you know the answer?

That’s right. It was my new friend, the eccentric cameraman from the press conference. The sight of him gaining on us distracted me from the pressing question at hand and made me let out an involuntary groan
.

“What’s the matter?” Liam said.

“Nothing,” I said. “Can we drive faster?”

“Does it look like I can drive faster?” Liam said. “If no one up there is willing to actually use the gas pedal, we’re going to be here until we rot.”

But it was too late. The man had caught up to us and was knocking on Liam’s window. Liam hit the open button with his thumb for about half a second, giving the guy no more than an inch gap. “Yes?”

“Liam Callahan?” said the man.

“Yes?” Liam said again. He hadn’t stopped the car, Arthur. We were still bumping along slowly across the ruts, and it was forcing the guy into an awkward sideways trot, but he didn’t seem discouraged.

“Theo Lacroix. I’m a documentary filmmaker. I’d like to talk to you about a possible project—”

Much to my relief, Liam cut him off. “Sorry. I’m under instructions not to speak off-record to the press.”

“I’m not the press,” the guy said. Liam was attempting to roll up the window, but the man had managed to wedge his fingers inside the frame. “I’ve already spoken with one of your board members. Vince Fay. He told me he was going to speak to you.” Keep in mind, Arthur, that this intrepid filmmaker was still jogging right alongside us. His steps were a little lead-footed, the strides of someone with knees on the fritz—the guy must have been in his mid-sixties at least—but he wasn’t the slightest bit out of breath. He was giving off the impression that he might be able to keep up with us for the next several miles.

“Well, he didn’t,” Liam said. We were finally coming up to the shoulder of the road, and I could feel him stepping on the gas. One of the cars behind us had started honking. “So I’d appreciate it if you would let go of my vehicle.”

“Just let me give you my card.” Somehow Lacroix had managed to reach into the pocket of his blue jeans, extract his card with his free hand, and shove it in the slot above the window.

“I don’t want your card,” Liam said. “I want you to stop accosting us. I want you to—”

“Liam, for God’s sake. Just take it.” I reached over and snatched the card. “There. There.” I waggled it at our unwanted hitchhiker. “See?”

At that, he finally let go. When he waved at me, I noticed that he was still wearing all three pairs of glasses.

I think that about sums things up. Are these details gory enough for you? I know the nights are long up there, and you don’t have TV, and you have more than enough time to kill. (Seriously.
War and Peace
and
Moby-Dick
? You’re just showing off.)

More later.

Jess.

From: Jessica Frobisher

Sent: Sunday, June 1, 2014 10:59 pm

To: Arthur Danielson

Cc:

Bcc:

Subject: Re:

Arthur, there’s nothing else to tell. The conversation ended there. I had plenty of good reasons for not pushing it. I sure as hell am not going to spell them all out for you.

He could have been referring to any number of things, you know. We have no shortage of skeletons in our marital closets—the predictable collection of festering specimens, the things that go bump in the night, etc. Honestly, I don’t think he even knows you exist—besides meeting you that one time at that dreadful party at Thom’s.

But let’s change the subject. How about you send me a good poem from that Mary Oliver I sent you? I never got a chance to finish reading it before I mailed it.

I’m going out to dig.

j

From: Jessica Frobisher

Sent: Tuesday, June 3, 2014 11:12 pm

To: Arthur Danielson

Cc:

Bcc:

Subject: Re:

I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that. I’m not even sure it’s true. He might know something. Or part of something.

You remember that night you invited me over for dinner at your place so we could talk about that BioSys metadata problem? This is such a small thing, but when I walked in the door that night and was standing by the coatrack shucking off my jacket, Liam glanced up briefly from his laptop, tapped his chin, and said to me in a very offhanded way: “Your lipstick is smudged.” It was such an anomalous comment coming from him. He barely knows what lipstick is, and it took him three days to notice the last time I drastically cut all my hair off.

I paused, and—I remember this—I looked at the clock above the couch. It was 9:53, and that made me relieved for some reason. It seemed like such a sensible, prudent time. Liam was already reabsorbed in his work. That night was the first time, and at that point, Arthur, I stupidly believed that I had strayed over the foul line just once, and that I could sneak back across and go back to playing by the rules, and no damage had been done.

I was ruminating endlessly about all this last night while I was out digging. I keep turning up odd objects with my shovel. A grimy pink calico sunbonnet of Corinne’s. Five Scrabble letters. A wineglass with a shattered stem. A tennis bracelet crusted with mud and what appears—to my inexpert eye—to be real diamonds. Last night it was an empty turtle shell. It belonged, I’m afraid, to Jack’s turtle Spike, who went AWOL last summer and never came back. When I get done shoveling, I gather my finds and put them in a box on the shelf in the garage. If this lawsuit goes to trial and we lose (the “highly unlikely worst-case scenario,” according to the lawyers) we will at least have these artifacts to remember our old life by.