The Art of Forgetting (37 page)

              His cell phone rang. The screen lit up with the tag, “Uncle Roy”. Lloyd stared at it. He let it ring a few more times before answering.

              “How are you feeling Lloyd?” Roy’s voice was calm as always. “I was hoping we’d be able to see each other again before I head back.”

              There was a fluttering of wings at the window. The white pigeon alit, folded its wings and bobbed its head, twisted it to the side to peer into the open window with a round orange eye. Then it settled into pecking the bread crumbs.

              “Yeah, that would be good,” Lloyd said.

              The first sign came that evening. Lloyd went out to his favorite deli for a Ruben. As he walked up to the shop he noticed a Mustang with Wisconsin plates parked with its tail sticking into an alley. He sat at a table, the Tribune in one hand, his sandwich in the other, when a guy in a Black Hawks jersey opened the door to the deli and stepped up to the counter.

              “Anyone here with a yellow Mustang?” he asked the clerk. “The damn thing’s blocking the alley. I can’t get out.”

              “You got the license plate?” the clerk said, his eyelids drooping.

              The guy opened his arms. “No, I ain’t got the license plate.”

              “Wisconsin, WX2 541,” Lloyd said.

              The guy turned around. “Is that your car pal?  You’re blocking the damn alley.”

              “No, that’s not my car,” Lloyd said.

              The guy furrowed his brow and stared at Lloyd for a moment. He turned to the clerk, who shrugged and walked away. “Hey smartass, move your damn car already.”

              Lloyd swallowed the last bite of sandwich and wiped his mouth with a paper napkin. “I already told you, it’s not my car.” The guy walked up to the table with a wide stance, his fists dangling at his side.

              “You looking for some kind of trouble, mister?”

              “You know how to read?” Lloyd asked.

              “What the hell? Yeah, I know how to read.”

              Lloyd folded the newspaper shut and handed the man the front page. “Right there, on the lower left,” Lloyd said. He held the paper in front of the guy’s face and started reciting. “
The Chicago City Council Finance Committee could not agree on a budget proposal for the fifth time in as many meetings Thursday morning. Alderman Alonzo Gutierrez called it yet another sordid example of an established pattern of callous disregard for the neediest members of our citizenry who stand to lose the most in the face of looming budget shortfalls
. You see,” Lloyd said, “I just have a good memory.” Lloyd tossed the newspaper on the table and walked towards the exit.

              The guy stood there watching Lloyd’s back and muttered, “Goddam freak.”

              Lloyd proceeded at a brisk pace as he made his way home. He didn’t feel any different, but he’d have to check his vitals. He needed to record his temperature, heart rate and blood pressure at the very least. He decided to memorize the license plates of all the cars on the block. As he unlocked the door to his home he marveled at the ease with which he could recall them all. The trick now was to push them out of his mind. He couldn’t stuff himself with useless information.

              He paced around his apartment. Something told him that Lasko’s relationship to Cardio-Prime Technologies was at the bottom of all the events that had happened to him: the sabotaging of his research, his suspension, his pending dismissal. But how?  He remembered what Erin had said. Lasko wanted a witness to verify that he no longer had a financial interest in Cardio-Prime. Did he do it in an overblown demonstration of transparency or was there more to it?

              The key question was, what did Lasko stand to gain by blocking Lloyd’s research?  He called Kowalski.

              “Stanley, do you have some toxicology reports for me?” Lloyd asked.

              “I should have them by the morning,” Kowalski said.

              “Tomorrow? That’s great. Will you have time to meet me for a beer after work?”

              “Hell yes, my friend. Hell yes.” 

              Their call had barely ended when Lloyd’s phone rang. It was Martin Bender.

              “How are you holding up my boy?” Bender asked.

              “I’ve been better,” Lloyd said.

              “Listen, Lloyd,” Bender said, “Lasko is getting ready to throw the book at you. He intends to personally present the case against you at the disciplinary tribunal. The man’s on a crusade, said he wouldn’t be happy with just having you expelled. That he’d soil your reputation so you’d never be able to hold a post in academics. He was boasting that the most you might aspire to career-wise is handing out antibiotic prescriptions to teen-aged prostitutes on the South Side.”

              “Yeah, well I still have my health,” Lloyd said.

              “Don’t take this lightly, Lloyd,” Bender said.

              “Well, what do you want me to do?”

              “I have an alternative,” Bender said. “I know men like Lasko. I know what makes them tick. He’s a little general and you inflicted the gravest insult by challenging his authority. What he wants now, more than anything, is your submission. If you don’t submit to his authority, he won’t be happy until he destroys you.”

              “So you want me to beg on my hands and knees and apologize?”

              “Not quite. I’ve been able to negotiate a deal with him on your behalf. All you have to do is apologize to Lasko in person, put an end to this research project and return the property that you stole from the university–”

              “What property that I stole?”

              “The prions, Lloyd. We must have the prions. You do all this, you submit completely to Lasko and he’ll grant you a resignation without censure.”

              “Great deal!” Lloyd said, his voice drenched in sarcasm.

              “He’ll sign off on a letter of recommendation to support your candidacy elsewhere. Lloyd, I’ve taken the liberty to inquire around and I’ve located a prestigious position in Milwaukee. They’d love to have you and they’re willing, with your experience, to offer you a position at the level of Associate Professor.”

              “You’ve been a busy man, Uncle Marty.”

              “You can have your life back, my son. Put all this unpleasantness behind you,” Bender said.

              “Forgive and forget?”

              “Something like that.”

              “Problem is,” Lloyd said, “It seems I’m unable to forget.”

              “Lloyd, I know how hard-headed you can be. Just think about it for a few days. You don’t have much of a choice. Get back to me as soon as you can. We’re coming up against a deadline and then there’s no turning back.”

              That night Lloyd had strangely vivid dreams. The scenery and people kept changing in a disorganized jumble, an unending succession of scenes from his life recreated with amazing detail of light, texture, color and even smell, but the context was somehow all wrong. By the early morning hours, he settled into a long dream of Erin. Erin walking through a swimming pool, her wet dress clinging to her. Erin telling Lloyd to open his mouth so she could instill drops on his tongue. Erin showing Lloyd her Cracker Jack ring saying, “I’ve always loved you.”

              It’s strange how dreams can affect our perceptions of a person, Lloyd thought as he lay in the sticky torpor of awakening. But the dream of Erin did not change his view of her as much as it made him realize, right then, that he would never be able find happiness in his life without her. He would never be able to shrug off her memory. She was permanently etched in his mind now.

              He showered, went about his day, but the thought of her was always front and center in his mind. In the early afternoon, he rode out to Caffé Amalfi to meet Roy. They exchanged few words, but were surprisingly comfortable in their silence.

              “I need you to do something for me before you head back to Rome,” Lloyd said, breaking the silence.

              “Of course. What is it?” Roy asked.

              “I’m not quite sure yet. I’ll let you know.”

              Later, Lloyd met Stan Kowalski at a pub a few blocks from the university.

              “They were packed to the gills with mercury. Every single one,” Kowalski said. “All the mice were poisoned.”

              “I figured as much,” Lloyd said.

              “You have any idea what’s going on?” Kowalski asked.

              “Don’t worry about it.” Lloyd swallowed a mouthful of beer. “Stan, tell me about your family.”

              “About my family? What do you want to know?”

              “I don’t know. Anything. What’s it like?”

              On the way home, he stopped to pick up Chinese take-out and ate dinner with Frederic sitting atop the table gnawing on a piece of fortune cookie.

              “Kaz would kill me if he saw what I feed you,” Lloyd said. “Eat it up buddy. Starting tomorrow, you’re back on organic veggies.”

              By nightfall, the longing to hear Erin’s voice became unbearable. He lay on the couch listening to the jeering of the cicadas for the better part of an hour before he dialed her number.

              Chapter 41

              “
Y
ou haven’t returned my calls,” Erin said.

              “I’m sorry. I just had a lot to think about.”

              “Yeah, well, me too. So did it help?”

              “Did what help? Lloyd asked.”

              “The thinking.”

              “I’m getting there.”

              Neither of them spoke for a while. Lloyd listened to her breathing. Finally he said, “Can I call you again tomorrow?”

              “Sure.”

              Lloyd hung up. He poured himself some scotch. He lifted the glass to his mouth but stopped, looked at the amber liquid and emptied it in the kitchen sink.

              He paced to the living room, picked up his phone from the coffee table and dialed again.

              The now-familiar voice answered, “De Luca.”

              “I hope it’s not a bad time,” Lloyd said.

              “Who is this?”

              “Nick, it’s Lloyd Copeland. Listen, I need your help.”

              There was a pause. “I’ve been waiting for this call.”

              That night the dreams started as jumbled fragments again: short, rapid visions, muffled sounds. But by the small hours of the morning, when Lloyd settled into a prolonged run of REM sleep, the scenes became longer and took on a nearly meaningful thread.

              George Lasko stood at a podium embossed with the logo of Cardio-Prime technologies. He was flanked by his wife on one side and Bill Clinton to his right. His voice thundered in the microphone: “Brain sections show global spongiform changes with neuronal loss and the formation of amyloid plaques.”

              An invisible crowd cheered and applauded. Lasko shook Bill Clinton’s hand then turned to kiss his wife. Lloyd realized from his vantage point that he was sitting in the audience so he too started clapping. A voice next to him said, “He’s right you know.” Lloyd turned in the direction of the voice. It was Martin Bender with a textbook resting on his knees. “It says so right here in my book.”

              Standing by a door of the conference room was Beverly Spalding. She was waving at Lloyd frantically with a grim expression. Lloyd sidestepped through the crowd which now was clearly visible, all wearing long white doctor coats, pockets overflowing with dollar bills. He ran down a side aisle but slowed to a walk as he approached her.

              “You have to come right away,” she said. “He’s gotten much worse.”

              “Who?”

              “My husband.”

              They walked through the door and were in Cecil Spalding’s living room. Mark O’Keefe was sitting at the easel painting. Lloyd was about to tell Beverly, “That’s not your husband,” but then Mark spoke with Cecil’s voice and Lloyd figured he must be her husband after all.

              “I’ve always loved science fiction,” Spalding said. “I’ve always been fascinated with the idea of space exploration. Do you know NASA found water on Mercury?  Well, they have. They’ve found Mercury on water!” He laughed. “I meant to say, water on Mercury.”

              Lloyd took a step back. He remembered something. “I have to save Kaz,” he said. “I’m sorry, I have to go.”

              He was on his motorcycle swerving through traffic when he realized he was doing it all wrong. His motorcycle was able to leap over cars. He grasped the handlebars tightly and brought his weight back, effortlessly leaping over one car, then another. Kaz hadn’t died after all. He could still save him.