Blasphemy (8 page)

“
Soon
depends on perspective,” said Volkonsky with a harsh laugh.

Corcoran said, “We cosmologists take the long view.”

“And we computer scientists take short view. Like millisecond short.”

“Milliseconds?” said Thibodeaux scornfully. “My work in quantum electrodynamics deals in femtoseconds.”

Hazelius came out of the kitchen carrying a platter heaped with medallions of grilled tenderloin. He set it down to a chorus of approval from the table.

Kate Mercer appeared behind him, carrying a bowl of steak frites. Without looking Ford’s way, she set it down and vanished back into the kitchen.

Nothing Ford imagined had prepared him for this first glimpse of her since they broke up. At thirty-five, she was even more beautiful than she had been at twenty-three—except that her long, unruly cascade of black hair was now short and stylish; the unkempt graduate student in jeans and oversized men’s shirts had grown up. Twelve years had passed since he last saw her—but it felt like only a few days.

He felt a nudge in his ribs and turned to see Corcoran holding out the platter. “I hope you’re not a vegetarian, Wyman.”

“Not at all.” He selected a slab oozing blood and passed the dish on, trying to appear relaxed. Kate’s appearance had unnerved him.

“Don’t think we eat like this every night,” she said. “Your arrival makes it special.”

A spoon tinkled against glass, and Hazelius rose, holding up his wine. Conversation stopped.

“I prepared a little toast of welcome—” He looked around. “
Now
where’s our assistant director?”

The door to the kitchen opened and Kate bustled out, quickly seating herself next to Ford with her eyes fixed ahead on the table.

“I was just saying, I wanted to offer a toast of welcome to the newest member of our team: Wyman Ford.”

Ford kept his eyes on Hazelius as he took in Kate’s slender presence beside him, the warmth of her body, her scent.

“As most of you know, Wyman is an anthropologist and his field of study is human nature—a far more complex subject than anything we’re working on.” He raised his glass. “I’m looking forward to getting to know you, Wyman. A very,
very
warm welcome from us all.”

A round of applause.

“And now, before I sit down, I wanted to say a few words about our disappointment last night . . . .” He paused. “We’re engaged in a struggle that has been going on since a human being first gazed up at the stars and wondered what they were. The search for truth is the greatest of all human endeavors. From the discovery of fire to the discovery of the quark, this is the very
essence
of what it means to be human. We—the thirteen of us here—are the true heirs of Prometheus, who stole fire from the gods and gave it to mankind.”

He paused dramatically.

“You know what happened to Prometheus. In retribution, the gods chained him to a rock for eternity. Every day, an eagle flies down, tears opens his side, and devours his liver. But because he’s immortal, he cannot die, and must endure the torture forever.”

The room was so quiet, Ford could hear the crackle of the fire in the grate.

“The search for truth is a hard,
hard
thing, as we are finding out.” Hazelius raised his glass. “To the heirs of Prometheus.”

People drank solemnly to the toast.

“Our next run will begin Wednesday at noon. From now until then, I want each of you to concentrate every fiber of your being on the task at hand.”

He sat down. People picked up their knives and forks, and the conversation gradually resumed.

When the voices had grown loud enough, Ford said quietly, “Hello, Kate.”

“Hello, Wyman.” Her eyes were guarded. “This is a surprise, to say the least.”

“You look well.”

“Thank you.”

“Assistant director—that’s quite an achievement.” He had felt like a voyeur, reading her dossier. But he couldn’t stop himself—it had intrigued him. She had had a rocky life since they parted.

“And you—what happened to your CIA career?”

“I gave it up.”

“And now you’re an anthropologist?”

“Yes.”

Neither said more. The sound of her voice, the musical lilt of it with just the hint of a lisp, hit him even harder than her appearance. He quickly stepped down on the flood of memories. The reaction was absurd—they had broken up long ago. Since then he had half a dozen relationships and a marriage. It hadn’t been a pretty breakup either—no “let’s just be friends” about it. They had said unforgivable things to each other.

Kate had turned and was speaking to someone else. He took a sip from his wine, lost in thought. His mind went back to when he had first seen her at MIT. Early one afternoon he’d been searching for a quiet reading corner at the back of the Barker Engineering Library when he noticed a woman sleeping under a table—a not-unusual sight. Her right cheek rested on her hand; the other arm lay across her shirt. Her long glossy hair fanned across the carpet. She was slender and cool, with the fine, delicate features often seen in people with dual Asian-Caucasian ancestry. She looked like a sleeping gazelle. The pale hollow at the base of her curved neck, next to her clavicle, struck him as the most erotic thing he had ever seen. His eyes lingered on her, shamelessly drinking in every erotic detail of her sleeping body. He couldn’t seem to move on. He just stared.

A fly grazed her cheek. Her head jerked, and her mahogany eyes flew open, fixing on him. He felt busted.

She blushed and scrambled awkwardly out from under the table. “What’s your problem?”

He mumbled something about having wanted to make sure she was okay.

She softened, embarrassed. “I must’ve looked kind of weird, lying on the floor. Usually there’s no one around at this time of day. I can sleep for ten minutes and wake up refreshed.”

His only interest in her, he assured her again, had been concern for her health. She made a throwaway comment about needing a double shot of espresso before hitting the books. He said he could use one, too—and that was their first date.

They were so different. That was part of the appeal. She was small-town working class, he big-city elite. She liked Blondie; he liked Bach. She sometimes smoked pot, which he found faintly scandalous. He was Catholic; she was a strident atheist. He was in control; she was unpredictable, spontaneous, even wild. On their second date, it was she who made the moves on him. On top of that, she was academically brilliant—perhaps even a genius. She was so smart, it scared him and turned him on at the same time. Even outside of physics, she had a fanatical drive to understand human nature. She was fiercely partisan, outraged at the unfairness of the world, a petition-signer, marcher, and letter-to-the-editor writer. He remembered their arguments on politics and religion that went on to the wee hours, and how surprised he was at her insight into human psychology, despite the raw emotionalism of her views.

His decision to join the CIA had ended their relationship. For her, either you were one of the good guys or you weren’t. The CIA was definitely in the “weren’t” category. She called it the Catastrophe-Inducing Agency—and that was when she was being polite.

“So, Wyman,” Kate said, “why’d you give it up?”

“What?” Ford came back to the present.

“Your CIA career. What happened?”

Ford wished he could just make himself say it:
Because my wife got car-bombed while we were working undercover
.

“It didn’t work out,” he said lamely.

“I see. Is it . . . is it too much to hope you changed your views?”

Is it too much to hope you changed yours
? Ford thought, but let it pass. It was so like her: to get right to the heart of the matter, damn the cost. He’d loved that part of her, and he’d hated it.

“The dinner looks great,” he said, trying to keep things bland. “Last I remember, you were empress of the microwave.”

“Fast food was making me fat.”

Again, silence.

Ford felt a nudge in his ribs from the other direction. Melissa Corcoran was holding out a bottle, offering to refill his glass. She looked flushed.

“Steak’s perfect,” she said. “Nice work, Kate.”

“Thanks.”

“Rare—just the way I like it. But hey,” she said, gesturing at Ford’s plate. “You haven’t touched yours!”

Ford took a bite, but he had lost his appetite.

“I bet Kate’s been telling you all about string theory. It’s pretty cool stuff—even if it’s sheer speculation.”

“Not at all like dark energy,” said Kate, an edge to her voice.

Ford immediately sensed a history between these two women.

“Dark energy,” said Corcoran coolly, “was discovered experimentally. By
observation
. The problem with string theory is just the opposite—it only exists as a bunch of equations with no testable predictions. It’s not really science.”

Volkonsky leaned over the table, and Ford caught a whiff of stale cigarette smoke. “Dark energy, strings, phffft! Who cares? I want to know what anthropologist does.”

Ford was relieved by the distraction. “We go and live with a remote tribe and ask a lot of stupid questions.”

“Ha-ha!” Volkonsky said. “Maybe you heard, the redskins are coming to Red Mesa. I hope it isn’t scalping party!” He gave an Indian whoop and looked around for approval.

“That’s not funny,” said Corcoran acidly.

“Lighten yourself up, Melissa,” Volkonsky shot back, tilting up his chin, the tuft of hair on it quivering with sudden anger. “Don’t PC me.”

Corcoran turned to Ford. “He can’t help it. His doctorate was in horse’s-assery.”

More history
, thought Ford. He would have to be careful to avoid getting hit in the crossfire until he figured out just where everyone stood in relation to one another.

Volkonsky said, “I think Melissa has drink the wine a little too well this evening. As usual.”

“Ja, of courrrse,” she drawled, in a devastating imitation of Volkonsky’s accent. “Better I shoot vodkas like you, late in ze night!” She raised her glass, “Za vas!” and downed the heel of wine.

“Now, if I may interrupt for a moment,” Innes began, his voice rotund with professionalism. “While it’s good to get feelings into the open, I would suggest—”

Hazelius waved him silent and looked steadily at Volkonsky and Corcoran, back and forth, the pressure of his gaze inducing silence. Volkonsky sat back, the corner of his mouth twitching. Corcoran crossed her arms.

Hazelius allowed the awkwardness to build before he said, “We’re all a little tired and discouraged.” His voice was low and mild. In the silence, the fire crackled. “Right, Peter?”

Volkonsky said nothing.

“Melissa?”

Her face was red. She nodded curtly.

“Just let it go . . . . Easy does it . . . . Forgiveness and mildness . . . For the sake of our work.”

His voice was calm, soothing, with a rhythmical, hypnotic quality—like a trainer calming a spooked horse. Unlike Innes’s, it held no trace of condescension.

“That’s right,” said Innes, jumping in, his voice shattering the extraordinary calm Hazelius had created. “Absolutely. This has been a healthy exchange. We can air some of these same issues at the next group meeting. As I said, it’s good to get these issues out in the open.”

Volkonsky stood up so abruptly, he knocked his chair over. He balled up his napkin and chucked it on the table. “Screw group meeting. I have work to do.”

The door slammed as he departed.

No one spoke. The only sound was the rustle of paper as Edelstein, having finished his dinner, turned another page of
Finnegans Wake
.

PASTOR RUSS EDDY EXITED THE TRAILER, threw a towel over his skinny shoulders, and paused in the yard. Monday had dawned brilliantly clear at the mission. The rising sun threw a golden light across the sandy valley, gilding the branches of the dead cottonwood next to the little house trailer. Behind, Red Mesa rose up gigantically on the horizon, a pillar of fire in the early morning sun.

He looked up to the sky, placed his palms together, bowed, and said, his voice clear and strong, “Thank You, Lord, for this day.”

After a moment of silence, he shuffled over to the Red Jacket pump in his front yard and tossed the towel over an old hitching post. He gave the handle a dozen energetic creaks. A stream of cold water gushed out into a galvanized washtub below. Russ dashed a handful on his face, slipped a cake of soap into the water, sudsed up, shaved, and brushed his teeth. He washed his face and arms, dashed more water over his face and concave chest, plucked the towel off the post, and gave himself a vigorous drying off. Then he inspected himself in the mirror hung on a rusty nail in the fence post. His face was small, thin tufts of hair on his head sticking out. He hated his body; he looked like a wobbly little bird. Long ago, the doctor had told his mother it was a “failure to thrive.” The implication that his physical weakness was somehow his fault, a personal failure, still stung.

He combed the hair carefully over the thinning spots, grimaced, inspected the crooked teeth he could never afford to get fixed. Somehow, he was reminded of his son, Luke—he’d be eleven now—and the feeling of anguish deepened. He hadn’t seen Luke in six years, all the while being stuck with child support he had no hope of paying. A sudden vision of the boy flashed through his mind—the way he ran all skinny through a sprinkler one hot summer day . . . . The memory was like a knife slitting his throat—the way he had seen a Navajo woman slit the throat of a lamb, which struggled and bleated, still living but already dead.

He trembled, thinking of the injustices of his life, his money problems, his wife’s unfaithfulness, the divorce. He had been victimized again and again, through no fault of his own. He had come to the Rez with nothing but his faith and two cartons of books. God was testing his faith with a hardscrabble existence and a constant shortage of money. Eddy hated owing money all over, especially to Indians. But the Lord must know what He was doing, and Eddy was slowly building his congregation, even if they seemed more interested in the free clothing he gave away than in the sermon. None of them ever laid more than a few dollars in the collection basket—some weeks it held only twenty dollars. And a lot of them went on to Mass at the Catholic Mission to load up on free eyeglasses and medicine, or the LDS Church in Rough Rock, for the food bank. That was the trouble with the Navajos: they couldn’t tell the voice of Mammon from the voice of God.