The Great Perhaps (30 page)

W
HEN
J
ONATHAN IS ALONE
a few moments later, sitting in the front seat of the Peugeot, he starts up the car, glances through the back windshield at the wide blue sky, and then, without knowing why exactly, he puts the car back into park. He digs through the front pocket of his windbreaker, finds the note from his dad, and stares at it. It is nothing. Nothing. Jonathan, baffled, finally sees that it is a small paper flower. He is both surprised and confused, staring for a moment at its puzzling white shape.
What is this supposed to be, Dad?
It’s something so odd, so precise, so out of place, this small paper blossom.
What is it? Is this supposed to be some kind of sign?

Clutching the flower in his palm, Jonathan begins to smile.
It is a secret message
, he quietly thinks.
It’s an apology.
He begins to inspect the tiny bloom, studying it like a fossil, like a pen from his beloved prehistoric squid, and what he sees now is how old it is, how worn the paper looks, how intricately folded, how brilliantly complicated it is: lines intersecting lines, each bent to a perfect slant, each in its own thoughtful place. What Jonathan feels next is an odd sort of wonderment at the paper flower’s certain and uncertain angles, at the curious complexity he now holds in his hand. And then he thinks:
It’s beautiful. It’s beautiful because it’s complicated. Because there’s not one thing. There’s not one thing that makes sense of everything.

A
ND SO IT HAPPENS:
as Jonathan pulls the Peugeot into the garage late that Friday morning, he is startled by the shape of the old Volvo parked there. He stares at it with unequaled gratitude for many, many moments. He once again memorizes its shape, its color, the odd smell of the engine, its nicks and scratches and dents. He stares at the passenger-side tire that needs to be inflated, at the silver trim that has begun to dangle from its place, and everything that makes that car his wife’s car, each microscopic detail, and feels grateful for all of it. Jonathan climbs out of the Peugeot, hurries toward the house, pauses, turns, reaches into his pocket, finds the white paper flower resting in the cup of his hand, and then places it beneath the windshield wiper of his wife’s rusty-looking car.

A
S
J
ONATHAN RUNS
into the house, he can hear Madeline moving around upstairs. It is way past twelve and the girls are in school by now, so it has to be Madeline. She is alone in the house with him, she is back, at least for the moment, maybe only home to take a shower or do a load of laundry. Because of this Jonathan must act quickly, and the thought of quick action terrifies him. He stands there in the kitchen and wonders what he should do, and how he should proceed, the sound of the clock on the wall now synchronized with his awkward heartbeat.

Each footstep from above, each creak of the bedroom door panics him, and still he is unable to decide what to do. He wishes he had the words, the courage to walk upstairs, to tell her what is in his heart, to say,
Although I have ignored you, our love, and the world around me, I am profoundly sorry. I am now ready to resume our love. I am ready to do right by you and be with you again. I am begging, kneeling here. Please.
But these words are only intimations, only feelings which he cannot, does not know how to speak. He stands there, staring up at the ceiling, and feels defenseless, as if he is dying.

And then, without another pause, without any more deliberation, he climbs the stairs as quickly as he can. He passes the mirror in the hall and tries not to glance at himself but it is impossible to ignore how terrible he looks. He looks like a serious mess. His hair is sticking up in back. His blond beard is uncombed, with unruly white tufts trailing out along his chin. He has been in the same T-shirt and blue jogging pants for days. He tries to arrange himself, tucking his T-shirt into his pants, then, deciding against that, he untucks it. He checks his breath by blowing into his palm and trying to smell it. The results are uncertain. He clears his throat and after a few moments of painful indecision he steps through the bedroom door, and finds Madeline standing there in her gray robe, her hair wrapped up in a towel. She has just gotten out of the shower. Her neck is still dappled with moisture. She is brushing her teeth. She sees him and is startled for a moment. She is nervous and silent and soft-looking.

“Hello,” Jonathan says.

“Hello,” she says, glancing up from the bathroom sink, her mouth filled with white foam. She looks gorgeous, a whole other woman, a stranger. Every part of her seems to be far away and graceful and unyielding. He does not know if he should try and touch her. He thinks of rushing toward her and kissing her but is afraid. He is afraid she will stop him and say the words he cannot bear to hear right now. So he begins to smile, unsure if he should be smiling. He wants to be mad for some reason. He wants her to know how worried he’s been, how he has been feeling like he’s been split wide open, how his life has suddenly stopped making sense, but all he thinks to do is stare at her. He says, “I have to go to school now, for a meeting. But maybe we can talk later, if you want to.” He says, “We’ve missed you. We really have. I have.” He does not say what he would like to. He does not say he is nothing without her. He is too afraid that she will not understand. That she will think he is weak, which he is. He is afraid she will not see how hopelessly in love with her he is, and always has been, for as long as he can remember. He wants to apologize for being so selfish, so ungrateful for her, for the girls, for their love. He wants to tell her he has been doing some serious thinking. He wants to tell her the prehistoric giant squid is dead and that his dream of knowing the answers, of seeing the simplicity of the universe, of solving the big questions, has died along with it. He wants to tell her she doesn’t need to worry. That things have changed. That he has realized something. That he is thinking different thoughts now, but he does not know what is supposed to happen next. He is desperately trying to think of some happy ending, but all he can do is stare at his wife from across the tiny room. He smiles at her and then turns and rushes down the stairs, into the den, to find something to wear, something that does not reveal how upside down everything has become. He settles on a blue shirt and a pair of jeans and prays someone else at the meeting will also be dressed so informally.

A
T THE DEPARTMENTAL MEETING
that Friday afternoon, Jonathan shows up late, feeling clammy, beads of sweat glistening on his narrow forehead. There is no inquisition. There is no talk of his dismissal. Instead, he is asked what he thinks of the new course catalog. There is a debate about whether the cover photograph on the course catalog is as appealing as it should be. There are also some questions about the catalog’s font, if it is as readable, as inviting to students as the administration believes. When someone asks Jonathan what he thinks, he is surprised and looks up from the gloss of the shiny mahogany table, incredibly relieved. “I really don’t have an opinion either way.”

His chairperson, Abigail, frowns at him from the head of the table and then announces, “Okay, let’s take a five-minute break, everyone. Jonathan, if you wouldn’t mind, I’d like to have a word with you.”

The other faculty members cough and nod, slowly exiting, pulling themselves up from their comfortable seats. Jonathan does not move. He looks down at the university’s brochures or course catalogs or whatever they are, and waits for the conference room to be empty. Before he can begin the lengthy apology he has already prepared, Abigail stands, straightening her pants suit, and then hovers beside him.

“Jonathan?”

“Yes.”

“I need to know what’s going on with you. I had two students in here today complaining that you’ve been late to class and that you’ve canceled three times this semester already.”

“I’m sorry. I’ve been…well, the truth of the matter is…” Jonathan scratches his beard, unable to look his chairperson in the eye. He stares out the shiny glass windows at the tops of the black walnut trees outside. “Did you ever think, when you were younger, that your life would be so hard? Didn’t you think things would make sense, that it would somehow be easier the older you got?” Jonathan asks.

Abigail smiles, touching his hand.

“Maybe. I’m afraid I don’t remember what I used to think. It’s all a kind of blur to me. I do know, well, I’ve come to value those little complexities. I believe it was Kant who said—”

“Hmmmm,” Jonathan says, frowning.

“If you need some time off, I can arrange a grad student to take one of your classes. There’s nothing to be embarrassed about.”

Jonathan shakes his head, looking up into her green eyes. “No. I just…I’ve just been a little lost. My father…and other things. It’s just sometimes hard to get a hold on everything. Do you know what I mean? It’s like a million things all coming at you. It’s hard to know where to look sometimes.”

Abigail smiles, touching his hand again. “Welcome to middle age,” she says with a grin.

A
FTER THE THREE-HOUR
meeting, Jonathan rushes into his office to call the nursing home and to ask about his father. The nurse puts him on hold for five actual minutes and comes back to tell him that his father is okay, he’s resting, though he’s been given a sedative to help him sleep. Jonathan says he will be there as soon as he can. The phone begins to ring again as soon as he hangs it up. He stares at it, momentarily afraid. He does not believe it can be good news. It rings once, then again, then a third time. Finally Jonathan answers, his hand trembling.

“Dr. Casper?” comes the nervous voice.

“Yes?”

“This is Ted, your grad student. And Catherine. She’s standing next to me.”

“All right.”

“Dr. Casper, we tried you at home but your wife said to try you here.”

“Okay. Fine.”

“Dr. Casper, they think they spotted a giant squid about thirty miles south of Hawaii. It’s probably not
Tusoteuthis longa
. It maybe looks like
Architeuthis dux
, but still, there’s no way to know. I mean, either way this might be a great opportunity to get data from a live specimen for a comparison study. There’s a film crew down there now with video. The first moving footage of a giant squid in its own habitat.”

“Hawaii?”

“It’s in American waters, sir. The French will need a couple of days to get the permits. Catherine and I could get on a flight tonight. There’s still some money in the budget from the university.”

Jonathan holds the phone, his heart vibrating.

“Well, what do we do, sir?” Ted asks.

Jonathan stares out of his narrow office window at the cloudy afternoon sky, then softly begins to say the few words he did not believe he ever would.

A. As Madeline is lying in bed that Friday evening, she thinks she hears Jonathan come home.
There is the noise of the lock turning as he opens the back door, the sound of him tiptoeing across the kitchen, and then the quiet of him sneaking down the hallway toward the solitude of the den. For some reason, her heart begins beating rapidly, much too fast for no real reason. She holds her breath, listening to him moving about, setting down his briefcase, taking off his jacket, the sounds echoing up through the heating vents. She is almost sure that she can hear him slip off his shoes, one after the other, and then there is nothing, no sound, only silence from the floor below. What is he doing down there? There is the creak of his feet on the threshold at the den’s door—is he pacing? Is he trying to make up his mind to go hide in his fortress or not? And then, almost at once, she can hear him creeping up the front stairs, down the hall to their bedroom, where he finds her, sitting up in bed. Jonathan clears his throat and whispers a hello.

“Hello,” Madeline says.

“What are you doing?” he asks.

“Waiting for you to come home, I guess.”

“You were?”

“Yep.”

Jonathan smiles a little, his blue eyes twinkling, as he loosens his shirt and slips off his sweater.

“How is your dad doing?” Madeline asks.

“He’s okay,” he says. “Not so good, I guess. I think he’s maybe getting towards the end. He’s just…I think he’s given up.”

“I’d like to go see him…I mean, I didn’t know if you want me to, but I’d like to.”

“When we got married, he said getting you to fall in love with me would be the best thing I ever did.”

“He was right.”

Jonathan smiles again. “I wanted…I wanted to just tell you…that I was sorry…That I know how difficult I must be to live with. That I’ve been in a fog. I…I know it can’t be easy. I know sometimes, well, most of the time…all of the time, I’ve been too focused on my work. I know I’ve been kind of thoughtless. But I just wanted to tell you I think you’re pretty amazing, putting up with me and taking care of the girls. I mean, to be honest, I don’t know how you do it. I wouldn’t even know how. I just wanted to let you know that none of it matters if I don’t have you. I’m not afraid of how hard it’s going to be, to convince you, to make this work. Because I don’t want anything, really, besides you. I guess…I guess that’s it for now. I have other things I want to tell you but I guess that was the most important thing. So, well, thanks.”

Jonathan pauses, then thinks about crossing the room to where she is sitting, he thinks about trying to kiss her, but only nods again, before turning to walk away.

“Would you like to sleep in here tonight?” Madeline asks, not meeting his eyes.

“Would you like me to?”

Madeline nods, not saying the word.

“What are we going to tell the girls?” Jonathan asks.

Madeline wrinkles her nose and then frowns. “I’m going to tell them that we’re both fucking crazy.”

Jonathan nods and slips off his shirt, then his pants, and crosses the room to the bed.

B. When Jonathan climbs into bed, the two of them finally lying together again, they do not make love.
Jonathan, exhausted, puts his arm around his wife and presses his face against her back. Within a few moments he is asleep. Smirking, Madeline listens to him begin to snore, then, trying to follow his breath, feeling the weight of this odd man against her, she finally closes her eyes, too.

C. On that cloudless Saturday morning, Madeline wakes up and sees Jonathan lying beside her, then decides that she’s probably going to end up loving him forever.

D. It might be as easy as all of that.
He is lying beside her in the bed, his face buried in the pillow, his arm is flung over the top of his head. She can hear him breathing. She thinks he looks perfect like that, like a boy, and then that’s all there is. Beneath all of her thoughts and worries, beneath the complication of conflicting identities and needs, maybe it’s as simple as loving the way some other person looks when they’re sleeping.

E. That Saturday, strangely, is like almost every other Saturday ever.
Jonathan goes to visit his father that morning. He returns saddened, but soon he is back to work in the den, following his grad students’ updates from Hawaii. Madeline speaks to her research advisor, Dr. Hillary, to explain her recent absences before she vacuums the house, singing selections from the Beatles’
White Album
. Amelia is up in her room busy with her school assignments. Thisbe pedals around the neighborhood on her bicycle sighing because she’s bored again. The only difference today is the prevalent feeling that, at any moment, any of them—father, mother, daughter, or sister—might vanish. They are all very careful and polite, glancing at each other curiously out of the corners of their eyes. They watch a movie together that night, all of them spread out in front of the TV. It is Thisbe’s pick,
The Song of Bernadette
, which everyone tolerates silently.

F. The next morning, when Madeline opens the front door, she finds the Sunday paper, and realizes that today is Halloween.
The late autumn weather is crisp and bright, the sun shining low in the east, orange and red and yellow leaves are glowing in the trees. Madeline stands on the front porch for a few moments and tries to decide if she is going to dress up to answer the door to give out candy to the neighborhood children or not. She decides she will, and begins searching through the house for something to wear.

In the basement, Madeline finds an old witch costume for herself and a caveman outfit for Jonathan. She climbs back upstairs, puts on the witch outfit, which is a little tight in the middle and the butt, but it makes her boobs look pretty great, then wakes Jonathan with a kiss. “Boo,” she says.

“Happy Halloween,” he says.

“Did you remember?” she asks.

“I don’t think so. I thought about it yesterday a little, but I guess I forgot.”

“Do you want to hand out candy to the kids?”

Jonathan rubs his beard over and over again, then wipes the sleep from his eyes and says, “Why not?”

“It’s almost eleven o’clock,” she says. “I bet they’ll start coming around noon.”

“Okay,” he murmurs, letting his head fall back on the pillow.

“Jonathan!” she shouts, placing his costume at the foot of the bed.

G. Together they hand out candy to neighborhood kids all afternoon.
There are only about two dozen or so, but Madeline likes to watch Jonathan do his little routine: standing behind the door, slowly opening it, so that it appears to open on its own, then leaping out, shouting in some indecipherable caveman language. Most of the kids don’t even get scared, though one, just a toddler, starts to cry and Madeline is happy to be able take her hand and comfort her, before dropping a Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup into her orange, pumpkin-shaped bag. Afterward, Jonathan and Madeline lounge around in their costumes, wondering if any older kids might come by that evening, but none do. At one point, sitting on the sofa, staring out through the parlor windows, Jonathan and Madeline are watching the sun set, when Amelia steps into the room and sees her father, dressed as a caveman, sleeping with his feet in her mother’s lap. Amelia squints, inspecting the unfamiliarly familiar situation, and smirks, her mother’s kind of smirk actually, before strolling back into the kitchen.

H. On Monday morning, Madeline asks the girls if they want a ride to school.
Both of them say yes. When she goes to the start the car, she finds a tiny paper flower placed beneath her black windshield wiper. She lifts the wiper blade gently, then holds the paper flower in her hand, staring down at it with a soft blush and a curious sense of surprise.

Jonathan: I thought I had you figured out.

“What’s that, Mom?” Thisbe asks, but Madeline smiles and slips the flower into her purse without an answer. As she pulls up in front of the school, Madeline wants to tell her daughters that things are going to be okay with her and their father. She doesn’t know how to put it exactly and she can feel them getting ready to run off, but before Amelia can leap out, Madeline puts the Volvo in park and says, “Girls, I’d like to talk to you about your father for a minute.”

“We know, you’re like all in love again,” Amelia says, rolling her eyes.

“Okay, but, well, I just wanted to say—”

“Mom, I’m going to be late,” Amelia whispers, rigid in the front seat.

“No, you’re not,” Thisbe says from the back, shaking her head. “We got like an hour.”

“Well, I actually have things to do. I’m supposed to be doing stuff for the paper.”

“BS,” Thisbe whispers. She glances at her mother in the rearview mirror as Madeline tries to continue.

“I just wanted to say that I’m sorry for making things difficult for you both. It’s just that we’re trying to figure things out…and…I hope when, or if, you guys decide to get married, you never have to worry about things like this. But it’s just that…it doesn’t usually work out so easy. It’s hard sometimes but we’re going to keep trying.”

“Okay,” Amelia says, her hand on the door handle. “Can we go now?”

“Okay, I guess,” Madeline says, stammering a little, wondering if she should say anything else. “Okay, well, have a great day.”

Before she finishes her sentence, Amelia has opened the door and has taken off. Thisbe, slow, dressed a little sloppily in overalls, leans forward and kisses her mother’s cheek. “You have a great day, too, Mom,” she says, and then, finding her book bag, she follows, disappearing into the small, colorful constellation of kids. Madeline watches them both go, then puts the Volvo back in drive, and rushes off.

I. On the way to work, Madeline listens to NPR and remembers that the presidential election is tomorrow.
She doesn’t know what to expect. The polls are pretty close and she’s afraid that John Kerry, as thorough as he was during the debates, might have struck people as too wooden, without much of a personality. She’s afraid of what will happen if George Bush gets reelected. She doesn’t think it will be the end of the world, just that it will be very, very bad for everybody.

J. At work that Monday, Madeline finds two more dead pigeons, murdered, lying there at the bottom of the enclosure.
Madeline inspects their bodies inside the lab and again finds they’re both females. That’s eight dead birds altogether. There’s no way she can hide this. When Laura, her assistant, shows up with coffee an hour later, Madeline lets her know what has been happening.

“Raped?” Laura asks, her thin eyebrows raised in shock.

“Then murdered.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. I’m pretty sure it has something to do with the dominant males being removed.”

“Yeah, but why?”

“I don’t know.”

The two of them spend the rest of the morning inspecting the animals, finding nothing else out of the ordinary, nothing abnormal, no signs of infection of any kind, nothing unsettling about the enclosure itself, no external forces that they think might be causing this strange behavior. Finally, Madeline presents the case to Dr. Hillary, her research advisor. Dr Hillary, his beard as dense and as white as chicken feathers, sits in his leather chair, nodding, staring at the top of the point his fingers make pressed tightly together. When Madeline finishes reading her notes, Dr. Hillary nods, then grimly asks, “And why do you think your birds are committing murder?”

“I really don’t know. I mean obviously it has to do with us removing the older, more dominant males.”

“Yes, but why would that cause such upheaval, such bizarre behaviors?”

“I don’t know,” Madeline admits.

“You’ve seriously upset those birds’ hierarchy, no?”

“Yes.”

“And the results have been quite drastic.”

“Yes.”

“And you don’t know why.”

“I know the how but not the why. I thought removing the more aggressive birds would result in less aggression.”

Dr. Hillary smiles, rocking back and forth in his chair.

“So what you found is that without the older, dominant males, the younger, beta males became much more aggressive, aberrantly aggressive, no?”

“Yes.”

“And why do you think that happened?”

“Because the dominant pigeons keep order.”

“It would seem so.”

“That still doesn’t explain the rape, and then the murders.”

“Let me redirect you, then,” Dr. Hillary says. “How do pigeons mate?”

“What do you mean?”

“What kind of process do they have?”

“They have a dance.”

“What kind of dance?”

“Well, the male bows to the female several times, then he blows out his neck feathers, puffs himself up, starts circling the female. Then he might spread out his tail feathers and drag them around. Then if there are other males present, he’ll try to separate the female from them by chasing her. Then the female, if she’s willing, will slip her bill into his and they’ll begin bobbing their heads, then after that the male climbs on the female’s back and—”

“So there is a ritual, no, a kind of dance, as you said?”

“Yes.”

“I am willing to bet that none of the males that you have in that cage are following the important steps of that ritual dance. I believe, if you were to study them, you would find the males try to mount the females without any kind of dance, as you call it, and the females, unsure of how to proceed without the ritual, think they are in danger and fight off the males’ advances. I think the males then, frustrated, after some time simply peck their prospective mates to death.”

“It still doesn’t explain why.”

“Where did you learn about how the world works?”