We Only Know So Much (9 page)

sixteen

G
ordon creates a page on Trudy’s social network so that he can leave a message for her. He takes some time to create his profile, listing every possible means by which he can be reached—work number, home number, cell number, email address. Now to upload a profile photo. But which one? He could just use his work photo, it certainly looks like him, but that’s not really what he’s going for here. Which one says what he wants to say? What
does
he want to say to Trudy? Is there one photo that conveys
I am a serious and intelligent person, but I am also lighthearted, fun to be around, and sorry I don’t remember you?
Gordon isn’t really all that much fun to be around, as we’ve established he’s a bit boring at times, so there aren’t really any photos of him that capture this quality that he doesn’t have, not any recent ones anyway. There is a photo of him from the time he hit a single in the company softball outing; that doesn’t convey serious and intelligent, but maybe athletic and fun is good enough? Also, Gordon is only looking through the photos on the computer, photos that were taken in the last five years since they’ve had a digital camera (
there’s no sense investing the money in something that was designed to be obsolete; until they come out with one that has eight or more megapixels, you might as well take the time to make a pointillist painting)
, photos that were taken long after Gordon was last connected to, you know, himself. Might have to look back to childhood photos for that. There are a dozen photo albums from which he could choose one in which he at least
looks
like himself; also in these albums are photos of Gordon holding each of his children when they were first born, rare genuine moments, many of them snapped by his dad. That’s maybe neither here nor there. We’re just saying it’s been a while. But it may be just as well that he’s not thinking about the photo albums right now, because if he did, he’d find a lot of photos of people he doesn’t remember. Finally Gordon remembers the built-in camera on his computer. He will take a self-portrait. It will take him only ninety-seven attempts before he gets one that seems right. It’s our observation that the differences in most of these ninety-seven photos are visible only to Gordon, that it’s the visual equivalent of the sounds that only dogs hear. Gordon has a “photo face,” but he doesn’t seem to know it.

There’s a box on one side of his home page that suggests “people you may know” to add as friends; it does indeed list some people he knows, a few work associates, a few college friends, Priscilla. Unfortunately, it also lists a half dozen people Gordon does not know. Or he knows them but doesn’t remember them. Gordon understands that it searches your email address book, but also feels that he knows who’s in his email address book, although he’s forgetting that he’d set it up so that anyone who emails him is automatically included in his email address book, and as such, this little box of people he may know only strengthens his concern that there may be any number of people besides Trudy whom he doesn’t remember. He quickly puts in friend requests to all of them, as well as to Priscilla. He has no idea that won’t happen.

Now to compose a message.
Dear Trudy
,
Trudy.
Trudy Trudy
Trudy,
I am so sorry
It was nice seeing you again the other day. I hope you will accept my sincere apology for
having forgotten our entire relationship
for not remembering you
our relationship
time together
the other day. Would you be
available
willing
available
to meet me
for a cup of coffee
to discuss this matter further
at your
earliest
convenience? I would like to try to make it up to you.
Gordon Copeland
. Gordon.
C.

This last line is almost completely insincere. He does feel a little bit bad about it, but mostly it’s just there because Gordon has the good sense not to write
I would like you to help me remember why I don’t remember you and hopefully reassure me that I am not slowly losing my mind.

Gordon becomes distracted by a series of quizzes he discovers are popular on the social networking site. Fairly preposterous, he thinks, that anyone would waste their time on such things. Don’t most people know the answers to these questions without taking the quizzes? Even the silly ones? Doesn’t everyone know what Greek god/goddess best describes them? Obviously I’m Prometheus, Gordon thinks, god of forethought and crafty counsel, I don’t need a silly quiz like this to tell me that. But according to this quiz he’s a Harpy. Nonsense. He’ll prove his point with another one. What era are you from? He’s obviously from the 1950s, when life was so much simpler. But this quiz says he’s from the seventies. Oh, pff. So
literal
. He’ll do one more, What fairy tale are you? So many good choices; he could be the prince in just about anything, maybe a knight. Snow White? Oh, come now. What Hogwarts professor are you? Could Gordon be anyone but Dumbledore? Lockhart? Lockhart’s nothing but a pompous buffoon! Which movie love story is your life? Oh,
Desk Set
, possibly
My Fair Lady
.
Unfaithful
? For heaven’s sake, that makes no sense, that’s about a
woman
. These quizzes are clearly skewed, asking the wrong questions. One more and he’ll be back on track. What kind of dog? Surely a German shepherd. A Labradoodle? What could that possibly mean? Why is the Inquisition after you? Without a doubt they want to censor him. But wrong again. Freemasonry? He is no Freemason. Which
Family Guy
character? Brian, of course, but no, wrong again, he gets Peter, the oafish dad. All right, that’s just absurd. Which
Wizard of Oz
character? No-brainer. The Wizard. This one he gets right, but doesn’t realize it’s for the wrong reasons. Thinks it’s because he’s smart, when in fact it’s because he’s afraid. What Smurf? In the bag—Brainy. But no . . . Papa Smurf. What opera character? Eugene Onegin, maybe, perhaps Werther. Canio? The sad clown? Oh, for Pete’s sake. One more, just one more. What Beatles song are you? “Paperback Writer” maybe? “All You Need Is Love”! Huh. Well, ordinarily it might be hard to argue with that, but under the circumstances this answer just strikes Gordon as being as arbitrary as the rest.

Under normal circumstances, he’d have had no problem dismissing these quiz results as wrong and thinking no more about it. Unfortunately, because everything is wrong for Gordon right now, he finds his inability to match up who he is with who these quizzes thinks he is is rather disturbing. As Gordon discovers that he’s wrong about so many of these quizzes, a thought passes through his mind—half a thought, perhaps—that there might be some small insight to be found here, that perhaps his idea of himself is too fixed.

Maybe I’ll try one more, Gordon thinks. Are you happy with the one you love? Of course I am, he thinks. Finally, the quiz results match up.

Convinced he’s back on track, he takes one last quiz: Why were you born? He has never wondered why he was born. He doesn’t even think about it. He was born to be a productive member of society like everyone else, and to share his knowledge. Which is going to be a little difficult if all that knowledge drops away, as it seems to be doing.

Gordon’s answer: You were born to be in love.

Gordon has no idea what to make of this, but surprisingly, he doesn’t hate it. He’s already in love, he thinks. Wouldn’t it be nice if that were all he needed to worry about? Clearly, Gordon and his wife have different ideas about love. He thinks of himself as romantic because he remembers Jean’s birthday, their anniversary, gives thoughtful gifts like books and perfume. He tells her he loves her. Maybe not often enough—a lot of times he drops the
I
, so it’s just
Love you
, and to Jean that missing
I
is an important one—but Gordon doesn’t know this. He believes she knows he loves her whether he says it out loud, or with an
I
, or with no
I
, and believes in saying it only as it comes to him, like when she undresses herself before bed, always after they’ve turned off the lights, the slivers of light between the blinds highlighting the outline of her still-beautiful form, unknown to her. He makes no distinction between
considerate
and
romantic
. Gordon’s idea of love is practical. It’s what grown-ups do. He’s attracted to her; she’s a good woman; she’s beautiful; she’s given him two children and she’s a good mother. He knows they haven’t slept together for a while, chalks it up to “marriage,” tells himself it will change, and that it doesn’t mean they don’t love each other. But without a doubt this childish quiz has planted a seed. We’ll see if he reaps it.

seventeen

F
or three days, three interminable days since the day Caterina gave him the jelly beans, Otis has been hoping to find himself close enough to her to say something—anything. He has tried to make this happen by lingering around his cubby to no avail, by sitting on the railroad tie at recess every day in case she sits down near him again. He knows she doesn’t sit there every day, that sometimes she plays with other kids, or swings (and oh, what a thing to behold that is, Caterina on the swing, especially when her hair is in pigtails tied with colored ribbons, streaming behind her in the wind like kite tails of the most perfect kite in existence), but she does sit there often enough that he feels the odds are best in this location. He has been wanting to tell her that he didn’t like the birthday cake flavor, just like her, but worries that she’ll ask about the other flavors he hasn’t tried, and ask him why wouldn’t he have just eaten them. He knows nobody saves five jelly beans to eat later. He could just say thanks again for the jelly beans, but would that just shut down the conversation?

Just before the bell rings, Caterina does come over and sit down, but she’s got that girl Bethany with her. Bethany talks really fast, nonstop, about nothing, if you ask Otis, and so he knows that there’s not much chance he’ll be able to add anything. Bethany’s talking about some doll she got for her birthday that supposedly looks just like her, and about all the outfits that came with it, and about how she’s hoping to get some matching outfits for Christmas. Caterina is only a smidge more interested than Otis is, but she’s also unable to redirect, because there are nearly no breaths, or at least very unenterable breaths, between Bethany’s words. Once, Caterina thinks she sees a pause coming, and she opens her mouth to leap in—but it isn’t a pause, it’s preparation for more about this doll and her outfits, and Otis and Caterina meet eyes for maybe one fraction of a fraction of a second, a moment in which Otis knows that Caterina knows that she would also like to say something, that Bethany should shut up already, a moment in which Otis is sharing something real and true with Caterina, a transcendent moment, a moment for the history books. Then, of course, the bell rings. Caterina jumps up and Bethany follows.
Wait up, wait up!
She has more to say about the doll. The girls are gone.

On the car ride home, Otis tells his mother about Caterina looking at him. Her son’s first love! How have these years passed so quickly? She glances over at her son, wishes she could capture the light in his eyes somehow, keep this moment for her son so he’ll always know what love is when it seems far away. She nods, a lot.
James and I had moments like that all the time. We had wonderful conversations, but half the time we didn’t even have to talk. We could just sit there together.
Otis finds this very heartening news indeed. He and Caterina could just sit there. Already, they have sort of a foundation in just sitting there. This is good. Maybe he doesn’t need to worry so much about talking. He likes to talk, though. He wants very much to tell Caterina about all of his interests. He almost feels like, if he could just start talking to Caterina, he could tell her everything and she would contain his thoughts and they’d be preserved for a later time in case he forgot them.

And when we
—Jean catches herself—
laid down together
, she continues,
for the first time . . . Oh, well! It was like
—
well, it was just like all of your favorite things in the world swimming around in a goopy, soupy, delicious . . . oh, love is a beautiful thing, Otie. Someday you’ll come together with a person and a very
—
almost spiritual thing will happen. I don’t know how else to say it. Hopefully your lover won’t kill herself.

Okay, this is where we wish there could be a photograph, or a series of photographs of Otis’s changing expressions as his mother talks, a moment of contemplation on
laid down together
, another moment on
spiritual
, another moment on
goopy, soupy, delicious
, and the last, the last moment on
kill herself
, Otis’s changing expressions as he puzzles through these descriptors and lands finally on
kill herself
, a scowl settling into his face as this idea takes shape. All these pairs and trios of words bring numerous images to Otis’s mind, and he doesn’t have nearly enough time to work through each one before
kill herself
comes up, which is the easiest to picture but the hardest to understand. Why would Caterina kill herself? Is that just what happens, eventually? Will I kill myself? Accidentally or something? He tries to think of some reason this might happen. He hardly thinks he or Caterina would kill themselves of their own free will. Plus, he can think of only so many ways for someone to kill someone, or themselves. Things he’s read about in books: guns and magic swords, poison apples, cannons. A cannon. How would that work? He can’t picture how you’d kill yourself with a cannon; you’d have to light it somehow and then run around to the front before the cannonball came out. Probably he can’t run that fast. Perhaps his teacher would say, “Okay, class, everyone take out your compasses and begin stabbing yourself in the stomach until you’re dead.” But why, though? Or what if his mom and dad handed out guns after dinner one night? “Priscilla, Otis, instead of ice cream tonight we’re all going to shoot ourselves.” But no, Mom seems too sad about James; she probably wouldn’t want all of us to kill ourselves, too. Unless, if we all killed ourselves, then maybe no one would be sad—maybe that’s the idea. Jean is driving, so she doesn’t see Otis’s thinking hat and at this point she’s far past worrying that she’s said too much. Otis doesn’t ask any of the questions in his head, he just continues to generate more questions, and more erroneous answers.