“Is
there anything you haven’t shared with me?”
A. Confide in her.
B.
You’re not ready to talk about it.
C. Take the unknown object out of your pocket, hoping it isn’t a condom or a bullet.
* * *
Pit of Despair
I gently slipped my arm from beneath her grip and wrapped the free hand around her wrist. Frida was a deeply sensitive woman, but in no way erratic or prone to huge outbursts; at once, I tried to convey tenderness and strength, disappointment and concern through my stare, while searching past her eyes for the source of her decision and this unusual question. I didn’t sense suspicion from her and I’d given no cause to be suspicious. Any dark remnants of my own history were long past and deeply buried. The doubt I read in her shifting eyes and softly trembling lips was being projected onto me; this was a test for our relationship and Frida lacked confidence in herself, in us as a couple, or both. I wasn’t plagued by such doubts and knew the situation would require patience on my part.
I gave an uncertain sigh, pretending to struggle with my next words, “I’m sorry for not being immediately concerned from your mom. I was only thinking of us, the trip.” I paused, “We’ll have other chances, if that’s what you want, and maybe we can do a weekend in Vegas or Yellowstone when I come back.”
Her eyes watered, as she said, “Yes, let’s do it.”
“How is she though? Is the injury very serious?”
“No, the break is below the knee. She tripped crossing the street and hit her shin against the curb.”
I winced, “That’s awful, but I’m glad she’ll be ok. So, you’ll sign her cast for me, won’t you?”
Frida nodded and the first teardrop came loose, streaking across her cheek; she bumped the table, as she left for the bathroom, and I stood in acknowledgement. She was still uncomfortable crying in front of me. Whatever was in my pocket readjusted, and I sank into my seat comfortably.
Gerry was openly staring at me from behind the register. He had a clear feminine face, sarcastic lips and long hair the color of chocolate milk. In the right clothes, he could easily pass for a woman. Gerry raised his eyebrow inquisitively, almost accusingly, to ask if everything was ok. I winked both eyes and smiled; then took a five-dollar bill from my wallet, waved it over my head and slipped it under the napkin holder. He gave a stern nod and put a pair of wide-rim, mirrored sunglasses over his eyes, both to let me know he’d stop watching us and also to make me laugh.
The bathroom door swung outwards, brushing against the carpet, and Frida was patting the creases of her dress as she stepped through the doorway. She approached the table with a smile, solemn but not forced, and stood beside her chair with one hand on her coat.
“You need to go?”
As she put on her coat, she answered, “Mmm. There’s something we need to do before I pack.” She turned towards the door and, looking over her shoulder and through the corner of her eyes, told me, “Come on.”
We walked to the parking lot and left together. Frida brought me back two hours later to pick up my car, and we shared the last, desperate kiss of lovers who would then be parted.
* * *
As I pulled into the research institute parking lot, Dr. Wilkes stepped out of his white Smartcar. He’d bought the car in the last year, and I often ridiculed it around the office because it looked like a deformed egg. I hadn’t slept well and had no interest in talking with him, but the wiry, hook-billed doctor occasionally timed his morning entrance with mine so, rather than visit the Draize Lab or hope to bump into me in the breakroom, we might exchange a few words in the parking lot before the day starts. I thought this animalistic territorialism concerning our labs would have been beneath the highly educated Dr. Wilkes, but he insisted on doing it this way.
However, I felt empowered by the fact my vacation was close and, for once, determined not to let the old doctor interrupt my morning. Though the lot was nearly empty, I parked several spaces down to avoid being near him; I cut the engine, but left the heater blowing and turned up the radio, which was playing a ‘60s song about a tambourine. I tilted my seat into a restive posture, and watched Dr. Wilkes look on uncertainly. Slowly walking towards the entrance, he glanced at me and noticed I wasn’t coming. He stopped, and stepped, halted, then leaned against his egg-shaped car. When he realized I still wasn’t coming, he walked towards me, slouching more than usual, and tapped on my window. I lazily rolled my head towards him, nodded and unlocked the doors. He stepped back to let me out of the car, but I pointed at the passenger seat, signaling that he should come inside. I knew it would be a challenge to his territorialism and I hoped it would make him forget what he came to say.
The door opened. Preceded by a burst of cold air, Dr. Wilkes slipped into the passenger seat and closed the door. He looked at the blue-cloth upholstered interior and noncommittally said, “Nice.”
“Thanks, I know. Radio and everything.”
He looked at the LED-lit buttons and digital interface, and wryly said, “Hey, how about that? AM and FM?”
“Yeah.” I cleared my throat.
“Rumor has it your taking off tomorrow, is that true?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“Really, you’re still going?” he asked, leaning forward slightly.
“Yes, still going.”
He breathed fully, “Oh, that’s very nice. It’ll do you some good.”
“Yeah, that’s why people take vacations. It does them good. Should we just go inside?”
“I don’t know. I like it in here with your amazing radio and everything.”
I turned the key, switching off the heat and the music.
He said, “Yes, I suppose we should go. Headquarters did want to relay a message about your tests yesterday. They are telling you not to condemn a product based on the reaction of one subject.”
“So, they want me to sear a few more rabbits?”
“Did you really call them and say we should send our products to Morocco to test on unveiled women?”
I laughed, “I, uh, don’t recall.”
“Have it your way, but according to them, you’re on warning because of it. And yes, test a few more. A half dozen should be fine. If they all have the same reaction, then we’ll follow procedure. Ok? Let’s go.”
The cold air bit me again, as he pulled the door handle and left. I locked the door behind him and turned the key to hear a little more music, rather than follow him. I needed one more song.
* * *
The Draize lab and LD50 lab shared a storage room, where we kept extra cages, food, anesthetics, bottles of Euthatome and our incinerator. I thought the incinerator model was an exceptionally poor choice because it was too functional. There was no smoke or smell; the ashes fell into a removable slot, so you never used a handbrush or dustpan, and the burnings could be programmed for temperature and time, exactly like a microwave oven. The incinerator’s body was a freestanding, metal construct that looked like an L-shaped filing cabinet; the loading door rose to chest-height, and didn’t have the decency to squeak when it was opened. In my opinion, it made death seem sterile and meaningless, so the task of body disposal was usually delegated to my interns. As we retested the yellow gel that morning, Jan made six trips to the incinerator in quick succession, and afterward we retired to the breakroom for an early lunch.
I brought a falafel wrap with sprouts and hummus, while Jan had two jam sandwiches made from pancakes that were cut in half; out of pity, I swapped half of my wrap for one of her jam sandwiches. I may have seemed distant during the conversation because my lunch spent much more time in my hands than in my mouth, and my eyes were often turned toward the window.
“This is tasty. Where did you get it?” she asked, as she took the first bite.
“I made it.”
“That’s impressive. I don’t know many guys who can make falafel.”
“You use a mix. It’s no harder than making pancakes,” I answered.
“I didn’t know. I’ve never seen you eat meat though. Are you a vegetarian?”
“I eat fish, but otherwise, yes.”
“With your job, doesn’t that seem a little…?”
“Paradoxical? Non-concurrent? Jan, I’ve been getting this reaction for all eight years of my vegetarianism. Life feeds on life, and there’s no way around that. I don’t eat meat because farm animals consume too many of the grains humans should be eating. But more importantly, my family has a history of heart disease and I’m getting old.”
“Have you ever heard of organic funerals?”
It took a moment’s reflection to understand what she’d asked; it was a passing thought that unexpectedly became a question, a lightning bolt that strayed from the storm. I said, “I think so. Isn’t that when you’re buried in a biodegradable casket, instead of the polished ones with comfy pillows.”
“Ok, so you know. What made you get into this work then?”
I smiled, perhaps sourly, “I didn’t get into it for the procedural, rabbit slaughter.”
“Then, what?”
There was a long pause before I answered. I tore a piece of my pancake sandwich and started chewing, then said, “I used to do serious animal research at a university lab, but I found it distasteful, to say the least. I quit and took a year off to travel. When I came back, I found I was still highly qualified for product testing, so I took the job here.”
“Why did you find it…”
I interrupted, “I know you were asking if I believe in what I do, but who really does? Who even asks these questions anymore? How do you think people would react, if they knew how many of their household products were unnecessary? If they knew shampoos and hair gels kill your hair follicles, so you’ll buy hair growth formulas? That ash will clean a plate better than dish soap? So, why are we safety testing products the world is better off without?”
I closed my eyes, pressed on the bridge of my nose and asked, “I haven’t talked you out of a promising career have I?”
“Hardly, Doctor.”
“Good because this, well, it isn’t about the job.”
“Can I ask what it is about?”
“Mmm, no. But how would you like to earn an ‘A’ in your internship, right now?”
She grinned and adjusted her glasses, probably thinking the same thing I was. She replied, “How would I do that?”
“Cover for me. I’m going to get a headstart on the vacation.”
“You’re leaving now?” she asked, a little surprised.
“Yes, if you promise not to tell anybody. You have the security code, so just do the feeding, cleaning, catch up on your homework and go home.”
“What if someone calls?”
“Before I go, I’m going to call the branch office to tell them I was right. They won’t want to talk to me again today. If it’s anyone else, say I’m busy or out, and they should try my private number or just wait for Monday. Dr. York should be in soon, anyway. But don’t let him answer the phone. ”
“Can I have a professional reference, too?”
“Yeah, no problem.”
“Deal. Do you have any special instructions for your assistant Dr. Weaver?”
“No, we’ll be in contact through email. But make sure Dr. Weaver puts you to work, while I’m gone.” I began drumming my fingers on the table, exchanging a glance with my intern, who clearly found the situation amusing. I stood, announcing, “Ok, I’m going.”
“Have a great time, Doctor, and bring pictures.”
My steps halted and I pointed at her like I was about to speak. No words came, so I just waved, and finally she did laugh.
It must have been a month, or several months, since I’d last had any personal time. Work, Frida and my daily life had taken over my weeks. Rather than go directly home to sulk, I stopped at every place that looked interesting along the way. I stopped at a nearly vacant used bookstore and passed slowly from shelf to shelf—in the end, deciding on Omoo by Herman Melville. Next-door was a candy shop with stacks of plastic bins lining the wall and a central counter with colorful, novelty items stacked around the register; I bought three whistle-lollipops and put them in my coat pocket. From there, I drove to a movie theater and bought a ticket to whatever was showing next. I was probably the first person in twenty years to wear a turtleneck to a weekday matinee. A few unshaven unemployed were there, along with some jaded members of the service industry, catching a movie before their shift. In front of me, a man fat enough to be on disability was loudly snogging a bag of popcorn. The movie was a drama about a woman with Alzheimer’s disease whose husband decided to put her in a retirement home. I was bored, so I blew sharply on my whistle-pop whenever the woman forgot where she was or who she was talking to; surprisingly, no one complained or even seemed to notice. Afterward, I had an early dinner at an Israeli restaurant and finally went home.
As I opened my suitcase and emptied my closet, I thought about the coming two weeks and what they will bring. The afternoon was thoroughly enjoyable, but a faint melancholy followed my steps; for the first time, I was realizing that age and isolation don’t make a good pair. Hunched over, I was sitting on my bed beside an open suitcase, trying to reconcile my anxieties. I opened the nightstand drawer, pulled out my travel receipt and reread the details of my ticket, which still listed the destination as, London Heathrow. The plan was to spend a week in London, and take the train to Paris to spend a week there.