Suddenly I realized that this cell had been used as some kind of day care for Gerry’s kids, and it was the saddest thing I’d ever seen. My mind flooded with memories of all those days I sat alone, mother gone, father off on insurance junkets, days I spent inventing yarns in which I was part of a great tribe of people. I was usually the medicine man or the priest, a person the village couldn’t live without. I’d climb the temple steps and spread messages of love and family; to help them sink in, sometimes I performed a few sacrifices. From time to time, in an empty living room, my ten-year-old voice announced the will of the gods. “Burn the crops,” I demanded. “Fill my room with gold.”
I turned to the dogs. Their ears lifted in anticipation. What sad, abandoned beasts. Unwanted, unloved. I showered them with the last of my French fries. They went mad, lunging and snapping, obviously making Sheriff Dan nervous as he returned with the cordless phone.
I glared at him. Putting an anthropologist in prison is one thing, likewise crating up all the strays in town, but how could this man allow his deputy to put his own children in here?
“You make me sick,” I said.
He gave me a fake little smile that suggested he didn’t know what the heck I was talking about. Then he passed the phone through the bars, along with a tiny rice-paper edition of the New Testament.
I took his phone and shook my head.
“Being a child is prison enough,” I said, “without people like you in the world.”
Then I tossed his silly Bible on the bench, where it landed in some ketchup.
Instantly, some cur stuck his snout through the bars and nabbed it. Now the whole murderous lot erupted, raising a cloud of tissue paper — gospel-white and ketchupy.
Sheriff Dan couldn’t quite hide his shock. He tried to act cool.
He said, “Looks like you and the hounds found some common ground after all.”
I pressed against the bars. I could feel cold metal on both cheeks. Then I beckoned him close with my finger. “You want to know about common ground?” I asked him.
I planned on really zinging Sheriff Dan with a good comeback, a put-down that would smart for the rest of the day.
With a cocky sidestep he neared me. Closer, I motioned to him. Closer.
When he was near enough that I could smell the burger of his breath, I decided to really zap him with a one-liner, but all that came to me was Sit and spin, a line I used to use in high school. My brain was totally crapping out on me. Where was my Ph.D. when I needed it?
Then something unexpected happened: a single flea hopped from my scalp, and without Sheriff Dan’s even noticing, it landed on his cheek. The black speck whirled, vibrating in a little dance, then disappeared into the man’s silvery hairline.
A large smile crossed my face, a look that totally unnerved Sheriff Dan.
“What?” he asked, but I just smiled bigger.
That’s when he glared at me and stalked out.
When he was gone I clasped the phone. I needed to call Farley to get me out of there. I needed to contact my father, so he could post bail, but, for reasons I can’t explain, my finger dialed Directory Assistance for the state of North Dakota. I asked for the number for one Yulia Terrasova Nivitski, paleobotanist, resident of the city of Croix. The line was faint and staticky, as if I was calling through a snowstorm, but right away, before the first ring was over, a boy answered.
“Da,” he said. The voice couldn’t have been older than eleven.
A Russian greeting, of course, yet I couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d addressed me as a father. I cleared my throat. “Dr. Nivitski, please.”
“Who is telephoning?”
“Tell her Hank is on the line. Hank Hannah.”
There was quiet.
I said, “Just tell her it’s Hank. She’ll know.”
Again, quiet. Was he covering the phone while he spoke to her?
“Hannah,” I said. “Dr. Hannah from Parkton. Parkton, South Dakota.”
Nothing.
“Hello?” I asked.
Then the boy spoke again. “Do you have many canines?”
I looked up and suddenly became aware of all the dogs, snarling and yapping around me. I guess I’d gotten used to them.
“Look,” I said, “I’m calling for Dr. Nivitski. Is she there or not? Who is this?”
“This is Vadim,” he said, pronouncing his name Vah-deem. “I greatly dislike canines. They used to chase me on the way to school. They would hide in the woods and wait for me.”
“Is Julie there?” I asked. “Are you alone?”
“No,” he said, “I have many friends over. We are working on a grand project.”
“Seriously,” I said. “Is anyone else home?”
“Yes, there are many of us. My friends and I will one day be scientists. Our project could be a tool for peace or a weapon of mass destruction, depending on whether or not the world appreciates us.”
Now I was the one who was quiet. A shiver went through me, and I experienced this strange illusion that I was calling back in time, that a blizzard had messed up the phone lines and I was talking to myself, twenty-five years ago. I didn’t like it.
Vadim asked, “Do you work your science on canines?”
“No,” I said, “they’re just pets. I’m sort of dog-sitting. Look, will you just tell Julie I called? Can you write that down, that Hank Hannah called?”
“In Russia, my father works his science on rabbits. He is very famous.”
A sickness was coming over me. I had to get off the line.
“Just tell Julie,” I said.
“I will write a sticky note,” Vadim said.
“Goodbye,” I said.
“What sort of science do you work?” Vadim asked.
I hung up.
* * *
Toward afternoon, the heavy door burst open and in walked Gerry, a cardboard box under his arm, anger and determination on his face. He walked past a height chart painted on the wall — five one in boots, I noted — and headed for the cell with the toys.
Without looking at me, he unlocked the cell door, then dropped to his knees and crawled this way and that as he picked up toys and tossed them into the cardboard box. He scooped up balls and brightly colored zoo animals. He chased down crayons that had rolled to all quarters. I neared the bars so I could peer inside the box — also there were his own possessions, from his desk and locker, from his old police cruiser.
Finally, he stood and looked around, registering not me but the book in my cell.
“Give me the dang coloring book,” he said.
I grabbed the Impossible Journey book, a bright-eyed Pomeranian on the cover, and passed it through the bars. “Hey,” I said, “no hard feelings.”
“Hard feelings?” Gerry asked. “They’re going to feed you shit pizza in prison, and I only wish I was there to put the cherry on top.”
“You’re angry,” I said. “I understand. I was out of line with the school-bus remark.”
“The school bus. You guys’d never leave that alone, would you? You’d never let that go. Well, my parents happen to be dead now, so the school-bus chapter of my life is over.” With two fingers, Gerry pinched some air. “I was this close to getting back with my ex — old lady. She gets out of the hospital next week, and we had this big party planned. We’re talking helium tanks, Bundt cakes. I’ve had those kids eating out of my hand all week.”
I nodded toward his cardboard box.