In this period, your father gives you books, literally, by the box. Once, he orders every book in the Junior Geologist’s summer catalogue. Sure, you read. But, for reasons you don’t understand, you begin rifling through his possessions. While he’s at work, you feel your way through the bottom of his sock drawer. You stand on a chair to inspect the closet’s top shelf. Inside the breast pocket of his sportcoats, you find plastic swizzle sticks from bars you’ve never heard of. Your mother’s nurse medallion, you discover, is something your father keeps in his medicine cabinet, beside his stomach pills. In a book, Profiles in Courage, you find one of your baby photos, except in this one there is a little puppy on a blanket with you. The puppy has a bow around its neck, but this dog you have never heard of. No one ever mentioned his name. You find a cache of condoms, taped individually to the bottom of the bedside table, and though you don’t exactly know their purpose, it’s clear to you, lying on the floor, looking up at them, that these have to do with the women your father dates. These are integral to the look your dad gives you as you take forever to finish that melting ice cream.
Cramped in the stall, my legs had gone to sleep. I had to lean on the toilet-paper dispenser to stand. I flushed the toilet under me, lest anyone think I was up to some monkey business in here, then walked stiff-legged to the common room, where I called Trudy.
When she answered, I said, “Trudy, I’m sorry. But this has been a mistake. You can’t pick up Yulia. You can’t bring her here.”
On the other end, Trudy gave a long, exasperated sigh.
I was silent. I replayed Yulia’s image over and over in my mind, looking for signs that she really didn’t want to be with me. I couldn’t detect any, but that didn’t mean anything. It was my experience that it sometimes took a while to stumble upon someone’s hidden reservations. If you spent enough time with someone, though, if you looked hard enough, you’d find them. It was always a matter of time. If I found them in Yulia… when I found them in Yulia… how would I stand it?
“Dr. Hannah,” Trudy said, “you may not remember this, because it was late, but you called me about twelve hours ago.”
“Things have changed,” I said. “We’ll have to go with another paleobotanist.”
“What about Dr. Nivitski? She lands in a couple hours. What am I supposed to do? Take her sightseeing?”
“Can’t you just not pick her up?” I asked. “I mean, she’s an adult. She can take care of herself.”
“I’m going to pretend this conversation never happened,” she said. “You’ve been under a lot of stress. Anyone can see that. I’m going to meet Dr. Nivitski’s flight at five, and I’m going to tell her how thrilled you are to have her consult on this project. Then I’m going to drop her off at the visitors’ entrance.”
This time, Trudy hung up.
Wrapping my trusty blanket around my shoulders, I headed for that icebox of a room, resigning myself to cold sheets and a cold mattress. This is how my father found me. I felt as if I’d only been asleep a minute, as if my eyes had just closed. Then he was shaking me awake. I squinted up at him, my teeth clenched with cold. He stood there, brown suit draped over an arm, looking at me — my bald head, my dishpan hands, the wet sock on my right foot. Though he was trying not to show it, I could tell he was dismayed. He went to pull off my wet sock, and when he found another wet sock underneath it, he shot me a look of moderate distress. From his pocket, he drew a pair of black wool socks, and after sliding these on my feet, he hauled me up to a sitting position.
“Arms up,” he said, and pulled a white dress shirt over me.
When my head poked through, I got a good look at him as he worked my hands through the cuffs. His hair was thinning. There were a few liver spots on his scalp. His two new teeth looked wooden. He seemed, for reasons I couldn’t put my finger on, very alone. But I was always wrong when I thought that of him. “Did you water the plants?” I asked.
He was working the buttons on the cuff vent. “Yes, I watered your plants.”
“Did you play them some Latin jazz?”
“Sure,” he said. “I danced them a marimba, too.”
When he played me like that, I never knew what to believe. He was full of these little power moves designed to keep me off balance. They always worked.
He tugged my shirt this way and that, to center it.
“Relax,” he said. “I watered your plants.”
“Now you’re really lying, aren’t you? It would be like you to play the music and leave them dry.”
“Look,” he said, gathering the fabric of my slacks so they’d slip on easier, “I’m trying to help here. I’m on your side. Now, come on, lift those legs.”
I complied, though I moved pretty slow, just to let Dad know I had a mind of my own. “You’re wasting your time,” I told him. “Plans have changed, if you haven’t heard. She’s not coming.”
Dad didn’t say anything. He just worked a pant leg over my ankle, then jammed on a dress shoe to keep the slacks from sliding off. This he repeated on my other leg, then began lacing.
“Did you hear what I said?” I asked. “Are you listening to me?”
When both my shoes were snug, he stood.
“All set,” he said. “Just pull your pants up.”
“I know how to pull my pants up,” I said.
“Then pull your pants up.”
A woman knocked on the door. “Is everybody decent in there?” she asked.
I pulled my pants up.
In walked the waitress from the Lollygag, though now her hair was down, and it was beyond black, full of sheen and depth. It was movie-star hair, rich enough to allow her to favor dark lipstick, wear a top that shimmered green, and carry a little extra weight.
Dad stuffed a wadded-up tie in my coat pocket. “I draw the line at other men’s ties,” he said, and tossed a thumb toward the woman. “You remember Lorraine.”
A coffee cup hung from her finger. She swung it to show that it was empty.
I didn’t exactly catch her name last time, but I said, “Of course. Charmed.”
She handed me the empty cup. “Likewise, Professor,” she said, a little playfully. “I was going to make you a cup, but that coffee station — really, it’s a mess. Nothing personal. I mean, you do have quite a place here.”
“The accommodations are temporary,” I assured her.
She turned to my father. “Not much room for a party, I’m afraid.”
I asked, “A party?”
Just then, I saw Farley walk past the door frame, headed down the hall. He wore one of those sharp suits of his, and he was carrying something in large oven mitts imprinted with red flames.
I followed in disbelief, catching up with him at the communal kitchen, where he was staring at the controls of one of the ovens. When Farley caught sight of me, he patted me on the shoulder and threw me a look that said, What’d I tell ya, eh? I could feel the heat of the mitt through my suit.
He said, “A cut above the county holding cells, huh? You hear any dogs barking? Smell any urine? It doesn’t get any better than this. Here you’ve got your high-speed Internet access, your bowling league, and your”—he stopped, lifted his eyebrows—“conjugal visits.” As if reminded of something, he shook off an oven mitt and withdrew a cassette tape from his slacks. This he slipped into my breast pocket, then patted its impression through the fabric. “I know you’re an Eagles man,” he said, “but give the Santana a test drive.”