I pulled the tape out, examined it. “Farley,” I said, “if this has anything to do with that call last night, let me apologize here and now. I was way out of line to—”
He turned to his casserole dish, sealed with aluminum foil. “Speak nothing of it, my man. I present one mushroom surprise, as requested,” he said. With a note of conspiracy, he added, “I make the bacon bits myself. Trust me — the ladies notice.”
I was always suspicious of sudden generosity. The rule of life tends toward the opposite. Still, I said, “This is too much, my friend. You didn’t have to do this.”
Farley shook his head. “What would you do without me?” he asked, not altogether rhetorically. I didn’t mind. Against the tableau of an old kitchen, it felt as if Farley and I were family, standing in a place where, had we been brothers, we’d have talked late by the fridge light or met before dawn to make sandwiches before slipping out to fish under the morning star. There was a certain kind of kitchen that could always make you feel this: twin cocoa-colored ovens, an avocado fridge, and Formica countertops that had once been lemon-yellow. Throw in a stovetop whose burner pans were lined with tin foil, and some pull-out cutting boards that had long ago been resurfaced with handwritten recipes. What spoke more of family than an always-wrong oven clock or that lone Crock-Pot made from clear root-beer-tinted glass?
Farley leaned against the preheating oven.
“Amigo,” he said, “you can do me one favor.”
Then Farley mimed the zipping of a fly.
I looked down. Sure enough. I gave the matter some quick attention as Dad and Lorraine straggled into the kitchen. Behind them, the sun was setting through the tall windows of the breakfast area. Outside, the prison was canopied by mid-level clouds, yet the horizon was clear. The dipping sun shot brilliant light at us, slanty and intense.
Dad and Lorraine didn’t say anything. They just stood in that sideways light, smiling at me. “What?” I asked them.
“Nothing,” my dad said, though that grin was on his face.
I turned to Farley, and he had that stupid smirk, too.
That’s when Eggers and Trudy came in, walking as la-di-da as Hansel and Gretel, as if they didn’t have a care in the world.
“Hey, Dr. Hannah,” Trudy said. She had her big sweater on and was wearing shiny clips to hold back her bangs.
“Howdy,” Eggers said. He was carrying a party bowl of assorted potato chips.
Lorraine, out of politeness perhaps, grabbed one chip.
Farley shook his head. “Oh, that’s vintage Clovis,” he said. “Now, that’s authentic. And here I’d been thinking that my ancestors had carried their Doritos in woven baskets on their heads.”
This banter I ignored. I kept looking behind Trudy, through the door, to see if anybody else was coming. Perhaps Yulia was standing in the hall, waiting for the right moment to reveal herself to me. Maybe she was nervous about seeing me again, and was pausing to gather her thoughts. I took the time to adjust my shirt cuffs, to brush back my hair, though there was only stubble when I did.
I clapped my hands together, then rubbed them briskly. “Well?” I asked.
Eggers said, “Well, we brought the corn.”
Trudy smiled. “Well, we’re here,” she said.
I walked past them and stuck my head into the hall. There was no one there. I looked at Farley, Dad, and Lorraine. I looked in the hall again. Had Yulia really not come?
“What are you looking for?” Trudy asked.
“Don’t give me that,” I told her. “What exactly is going on here?”
She looked like she didn’t know what I was talking about.
“We brought the corn,” she said. “Eggers brought some chips. We’re here.”
“I know you’re here,” I said. “Everyone in the world is here. Every Tom, Dick, and Harry in South Dakota is here. Where’s Dr. Nivitski?”
Trudy said, “You told me not to pick her up. You called me and said—”
I threw my hands up. “You’re telling me Dr. Nivitski is sitting at the airport alone, and you’re all in here baking pot pies?”
“Hey, now,” Farley said, “that was uncalled for.”
“This isn’t just about me,” I said to Trudy, who’d crossed her arms. “Science is on the line here. Humanity is at stake. This goes beyond personal whimsy and potato chips. This is bigger than whether you can be troubled to pick someone up at the airport. I’d do it all myself, but I’m in prison here, if you haven’t noticed. This is jail, in case you forgot what crimes I’m charged with.”
Suddenly there was Yulia and a boy who must be her son, Vadim, standing in the doorway. I turned to Trudy and offered her a look of apology.
I approached Yulia, and we regarded each other. She wore tight dark jeans, snug as spray-paint, and a down ski jacket, powder-white. A red scarf wrapped her neck, and her hair was hidden beneath a cap of white sable. I neared her, so close it surprised me. My breathing sent white ripples through that ultrafine fur. Yulia’s dark-brown eyes seemed depthless. Her pupils, fluctuating, hypnotized me.
I said, “I didn’t think you’d come.”
“Are you not pleased with my arrival?”
The wispy fur of her hat was something out of a dream, soft and undulating. The way Yulia’s hair was pulled up showed the flare of her cheekbones, accented the cut of her jaw. Something daring rose in me.
“No,” I said, “it’s just that I can’t believe I ever let you leave.”
She threw me a look of exaggerated indifference.
“I am here in a professional capacity,” she said. “I am hoping you are worth at least a tax deduction.”
I knew the desire in her eyes. “Is that the only reason you came?” I asked.
“No,” she said, “I also have frequent-flier miles. Soon they will be expiring.”
Were there other people in the room? Was everyone staring at us? I didn’t know. I saw only Yulia, her red lips, her white skin, the sparkle of her Russian dentistry. “You should travel more often,” I said, “if it makes you beam so radiantly.”
She looked at me sideways. Was she offended by my forwardness? Or was she basking in a compliment? “I notice you have denuded your hair,” she said. “You look more severe. You resemble a man of intensity. And your eyes, I would say they appear more remarkable.”
How Hope — fleeting, exhilarating — fortified me!
Yulia shouldered forward her son. “This is Vadim,” she said.
The boy didn’t look like Gerry’s kids — those little truants were strong, scrappy things, composed solely of muscles and cowlicks. Gerry’s kids, you could tell, were going to make it through the next decade on rash impulses alone.
No, Vadim was a solitary, brooding boy, thin at the waist, red about the nose. Trustful and half lost, he seemed unprepared for what life had in store, even though he’d had a dose already, traveling round the world, leaving his father behind.
I made a show of examining the boy. I placed my hand appraisingly on his shoulder and head. He wore a yellow parka that he’d nearly outgrown, and his hair, exhibiting none of Yulia’s frizz, was cut in the manner of a bowl.
“So,” I said, “this is the young scientist.”
Vadim looked up. “You are the man with whom I chitchatted?”
“Yes,” I said, “we spoke. There will be some amazing science here tonight, I assure you. We are going to conduct an initial examination on a very important botanical sample.”
I gestured largely, to show how meaningful our work would be, but Vadim’s brown eyes were unreadable. He asked, “Is it not prudent to first wait for the results?”