Red Clocks(53)

Bike-lock key at her throat, gloved fingers fisted tight against the cold. Her fingers ache, but not as much as the fingers of Eiv?r Mínervudottír once ached. All the plunges that woman took—gigantic plunges—the biographer can take one too.

She starts to sprint.

Dear baby,

G You have one live grandparent. He moved to Orlando after your grandmother died. Your uncle is gone, so you’re out of luck on the cousin front. As cousin stand-ins you will have Bex and Pliny the Younger.

Dear baby,

I love you already. Can’t wait for you to get here. Your hometown is one of the most beautiful places I’ve ever known. Full of ocean and cliffs and mountains and the best trees in America. You’ll see for yourself, unless you are born blind, in which case I will love you even harder.



The Quarles house is gray shingled, flanked by shore pines. Lights are on behind the curtained windows. You are not really doing this. But she is. Climbing the wooden steps to a wooden deck heavy with ceramic bowls of wintering dirt. She is. Going to convince her. She is. Whispering the sentences of her prepared speech. As she brings a finger to the doorbell, it occurs to her that a logical outcome of this plan is that she’ll be fired from Central Coast Regional.

Mattie, I will take the baby on a train to Alaska.

Row a boat with the baby to the Gunakadeit Light.

Her finger hovers over the white plastic button, heart thumping frantic in her ears, rain spitting on her forehead. Keep your legs, Stephens.

She plunges.





Not until the steamship Oreius had rounded the Jutland Peninsula into the North Sea did the captain understand a woman was aboard.

He told the explorer, “We have no choice but to bear you.”





THE BIOGRAPHER


Eight seconds after she presses the bell, Mattie’s mother opens the door, smiling. “Miss Stephens?”

“Sorry to drop by unannounced.”

“No, please, come in.”

Photos of the girl overwhelm the living room—on walls, on tables, on bookshelves, their daughter’s every year, it seems, well captured. “We go a little wild with the pictures,” says Mrs. Quarles, noticing the biographer notice.

“You have a fabulous child, so why not?”

“I doubt Matilda would agree. She says the number of pictures is, quote, demented. Can I get you something to drink?”

“Oh no, please, I’m not staying long, I—needed to—” Breathe. “Before Christmas Mattie asked me for more comments on an essay draft, but things were so busy that—Well, now that the holidays are over, I want to give her the feedback.”

“That’s unusual,” says Mrs. Quarles.

“When a student puts in the extra effort that she does, I’m willing to do some extra too.”

“But she’s not here.”

“Oh?”

“She’s at the conference.”

The biographer is clearly meant to understand what Mrs. Quarles means by the conference. “Oh?”

“You knew she was going, didn’t you?”

“To the—conference?”

“She told us you nominated her.”

“Of course. I must have mixed up the dates.”

“I have to say,” says Mrs. Quarles, “she didn’t give us many details about this thing.”

“What did she tell you?”

“That it’s a Cascadia history conference for high school students, and only one student from any given school is nominated to attend.”

“That’s right,” says the biographer.

“Not as prestigious as the Math Academy, she said, but it will still look good on her applications.”

Damp swoosh down the biographer’s throat, into her ribs.

Is the baby gone?

Her mouth is full of bits from the planned speech—chewy clichés. I can give it a good home. I mean her. Or him. You’ve got your whole life ahead of you.

“Yes,” mutters the biographer, “it’ll be impressive.”

“And they’re all staying at the same hotel in Vancouver? Is there adult supervision?”

The biographer stands up. “I’m pretty sure they have supervision, yes. Sorry to interrupt your evening.”

“You’re pretty sure, or you’re sure? Mattie hasn’t been answering my calls. And I can’t find anything about the conference online.”

“That’s because of its, um, principles? The people who run it are committed to students spending less time on computers, so they work only on paper, through the mail.”

Mattie’s mother is an intelligent woman, yet she appears to accept this.

The biographer walks slowly back to her apartment.

Archer Stephens may not be getting a namesake.

Her brother’s blue lips on the kitchen floor.

The gravelly whine in his voice when he said he wasn’t high.

“Yes, you are.”

“I’m not.”

“You are!”

“Jesus, I’m not—you’re so paranoid.”

But his pupils were the barest dots in the pale green; mouth ajar; tongue slow. She knew the signs, was becoming something of an expert; and yet, and still, Archie’s denials undid her. Dad said, “You’re being duped!”—he was never much help, aside from the time he put up five grand for bail. She said, “I’m not paranoid; you’re pinned!” and Archie said, “Because it’s sunny, my friend.” Possibly it was not sunny at all, but the biographer wanted to believe him. Her Archie, her dear one, no matter how buried, was still in there.