Red Clocks(69)

Hesitant smile from the cousin. “That was a great game.”

“Plainly, then, Central Coast Regional was fortunate to hire you as their boys’ soccer coach. I’m told you are an effective coach—would you agree?”

“We went fourteen and four last season. I’m proud of my guys.”

“Your Honor, what?” says the prosecutor.

The mender watches her lawyer lead Bryan Zakile to water. As the story of his own awesomeness—as athlete, coach, English teacher, and citizen of the world—unfolds, the witness grows animated. Talkative. Of course he loves his family. Of course he wants to tell the truth as an example to his students. Of course he has no reason to slander Mr. Fivey. On the contrary (as her lawyer meekly points out) he has a motive to protect him, even if that would require lying, because Mr. Fivey has the power to fire him. At least, he had the power. Now, of course, Mr. Fivey cannot fire him, no matter what Bryan says on the stand. That would look biased, wouldn’t it? That would look, frankly, actionable. So if Bryan had the freedom, as he now does, to tell the whole truth and nothing but the truth—the freedom to act as befits a man of his character—what would he tell us about his cousin Lola’s relationship with her husband?





19 February 1878


Dear Miss Mínervudottír, I am in receipt of your submission, “On the Contours and Tendencies of Arctic Sea Ice,” a paper which, it is patently clear, you did not write. Notwithstanding the stirring discoveries it contains, unless its true author is acknowledged, the Royal Society cannot publish it.

Yours Sincerely, SIR GEORGE GABRIEL STOKES

Physical Sciences Secretary

The Royal Society of London for Improving Natural Knowledge





THE BIOGRAPHER


At two forty p.m. on January fifteenth she waits, sweating and trembling, outside the door of eighth-period Latin.

It will need to be a home birth, to circumvent hospital records. Mattie is young and strong and shouldn’t be in any danger. The biographer can drive her to the ER if something goes awry. She’ll find a midwife to help them. They will doctor the birth certificate.

The girl will have all summer to recover.

The biographer will handle Mr. and Mrs. Quarles somehow.

Mattie emerges, knotting the blue scarf at her throat. Her cheeks are fuller, but you can’t otherwise tell—scarves and big sweatshirts and winter coats do a fine job of hiding her.

“Quick word?” says the biographer.

Too cold for a walk. They duck into the music room, used for storage ever since the music program was canceled. Posters of tubas and flutes hang over broken chairs, reams of copy paper.

“Are you checking to see if I’m all right?” says Mattie.

“Well, are you?”

“It smells like ham in here.”

The biographer only smells her own watery dread.

“Nothing has changed,” says Mattie, “since you asked me the other day.”

The biographer opens her mouth.

Give it to me.

Air moves lightly on her tongue and teeth. Dries her lips. “Mattie?”

“Yeah, miss?”

“I want to help you.”

“Then don’t tell anyone, okay? Not even Mr. Korsmo. I know you’re pals.”

She prepares to shape the words: Pay for your vitamins. Drive you to every checkup. If you give it to me.

The girl coughs, swallows a curd of phlegm. “By the way, I made an appointment at a—a place in Portland. I need to do it soon because I’m almost twenty-one weeks.”

Twenty-one weeks means nineteen left. Four and a half months.

Only four and a half months, Mattie!

“That far along,” says the biographer, “the procedure could be dangerous.” The glass splinter is choosing these words. “A lot of term houses have no idea what they’re doing. They just want to make money.”

“I don’t care,” says Mattie.

“I’ve heard of—” The biographer’s whole self is a splinter. “Fatal errors.”

“I don’t care! Even if the place is foul and they have other girls’ stuff in the buckets, I don’t care, I want this to be over.” Hands in fists, she starts hitting herself on either side of the head, bam bam bam bam bam bam bam, until the biographer pulls her arms, gently, down.

“I’m just saying”—holding Mattie’s wrists—“you have other choices.”

You can wait four and a half short months.

“Choices?” A new edge in her voice.

“Well, like adoption.”

“Don’t want to do that.” Mattie jerks out of her grasp, turns away.

“Why not?” Give it to me.

“Just don’t.”

“But why?” Give it to me. I’ve been waiting.

“You always tell us”—the girl’s voice flicks up into a whine—“that we make our own roads and we don’t have to justify or explain them to anyone.”

“I do say that,” says the biographer.

Mattie glares.

“However, I’d like to make sure you’ve thought this through.”

The girl slumps down against a green filing cabinet. Holds her head in both hands, knees up to her chest, rocking a little. “I just want it out of my body. I want to stop being infiltrated. God, please get this out of my body. Make this stop.” Rocking, rocking.