The Last Equation of Isaac Severy(11)

The convertible overtook him, and by the time Gregory pulled into his driveway, his diminutive pursuer was standing in front of the house, his peppery hair comically windblown. Fritz had on his optical-illusion shoes, the ones designed to boost height while obscuring where his actual feet were resting. It wasn’t much of an illusion.

“I called,” Fritz said. “Maybe you couldn’t hear the ringing coming from your purse.”

Gregory wasn’t in the mood for banter. “What’s up, Fritz?”

From behind his back, Fritz produced a folder, decorated with an illustration of a monarch butterfly. “My assistant picked out the folder,” he mumbled.

“Am I supposed to know what this is?”

But Gregory had some idea. Just days after Isaac’s death, Fritz had left a lengthy message on his voice mail: “Why is everyone, including your friends at the LAPD, acting as if a perfectly happy guy electrocuting himself is normal? I mean, before he’s even finished breakfast? A breakfast with two place settings, I might add.” But had his grandfather really been happy? With his work stalled (he hadn’t published anything serious in years) and the love of his life in a home for the senile, that was debatable. As for the extra place setting, this had been explained away by the housekeeper, who said that Isaac often made an extra breakfast for her on the mornings she stopped by.

Fritz held out the folder. “It’s the bank records I was telling you about. Steady cash withdrawals at the end of each month for the last five and a half years. Not a ton, but not exactly pocket money.”

“I don’t see how it’s my business.”

“You’re the detective—at least have a look. I drove all the way over here.”

Gregory relented and took the folder. “You never asked him about it?”

“Once or twice, but all he said was that he liked cash. I teased him about slowly stashing a fortune away in that rat’s nest house of his, but then I forgot about it.” Fritz turned in the direction of Pico Boulevard, where a car horn had started wailing. “He never did fix that gridlock thing, did he?”

“Gridlock isn’t real mathematics. Or that’s what he said when he lost his funding.”

Fritz moved to his car. “You know what he told me once? That the whole universe is one giant computer, and every second it’s calculating its own future down to the last detail—right down to some guy getting angry on the road.”

Gregory nodded. “He did like a good metaphor. Join us for dinner?” Fritz had become something of a family friend over the years, but this was less an invite than an end to the conversation.

“Can’t, I’ve got a date. But I’m having a little masquerade in Hollywood this weekend, if you and Goldie are up for it.”

“Not sure I can handle one of your parties, Fritz. We’re taking Lewis trick-or-treating.”

“Right. Another time, then?”

Gregory watched the accountant maneuver himself back into the driver’s seat of his Thunderbird. It wasn’t unlike watching a child clamber onto a chair, and for some reason the image made him sad, and he turned away.

*

After putting his son to bed, Gregory sat down to a late dinner with his wife and sister. Though he had seen Hazel the previous Christmas, it felt as if it had been much longer. She looked healthy but older: cheeks not quite as round, eyes not quite as hope filled. But then again, he knew his own face was looking increasingly excavated.

On account of their guest, Goldie had made a dinner featuring several complicated courses. In addition to putting in extra time in the kitchen, she had also put some effort into her appearance: her brassy curls were pulled up from her neck, her lips painted coral, and her cheeks dusted with bronzer. His wife wasn’t pretty exactly, but she did her best to highlight her assets.

“Such a beautiful service,” Goldie said halfway through dinner, a phrase she had uttered at least ten times since yesterday. “Wasn’t it beautiful?”

Hazel, who had stayed mostly quiet since her arrival, mumbled in agreement. She seemed unusually distant, though Gregory knew the same could be said of him.

As his wife chattered on about the funeral, he imagined letting the news fall right there at the table, followed by Hazel’s disbelief.

“But it was a life sentence.”

He was well behaved.

A pause as she considered recent events.

“The timing is weird, isn’t it?”

Maybe, but you know what Isaac would say: ‘concurrence of events,’ and all that. It doesn’t mean—

“Did Isaac know he was out?”

We didn’t have much of a chance to talk about it—

“Daddy!”

Gregory’s interior stage play was interrupted by his two-year-old son, who had tottered into the room grasping a rubber fish Hazel had brought as a present. As Lewis began to explore the tail with his mouth, Gregory made a mental note to check the toxicity of the material.

He pushed back his chair. “I’ll put him down.” He took up Lewis in one affectionate swoop and, planting kisses all the way down the hall, went to deliver the second bedtime story of the night.

*

When the dishes were cleared and his wife had turned in, Gregory put a kettle on and sat Hazel down in the kitchen. In the event she didn’t believe him, he was ready to produce his letters from the Department of Corrections. But Hazel looked tired and distracted, and was rapidly losing her ability to engage as the evening wore on. She would be calling it a night soon, going back to the house to enjoy the comforts of her old bedroom. He was certain that plying her with hot chocolate would do the trick, but when he handed her a mug with the name of her store, The Guttersnipe, printed along the rim, she seemed to crumple.