WHEN THE CABIN DIMMED for the movie, Belinda flicked on her overhead light. The man sitting next to her had been taking more unsubtle peeks at her magazine, clearly hoping Belinda would notice. He removed his headphones, and she readied herself for him to inquire about the article she was perusing. The picture was certainly dazzling — an aerial view of the Bythorn Star crop circle in Cambridgeshire. Its outer circle framed a kaleidoscope of iconography: four rings unfurling into a star, contained in a pentagram, and encircled by flower petals. The article discussed how five elongated hearts could also be traced within the form. The cosmological language of symmetry made manifest.
But the man said nothing. His hands curled into fists in his lap. Belinda could tell he was simply brimming with curiosity. She couldn’t pay attention to her reading, knowing he was on the verge of speaking to her.
Hel-lo, she said in a friendly voice, a voice she usually reserved for small children and cute animals.
The man looked startled. Hullo, he mumbled, and gave a little nod.
Are you from England? she asked.
Em, no. He cleared his throat and sat up straight in his seat. Just visiting, he said.
Yes, me too, she said. Well — sort of. I mean — I was born there, but haven’t been back. For a while. She smiled, and silently thanked herself for having brushed her teeth and powdered her nose after the meal.
He responded with what Belinda guessed was a smile back: a barely perceptible tightening at the corners of his lips.
I’m Belinda, she continued. She held out her hand.
Bartleby, he said, giving her hand a curt squeeze.
Bartleby! she cried, too loud. That sounds very British.
Yes, well, he said, smoothing the front of his shirt. My parents are British.
Oh, mine too! she said.
Really, he humoured her. Ahem.
It’s not the purpose of my visit, though, Belinda said, slowly turning the pages of her magazine like cars on a Ferris wheel, so that Bartleby could plainly see each one passing. When he didn’t respond, Belinda tilted the magazine in his direction.
See? she said. Did you know that more crop circles are reported in Southern England alone than in the rest of the world combined?
No, Bartleby said, I didn’t. Interesting. He cleared his throat once again. Belinda wondered if it was a nervous tic. She’d read that people with OCD were usually quite socially awkward.
There’s vital research going on right now, she said, slapping the magazine shut. Biological tests and such. We’re going to be collecting the samples.
I see, Bartleby nodded. It occurred to Belinda that perhaps she was being intimidating. Oftentimes when she got into the particulars of her research interests, she came off sounding overly erudite until it was too late and the person had shied away. She felt sorry for Bartleby and his outdated navy pinstripe suit, which was already suffering horrible creases at the waist.
So what do you do, Bartleby? she asked, not altogether interested. Perhaps if she engaged him in his own interests, she thought, he might feel less intimidated.
Oh, well I — he began, then paused for a guttural throat-clearing. Actually, he continued, I’m a biologist.
Ah! Belinda said. A thickness rose up in her chest. She hoped that Bartelby couldn’t see her cheeks reddening in the dim lights. So you do. . . research also? she asked.
Yes, he said. I study marine life.
A Marine Biologist! Belinda replied, and gave her hands an approving clap. My daughter wants to be one of those, she said. She quickly realized that it was an insipid thing to say. Practically every child, at one point or another, dreamed about being a Marine Biologist. It was a typical phase.
But she’s very dedicated, Belinda added. Her face burned with heat. I mean, she knows more about the ocean than most adults, she said. All those strange creatures — she knows all the names.
Uh huh, said Bartleby. Well, my research is in phycology.
Psychology? Belinda asked.
No. No. Phycology, he enunciated. It’s the study of algae.
You study algae? How interesting, she said, and meant it. After all, who knew one could base an entire career on studying green slime? He was probably paid quite well. Now that she’d been conversing with Bartleby, she could see how he was rather handsome. He had thick dark hair and a defined jaw-line. Even in his seated position she could tell he was tall; his feet were pushed under the seat in front of him and yet his thighs still appeared to float at a cramped angle. She imagined him standing on his long legs, wearing a white lab coat and glasses, and pouring solutions from test tubes into beakers. He could be quite dashing.
Bartleby smiled weakly. He’d probably been teased by countless incredulous strangers about his research on algae. Actually, he said, there’s a lot to know. Marine vegetation is very diverse.
Of course, Belinda said, nodding her head seriously. I’d believe it. I’m working with a biologist who specializes in plants. Land plants, mind you. I think he’s very highly regarded. Marshall V. Longfellow?
I’m afraid I don’t really deal with those — types of scientists, Bartleby said.
Oh, yes of course. Belinda swatted the air dismissively. You wouldn’t, would you. It’s all very specialized, isn’t it? Her voice had begun to flutter.
I suppose you could say that, Bartleby said.
Yes, well, what do you reckon about this film? Belinda pointed to the screen at the front of the cabin. I’ve heard good things, she said. On the screen, Kurt Russell was pacing determinedly through a grand hall instead of sprinting shirtless and brandishing a handgun as she expected. Belinda hadn’t heard anything about this film.
Bartleby shrugged. Sorry, I don’t really follow the movies, he said.
Well I think I’m going to watch it, Belinda said, smiling as though she were about to indulge in a butterscotch sundae. She couldn’t unravel her headphones fast enough; it felt as though an eternity of speechlessness hung between them while Bartleby stared at her and she fiddled with the audio jack.