For Logan Miles, age fifty-six, professor of millennial studies and director of the Chancellor’s Task Force on North American Research and Reclamation, it has been a good morning. A very good morning, indeed.
The conference is off to a roaring start. Hundreds of scholars are in attendance; press interest is intense. Before he reaches the door of the ballroom, a wall of reporters surrounds him. What does it all mean, they want to know, these names on the stone? Were the twelve disciples of Amy real people? What will be the effect on North American reclamation? Are the first settlements going to be delayed?
“Patience, everyone,” Logan says. Flashbulbs fire into his face. “You know what I do, neither more nor less.”
Free of the crowd, he departs the building via a rear exit off the kitchens. It is a pleasant autumn morning, dry and blue-skied, with an easterly breeze coming off the harbor; high above, a pair of airships float serenely, accompanied by the vibrato buzzing of their massive propellers. The sight always brings his son to mind; Race, a pilot in the air service, has just been promoted to captain, with a ship of his own—a great achievement, especially for a man so young. Logan pauses to take in the air before making his way around the corner of the building toward the campus’s central quadrangle. The usual protestors linger by the steps, forty or fifty of them, holding their signs: “NORTH AMERICA = DEATH,” “SCRIPTURE IS LAW,” “THE QUARANTINE MUST STAND.” Most are older—country people, adherents to the old ways. Among them are perhaps a dozen Ammalite clergy, as well as a scattering of Disciples, women dressed in plain gray robes tied with a simple cord at the waist, their heads shorn in the manner of the Savior. They have been there for months, always showing up at precisely eight A.M., as if clocking in for a job. At the start, Logan found them irritating, even a little disturbing, but as time went by, their presence acquired a quality of doomed listlessness, easily ignored.
The walk to his office takes ten minutes, and he is both pleased and surprised to find the building practically empty. Even the department secretary has flown the coop. He makes his way to his office, on the second floor. In the past three years, he has become an infrequent visitor; most of his work is now in the capitol, and he sometimes doesn’t set foot on campus for weeks at a stretch, not counting his visits to North America, which have devoured whole months. With its walls of bookshelves, enormous teakwood desk—a splurge to mark his promotion to department chair, fifteen years ago—and overall atmosphere of professorial seclusion, the room always reminds him of both how far he’s come and the unlikely role that has been thrust upon him. He has reached a kind of pinnacle; yet it is still true that from time to time he misses his old life, its quiet and routine.
He is sorting through a file of papers—a tenure committee report, graduation forms requiring his signature, a caterer’s bill—when he hears a knock and looks up to see a woman standing in the doorway: thirty or perhaps thirty-five and quite striking, with auburn hair, an intelligent face, and energetic hazel eyes. She wears a tailored suit of dark navy and high, somewhat tippy heels; a well-used leather satchel hangs from her shoulder. Logan senses that he has seen her before.
“Professor Miles?” She does not wait for permission to enter but insinuates herself into the room.
“I’m sorry, Miss…”
“Nessa Tripp, Territorial News and Record.” As she steps to his desk, she extends her hand. “I was hoping I might have a minute of your time.”
A reporter, of course; Logan recalls her from the press conference. Her grip is firm—not masculine but meant to convey a message of professional seriousness. Logan catches the high note of her perfume, subtly floral.
“I’m afraid I’m going to have to disappoint you. This is quite a busy day for me. I’ve really said all I have to say for one morning. Perhaps you could call my secretary to schedule an appointment.”
She ignores the suggestion, knowing full well that it’s a dodge; nobody would schedule anything. She offers a smile, rather coquettish, meant to charm. “I promise, it won’t take long. I have only a few questions.”
Logan doesn’t want to. He dislikes dealing with the press, even under the most scripted of circumstances. Many times he has opened the morning paper to find himself misquoted or his words taken entirely out of context. Yet he can tell that this woman can’t be brushed off so easily. Better to face the music now, quickly, and move on.
“Well, I suppose…”
Her face beams. “Wonderful.”
She takes a chair across from him and digs into her bag for a notebook, followed by a small recorder, which she places on the desk. “To start, I was wondering if I could get a little bit of personal information, just for background. There’s very little about you that I could find, and the university press office wasn’t much help.”
“There’s a reason. I’m a very private person.”
“And I can respect that. But people want to know about the man behind the discovery, wouldn’t you agree? The world is watching, Professor.”
“I’m really not very interesting, Miss Tripp. I think you’ll find me rather boring.”
“I hardly believe that. You’re just being modest.” She flips quickly through her notebook. “Now, from what I can gather, you were born in…Headly?”
A softball question, to get things started. “Yes, my parents raised horses.”
“And you were an only child.”
“That’s correct.”
“Sounds like you didn’t much care for it.”
His tone, evidently, has betrayed him. “It was a childhood like any other. There were some good points, some bad.”
“Too isolated?”
Logan shrugs. “When you’re my age, these sorts of feelings soften a great deal, though at the time I probably saw it that way. In the end, it wasn’t the life for me—that’s really all there is to say.”
“Still, Headly is a very traditional place. Some would even say backward.”
“I don’t think the people there would see it that way.”
A quick smile. “Perhaps I misspoke. What I mean is, it’s a long way from a horse farm in Headly to heading the chancellor’s task force on resettlement. Would that be fair to say?”
“I suppose. But I never had any doubts that I would go to university. My parents were country people, but they let me chart my own course.”
She looks at him warmly. “So, a bookish boy, then.”
“If you like.”
This is followed, once again, by a brief trip to her notes. “Now,” she says, “I have here that you’re married.”
“I’m afraid your information is a little out of date. I’m divorced.”
“Oh? When was that?”
The question makes him uncomfortable. Still, it is a matter of public record; he has no reason not to answer. “Six years ago. All very amicable. We’re still good friends.”
“And your ex-wife, she’s a judge, yes?”
“She was, with the Sixth Family Court. But she’s left that now.”
“And you have a son, Race. What does he do?”
“He’s a pilot in the air service.”
Her face brightens. “How marvelous.”
Logan nods. Obviously she knows all of this.
“And what does he have to say about your discoveries?”
“We haven’t really talked about it, not recently.”
“But he must be proud of you,” she says. “His own father, in charge of an entire continent.”
“I think that’s a bit of an overstatement, don’t you?”
“I’ll rephrase. Going back to North America—you’d have to concede it’s pretty controversial.”
Ah, thinks Logan. Here we go. “Not to most people. Not according to the polls.”
“But certainly to some. The church, for instance. What do you make of their opposition, Professor?”
“I don’t make anything.”
“But surely you’ve thought about it.”
“It’s not my place to hold one voice above any other. North America—not just the place but the idea of the place—has sat at the center of humankind’s sense of itself for a millennium. The story of Amy, whatever the truth is, belongs to everyone, not just the politicians or the clergy. My job is simply to take us there.”
“And what do you think the truth is?”
“It doesn’t matter what I think. People will have to judge the evidence for themselves.”
“That sounds very…dispassionate. Detached, even.”
“I wouldn’t say that. I care a great deal, Miss Tripp. But I don’t leap to conclusions. Take these names on the stone. Who were they? All I can tell you is that they were people, that they lived and died a very long time ago, and that somebody thought well enough of them to make a memorial. That’s what the evidence says. Maybe we’ll learn more, maybe we won’t. People can fill in the blanks however they like, but that’s faith, not science.”
For a moment she appears nonplussed; he is not being a cooperative subject. Then, reviewing her notes again: “I’d like to go back to your childhood for a moment. Would you say you come from a religious family, Professor?”
“Not especially.”
“But somewhat.” Her tone is leading.
“We went to church,” Logan concedes, “if that’s what you’re asking. It’s hardly unusual in that part of the world. My mother was Ammalite. My father wasn’t really anything.”
“So she was a follower of Amy,” Nessa says, nodding along. “Your mother.”
“It’s just the way she was raised. There are beliefs, and there are habits. In her case, I’d say it was mostly a habit.”
“What about you? Would you say you’re a religious man, Professor?”
So, the heart of the matter. He feels a growing caution. “I’m a historian. It seems like more than enough to occupy myself.”
“But history could be said to be a kind of faith. The past isn’t something you can actually know, after all.”
“I wouldn’t say that.”
“No?”
He settles back to gather his thoughts. Then: “Let me ask you something. What did you have for breakfast, Miss Tripp?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“It’s a straightforward question. Eggs? Toast? A yogurt, perhaps?”
She shrugs, playing along. “I had oatmeal.”
“And you’re quite certain? No doubts in your mind.”
“None.”
“How about last Tuesday? Was it oatmeal or something else?”
“Why this curiosity about my breakfast?”
“Indulge me. Last Tuesday. It wasn’t very long ago, surely you ate something.”
“I haven’t the foggiest.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s not important.”
“Not worth remembering, in other words.”
She shrugs again. “I suppose not.”
“Now, how about that scar on your hand?” He gestures toward the one holding the poised pen. The mark, a series of pale, semicircular depressions, runs from the base of her index finger to the top of her wrist. “How did you get that? It looks to be quite old.”
“You’re very observant.”
“I don’t mean to be impertinent. Merely demonstrating a point.”
She shifts uncomfortably in her chair. “If you must know, I was bitten by a dog. I was eight years old.”
“So you do remember that. Not what you ate last week, but something that happened long ago.”
“Yes, of course. It scared the hell out of me.”
“I’m sure it did. Was it your dog or a neighbor’s? A stray, perhaps?”
Her expression grows irritated. Not irritated: exposed. As he watches, she reaches with her other hand to the scar and covers it with her palm. The gesture is involuntary; she isn’t aware that she is doing it, or is only partly cognizant.
“Professor, I fail to see the point in all this.”
“So it was your dog.”
She startles.
“Forgive me, Miss Tripp, but if it wasn’t, you wouldn’t be so defensive. The way you covered your hand just now? It tells me something else.”
She moves her hand away deliberately. “And what’s that?”
“Two things. One, you believe it was your fault. Perhaps you were playing too roughly. Perhaps you teased him, not meaning to, or maybe a little. Either way, you were part of it. You did something, and the dog responded by biting you.”
She shows no reaction. “And what’s the other?”
“That you never told anyone the truth.”
The look on her face tells Logan that he has hit the mark. There is a third thing, of course, that has gone unstated: the dog was put down, perhaps unjustly. Nevertheless, after a moment passes, she breaks into a grin. Two can play at this game.
“That’s quite a trick, Professor. I’ll bet your students love it.”
Now he’s the one who smiles. “Touché. But it’s not a trick, Miss Tripp, not entirely. The point is a meaningful one. History isn’t what you had for breakfast. That’s meaningless data, gone with the wind. History is that scar on your hand. It’s the stories that leave a mark, the past that refuses to stay past.”
She hesitates. “You mean…like Amy.”
“Exactly. Like Amy.”
Their eyes meet. Over the course of the interview, a subtle shift has occured. A barrier has unexpectedly fallen, or so it feels. Logan notes yet again how attractive she is—the word he thinks of, somewhat old-fashioned, is “lovely”—and that she wears no ring. It has been a while for him. Since his divorce, Logan has dated only occasionally and never for long. He does not still love his ex-wife; that isn’t the problem. The marriage, he has come to understand, was really a kind of elaborate friendship. He isn’t sure quite what the problem is, though he has begun to suspect that he is simply one of those people who is destined to be alone, a creature of work and duty and not much else. Is his interlocutor’s flirtatious manner merely a tactic, or is there more to it? He knows that he is, for his age, passably appealing. He swims fifty laps each morning, is still blessed with a full head of hair, favors pricey, well-tailored suits and somewhat splashy ties. He is aware of women and maintains a certain courtly style—holding doors, offering his umbrella, rising when a female companion excuses herself from the table. But age is age. Nessa calls him “Professor,” the appropriate mode of address, yet the word also carries a reminder that he is at least twenty years older than she is: old enough, technically, to be her father.
“Well,” he says, rising from his chair. “If you’ll excuse me, Miss Tripp, I’m afraid I’ll have to stop there. I’m running late for a lunch engagement.”
She seems caught off guard by this announcement—jarred from some complex mental state by this ordinary detail of a day. “Yes, of course. I shouldn’t have kept you so long.”
“May I show you out?”
They make their way through the silent building. “I’d like to talk more,” she says, as they are standing on the front steps. “Perhaps once the conference is over?”
She retrieves a card from her bag and hands it to him. Logan glances at it quickly—“Nessa Tripp, Features, Territorial News and Record,” with both home and office numbers—and slips it into the pocket of his suit coat. Another silence; to fill it, he offers his hand. Students flow by, singly and in groups, those on bicycles weaving through the stream like waves around a pier. The air is alive with the buzz of youthful voices. Nessa lets her hand linger an extra second in his, though perhaps it is he who does this.
“Well. Thank you for your time, Professor.”
Her watches her walk down the steps. At the bottom, she turns.
“One last thing. Just for the record, the dog wasn’t mine.”
“No?”
“He was my brother’s. His name was Thunder.”
“I see.” When she says nothing else, he asks, “If you don’t mind my asking, what became of him?”
“Oh, you know.” Her tone is casual, even a little cruel. She raises her index fingers to make air quotes. “My father took him to ‘a farm.’ ”
“I’m sorry to hear it.”
She laughs. “Are you kidding? Couldn’t have happened to a nastier son of a bitch. I was lucky he didn’t bite my hand off.” She hikes her bag higher on her shoulder. “Call me when you’re ready, okay?”
She smiles as she says this.
Logan takes a streetcar to the harbor. By the time he arrives at the restaurant, it is nearly one o’clock, and the hostess directs him to the table where his son is waiting. Tall and rangy, with pale blond hair, he takes after his mother. He is wearing his pilot’s uniform—black slacks, a starched white shirt with epaulets on the shoulders, and a dark, narrow tie clipped to the front of his shirt. At his feet rests the fat briefcase he always carries when he flies, emblazoned with the insignia of the air service. When he catches sight of Logan, he puts down his menu and rises, smiling warmly.
“Sorry I’m late,” Logan says.
They embrace—a quick, manly hug—and settle in. It is a restaurant they have been coming to for years. The view from their table embraces the busy waterfront. Pleasure boats and larger commercial craft ply the water, which sparkles in the bright autumn sunshine; offshore, wind turbines stand in echelon, propellers spinning in the ocean breeze.
Race orders a chicken sandwich and tea, Logan a salad and sparkling water. He apologizes once again for his lateness and the short time they will have together, their first visit in months. Their talk is light and easy—his son’s twin boys, his travels, the travails of the conference and Logan’s next trip to North America, scheduled for late winter. It is all familiar and comfortable, and Logan relaxes into it. He has been away too long, depriving himself of the enjoyment of his son’s company. He has certain regrets about Race’s childhood. Logan was too absent, too distracted by work, and much was left to the boy’s mother. This capable, handsome man in uniform: what has Logan done to deserve such a prize?
As the waitress takes their plates, Race clears his throat and says, “There’s something I’ve been meaning to talk to you about.”
Logan detects a note of anxiety in his son’s voice. His first impulse, born of his own experience, is that there is trouble in the marriage. “Of course. Say what’s on your mind.”
His son folds his hands on the table. Now Logan is certain: something is wrong. “The thing is, Dad, I’ve decided to leave the air service.”
Logan is stunned beyond words.
“You’re surprised,” his son tenders.
Logan searches frantically for a response. “But you love it. You’ve wanted to fly since you were young.”
“I still do.”
“Then why?”
“Kaye and I have been talking. All this travel is hard on us, hard on the boys. I’m gone all the time. I’m missing too much.”
“But you were just promoted. An airship captain. Think what that means.”
“I have thought about it. This isn’t easy, believe me.”
“Is this Kaye’s idea?”
Logan is aware that his words sound somewhat accusing. He is fond of his son’s wife, an elementary school art teacher, but has always found her a bit too fanciful—the effect, he supposes, of her spending so much time around children.
“It was, at first,” Race answers. “But the more we discussed it, the more it made sense. Our life is just too chaotic. We need things to be simpler.”
“Things will get easier, son. It’s always hard, with young children. You’re just tired, that’s all.”
“My mind’s made up, Dad. There really isn’t anything you can say to change it.”
“But what will you do instead?”
Race hesitates; Logan realizes the core of his announcement is coming. “I was thinking of the ranch. Kaye and I would like to buy it from you.”
He is speaking of Logan’s parents’ horse farm. After his father died, Logan sold off a quarter section to pay the estate taxes; for reasons he cannot quite name, he kept the rest, though he hasn’t visited it for years. The last time he saw it, the house and outbuildings were a wreck, falling down and full of mice. Weeds were growing in the roof gutters.
“We’ve saved the money,” Race says. “We’ll give you a fair price.”
“You can have it for a dollar, as far as I’m concerned. That’s not the issue.” He regards his son for a moment, utterly nonplussed. The request makes no sense to him at all. “Really? This is what the two of you want?”
“It’s not just me and Kaye. The boys love the idea.”
“Race, they’re four years old.”
“That’s not what I meant. They spend half their time in daycare. I see them two weeks out of four if I’m lucky. Boys like that—they need fresh air, room to roam.”
“Trust me, son, country life is much more appealing in the abstract.”
“You turned out fine. Take it as a compliment.”
He feels a growing frustration. “But what will you do out there? You don’t know anything about horses. Even less than I do.”
“We’ve thought about that. We’re planning on starting a vineyard.”
It is a pie-in-the-sky plan if ever he heard one; it has dreamy Kaye written all over it.
“We had the land checked out,” Race continues, “and it’s close to ideal—dry summers, damp winters, the right kind of soil. I have some investors, too. It won’t happen overnight, but in the meantime, Kaye can teach at the township school. She already has an offer. If we’re careful with money, that should tide us over until we’re up and running.”
Gone unspoken, of course, is the underlying criticism: Race wants to be around for his boys, a deep part of their lives, as Logan failed to do for him.
“You’re really certain about this?”
“We are, Dad.”
A brief silence passes as Logan searches for something to say that might dissuade his only child from this ludicrous plan. But Race is a grown man; the land is just sitting there; he has expressed the desire to sacrifice something important on behalf of his family. What can Logan do but agree?
“I guess I can call the lawyer to get the ball rolling,” he concedes.
His son seems surprised; for the first time, it occurs to Logan that Race expected he might say no. “You mean it?”
“You’ve made your case. It’s your life. I can’t argue with it.”
His son looks at him earnestly. “I meant what I said. I want to pay you what it’s worth.”
Logan wonders: What is something like that worth? Nothing. Everything.
“Don’t worry about the money,” he insists. “We’ll figure that out when the time comes.”
The waitress arrives with the bill, which Race, in jocular spirits, insists on paying. Outside, a car is waiting to take him to the airfield. Race thanks his father again, then says, “So I’ll see you Sunday at Mom’s?”
Logan is momentarily confused. He has no idea what his son is talking about. Race senses this.
“The party? For the boys?”
Now Logan remembers: a birthday party for the twins, who are turning five. “Of course,” he says, embarrassed by the lapse.
Race waves this away with a laugh. “It’s fine, Dad. Don’t worry about it.”
The driver is standing by the door. “Captain Miles, I’m afraid we really have to be going.”
Logan and his son shake hands. “Just don’t be late, okay?” Race admonishes him. “The boys are excited to see you.”
The next morning, back from his morning swim, Logan sees Nessa’s article in the paper. Page 1, below the fold; it is neutral, as these things go. The conference and his opening address, mention of the protestors and “the ongoing controversy,” snippets of their conversation in his office. Curiously, this disappoints him. His words seem wooden and performed. The article contains a perfunctory stiffness; Nessa has described him as “professorial” and “reserved,” both of which are true enough but feel reductive. Is that all he is? Is that what he’s become?
For two days the conference occupies him utterly. There are panels and meetings, lunches and, in the evenings, gatherings for drinks and dinner. His moment of triumph, and yet he feels a growing depression. Some of this is Race’s announcement; Logan does not like to think of his son abandoning his accomplishments to eke out a living in the middle of nowhere. Headly cannot even be said to be a proper town. There is a mercantile, a post office, a hotel, a farm supply store. The school, which includes all grades, is housed in a single, ugly building made of concrete and possesses neither playing fields nor a library. He thinks of Race wearing a broad-brimmed hat, a sweat-sodden kerchief encircling his neck and insects buzzing around his face, shoving a spade into the unforgiving earth while his wife and children, bored beyond measure, fidget in the house. Scenes of provincial life: Logan should have sold the place years ago. It is all a terrible mistake he is powerless to correct.
On Thursday night, his conference duties concluded, he returns to the courtyard apartment where he has lived since his divorce. It was, like many things in life, meant to be temporary, but six years later, here he is. It is compact, tidy, without much character; most of the furniture was purchased in haste during the confusing early days of separation. He makes a simple dinner of pasta and greens, sits down to eat in front of the television, and the first thing he sees is his own face. The footage was taken immediately after the conference’s closing ceremonies. There he is, microphones hovering around his head, his face washed to corpselike whiteness by the harsh glare of the television crew’s lights. “STUNNING REVELATIONS,” the banner at the bottom of the screen reads. He turns it off.
He decides to call Olla, his ex-wife. Perhaps she can shed some light on their son’s perplexing plans. Olla lives at the edge of the city in a small house, a cottage really, that she shares with her partner, Bettina, a horticulturalist. Olla insisted that the relationship did not overlap with the marriage, that it began later, though Logan suspects otherwise. It makes no difference; in a way, he is glad. That Olla should take up with a woman—he had always known her to be bisexual—has made things easier for him. It would be more difficult for him if she were married to a man, if a man were in her bed.
Bettina is the one who answers. Their relationship is wary but cordial, and she fetches Olla to the phone. In the background Logan can hear the chirps and squawks of Bettina’s collection of caged birds, which is voluminous—finches, parrots, parakeets.
“We just saw you on TV,” Olla starts off.
“Really? How did I look?”
“Quite dashing, actually. Confidence-inspiring. A man at the top of his game. Bette, wouldn’t you agree? She’s nodding.”
“I’m glad to hear it.”
This light, easy banter. Very little has changed, in a way. They were always friends who could talk.
“How does it feel?” Olla asks.
“How does what feel?”
“Logan, don’t be modest. You’ve made quite a splash. You’re famous.”
He changes the subject. “By any chance, have you talked to Race lately?”
“Oh, that,” Olla sighs. “I wasn’t really surprised. He’s been hinting at it for a while, actually. I’m surprised you didn’t see it coming.”
Just one more thing he has missed. “What do you make of it?” he says, then adds, jumping the gun, “I think it’s a huge mistake.”
“Maybe. But he knows his own mind—Kaye, too. It’s what they want. Are you going to sell it to them?”
“I didn’t really have a choice.”
“There’s always a choice, Logan. But if you’re asking my opinion, you did the right thing. The place has been sitting there too long. I always wondered why you didn’t let it go. Maybe this was the reason.”
“So that my son could toss his career away?”
“Now you’re being cynical. It’s a nice thing, what you’re doing. Why not let yourself just look at it that way?”
Her voice is even, careful. Her words, not rehearsed exactly, are nonetheless things that have been imagined in advance. Logan has the unsettling sense, yet again, that he is a step behind everyone, a quantity to be managed by those who know better than he does.
“Your feelings are complicated, I know that,” Olla goes on, “but a lot of time has passed. In a way, it’s not just a new start for Race. It’s a new start for you.”
“I wasn’t aware I needed one.”
A pause at the other end of the line; then Olla says, “I apologize. That didn’t come out right. What I mean to say is that I worry about you.”
“Why would you worry about me?”
“I know you, Logan. You don’t let go of things.”
“I’m just afraid that our son is about to make the worst error of his life. That this is all some romantic whim.”
In the silence that follows, Logan thinks of Olla standing in her kitchen, telephone receiver pressed to her ear. The room is cozy, low-ceilinged; copper pots and dried herbs, tied into bunches with twine, hang from the beams. She will be twirling the phone cord around her index finger, a lifelong habit. Other images, other memories: the way she pushes her eyeglasses up to her forehead to read small print; the reddish spot that flares on her forehead whenever she is angry; her habit of salting her food without tasting it. Divorced, but still the keepers of shared history, the inventory of each other’s lives.
“Let me ask you something,” Olla says.
“All right.”
“You’re all over the news. You’ve been working toward this your whole life. The way I see it, you’re getting more than you ever could have asked for. Are you enjoying any of this? Because it doesn’t sound as if you are.”
The question is peculiar. Enjoying it? Is that what one is supposed to do? “I haven’t thought about it that way.”
“Then maybe it’s time you should. Put aside the big questions for a while and just live your life.”
“I thought I was.”
“Everyone does. I miss you, Logan, and I liked being married to you. I know you don’t believe that, but it’s true. We had a wonderful family, and I’m very proud of all you’ve accomplished. But Bettina makes me happy. This life makes me happy. In the end, it isn’t very complicated. I want you to have that, too.”
He has nothing to say; she has him dead to rights. Does he feel hurt? Why should he? It is only the truth. It occurs to him suddenly that this is precisely what Race is asking from him. His son wants to be happy.
“So we’ll see you Sunday?” Olla asks, steering the conversation back to firmer ground. “Four o’clock—don’t be late.”
“Race told me the same thing.”
“That’s because he knows you the same as I do. Don’t be insulted—we’re all used to it by now.” She pauses. “Come to think of it, why don’t you bring someone?”
He’s not sure what to make of this curious suggestion. “That isn’t the province of ex-wives, generally speaking.”
“I’m serious, Logan; you have to start somewhere. You’re a celebrity. Surely there’s someone you can invite.”
“There isn’t. Not really.”
“What about what’s-her-name, the biochemist.”
“Olla, that was two years ago.”
Olla sighs—a wifely sound, a sound of marriage. “I’m only trying to help. I don’t like to see you like this. It’s your big moment. You shouldn’t do it alone. Just think about it, all right?”
The call over, Logan broods. The sun has set, darkening the room. “Like this”? What is he like? And “celebrity”: the word is strange. He is not a celebrity. He is a man with a job who lives alone, who comes home to an apartment that looks like a suite at a hotel.
He pours himself a glass of wine and walks to the bedroom. In the closet he finds his suit coat and, in an outer pocket, Nessa’s card. She answers on the third ring, slightly breathless.
“Miss Tripp, it’s Logan Miles. Am I disturbing you?”
She seems unsurprised by the call. “I just came back from a run. Give me a moment, will you? I need to get a glass of water.”
She puts down the phone. Logan listens to her footsteps, then hears a tap running. Is he hearing anything—anyone—else? He doesn’t think so. Thirty seconds and she returns.
“I’m glad you called, Professor. Did you see the article? I suppose you must have.”
“I thought it was very good.”
She laughs lightly. “You’re lying, but that’s all right. You didn’t give me very much to work with. You’re a secretive man. I wish we could have spoken longer.”
“Yes, well, that’s the reason I called, you see. I was wondering, Miss Tripp—”
“Please,” she interrupts, “call me Nessa.”
He feels suddenly flustered. “Nessa, of course.” He swallows and wades in. “I know it’s short notice, but I was wondering if, perhaps, you’d like to join me for a party this Sunday at four o’clock.”
“Why, Professor.” She sounds coyly amused. “Are you asking me on a date?”
Logan knows it at once: he is making a fool of himself. He has no idea if she is even available. The invitation is preposterous.
“I have to warn you,” he says, backing away, “it’s a birthday party for a couple of five-year-olds. My grandsons, actually.” How smooth of you, he thinks, telling her you’re a grandfather. With every word, he feels like he is digging his own grave. “Twins,” he adds, rather pointlessly.
“Will there be a magician?”
“I’m sorry?”
“Because I’m very fond of magicians.”
Is she making fun of him? This was a terrible idea. “Of course, I understand if you’re not free. Perhaps another time—”
“I’d love to,” she says.
Sunday arrives, sunny and bright. Logan passes the morning buying presents for the boys—a hop-a-long for Noa; for his brother, Cam, the more cerebral of the duo, a construction set—takes a swim to settle his nerves and waits for the hour to come. At three o’clock he retrieves his car from the garage—undriven for many weeks, it is, to his dismay, rather dusty—and drives to the address Nessa has provided. He finds himself in front of a large, modern apartment complex three blocks from the harbor; Nessa is waiting by the entrance. She is dressed in white slacks, a peach-colored top, and low-heeled, open-toed sandals. Her hair is loose and freshly washed. She is holding a large package wrapped in silver paper. Logan disembarks to open her door.
“That’s very thoughtful of you,” he says of the parcel, “but you didn’t need to bring a present.”
“It’s a tether ball,” she says, pleased. She places the box on the backseat with the others. “You don’t think they’re too young? My nephews play with theirs for hours.”
This is the first mention of her family, which is, Logan learns, quite large. Raised in a northern suburb, where her parents still live—her father is a postmaster—she is the fourth of six children. Three of them, her older sisters and a younger brother, are married with families of their own. So, Logan thinks, she is alone but not unacquainted with the life he has led, that customary life of children and duty and never enough time. Logan has already explained that the party will be held at his ex-wife’s house, a fact on which Nessa has made no comment. He wonders if this is a reportorial habit, withholding her thoughts so that others will reveal more of themselves, then chastises himself for being suspicious; maybe it makes no difference to someone of her generation, raised in a more ethically malleable world of constantly changing partners.
The drive to Olla’s takes thirty minutes. Their talk comes easily. Little mention is made of the conference. He questions her about her work, if she enjoys it, which she says she does. She likes the travel, meeting new people, learning about the world and trying to shape it into stories. “I was always like that, even as a kid,” she explains. “I’d sit in my room and write for hours. Silly stuff mostly, elves and castles and dragons, but as I got older, I got more interested in real things.”
“Do you still write fiction?”
“Oh, once in a while, just for fun. Every reporter I know has a half-written novel in their desk somewhere, usually pretty awful. It’s like a disease we all have, this wish to get below the surface somehow, to find some kind of larger pattern.”
“Do you think that’s possible?”
She considers the question, looking out the windshield. “I think there is one. Life means something. It’s not just going to work and making dinner and taking your car to the repair shop. Wouldn’t you agree?”
They are passing through an outer neighborhood: tidy houses set far back from the road, mailboxes standing at attention at the curb, dogs barking from the yards as they drive by.
“I think most people would,” Logan says. “At least, we hope so. It can be very hard to see, though.”
She seems pleased with his answer. “So you have your way, and I have mine. Some people go to church. I write stories. You study history. They’re not really so very different.” She glances over at him, then returns her gaze to the passing world. “I have a friend who’s a novelist. He’s rather famous—maybe you’ve heard of him. The man’s a total mess, drinks a liter a day, barely bothers to change his clothes, the whole cliché of the tortured artist. I asked him once, Why do you do it if it makes you feel so awful? Because seriously, the man’s not going to make it to forty the way he lives. His books are thoroughly depressing, too.”
“What did he say?”
“ ‘Because I can’t stand not knowing.’ ”
They arrive. The door stands open in welcome; the road in front of the house is lined with cars. Parents and children of various ages are making their way up the path, the youngest ones dashing ahead, bearing the presents they cannot wait to see opened, their magical contents revealed. Logan hadn’t realized the party would be so large; who are all these people? Companions of the boys from play school, neighbors, colleagues of Race and Kaye and their families, Olla’s sisters and their husbands, a few old friends Logan recognizes but in some cases hasn’t seen for years.
Olla greets them as they enter. She is wearing a willowy dress, a large, somewhat clumsy necklace, neither shoes nor makeup. Her hair, gray since her early forties, falls unmanaged to her shoulders. Gone forever is the barrister in a polished suit and heels, replaced by a woman of simpler, more relaxed habits and tastes. She kisses Logan on both cheeks and turns to Nessa to shake hands, her eyes bright with barely concealed surprise; never did his ex-wife imagine that her dare would be accepted. Nessa goes to the kitchen to fetch drinks while Logan and Olla carry their presents to the spare room off the hall, where a huge pile of gifts rests on the bed.
“Who is she, Logan?” Olla says enthusiastically. “She’s lovely.”
“You mean young.”
“That’s entirely your business. How did you meet her?”
He tells her about the interview. “It was kind of a shot in the dark,” he admits. “I was surprised she said yes, an old codger like me.”
Olla smiles. “Well, I’m glad you asked her. And she certainly seems to like you.”
In the living room he moves among the adults, greeting those he knows, introducing himself to those he doesn’t. Nessa is nowhere to be found. Logan exits through the patio doors onto the ample, sloped lawn, which is flanked by elaborate gardens, Bettina’s handiwork. The children are madly dashing around according to some secret code of play. He spies Nessa seated with Kaye at the edge of the patio, the two of them locked in animated talk, but before he can go over, Race grips him by the arm.
“Dad, you should have told me,” he says with mischievous delight. “Holy moly.”
“Blame your mother. It was her idea, me bringing a date.”
“Well, good for her. Good for you. Boys,” he calls, “come say hello to your grandfather.”
They break away from their game and trot toward him. Logan kneels to gather their small, warm bodies in his arms.
“Did you bring us presents?” Cam asks, beaming.
“Of course I did.”
“Come play with us,” Noa begs, tugging at his hand.
Race rolls his eyes. “Boys, let your grandfather catch his breath.”
Logan glances past his grandsons and sees that Nessa has already joined the children. “What, do I look too old?” He smiles at the boys. He is full of memories of other parties, when Race was small. “What are the rules?”
“You freeze when you get tagged,” Noa explains, wide-eyed. It is as if he is announcing a discovery that will change the fate of mankind. “When everybody freezes, you win.”
“Show me the way,” he says.
The party roars forward, riding the children’s energy, which seems inexhaustible, an engine that can’t run down. Logan allows himself to be tagged as quickly as possible, though Nessa does not, dodging and weaving until, with a shriek, she succumbs. A pair of ponies arrive by trailer, swaybacked and balding, like moth-eaten clothes. They are so docile they seem drugged; the man in charge looks like he slept under a bridge. Never mind: the children are thrilled. Cam and Noa take the first rides, while the rest form a line to wait their turns.
“Having a good time?” Logan, approaching Nessa from the side, hands her a glass of wine. Her brow is damp with perspiration. Parents are snapping pictures, hoisting their children onto the backs of the mangy ponies.
“Loads,” she says with a smile.
“Fun comes so naturally to them. Children, I mean.”
Nessa sips the wine. “Your daughter-in-law is adorable. She told me about their plans.”
“You approve?”
“Approve? I think it’s marvelous. You must be thrilled for them.”
Is it simply the mood of the afternoon that he suddenly feels this way? Not thrilled, perhaps, but certainly more comfortable with the notion. Yes, why not, he thinks. A vineyard in the country. Open spaces, cool, moist dawns, a night sky exploding with stars. Who wouldn’t want that?
“And you can keep the land in the family,” Nessa goes on. She lifts her glass in a little toast. “A bit of history, no? Sounds to me like that would be right up your alley.”
The great ceremony comes: the presents are unwrapped. The boys barely acknowledge each one before tearing into the next. Hamburgers and hot dogs, chips, strawberries and slices of melon, cake. Among the children, heads begin to droop, minor disagreements flare, eyes grow heavy-lidded. As evening comes on, they make their departures while some of the adults linger, drinking on the patio. Everyone seems to acknowledge Nessa as an important new presence, especially Bettina, who in the gathering dusk gives Nessa a tour of her gardens.
By the time they leave, there are almost no cars out front. Nessa, exhausted and perhaps a little drunk, leans back in her seat as they pull away.
“You have a wonderful family,” she says sleepily.
It’s true, Logan thinks; he does. Even his ex-wife, who, despite their difficulties, has emerged at this late stage of life as an advocate for his happiness. Under the influence of the day he feels something long-clenched relaxing inside him. Life is not so bad, so purely dutiful, as he has thought. As they drive, his mind travels to the ranch. He has already spoken to his lawyer to set the paperwork in motion. Soon his son and his family will be there, infusing it with fresh life, fresh memories.
“I was thinking,” Logan begins, “perhaps I should drive out and have a look at the old place. I haven’t been there for years.”
Nessa nods dreamily. “I think that’s a good idea.”
“Would you like to come? It would only be for a couple of days. Next weekend, say.”
Nessa’s eyes are closed. Another mistake; he has gotten ahead of himself. She is drunk; he is taking advantage of this moment of warm feeling. Perhaps she has fallen asleep.
“It could be useful to you,” he offers quickly. “Another article, perhaps.”
“An article,” Nessa repeats neutrally. Another moment lapses. “So, just to be clear, you’re asking me to go away with you for the weekend to help me write an article.”
“Yes, I suppose. If that’s what you want.”
“Pull over.”
“Are you feeling ill?” The worst is upon him. The night is ruined.
“Please, just do it.”
He draws the car to the side of the road. He expects her to burst from the door, but instead she turns to face him.
“Nessa, are you all right?”
She seems about to laugh. Before he can utter another word, she takes his cheeks in her hands and draws him toward her, crushing his mouth with a kiss.
They have lunch together on Tuesday, see a film the following night, and on Saturday depart in the early morning. The city falls away as they drive deep into the heart of the country. The day is cool, with fat white clouds, though the temperature begins to rise as they make their way west, away from the sea.
It is just noon when they arrive in Headly. The town has improved somewhat. More commercial concerns now line the dusty main street, and the school has expanded. A new municipal hall stands at the top of the square. They check in to the inn—Logan has booked separate rooms, not wanting to assume too much—and, with a picnic lunch, drive on to the ranch.
The sight is dispiriting. The land, untended for years, is weedy and wild; the barn has caved in, as well as many of the outbuildings. The house is only a little better—paint peeling, porch tipping to one side, gutters languishing off the eaves. Logan stands in silence for a moment, taking it in. The house was never large, but like all revisited places it seems a lesser version of the one held in memory. Its degraded condition disturbs him. Yet he also feels the upwelling of an emotion he hasn’t experienced in years: a sense of homecoming, of home.
“Logan? All right?”
He turns to Nessa. She is standing slightly apart from him. “Strange to be back,” he says and shrugs diffidently, though the word “strange” hardly does the situation justice.
“It’s really not so bad, you know. I’m sure they can fix it up.”
He does not want to enter the house yet. They put their blanket on the ground and lay out their picnic: bread and cheese, fruit, smoked meat, lemonade. The site they have selected has a view of the parched hills; the sun is hot but clouds scud past, creating brief intervals of shade. As they eat, Logan points out the sites, explaining the history: the barns, the paddocks, the fields where horses once grazed, the thickets where he spent idle hours as a boy, lost in worlds of his own imagining. He begins to relax; the tension between what he remembers and what he now sees softens; the past flows forth, wanting to be told—though there is, of course, more to the story.
The moment comes when the house can no longer be avoided. Logan takes the key from his pocket—it has lain in his desk drawer, untouched, for years—and lets them in. The door opens directly onto the front parlor. The air is stale. Some of the furnishings remain: a couple of armchairs, shelves, the desk where his father did his accounts. A thick layer of dust coats every surface. They move deeper into the house. All the kitchen cabinets stand open, as if explored by hungry ghosts. Despite the staleness, smells assault him, tinged with the past.
They press on to the back room. Logan is drawn to it as if by a magnetic force. There, covered by a tarp, is the unmistakable shape of the piano. He pulls the cloth aside and raises the fallboard, exposing the keys, which are as yellow as old teeth.
“Do you play?” Nessa asks.
They are the first words either of them has spoken since entering the house. Logan depresses a key, expelling a sour note. “Me? No.” The sound hovers in the air, then is gone. “I’m afraid I haven’t been completely honest with you,” he says, looking up. “You asked me if I came from a religious family. My mother was what used to be known as an ‘Amy dreamer.’ Are you familiar with the term?”
Nessa frowns. “Isn’t that a myth?”
“You mean, hasn’t modern science rebranded the phenomenon? In conventional terms, I suppose you could say she was crazy. Schizophrenic with a tendency toward grandiosity. That’s more or less what the doctors told us.”
“But you don’t think so.”
Logan shrugs. “It’s not really a yes-or-no question. Sometimes I do, sometimes I don’t. At least she came by it honestly. Her maiden name was Jaxon.”
Nessa is visibly taken aback. “You’re First Family?”
Logan nods. “It’s not something I like to talk about. People make assumptions.”
“I hardly think these days anyone would make much of it.”
“Oh, you’d be surprised. Out here, folks put stock in a thing like that.”
Nessa pauses, then asks, “What about your father?”
“My father was a simple man. Straightforward would be the term. If he had a religion, it was horses. That, and my mother. He loved her a great deal, even when things got bad. When they married, according to him, she was just like anybody else. Perhaps a little more devout than most, but that wasn’t so unusual in these parts. It wasn’t until later that she started having spells. Visions, episodes, waking dreams, whatever you like to call them.”
“Was the piano hers?”
Nessa has correctly intuited this. “My mother was a country girl, but she came from a musical family. From an early age she was quite good. Some people said she was a prodigy, even. She could have gone on to a real career, but then she met my father, and that was that. They were very traditional in that way. She still played sometimes, though I think she had mixed feelings about it.”
Logan takes a steadying breath before continuing: “Then one night I woke up and heard her playing. I was very young, six, maybe seven. The music wasn’t like anything I’d heard before. Incredibly beautiful, hypnotic almost. I can’t even describe it. It swept me up completely. After a while, I went downstairs. My mother was still playing, though she wasn’t alone. My father was there, too. He was sitting in a chair with his face in his hands. My mother’s eyes were wide open, but she wasn’t looking at the keys or anything else. Her face had a kind of erased blankness to it. It was as if some outside force was borrowing her body for its own intentions. It’s hard to explain—maybe I’m not telling it right—but I knew instinctively that the person playing the piano wasn’t my mother. She’d become someone else. ‘Penny, stop,’ my father was saying—pleading, really. ‘It’s not real, it’s not real.’ ”
“It must have been terrifying.”
“It was. There he was, this proud man, strong as a bull, completely helpless, shaking with tears. It rocked me to the core. I wanted to get the hell out of there and pretend the whole thing had never happened, but then my mother stopped playing.” Logan snaps his fingers for emphasis. “Just like that, right in the middle of a phrase, as if somebody had thrown a switch. She stood up from the piano and marched right past me like I wasn’t even there. ‘What’s happening,’ I asked my father, ‘what’s wrong with her?’ But he didn’t answer me. We followed her outside. I didn’t know what time it was, though it was late, the middle of the night. She stopped at the edge of the porch, looking out over the fields. For a little while nothing happened—she just stood there, the same empty look on her face. Then she began to mutter something. At first I couldn’t tell what she was saying. One phrase, over and over. ‘Come to me,’ she was saying. ‘Come to me, come to me, come to me.’ I’ll never forget it.”
Nessa is watching his face intently. “Who do you think she was talking to?”
Logan shrugs. “Who knows? I don’t remember what happened after that. I suppose I went to bed. A few days later, the same thing happened. Over time it became a kind of nightly ritual. Oh, Mom’s playing the piano again at four A.M. During the day she seemed fine, but then that changed, too. She became harried, obsessive, or else wandered around the house in a kind of daze. That’s when the painting started.”
“ ‘Painting’?” Nessa repeats. “You mean, pictures?”
“Come on, I’ll show you.”
He escorts her upstairs. Three tiny bedrooms, tucked under the eaves; in the ceiling of the hallway is a hatch with a cord. Logan pulls it down and unfolds the rickety wooden stairs that lead to the attic.
They ascend into the cramped, low-ceilinged space. Standing a dozen deep, his mother’s paintings line nearly a whole wall. Logan kneels and draws the protective cloth aside.
It is like opening a door onto a garden. The paintings, of various sizes, depict a landscape of wildflowers, the colors burning with an almost supernatural brightness. Some show a background of mountains; others, the sea.
“Logan, these are beautiful.”
They are. Bound up in pain, they are, nevertheless, creations of stunning beauty. He takes the first one and brings it to Nessa, who holds it in her hands.
“It’s…” she begins, then stops. “I’m not even sure how to say it.”
“Unearthly?”
“I was going to say haunting.” She looks up. “And they’re all the same?”
“Different viewpoints, and her style improved over time. But the subjects are identical. The fields, the flowers, the ocean in the background.”
“There are hundreds.”
“Three hundred and seventy-two.”
“What do you think this place is? Was it someplace she’d been?”
“If it is, I never saw it. Neither did my father. No, I think the image came from inside her head someplace. Like the music.”
Nessa considers this. “A vision.”
“Perhaps that’s the word.”
She examines the painting again. A long silence follows.
“What became of her, Logan?”
He takes a long breath to steady himself. “It eventually got to be too much. The spells, the craziness. I was sixteen when my father had her committed. He visited every week, sometimes more, but he wouldn’t let me see her; I gather her state was rather bad. My junior year in college, she killed herself.”
For a moment, Nessa says nothing. And, really, what is there to say? Logan has never known. One minute there, in another one gone. All of it far in the past, nearly forty years ago.
“I’m sorry, Logan. That must have been very hard.”
“She left a note,” he adds. “It wasn’t very long.”
“What did it say?”
The rope, the chair, the silent building after everyone had gone to bed: this is where his imagination ends. He has never permitted it to go further, to envision the mortal moment.
“ ‘Let her rest.’ ”
They return to the inn. There, for the first time, in Nessa’s room, they make love. The act is unhurried; they conduct it without words. Her body, firm and smooth, is extraordinary to him, as wondrous a present as he has ever received. In the aftermath, they sleep.
Night is falling when Logan awakens to the sound of running water. The shower shuts off with a groan and Nessa emerges from the bathroom in a soft robe, a towel wrapping her hair. She sits on the edge of the bed.
“Hungry?” she asks, smiling.
“There aren’t a lot of choices. I thought we’d go to the restaurant downstairs.”
She kisses him on the mouth. The kiss is brisk, but she allows her face to linger close to his. “Go dress.”
She returns to the bathroom to finish her preparations. How swiftly life can change, Logan thinks. There was no one, now there is someone; he is not alone. Telling the story of his mother was, he realizes, his intention from the start; he has no other way of explaining who he is. That is what two people must give to each other, he thinks: the history of themselves. How else can we hope to be known?
He puts on his trousers and shirt to go next door to change for dinner, but as he enters the hallway he hears his name being called.
“Dr. Miles, Dr. Miles!”
The voice belongs to the hotel proprietor, a small, deeply tanned man with jet black hair and a nervously formal manner, who bounds up the stairs. “There is a phone call for you,” he says with excitement. He pauses to catch his breath, waving air into his face. “Someone has been trying to reach you all day.”
“Really? Who?” As far as Logan is aware, nobody knows he’s here.
The proprietor glances at the door to Nessa’s room, then back again. “Yes, well,” he says, and clears his throat self-consciously, “they are on the phone now. They say it is quite urgent. Please, I will show you the way.”
Logan follows him downstairs, through the lobby, to a small room behind the check-in desk, where a large black telephone rests on an otherwise empty table.
“I will leave you to it,” the proprietor says with a curt bow.
Alone, Logan picks up the receiver. “This is Professor Miles.”
A woman’s voice, unknown to him, says, “Dr. Miles, please hold while I patch you through to Dr. Wilcox.”
Melville Wilcox is the on-site supervisor at First Colony. Such calls happen only rarely, and always with considerable advance planning; only by positioning a chain of airships across the Pacific, a tenuous and expensive arrangement, can a signal be relayed. Whatever Wilcox wants, it’s bound to be important. For a full minute, the line crackles with empty static; Logan has begun to think the call’s been lost when Wilcox comes on the line.
“Logan, can you hear me all right?”
“Yes, I can hear you fine.”
“Good, I’ve been trying to set this up for days. Are you sitting down? Because you might want to.”
“Mel, what’s happening there?”
His voice grows excited. “Six days ago, an unmanned reconnaissance airship surveying the coast of the Pacific Northwest took a photo. A very interesting photo. Do you have access to an imager?”
Logan scans the room. To his surprise, there is one.
“Give me the number,” Wilcox says. “I’ll have Lucinda send it over.”
Logan fetches the proprietor, who enthusiastically provides the information and offers to man the machine.
“Okay, they’re sending it,” Wilcox says.
The imager emits a shriek. “The connection has been made, I believe,” the proprietor declares.
“Why don’t you just tell me what it is?” Logan asks Wilcox.
“Oh, believe me, it’s better if you see this for yourself.”
A series of mechanical clunks and the machine draws a piece of paper from the tray. As the print head moves noisily back and forth, Logan becomes aware of a second sound, coming from outside—a kind of rhythmic beating. He has only just realized what he is hearing when Nessa enters the room, dressed for dinner. She looks animated, even a little alarmed.
“Logan, there’s a lifter out there. It looks like it’s about to land on the front lawn.”
“And here we are,” the proprietor announces.
With a triumphant smile, he places the transmitted picture onto the desk. It is the image of a house, seen from above. Not a ruin—an actual house. It is encircled by a fence; within this perimeter are a second, smaller structure, a privy perhaps, and the neatly planted rows of a vegetable garden.
“Well?” Wilcox says. “Did you get it?”
There is more. In the field adjacent to the house, rocks have been arranged on the ground to make letters, large enough to be read from the air.
“What is it, Logan?” Nessa asks.
Logan looks up; Nessa is staring at him. The world, he knows, is about to change. Not just for him. For everyone. Outside the walls of the inn, the racket reaches a crescendo as the lifter touches down.
“It’s a message,” he says, showing Nessa the paper.
Three words: COME TO ME.