Jogging around Green Lake Park not far from the University of Washington became one of my fave things to do after moving to Seattle. It’s not as grand as Lake Michigan, where Brian and I used to jog the Pike Bike Trail between Simmons Island and Alford Park, but it calms me just the same. I ride my e-bike down here, lock it with the app, and take off, for a blissful hour of solitude, twice around the lake, dodging walkers and joggers and cyclists and today Rebecca Shonstein, rollerblading with Malachi.
“Dr. S.” I ran up, a little out of breath.
“Jennifer. Enjoying a rare day of sunshine.”
“Yes.” Malachi was also rollerblading, but while holding onto some kind of steadying contraption. “Never seen one of these,” I said.
“Martin built it,” Shonstein said. “Or should I say ‘engineered’ it. ‘Built’ seems like I’m not giving him adequate credit. He started with a prototype; put it through some tests; then took his drawings to work and they made it for him.”
I jogged and they bladed. “What’s it made of?”
“Fiberglass and stainless steel.”
“Mars worthy.”
“You had to bring that up,” she quipped.
“I know.” I paused. “What do you think?”
“What do I think? If that only mattered, huh?” She paused as we dodged some walkers.
“I still can’t get over the shock of the thing,” I said.
“Shock is right.”
We pulled over to a vacant park bench. “I need to check someone’s pull up,” she said. She swung backward and glided both of them to a stop and sat. She pulled Malachi to her and set down the contraption. She squeezed his bottom. “Potty?” she asked.
He shook his head.
“What about the other?” she said with a certain facetiousness.
“Nope,” Malachi replied. He pointed to the paved trail, not busy on this weekday afternoon.
“Okay,” she said. “But stay away from the water.”
Malachi crawled on the grass then pushed himself up awkwardly at the trail and stumbled around in plain view.
“He’s young for blades,” I said.
“I’ve been blading out here with him since he was in his stroller,” Dr. Shonstein said. “He’s been relentless about trying it ever since he could walk.” She looked up at the sun, bright and cool. “Back to your question: What do I think?”
I waited.
“I think they could really fuck this up,” she said. “They being this cadre of unseen mansplainers who seem to think—and maybe they’re right—that they own our work. If there’s an intellectual property claim to be made here, we should be at the top of legitimate claimants.”
“I talked to our lawyer,” I said.
“You mentioned that.”
“We went out for coffee.”
“Really.”
“I shouldn’t have, huh?”
“I’m not your PI,” she said. “That’s between you and Marcia.”
I looked at my hands.
“Malachi Shonstein,” she called to her son. “Stay over here, please.” Some women jogged around him and one turned and smiled at us.
“You learn, you know, in this business, that we function in silos,” she said. “People from Silo A can’t interact with the aliens in Silo B unless they’ve been adequately inoculated. I know—the bacteriologist in me coming out. But that’s how it is. You have to get the proper clearances and permissions. You must kiss the proper rings. You can royally screw a great career if you violate the silo protocols. A lot of other protocols, too. You can screw up your career all kinds of ways, Jennifer. Being a woman, it’s just that much easier.”
“I get it,” I said.
“Good, because you have a career to screw up. You know how many ABDs develop workable prototypes that go on to find life on distant planets?”
I looked at her, then Malachi, who was headed toward a thicket near the lake’s edge. “Shit,” she said, struggling to stand in her blades. I got up and ran to him and gently retrieved him. I started toward mom with him, but he resisted and cried.
“He’s fine,” she said. “Just so long as I can see him. Right, sweet pea?”
He turned around defiantly. I went back to sit.
“So—not to waste good intel. What did our lawyer tell you? Nathaniel—”
“Hawthorn,” I said.
“Isn’t that special.”
“He’s getting the contracts,” I said. “He showed me one, said it could present a valid claim for patenting Crimsy. He wasn’t a hundred percent, but I read what he was talking about and it sounded legit.”
“And we’re just now learning all this,” she said. “Correction: You’re just now learning all this. Wonderful.” She paused, staring at her son as sunlight glistened on the lake. “Think you’ll see him again?”
“Should I?”
She didn’t respond, just kept staring.
“I didn’t really think about it being a breach of anything,” I said. “Kind of like an elaborate FOIA request.” As in Freedom of Information Act, which both my parents called upon frequently when I was young, usually to beat City Hall over the head with, on behalf of constituents our Aldermen were ignoring.
“Well, so. Did you make plans for any future discussions?” Shonstein asked.
“Kinda. But I’m not planning to follow up.”
“Why not?” She looked like a secret agent, all dark hair and shades.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, why not.” Dr. Shonstein pushed herself up and awkwardly walked toward Malachi. “Back this way, young man.”
They were ready to go and I got up, grabbed the contraption, and handed it to her.
“He’s getting tired,” Shonstein said. “I may need to carry.”
“I’ll carry him.”
“Sure?”
Easier for me. I was taller and stronger. I didn’t mind the kid blades.
“Thanks,” Shonstein said.
“Back to why not,” I said.
“I’m sure Nathaniel Hawthorn will keep us up to date in his own way and his own time in the confines of the staff conference room,” she said. “I just wonder if that’s good enough.”
“You want me to see him again?”
“I’ve given you the lecture,” Dr. Shonstein said. “You have informed consent, if you consent to further intel gathering. You can be discreet, can’t you?”