Roiling with thunder, shot through by lightning, burly black cloud rises above the eastern hills of Vermont to blot out the morning sun. The storm amasses forces on the mountaintops, then releases a booming barrage upon the valleys of New Hampshire where the Connecticut and White Rivers converge. Over the radio, a particularly poetic weatherwoman describes the event as “an anarchy of meteorological maneuvers hell-bent on reckless destruction.” Tickled by her illustration, she giggles. Professor Philip Lars Toomey, listening in at seven-fifteen in the morning and brought up short by the quasi-hysterics, the lack of professionalism, suspects that the woman has not been to bed, and is probably inebriated.
Rather timidly, Toomey pokes his nose out the front door of his modest bungalow to judge the tempest for himself. A twitch of his nostrils and a glance up confirms the forecast of a deluge and widespread calamity. Rivers will flood their banks; sewers pitch off their manhole covers. Wind whips through the Norwegian maples on his front lawn. Leaves that sprouted relatively recently are suddenly everywhere, in the air and gallivanting down the sidewalk, while across the street the trunks of mature pines sway so erratically they might soon snap. Heavy rain is inevitable, yet a further prospect vexes him more. If he sprints to the carport immediately he’ll make it without being soaked. If he drives off, does he want to be out on a highway when hail pelts down? A forty percent chance, according to the tipsy morning weatherwoman. Should he trust a drunk’s forecast? Dare he risk a pockmarked hood? A dinged roof? His poor beloved Bimmer! Insurance will pay, but the hassle, the time, the aggravation of it all.
And of course, he’ll be out of pocket for the deductible.
He has to think this through.
He’s of two minds. Drive to work, get through the morning routine, lunch, exchange secret messages inside the bark of a ratty old hickory tree, then carry on to his lady love’s abode to enjoy an afternoon of illicit passion. Scandalize himself. Afterward, review his day and perhaps tally the damage to his car while downing a pint in a favorite pub. Sounds good. Inviting. The alternative is to skip all that and stay home. Risk nothing. Enjoy little. Phone his girl and beg off. She’ll understand. Then mope about it for a day which at least protects the BMW from golf balls hurtling out of the sky, and keeps his own life safe should the ice that descends prove to be the size of fists.
Out there, he could easily get clobbered.
Back when he was pushing himself from bed, the weatherwoman predicted an incessant downpour until midnight. “Epic,” she promised, vowing: “Torrential.” She giggled while sprinkling in words such as teeming and relentless and extremely wet to convey her perspective. She cheerily advised the morning news anchor that the day was bound to be “a soaker,” morning traffic might be washed away and the deluge approach Noah’s standards, a comment that apparently had her in stitches as her partner took over, all the while chuckling himself, although, in his case, nervously.
Toomey wants both of them sacked.
If she’s not drunk she’s on drugs.
Wrecking his day early in the morning, then laughing about it—the nerve of those two! He might write a letter. The male announcer is less giddy but he’s definitely slurring his words.
Two choices. Go or stay. A third option for the day suggests that he wait, stay home until noon, write that letter, then either make a run for it into town or suppress his raging lust completely. Makes sense, except that he fundamentally distrusts third options.
During a lifetime of spy craft, the professor has never desired more than a pair of best choices in any circumstance. Third possibilities propagate confusion, which in turn creates danger whenever there’s no time to think. If the best course of action in a given situation is to turn either right or left, then going straight ahead usually means over a cliff. A fourth escape route might work in theory and be the best one, yet inevitably leads to a paralysis of thinking. Limiting a decision to two options, whether they be agreeable or not, allows a man in the field to flip a mental coin and take his chances. Heads, he has a fifty-fifty shot of being right—better than that if he’s lucky, and any spy worth his salt must rely on luck—or tails, and if that’s the wrong choice, at least he knows which way to run.
Toomey has time to spare this morning, which might be the problem. He allows the thunder to force the issue—Quick! Decide!—before the next explosive rumble. Tossing a trench coat over his sports jacket, he clutches his messenger bag to use as an umbrella and bolts out the side door. By the time he starts up the BMW and pulls free of the carport, the rain has not only begun, the ferocity is stunning. The wipers scarcely keep up. All he’s experiencing is wind and rain, no hail, and Toomey knows that if ice doesn’t bombard him at the outset, he’s probably safe. As is his Bimmer. Whew. He’ll drive on, first to the Dowbiggin School of International Studies via a favorite coffee shop in Hanover and eventually into the randy quarrel of his lover’s bed. He’ll get some work done early then enjoy wicked sex. Crazy sex. Lovely sex. What a life. Storm aside, the day is setting up as ideal.
Under the waterfall pouring from a blackened sky, the pavement is difficult to discern in the headlights, although once on his way he desires nothing more than to be on the road, bound for the freeway, his life marginally at risk while driving through the fury. If anything, the prospect of making love in rhythm to the rain adds to the thrill. If the weather remains electric and cacophonous, so much the better.
Toomey is confident that no one suspects a thing.
That no one ever will.
While a number of professors are stuck teaching summer classes, he is unencumbered until the fall, yet chooses to trek onto the campus every morning to accomplish a modicum of work. Partly he suffers a need to justify his salary, as his income is a sinecure for a job well done in service to country. He’s well paid but underworked. He also insists on keeping up appearances because the habits of spy craft do not easily release their grip. Subterfuge—pretending to work—comes naturally to him, and doesn’t that hold him in good stead given that his new purpose, at long last, rightfully belongs to the craft of love? Secret love. True love, perhaps. Although a familiar doubt kicks in. Is it love? Can I call it that? Wipers lash the glass, the tempo evocative for him. Not lust? He muddles through the oblique equation. Love and lust both, then. God help me, will I ever—will anyone ever—discern a difference?
He can flip a coin to get his answer. He holds off, preferring to savor the moment. In the gloomy downpour, under the raucous thunder and startling lightning, Philip Lars Toomey enters the town of Hanover. Close to the Ivy League jewel of Dartmouth College he’ll pull in for coffee, then on out of town to a lesser campus where he plies his trade in the gentle hamlet of Holyoake, New Hampshire.