“Seven,” Sparrow said.
From the front of the bed the healer kept modeling a perfect warrior pose. “Breathe. Keep holding it. And exhale. Okay, eight…”
Now Oliver became aware of an aroma, familiar, certainly not incense. Did he really want to believe they were in here baked, doing yoga?
“Remember how that goddamn ER doc wouldn’t let you go with me?” He couldn’t wait any longer. “Well, get your clown shoes on and join the circus.”
Alice remained focused, mouth rigid with concentration.
“Your policy didn’t cover the ambulance ride. Just got the bill. Guess how much.”
She held her pose. Exhaled.
“Twelve hundred dollars. Clown shoes, right?”
The lenses of her sunglasses black, blank.
“I mean, in the large scheme it’s nothing. Only you’d think—”
“I can’t worry about that right now.”
“—the sheer balls—”
“Oliver,” she said.
Don’t overreact, he reminded himself, though his face was hot. Sure. Let them invade every room. Let them have their rituals, their clucking empathy. He retreated from the new age coffee klatch, their baked stares of disapproval. Storming past Alice’s mom, he registered the concern in her expression. Oliver surged with the desire to bark her away, rid himself of all these goddamn women.
Out of the apartment, he jabbed at the button, bounced on his feet, and punched his hands in his coat pockets, discovering that he was constitutionally unable to stay in this hallway for the thirty seconds it would take that rickety bitch elevator to creak up.
—
The Brow was in the other office, in front of his terminal, shoulders hunched forward, neck jutting. From behind he looked like a shaggy, concentrating turtle.
Had to be a good sign. Maybe even a breakthrough.
Oliver started toward the closest terminal. Low sounds met him. The stanza was rhythmic, short, and muddled — a series of low chords repeating in a manner both monotonous and propulsive. White conical speakers, each located on a side of the terminal screen, further muddled the sound. Still, Oliver recognized that short finger-tapping riff — straight from the eighties with its cheese factor.
And on the monitor, visible around the Brow’s body, that abandoned space station — its industrial background, its darkened caverns — was every bit as familiar.
Angles went jittery, red orbs flying past and lighting up the screen.
That goddamn centered hand, returning Taser rounds of fire.
“Enough with fucking Doomguy,” Oliver said.
He asked the Brow to email him files of the previous day’s work. It wasn’t a request.
He withdrew from his pocket the small pad that served as the repository for his scribbled coding changes — each note purposeful, just two or three keywords, as few symbols and numbers as possible, the hope being that concision would engage him, force his mind to re-create the bulk of his old work, trampoline him into a strong workday.
He learned nobody had called from the house.
He lay lengthwise on the couch, unfolded his laptop.
Of course it was a given Alice shouldn’t be dealing with money stuff — he was completely wrong to even bring it up. But was he supposed to just stuff every concern inside him? He takes care of her and she gets to decide his worries are of no concern? Meanwhile, if she’s always crying how that kid’s so important, then why is some nobody shoving applesauce down Doe’s yap while Mommy’s getting high in the drum circle?
He grabbed a soda from the fridge, paced the office, unscrambled his headphone cord.
In the notebook, besides his scribbled notations and ideas, were pages of columns: the costs of the taxis he and Alice took to and from hospitals on appointment days, untold amounts of money that had been set on fire. Plus totals for however much they still owed New Hampshire. And were still trying to get a final tally on the out-of-network costs from the old policy at Whitman. Two grand a month going up in smoke for the new family policy. Another six hundred for rent on the new office. In addition to his regular monthly nut. And the fifteen an hour he was paying that idiot to play videogames. Plus a hundred a session, plus expenses, for that fucking healer. Whatever that tight little tush of a nanny was going to pull, also full-time.
Then again, more than a few friends owed six figures from college and grad school.
And pretty much the whole goddamn nation lived with debt, no?
They’d find a way. The immediate answer was to get Generii to market.
—
More than a few afternoons he’d moseyed past those workrooms. Cavernous spaces, usually, with naked lightbulbs hanging from overhead wires, minimalist style to the desks and lamps. Alice was inevitably working on some garment, her hair messy and in a scrunchie, that lovely mouth holding a swatch of pinned fabric. Even in splattered designing overalls and a little tee beneath, she’d look astonishing, good enough that deliverymen and sales reps would hang around, searching for excuses to chat her up. But whenever a member of the species Modelus dramaticus arrived — for a fitting; for a shoot; to get sized, pinned, or altered; to drop off whatever garment needed to be returned — their ethereal natures were obvious, as was their growing cynicism, blasé attitudes acting as both protective wall and mask. Every bit as apparent to Oliver were Alice’s earthbound and worldly curves, her face’s open nature. Oliver not only found humor but took joy in how little Alice cared for the implicit pecking order between freelancer and model, whether it was Alice volunteering her thoughts about the lines of a dress she was hemming while one of the swans lingered around her table, or asking about the mass-market paperback that happened to be peeking out of some teen’s three-thousand-dollar shoulder bag, or complimenting the ballet flats this girl was wearing around town. Oliver would watch her engage with and draw out these children, and the difference between her — this almost-plump, thoroughly decent woman — and those spoiled, fawnlike babies made him swell. He felt a clumsy pride, being the guy who was dating her, the man whom she chose to hang around, whom she undressed with and shuddered for and collapsed on and then looked at with such intimate wonder, that intense purity.
Her affection elevated him as well, turned him toward those better angels. Through the power of her smile, he became less confrontational toward others. Enabled by the faith of Alice’s goodwill, he was able to make small talk at a social event. Oliver still could jam his foot into his mouth; he still had a propensity for saying the exact wrong thing. At least now he would be aware; now he’d apologize. And the more time he spent with Alice, the more Oliver realized he needed to up his game even further. Become that much more attentive to personal grooming. Be solicitous toward others. At least pretend to be attuned to the world and culture at large. If he wanted to keep this amazing woman looking at him like that, to somehow make this luminous creature his, he had to become kinder.
It would be the greatest trick of all time.
—
Twilight was spreading its desultory magic as he crossed West Tenth. Grayness and barrenness everywhere, just too much; he wished someone would unleash a high-pressure hose, blasting away the neighborhood’s grime and brokenness. How had this shithole seduced him? How much emotional capital had he invested, convincing Alice this was the best place for them? All the money and sweat he’d devoted to being here. Here?
Oliver’s head swiveled; he checked in each direction. Any asshole lurking in those side streets? All that turned up were a pair of undernourished teenagers spraying complicated graffiti onto the side of an eighteen-wheeler. Their jokes did not pause when Oliver passed, and this furthered his rage, his body knifing through air that was unseasonably sticky.