“Prairie voles mate for life,” Trey says. “They do all kinds of really sweet and disgusting things for each other once they’ve mated for life, like for example grooming each other and making soft comforting prairie-vole noises to each other in their nest. This is because they have an unusual number of receptors in their brain for the chemicals oxytocin and vasopressin. Other species of voles do not have these receptors, and they have no problem leaving their mates at the first convenient opportunity. They don’t have even the slightest interest in grooming or making soft comforting noises to voles they’ve mated with. Now, if you were a biologist working with voles, and you turned down the amount of oxytocin and vasopressin inside a prairie vole brain, do you know what? Suddenly they have no interest in grooming or making soft comforting noises to each other either, and they just go wandering off to find the next available vole.”
“I’m not even sure what a vole is,” Robert says.
“Like a small rat,” says Trey. “They’re not especially charming.”
On one wall there are pictures of Trey in high school in his football uniform and there is a picture of Robert and Trey’s entire high-school football team and there is a small photograph of Trey’s ex-wife and daughter. The daughter is four or five in the photograph, and has messy blond hair. The ex-wife and daughter live somewhere in California.
Trey shows Robert the bottle of fortified pinotage that he brought back with him from his recent physicians’ conference in South Africa. He pours out two glasses. The pinotage tastes like fruit juice concentrate with undertones of paint. “A lot of people say that,” Trey says. “It can take a little while to develop an appreciation for its subtleties.”
Trey talks to Robert about the potential adverse effects of the pills, which are currently in Phase II clinical trials. The potential adverse effects are point-one percent seizure, point oh-two percent neuroleptic malignant syndrome, three percent confusion, eleven percent dry mouth, fourteen to seventeen percent decreased appetite, four percent headache, five percent akathisia, seven percent other symptoms. “Those are all very low percents,” Robert says.
“It’s a very safe drug.” Trey refills their glasses. He notes that the pills dissolve pretty much instantly in liquid.
“I try to write my daughter letters sometimes,” Trey says. “Mostly this is at night when I’ve had too much to drink, but not always. I have, at last estimate, tried to write her dozens and dozens of letters, with no success. When I read what I’ve written, even the salutations seem wrong. ‘Dear Kimberly,’ ‘Dearest Kimberly,’ ‘Dear Kim,’ ‘Baby’—you can see how difficult it is. She’s just turned twelve, three weeks ago. She calls me every year on my birthday and we talk, sometimes for as long as an hour. Other than that I see her at Christmas.”
Trey takes Robert into his office to show him his new humidor. “That looks quite elegant.”
“Solid Spanish Cedar. A little computerized system keeps the humidity inside at precisely seventy percent. Manufactured by the German company Gerl Manufactur.”
“I didn’t know you smoked cigars.”
“I don’t, I just keep them because I like the smell. This is a Cohiba and this is a hand-made Ramon Allones Gigante and this is a Davidoff ‘Zino.’ ”
“That’s quite a collection.”
“Thank you.”
~ ~ ~
Robert spends a long time staring at the plastic baggie of pills that his friend Trey gave him.
~ ~ ~
I pride myself on being a good person, Robert thinks. Perhaps to my detriment. What good is my goodness doing? What good is it doing either of us?
Robert gathers together a cutting board and a knife and some cilantro and an onion and places them all on the island in the middle of the kitchen. Viola is at work. Robert cooks some small strips of beef in a skillet. He places one of the pills on the cutting board and crushes it to a powder with the side of the knife. He wets the tip of his finger and touches it to the powder and tastes it. It doesn’t taste like anything.
Robert gets down a wine glass from the rack that hangs above the kitchen counter and pours himself a glass of wine. He sips the wine and dices the cilantro and the onion. He checks the small strips of beef in the skillet, then gets some tortillas from the refrigerator and heats them in a pan on the stove. He sips the wine and waits for the tortillas and the beef.
He thinks about the night in law school when he and several members of his cohort, all slightly drunk, drove to Kokomo, Indiana, where, they had been assured, there was a whorehouse right by the cemetery. None of them actually wanted or intended to sleep with a whore. It was like a big joke between them all, he’s pretty sure, though none of them would admit they weren’t serious. When they got to Kokomo they parked near the graveyard and got out cans of beer from the case in the trunk and wandered around, laughing and shushing each other. It’s a wonder they weren’t arrested. If they had ever found the place, if such a place existed, what would they have done? He supposes they would have gone inside, and felt uncomfortable, and each found some excuse to leave.
The kitchen fills with the smell of beef and warm tortillas. Robert wipes the crushed-up pill from the cutting board into his hand and sprinkles it into the wineglass. He tops off the wine. The powder has dissolved completely. Once again, there’s no discernible taste.
He puts the tortillas on a plate and tops them with the beef, diced onions, and cilantro, and carries the plate and the wineglass into the next room. On the television is more news about the shootings that have been taking place in downtown Indianapolis. All of the victims so far have been researchers connected with Obadiah Birch. Shots of empty downtown lots crisscrossed with police tape while the reporters talk. Robert changes the channel to a sports program about March Madness. A man Robert doesn’t recognize says, “Kansas doesn’t have a prayer this year.” Another man says, “Kansas does indeed have a prayer this year.” Robert finishes his plate of tortillas and stares at the swallow of wine still in his glass. He puts down the plate and takes the wine to the kitchen and pours it down the sink. He takes the baggie of pills from his pocket and puts them in the trashcan under the sink. He feels better. He rinses out his glass and pours himself some more wine and goes back to the den to watch the rest of the sports program.
That night Robert watches his wife, asleep, and feels a great chasm opening between them. He thinks about unintended adverse effects, such-and-such percentage of decreased appetite, such-and-such percentage of dry mouth, such-and-such of confusion. He gets up from bed, quietly, so as not to disturb Viola, and goes downstairs and gets on his knees by the trashcan under the sink and fishes the baggie of pills back out. He looks at them for a long time.
Instead, he decides they should go to Italy.
“Italy!” he says the next evening, when Viola gets home.
“What?” Viola says.
“Italy! I just bought us tickets.”
“When were you going to ask me about this?”
“We can rent a small European car and drive around the countryside, taking in the beauty of the Italian landscape. In such surroundings our love cannot help but grow and grow.”
“I just got back from medical leave,” Viola says.
“É bella e piacente, l’Italia,” Robert says. “They will be understanding. They will, they will.”
Viola thinks: Is there a fresh start for us, in Italy?
Robert flies to Italy, alone.
~ ~ ~
Robert writes to Viola from Italy: