Again and again he had replayed in his head their time together: their horseback escape; Alida’s initial fury at him; the slow morphing of her feelings into something else, culminating into love—his first real love, thanks to the incredible generosity of her heart and spirit.
In the midst of life we are in death;
of whom may we seek for succor,
but of thee, O Lord,
who for our sins art justly displeased?
Gideon began to feel like an intruder, blundering in on something private and personal. He turned away and walked back down the slope of the hill, past grave after grave after grave, until he reached the older section of the cemetery. There, in the cool shade of a cypress tree, he waited on the white gravel path, where she would have to pass by on her way back to her car.
Even if you only have a year, let’s make that year count. Together. You and me. We’ll roll up a lifetime of love in one year.Her words. He found himself haunted by the image of her, naked in the doorway of her ranch house, beautiful as a Botticelli maiden—that day he’d driven away in her car, hell-bent on ruining her father’s life.
…Why was it so important for him to speak with her? Was it because he still hoped, against all hope, that he could make her see things his way, understand the awful bind he had been in, and—ultimately, with the boundlessness of her big heart—forgive him? Or did part of him already guess that was impossible? Maybe he needed to explain simply for his own peace of mind—because, though perhaps he could never again hope Alida might love him, at least he could help her understand.
He watched the service from afar. The shifting breeze brought the priest’s faint voice to his ears from time to time, a distant murmur. The coffin was lowered. And then it was over. The tightly clustered group around the grave loosened and began to disperse.
He waited in the shade as they made the long, slow, straggling procession down the hill, his eye fixed on her, her alone, as people offered her their condolences, hugged Alida, took her hand. It all took an excruciatingly long time. First came the cemetery workers; next a knot of women of a certain age, talking animatedly among themselves in low tones; next, various young people and couples; and then came the priest and a few of his assistants. He gave Gideon a professional smile and nod as he passed.
Last came Alida. He had assumed she would be accompanied by others, but she had drifted back from them and was the last to leave, all alone. She approached him, bowed by her loss but still walking proud, her head erect and staring straight ahead, moving slowly along the long, narrow pathway among the graves. She didn’t seem to see him. As she drew closer, Gideon felt a strange hollowness in the pit of his stomach. Now she was almost upon him. He wasn’t sure what to do—whether to speak, step in front of her, reach out—and as she drew alongside he parted his lips to speak but no sound came. He watched, struck mute, as she passed by, walking the same slow walk, her eyes straight ahead, without the faintest flicker, the faintest change of expression, to acknowledge his existence.
He followed her with his eyes as she continued down the path, her back to him now, never deviating in her deliberate, icy stride. He continued watching her dwindling black figure for several minutes more, until she had disappeared around the distant edge of the building. He waited until she was long gone, until all the cars were gone, and then waited some more. Finally, with a deep, unsteady breath, he made his own way out along the narrow pathways between the gravestones, down the graveled path, to his car.
78
Gideon asked the cabdriver to let him off at Washington Square Park. He felt like walking the last mile or so to the EES offices on Little West 12th Street—but before doing so, he wanted to hang out in the park for a bit and enjoy the summer day.
Three weeks had passed since the funeral. Immediately afterward, Gideon had fled to his cabin in the Jemez Mountains and turned off his cell phone, landline, and computers. And then he had spent three weeks fishing. On the fifth day he finally caught that wily old cutthroat trout with a barbless hook, intending to release it. What a gorgeous fish it was: fat, glossy, with the deep blood-orange coloring below the gills that gave the cutthroat its name. Certainly this was a fish noble enough to be worth releasing, as was his policy. But then, strangely, he hadn’t. Instead, he’d taken it back to the cabin, cleaned it, and served himself up an exquisitely simple truite amandine, accompanied by a bottle of flinty Puligny-Montrachet. All without guilt. And as he enjoyed the simple meal, all by himself, an odd thing happened. He felt happy. Not only happy, but also at peace. He examined his feelings with a sense of surprise and curiosity, and he realized they had something to do with the certainty of things. The certainty of his medical condition, and the conviction that he would never see Alida again.
Oddly, that certitude seemed to liberate him. He knew now what he faced, and what he could never have. It gave him the freedom to follow the doctor’s parting advice: to focus on doing things that mattered to him, and help others. Releasing the trout would have been a fine gesture; but, he had to admit, eating it had been an even rarer pleasure. Eating it had mattered to him. In the midst of life we are in death…It was a wise thought, true for trout and human alike.
Over those three weeks, he had done a number of other small things that mattered to him. One had been to arrange for an indefinite medical leave from Los Alamos. And when his little fishing vacation was over, when he had turned his phones back on and collected his messages at last, he found one from Glinn. The engineer had another assignment, if Gideon were inclined to take it; one of “considerable importance.” Gideon was about to dismiss it out of hand, but then stopped himself. Why not? It seemed he was good at that sort of thing. If he wanted to help others, maybe that is what he should be doing.
Even his anger at Glinn for abandoning him in the field had abated. Gideon had begun to understand that Glinn’s method of operation—though difficult to take in the heat of the moment—had proven remarkably effective. In this case, they had refused to help because they clearly felt that Gideon, on his own, had the best chance of success.
And so here he was, back in New York City, ready to start the next chapter in his short life. He took a deep breath and looked around. It was a beautiful weekend afternoon, and Washington Square Park was overflowing with activity. He lingered, enchanted by the bustle—the Dominican drummers whose joyful rhythms filled the air; a group of awkward in-line-skating kids in helmets and padded knees, their mothers sitting in a worried knot; a pair of men in expensive suits smoking cigars; an old hippie strumming a guitar and collecting coins; a mime trailing people, aping their way of walking to their great annoyance; a three-card-monte player shuffling his cards and keeping an eye out for the cops; a bum sound asleep on a bench. The park contained a full vertical slice of humanity, top to bottom, in all its complexity and richness and splendor. But on this day the joy, the richness seemed particularly acute. New York felt a lot different from the last time he’d been here and had his cab stolen by a loutish, half-drunk businessman. The terrorist scare that had half emptied the city was over, and people seemed to have returned changed. They were more connected, tolerant, more in the moment, happier.
The city had changed; and he had, as well. We all need reminding what’s really important in life, thought Gideon. These people had been reminded. Just as he had.
It was all over; the country had returned to normal. His own troubles had been resolved: the videotapes at USAMRIID, Blaine’s laptop, and Dart, confessing all from his hospital bed, had filled in the gaps and told the full story. Novak had been arrested, along with other conspirators at Los Alamos and in the defense and intelligence communities. The frame job had been exposed, Chalker revealed as an innocent victim. Glinn had stepped in to make sure Gideon’s own true role in the drama remained a deep secret. This was critically important to Gideon. It would ruin the rest of his short life if he became famous, hailed as a hero, his face plastered on the front pages everywhere. What a nightmare.