Hell, if I couldn't work on Saturdays and Sundays, I'd have no excuse for getting out of the damn house."
A lot of pain in the man, Tomlinson could hear it. A spirit as flawed and gray as the sky, which made him feel unwell, for, to Tomlinson, the pain of others was palpable as vapor and contagious as a virus. It seeped into his brain, then his soul. He didn't just empathize; he absorbed and shared. Tomlinson loved people for their faults-not because there was comfort in weakness but because flaws were the conduits of humanity.
"Kenny," Tomlinson had said, "I'm not being judgmental here-hell, you know me, man-but if you're unhappy with your wife… I mean… if you don't like her-"
"But I do like her," Kern had cut in. "See, that's the thing. I like her; I admire her; I respect the hell out of her. She's a good human being. I think I'm a good human being. But we don't… we just don't… it's like all the years and secrets we've shared have made us strangers. When you come to know the blood and bones of a person, there are no illusions left? Something like that. I can't explain it. Things just… changed."
"Check me if I'm wrong here, Kenny, but I get the feeling you're telling me you've called it quits. Given up. You can't be afraid of change, man-"
"Me? Hah, that's a laugh." Sitting beside him in the rental car, Kern had drained his beer, then crushed the can. "Look at yourself, Tomlinson. I mean it. Go look in the mirror. At least I hung in there and tried to change. I'm still trying in some ways. But you still look like you did in 1969. Just older, that's all. And you wonder why you're having trouble relating to Musashi?"
That had stuck with Tomlinson all day, even when they were working, even as they finally got Joseph's DNA sequencing up on the computer screen. You still look like you did in 1969. And you wonder why you're having trouble relating to Musashi!
Back in his motel room, Tomlinson had stood naked in front of the mirror, taking an interest in his own appearance for the first time in
… how long? Since back in high school, maybe. He couldn't remember. He had touched his own long hair, holding a length of it out in front of his eyes to see. Golden hair sun-bleached blond, and the cells at the very tips of the hair could be ten, fifteen years old. He rarely even trimmed it. Not like his beard, which he kept neat. Well, sort of neat… oh, hell, his beard was a mess, too, and Tomlinson wondered why he had grown the thing in the first place.
Well, maybe Kenny had been right…
Tomlinson had stepped out of the motel bathroom to check the clock by the bed-he didn't own a watch-and saw that it was half past eight. In a city this size, even on a Sunday, there should be a clothing store open somewhere. He stood and thought for a moment, then said aloud, "I wonder if they still sell Nehru jackets?" Then, in a rush, he had dressed and driven to the nearest shopping center-Walden Mall-where a salesman persuaded Tomlinson that a gray silk Brooks Brothers was better suited to both his dignity and the current decade.
Tomlinson was a little disappointed. He had always wanted a Nehru jacket.
Later, he shopped for a hairstylist. But the only thing he found open was a little place in Boston's industrial section called Benny's Quick Cut. There, a startled man in a blue smock studied Tomlinson's scraggly hair and beard for a moment, grinned as he recovered his composure, and said, "I'd do this one for free, buddy!" And he waved him into the old Koken barber's chair.
Now it was nearing midnight, and Tomlinson sat outside Musa-shi's apartment building, wondering whether he should go in and say good-bye.
He would, of course. That's why he'd done the shopping. But he wanted to gather his spiritual reserves first. Didn't want to face the woman while negative vibes still controlled his spirit. Finally, he stepped out of the car and walked up the steps to the door, where he took a deep breath, straightened his tie, touched the doorbell, and waited.
No answer.
He was about to touch the button again when he remembered that the bell didn't work. So he tapped on the door, three soft raps, then knocked a little harder when no one answered.
The door swung open on its own.
Tomlinson stepped into the apartment, worried that something was wrong. But then he saw the empty champagne bottles on the counter, the two empty wineglasses, the ELECT JOHN NIIGATA signs in a stack on the floor, the CONGRATULATIONS JOHN! banner tacked to the wall, and Tomlinson knew it was okay. Musashi had had a little party and forgot to lock the door. Probably a private celebration-her man had won last Tuesday. Tomlinson already knew that.
He felt uneasy standing in her apartment. Japanese pen drawings on the walls; screens made of rice paper; shelves with rows of books. It was Musashi's private space, and it was wrong to invade that space without invitation. But then he began to wonder whether she was home. It was so quiet. There was a light on over the sink and a night-light in the bathroom. That was all. Even Nichola's little room, down the hall to the left, looked dark.
She's my daughter, Tomlinson thought. If she's here, I should check on her.
He crossed the carpet to the hall, past the master bedroom… then stopped. Through the wedge of open doorway, he could see the outline of Musashi's sleeping face. Beside her was a man, a black-haired man with, a neat black beard.
Tomlinson touched his own bare face, now so smooth after his visit to the barber.
Damn it. I shaved for nothing!
In his abdomen, deep within, he felt a growing spasm of jealousy. It was so abrupt and strong, he stepped away from the door in an attempt to dull the feeling. He stood in the dark hallway, breathing slowly, rhythmically, wanting the hurt to fade, wanting to access the calm that was at the very core of him.
I have no right to be angry. I've been wrong all along. Kern could have been describing Musashi instead of his own wife: She's a good human being. All she has been trying to tell me is that I have no claims on her life.
Quietly, very quietly, Tomlinson reached out and pulled the bedroom door closed, then entered Nichola's room. His daughter lay beneath soft blankets, asleep. There was a night-light plugged into the wall-a plastic bird in flight-and just seeing the infant's small form, asleep, at peace, caused Tomlinson to sag a little at the weight of the love he felt.
"Little daughter, my dearest child…" He whispered the words as he bent to kiss her: tiny warm creature, butt hunched up beneath the covers, blond curls, with little wrinkled hands that grasped and held his big fingers reflexively. "Somehow, we will work this out. I promise."
He turned quickly then and fixed the lock on the open apartment door, pausing briefly when he thought he heard the whispered words "Good-bye, Tomlinson." He hesitated, looking toward Musashi's bedroom. Had he imagined her voice, or had the words been muted by plasterboard and dry-wall?
He choked out a reply: "My loves… good-bye," then stood motionless in a silence too repellent to endure.
Quickly, he stepped out onto the stairway and closed the door behind him.
Outside, the city night was as cold as the leaf-strewn concrete. Above the haze of sodium lights, scudding clouds gave the illusion of a few frail stars adrift in a wind that, to Tomlinson, seemed to blow right through him.
He started the car and drove numbly toward the airport, his small suitcase on the backseat, the sheath of lab results in a ma-nila envelope on the seat beside him. Musashi's apartment was miles behind before he realized the radio was still on. The jazz program had been replaced by a talk show, the volume turned so low that it could not pierce the roar of Tomlinson's own thoughts. He reached to touch the radio's scan button, but then something that was familiar about one of the voices caused him to pause.