The Gravity of Birds

‘If not for Thomas and the notoriety he’s achieved, we might well be eating beans from a can, my dear, instead of …’ He’d waved his fork over their meal, a beef tenderloin in marrow sauce, chanterelles with chestnuts, and the ruby sheen of a fine pinot noir coloring his wineglass.

‘I suppose your books wrote themselves, then? That your accomplishments count for nothing?’ Claire hid her face behind her napkin for a moment, and when she put the napkin back in her lap her cheeks were wet.

‘What is it?’ His mind entertained a score of disastrous scenarios.

‘Do you feel you settled? With marriage and a child, I mean. For less than what you imagined you’d have?’

His response had been immediate. He’d shaken his head vehemently, attempting to interrupt her. He might have wished for greater success, but never at the expense of his family. If he had to choose, no choice would have been easier. She’d squeezed his arm tight and he’d let her continue.

‘It’s the way you are when you come home after being with him. Anxious. At odds with yourself. You look around these rooms as though something’s changed in the time since you left and came back. As though everything’s become smaller. More drab.’

He was stunned. ‘I didn’t realize I did that.’

‘That makes it worse. More true.’ She stared at the tines of her fork.

He brought her hands to his mouth and kissed the insides of her wrists, first one, then the other, stricken by the idea that he’d planted any doubt in her mind as to how much she meant to him. ‘I didn’t settle, Claire.’

‘I don’t believe you did. I think you are exactly what you were intended to be. A man of great value. I’m just not sure you recognize it in yourself.’ She closed her eyes, then looked at him carefully. ‘And Bayber? What would you say of him?’

‘I would say he, too, is exactly what he was intended to be. A man of great talent.’

‘He’s the one who’s settled, Denny. For only his talent. And when his time comes, he’ll find himself wanting what you have more than anything else.’

He’d loved her all the more for saying it, though he doubted Thomas would be thinking of him at the end. Yet there was still a small particle in Finch, an uncontrollable element that coveted what Thomas had, not at the expense of his own bounty, but in addition to it. Thomas’s talent was the cover that kept him warm at night, the meal that sustained him, the air he breathed. His talent would outlive him for generations. Finch was honest enough to admit, at least to himself, a legacy of that sort was worthy of envy. Was it so great a crime to let some of Thomas’s sun fall on him? To feel just the outer rim of that warmth?

The rest, he had no desire for. The queue of women waiting for Thomas was as long as the span of time each lasted was short. When Thomas tired of an admirer’s company, it was expected that the woman in question would decamp gracefully, minus the drama of a scene or hysterics, to be quickly replaced. In Thomas’s opinion, no explanation was required.

But for years to go by without having the companionship of anyone of consequence? Finch tried to imagine a different life for himself, but could not. The loss of his wife had been devastating. Even now he woke in the middle of the night to find his arms stretched out to her side of the bed, encircling her missing form. Painful as this was, a life she had never been part of would have been worse. The same held true for Lydia. The lilt of her voice, the sway of her arms when she walked, the way she nibbled at the cuticle of her index finger when faced with a serious decision. All these had been imprinted on his core. Erasing them was impossible.

Sleep was also impossible. He tossed and turned for most of the night, finally giving in and getting up before sunrise. He needed to talk to Thomas alone before things went any further. He may have given his word, but he hadn’t signed up to be part of a traveling sideshow. At some point in the wee hours of the morning, he decided he wasn’t going anywhere with Stephen until he found out exactly what Thomas knew, and what he really wanted.

I married a wise man. Claire’s voice was all the sun he needed.

‘Sarcasm is wasted on those who haven’t had a decent night’s sleep, my darling. Be honest. You’re wondering why I didn’t show this much backbone years ago.’

I’m wondering what he’s up to, Denny. Same as you.

He waited until after breakfast before calling Mrs. Blankenship to let her know he’d be stopping by to see Thomas. The phone rang as he reached to dial her number.

‘You need to come quickly.’ Mrs. Blankenship sounded as if she’d been running.

‘I was just about to call you. I’m coming over to see Thomas this morning.’

‘We’re at the hospital, Professor. Mr. Bayber’s had a stroke.’

***

He hadn’t been in a hospital for almost a year. It was more grim than he remembered. All the artificial brightness, meant to be reassuring—here is order and cleanliness; surgical cure and pharmaceutical consolation; schedules kept and procedures perfected—was revealed to be otherwise by the moans issued from passing beds, by the brisk, flat-footed walk of orderlies in sneakers pushing those beds, by the janitors’ high gray laundry carts and the smells of sickness and blood embedded in the linens.

Mrs. Blankenship, so capable and exacting in Thomas’s apartment, had been transformed into a weepy mass of wrinkled clothing stuffed into a plastic chair in the waiting room.

‘He was on the floor when I came in this morning,’ she said, dabbing at her pink face with the handkerchief Finch provided. ‘I called for an ambulance right away, but it took them so long to get there. I kept telling him they were on their way. I don’t know whether he heard me.’

‘I’m sure he did.’ Finch looked for a doctor, but seeing no one, patted Mrs. Blankenship on the shoulder, then ventured over to the nurses’ desk, where he found himself ignored by three different women. When repeated throat clearing proved ineffective, he picked up one of the pens with a large artificial flower attached to the end of it and in a fit of pique, stuck it behind his ear. ‘Bayber,’ he said. ‘Thomas Bayber. I need to know what room he’s in.’

The nurse nearest him gave him a withering glance and held out her hand. He returned the pen. ‘Fourth floor. Turn left,’ she said. ‘Down to the first station on your right. They’ll be taking him there from emergency. You can talk to his doctor once they get him settled.’

‘And how long will that be?’ he asked, but she’d already turned away. Finch collected Mrs. Blankenship, and the two of them followed the signs for the elevator, crowding on with the other sleep-deprived, wan-faced visitors, then expelled along with the masses onto a sterile floor that looked the same to him as the last.

It was two hours before Finch could talk with the doctor. A serious stroke; it was too soon to tell how much speech or movement Bayber might eventually recover. He was resting comfortably. They’d monitor him continuously; there was nothing more anyone could do for the time being. Finch called Cranston with an update and told Mrs. Blankenship to go home and rest.

‘Don’t come back until tomorrow,’ he ordered. ‘When they let you see him, I need you to tell him that Jameson and I are driving to the cabin, and to the Kesslers’ old house after that. Tell him even if he’s sleeping, Mrs. Blankenship. And tell him more than once. It’s important.’

The shocks on the Sentra that Finch had rented were shot. The car bounced along the freeway, and Stephen bounced along with it, his head coming perilously close to the ceiling with each bump. Finch drove too fast and gestured as he talked, causing Stephen to press himself against the seat back and stare pointedly at the speedometer. An intermittent rain drummed on the roof, drowning out the classical music station that appeared and disappeared as they passed between a series of hills. Humid air from the vents targeted Stephen’s neck. It was like being trapped in a mobile version of his office at Murchison & Dunne.

Finch raised his chin and sniffed the air. ‘Bananas really aren’t appropriate for a road trip. The fast food I can understand, but unless it’s an apple, or a prune, fruit isn’t the best choice.’ He was secretly glad to be out of his daughter’s clutches, free to enjoy a meal of fat, sodium, and limp vegetable bits with suspect nutritional value without someone chiding him about the dangers of cholesterol and high blood pressure. ‘I should have gotten a bigger trash bag. How can someone as meticulous as you appear to be about certain things travel like this?’

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