Specimen Days

city haze. There were the windows of Tribeca and then the empty sky.

Where was the kid right now? Was he sleeping? She had a feeling he was not. She imagined him out there, as wide-awake as she was; he might be looking through a window of his own.

Luke would be twelve now. Since he died she'd been sure he was somewhere; she'd known it as deeply as she'd known his presence inside her, shortly after conception. She'd never been religious. She hadn't allowed grief to send her crawling to the church. That might have helped, but she hadn't had it in her; it had seemed if anything like a final insult, to concoct sudden hysterical convictions about what she'd spent her childhood escaping. All right, take my baby, but don't expect me to don the veil and kneel before the statue. Don't expect me to clap my hands or raise my voice in song. If she'd done that, she'd have lost herself completely.

And yet, Luke wasn't gone. She had no idea where he might be. He wasn't in heaven, and he wasn't a ghost, but he was somewhere. He had not evaporated. She knew it with gut-level certainty. It was her only belief. That, and the workings of justice in a dangerous world.

Danger our true parent?
Where do the dead live?
These curtains can Simon really be straight?

She slipped into bed just before sunrise. She wasn't sleepy, not even a little bit, but if she simulated sleepiness, if she acted like someone about to fall asleep, she could sometimes fool herself. Simon breathed steadily beside her, murmured over a dream. He never had trouble sleeping. She tried not to hate him for that.

She was still wide-awake when her cell went off. It was ten minutes after six.

'This is Cat Martin.'

'Cat, I've got your caller. I'm patching him through.'

It was Erna, from downtown. Cat's heart quickened. Simon opened his eyes, blinked uncertainly. She put her finger to her lips.

She said, 'Go ahead, Erna.'

There was the brief electronic hiccup of the transfer. Then there was his voice.

'Hello?'

He sounded even younger than she'd remembered.

'Hello. Who's this?'

'Urn. I called before.'

'Yes.'

Keep it calm. Keep it matter-of-fact.

'I could get in trouble,' he said.

'You're not in any trouble at all, not if you let me help you. Did you write something on a wall last night?'

'What?'

'Did you write something for me last night? On a wall?'

'Oh. Yeah.'

'What were you trying to tell me?'

'Well. What it said.'

Simon was sitting up now, watching her, wide-eyed.

'Do you think it's lucky to die?' she asked. 'Do you think dying is a good thing?'

'I don't think I want to yet,' the boy said. 'Who is it who wants you to die?'

'That's how it works. I didn't know. It's murder, if you don't go, too.'

'Is somebody telling you to hurt yourself?' 'I beat and pound for the dead.' 'That's Whitman, isn't it?' she said. 'Who?'

'Walt Whitman. Did you learn those words from Walt Whitman?'

'No. Walt doesn't talk like that.' 'Where did you learn them, then?' 'They're from home.'

'Listen to me. Listen very carefully. Someone is telling you to do things that are bad for you, that are bad for other people. It's not your fault. Someone is hurting you. Tell me where you are, and I'll come there and help you.'

'I can't.'

'You don't need to be afraid. There's nothing for you to be afraid of, but you have to let me help you. Tell me where you're calling from. You can tell me that. It's all right.'

'The next one is today.'

'Tell me what he's making you do. You don't have to do it.'

'I have to go.'

'Don't go. You're in trouble, and it's not your fault. I can help you.'

'Do you think a great city endures?' 'What do you think?' 'Goodbye.' He hung up.

Simon said, 'That was him.' He all but quivered with fervent competence.

'It was him.'

'What did he say?

'Just sit tight a minute, okay?'

Her cell went off, as she'd known it would. It was Pete.

'Jesus fucking Christ,' he said.

'Where was he?'

'Pay phone in Bed-Stuy.'

'They're doing another one today.'

'So he says. What do you think?'

'Off the top of my head, I'd say I'm not sure.'

'Thanks for sharing.'

'I'd say he's serious.'

'I'd say so, too. What was all that shit about Walt?'

'Frankly, you've got me there. The little fucker seems to have memorized the whole book.'

'He says the words are from home. What's that about?'

'They're loose, Pete. As you know.' 'How soon can you be in the office?' 'Twenty minutes. Give or take.' 'See you there.'

She clicked off. Simon stared at her, all executive readiness.

'Got to get to work,' she said. 'Right,' he said.

He was so fucking gorgeous like this, he who was a potent figure in his own circles but a spectator in this one, a wife if you will, lying here looking at her with those impossible agate eyes of his, hair electrically disordered, face bristling with stubble. It seemed for a moment that she could stop, she could just stop; she could blow off her job and move with Simon into his realm, his high-octane but undangerous life, the hush and sureness of him, buying and selling the future, seeking out maps and jars and bringing them home. She was on her way to a grim office where the equipment was outdated and the air-conditioning prone to failure, where most of her coworkers were right-wing zealots or B students or just too peculiar for the corporate jobs that claimed the best and the brightest; where the villains were as pathetic and off-kilter as the heroes; where the whole struggle between order and chaos had no beauty in it, no philosophy or poetry; where death itself felt cheap and cheesy. She wanted how could she possibly tell him? to take shelter in Simon, to live peacefully alongside him in his spiky and careless beauty, his electrified contentment. She wanted to abandon herself, to abide. But of course he wouldn't want her that way.

She got out of bed. 'Call you later,' she said.

'Right,' he answered.

They both paused. Now would be the time for one of them to say 'I love you.' If they were at that point.

'Bye,' she said. 'Bye,' he answered.