“And the arms trafficking?” I ask. He leans back as a bowl of ice cream is placed in front of him. He affects puzzlement.
“The what?”
“Giving them the weapons.”
He speaks around a mouthful of his dessert. “Weapons? Hmm. Interesting concept. But now you’re the one who sounds crazy.” I stare at him but my curiosity is not reciprocated as he digs into his dish of ice cream.
“Dr. Galois, can I show you around the house?” Bess says. Asmus looks disquieted for a moment, but then his smile returns.
“Yes, of course,” he says. “You’ll enjoy a tour. Leave the menfolk to talk serious matters. This is the eighteenth century, after all.”
Gallie forces a smile as she and Bess get up to leave and I’m left with Asmus. “It’s pathetic,” I say. Asmus raises his eyebrows. “So you went back and made sure Bess could never marry me. Teach me a lesson, eh? That’s so very sad, Kasper. Sad even for you.” He shakes his head.
“You’re barking up the wrong tree there, Joad. That never happened. Besides, to be honest, you missed a bullet. She’s a handful–fucked most of the British garrison.” He belches.
“You really are an asshole Kasper.”
“Keep the clothes, by the way. You look good in them. Your big chair whore, too. By the way, there’s quite an age difference between you two. Must be like fucking your mother.” He stretches. “But, you should be getting back to your team. I thought I’d let you be the one to tell them what’s happening.”
THIRTY-ONE
Fifty parents had waited up for us. We huddle in the dark of the barn while Gallie and I share what we’ve learned. The sheer incredulity that Kasper Asmus is behind all of this causes a dozen conversations to erupt. Then the volley of questions. Why this era? Why is he in a mansion? When will we go home? Will we go home?
“This is crazy,” Ramuhalli says and jumps up. “He’s crazy.” Jenn takes his hand to pull him back down but he snatches it away and storms out of the barn.
“You have to feel for him,” Jenn says. “Not what he expected out of his new job.”
“This is not a problem suited for tackychemists,” Gallie says. “Crazy isn’t our specialty.” We are asked more questions and give the answer I don’t know in a hundred different ways. Then the talking wanes but for the occasional obscenity. I hear someone weeping in the dark.
I open my eyes to the daily chores that have already begun. Someone is raking hay across the barn floor. There’s the clattering of tin trays being brought back from a rinsing at the well. I dwell on the fact that the serving of gruel could stop at any time. It’s repulsive slop, but it’s keeping us alive. For an instant I feel gratitude toward Asmus. Then that disgusts me. Gallie comes over to sit by me and is about to say something when Mack McEwan lumbers over.
“You have a visitor,” he says, pointing to the back door of the barn. Gallie and I are nonplussed. I step outside and my visitor turns to face me, rubbing her upper arms in the cool morning air.
“Bess,” I say. She smiles.
“No one calls me Bess.” I apologize. “No, you can call me that. I like it.”
“Okay ... well ... What can I ... sorry this feels awkward, Bess.”
“I think I know why,” she says. “At least I do if we’re feeling awkward for the same reasons.” The trees are casting a long shadow over us as the sun rises, and there’s a cool breeze that isn’t yet comfortable.
“Do you? It’s just that, we do have a history, but I don’t know ... which one it is.” She waits for me to continue. I don’t.
“Yes. No,” she says to fill the silence. “That’s sort of why I’m here. I do have a ... version of our history, Joad, but it’s very short, simple. I know because of the weirdness that goes on around my husband that not everyone remembers things the same way. So I just wanted to tell you.” I nod. “That okay?” I nod again. “Yesterday I didn’t recognize you at first because it was so long ago. I hope I didn’t seem ... rude.” I’m looking at her and I’m seeing the wife with whom I could count in the thousands the times we’ve gone to bed together, shared private jokes, had intimate conversations, told her that I love her, and argued savagely. But our history is very short and simple, she says.
“Rude? No, not in the scheme of things.”
“So this is it: You and I had one date in college. Just one. Met during Orientation Week, I think.” One date? “Then I got a phone call.” A smile flickers across her lips.
“A phone call.”
“From your father.” I must have look astonished. “So you didn’t know? Yes, I don’t know how he got my number, but he did.”
“My father called you?” She nods and then hesitates, as if searching for the right words. It’s a long search. “What he said to me was, and I remember this pretty exactly, because it’s not something you’d forget. What he said to me was ‘get the fuck away from my son or there’ll be big trouble.’” I stare at her blankly.
“Oh.”
“So, when you called me to ask for a second date, well–”
“Well, yes. Understandable.” I’m staring at the ground because I can’t look at Bess. “Indeed.” My father was saving me. That’s what he was doing. In his way. “So how did you end up with Asmus?”
“That was a long time and a marriage or two later. Met him in a bar in Albuquerque.”
“And I never came up?” I ask. Does that question even make
