Read Online The Chronoliths by Robert Charles Wilson - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Robert Charles Wilson
Ads: Link
feel like I put your head in a blender. You’re going to tell me you can’t make a decision like this while you’re standing in your PJs drinking bottled beer and feeling sorry for yourself.”
I was wearing jeans and a sweatshirt. Otherwise, she was on the mark.
“So
don’t
decide,” she said. “But do come see me. Come to Baltimore. My expense. We can talk about it then. I’ll make arrangements.”
One of the salient facts about Sulamith Chopra is that when she says she means to do a thing, she does it.
The recession had hit Baltimore harder than it had hit Minneapolis/St. Paul. The city had done all right in the young years of the century, but the downtown core had lost that brief sheen of prosperity, had faded into empty storefronts, cracked plasma displays, gaudy billboards turned pastel by sun and weather.
Sue parked at the back of a small Mexican restaurant and escorted me inside. The restaurant staff recognized her and greeted her by name. Our waitress was dressed as if she had stepped out of a 17th-century mission but recited the daily specials in a clipped New England accent. She smiled at Sue the way a tenant farmer might smile at a benevolent landlord—I gathered Sue was a generous tipper.
We talked for a while about nothing in particular—current events, the Oglalla crisis, the Pemberton trial. This was Sue’s attempt to re-establish the tone of the relationship between us, the familial intimacy she had established with all her students at Cornell. She had never liked being treated as a figure of authority. She deferred to no one and hated being deferred to. Sue was old-fashioned enough to envision working scientists as equal plaintiffs before the absolute bar of truth.
Since Cornell, she said, the Chronolith project had taken up more and more of her time; had become, in effect, her career. She had published important theoretical papers during this time, but only after they had been vetted by national security. “And the most important work we’ve done can’t be published at all, for fear that we’d be putting the weapon into Kuin’s hands.”
“So you know more than you can say.”
“Yes, lots… but not
enough
.” The waitress brought rice and beans. Sue tucked into her lunch, frowning. “I know about you, too, Scotty. You divorced Janice, or vice versa. Your daughter lives with her mom now. Janice remarried. You did five years of good but extremely circumscribed work at Campion-Miller, which is a shame, because you’re one of the brightest people I know. Not genius-in-a-wheelchair smart, but
bright
. You could do better.”
“That’s what they always used to write on my report cards—‘could do better.’”
“Did you ever get over Janice?”
Sue asked intimate questions with the brusqueness of a census taker. I don’t think it even occurred to her that she might be giving offense.
Hence no offense taken.
“Mostly,” I said.
“And the girl? Kaitlin, is it? God, I remember when Janice was pregnant. That big belly of hers. Like she was trying to shoplift a Volkswagen.”
“Kait and I get on all right.”
“You still love your daughter?”
“Yes, Sue, I still love my daughter.”
“Of course you do. How Scotty of you.” She seemed genuinely pleased.
“Well, how about you? You have anything going?”
“Well,” she said. “I live alone. There’s somebody I see once in a while, but it’s not a
relationship
.” Sue lowered her eyes and added, “She’s a poet. The kind of poet who works retail by daylight. I can’t bring myself to tell her the FBI already looked into her background. She’d go ballistic. Anyway, she sees other people too. We’re nonmonogamous. Polyamorous. Mostly we’re barely even
together
.”
I raised a glass. “Strange days.”
“Strange days.
Skol
. By the way, I hear you’re not speaking to your father.”
I almost choked.
“Saw your phone records,” she explained. “He makes the calls. They don’t last more than
I was wearing jeans and a sweatshirt. Otherwise, she was on the mark.
“So
don’t
decide,” she said. “But do come see me. Come to Baltimore. My expense. We can talk about it then. I’ll make arrangements.”
One of the salient facts about Sulamith Chopra is that when she says she means to do a thing, she does it.
The recession had hit Baltimore harder than it had hit Minneapolis/St. Paul. The city had done all right in the young years of the century, but the downtown core had lost that brief sheen of prosperity, had faded into empty storefronts, cracked plasma displays, gaudy billboards turned pastel by sun and weather.
Sue parked at the back of a small Mexican restaurant and escorted me inside. The restaurant staff recognized her and greeted her by name. Our waitress was dressed as if she had stepped out of a 17th-century mission but recited the daily specials in a clipped New England accent. She smiled at Sue the way a tenant farmer might smile at a benevolent landlord—I gathered Sue was a generous tipper.
We talked for a while about nothing in particular—current events, the Oglalla crisis, the Pemberton trial. This was Sue’s attempt to re-establish the tone of the relationship between us, the familial intimacy she had established with all her students at Cornell. She had never liked being treated as a figure of authority. She deferred to no one and hated being deferred to. Sue was old-fashioned enough to envision working scientists as equal plaintiffs before the absolute bar of truth.
Since Cornell, she said, the Chronolith project had taken up more and more of her time; had become, in effect, her career. She had published important theoretical papers during this time, but only after they had been vetted by national security. “And the most important work we’ve done can’t be published at all, for fear that we’d be putting the weapon into Kuin’s hands.”
“So you know more than you can say.”
“Yes, lots… but not
enough
.” The waitress brought rice and beans. Sue tucked into her lunch, frowning. “I know about you, too, Scotty. You divorced Janice, or vice versa. Your daughter lives with her mom now. Janice remarried. You did five years of good but extremely circumscribed work at Campion-Miller, which is a shame, because you’re one of the brightest people I know. Not genius-in-a-wheelchair smart, but
bright
. You could do better.”
“That’s what they always used to write on my report cards—‘could do better.’”
“Did you ever get over Janice?”
Sue asked intimate questions with the brusqueness of a census taker. I don’t think it even occurred to her that she might be giving offense.
Hence no offense taken.
“Mostly,” I said.
“And the girl? Kaitlin, is it? God, I remember when Janice was pregnant. That big belly of hers. Like she was trying to shoplift a Volkswagen.”
“Kait and I get on all right.”
“You still love your daughter?”
“Yes, Sue, I still love my daughter.”
“Of course you do. How Scotty of you.” She seemed genuinely pleased.
“Well, how about you? You have anything going?”
“Well,” she said. “I live alone. There’s somebody I see once in a while, but it’s not a
relationship
.” Sue lowered her eyes and added, “She’s a poet. The kind of poet who works retail by daylight. I can’t bring myself to tell her the FBI already looked into her background. She’d go ballistic. Anyway, she sees other people too. We’re nonmonogamous. Polyamorous. Mostly we’re barely even
together
.”
I raised a glass. “Strange days.”
“Strange days.
Skol
. By the way, I hear you’re not speaking to your father.”
I almost choked.
“Saw your phone records,” she explained. “He makes the calls. They don’t last more than
Similar Books
