Perri O'Shaughnessy - Presumption Of Death

A stray thought went through Elizabeth’s mind: But Darryl doesn’t love his wife anymore. She would have to leave this out of the thesis: It didn’t fit at all. It was an aberration caused in part by her own presence, which she had intended to be invisible.

Yes, leave that out.

The Puglias. Also conservative, also low in ambition, also family-centered. Debbie was pivotal in the group because her gregariousness and lack of other outlets were the glue that had brought the neighbors into such close proximity. She wouldn’t allow them to isolate from one another. She had close ongoing relations with each household, greased by her social skills. Sam was an adjunct to his wife, less involved because he had the outlet of his work.

The Hills, examples of the older generation who had started disadvantaged and stayed that way, hooked into history because their Okie parents had come here as part of an important American geographical shift in the thirties. Also conventional and conservative. Financial problems had caused them to attempt change-to subdivide their property-but they hadn’t been sophisticated enough to get around the maze of land regulations.

And Ben Cervantes, saving for his house and his bride, which his parents, who had returned to Mexico, no doubt would pick out for him. A conservative from a minority group, grateful to have any job at all. His nephew, Danny, had fallen into the underclass due to his lack of education.

Ben had such fine eyes. He spoke well. Elizabeth wondered if he already had a fiancée.

Again she had to suppress a thought that didn’t fit into the descriptive paradigm: Ben was ambitious. He might move out and away from his origins.

Elizabeth had observed a subset among the locals: One group wanted no change, period, but the other group looked at the change going on all around them and said, get me some of that. Ben, who worked for anyone that would hire him, and George Hill, with his attempt to subdivide his property, adopting a newbie stratagem, belonged in this interesting subset.

The newbie population on Siesta Court was small but powerful. It hadn’t felt so small because she herself had been a part of the ongoing interactions over the years, but of course she could not insert herself into the thesis.

So: Take the Cowans and the Ballards.

David Cowan, inherited wealth, graduate education, rootless, moved every couple of years, unconventional outlooks. He had no interest in conservation per se but wanted to preserve the status quo now that he had built his palace on Siesta Court. His money made it happen, without consideration for the environmental impact or the impact on the neighborhood.

Britta Cowan, another flouter of the mores, only her area of impact was societal. Her dysfunctional relationship with her husband, her seductive attitudes, her negative attitudes toward her occupation, and her wild acting out made her a kind of relief valve.

The Ballards had to be considered en bloc. Ted and Megan shared the Cowans’ rootlessness and lack of interest in conventional societal mores. They also welcomed change and had disrupted the local environment with their building projects, but wanted no more change to the environment now that they had their own homes. However, Ted and Megan were different from the Cowans in that…

… in that they smile and flex all the time, Elizabeth thought to herself, tired. Quarter past eleven, and she had nowhere to go and nobody and nothing to do but think about these stupid people… She opened the curtains. Down the hill she could see through the mist a thin thread of river. Down there on Siesta Court, the Bunch carried on their pathetic… yes, she was losing it. She ought to knock off for the night.

She took off her headphones and turned the tape on again, loud, letting the noise of the party fill the room. The material wasn’t very useful. The newbies and locals alike had been so disturbed by Britta’s outrageous behavior that…

Elizabeth remembered how Ben had lightly, but with emphasis, pushed that slut Britta away from him. She liked that.

She heard loud talking on the tape. Right here, Britta had gone up to the group of men and now Elizabeth heard her say again:

“What’re you guys talking about, hmm?”

And that was Sam’s voice, boisterous from whiskey, answering:

“Danny. We’re toasting Danny.”

Then she heard some confused, alcohol-fueled laughter from the group of men, and one of them said:

“Good riddance.”

She hadn’t heard that line before. How could he speak so coldly about Danny? Who was that? She pressed rewind and went back and heard again: “Good riddance.”

Then she heard faintly, in the background, “Yeah.” It sounded like a chorus. Perplexed, she shrugged and turned the tape off.

Her mood changed. She sat for a moment staring at the screensaver. Then she opened the file that had her journal in it. She wondered if there would ever be hope for her, and wrote:

Our children are our happiness

But they are gone tomorrow

Like meteors they fly

Brilliant in our sky

She was losing it. The rain no longer pleased her. At the stove, she lit a long brown Sherman’s cigarette on the burner, the heat of the gas fire hot on her lips. Crazy, she could set her hair on fire. Midnight. She should go to the gym in the morning. She could call Debbie in the morning to see if she wanted to have lunch.

Debbie never had any doubts about anything. She was immersed, local to the bone. Once Elizabeth had been a local. Now she was just-outside. Outside all of it. Outside life.

Turning to leave the kitchen, Elizabeth saw the snapshot on the refrigerator freshly, as if it hadn’t been there for a year. One moment May had been with her, a small warm companion who would share her time on the planet, then she had… been removed from the study. Yes. The mother-daughter study had been terminated for unknown reasons. And Jake. No time to work out their problems, just a disappearance, abrupt, irrevocable.

Viciously, she yanked open the door of the cabinet above the refrigerator, searching for the Courvoisier.

M IDNIGHT ON THIS SAME MAGNIFICENT TUESDAY night on Chews Ridge, ambient light low, skies crystalline. David Cowan saw the Trifid Nebula materialize on his screen as the thirty-six-inch reflector followed its computerized instructions. The light in the control room had been set as dimly as possible to see the detail. “Ray, you have to see this,” he said.

Ray, at the next table full of computer equipment, grunted and came over. A small astrophysicist with a beard, he worked at MIRA full-time.

“Beautiful,” he said.

“More than beautiful.” Rose, it was, shading from pale to brilliant pink and deepening to red on its three petals, shedding light below it, a rose. One new star seemed to shine from its center, though David knew that was a trick of the galaxy, the star was actually much closer.

He was peering forty-five hundred light years into space, and the grandness of it, the spectacularness of it, the knowledge of the vast energies roiling and twisting all around this pitiful planet where he existed, were so good for forgetting. He typed in the commands that would photograph the nebula but continued to stare at it.

“Sometimes, looking into it, always bright, always superb, I feel like I’m falling forward, leaving forever. There’s vertigo, movement as I leave my body,” he told Ray.

Ray didn’t answer. Beauty wasn’t visual to him, it was mathematical. His screen, showing window piled upon window of moving graphs, gave him the same kind of pleasure.

“Rain’s coming in from the coast,” David said. “I’d say an hour or so.”

“You ought to get back to work,” Ray said. “We have to get this mapping done by next Thursday or we lose the grant.”