Lauren Grodstein - The Explanation for Everything

Specks of dust, dust to dust. Andy blinked his eyes, hard. He came back to where he was.

“Professor?” Melissa tried again. “Is that what you want?”

“It’s not,” Andy said. “But I’ve realized over the years that what I want doesn’t really matter either way.”

“But that’s not true,” Melissa said. “You get to decide what you want and you get to decide what really matters.”

The chill from the air-conditioning had made the hair on his arms stand up. For a moment, he lost his head. “Melissa, if you can come up with a reading list I approve of, I’ll do your independent study.”

“I can do that,” she said, cheerfully. “That’s no problem.”

“But you should know I’m going to include some scientists I believe in. Henry Rosenblum, you heard of him?”

“You want me to read Henry Rosenblum?”

“Lots of him,” Andy said. “Dawkins too. Those are my conditions.”

Why he was bothering with conditions at all he wasn’t entirely sure, but if he was going to jump through hoops for her, then he would make her do the same for him.

Melissa sighed. “Do you think there’s anyone else in the bio department who will take my project on?”

“I’d be shocked,” Andy said. “In fact, I’d be shocked if there was anyone else in the department who would ever let you finish a sentence about intelligent design.” She fingered her cross. “So are you willing?”

“I guess I have no choice,” Melissa said.

“Not if you’re serious about this study.”

“Okay,” Melissa said. She hoisted her backpack over her shoulders and galumphed out of his basement laboratory. Andy watched her go, listened to her heavy footsteps. She didn’t even have the courtesy to say thanks.

He returned to his drunken mice, dreaming their placid, inebriated dreams. He reached in and scratched one on the nose; like a bum, or one of his daughters, it seemed to snort before it rolled over. Poor mice. They were the only animals whose alcoholism he was able to forgive—he knew the genetics behind it, after all—and he often found himself envying them their single-minded devotion to drinking, and their peace.

EVERY YEAR, ANDY took his girls out for ice cream on the first day of the semester, because the first day of the semester usually coincided with the last day of the season at Curley’s, the custard stand at the end of Deborah Boulevard. The girls had been planning their ice cream orders all week, and refined them as they cut across the park to Curley’s.

“I’m having a caramel – peanut butter sundae with M&M’s,” said Belle, who was eight and prone to overkill. “Or maybe banana fudge with M&M’s. Dad, if I get banana fudge will you get caramel?”

“What you’re getting is type 2 diabetes,” said ten-year-old Rachel. She tossed her long hair. “I’m getting a frozen banana. You should too, Tubs.”

“Don’t call your sister Tubs,” Andy said, even though Tubs had been Belle’s nickname until just this past year.

“Whatever. Eat a banana. I’m getting a sundae.” In unison, the three hopped over a marshy puddle at the edge of Memorial Park.

A small crowd had gathered under Curley’s flashing neon sign, gravely licking their cones. Andy recognized most of the faces: kids from his girls’ classes, Joe who ran the pizza place down the block, and his neighbor, Sheila Humphreys, who was probably his closest friend in this town, even though they rarely spent more than an hour or two together at a time. Sheila was a single mother whose son was in Belle’s class, and who invited him over for dinner sometimes, or who joined them for pizza at Joe’s. Sometimes he changed her oil for her; sometimes she watched his girls on the weekends.

“You guys still coming over tomorrow night?” Sheila asked, in lieu of hello. She popped the last of a cone into her mouth. She had a spot of something greenish on her chin.

“Sure,” Andy said, even though it took him a moment to remember what she was talking about. Oh, sure—a few weeks ago she had invited him over for a “celebration,” which was both kind and perplexing. What were they celebrating? “Oh, you know,” Sheila had said. “The start of a new semester. New school years for the kids. Jeez, Andy, can’t a woman just celebrate every so often?”

Andy had acquiesced, even though the idea made him antsy; he worried that after dinner was over he’d owe her something, more energy or kindness.

“Dad! C’mon, Dad, it’s our turn to order,” said Belle, pulling on his sleeve.

“How was your first day of school?” Sheila asked.

“It was… adequate. The mice behaved.”

“Did they miss you while you were gone?”

“I think one of them might have had a seizure.”

“Ah,” Sheila chuckled. “That’s how you know it’s love.”

“I’m sorry?”

“When someone has a seizure,” Sheila said. “That’s how you know he really loves you.”

She laughed, so Andy did too, even though he wasn’t entirely sure he understood the joke. “So what should I bring tomorrow?”

“Bring? Bring yourselves,” Sheila said. “Your girls. I’m making seafood stew. Will everyone eat that?”

“Dad!”

“Sounds great,” Andy said, even though he had no idea whether his girls would eat seafood stew. “We’ll be there.”

“It’s been so long since I’ve had a real dinner party!” Sheila said. Her son, Jeremy, was working intently on his chocolate soft-serve, forming concentric circles in its surface with his spoon. “I’m excited.”

“So are we.”

“Oh my God, Dad, you’re holding up the line!”

“I’ll let you go,” Sheila said. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” And then she put a hand on Jeremy’s back and led him toward the boulevard, away from Curley’s. The boy was still staring into his ice cream. And Andy felt an odd sense of wanting to start that conversation over again, even though he had no idea what he’d say differently. He paid for the girls’ ice cream and banana, and then stood where Sheila had just been standing over a few dribblings of green, looking out into the darkness where she’d disappeared.

He wrote his letters at five thirty in the morning, a habit generated from fury. Five thirty in the morning was an angry time to be awake, always dark, always punishing; Andy would always rather be doing something else. What would a normal man do at this spiteful hour? Sleep, he supposed, but if sleep were impossible then maybe the normal man would jog or read or make a big pot of coffee or have sex with his wife. In Andy’s old life he might have done any of these things. Instead, he was up at five thirty on a perfectly good Friday, a day when he could have slept until seven.

He made coffee, turned on the radio, turned off the radio, listened to the blackbirds sing outside.

A letter a day. Andy told himself he could stop whenever he wanted to—it was just that so far he had never wanted to stop.

Dear Mr McGee:

The semester started yesterday and with it came the usual dread: I wasn’t prepared, my students wouldn’t like me, I wouldn’t like my students. I’ve been teaching for twelve years and much about the job has become worse, but sometimes I wonder if it’s the students who are worse or if it’s me. Not that the students of twelve years ago were demonstrably more intelligent than today’s but there’s a kind of focus, I think, that’s gone missing. Twelve years ago a student couldn’t download porn during class time. (In my current students’ defense, however, twelve years ago their counterparts still had a future to prepare for. Now they move back to their parents’ houses with their heads held high.)

Anyway, as both you and I have learned, McGee, time insists on marching on, so regardless of how I would prefer to spend the next several months I will spend the bulk of them on campus, droning at students who will try to tune in and eventually tune out, shifting piles of paper, counting the stink bugs that have gathered in my office since we went to Ohio this past August. The tech took decent care of the mice while I was away, but still I’m going to have to start doing scans again this week if I want to get my grant in on time.