Things Not Seen

Yes, I broke the law when I let that man into the basement. And, yes, I broke the law again when I didn’t open up to the FBI agent.

  And I don’t think the agent believed me, about not talking to anyone at the library. He was hoping I’d be more afraid.

  And William? He wants me to be afraid too, afraid of the FBI, afraid for Bobby.

  Even my own parents want me to be afraid so I won’t talk, won’t ask too many questions, won’t rock the boat. They want me to sit quietly.

  In the dark. Alone.

  No, that’s not true. They’d help if they could. Because Mom and Dad don’t know the whole situation.

  Neither does Bobby.

  But I did not invite this stuff into my life. It’s not my fault, none of it.

  And I’m afraid.

  There. I said it: I’m afraid.

  Honesty.

  I stare into the darkness, and I hold on to Gertie, and I remember about honesty.

  Because, above all, blindness has forced me to be honest.

  And forced me to be humble enough to ask for help.

  Because asking for help is not weakness.

  It takes courage. And faith.

  Sometimes it even takes love. And trust.

  And right now, tonight? This is one of those times.

  chapter 13

  we

  Bobby wasn’t kidding about how fast he could get back over here. I called him seven or eight minutes ago, caught him with a mouth full of lasagna. But it was only his first bite, so he stuck the rest in the fridge, hopped in the car, and now he’s in our kitchen. Again.

  And I’m glad he wanted to come.

  Daddy’s been telling Bobby about the visit from the FBI, but I can tell no one else wants to think about all that right now. Mom changes the subject.

  “So, how did your auditions go, Bobby?” she says. “Was it four or five that you took?”

  “Five,” he says, “and I think most of them went pretty well. The best was my jazz audition at this school in New Jersey, William Paterson.”

  “So,” she asks, “is that one you’d like to go to, if you get accepted?”

  “Still not sure,” he says.

  “Well, all those eastern schools are so good. I’m sure you’ll find the one that’s just right.”

  And I’ve got this sudden feeling that Mom is being nice to Bobby because she’s sure he’s going to be completely out of my life by the end of August.

  Except I’m not letting that happen.

  Daddy says, “Alicia, the food should be here any minute. So here’s the money, two twenties. Ask for four dollars in change, okay? That’ll still leave a nice tip for the driver.”

  Daddy’s always doing stuff like this, making me handle cash, making me pump gas at the self-serve island, making me check in the luggage when we go to the airport. He tells me what to do and then walks away. And it’s good. Independence training.

  “Right,” I say, and I’m on my feet. He hands me the bills and I start for the front hallway. And I say, “Bobby, want to help me carry the food?”

  “Sure,” he says.

  But I don’t need help carrying the food. I need other help.

  Two years ago Bobby was alone, lost, out in the cold. Until he trusted me.

  And now the wheel has come full circle.

  We’re in the front parlor and he’s chewing. “Want a grape?”

  Then he’s in front of me and he sees my face.

  “What? What is it?”

  I put a finger to my lips, and I whisper, “Bobby, I did a stupid thing.”

  I take his arm and pull him to the opposite corner of the room, away from the iron floor grate that opens into the basement.

  “I let William into the house, here, just a few minutes before the FBI came. He’s locked down in the basement. He was freezing, and I let him in. I had to.”

  It takes a second for that to sink in.

  He whispers too. “So…William got himself out of the library…and he came here?”

  I nod. “And I know I shouldn’t have let him in. But I had to.”

  He’s quiet for five or ten seconds, and I’m so afraid he’s going to tell me what an idiot I am.

  Then he asks, “How did he know where you live?”

  I shrug, surprised by the question. “I guess he looked up the address. He knew my last name.”

  “You told him your whole name?” he whispers.

  I shake my head. “No, he already knew it when he first talked to me at the library. He must have heard you say my name to Gwen. In New York.”

  “Uh-uh, no way,” he says. “I told Gwen about Alicia. That’s all I ever said to her. Alicia. I’m sure of it.”

  “And what did you say?”

  “What…?”

  “About Alicia. To Gwen.” I’m swerving off course. But I need to hear this.

  Bobby’s still whispering, and I can hear a half smile in his voice. “That she’s pretty. And brave. And smart.”

  I love hearing him say that, but I snort. “Right, real smart. Lets some creep she knows nothing about right into her house. Brilliant.”

  Bobby’s back on the problem. “So…William knew your last name. And he came to your house. And you let him in.”

  I nod. “And now I’ve given the police everything they need to put all of us in jail, and sweep in here and seize all our dads’ research, everything.”

  Bobby takes my right hand. Long cool fingers. A gentle squeeze.

  “That’s not gonna happen. This whole thing stinks.”

  “I know, Bobby, and I’m so sorry I got us into this mess, really,” and I feel like I’m going to choke up.

  “No,” he whispers quickly, “I mean it stinks like entrapment, like a setup. It has to be. William shows up at the university library, and he knows your whole name. Then they stage a bomb scare and pretend to hunt for him, which gives him an excuse to come here. Right where they want him. You let him in, and now it looks like we’re hiding a fugitive, like we’re all breaking the law. So we feel like we have to cooperate or get arrested. I don’t think William’s a fugitive. I think he’s been forced to become a federal employee. He’s working for the FBI now—nothing else makes sense. They’re using him to get to the information, the whole secret, the process. So it’s not your fault. I think you were set up.”

  “But even if all that’s true,” I say, “if I hadn’t let him in, we wouldn’t be stuck like this.”

  He pulls me closer, one arm around my back, and he says, “Listen, it’ll be okay. They say the food in jail isn’t so bad, once you get used to it.”

  A little laugh from both of us.

  And we hug. A long hug, and he drops his head and puts his face into the hollow of my shoulder, against my neck, and I feel him draw in a long breath through his nose. He’s inhaling me. And I’m melting.

  And as I melt, I’m mapping this scene in my mind, the parlor, where we’re standing, how we’re making one shadow on the wall, the texture of the carpet under our feet, because I want to be able to see this again, to feel it right here in my heart anytime I—

  “Alicia?”

  Mom, calling from the kitchen. The woman has boy radar.

  I take a half step back, and I call, “What, Mom?”

  “Ask for extra soy sauce, okay? The driver will probably have some with him.”

  “Okay,” I yell back.

  So our hugging scene is over. But not erased, not deleted. It’s on pause.

  Whispering again, I ask Bobby, “So, any ideas about William? What we should do?”

  “Actual ideas? No, not really. But for starters, we’ll eat some food. And we’ll think. Maybe invite William upstairs to have some pork fried rice? Probably not. I’m not sure what we should do. But I know we can figure it out. I’m sure we can.”

  And I love that word. We.

  Gertie whines, feeling left out, and I reach down and pat her head. “Good girl.” Because I need her help too. We all need each other.

  T
he doorbell rings, and I deal with the transaction. And I remember to get some extra soy sauce.

  I’ve got a grip on one bag, and Bobby’s carrying two, and the food smells great, and all of a sudden I’m starving.

  “Let’s go,” Bobby says, and he guides my hand to his elbow.

  And we head for the kitchen—boy, girl, dog.

  And I feel so much better. About everything. For the moment.

  chapter 14

  quiz show

  Robert! I am so glad to see you.”

  “You don’t have to whisper,” Bobby says. “Alicia’s parents just went out to buy some ice cream. Here’s some food.”

  It’s Bobby, Gertie, and me in the basement. With William.

  And what Bobby said is true. My folks are getting some ice cream. After dinner Daddy said, “We want to look as normal as possible, and if this were a normal situation, my wife and I would go bring home some fantastic ice cream for dessert.” And they both got in the Saab and left.

  But I wouldn’t be surprised if Daddy picked up his lab notes and a portable hard drive on the way to the garage through his study. And those files could already be tucked away for safekeeping somewhere between here and Steve’s Ice Cream Shop.

  That’s what I would have done. In a situation like this.

  I hate it that I have to think like this. And I also hate that I’m so good at it.

  We’ve got about fifteen minutes before my mom and dad get back, and we’re going at the William problem straight on. And we have a script.

  Bobby starts it off. “So let’s hear it, William—why are you here?”

  William already has a mouthful of General Tso’s chicken. “I came here because you weren’t home. I went to your house first, and there was no one there. And I deduced that you’d be at your girlfriend’s. So I came here. With all possible haste. Feels as if I almost lost some toes from the cold.”

  I’ve got my back against one of the thick square wooden posts that hold up the house, and it’s my line next. “How did you know where I lived, William?”

  “I looked it up in the phone book. There are only three Van Dorns in all of Chicago, and only one is within walking distance of campus. I checked the locations with Google Maps at an open computer terminal.”

  Bobby says, “But I never told you Alicia’s last name, William. Ever.”

  “You didn’t have to tell me. Earlier today I followed the men who were following you when you and Alicia went to that study room on the third floor of the library. And after the men looked at the sign-up sheet at the information desk by the third-floor elevators, I looked at it too, and there it was in black and white: Van Dorn, comma, Alicia. First and last names. Signed up for room 307. Why are you quizzing me like this?”

  Bobby’s voice is hard, accusing. “You’ve got ears. You heard the FBI agents when they were here, right? You probably listened at a heat vent, heard everything they said. Did you hear Alicia lie about talking to you? And now you’re hiding here in the Van Dorns’ house. So that means she broke the law, and now we’re all harboring a fugitive. And any minute, the FBI is going to show up with a search warrant. And arrest warrants too. Is that how it’s going to be?”

  “You…you think I’m working for them?” he says. “Of all the bloody fool things—why would I do that? I’ve no reason to help them. They want to put me in jail, plus do God-knows-what-else to me. I am trying to do one thing, and one thing only: I want to get my life back. And I’m sorry I tried to bully you into helping me in New York. But I still believe you can help me, and I’ve come halfway across America in that hope. I am begging for your help. If you have any idea about how to help me, for the love of God, please tell me. And if you can swear, right now, that you cannot help me, then I’ll gladly leave. I shall walk out into the night this instant. No one will ever know I’ve spoken to either of you. And the police and the FBI will never find me again. No one will.”

  Gertie doesn’t like emotional outbursts. She comes to her feet and leans against my leg.

  “Gertie, sit. Good girl.” And facing William, I say, “So you didn’t lead the FBI here?”

  “Think, Alicia! If the scenario you two have imagined were correct, they’d have come blazing into this home an hour ago. The FBI came here because they are doing efficient police work. They’re after me, but they’re following Robert. I’m certain of it.”

  “Well, I’m not,” Bobby says. “Enjoy the food. And don’t make a mess. And be ready to hide if anyone else comes down here. We’ll let you know what happens next.”

  Bobby sounds so strong, confident—as if we really know what happens next.

  But as we head back up the basement steps, I’m pretty sure that neither one of us has a clue.

  chapter 15

  trust

  We go up the basement steps to the landing, and I hear Bobby lock the basement door. “Family room?” I ask.

  He says, “Sure,” and once we’re there, Bobby puts on a jazz CD, then sits beside me on the couch. He pushes the volume up and leans toward me, talking in my ear. “So he can’t hear us talking.”

  The precaution seems a little silly. But after a visit from the FBI, I guess it’s not.

  Again, close to my ear. “What do you think?”

  He turns his head, and I say, “I believe him. I think we should help him.”

  “Really?” he says. “How come?”

  It takes a moment to compose my thoughts. “Well…,” I say, “when he was talking, down in the basement? I thought I’d never heard anyone sound so desperate. But that’s not true. Because I heard you talking the same way, two years ago. And I’ve felt that way too. I don’t think a person can fake that. Do you?”

  He’s quiet a second. And I wish I could see his face.

  But I can picture Bobby’s eyebrows bunched up like they do when he’s thinking. Or angry. Or both. I’ve touched those eyebrows.

  And I know his lips are pressed together in a tight line. I’ve touched his lips too.

  Ahem—Buttercup? Oh, Buttercup? It’s the Brain Fairy. Can you hear me? I can’t see you. There seems to be this soft, pink haze, sort of like lots of little bunnies made of cotton candy, and they’re in my eyes, and they’re clogging up my brain. No—wait, they’re clogging your brain!

  Listen, just because you don’t seem to have a heart doesn’t mean I can’t have one. So butt out.

  I’m just saying that this is a time for thinking, not feeling. That’s all.

  Listen, I like feeling this way about Bobby. And there’s nothing wrong with that.

  True. But do you have to get moony about every little thing? You’re in the middle of a hazardous situation. Clarity, Buttercup. Clarity is crucial.

  Mind your own business, all right? And don’t call me Buttercup.

  You are my business. Buttercup.

  Bobby’s been thinking during my private conversation, and now he leans near again. “Just because William is genuinely desperate doesn’t mean he’s being honest. I still don’t trust the guy. I mean, for all we know, he’s got a little transmitter hidden in the palm of his hand, and he’s relaying everything he hears to the FBI. If we keep helping him, we’re just getting in deeper and deeper.”

  I’m not sure how to respond. And I’m not sure I’m right, not completely. And I don’t want to have an argument about this. Still, as I listened to William talking earlier, I think I saw something true, just for a second. And even a glimpse of truth can’t be ignored.

  “But William doesn’t trust the FBI, Bobby,” I whisper, “or the police. He trusts us. He’s putting all his faith in you and me. And I heard that when he talked to us.”

  Bobby doesn’t answer, but the tone of the silence tells me he’s not convinced.

  I lean closer, my forehead right above his ear, touching. There’s a slight scent of citrus in his hair, a hint of cologne rising from his neck. And I whisper, “Bobby, I know you remember how it feels to be that way, to have so little hope that things can ever get
back to normal. To feel completely dependent on others, to feel caught by forces beyond your control, to feel alone, to feel…”

  My voice wavers, and I have to stop. Because…because I’m not talking about William anymore. I’m talking about myself.

  I feel Bobby nod his head. And he whispers, “I see what you mean. And you’re right, especially about that feeling. Feeling like things will never get back to normal.”

  The whispering keeps us close, shoulders angled, almost face-to-face.

  He leans closer, his lips almost brushing my ear. “And, really, Alicia…I don’t know how you do it. With the blindness. Every day. It’s not a small thing.”

  I love this moment. I love it way too much. And I have to gulp back a wave of emotion. Then I say, “Thanks—that means a lot, Bobby.” And before I slip into even deeper waters, I straighten up, push my back into the leather cushions of the couch. And I say, “So, do you think what our dads have been doing can help him?”

  “What do you mean?” And his tone is instantly sharp and analytical.

  Bobby amazes me, how he can flip a switch and be 110 percent business again. So I have to go right along with him.

  I say, “Our dads have been experimenting, right? And if you have the equipment that can make someone invisible, then you can use the same stuff to reverse the process. Right?”

  He says, “Well, we know that they had to generate an electrical force field, put the subject in it, and then bombard the field and the subject with the same type of energy stream that gets released by a solar flare. And we also know that they’ve figured out the principles, and then they actually did a series of successful lab tests. But they’ve been working with mice, Alicia. A mouse weighs only about twenty grams. And that means the scale they’ve been working at is way too small, probably by some factor of ten. So, bottom line? I don’t think your father’s little backyard lab is ready to readjust the molecular light-reflecting properties of a full-grown man.”

  It’s quiet a moment, and I hear the blower of our old furnace kick on, feel the warm air start to circulate from the floor grate across the room.