The Speed of Dark

I hear Mr. Aldrin’s voice in the hall, speaking to someone. He opens my door.

“Lou — I forgot to remind everyone not to take any project work off-campus. If you want to store any project-related materials, you can stack them with a label explaining that they must go in secured storage.”

“Yes, Mr. Aldrin,” I say. I feel uneasy about those system update printouts in the box, but they are not project-related.

“Will you be on-campus at all tomorrow?”

“I do not think so,” I say. “I do not want to start something and leave it unfinished, and I will have everything cleared out today.”

“Fine. You did get my list of recommended preparations?”

“Yes,” I say.

“Good, then. I—” He looks back over his shoulder and then comes into my office and shuts the door. I feel myself tensing; my stomach churns. “Lou—” He hesitates, clears his throat, and looks away. “Lou, I — I want to tell you I’m sorry this all happened.”

I do not know what answer he expects. I do not say anything.

“I never wanted… if it had been up to me, things wouldn’t have changed—”

He is wrong. Things would have changed. Don would still have been angry with me. I would still have fallen in love with Marjory. I am not sure why he is saying this; he must know that things do change, whether people want them to or not. A man can lie beside the pool for weeks, for years, thinking about the angel coming down, before someone stops to ask him if he wants to be healed.

The look on Mr. Aldrin’s face reminds me of how I have felt so often. He is scared, I realize. He is usually scared of something. It hurts to be scared for a long time; I know that hurt. I wish he did not have that look, because it makes me feel I should do something about it and I do not know what to do.

“It is not your fault,” I say. His face relaxes. That was the right thing to say. It is too easy. I can say it, but does that make it true? Words can be wrong. Ideas can be wrong.

“I want to be sure you really are — you really do want the treatment,” he says. “There’s absolutely no pressure—”

He is wrong again, though he may be right that there is no pressure from the company right now. Now that I know change will come, now that I know this change is possible, the pressure grows in me, as air fills a balloon or light fills space. Light is not passive; light itself presses on whatever it touches.

“It is my decision,” I say. I mean, whether it is right or wrong, it is what I decided. I can be wrong, too.

“Thanks, Lou,” he says. “You — you all — you mean a lot to me.”

I do not know what “mean a lot” means. Literally it would mean that we have a lot of meaning in us, which he can take, and I do not think that is what Mr. Aldrin is saying. I do not ask. I am still uncomfortable when I think about the times he talked to us. I do not say anything. After 9.3 seconds, he nods and turns to go. “Take care,” he says. “Good luck.”

I understand “Be careful,” but I do not think “Take care” is as clear. Care is not something you can take and walk around with, like a box. I do not say that, either. Afterward I may not even think about that. I should start now to think what afterward is like.

I notice he does not say, “I hope you are cured.” I do not know if he is being tactful and polite or thinks it will not go well. I do not ask. His pocket tagger bleeps, and he backs out into the hall. He does not shut my door. It is wrong to listen to other people’s conversation, but it is not polite to shut the door on someone in authority. I ca

His footsteps move away. I relax, taking a deep breath. I take down my favorite spin spirals and take the whirligigs off their stands. The room looks bare, but my desk looks cluttered. I ca

“I brought one for everybody,” he says. “It will save time.”

“Linda brought a box I am using,” I say.

“Maybe someone will need two,” he says. He drops the boxes in the hall. “You can have one if you need one.”

“I need one,” I say. “Thanks.”

I pick up a box that is bigger than the one Linda brought and go back to my office. I put the manuals in the bottom because they are heavy. The colored pens fit between the manuals and the side of the box. I put the whirligigs and spin spirals on top and then remember the fan. I take them out and put the fan on top of the manuals. Now there will not be room for everything else. I look at the box. I do not need the Employees’ Manual, and no one will be angry with me for having a copy in my office. I take it out and leave it on the desk. I put the fan in, and then the spin spirals and whirligigs. They just fit. I think of the wind outside. They are lightweight and might blow out.

In the last drawer, I find the towel I use to dry off my head when it is raining and I have walked in from the car in the rain. That will fit on top of the spin spirals and whirligigs and keep them from blowing away. I fold the towel on top of the things in the box and pick up the box. Now I am doing what Mr. Crenshaw was doing, carrying a box of my things out of an office. Maybe I would look like Mr. Crenshaw to someone watching, except that no security guards stand beside me. We are not alike. This is my choice; I do not think his leaving was his choice. When I get near the door, Dale is coming out of his office; he opens the door for me.

Outside, the clouds are thicker and the day seems darker, colder, fuzzy around the edges. It may rain in a little while. I like the cold. The wind is behind me, and I can feel it pushing on my back. I put the box down on the front of my car, and the towel starts to blow off. I put my hand on it. It will be hard to unlock the door while holding the towel down. I move the box to the passenger side of the car and rest my foot on the edge. Now I can unlock the door.

A first drop of icy rain flicks my cheek. I put the box on the passenger seat, then close the door and lock it. I think about going back inside, but I am sure I got everything. I do not want to put current project work in a stack for special storage. I do not want to see that project again.

I do want to see Dale and Bailey and Chuy and Eric and Linda again, though. Another flick of rain. The cold wind feels good. I shake my head and go back to the door, insert my card, and enter my thumb-print. All the others are in the hall, some with full boxes and some just standing.

“Want to get something to eat?” Dale says. The others look around.

“It is only ten-twelve,” says Chuy. “It is not time for lunch. I am still working.” He does not have a box. Linda does not have a box. It seems odd that the people who are not leaving brought boxes. Did they want the rest of us to leave?

“We could go for pizza later,” says Dale. We look at each other. I do not know what they are thinking, but I am thinking it will not be the same and also too much the same. It is pretending.

“We could go somewhere else later,” Chuy says.

“Pizza,” says Linda.

We leave it at that. I think I will not come.

It feels very odd to be driving around in the daylight on a weekday. I drive home and park in the space nearest the door. I carry the box upstairs. The apartment building is very quiet. I put the box in my closet, behind my shoes.

The apartment is quiet and neat. I washed the breakfast dishes before I left; I always do. I take the container of coins out of my pocket and put it on top of the clothes baskets.

They told us to bring three changes of clothes. I can pack those now. I do not know what the weather will be or if we will need outside clothes as well as inside clothes. I take my suitcase from the closet and take the first three knit shirts on top of the stack in my second drawer. Three sets of underwear. Three pairs of socks. Two pairs of tan slacks and a pair of blue slacks. My blue sweatshirt, in case it is cold.