The God Particle (7 page)

“But the interview—”

“The interview can wait, Steve.”

He ignores the silky cascade of relief tingling his spine and pushes forward.

“Jim, are you sure? I know the board wants to move quickly on this.”

“The board will wait. I’ll see to that. Just get yourself back into shape, all right?”

“Okay, Jim. Thanks for understanding.”

“No problem, Steve. Give your mother my best. I’ll talk to you later.”

“I told you,” Betty says as he hangs up the phone.

“Mom, you have no idea what it’s like at that company. I specifically asked you not to talk to him.”

“Stevie, I’ve been talking to Jim for a week. He’s very nice. I wish you could see that I was doing you a favor.”

“Thanks, Mom, but this is a political thing. I have to play it very carefully.”

“Did he offer to postpone the interview?”

“Yes, but—”

“Did he tell you to take your time?”

“He did.”

“Then I rest my case.”

Steve gives up.

“Dr. Dobbelfeld says you walked well today,” she says.

“It felt pretty good to get out of bed.”

“I have to admit, I don’t agree with him.”

“What? Why not?”

“You were hobbling. I kept thinking you were going to fall down and crack your head open again.”

“I was a lot more stable than that.”

“I wish they would give you crutches. I asked the doctor to get you some crutches, but he wouldn’t.”

“He said I don’t need them.”

“He said he doesn’t want you to get dependent on them. It was obvious that you need them. I wish we were home. Dr. Koetter could take care of you much better than these foreign quacks.”

“Mom, Dr. Koetter is an immigrant from Germany. He moved to the States when he was sixteen.”

“Well, at least we’d be in an American hospital. I don’t trust this place.”

“Why?”

“I keep seeing men in suits everywhere. They look suspicious to me.”

“I wear suits sometimes. Do you think I’m suspicious?”

“These men don’t sell auto parts, Steve. They look serious. They whisper. Like they have secrets.”

“Mom, you think everyone has secrets.”

“And I haven’t seen too many other patients. This is a big hospital, and I’ve been up here and down to the cafeteria, and I just don’t see too many sick people. I don’t see too many doctors, either. Just men in suits.”

“Maybe they’re government agents, Mom. Maybe they think I’m an American spy.”

“Go ahead and make fun if you want. I just don’t like it here, and I want to get you back home.”

“Yesterday you didn’t want me to go anywhere.”

“I’ve changed my mind.”

“Well, maybe I can talk the doctor into letting me go early. Maybe we can leave by the end of the week.”

“I hope so,” his mother says. “I don’t like this place one bit.”

12

The days grind by. A ropy, middle-age Swiss woman who bathes with questionable frequency administers his physical therapy, pushing him through rigorous cycles of walking, first with the aid of parallel bars, and then unaided. His muscle coordination returns to form quickly. He scores well on cognitive evaluations. After exactly two weeks, Dr. Dobbelfeld agrees to let him return home, on the condition that Steve calls with frequent progress reports.

His mother is ecstatic, his father proud to return home with his son at his side. The first available flight with three seats together doesn’t leave until the next day, so they book a couple of rooms at the Golden Arch (the idea of staying at a hotel owned by McDonald’s tantalizes his mother) and decide to spend a relaxing day watching television.

But Steve has other ideas. He calls a cab and heads to the Niederdorf. He can think of a dozen things that can go wrong with another visit to the Cabaret, sure, but he’d also like to know what the hell happened to him there. And thank Anna for returning the ring.

Steve makes his way through the crowds, his feet falling again on cobblestone. His mind whirls, electric, igniting flashes of memory he’d rather not relive. Anna’s red dress and stilted English. The sweet smell of champagne. Shards of broken glass. A cold, silent fall through raindrops.

Murmurs of German and French and English float around him, and he wonders if they are about the limping man, the crude American. Bald now, with a white bandage on his head, back to have another run at Anna before he returns to the States.

Will he be waiting, the muscular fellow who jerked Steve off the bed? According to Dobbelfeld there were no charges filed, no clear idea even of who tossed him out the third-story window. But someone here knows. Someone must have seen, and that someone must have told someone else, and now they observe his approach as the street narrows and buildings close in around him. His neck pivots, and he looks toward the third-floor windows above him, imagining his fall in reverse, tumbling silently through the emptiness that isn’t really empty at all. Had he understood the nature of the field sooner, he might have saved himself the head injury and ensuing coma. And now here it is, the Cabaret in front of him.

Only it isn’t the Cabaret any longer.

No more sexy pictures in the windows. And above the blue door, letters have been pried away, leaving dark patterns of paint unmarred by oxidation. These patterns spell the word
Cabaret.

He reaches for the door. It doesn’t open. His eyes search for a sign, some sort of explanation.

Nothing.

Across the narrow pedestrian street is a newsstand. Steve walks over and addresses the merchant.

“Excuse me,” he asks in German. “What happened to Cabaret?”

“Closed,” the man says.

“Yes, but do you know why?”

“I don’t know. What happened to your head?”

“I fell,” Steve says. “Do you have any idea what happened? Did the girls go work somewhere else?”

Now the merchant smiles. “You want a good time, eh? Those were not the only women in town.”

“Yes, but there is one I would like to speak with. Anna.”

“Why do you want to talk to her?”

“She helped me,” Steve says. “I would like to thank her.”

“You cannot thank her.”

“Why not?”

“Because she is dead.”

“What? How do you know that?”

“Because my boss saw the police with her body. He works in the morning, when she was found.”

Steve stands there, looking not at the merchant but through him.

“Do you know how she died?”

“Yes,” the merchant says, tilting his head upward. “She fell.”

Static in Steve’s brain now, a fuzzy, soundless noise. He involuntarily steps backward and bumps into an elderly woman. She glares at him and continues walking.

“What did you say happened to your head?” the merchant asks him.

But Steve is still backing away, faster now, and then turns. The merchant calls to him, yelling something, but the sound disappears, absorbed by the white, nebulous static of Steve’s consciousness.

1

It’s been almost nine months, and still Kelly has trouble imagining another man in her life.

She’s sitting in her kitchen, scooping peach-flavor yogurt into her mouth. It’s 11:35
PM
. Home from another long day at the station, decompressing, wondering where her life went off its tracks.

The problem here, the situation she cannot quite resolve, is that the promises she made were for life. She loved James more than anyone or anything on earth, more than herself, and promised she would never betray him, that he could trust her for the rest of his life. And maybe there is more to a relationship than trust, maybe she woke up one day and realized there were a number of ways in which he was not doing his half, but does that excuse her for blindsiding him? For announcing one day that everything she had promised him, every “forever” she’d uttered, had all been nullified? That because James neglected to fulfill certain unspecified deliverables, it was her privilege to throw him out the door and become single again?

Take the guy from the plane, the physicist. A handsome man whose intelligence had intimidated her, whose easy manner and quiet confidence had been surprising, considering her stereotypical notion of scientists. She’d been a little annoyed at the effortless way he dismissed spirituality, but she also enjoyed listening to his ideas, comparing them to her own rediscovered beliefs.

Most of the men who approach her are star-struck fans, men infatuated with her pancaked face on their thirty-five-inch televisions, with her clear lip gloss and glued-together hair and crisp consonant articulation.
I love your C’s,
one guy told her.
My name is Chris Carland. Would you say my name?
Or they’re rich or confident men who, because of her high-profile job, consider her a cut above, a woman fortunate enough to stand on a pedestal as high as their own.
You’re Kelly Smith, the news anchor. I’m Howard Farris, trial attorney. I’m Fred Haley of Haley’s Fine Furnishings. I’m James Delaney; I’m a screenwriter.

Of course, the last one had worked. James turned out to be creative and in love with language and stories about people, just like Kelly herself. Their chemistry was instant and it didn’t matter that he hadn’t actually
sold
a screenplay, that he had only finished two so far and they weren’t—by his own admission—particularly good. She admired his persistence and determination. She was flattered by the way he was infatuated with her. They dated for a few weeks—he doted on her from the beginning, gentlemanly, perfect—and then found each other’s bodies. He was attentive. He tried to please her before he took anything for himself. She loved him for that.

And wouldn’t it be easy, wouldn’t it solve this heartbreaking dilemma, if she could fall out of love as quickly as she had fallen in? Sometimes she wishes he would call her up on the phone and admit that he hates her, that last night he slept with her sister, and by the way she’s never going to get that network job she so desperately craves because she is the worst news anchor in the country. She might get over him if he didn’t continue to dote on her. If he stopped e-mailing her with observations about her on-air performance or ideas for her weekly family feature. And while she’s being honest with herself, Kelly shouldn’t forget that she still does the same kinds of things for him. Because it comes naturally to her. Because she still cares about him.

She could have given her phone number to Mike McNair. She could have met him for dinner, a little red wine, maybe even a kiss. But when Kelly thinks of the conventions of daily life with James—buying groceries, huddling together in a dark movie theater, sleeping safely in his strong, warm arms—and then attempts in these memories to replace James with someone else, it seems utterly alien. James is what she knows. For a time she believed she was going to marry him. How do you erase an idea like that? How do you forget?

Their relationship ended abruptly, a few months after James quit his job to write full time. Kelly had no problem financing this experiment until she realized he was producing even less work than before. He turned inward, away from her, and she realized they could never build a happy marriage if James himself wasn’t happy. He refused to seek counseling. He made it clear that he wouldn’t look for another job, because to do so was to deny his dream. Could Kelly love him, he admonished, and ask him to deny his dream?

But when the lights go out and she cries into her pillow because his half of the bed is empty, it’s easy to forget those reasons. When she pictures him in his shithole studio apartment, selling mobile phones at Best Buy, it makes her want to tear her aching heart out.

At the very least, when James left, she was able to return to church. It had been their most enduring battle, the question of religion—Kelly’s strong but somewhat formless faith versus James’s clear belief in a universe devoid of metaphysical properties. At the beginning of their relationship she’d strayed away from her mother’s denomination, but in the aftermath of the breakup, a friend invited her to a Unitarian church in Arlington, and now she attends every Sunday. The sense of rightness, being a part of something greater than herself, is something she could hardly describe to someone outside the church. And in this collective spirituality she has looked hard for God again, has asked forgiveness for abandoning Him in favor of James. And if He isn’t necessarily the God of Genesis and Exodus, if He is a concept of collective love instead of a God of rules and demands, she can learn to live with it.

Kelly dumps the yogurt container into the trash and picks up the telephone. She should have at least given Mike her card. She never walks away from a possible story contact without leaving her card, but nerves had gotten the better of her in the airport terminal. She picks up the phone and dials Information.

“Information. What city?”

“Olney, Texas.”

“Listing?”

“Mike McNair, please.”

“Please hold for the number.”

And on a yellow Post-it note she jots down the ten digits. Writes his first name above them, as if they are old pals already, and sticks the note to the front of her refrigerator. Stares at it a while. Then heads to the bathroom and begins the process of getting ready for bed, changing clothes, scrubbing off her television face.

2

“
You
talked to Kelly Smith?” Larry asks him. “The girl on Channel eight in Dallas?”

Mike nods.

“On the airplane?”

“Right.”

“Bullshit.”

They’re sitting in Mike’s office. It’s a sparse place, only a few wall decorations (including the plaque he earned for carding a hole in one this summer) and no plants. There is a desk, three separate computer monitors, a couple of cabinets overflowing with computer printouts and diagrams from their plotter. Mike sits in his overstuffed leather chair, and Larry leans toward him from the visitor’s chair. He’s a small man, Larry is, about five ten and no more than 160 pounds. He insists on wearing a tie even though Landon Donovan has imposed no dress code on their facility, and he wears these ties with shirtsleeves. Mike doesn’t understand this uniform but has never felt compelled to ask about it.

“What did you say to her?”

“I asked if she was enjoying her book.”

“What was she reading? Romance novel?”

“Huckleberry Finn.”

“Huckleberry Finn.”

“ ‘Revisiting the classics,’ she said.”

“Revisiting the classics.”

“Are you channeling in your inner parrot again, Larry?”

“It’s just that I’m having a hard time believing you, jackass.”

“Why can’t you believe I sat next to her on a plane? She has to travel, doesn’t she?”

“I just assumed the station flew her around in a private jet. I mean, she
is
the talent, right?”

“She’s a local news anchor, Larry.”

“Yeah, but she’s great. Plenty of intelligence and guts for the tough interviews, but attractive and charming enough to convince everyone she’s a sweetie.”

“How do you know so much about her? We don’t get television from Dallas.”

“I saw her on TV once when I was there for a conference.”

“You saw her once and you know all this?”

“Okay,” Larry admits. “So maybe I reworked my satellite receiver a little.”

“So that you could watch her on the news?”

“No, because I can’t stand the hick stations out of Wichita Falls.”

“You’re kidding.”

“So you asked her about
Huckleberry Finn
? What else did you guys talk about?”

“Special relativity.”

“Special relativity.”

“Will you stop that?”

“Why the hell did you talk to her about special relativity?”

“Because she asked me about Einstein,” Mike explains.

“Did you even know who she was?”

“No. I don’t get Channel Eight. Of course I didn’t know who she was.”

“He didn’t know who she was! Did you hear that, ladies and gentlemen? He didn’t—”

Just then Landon Donovan walks in, barrel-chested in his metallic-gray Armani. Behind him stands a Japanese woman dressed in black pants and cream-color blouse, her black hair pulled into a tight, shiny bun.

“Gentlemen,” Donovan says with his typical drama. “I’d like you to meet someone.”

Mike and Larry stand. Donovan escorts the woman into the room until all four of them are gathered around the desk.

“This is Samantha Aizen. Perhaps you guys have heard of her work over at CERN.”

Of course we’ve heard of her work, Mike thinks. CERN is only the second-largest particle physics facility in the world. Before he can say anything, though, Larry steps forward and takes her hand.

“Yes. Ms. Aizen, I’ve heard so much about you. I’m Larry Adams, and this is Mike McNair.”

Mike leans across his desk and shakes her hand.

“I believe we’ve met, Ms. Aizen. In Finland, wasn’t it?”

“Yes,” she smiles. “At EPS. But please, call me Samantha. Or Sam, if you like.”

“Samantha has been an important part of the team at CERN for several years now,” Donovan explains, as if he missed the previous ten seconds of conversation, as if he didn’t just hear Mike and Larry acknowledge her work. “She’s been working to optimize luminosity for the Large Hadron Collider.”

“That’s fantastic,” Larry says.

“I think she’s the perfect person to help us solve our own luminosity problems,” Donovan adds.

Mike could see this coming from ten miles away, considering Donovan’s constant intervention in matters best left to actual physicists. He wonders what sort of title Samantha was promised, and how much money Donovan spent to get her. He wonders what Paul Funk, the Beam division head, will say when he hears of this unexpected new hire.

“We’re always thankful to have someone else on the team,” Mike offers. “Anything to help find Higgs.”

Samantha smiles. “I was explaining to Mr. Donovan that even though our ring is much smaller than yours, we plan to compensate for that lower energy with much higher luminosity. But since higher luminosity can create stability problems, we’ve had to come up with novel ideas to counteract this effect. From what Mr. Donovan has told me, and after reviewing some of the data from your last few runs, I think I might be able to offer some possible solutions.”

“Well, like I said, our goal is to identify Higgs. Anything you can do to help us would be welcome.”

“Thank you.”

“Samantha is going to be our new Beam division head,” Donovan announces.

“I’m sorry?” Mike says. “What about Paul?”

“Paul agreed to take on a new assignment. The NTSSC will continue to enjoy his valuable insight and intelligence in another area.”

“What area?” Mike asks.

“It’s going to be a hectic morning,” Donovan says. “I still need to introduce Samantha to our other team leaders. Thanks for your time, gentlemen.”

Mike and Larry shake hands again with Samantha, and then wait in silence until they hear Donovan enter another office, well out of earshot.

“Agreed to take a new assignment?” Larry squeals.

“How can he reassign one of my team leaders and not tell me?”

“Because he’s an armchair physicist. If he didn’t have so damn much money—”

“If he didn’t have so much money we wouldn’t be here. But still, you’d think he’d at least come to me before. . . . God, Paul must be devastated. I wonder why he hasn’t called.”

“I’ll go talk to Amy,” Larry says. “I bet she knew about this. She always has the inside gossip on Donovan’s decisions.”

“Don’t be gone long,” Mike tells him. “I want to talk to you about event selection. I want to hear the latest ideas from your team about our triggers and if it’s feasible to loosen them.”

“Loosen them? We’re already at the limits of our processing power.”

“Another argument to beef up the Grid. There’s no reason for us to limit the amount of data we generate when Landon can always purchase more processors.”

“All right,” Larry concedes. “But the first thing I want when I get back is to hear more about your visit with Kelly Smith.”

3

Something is wrong.

Steve has been aware of it for a while, the knowledge inside him glowing and hot and nauseating. Since the levitation incident, since he got the idea that he could float off the hospital bed and maneuver around the room with complete disregard for the laws of physics, it’s been obvious to Steve that something is wrong with him. With his head. Something Dobbelfeld could not correct, or that he didn’t know about, or that he induced with his brain surgery. How could something
not
be wrong? Steve fell three stories onto a cobblestone street. By all rights, such a fall should have killed him. Instead, here he is, alive, sitting in the sterile interior of his Infiniti G35. Sky moves like blue fire through the window in the roof. Modern rock pours from silky, well-placed speakers. He’s stuck on the 5 in traffic he would never see on a typical workday, since he usually leaves his house at 5:30 in the morning, but right now it’s nearly 8:15. He’s at least an hour from work. He wanted to be there earlier but his mother wouldn’t let him, adamant as she was that he “take it easy.” And he knows something is wrong with him because of a certain concept he is struggling with, a certain silly idea that he can’t quite make go away. What he wants is to make the car rise above this frozen line of cars and fly all the way to his office in Westwood.