The Word Exchange (21 page)

My stomach clenched. Just to be sure my edgy mind had invented him, I waited awhile at the nail salon across the street. Watched my door. Thought of calling Bart. But when no one appeared, I eventually crossed over and went in. Climbed the stairs a little warily, toes frozen in my boots.

Boots that, a couple hours later—after I’d eaten a few spoonfuls of soup and fallen asleep with my head on the kitchen table—nearly trod
over a small white rectangle on the dirty floor. It was an envelope. One I hadn’t noticed when I’d come in. Which was because someone had slid it under my door while I was sleeping—the scraping shush of paper probably what had woken me.

Skin tingling, I opened the door. Peeked out into the hall. But the messenger was gone. Double-bolting the lock, slatting all the blinds, I perched on the bed to open the note. Got a paper cut, unused as I was to handling envelopes. Inside were a couple pages, strangely warped and curled, printed at very high contrast, and covered in a silky black rime. The letter ended abruptly—a jagged edge under the last line of type, and, slightly to one side, signed “Doug” in what was clearly not Doug’s writing. I’ve attached it here.

Dear Alice,

The first purpose of this letter is to assure you that I’m fine. In fact I’m thriving: putting hot sauce on my eggs, asking for bread with everything, rogering around here with friends. I wanted to explain that right away, as I’m sure my departure was surprising. I nearly forgot about my flight Friday, and just barely made it out on time. I’m sorry I left you stranded at the diner.

I know how you feel about analog reading, so I’ll keep this letter brief. But I also wanted to say, as a precaution, in light of the possibility that you might not read this to the end, that you can call off the search and rescue. No need to bring in the police. Also—and this might sound a bit strange—you should destroy this letter immediately.

In the hope that you’re still with me, there are several urgent things I meant to tell you before I left town:

Doug

heu•ris•tic \hy
-′ris-tik\
n
1 :
a way of solving problems that generates more problems
2 :
a word preferred by undergrads
adj
:
of the family
Bromeliaceae

When Dr. Thwaite yanked open the door to 6B, he looked startled and sleep-creased. It was seven a.m., and I’d been banging. Loudly.

The doorman had just called up to warn him I was on my way, he said, breathless, not inviting me in. Not, needless to say, offering me a Coke. “What do you think you’re doing?” he asked, crooked fingers gripping the jamb.

“Dr. Thwaite,” I said. “Phineas. I think we need to have another talk.” I pulled the crinkled letter from my coat pocket.

I’d been practicing what I’d say, and I hoped it had come out intelligibly. After finding the letter the night before, I’d considered going straight to Dr. Thwaite’s, but I thought showing up in the early morning would surprise him more, which would work in my favor. I’d also hoped another dose of pills and night of sleep might help ameliorate my symptoms enough for me to communicate. It seemed maybe to have worked; before walking over to Beekman Place, I’d tried asking directions from someone in the street, and he’d said, “Just take the M50” without giving me a funny look.

I actually hadn’t gotten much rest, though—I’d been keyed up and full of questions. I’d done some research. And on my way to bed I’d almost tripped on that old, mangled box. I’d pulled out a few books, thinking they might be soporific. But reading hadn’t made me tired; it had made my brain flicker with memories: Doug squeaking the
Max
and Moritz
voices to put me to sleep when I was a kid, singing “Beautiful Soup” from
Through the Looking-Glass;
Vera stealing
Persepolis
and then, even more surprising, the
Black Hole
series. Even a couple of ratty old judo manuals gave me an unexpected flurry of curiosity. Finally I did manage to doze off. And it’s hard to know—the antivirals had also had a few days to work—but I wonder now if those hours reading didn’t account in part for my aphasia’s abatement.

Anyway, it seemed that what I’d managed to say to Dr. Thwaite had been clear enough.

He fished glasses from his pajamas. Reached for the letter. But I didn’t let it go.

“May I come in?” I asked, holding my ground.

He hesitated. Peered at me intently with runny, blue-fogged pupils. “How are you feeling?” he asked, suspicious. And abruptly, standing in front of him again, two words he’d used in our first meeting swooped back at me: “word flu.”

“I feel fine,” I said, voice warbling a little, like an untuned violin. “Why?”

“No headache?” he asked, squinting. “Or fever?”

I shook my head.
Not this morning
, I thought.

“And she sounds all right,” he mumbled to himself.

A tall, disheveled neighbor leaned from his doorway down the hall. “Everything okay out here?” he called, sounding groggy and annoyed.

“Yes, fine,” Dr. Thwaite replied curtly. Then he turned his distrustful eyes back to me. “Where’s your Meme?” he asked, wary.

I considered a sin of omission but instead tugged the small silver machine from my purse. Nested it in its Crown. Turned it off and placed it, without a word, on the ground.

“All right, Alice,” said Dr. Thwaite, officiously nodding, and I shuffled inside. Watched him click four heavy bolts. I couldn’t remember if he’d done that before. He looked frailer than I recalled. White hair thin and wild. Face latticed with broken capillaries. His blue-and-white-striped nightclothes nearly translucent, displaying the outline of an undershirt and briefs. A tangy, metallic scent wafted off him. Sweat.

But a blue velour robe dripped from a nearby chair, and when he put it on, tightly looping the belt, he seemed instantly taller and more staid. “I’ve not yet had my coffee,” he said, a little imperiously, and I felt relieved. “Sit,” he commanded, indicating the table as he shambled
into the kitchen, but I stayed standing in my coat. Bent to stroke Canon, who’d clattered in from the hall smiling, brown runnels under his mismatched eyes.

Dr. Thwaite came back with coffees. Silently appraised my small coup. “All right,” he said, bemused. Placed a mug for me on the edge of the table. Carefully cantilevered himself into a chair. “Now,” he said. “Why don’t you tell me why you’re here?”

I set the wrinkled pages I’d received at his elbow. Kept a few fingers on their hem. “This letter is pretty strange,” I began, feigning neutrality, hoping I was still making sense. I flipped from the second page back to the first, indicating the type. “Different. See?” I said, speaking sparsely. “It’s bigger here. And it looks like Garamond, not Times New Roman.”

“Let me see.” He tilted his glasses. Licked a thumb. Flipped through, disingenuous.

“What I think,” I continued, gathering confidence, “is that someone attached a new first page. The tone is different—light—and with this list, it’s inconsistent. It looks like he might have torn off the last page, too”—I pointed out the jagged line—“then made a copy.”

But here Dr. Thwaite interrupted. “Could you speak up?” he said a little irritably. “I didn’t quite catch what you just said.”

With a shiver of anxiety, I said it all again, trying to rush to the end. “See this slightly whiter part?” I said, pointing to a phantom space just after “trust Phineas implicitly.” “Something’s been erased. The period’s drawn in, not typed. Then there’s this—”

“I believe,” said Dr. Thwaite, “that I see what you’re driving at.” He was looking at me very fixedly, in a way I didn’t like.

But I made myself keep talking with measure and resolve. “Do you?” I said. With effort, I let a pause bubble past. “Then I have a question.”

He raised his brows.

“Do you own a fax?” I asked.

“Pardon me?” he said. But not, I thought, because he didn’t understand; he looked taken aback.

“I’m pretty sure I saw one in your office,” I bluffed, a slight tightness in my chest. I’d never seen a fax, but when I’d held my Meme over the wrinkled letter, it had brought up an image of a boxy beige machine and heat-crimped pages like these. “What I’d like to know,” I said, gaining assurance, “is why you left this for me—and what’s been left out. And
why you, or Doug, or someone else, issued me this list of warnings. I want to know what ‘friends’ he’s with. And why you’ve been telling me not to use my Meme. I’d like to hear more about the ‘word flu’ you mentioned. And I also want to know why you’ve … changed, in your attitude toward—”

But Dr. Thwaite had sternly raised a hand and placed a finger to his wan lips. Pushed away from the table and stalked off. That unnerved me. And when he was gone longer than I thought he should be—more than a minute; stretching to two—I started to worry that he was placing a call, maybe to a doctor, maybe to cops. But I made myself wait it out.
You can handle whatever happens
, I thought.
Wood and glue
. The longer the silence stretched, though, the shallower my breath became. When the soaring peaks of Bach’s cello suites filled the room, I jumped. But by the time Dr. Thwaite shuffled back to the kitchen a few moments later, I’d pulled myself together.

He stepped uncomfortably close—I could smell his sour sweat again, and the coffee on his breath—and said softly in my ear, “Now let me ask
you
something. Are you or are you not involved with Hermes King, of Synchronic, Inc.?”

Stunned, I said, “What? How is that—”

“Answer the question, please.”

“All right,” I said, swallowing, warm pink splots rising, unwelcome, on my neck. “No,” I said. “We’re … not anymore.”

“Careful,” Dr. Thwaite said sharply. “Are you lying now? Or the other day?”