Double Blind, Chapter Eleven: Statutory

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Eleven

The ichneumon wasp provides for its progeny by injecting its eggs into the body of a caterpillar. When the eggs hatch, the ichneumon larvae begin eating their host from the inside out – taking great care to preserve the heart and central nervous system, so as to keep their victim alive (and fresh) as long as possible.

            “Finally,” writes scientist/essayist Stephen Jay Gould, “the larva completes its work and kills its victims, leaving behind the caterpillar’s empty shell. Is it any wonder that ichneumons, not snakes or lions, stood as the paramount challenge to God’s benevolence during the heyday of natural theology?”

I am the criminal with no accuser, the man afire among people who refuse to see flames. I walked three miles from the motel to the lab, wearing the same clothes as the day before. Nobody noticed. I came home. Jessie said nothing; she smiled and poured me a lemonade. I’m dying to know how she explained my absence to the kids, but I didn’t dare ask.

            Because I fucked a girl four years older than Marcus.

            I walk with a cloud of gnats about my head, bedeviled by motives and menace. Blackmail? I would have received a demand. Revenge? I picture Nefertiti raped by her stepfather, reaping karmic retribution through any man his age. But she seemed too… together for this.

            I’m at my desk, making entries in next week’s schedule, when two observable facts announce their presence. One: the University Café. Two: Tuesday afternoon. Conclusion: Kelly.

            At lunchtime, I hop on my bike and follow the old route to the bead shop. I open the door, the bells jangle, and I am pleased (finally!) to get a response from someone. Kelly’s eyes grow wide; she tightens her grip on the edge of the counter. I approach at a measured pace and speak the only word I can think of.

            “Nefertiti.”

            Kelly blinks her lashes theatrically. “Nice to see you, too. What the hell do you want?”

            I take a jade ring from a basket and balance it on my pinkie.

            “You don’t know what ‘Nefertiti’ means.”

            “Foggiest, darling. Egyptian queen?”

            “You didn’t set me up?”

            “Are you still on this shit? Jesus! So my son was on the same five acres when you nailed me on a putting green. Get over it! Why are you even here, Hopkins? Are you horny, is that why you’re here? Because, at the moment, I’m having a regular and satisfying relationship with a big pink plastic dildo!”

            The door jangles open. Kelly smiles.

            “Why do they always come in on a word like ‘dildo’?”

            A fiftyish woman with fiercely perfect blonde hair arrives at the counter.

            “I’ve got these linen pants with a sleeveless top – sort of orange and brown, safari colors, very Kenya – and I’m looking for something dramatic to set it off. Maybe a pendant.”

            Kelly takes her to a corner with African masks and jewelry, leaving me at the counter, trying to rattle my brain into the present reality.

            One: Kelly’s look of surprise was genuine. Two: no response at all to the name “Nefertiti.” Three: total misinterpretation as to the meaning of my visit. Four: if I go so far as to explain who Nefertiti is, I have just created a witness where previously there were none.

            I slip out the door, a phantom afire, and am soon rolling above The El Camino, headed for the safety of my laboratory. Disparage the scientist all you want, but he is well equipped to understand when he is wrong, and when to abandon a lost cause.

At the end of the afternoon, the name Pisarro appears on my email.

            Hopkins –

            Call me a weak woman, but I received the following this morning, and I can’t imagine that they came from you. Fun is fun, but what the hell are you getting yourself into?

            Please don’t answer this. After the other day, I’m going to need some time before I trust you again.

            What follows – a forwarded email – comes from an address beginning “Ramses16@…” Attached are several images of myself in flagrante delicto with Nefertiti. The subject line reads Geneticist Fails Carbon Dating.

Dr. Solenin is a tall, elegant man, Jamaican by birth, who always reminds me of Nelson Mandela. He works in the administrative building across campus, and almost never visits the lab. When he does, it’s noteworthy.

            “Dr. Solenin!” I pivot from my chair and greet him with a handshake. “What brings you here?”

            He studies his hands, looking anxious. “It’s not good, Hopkins. Please. Follow me.”

            He leads me down the hall to Marty’s office. Marty is gone. Solenin sits at Marty’s desk and waves me into a chair. The blood is thrumming through my head. I’m trying to formulate an appropriate reaction: one-half concern, one-half shock, followed by a simmering indignation.

            “It’s about your drug test.”

            Or confusion – that I can do.

            “The one you took Wednesday,” he says. “It indicated the presence of MDMA.”

            MDMA? What the…?

            “Ecstasy?” I say.

            He nods, and leans forward on the desk.

            “Here’s how it goes from here. You need to report back to the testing center this afternoon – within the hour, actually, before it closes. If this test confirms the positive, you will be suspended without pay until the personnel committee can meet to discuss your situation. I’m very sorry.”

Photo by MJV