Entanglement (2 page)

Peter looked at the soda can. “So it is. Okay! Everybody put on your goggles and gather round.”

The students put on their goggles and moved forward until they were in a circle around Peter, who pulled on his own goggles.

“Where's the bucket?”

Colin got a white plastic bucket filled with cold water. He set it on the floor beside the lab table.

“Everybody ready?” Peter asked. “Eddie, where are your goggles?”

Eddie Campos found them and pulled them on.

“Okay,” Keller said. “What do you think's going to happen?”

Campos said, “Water's gonna squirt all over us.”

Peter looked around. “Anyone else?”

“The tab'll pop off, and hot water will come out,” Colin ventured.

Josh Segal said, “I don't think anything will happen.”

Peter said, “Okay, let's see.” He carefully removed the soda can from over the Bunsen burner with a pair of tongs, then in one swift, sure motion turned it over and plunged it into the bucket of cold water—where it collapsed. A wave of approval swept over the class.

“That was awesome,” Eddie Campos said. “Good one, Mr. Keller.”

The bell rang, and the students bolted for their chairs, grabbed their books and bags, and yanked off their goggles. Peter turned off the Bunsen burner and pulled off his goggles as well.

“On Monday, I want a paper from each of you on the physics behind the collapsing soda can!”

As the students scrambled for the exit, Peter glanced out the window; a heavy rain had started falling. Then he crossed to the front of the room, where a large projection screen hung down in front of the chalkboard. He stared at the screen with a contemplative expression as the last student left the room.

The door closed and Peter was alone. He rubbed his eyes, then turned to a filing cabinet at the side of his desk and, using a key, unlocked it. He dug inside, searching, and in the process pulled out a black-and-white photo—a beautiful young woman, olive-skinned, her almond-shaped eyes peering into the camera. He retrieved a book and a meditation pillow.

He placed the photo on top of a large stack of papers on his desk, then leafed through the book. Finally he turned to the projection screen at the front of the room and began to raise it.

“Peter?”

Startled, he quickly pulled the screen back down again, covering what was on the chalkboard. Standing in the open door was Dori Morgan, the school's honors French teacher. Blonde and gray-eyed, with a warm smile and gentle laugh, Dori had asked him out for coffee several times, but he'd never followed up.

“Hey, Peter. I was curious, are you attending the district board meeting tonight?” she asked. “Maybe we could drive together.”

Peter fiddled with some papers and turned away. “Mmm, no. I've got so much grading to do.”

Dori laughed. “It's Friday, Peter.”

She leaned against the door frame expectantly. He could smell her perfume. The scientist in him tried to break it down: it smelled like equal parts citrus oil and something else, maybe jasmine.

She was getting too near—for a number of reasons. Peter was afraid that she'd see a paper of hers that he'd promised to edit months ago that was now part of the large neglected pile on his desk, including much of his own work that he simply had to gather and submit to various journals. Somehow, he hadn't been able to muster the effort. The pile also included several more photos of the same woman. Manuela. Peter moved his body slightly in an effort to shield all of this from Dori's gaze.

“Sorry I haven't looked at your paper yet,” he said. A preemptive strike was best, he decided.

“Oh, that's okay. No worries.” She smiled good-naturedly. “Are you sure you don't want to come?”

“Next time,” he said.

“Well, I don't want to bother you.” She turned to leave, but hesitated, giving him a chance to change his mind. “Have a good weekend.”

“You, too,” he said without looking up, moving papers around on his desk.

“See you Monday, then.”

“Monday. Definitely. Enjoy that meeting,” he replied.

He turned and watched her walk away with feelings so mixed that he couldn't begin to sort them out.

With her thick flaxen hair and beautifully placid face, she was as attractive as the Swedish film stars he'd loved as a youth. Given time, he'd hoped that some bond would develop between them, but it hadn't happened yet.

In many ways, they were perfectly suited for each other. She was divorced and without children. Her life was centered on school, where she worked the same long hours he did. They were close in age, unlike some of the women Peter had met, who'd never even heard of Motown.

Dori listened to him talk with a grave and evident interest. There was even a spark between them when they brushed hands. But he stomped out any feeling. It made him feel guilty.

The last time he'd talked to her was when she'd left the paper that he'd placed on the pile with all the other things he meant to do—manuscripts he wanted to publish, photos he meant to sort through and frame, or put in albums. And there it sat still.

This all had to do with the woman in the photo. Manuela.

CHAPTER 2

Peter had met Manuela when he worked at Fermilab, one of the country's leading research laboratories. He'd just graduated from MIT, approaching the height of his scientific career, well on his way to becoming a star.

She was the only woman he'd ever been involved with who hadn't been overly impressed by him, who hadn't put him on a pedestal. Only once, when he'd talked to her about a theory called
quantum entanglement,
had she seem intrigued.

“Quantum entanglement suggests that once particles are connected, they remain connected on an energetic level, even when they are physically separated from one another. And the really interesting thing is that whether the separation is only a few millimeters or an entire galaxy, the distance doesn't appear to affect the connection. Quantum entanglement exists in the real world, but we can't see it. We can feel it, however, once that filament of connection is forged.”

“Entanglement, yes,” she said and wrapped her arms around him. “That is what this is.” She held him so close that he could feel the heat of her body and take in the scent of her long black hair, so sweetly aromatic, as if she had recently immersed herself in the essence of tropical flowers. They were in bed, where they'd spent many hours during the first period of their romance. She made him feel like a besotted schoolboy, not a highly respected scientist.

She was from Guatemala—her mother was a housekeeper who'd brought her over when she was 16 from the village of Santiago Atitlán to study. Manuela was working her way through college while buffing floors, and ended up on the cleaning staff at Fermilab while Peter was there. With her dark hair and Mayan face, she stood out amid all the beige, milky blondes he had known in the past.

Before they started dating, he'd observed her on more than one occasion hovering near his office door, listening in as he discussed the progress of his work. The first time they talked, he'd sat down beside her in the crowded cafeteria after he had seen her loitering again near his door. She sat alone, looking mysterious and inscrutable … she ate from a fragrant, somewhat greasy bag that her mother had packed for her.

“I noticed you were listening in on my presentation,” Peter said to her, diving into his burger and fries.

“Yes,” she answered. “Your class is very popular. Do you like cheese enchiladas?”

He was stunned. No fawning; no bullshit. An immediate sense of intimacy between them. This, he would learn, was her way.

“Yes,” he answered, and she handed over two warm envelopes of melted cheese and spices that were among the best things he'd ever tasted in his life.

After that, they ate beside each other often, sometimes barely speaking. But Manuela's presence was powerful. Even when she was absent, Peter felt her at his side.

Finally he asked her if she wanted to go out for a movie or dinner—activities that he thought were probably too conventional to suit her, and he'd been right.

“No movie, but I will take a stroll with you or cook for you, whatever you prefer,” she said as she presented her splendid white smile.

It turned out that she possessed her own private genius; she knew trees by both their leaves and bark, birds by their songs and feathers. If you wanted to discern the patterns of stars or to identify a butterfly, she was the one to ask. Peter had never encountered anyone like her.

Soon they were having dinner at her house almost every week, and afterward they took long walks, not returning until it was nearly dark. For a long time before he advanced to kissing her, she only let him hold her hand, and then eventually she let him stay the night in her tiny studio apartment. He fell in love with her with so little fanfare that he barely noticed it happening. Still, he had begun fantasizing a future with her; he imagined marrying her and living in a secluded farmhouse with their acutely beautiful daughters.

Man proposes, God disposes. Whoever said that was a genius.

Instead, Peter had continued with his life as before: working all hours on his research. He—and everyone else who worked at the lab—felt sure he was on the brink of a great new discovery. Some days he was so embroiled in his job that he neglected to return Manuela's calls.

He would make it up to her, he told himself; yet later, he couldn't remember if he'd ever told her how much he loved her.

CHAPTER 3

Across town on a side street stood a white brick warehouse with “100” written in blue masking tape on the side. During the neighborhood's heyday, milk bottles in thick glass and unusual shapes had been manufactured inside that building. For decades after the company went under, it had stood vacant, until a local businessman bought it for student apartments. Now it was carved into cavernous living spaces and art studios—a sanctuary for the town's bohemians, artists, and musicians.

The driving beat of tribal/techno music blended with rain beating down on the rambling old building. As usual, a raging party was going this weekend.

The large open space was divided by curtains and occupied by different factions. A group of young men practiced a fire performance, spinning poles, chains, and other objects; another group sat huddled together discussing world affairs. Bits and pieces of conversation could be heard in the din.

“A couple of people, like in Egypt, they make it look like a bad thing,” a young man with elaborate facial piercings was saying.

“Is it all programming, or is there something to the energy of the actual location?”

In another section, filled with plants, trees, and indoor fountains, a girl with long braids, Alma, stood reading poetry aloud to a circle of friends, turning it into a performance piece with sudden moments of dancing. And under a parachute canopy, another group of kids drank, smoked, and waxed philosophical, debating chakras and alien abduction.

Wedged between two people on a secondhand couch sat Jack Franklin. Long-haired, pierced, and lean, his upper body extensively tattooed, he sat listening. His face usually had an open, contemplative quality, but tonight he looked troubled and preoccupied. He took a swig when a vodka bottle was passed around; the rest of the crowd was guzzling from the same bottle and passing a joint. Jack held the joint in his fingers for a moment, then passed it on. He rubbed his temples and shut his eyes. He was having trouble following the thread of conversation. Finally, he stood up to leave.

His friend, a gaunt blond with a shaved head named Sam, broke off from his conversation when he saw Jack leaving, and followed.

“What's up, man? You seem out of it tonight.”

“Yeah, I can't concentrate. My head's killing me. I don't know what it is.”

Sam looked at him with concern.

“You've seemed off all night.”

“Just tired. I'll catch you later.”

Sam, the son of one of the town's wealthier families, claimed to be a socialist. He lived on a few hundred a month from his trust fund and gave the rest away to whatever charity moved him at the moment.

Jack found his friend's attitude both noble and unnerving. As someone who often didn't have enough money to make it through the week, watching Sam try to decide what he should do with his extra cash each month was often more than he could bear.

Especially since the warehouse was in constant need of repair. The landlord lived in another state and was deaf to complaints about termites, leaks, and faulty plumbing. Usually the residents simply waited until someone happened along with the requisite skills to fix whatever was broken.

“You can give some money to me, man,” Jack said on several occasions, and though Sam was agreeable, Jack found that he was unable to accept it in the end.

As he walked away now, he rubbed his eyes as if to clear his vision. For a moment, he leaned against the wall in dizziness and disorientation. Again he touched his temple and took a few deep breaths. What was wrong with him?