The House of Tomorrow (16 page)

In the dome, everything was cozy and tea-smelling. Geodesic domes are efficient structures to heat. They are also adept at imprisoning smells. And the more time I spent away from the dome, the more I was starting to notice the strange odor of our home. Steamed vegetables. Aromatic candles. The pungent paint fumes. I kept hearing the chord in my head, as I cut through the fog of scents. A chord on any instrument, it occurred to me, was a prime example of the concept of synergy. Synergy is the cooperation of two different agents to produce an effect greater than their individual parts—i.e., two notes played together to form a pleasing sound. Synergistic music!

I gravitated toward the cordless phone and picked it up. I dialed Meredith’s private number with my blistered fingertips. It rang only once this time before her perfectly apathetic “What?” shot through the phone like a threat.

“Hello,” I said, modulating my voice back to the same half whisper I had used before.

“You,” she said. “You again.”

“How does it work?” I asked. “What you told me before.”

“Why would I tell you now?” she asked. “Why would I tell some chump who hung up on me? Somebody I don’t even know.”

In the past I would have believed she was angry, but I knew her telephone voice better now. I could actually hear the smile spreading on her lips.

“I don’t know. Maybe I’m shy.”

“I don’t have time for that,” she said.

“Maybe I made a mistake.”

“Hell yes, you did. You made a huge mistake. Nobody hangs up on me. I decide when the conversation is over.”

My mind whirred, trying to find the right thing to say. But Meredith moved on without me. “Tell me more things you like about me,” she demanded.

“What?”

“Tell me more things you like about me. There have to be more.”

“How many should I say?”

“Five,” she said. “Tell me five, and I’ll stay on the phone.”

“I can do that,” I said.

I closed my eyes and tried to concentrate on her. The images leaped in and out of my head. It was hard to pin one down. I finally landed on the flash of her stomach I had seen that night in the church. The little bit of white between her pants and the shirt that was being lifted up. “I like your pale skin,” I said. “And your nose. It bends a little. I wonder if you hurt it once. But I like looking at it. I think it’s terrific.”

I tried hard to speak in these short sentences, and in a way that I’d heard the boys talking at Youth Group. It was like translating. “I like your lips, when you paint them pink. I like it when you call me names. And I like it . . . when you dance.”

Her voice shot through immediately. “I don’t dance,” she said. “When have you seen me dance?”

I tried to think of something plausible. A school party? A Youth Group event?

“Your window,” I said.

“You spied on me through my window?”

“Not really,” I said.

“That is the creepiest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“It wasn’t entirely creepy.”

“You looked in at me when I didn’t know you were there. You were probably jerking it, too. Oh, God. You were probably, like, saying nasty things and jerking it furiously in the yard.”

“That’s not true,” I said. “I was coming to see you. I . . . got scared. I saw you dance by accident.”

There were a few seconds of silence.

“You weren’t whacking?”

“No,” I said.

I was about fifty percent sure I knew what she was talking about.

“I don’t know,” she said.

“No lie,” I said.

Another pause. She hadn’t hung up, though. I could hear her breathing.

“You’re right about my nose. My brother broke it.” She paused. “We have problems from time to time.”

“Your brother punched your nose and broke it?”

“No,” she said. “No punching.”

“He kicked you?”

“It was actually kind of an accident. But I don’t want to talk about my brother, okay? I’m not really interested in telling you all about my
personal life
. I don’t want to cry or tell you how nobody understands me. So just stop with all of that.”

“Okay.”

“It works like this,” she said. “I tell you when the window is open. I open it at that time. You come in without waking up my mom. You can use your imagination after that, genius.”

“That’s all?”

“That’s all.”

“I’m sorry I watched you,” I said.

“It’s okay,” she said. “Why don’t you come inside next time? How about Saturday? Or maybe you could just keep pissing me off until I stop talking to you.”

And before I could respond, she hung up. She had decided, apparently, that the call was over. It was a trait she shared with her brother. I felt a sharp sense of excitement along with an undercurrent of dread. I wasn’t sure what I had gotten myself into. The idea that Meredith was expecting me was thrilling no matter the context. But then there was that unavoidable clarification: she wasn’t expecting
me
. She was expecting Secret Phone Person. I was decidedly not Secret Phone Person. I was Sebastian, the “little weirdo” that her brother was “in love with or something.” I was a “perv,” which I was pretty sure was short for pervert. And a pervert, according to my dictionary, was “a person whose sexual behavior is regarded as abnormal and unacceptable.” If I showed up at her window, even if I could muster the courage to do it, everything would very clearly be ruined. What would she say exactly if she saw me there, just below her sill, looking up at her? I couldn’t imagine anything kind.

 

 

 

I GOT UP THE NEXT MORNING, STILL RUNNING THE situation in my head. I dressed and went out to see if Nana was at work. But instead of seeing her, I found a photographer from the
North Branch Courier
on our front lawn. Behind him was a small car with the newspaper’s name stenciled across the door. Nana was at work on the side of the dome, and she didn’t notice him until a flash went off. Nana blinked. The photographer raised his hand in a salute. He had a red beard and a pair of flip-up sunglasses. There were two cameras around his neck, hanging over a parka. He carried a crisp yellow notebook.

Without saying much, he began shooting pictures of our house. Nana rubbed her eyes for a moment, then followed. She slowly began to spout facts into his ear. “Good morning,” she said. “Greetings. Did you know Bucky was obsessed with the word ‘weaponry’? Yes, he was determined to create things that only made life better. This Geoscope was one of them. It was part of what he dubbed ‘livingry.’ ”

“Uh-huh,” said the photographer.

He turned the camera around and started taking quick shots of Nana. They seemed to happen ten at a time. She just looked into the lens like a curious bird at first. Then she regained composure and began to pose, staring at the dome with awe, smiling and pointing at our work. The man gave no instructions. His face registered no satisfaction or disappointment. “Anything else?” he asked. His pen hovered over the notebook.

“We haven’t set admission prices yet for the institute,” she said, “but there might be a slight increase. When something is completely remodeled, and the experience is so thoroughly changed, you can’t expect us to . . .”

“Okay, great,” he said. He shut the book, took one last rapid-fire shot, then walked back to his car.

“Should I come down to the office to provide . . . more information?” Nana tried. “I could author a caption or two, I’m sure!”

The man loaded his cameras into his trunk. Then he turned and saluted again. In minutes, his car was gone, and it was hard to remember if he had ever been there at all. Nana watched the space where his car had been for some time.

“Well . . .” she said, eventually.

I stepped close to her, our bodies side by side. I tried to think of something uplifting to say.

“What color will New Zealand be?” is what I said.

Nana still focused on the empty driveway.

“Yellow,” said Nana. “Perhaps lemon.”

“Tasmania?” I asked.

“Umber,” she said.

“What about Australia?” I asked.

“I don’t know yet!” she yelled. “It has to come to me!”

She opened the door and walked inside without saying another word. I followed her in and watched as she slammed the door to her bedroom. On the bulletin board by her door, one of her architectural photos fell from its tack and looped lazily to the ground. Nana had been so quiet the last few days; it was alarming to hear her yell. I swept past her room, listening for her, but she didn’t make a sound. So I proceeded upstairs and found myself slumped down in front of the computer. Waiting for me on the Web was an e-mail from Jared. The subject read “The Time Is Nigh, Dickless!” Somehow, I knew before I even opened it what it was going to say.

I read the e-mail over a couple of times to make sure I understood all that it was asking. But everything important was in the first line. Saturday night. Janice would be out. Of course that was why Meredith had selected that night. And that’s why Jared chose it, too. It was either perfect or a nightmare. I couldn’t decide. But I knew I would have to go to North Branch. We needed new paint, after all. There was New Zealand to think about, and Tasmania. Two small countries were depending on me. Not to mention, two small people in North Branch. I sat watching out of the glass, facing the boundless slanted rooftops of the town. Eventually, I heard the NordicTrack spring to life, clacking its familiar rhythm, and I went downstairs to ask for paint money.

MY ORIGINAL PLAN FOR SATURDAY WAS TO RETRIEVE Nana’s next batch of paint sometime in the morning, the way I had the first time. But the day arrived and then seemed to disappear out from under me. And as it progressed, I realized I was not going to receive my opportunity. Nana was restless from the moment she woke that morning, walking in and out of her room, alternately making unanswered calls to the newspaper and deciding on the color scheme for South America. She left the dome only once, but it was just to pick weeds and beat the dust out of our rippling CLOSED banner. I knew by the time the afternoon was fading that I would have to get the paint and go to Jared’s all in the same outing. I was getting ready to set out on this errand when Nana emerged from her room and looked at me from across the dome. Neither of us moved. The sun was almost gone behind her, and she looked more silhouette than human.

“Sebastian,” she said. Her voice was hoarse.

“Yes?”

“Have you ever visited a chapel?”

Her question was surprisingly timid. Almost embarrassed.

“You mean . . . in a place of worship?” I asked.

“I suppose,” she said.

I took a moment, pretending to think deeply. Really, I was trying desperately to clear my head of all relevant thoughts. She might be reading them as we spoke.

“No,” I said. “I don’t think I understand what a chapel is really.”

Nana shook her head and closed her eyes.

“Of course not,” she said. “How would you know?”

I smiled, nervously.

“Lemon,” she said.

“Lemon?”

I tried to steady my quivering hands.

“Lemon yellow. For our next country,” she said. “And umber. Remember?”

“I remember.”

She closed her eyes again and inhaled a deep breath.

“How long will it take?” I asked.

“To complete the Geoscope?” she asked.

Nana looked at me strangely.

“To complete my path,” I said.

She shook her head. “It’s impossible to say,” she said. “You’ll know when you’ve accomplished something great.”

“Oh,” I said. I was about to ask her more, but she interrupted me.

“That’s enough,” she said. “Go and complete your outing.”

I nodded and hiked resolutely out of the dome. I left the yard as quickly as I could. Nana stayed standing in the doorway to her bedroom. She was there until I was too far away to see her. And minutes later, I was on my bicycle, the bass slumped across my back again. I had intentionally waited until the light would be too dim for Nana to spy it, but my heart drummed in my chest until I had reached the bottom of the hill. Then my body took over, and I was able to forget all my anxieties for a few miles along the expressway. I focused on the feeling of my legs tightening and pushing, the pedals orbiting through the air.

 

 

 

WHEN I ARRIVED AT THE WHITCOMBS’, I STASHED my bicycle in the usual location and paused to make sure I had removed my helmet. I had almost left it sitting on the counter of the paint store moments ago. The store had been minutes from closing and I’d had to rush to make my selections. Daisy for New Zealand. Butternut for Tasmania. Now, I left the helmet hanging from a handlebar. As I moved toward the front of the house, I looked at Meredith’s window for a second. But the shade was not open. And there was no sign of her shadow inside.

“What are you looking for?” came a voice from nearby.

I surveyed the yard, but there was no one there.

“Up here,” said Jared.

I looked up and found him sitting on the lowest branch of the beech tree in his front yard. He was kicking at one of the dangling purple tennis shoes, smoking a cigarette. “What were you looking at?” he asked. “That’s Meredith’s room.”