Chaos

CHAPTER 44

THE LIMITATIONS OF HUMAN flesh, and I should know better than to think I can ignore them.

Driving home is an effort, and I find myself struggling to stay awake as I ease to a halt at a stop sign near the Harvard Divinity School in our Cambridge neighborhood. My blood sugar is low, and I’m feeling the crushing letdown that’s a given after I’ve been fueled by nothing but high-octane adrenaline for hours.

Thankfully I live not even fifteen minutes away from the CFC, and I blast cold air on my face, listening to music, doing whatever I can to stay awake. It’s a few minutes past nine, and the morning sun is bright overhead as I pull into the narrow brick driveway of our nineteenth-century timber-sided house, painted smoky blue with gray shutters and doors. There are tall chimneys at either end of the slate roof, and sunlight blanks out the upstairs windows as I park behind Janet’s green Land Rover.

It has half of the detached garage blocked, and when Page returns from taking the dogs to the groomer, her pickup truck will block the other half. Good luck getting Benton’s or my personal cars out should I need them for some reason.

Everybody’s here, I think dismally, and then I feel selfish. As much as I love my family, what I’d like right now is privacy in my own home. And I need to give that up and get over myself. I need to be a good sport and remember not everything in life is about solving crime. Climbing out with my messenger-bag briefcase, I lock my CFC SUV that I wasn’t going to leave at the office this time. Following pavers through the wooded front yard, I take the brick steps, aware of the early morning heating up. But by all accounts it’s not supposed to reach ninety today. This weekend it’s going to rain, and my garden and lawn could use it.

There’s a lot of cooking I need to do, and I’m not prepared. Had I known this many people including Dorothy would be staying here I would have done major shopping, and maybe I’ll find time this afternoon to get to the store before I have to get ready for the Kennedy School. Maybe I’ll throw together something easy like lasagna that we can heat up after the event is over.

We’ll open a few bottles of a nice Pinot Noir and drink a toast to Briggs, I decide as I stand on the front porch with keys in hand, looking around and listening. I hear a light breeze stir the old hardwood trees in the front yard, and I detect the earthy fragrances of loamy soil and mulch. A car drives by, one of our neighbors, and she waves.

Benton and I live on the northeastern border of the Harvard campus, across the street from the Academy of Arts and Sciences, and around us on all sides are lovely antique homes that are manifestations of enlightenment. I love it here. I love fooling myself into believing I’m safe as long as I’m surrounded by smart people, and I look around some more, my hand on the door handle.

I don’t hear anyone, and the dogs aren’t here. But I detect a distant noise, a faint high-pitched whine like a table saw, and there’s a house being renovated two doors down. Another car goes by, another neighbor, and I open the front door, noticing that the alarm isn’t set. That doesn’t make me happy. Stepping into the foyer of dark-paneled walls arranged with Victorian etchings I pause to listen, but I don’t hear anyone, and it occurs to me that Janet, Desi and my sister might be in the backyard. In fact that sounds like a very nice plan. Maybe I’ll drink coffee with them for a while. Then I’ll try to sleep for a few hours.

At some point this afternoon I’ll need to go over my talk for tonight because I’ve confirmed with my contact at the Kennedy School that I’m not going to cancel. I’m going to do this for Briggs. In spirit he’ll be with me as I address policy makers about the dangerous planet we live on and why it’s imperative to incorporate science and the highest level of training into everything we do if we’re to expand our frontiers and protect ourselves.

Inside the kitchen I see used coffee pods on the counter near the Keurig, and someone had cheddar-cheese toast. Probably Desi, as he’s become a big fan of Vermont cheddar since moving here and is quite particular about what color wrapper the block of cheese comes in. For him extra sharp is synonymous with purple, and in the mornings he asks for purple cheese toast, I’m told.

I set my briefcase on the breakfast table near a window, and I head to the back door, where Desi has parked the fishing pole, the baseball bat and glove Marino gave him for his birthday. The pole has a hard rubber casting sinker attached to a long sturdy leader line that’s tied to the monofilament, and he’s been teaching Desi how to cast the same way he once taught me. The nine-year-old is learning patience and precision, and not to muscle his way through life.

It’s fine except for how it makes Benton feel, and as sorry as I might be about that, we have to do what’s best for the child. Marino is good for Desi, and I don’t mind them using the backyard as long as no one tramples my roses, and the rule is when the line gets tangled in trees, no one is climbing anything.

Safety first, and I begin to open the oak door leading outside. Then I stop because I don’t understand what I’m seeing.