Careerists tended to stay single—
'Hyu,' a rough voice answered.
'Hi, Mia,' Thomas said.
'Tommy, Jeeezus. I've been trying to reach you!'
A host of parental instincts came clutching. 'Phone was off. Why? What's wrong?'
'Nothing, really. It's just that Nora called and said she was coming to get the kids.'
'What did you tell her?'
'That I needed to talk to you first, and that I would call her back after.'
He heard Frankie shouting ' Daddy-Daddy-Daddeee !' in the background. He imagined Ripley sitting by Mia's picture window, coloring, then an image of Cynthia Powski blotted her out.
'Forget she even called.'
'You sure? She sounded all weirded out on the phone. Wasn't she supposed to be in San Francisco?'
'She was. It turns out she was fucking an old friend instead.'
So easily spoken.
'Oh…'
'I have to go, Mia.'
'Are you okay, Tommy?'
'Can't talk now, Mia.'
He clicked the palmtop shut, slipped it into his blazer pocket. When he glanced up Agent Logan was watching him, her smile the sad smile of those stranded at the perimeter of painful events.
'Just had to check up on the kids,' he explained as he slid back into the booth.
Samantha smiled. 'Beautiful kids.'
He looked at her sharply.
'You need to ease up on the paranoia, Professor Bible. I followed you from Columbia, remember? I saw them on your neighbor's porch. Like I said, beautiful kids.'
Thomas scratched the back of his neck. 'Forgot about that. Why did you follow me, anyway?'
'I was desperate. Desperate for leads. I wanted to tell you, by the way, that I loved how you dealt with us in your office.' She laughed. 'Showing you the Blue-ray like that was a mistake. I told Shelley she'd regret it.'
'Agent Atta strikes me as a hard ass.'
Samantha shrugged. 'She has to be. Not easy being an Arab-American woman in the FBI…' She trailed to take a healthy swig of beer, then with a guilty grin added, 'My dad used to say the only thing worse than a bitch was a woman angry for good reason.'
Thomas laughed. Either Samantha Logan was real people or she was trying to present herself as such. Was this a tactic of some kind?
'Are you always so open with your views, Agent Logan?'
Pained smile. 'I figure it's useless to BS someone with a PhD in bullshit.'
' That would be a philosopher,' Thomas said. 'Me? I'm a psychologist.'
Thomas found himself laughing with her, struck by how quickly she had managed to turn his mood. There was something about her smile, a kind of open-mouthed honesty, that spoke of loving, irreverent parents and a childhood spent joking around the dinner table. He couldn't help but wonder how much they had in common. ' The boss thought I was your kind of people .'
'Which is why ,' Agent Logan said, ducking her head as she lingered on the word—an oddly endearing gesture, 'we could use your help on this case.'
He snorted skeptically. 'What you guys need is a neurologist.'
'A psychologist isn't close enough?'
Thomas shrugged. 'Neurology is the science of the brain. Psychology is the science of the mind. Simple enough, I suppose, but things get very complicated very fast when it comes to understanding the relationship between the two.'
'The relationship of the mind to the brain?'
Thomas nodded into his beer. 'Some say the mind and the brain are actually the same thing, but at different levels of description. Others say they're entirely different things. And still others say only the brain is real—that the mind, and therefore psychology, is bunk.'
'What do you say?'
'I honestly don't know. The scary thing for me is that as the years pass and neuroscience matures, the relationship between the two disciplines starts to seem more and more like that between astronomy and astrology, or chemistry and alchemy.'
'And why's that?'
He paused, struck by the selfless candor of her expression. In his never-ending effort to engage his students, he had memorized innumerable little 'factoids' regarding this or that freshman preoccupation. As a
'Hyu,' a rough voice answered.
'Hi, Mia,' Thomas said.
'Tommy, Jeeezus. I've been trying to reach you!'
A host of parental instincts came clutching. 'Phone was off. Why? What's wrong?'
'Nothing, really. It's just that Nora called and said she was coming to get the kids.'
'What did you tell her?'
'That I needed to talk to you first, and that I would call her back after.'
He heard Frankie shouting ' Daddy-Daddy-Daddeee !' in the background. He imagined Ripley sitting by Mia's picture window, coloring, then an image of Cynthia Powski blotted her out.
'Forget she even called.'
'You sure? She sounded all weirded out on the phone. Wasn't she supposed to be in San Francisco?'
'She was. It turns out she was fucking an old friend instead.'
So easily spoken.
'Oh…'
'I have to go, Mia.'
'Are you okay, Tommy?'
'Can't talk now, Mia.'
He clicked the palmtop shut, slipped it into his blazer pocket. When he glanced up Agent Logan was watching him, her smile the sad smile of those stranded at the perimeter of painful events.
'Just had to check up on the kids,' he explained as he slid back into the booth.
Samantha smiled. 'Beautiful kids.'
He looked at her sharply.
'You need to ease up on the paranoia, Professor Bible. I followed you from Columbia, remember? I saw them on your neighbor's porch. Like I said, beautiful kids.'
Thomas scratched the back of his neck. 'Forgot about that. Why did you follow me, anyway?'
'I was desperate. Desperate for leads. I wanted to tell you, by the way, that I loved how you dealt with us in your office.' She laughed. 'Showing you the Blue-ray like that was a mistake. I told Shelley she'd regret it.'
'Agent Atta strikes me as a hard ass.'
Samantha shrugged. 'She has to be. Not easy being an Arab-American woman in the FBI…' She trailed to take a healthy swig of beer, then with a guilty grin added, 'My dad used to say the only thing worse than a bitch was a woman angry for good reason.'
Thomas laughed. Either Samantha Logan was real people or she was trying to present herself as such. Was this a tactic of some kind?
'Are you always so open with your views, Agent Logan?'
Pained smile. 'I figure it's useless to BS someone with a PhD in bullshit.'
' That would be a philosopher,' Thomas said. 'Me? I'm a psychologist.'
Thomas found himself laughing with her, struck by how quickly she had managed to turn his mood. There was something about her smile, a kind of open-mouthed honesty, that spoke of loving, irreverent parents and a childhood spent joking around the dinner table. He couldn't help but wonder how much they had in common. ' The boss thought I was your kind of people .'
'Which is why ,' Agent Logan said, ducking her head as she lingered on the word—an oddly endearing gesture, 'we could use your help on this case.'
He snorted skeptically. 'What you guys need is a neurologist.'
'A psychologist isn't close enough?'
Thomas shrugged. 'Neurology is the science of the brain. Psychology is the science of the mind. Simple enough, I suppose, but things get very complicated very fast when it comes to understanding the relationship between the two.'
'The relationship of the mind to the brain?'
Thomas nodded into his beer. 'Some say the mind and the brain are actually the same thing, but at different levels of description. Others say they're entirely different things. And still others say only the brain is real—that the mind, and therefore psychology, is bunk.'
'What do you say?'
'I honestly don't know. The scary thing for me is that as the years pass and neuroscience matures, the relationship between the two disciplines starts to seem more and more like that between astronomy and astrology, or chemistry and alchemy.'
'And why's that?'
He paused, struck by the selfless candor of her expression. In his never-ending effort to engage his students, he had memorized innumerable little 'factoids' regarding this or that freshman preoccupation. As a
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