in the middle. I was envisioning mitosis—the nucleus dividing to form two nuclei. Chromosomes being copied. Life continuing. This was almost the beginning.
The phone buzzed again—a distant noise. The green faded to black. I concentrated on bringing the image back but failed. I uncrossed my legs, got up and rubbed my aching head. No contact with my primordial ancestors. No answer. Yet.
The light blinked on the answering machine. Automatic response: I pressed the button. "Call me," Elissa's disembodied voice implored. Then: "Percy, meet you at the party, okay?"
I replayed the messages several times. I picked up the phone, punched in half her number, then clicked down the receiver. I repeated this procedure, then stood quietly listening to the monotone hum of the line. Soon the phone beeped loudly at me. A sign that I shouldn't call. I returned the phone to its cradle.
I concocted a meal of sprouts and seaweed. While masticating, I pondered Darwin's life. In 1831, at the age of twenty-two, he embarked on H.M.S. Beagle . For the next five years he studied animals, bugs, seeds and stones in South America, concentrating on the Galápagos Islands. From his observations he came up with the theory of natural selection. It took him twenty years to complete his first book on the topic.
I didn't have that kind of time. I wanted to understand now. To see the answer. To have that elusive eureka moment.
Time passed. I wandered from room to room, eventually ending up in the basement, where I was surrounded by rows of jarred peaches, pickled beans and bags of rice. The floor was a pad of concrete that supported an octopus furnace with large ducts running every which way across the ceiling. One light hovered in the center of the room like a giant firefly.
I bent under a duct and knelt before an old wooden trunk coated with dust. I opened it. On the top were several yellowed newspapers with headlines like Local Anthropologist Identifies Mystical Zuni Object, My Life Among the !Kung and Montmount Mounts Mount Machu Picchu. I skimmed the articles, then reached for the prize underneath.
My father's clothes in a neat, perfect pile. First: a canvas hat with a brim that flipped up. As a child I'd often donned the oversized headgear and pranced around the cluttered basement, imagining my father's adventures and shouting out: "Dr. Montmount, I presume!"
I slipped the hat on. It fit perfectly. I dug into the stack, discovering a multicolored shirt and a pair of khaki shorts. I stripped, not feeling the chill, then dressed in my father's outfit. Gently closing the trunk, I ascended the stairs.
I had a party to attend.
ten
THE DELUGE
I committed a fatal error at the Tacky Party.
The festive event was three blocks away at Sandra Woodrick's. I squeezed between several Jock Tribe members who congested the doorway, and helped myself to a pink lemonade-based punch. I sniffed gingerly. Conclusion: alcohol-free. I sipped nonchalantly, bobbing my head to the music. When in Namibia, do as the Namibians do, my father often said. Teens in colored shirts danced wildly through the living room; others sat on couches or the floor, shouting to be heard.
I stood near the bathroom, jammed between a bookshelf and a life-sized reproduction of Rodin's Thinker. Hung behind him was a framed picture of card-playing canines dressed up like gangsters. I smiled. Anthropomorphism at its best. Mr. and Mrs. Woodrick must have a fabulous sense of humor, judging by the juxtaposition of those two works of art. Or no taste.
My smile faded as Michael and Nicole strode into the room. I ducked, but they veered in my direction like two lions stalking a lone antelope. And here was my fatal error. I broke a basic law of survival: Always have an escape route.
They approached, clad in matching garb: lime-green shorts and bright yellow T-shirts emblazoned with a red sun and a bird bearing a laurel branch. They absolutely had to talk to me: God's
The phone buzzed again—a distant noise. The green faded to black. I concentrated on bringing the image back but failed. I uncrossed my legs, got up and rubbed my aching head. No contact with my primordial ancestors. No answer. Yet.
The light blinked on the answering machine. Automatic response: I pressed the button. "Call me," Elissa's disembodied voice implored. Then: "Percy, meet you at the party, okay?"
I replayed the messages several times. I picked up the phone, punched in half her number, then clicked down the receiver. I repeated this procedure, then stood quietly listening to the monotone hum of the line. Soon the phone beeped loudly at me. A sign that I shouldn't call. I returned the phone to its cradle.
I concocted a meal of sprouts and seaweed. While masticating, I pondered Darwin's life. In 1831, at the age of twenty-two, he embarked on H.M.S. Beagle . For the next five years he studied animals, bugs, seeds and stones in South America, concentrating on the Galápagos Islands. From his observations he came up with the theory of natural selection. It took him twenty years to complete his first book on the topic.
I didn't have that kind of time. I wanted to understand now. To see the answer. To have that elusive eureka moment.
Time passed. I wandered from room to room, eventually ending up in the basement, where I was surrounded by rows of jarred peaches, pickled beans and bags of rice. The floor was a pad of concrete that supported an octopus furnace with large ducts running every which way across the ceiling. One light hovered in the center of the room like a giant firefly.
I bent under a duct and knelt before an old wooden trunk coated with dust. I opened it. On the top were several yellowed newspapers with headlines like Local Anthropologist Identifies Mystical Zuni Object, My Life Among the !Kung and Montmount Mounts Mount Machu Picchu. I skimmed the articles, then reached for the prize underneath.
My father's clothes in a neat, perfect pile. First: a canvas hat with a brim that flipped up. As a child I'd often donned the oversized headgear and pranced around the cluttered basement, imagining my father's adventures and shouting out: "Dr. Montmount, I presume!"
I slipped the hat on. It fit perfectly. I dug into the stack, discovering a multicolored shirt and a pair of khaki shorts. I stripped, not feeling the chill, then dressed in my father's outfit. Gently closing the trunk, I ascended the stairs.
I had a party to attend.
ten
THE DELUGE
I committed a fatal error at the Tacky Party.
The festive event was three blocks away at Sandra Woodrick's. I squeezed between several Jock Tribe members who congested the doorway, and helped myself to a pink lemonade-based punch. I sniffed gingerly. Conclusion: alcohol-free. I sipped nonchalantly, bobbing my head to the music. When in Namibia, do as the Namibians do, my father often said. Teens in colored shirts danced wildly through the living room; others sat on couches or the floor, shouting to be heard.
I stood near the bathroom, jammed between a bookshelf and a life-sized reproduction of Rodin's Thinker. Hung behind him was a framed picture of card-playing canines dressed up like gangsters. I smiled. Anthropomorphism at its best. Mr. and Mrs. Woodrick must have a fabulous sense of humor, judging by the juxtaposition of those two works of art. Or no taste.
My smile faded as Michael and Nicole strode into the room. I ducked, but they veered in my direction like two lions stalking a lone antelope. And here was my fatal error. I broke a basic law of survival: Always have an escape route.
They approached, clad in matching garb: lime-green shorts and bright yellow T-shirts emblazoned with a red sun and a bird bearing a laurel branch. They absolutely had to talk to me: God's
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