Fall; or, Dodge in Hell - Neal Stephenson Page 0,43

combined resources of ELSH, WABSI, and the Forthrast Family Foundation might be able to swing it. And he doesn’t want to be frozen out of that coalition.”

“He has a funny way of showing it.”

“Like it or not,” Stan said, “some people actually do business this way. Like I said: carrot and stick.”

“What do you suggest we do now?”

“Exactly what you are doing,” Stan said. “Remember, the scanner won’t exist for a long time. So that’s plenty of time to consider options, make a decision.”

“Obviously, I’m not going to mention this to the Forthrasts.”

“No. Let them grieve. But do give me a call if they suddenly decide to have him cremated.”

During the phone call, Corvallis’s eyes had been wandering. He had noticed an oddity about the Greek myth book. It looked brand new, but it was defective. Seen edge-on, some of the pages in the front were warped, as if they’d been exposed to moisture. He pulled it toward him. D’Aulaires’ Book of Greek Myths it was called. He opened the front cover and noticed two things. First of all, it had been inscribed.

Sophia,

I hope you’ll enjoy these stories as much as I did when I was your age! If you ever want me to read one to you, just tell your mom to call me.

Love,

Uncle Dodge

Second, there was a leaf—a big maple leaf, fire-engine red—flattened between the front cover and the first page. It was still damp and flexible. Dodge must have put it in there sopping wet, because the surrounding pages had soaked up enough water to pick up the sinusoidal warping that Corvallis had noticed a minute ago. It was obvious to him what had happened: Dodge had picked it up off the sidewalk outside of the medical building just before he had gone in there for the procedure. As a way of preserving it for his niece, he had slipped it under the cover of the book.

He felt shame at having looked in on something that was none of his business. He closed the cover of the book gently and put it back on the table.

Not fifteen minutes later, he heard the front door opening as someone came in from the elevator lobby. Someone who had a key to the apartment, obviously. He tortured himself for a few brief moments with the fantasy that it was Dodge, and that all of this stuff had been some kind of dream or hallucination. But then he heard a high-pitched voice calling, “Uncle Richard? Uncle Richard? Hello! Are you getting better?”

In answer came a much deeper voice, speaking with an Eastern European accent. “Ssh, you mustn’t disturb Uncle Richard, he is sleeping.” This was Csongor, Zula’s husband. “Remember, he is very sick.”

Corvallis understood something suddenly and clearly: this was all a sort of performance that the family was mounting, at great effort and expense, for no one’s benefit but Sophia’s. It was difficult to explain to a girl of her age that her favorite uncle had simply ceased to exist for no apparent reason. A brief, serious illness followed by death: miserable as it was, that was the best story they could come up with. She wasn’t ready to hear the facts of the situation, to understand the idea that a seemingly normal and healthy Uncle Richard was in fact a vegetable with no brain to speak of. They would say that he was sick, that he was sleeping. And in a few days they would break the terrible news to her that he had died. A full explanation of the protocols embedded in the health care directive and the disposition of remains would be many years in coming.

“Hello, Corvallis Kawasaki!” Sophia always addressed him thus, reveling in her ability to pronounce the name. She was a tiny thing, barely coming up to midthigh on her bulky father. Fortunately for her, she was more Zula than Csongor, with glorious curls. The Hungarian blood came through in her eyes, which were pale blue-green with a vaguely Asiatic slant.

Corvallis could not prevent himself from smiling broadly for the first time since all of this had started. “Hello, Sophia!” he said. “How was school today?”

“Fine,” she said, inevitably.

Corvallis and Csongor exchanged nods.

“There they are!” Sophia hollered. She bolted into the room, vaulted up onto the coffee table, and skidded to a halt where she could gaze down on the covers of the books. “Doe-lair’s Book of Greek Myths,” she said, “and Doe-lair’s Book of Norse Myths. My uncle Richard got them for me.”