Kit
It’s Thursday morning and I’m at my desk, clicking through a set of images Ben Tucker sent to my personal email—over thirty-five photos and three videos of the microscopy lab at Beaumont’s Houston division. When I’d first seen the email on my phone, I’d told myself that I’d look more closely when I got home. I didn’t want to bring up an email about a job offer on my work computer. But then I’d happened to see one of the thumbnail images, and—well. An FEI color and spherical aberration corrected scanning electron microscope? I can’t be sure, having never been much into the stuff myself, but I’m pretty sure this is how people who are tempted by pornography feel.
Ben hasn’t added any commentary to the message—probably he figures the pictures do all the talking, and I guess they do, because the lab at Beaumont looks incredible. It’s not just the equipment, either—this is the look of a lab that has a professional, scientifically trained cleaning staff, and it’s the look of a lab that has zero cash flow problems. Over the past few days, since Ben visited me here at work, this has been his strategy, mostly. It’s not him that does the pitching. Instead, he sends me this sort of thing—pictures, but also papers that have come out from Beaumont’s team, an annual budget report for the metallurgy division that looks sizable enough to run a small country, and, probably most convincingly, a link to a TED Talk from one of Beaumont’s lead software engineers, a petite woman named Kim-Ly Nguyen who completely owns the room, describing her work on developing programs for remote surgical procedures. I don’t know much about software other than what I have to know for the running of the scopes, but it doesn’t matter. It’s compelling to see someone in corporate science be so engaged, so connected to the work of what she does.
It’s not that Ben has left himself out of the picture. On Tuesday, I’d gone after work to the salvage yard, planning to spend maybe an hour getting started on the list of hardware we’d drawn up. But one hour had turned into three, mostly because Henry had offered to take me on a tour of the whole place. We’d made our way through the expansive space, Henry wheeling along at my side, talking happily about the different “zones,” and as it turned out, my favorite was the same as his, the area toward the back that was lit by vintage chandeliers and light fixtures that Henry himself had restored. Eventually, Ben had joined us there, explaining that he too had been trained to do some of the lighting work, and I’d been transfixed by learning about all the different chandelier parts. The space was warm from all the electric light, the prisms casting ripples of rainbowed pattern along the walls. Ben had enthusiastically described—in more detail than I would have been able to provide—my house to Henry, who’d leaned forward in his chair, nodding, as though this was a really important issue to him. “You don’t want to be a slave to the restoration,” Henry had said, looking at me. “You want historical pieces, okay, but don’t think everything has to be from the same era. You pick stuff that catches you, that speaks to you. It all has a story. It doesn’t have to be a story from the same time period.”
“Kind of how I can see you making eyes at that mid-century pendant light,” Ben had said. “It’d go great in your foyer.” Then he winked at me. And it didn’t even feel sleazy or awkward. It felt the same as pretty much everything else Ben did, which meant that it felt charming and sweet and more arousing than it had any right to.
It was easy to be friends with Ben. That was the problem—he made you feel so welcome, as if nothing at all was an inconvenience or an intrusion or a waste of time, even though I could tell he had his hands full with his dad and the salvage yard. When I’d called him yesterday to tell him I wanted to buy that pendant light, he’d offered to bring it over to my house later, once he’d taken his dad to PT. I’d demurred, making my spin class excuse, but the truth was, I’d really wanted him to come over. I didn’t even really care if he had an ulterior motive at that point—I’d just wanted to see him.
I was right now wearing the purple sweatshirt, for crying out loud. Because it still smelled like him.
There’s a loud knock on my partially open door, and I jump in my seat, quickly closing the browser window. It’s Akeelah, one of Dr. Wagner’s graduate students, her brown eyes wide and frantic. As soon as I see her face, my senses awaken to the dim register of the microscope’s warning alarm from down the hall.
“Dammit,” I say, and hustle down the hall after her.
Five minutes later, and I’m standing next to the Titan, my hands on my hips, my shoulders slouched in frustration. “Well. Someone’s definitely dumped the column.”
“It was Akeelah,” says Todd, Dr. Wagner’s other grad student, and ugh. Fucking Todd.
I give him a wary look. “Are you guys running this experiment together?”
“Yes, but…” Todd begins, but I cut him off.
“It was both of you, then. Get a grip, Todd. You know better than that. You’re on the same team.” Akeelah is looking at Todd in such total surprise that I’m almost sure he’s responsible for this, but it’s not my job to get in the middle here. I’ll try to talk to Akeelah later, when Todd isn’t around—I’ve been in her shoes, surrounded by mostly male faculty, mostly male students, and you learn some pretty hard lessons about the way things operate.
I lean in and have another look—I’m guessing someone impatient took out the sample rod without fully closing the ball valve. I’m probably going to have to take apart the chamber, realign the valve and door, and put it back together. Then I’ll have to go through the pretty tedious cleaning procedure for the column. It’ll be a day or two of work to do the repair, and a day on either side to get the microscope shut down and restarted. I let out a gusty sigh. I’d hoped to get in here myself this weekend for some scans, but that’s not going to happen now.
“Dr. Wagner needs these results by tomorrow,” Todd says, his tone impatient.
“Not going to happen,” I say. There’s no way to do this work more quickly. If Todd paid attention to anything about the scopes, he’d know this.
“We could use the Tecnai,” says Akeelah, referring to one of our other imaging microscopes. “We don’t really need something so high resolution.” I give her a grateful smile. Akeelah is smart, flexible, a quick thinker. She’s been here since she was an undergraduate, and I trained her on most of these microscopes.
“Or we could get a faster lab tech,” murmurs Todd, his arms crossed over his chest.
Nope, I think. Nope to this guy.
“Out,” I snap, pointing to the door. “You’re out, Todd. Your colleague has given you a good idea to solve your problem. I’d suggest you listen to her. I’m sorry you’re frustrated, but I run the show down here, and I’m going to spend my next two work days solving a problem you caused. If you think I’m not doing my job, you can talk to Dr. Wagner about it.”
It’s sad, but I’m used to the Todds of the world. He’s as smart as anyone who’s managed to make it into a doctoral program in a pretty specialized field, but he’s way too self-congratulatory about it for his own good, and he doesn’t have any respect for what makes the knowledge in his field possible. He doesn’t respect the equipment, or the people who keep it running. He’s flippant and disdainful when it comes to reviewing the work of people who have come long before him. If I’m being honest, before I’d met Ben Tucker, it was the Todds of the world who I pictured as working at places like Beaumont.
Todd shuffles out, and Akeelah stays behind for a minute to say her apologies, which I appreciate, but it’s unnecessary. I get it—stuff happens when you’re running experiments, and even though I’m frustrated about how this might derail my schedule, fixing the scopes is part of my job, and I don’t mind the work. And Todd can go complain to Dr. Wagner if he wants. I know I’ve earned the respect and admiration of every faculty member here. I know they need me.
But damn if I don’t think, for a split second, about those pictures on my email.
* * * *
When I go after work to pick up my new light, I’m feeling a bit defensive, a bit off my game. Wagner did come down to the microscope later, and though he clearly didn’t buy Todd’s version of things, he did ask whether there was any way I could speed up the process. Dr. Singh, too, was stressed about the repair, especially since it was possible I was going to have to reorder a part. The budget was already a little out of control for this month.
I’d tried to calm both of their concerns, but today had been one of those days that was more losses than wins, and I don’t want to be going to see Ben with that attitude. I don’t want him to pick up on my weakness, or fear, or whatever it is that’s made me think too much about his offer.
The salvage yard is pretty quiet when I arrive, only a couple of cars in the lot, and inside Henry is standing—standing!—behind the display cases, laying out what I think are porcelain water tap handles on a piece of felt for a customer who’s looking carefully at each one. I give him a goofy, excited thumbs-up to see him standing, and he smiles, a bit crooked the way Ben does, giving a little lift to the cane he’s holding in one hand so that I can see. Ben is nowhere in sight, but Henry must see me looking around, because he gestures over his shoulder to where the office is, waving me back. I feel a little honored to be invited back there, like I’m part of the inner sanctum around here, not any old drop-in shopper. I sort of want to gloat in front of the random customer, but he doesn’t even glance up at me.
I was in this office once before, for that frantic moment the day Ben caught River, but now I’m able to take the whole space in. It’s really only an office in the barest sense of the word. There’s a desk with a computer and three big file cabinets lining the wall behind it, but mostly the large, open space is dominated by a workbench with tools hanging from a pegboard that’s mounted on the wall. Off to the side is an old, avocado-colored refrigerator, and there’s a small round dining table where Ben and River are sitting, hunched over a book.
“Hi,” I say, and Ben looks up at me, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he smiles.
“Thank God you’re here,” he says, and just like that, I don’t really feel all that defensive.
Not so for River, though, who finally acknowledges my presence by looking in my direction and fixing me with a stare that seems to say, way to crash the party, lady. I know exactly what Ben means when he says River makes him feel old, because jeez, that look. This is the first time I’m seeing him since the bricks incident, and while Ben and Henry said he was getting along better, getting the hang of things pretty quickly, none of that progress shows in his appearance, which is as slouchy and sullen as it was before.
I walk over to the table and stick out my hand for him to shake. “I’m Kit.” He doesn’t shake my hand right away, just looks over at Ben, as though for permission.
“River,” Ben says, nudging him. I notice he waits for River to look at him before he speaks again. “I told you about Kit. She can help you with this.”
I cock my head so I can see the book they’re looking at—it’s a high school physics textbook, and that’s pretty much all the invitation I need to sit down. “You’re doing physics already? I didn’t get to do this until sophomore year.”
“River’s in some advanced placement classes this summer,” says Ben, looking across the table at me. His eyes look so blue in here, I have to tip my own down to the book again to stop from staring.
“What’re you stuck on?” I ask, and again River looks toward Ben first, who nods in my direction. I’m amazed by this change—by how Ben, who practically hauled this kid across the parking lot not so long ago, has managed to earn his trust.
It’s not as easy for me, but after forty-five minutes of working with River on his physics homework, I think I’ve made decent strides. River doesn’t talk much, and he does not laugh at my classic “photon traveling light” joke, but he pays attention. At some point Ben leaves the table, telling me that Henry was only allowed to be on his boot for thirty minutes at a time, and though I hear them arguing out there, I stay focused on River, enjoying the easy work of his equations. It’s nice, after the day I’ve had.
Finally Henry wheels in, his face red. “Smalls!” he shouts, and River looks up, apparently used to this nickname. “Break’s over. Come out here and help me rearrange some tiles. This jerk says I can’t do it alone.”
“Dad,” Ben says, coming in behind him. “Relax.”
Once we’re alone, Ben sits across from me and lets out an exasperated sigh, rolling his shoulders. “Jesus, what a day. I remember zero things about physics.”
“He seems to like you. River, I mean.”
Ben snorts. “Yeah, I mean, he’s only been here a couple of times, but he seems to want to be around, which is weird. Today’s not even his day to come, but I think these summer classes aren’t that much fun for him. He’s got a little trouble hearing in the bigger classroom spaces. From what little he’s said, I gather he takes some heat from older kids.”
“That’s too bad.” I got my fair share of teasing in school, but Alex’s reputation around was usually enough to keep anyone from messing with me too much. “But your dad’s up, huh?”
“Yeah, it’s progress. Took him to physical therapy yesterday, which he complained about right up until they told him he could put some weight on the leg this week. And then he—he gets a little bit of permission, you know, and he wants to chuck all the rules out the window. If he doesn’t follow the rules…” He trails off and lets out a another sigh, rubs his fingers through his hair. “Sorry. He’s been—a lot this week.” I wonder how it would feel to stand up, to move behind him to rub the tension out of his shoulders. I wonder how it would feel to be the person who got to do that for Ben.
Instead, I say, “It’s okay. I didn’t have such a great day, either.”
“Yeah?” he says, but I don’t like it. I don’t like that he’s said it so cheerfully, that there’s a spark of hope in his eyes.
“No need to look so gleeful, Ben. It doesn’t have anything to do with work,” I lie. My voice is harsh, snappish.
He has the decency to look ashamed. But then he asks, “Did you get my email?”
“Yes,” I say, feeling cool, defensive again, and even though I’d come here seeking a bit of respite, now I can’t wait to leave. “I’m still not interested. Look, I really only came to pick up the light.”
“Right.” He stands from his chair, a little slowly. I can see the fatigue written all over his lean, strong body, and I try not to feel sorry about being short with him—after all, he kind of deserves it—but I really, really do. Before I can think of something to say, though, he leaves the office, and it’s a few minutes before he comes back, holding a box that looks way too big for the light I remember. “I packed it for you earlier—you have to use a lot of material for something this delicate.”
“Oh,” I say, feeling terrible now. “Thanks.”
“I could install it for you. If you don’t want to call an electrician.”
“That’s okay,” I say, but I don’t want to call an electrician, even though I do have a good one that’s already done some rewiring in the house. I want Ben to do it, because Ben’s the one who’d noticed me wanting this light in the first place.
He nods, his jaw clenched. “I’ll just get it out to your car for you, then.”
We walk in silence to the parking lot, and it’s awkward, Ben maneuvering the big box into my trunk, even after I’ve put the back seats down. It’s a minor thing, but to him it’s probably another annoying inconvenience in an already annoying day, and sure I’m pissed at his attitude from before, but maybe I’d been too hasty.
“I forgot to say, I also put some of the bulbs in there that you’ll need. A lot of these old fixtures, you’re going to need to look for things online, but I left you the ones that we used in the display, and some we had in the back.”
I had probably been too hasty.
He’s tucked his hands in his pockets. He’s looking over toward the yard, instead of at me. “I’d better get back in there,” he says. “I need to make sure River heads home soon.”
“Of course,” I say, sounding starchy and weird. “I appreciate your help. I’ll let you know how the light turns out.”
* * * *
Improbably, the day gets worse, because almost as soon as I get home, my phone rings, and it’s my dad calling. The dread I feel at seeing his name on my screen is pretty standard. Since I went to college, I’d learned to expect bad news from my dad’s calls, some new financial catastrophe, or, worse, some new scheme he thought was going to prevent it. But the guilt I feel is pretty new, starting—oh, about six months ago now, when those winning numbers came up.
I take a deep breath before answering, lowering myself to the couch. “Hi, Dad.”
“I have a new address for you,” he says, and—it just strikes this little chord of anxiety I always have tuned somewhere within my body. I feel it shake down all the way to my fingertips, even though the rational part of me knows that my father having to move again doesn’t affect me anymore, doesn’t have to change my life, doesn’t force me to start over.
“Dad,” I say, my throat tight. “It’s only been six months. I send the checks directly to the management office—”
“I’m not being evicted,” he snaps, and I slump back in relief, and confusion. “I’m moving in with my—I’m moving in with a woman. Her name is Candace.”
“Oh, Dad,” I sigh, rubbing an aching spot on my forehead. It’s not unusual for him to be dating—despite the fact that he’s lived hard most of his life, he’s still a good-looking guy, tall and lean like Alex is, with salt-and-pepper hair, and, when he works at it, a charming smile. For Dad, women were part of the life—he didn’t usually indulge in his vices alone. And while none of them tended to stick around long—my mother the exception, but only to get through the pregnancy—they usually managed to be part of some new brand of trouble my dad would get into.
My dad coughs on the other end of the line, clearing his throat, and it’s a thick, wet sound that makes me wince—what a lifetime of smoking Camels has done to his health. I wait for him to tell me more about Candace, but really I’m already picturing her from experience. Blond, probably, big hair, too much makeup, lots of jewelry, enough so that it makes noise when she walks. It’s no small irony that I make a mental ten to one bet he met her at a casino.
“I met her at church,” he says, his voice still rocky and uneven with phlegm.
What the…what?
“What kind of church?” I’m glad he can’t see my eyes narrow in suspicion.
“Just a church I go to,” he says, and then he raises his voice. “It’s none of your business!”
He’s always been this way—volatile, quick to anger, especially when he thinks I’m asking for an accounting of his decisions. “Okay,” I say calmly. This is a tactic I’ve honed over many years—do not engage. Maybe I haven’t done such a good job of it in the practical sense, seeing as how we’re about to discuss where I should send his checks, but I’ve improved immensely in the verbal communication part of things. “Let me have the address.”
He rattles it off, a P.O. Box, and I shouldn’t ask, but curiosity gets the better of me. “Where is—what kind of place is this, Dad? An apartment, or…?” I trail off, unsure of how much to press here. Despite everything, despite his almost complete negligence of me for my entire life, I worry over him. I want to know he’s at least someplace warm, safe. And I don’t want to be sending money to some woman’s P.O. Box.
“It’s a trailer,” he says gruffly. “Nice place.” A trailer actually could be a pretty nice place, compared to a lot of the apartments we lived in over the years, and I’m resolved not to judge—but at least with the apartments my dad’s been in, I’ve been able to talk to a property manager, or visit a website. I’ve been able to keep some tabs.
“Maybe I could meet Candace sometime. Does she have a computer? We could Skype.”
“Yeah, yeah,” he says, but I can tell he’s already finished with this conversation. “Maybe.”
I take another deep breath, because I always do, before this part of almost every call we have. “Have you checked out any of those meetings I suggested, Dad?”
“I’ve got to run, Ekaterina,” he says, and I nod uselessly, feeling as defeated as I always do. “You take care,” he adds, which is as close to I love you as my father gets.
“Thanks. You take care too.”
But he won’t. He never, ever does.
I try to get Dad out of my mind while I heat up some leftovers, but I’m a dog with a bone when it comes to his issues, and I’ve been worse about it since the lottery. The only positive here is that I’ve got a legitimate excuse to text Alex, who’s still dodging me about my proposal. I fire off a quick message, asking whether he knows anything about Candace, and send an email too—he’s doing a shoot in South America, I think, and his phone contact might be spotty.
Tomorrow is going to be a long day. I’ll get up early and be at the lab by six so I can start the repairs I need to do. I should probably just eat and head to bed, but instead, I grab my phone again and send a group text to Zoe and Greer. Bring candy, it says, and within five minutes Zoe has texted back, On it. Greer writes that she’ll be over within the hour.
I smile in gratitude, in relief. Then I navigate back to my email and hover over the message Ben sent this morning, the one with all the pictures. With barely a hesitation I trash it. Today was lousy at work, sure, but it doesn’t take much to remind me of what really matters. That call with my dad—his constant wayfaring, instability—is a check on what I’ve worked so hard for here. No matter what Beaumont has down there in Texas, it doesn’t have Zoe and Greer, and it doesn’t have my home. I’ll fix the microscope, keep going with all these renovations, keep focused on all the things here that have made me happier than I’ve ever been allowed to be in my life.
And if I spend a little too much time thinking about that pained, tired look on Ben Tucker’s face, well—that’s something I can deal with another time.