It wasn’t just the busybody nature of the remark but the suggestion that my mother wasn’t able to look after herself and I ought to be doing more to help her.
Marge took the tone of my remark as proof of her suspicion. “I think I have a right to worry,” she said. “Your mother and I are old friends.”
My resolve collapsed. I felt trapped. “What I mean is that she’s—well, she is the way she is.”
Marge’s look softened. “It’s been a rough time for both of you, I know.” I was about to take this as my cue to leave when she perked up suddenly. “Oh, before I forget. You remember that elderly gentleman? When you were in here a while back? He came in recently and asked me to give you this.” She rummaged through the drawer of her desk, then produced a card and handed it to me. It was an old index card, yellowed at the edges. “I have a map which may interest you.” On the back were a name, address, and telephone number.
“Did he say anything else?” I asked.
Marge shook her head. “He just asked me to give you that.”
I slipped the card into my pocket and only half listened as Marge mentioned the upcoming retreat at the Trappist monastery in Virginia. Evidently, my mother had invited Marge to join her. “I just hope she knows she’s free to change her mind if she wants to,” Marge was saying.
“Change her mind?”
“About me coming along.”
I fingered the card in my pocket and glanced at my watch.
“Will you tell her?”
“That you changed your mind?”
“You haven’t heard a word I’ve said, have you?” She rolled her eyes and waved me off. “Forget it. I’ll tell her myself.”
“When was he in here?” I asked, taking the card from my pocket.
“At least a month ago. I don’t remember exactly.”
It was dark outside. I crossed the library parking lot behind the building and stood in the little park that adjoins it. I never leave the library without stopping here to take in the view. I sat down on a bench, pulled my collar up against the wind. In the foreground, the rooftops of Georgetown slope down Wisconsin Avenue, quaint and tasteful and haughty in the Washington small-town way. Across the river, Arlington Cemetery, the Pentagon, and the skylines of Rosslyn and Crystal City spread out in their closed crucible of power. Vaulting into the sky just behind the Pentagon is the Air Force Memorial, a bouquet of chromium arcs meant to suggest the trajectories of soaring jets that looks more like an explosion tearing up the horizon.
The Pentagon
38°52’15.10”N
77°3’20.51”W
Noel and Cowper have spent all morning at the Pentagon in meetings. Representatives from the offices of legal counsel were present at all of them—uniformed and civilian—chains of command going every which way. They each carried an armful of printouts containing all the relevant data. Rarefied stuff. Being the custodian of such material is its own reward—akin, Noel likes to believe, to knowing an ancient language or unraveling genetic code at the molecular level. Of course, Noel and Cowper are not the only ones who work with it, and a fair amount of possessiveness, jealousy, and conceit attends its use. Meetings can become great storms of silence as groups contend to have the greatest impact without overstepping their inner frontiers. Goals are spoken of laboriously. Everyone is circumspect. Today’s meetings concluded with somber acknowledgment that the common mission absolves them individually. In the end, people don’t kill, the state does.
As Noel is heading out to catch the shuttle back to Bolling, Cowper pulls him aside. “I thought it went well, considering.”
“Considering what?”
“Well, considering how badly it could have gone.” As ever, Cowper’s reasoning is airtight. He fixes Noel with a look of aggrieved authority. “Look. There’s nothing more we can do about it. Don’t lose sight of the big picture.”
Outside, in the big picture, plows have cleared the parking lots. The air is crisp and fresh. The Bolling shuttle pulls up, but Noel, in a sudden change of mind, waves the driver on. Pat is turning fifty-two next week, and he needs a birthday present. He heads over to Pentagon City Mall, navigating the unmarked network of sidewalks, shuttle stops, and parking lots. One can only feel out of place on foot here, either a threat to or threatened by the streaming traffic. As he is crossing Army-Navy Drive, his phone rings. He stops to answer, fumbling in the pockets of his overcoat.
It’s Pat.
“Hey. I was about to leave a message. When are you coming home?”
“I’m running an errand.”
“You sound out of breath.”
“I’m walking.”
“Noel? Can you hear me?”
“It’s the traffic.”
“I’ve been worried about Hannah.”
“Me, too. We’ll talk about it when I’m home.”
“We have a bad connection. I can barely hear you. I’m going to hang up.”
In Macy’s, yellow signs warn of wet floors. Noel moves cautiously around them, through the polished glare. A display at one of the counters catches his eye: I’Homme Fatal.
“A new fragrance for men,” a young woman says, materializing out of nowhere. She holds up a small glass flask. “Here, give me your hand.”
He pulls up his coat sleeve. She daubs a minute amount of fluid on his wrist and, demonstrating, passes her wrist under her nose. Her black bangs are cut straight across and match the dark mascara on her lashes. A silver ring pierces her left eyebrow, and a stud is fixed just beneath her lower lip. She closes her eyes and sniffs in a suggestion of ambrosial sin. Noel follows her example, eyes fixed on her as he sniffs.
“Do you like it?”
“I’m not much of a cologne user.” He passes his wrist under his nose again.
“But you like it, right?”
“The name caught my attention. Do you sell it everywhere? Or just here?”
“You can get it pretty much anywhere, I guess.”
“I’m looking for a present for my wife.”
“Give her this.”
“But it’s for men.”
“Exactly,” she says with a suggestive twinkle. “You work at the Pentagon, right?”
Noel nods, rolling his sleeve down.
“What do you do there?”
“I’m just a bean counter,” he says flatly, then suddenly adds, “And I kill people.”
