Chapter 7 On the Road with Adam Smith

"How's the patient?"

Julia spread her hands to encompass the living room. "Better. It's been three days getting there. He asked for you."

I listened for accusation in her tone but didn't hear any. She seemed glad I'd come at all. After Harold's collapse at the Faculty Club, Julia took him in and fixed up her guest room. She removed the footboard so his long feet could stretch over the end of the bed, installed blinds in place of frilly curtains, and set a small television within arm's reach.

Harold was half watching the television when we entered. His face was bloated, and his eyes appeared as small opaque buttons on a stuffed tiger. My borrowed pajamas were small for his large frame, their diamond pattern dizzying to the eye.

"Ahh ... it's you! Why'd you try and kill me?" Harold said woozily.

"I didn't try to kill you."

"You gave that Smith a drink ... you think I got these lines in my face rebuilding carburetors? I was on the wagon, fifteen years now."

"I didn't know."

"M—m—my liver sure did."

Harold must've been more than an average drinker in his day to react that way to a drink or two. Julia probably came to the same conclusion, because she looked at him with a knowing concern that made me feel incomplete, incompetent, or both.

"Doc gave me these." He held up a prescription bottle. "That and the TV keeps me from hearing that voice anymore. Last thing I need is for you two to get started again. Damn near killed me."

"Damn near killed my prize," I muttered, low to myself.

Harold turned back to the television show, the medicine keeping him half asleep. Julia and I eased out of his hearing. I filled her in on Smith's devastating comments to Susan Mitchell at the lunch.

"Will it cost you the prize?" she asked. "I'd feel terrible about that."

"Might have, but didn't turn out that way. Susan Mitchell was in the parking lot when we carried Harold to the car. Now I'm Mr. Nice Guy, trying to help a senile old man."

"He isn't senile." She lowered her eyes. I wanted to tell her how attractive she looked, but I left well enough alone. We were friends, she'd said, period.

"I'm sorry," I said. "I'm caught up revising that journal article. You know the pressure I'm under."

Her eyes lifted, and I was again amazed at and appreciative of her capacity for forgiveness. She worked up a smile, the kind I gave Rex when he knocked something over in his enthusiasm. "No, I should apologize. That was quite a risk, taking Harold to the Faculty Club."

She went on, "Worry makes me so insistent I forget my sense of humor. You deserve thanks, not my growls. What you did took a lot of courage." The way she said it, and the warm smile she flashed, gave a hint of something different. Subtle hints have a way of flying over my head, however. Perhaps she felt something also, because she quickly changed the subject. "What do you think of that channeled voice now?"

"It grew on me," I said. "Half the time I didn't know whether to feel sorry for it or strangle it. I'll miss it, though. I guess Harold's under a good doctor's care now ... hasn't heard the voice anymore."

"Uh-huh."

I looked at Julia, listening for clues in her response, and said, "I'm ... I'm heading for the West Coast in a few weeks."

"You're leaving?"

"I came by to tell you. I've rented a cabin near Yosemite, a working vacation. I do my best writing away from home."

Harold must have heard, because he looked up. "You're going away?" Panic crept into his voice.

I moved closer to Harold's bed. "I need to," I said. "I'll bike in the Sierras, camp on Half Dome, even see if I can make it up El Capitan. If that doesn't shake my dissertation loose, I don't know what will."

Julia pursed her lips, looking at Harold.

I put my hand on Harold's shoulder. "I began to enjoy that voice of yours, Harold. It wasn't as crazy as I thought. It had coherence, a vision."

"That's not what Wayne said when he helped carry him in," Julia said.

I laughed. "Wayne was upstaged by Harold's eloquence. You should have heard yourself, Harold!"

Julia walked me to my car.

"I do feel for Harold," I said, when I saw the earlier warmth now missing from her eyes. "The medicine is helping; he looks better already. You understand my needing to go, don't you?"

"Of course," she said flatly.

"Still friends?" I asked.

She crossed her arms and gave a smile. "Sure. Thanks for everything, Rich. And good luck."

I hesitated, then leaned forward to peck her cheek.

* * *

I spent the next weeks preparing for my journey. By the last morning I'd put the finishing touches on my "revise and resubmit" journal article. I printed the requisite three copies, wrote a cover letter, and sent it off. Then I surveyed the calamity of my dining room, which served as a home office. Paper enveloped my world: old drafts of my dissertation and that irksome last chapter were piled in clumps. I picked them all up, added the contents of my trash bin, and carried them outside. The solid thump of paper landing in the recycling tub was a high-five slap to my mind, a door slamming on the past.

In late afternoon the camping store became my home as I indulged myself with toys. I settled on a half-dome tent—easy to assemble. I threw in an assortment of other gear: ground cushion, sleeping bag, lantern, stove, first-aid kit, and an assortment of dehydrated meals. From the larder I added peanut butter, crackers, candy bars, soups, and my flask of Drambuie. I stuffed an ice cooler with cheese, eggs, and orange juice.

By the eve of departure my station wagon was crammed to the hilt. Four heavy boxes of books, journals, and research papers took up the far back, my laptop computer and briefcase wedged beside them. On the back seat was camping gear, food, and a suitcase. I'd left room for Rex, attaching a dog harness to the back seatbelt. On the passenger seat was the cooler, and on the floor below rested my shaving kit and a box of CDs. The odometer on my wagon had rolled past a hundred thousand miles, and being this loaded down, the wagon would struggle getting over the Rockies. The transmission had slipped recently, but I didn't want to spend several thousand dollars for a new one. I would set the cruise control for sixty-five, and keep my fingers crossed.

Rex barked non-stop from inside the house, probably upset at the upheaval. I stepped back to admire my handiwork and to stretch my aching shoulder blades. I anticipated the journey starting the next morning to be one of release and catharsis, and all the busy-work had kept me from thinking about Julia or Harold. Tiredness must be the culprit: for why else couldn't I feel a damn thing?

I went inside to make goodbye calls, holding the yapping Rex on my lap. I phoned my parents; there was no pick-up. I called Julia, and again—no answer. Getting out my address book I went down the list of friends and colleagues for whom my departure might mean something, and started dialing. My last call was to my retired neighbor, Frances, to ask her if there was anything she needed before I left.

"I'll be scared without you next door," she said. "We got rabid raccoons around here again. Look what they did to your trash, and it wasn't even dark yet!"

"My trash?"

"Dumped all over the alley," she said. "I must have scared 'em off when I drove in a half-hour ago."

I swore under my breath. "I'll pick it up, thanks."

I retrieved a flashlight and trotted to the back gate with Rex, who was now wagging his tail with "I-told-you-so" pride. The raccoons had indeed been there—the garbage was tipped over and the lid thrown to the side. But strangely, so too was my recycling bin, the contents strewn over the alleyway. Grumbling, I picked up a bottle here, a section of newspaper there. At least there was no wind to blow things about.

Why would raccoons get into the recycling? The bottles and cans were rinsed, and the newspapers inedible, even for a rabid animal. I put everything back that was lying on the ground, and stood with a hand on my hip, surveying the containers with the narrow beam of a flashlight. Something wasn't quite right. The recycling bin was only half-full. With dawning realization, my jaw clenched. My dissertation drafts were gone.

* * *

It was nine-thirty before I came back in, poured a jigger of Drambuie on ice, and dropped into the overstuffed recliner. I pulled my feet up, and turned off the light. This was a ritual after a hard day: sitting in the dark, Rex at my side, savoring the liqueur on my tongue and throat, letting go of the day's events.

The shock of violation I felt, that someone rummaged through my papers and made off with my manuscripts, was matched only by my self-flagellation at being so dim-witted as to leave them out. What an idiot! I'd heard of academic dishonesty, feuding professors stealing another's idea to publish it first. That sort of thing was folklore in the academic hotbeds of Cambridge and Palo Alto. But it seemed so remote from sleepy Fredericksburg that it never occurred to me to worry.

My mind chased possibilities. It could have been a random prank—juvenile delinquents rolling trash cans. I shook my head: whoever took the texts went deliberately for them. That meant someone watched the house when I deposited them this afternoon. Having several drafts meant they could follow the progression in my thinking. On the other hand, I was nowhere close to finishing. I had the pieces, but lacked a unifying theory, and those papers wouldn't help them. With the great Lattimer as witness to my proprietary rights, no respectable journal would publish anyone else using my material. What then could be the motive?

I suddenly recalled what Lattimer said at our lunch in Washington, "A deal this big could be worth a billion dollars to WorldChemm." My mind churned: was this industrial espionage? WorldChemm was not the only conglomerate interested in raking in Russian rubles—dozens of firms would love the chance of that. I ran my hand through my hair. I had set out to write a dissertation, and hadn't asked for life to get this complicated. I took a sip of liqueur and threw my head back. I slipped into an uneasy snooze.

When I drifted awake, a welcoming breeze wafted through the open window from the garden. With it came the fragrance of a flowering olive bush. In the distance I heard popping and cracking explosions, and saw flashes of fireworks. It suddenly dawned on me this was the fourth of July, and I'd gone nowhere to celebrate, and indeed, had no one besides Rex with whom to celebrate. No doubt, I was feeling sorry for myself.

I floated back to sleep, moonbeams angling over my torso. In a dream state a cumulous cloud called my name, its mist enfolding me. I heard a muted thudding, a silence, then brushing and rasping. I rearranged my body on the recliner, but the cloud came back, speaking to me; I couldn't understand.

My eyes bolted open. A giant figure peered at me from the window, its form framed by the mullions and back lit by the moon. For what seemed like an eternity I felt paralyzed in a dream state, staring at a monstrous danger. My so-called guard dog Rex had done nothing to warn me; he stood alert, ears perked, his tail wagging like a flag at an Independence Day parade.

"I'm going with you," the giant form said from the window.

"Who is it?" I stuttered. "Oh, you! Harold! Jeez!"

"Not him—me," the voice said hoarsely. "Smith."

I flung myself up. "You scared the daylights out of me."

"I'm going with you," Smith said. "I've got a satchel of his things with me."

"You're standing on my shrub, crushing my olive bush!"

Another voice came through the window. It was Julia's. "Rich, I couldn't stop him."

In a few moments we were positioned in my living room: Smith opposite me in his tan jacket, clutching a duffel bag, Julia between us. Rex sniffed with interest at the visitor's large feet.

"This is insane," I yelled. "You can't make decisions for Harold."

Julia was less-than-calm herself. "When I got back from my studio tonight he was sitting on the front porch with his bag."

"Harold seemed so well last time, so normal," I said, ignoring Smith.

"He insisted I bring him here," she said. "I didn't know what to do."

"Let's all calm down," Smith said. "So what if it is me? You'll do Harold a favor by taking me along. Those drugs are a wrecking ball to his body. He'll do better getting me heard."

"I can't do this," I said.

There was silence for a moment.

Then Julia sighed, and looked up at me. "This is asking an awful lot, Rich, but the more I think about it, the more sense it starts to make. If he doesn't go with you, Harold will have to find someone else to help channel Smith. You know how nearly impossible that is. This isn't going to go away."

"Not exactly my problem," I said, in a sleepy, cross tone.

Julia faced me, imploring. "Can you always walk away from others so easily?"

"I haven't room," I said. "See for yourself, the wagon's crammed."

"I don't need to," she shot back. "We make room in our lives for what's important."

Julia had a talent for direct hits.

As quickly as she said it, she blushed. "There goes my tongue again. I'm sorry, Rich, I shouldn't have said that. We're asking way too much of you." She took Smith's arm. "Come on, big fellow, let's go."

Smith raised his shoulders, looking at me. "I implore you then, if not on my behalf, then for Harold's sake. His only sister lives in a borough called Oakland, out where you're going."

Julia nodded her head slowly. "I'd forgotten that. He could certainly use his sister's help now. Did you know his health insurance ran out?"

None of these were my problems, and I had every right to say "no" to such an absurd imposition. The whole idea was crazy.

Rex sat calmly at Smith's feet as if he were waiting for a doggie treat. Smith obliged him with a caress of his ear. "A good sheep dog here," Smith said.

Julia snapped her fingers. "Hey, Harold's a mechanic! He'd be able to help if your old wagon breaks down." Her look at me softened. "Oh, Rich, say you'll take him?"

Rex chimed in with a bark, and all of them were looking at me.

And so that is how, at seven the next morning, I set off on a journey across America with a big-boned senior citizen, the tired Romanian from whose fading body arose a voice-spirit calling itself Adam Smith. I went along with this insanity, seduced and cajoled from being the driver of my own fate to a passenger on a journey I could not define. I could say I went along just for Julia's sake, or to have a mechanic along, but that wouldn't be all of it. The voice intrigued me—and some part of me hungered to hear more.