The God Patent Page 15

  She called, “Ryan, are you coming to bed?” When he didn’t reply, she danced into the living room. They looked sort of cute, Daddy and son. A bit of the edge crept back—Ryan was hers now. She leaned down and yelled in his face, “Go to bed!”

  His eyes opened and Tammi took his hands. They were rough. She remembered how soft they’d been the night they met. He was hers. The edge faded back behind the glow. She tugged, and he sat up and then followed her into the bedroom.

  Ryan climbed under the covers and fell asleep almost instantly. Tammi climbed out of the T-shirt and crawled in next to him. He pulled her close. That was what she wanted, except that she wasn’t quite sleepy. The longer she lay there, the more she wanted to play. She tugged at his groin, and just as she started working her magic, he rolled over, his mouth fell open, and he started snoring.

  It was the wrong thing to do.

  She ripped the covers off and turned the light back on. Ryan put his head under the pillow.

  What a prick. He moves into her apartment, brings his asshole kid whenever he wants, and then rejects her?

  She tapped a little more white powder into the pipe and had another hit.

  Much better.

  She rubbed her nipples in circles with her palms and skipped into the living room to look at Sean. A miniature version of Ryan, he couldn’t be any cuter. His bare knee stuck out of the sleeping bag. She tucked him in and zipped it up. She cooed at him, and he curled up against her. Maybe he wasn’t such a brat.

  She rubbed his shoulder. He made a comfy sound and opened his eyes, the same blue eyes as his daddy. She leaned down, rubbed her nose against his, and whispered, “Hi, honey.”

  Sean jerked upright and stared—just like the men who came to see her at Playthings. She leaned back and rubbed herself, her best tip-generating maneuver.

  “Ewww,” he screamed. “You’re naked! What are you doing—YUCK!”

  It was the wrong thing to say.

  Sean pushed his face into the folds of the couch—her couch, in her apartment.

  Tammi went back in the bedroom. Ryan was still snoring. Motherfucker.

  She picked up her pipe, put the rest of the meth in it, and took it into the living room. Sitting at the edge of the couch, just clear of Sean’s feet, she took a big hit and then exhaled the smoke into the folds of the couch where Sean was hiding his pathetic face.

  He worked his way deeper between the cushions.

  Tammi danced around the living room, letting the buzz consume her. She couldn’t sleep now, but why would she? It was New Year’s Eve. There had to be a party somewhere. She put her big T-shirt back on, slipped on stockings and a garter belt, and as she walked to the door, she noticed the pipe sitting on the coffee table. She giggled, picked it up, leaned down, and placed it into Sean’s suitcase, underneath his socks.

  “When Linda unpacked his bag,” Ryan said, “she found the pipe and, next thing I know, we’re in court, and the judge is issuing a restraining order against me and granting Linda sole custody—that was the last time I saw Sean.”

  As Ryan finished the story, he looked up and realized that Foster was sitting up straight.

  “Ryan, that’s bad.” He spoke in a tense monotone, shaken into sobriety. “That woman is evil, truly evil. How could you let that happen?”

  Ryan, wading through misery, mistook Foster’s glare for empathy. “I don’t know. The meth, I guess. You know, I was fucked up on meth for over a year, but I never, not even once, did I use any meth with Sean around. That’s how I fooled myself into believing that I wasn’t addicted.”

  Foster said, “How could you let that happen?”

  “I was asleep when it happened.”

  “But that woman…”

  “Poor Sean.” Ryan hung his head. Had he warped the boy for life? “No wonder they don’t want me around him.”

  Foster stood and stumbled away from Ryan, but, buried in misery and with his head hanging down, Ryan didn’t notice.

  Foster said, “You need to pray for forgiveness.”

  “I tried that.” Ryan sat up and sipped the brandy. “While I was getting off the meth, I tried praying for strength and stuff, but it just made me feel guilty, like I didn’t want Jesus and God to know.”

  “What? Do you know anything about the Word of God?”

  “I know it’s ridiculous. It’s like I was embarrassed, so instead of praying, I just pushed really hard to get through it, and then, at the other end, it didn’t really seem relevant.”

  “It didn’t seem relevant?” Foster stepped toward the door.

  “Not really.”

  “Not relevant? It’s the only thing that’s relevant. How can you—oh, never mind.” Foster walked out.

  Ryan passed out on the couch in Foster’s study. He awoke a few hours later to blazing sunlight screaming into his head through the dry red orbs he called eyes.

  Locking the blind into its open position, Rachel said, “Oh, I’m sorry, is that light bothering you?” She spoke much louder than she needed to, and, as far as Ryan could tell, the only reason to open the blind at all was to cause him pain.

  He said, “Good morning, Rachel.”

  She scowled and walked out of the study, leaving the door open. A few seconds later, pans started crashing together in the kitchen.

  Ryan sat up on the couch, squeezing his head between his hands, hiding from the light and noise. Something was in the air, something that it would take Ryan the next two days to realize. His headache was too sharp for him to feel the distance. Besides, his confessions had cleansed his emotional palette, just as Rachel had promised. He even accepted Foster’s smugness. After all, everywhere he looked he saw evidence that Foster’s choices had been superior to his.

  The crashing pans went quiet, and he heard muffled talking. Then the pans resumed, and Foster came into the study. He looked about the same as Ryan felt.

  “I have to drive you back to your hotel,” Foster whispered.

  Ryan nodded and followed him outside to the car.

  Foster drove without talking, and when they got to the hotel, he said, “You should come to church with us tomorrow.”

  “I haven’t been to Mass since I got married.”

  “I’m not surprised,” Foster said. “That’s your whole problem.”

  “I went and sat in church a few months ago. You’d have gotten a kick out of it. I kind of meditated on the similarity between a prayer book and a calculus text.”

  “Maybe that’s all you need.” Foster spoke with enthusiasm. “A worship service is a good first step.”

  “Sure,” Ryan said, “sounds good. When I was a kid, Mom had to force me to go to church. But when I got there, the music and incense, the candles and stuff, it was kind of special. Maybe you’re right. Maybe I should go more often.”

  “It’s a start,” Foster said and gave him directions.

  Ryan spent the day in his hotel room watching old movies on TV and nursing his hangover.

  The next morning, Sunday, Ryan wore a coat and tie despite the heat. He got in the rental car and took the highway. He could see the church from a mile away. It had its own off-ramp. He sat out front on a bench and waited for Foster and Rachel. Hardale’s population, including students, was just over eight thousand, but the church filled all of its ten thousand seats. Officially, it was a nondenominational “Calvary of Christ” church, but the preacher was Baptist, the rules were Baptist, and everyone there seemed to be Baptist.

  Still, Ryan didn’t feel uncomfortable. As a boy, he had gone to Mass every Sunday, and at some point, wedged into the pew between his sisters, he’d feel something: a warmth, a calm, a special presence. Sometimes it came as the choir sang, sometimes while his parents were at communion. Sitting in that church with Foster and Rachel to his left and a little old lady to his right, he felt at peace. The chancellor sat a few rows ahead. His neck bulged over his collar. He was a little backward in the way of science and, like every manager, had an agenda. Foster’s graduate
student, Matt Smith, was seated at the end of the pew. Matt gave a little nod of recognition.

  Ryan felt it again, just like when he was a boy: contentment and fullness. He looked up at the ceiling. Catholic churches had high steeples where he could imagine the Holy Ghost winking down at him. This church had a more humble ceiling—acoustic tiles. Still, Ryan felt a hint of something; maybe it was a divine presence, maybe just the peace brought by sitting with his friends. Then a thought occurred to Ryan, a thought he really liked: maybe friends are that divine presence.

  After church, Foster guided Ryan to a vacant garden between the parking structure and a small amphitheater. He said, “Ryan, I need an answer. Do you believe in Creation Energy? That we will pass breakeven?”

  “Foster,” Ryan said, looking up in the sky at a little thunderhead. “I really want to thank you for everything you’ve done for me.”

  “Hold it, Ryan. That’s not what I asked. Do you believe in our patents?”

  “Come on, Foster.” He laughed. “They love you here; you’re practically a saint, but as I recall, you were more interested in spending the patent bonus on a boat.” He watched a hummingbird levitate over a flowery vine. “I didn’t feel God’s presence that day. But, you know what? A few minutes ago, inside, there was something. It’s been a long time since—”

  “You think it was about a boat?”

  Ryan finally looked at Foster. “Take it easy. We were both there.” Foster’s face flushed. “What do you want me to say? You’ve done some impressive work, but come on, I’m an engineer.”

  “I spoke with the chancellor a few minutes ago. He made a good point. You have to believe for it to happen. It might sound sort of new-agey, but it’s true: you’ll see it when you believe it.”

  “You’re right, that sounds new-agey.”

  Foster looked away.

  Ryan said, “Look, either the technology works or it doesn’t. I’m here to write code and implement hardware, right? You interpret the Bible, I’ll interpret the PRD, and between us we’ll build one intense power generator, okay?”

  “We’ll see.”

  Ryan put his arm around Foster and said, “Exactly what I mean. Between the two of us, we’ve got it covered. We will see!”

  The next morning, Ryan met Foster in his office. Foster motioned for him to sit but didn’t say anything. Eventually, Ryan broke the silence: “Should I leave around noon? My plane back to San Francisco leaves at four…”

  “San Francisco, huh? The Left Coast. Of all places, why did you go there?”

  “Naw, it’s okay.” Ryan chuckled. “You know, I think I was guided there. I meant to go to Silicon Valley but got confused at a freeway junction—all these 80s: 580, 680, 780, 880—and I ended up going the wrong way. When I saw the sun setting beyond the Golden Gate—you should see it; it really looks like a gate—I thought of what you always say about how things happen for a reason, so I followed that feeling across the bridge and landed in Petaluma. You’d love the wine country. You want to come out and help me move? We could make it a road trip, maybe stop in Vegas on the way.”

  Foster sighed and then said, “I have a meeting. It won’t take long. I’ll be back in half an hour.”

  Foster’s tone finally registered with Ryan. “Foster, I really want this opportunity.”

  “You don’t get it, do you?” Foster said. He picked up his briefcase. Its seams bulged, and he had to lift it with both hands. “Ryan, this is more than an opportunity for you to clean up your mess. The scientific establishment has been waging this war on Christianity for hundreds of years, and we’re losing. This could be the decisive battle in the war between right and wrong. Do you get that?”

  Ryan stood, finally reacting with fortitude. “I interviewed for a job to guide the development of technology that you and I invented seven years ago. I’ve seen your lab and respect what you’ve done, but I also understand that this opportunity is essentially capitalizing on the prejudices of the scientific establishment.”

  “It’s war and the good guys are losing. Do you want to fight in this battle?”

  They stared at each other for almost a minute. Finally, Foster walked out of the office.

  Ryan went downstairs and sat at a bench, a white bench just off one of the white concrete paths next to a white stucco building. His adrenalin dissipated and left a sheen of uncertainty.

  Half an hour later, Foster walked up the path. He didn’t make eye contact with Ryan. “Your hotel and rental car should be paid for. Have a safe trip home.”

  Ryan said, “What happened? What’s wrong?”

  “I wonder why you’re here.” It was as though Foster were talking to himself. “I can’t hire you. Maybe you’re not close enough to God. It’s not for me to judge, but I can’t hire you.”

  “What?” Ryan stood and poked his right index finger into Foster’s chest. “What the fuck are you talking about? If you want to win this battle, you better accept that it’s about technology—you can’t build a goddamn generator on faith.”

  “Forget it. Please accept my apology. You betrayed your wife, your son, and…really Ryan, I’m so sorry.” Foster looked up and spoke to the sky. “There is a reason, though. I hope you find it.”

  “What? You filthy son of a bitch.” Ryan shook his head and smiled at the irony. “This just in, Professor Reed: you wrote bullshit patents with me so you could buy a boat. It wasn’t a miracle, it was stealing. Fuck you. And fuck your silicone-titted wife too.”

  Foster deliberately pushed Ryan’s finger away from his chest. He spoke in a voice that was warm and calm. “You just don’t understand.” He turned and walked back toward his lab.

  Ryan watched his old friend walk away. When Foster turned the corner, Ryan started to laugh. He felt like he’d woken from a spell. A spell that he’d cast on himself.

  Here he was again, one friend fewer and no problems solved.

  Ryan got off the bus and trudged up the hill to Nutter House. He pictured Foster’s smug-ass face and the shock on Rachel’s. It helped to keep his anger revved up. There would be no disarming smile and wisecrack to bring the peace this time. Foster Reed had stolen his work, was profiting from it, and had betrayed him—it was that simple.

  Wasn’t it? It was hard to keep the doubts at bay.

  Marching up to the porch, he saw Dodge and Katarina through the window, sitting on that ridiculous couch watching TV. He laughed at himself, his imitation of Dodge’s annoying chortle—Dodge might be his only ally.

  He slammed the front door and jogged upstairs.

  Katarina was knocking on his door seconds after he closed it.

  Ryan threw down his bags, kicked Sean’s football out of his way, and fished out his notes and Foster’s book. He wrote down everything he could remember about Creation Energy. He combed his memory for the name of any company that might be investing, but all they’d said was a “Fortune 100 corporation” and Rachel’s father. He let loose another Dodge-like snicker. To top it off, everything Foster had, probably even his wife’s tits, was funded by his father-in-law.

  His anger was thick enough that he only now heard the knocking on his door.

  She finally turned the knob and walked in.

  “Hey, Katarina, I don’t feel like talking, okay?”

  She said, “So don’t talk,” and sat on the floor, her back against the wall under the whiteboard with Sean’s football in her lap.

  Ryan sat in his beach chair looking across the valley. Foster was his best friend. Was seemed to be the operable term. No, that had the residue of rationalization to it too. Foster was just being Foster, smug-ass Foster. But there was another way to look at it: suing Creation Energy was simply a “business decision.” Ryan had a right to any profit generated from his patent. This was how the intellectual property marketplace worked.

  Ryan laughed out loud.

  Katarina said, “So you’re staying?”

  “Huh?” Ryan leaned back in the chair so he could see her. The sun was setting
and the room was dim. “Do you think every choice is actually a rationalization? Is there anything that people do that isn’t contrived?”

  It took a while for her to answer. Ryan liked watching her process the information. Her eyes seemed to fill up. It calmed him.

  “Pleasing ourselves is the hypergoal,” she said. “Though, Ryan-o, most of pleasing the self comes from what we think other people think, and what we think they’d think if they knew what we were actually thinking.”

  “You are a weird little chick.” Ryan stood, stretched, and let out a loud yawn. “Well, I’m gonna kick my best friend’s figurative ass. I got it rationalized every way to Sunday, but the truth is that I’m doing it because I can’t think of any other way out of this mess.”

  “That’s nice for you.”

  Katarina was fixing a box of macaroni and cheese in Ryan’s kitchenette when he went downstairs.

  Dodge was sitting at that huge desk with the distasteful green lamp. A short glass of brown liquid waited for Ryan a few inches from the revolver. He sat in the rocking chair with the silly diamond-tuck upholstery and set his notes and Foster’s book between them. He drank the sweet, smoky fluid, and Dodge refilled his glass. The bottle had a gold label with the silhouettes of three birds, “John Powers, Three Swallow”—the same stuff Ryan’s father had drunk the night he died. Terrance McNear drank nearly a fifth of John Powers, then walked out of the bar and fell in the street. A car ran over him.

  Dodge said, “Tell me about your trip.”

  Ryan shuffled through the stack of paper and pretended not to be surprised that Dodge knew where he’d gone. The nondisclosure agreement was the top sheet.

  “McNear, nothing happens without my knowledge.” Dodge topped off Ryan’s glass. “I take it you didn’t get the job, and now, finally, you’re ready to sue the bastards.”