As soon as I enter the building in the morning, I cannot shake off that heavy, dirty cold of Chicago from my body. Inside is warm, but that thin chill inside me stays. While passing through the turnstile, there is that familiar "beep" sound the card makes, and sometimes it feels like the most reliable thing in the day. At least the system works. Not like people.
I greet Emily again. I go to my desk. I turn on the computer. The harbor file is in front of me. Yesterday's audio recording is still turning in my head: "When Helix is ready…" I think about the weight those three words left on me. Sometimes a person forgets that a simple sentence can do something like this. While looking at the screen, I am actually listening to the sentence. I feel as if it will come out of the screen and fill my room.
George takes his coffee and comes next to me.
"Are you okay today?" he asks.
Inside this question "are you okay", there are actually a thousand things. Questions like "Were you alone at home again yesterday, did it pass the same way again, did you lose again to the silence somewhere in the night?"
As always, I give a short answer.
"I'm okay."
George looks into my eyes, tries to test me a little, then gives up. Because he knows that if he pushes me, I will shut down even more.
My phone rings. Martin says that the woman whose photos I sent has just been taken in for questioning. While waiting for the interrogation to finish, I continue examining the files. Waiting is like half of our job. The other half is trying not to look in the wrong place while waiting.
I cannot find anything new in the files and I close them.
"Do you have anything new?" I ask George.
"No," he says. Then he turns to me. "We're not working tomorrow. Let's go out for drinks in the evening."
He does not say the sentence like a question. Not even like an offer. As if he already made the plan and is only informing me. My first reflex is to say "I have work." It comes to the tip of my tongue. But I do not say it. I think. I already know that every weekday I sit at home and look at the same walls. The light of the screen, sometimes a pizza box, the television talking in the background.
"Let's go out," I say.
George tries to hide his surprise, but he is not good at that at all, and he looks at me as if saying "finally."
"What time will you be ready?" he asks.
"If you want, we can go directly after work is over," I say.
"Deal, buddy," he says.
Toward 2 o'clock, a message comes from Martin: "Come to my office." When I go to his office, I see the statement report in his hand. He gives it to me and tells me to examine it. As I go back to my desk, George asks, "Any development?"
"Yes," I say.
He sits next to me. I start reading.
Name: Laura HensleyAge: 31Address: West Belmont AvenueSummary of first statement is attached.
The subject admits that she was in the harbor area on the night of the incident and that she came to the scene by motorcycle.
She stated that she did not know the person driving the motorcycle very well, that his name was Travis, and that she did not remember the plate number.
She stated that after learning that a person named Travis, whom she had met a few days earlier, would go to the harbor, she agreed to go with him, and that she came to the area to meet a friend. She added that her friend's name was Alex Carter.
The subject stated that while entering the area near the time of the incident, there were other motorcycles with them. She stated that she noticed that one of the motorcyclists had a black bag in his hand. She said that because of their suspicious behavior, she recorded short videos with her phone.
She stated that shortly before the explosion, she felt tension in the area and that people began to move quickly. She said that she heard noise and thought that the incident could be dangerous.
She stated that she left the area before the explosion.
The subject stated that the motorcyclist she came with from around the harbor offered to take her away from the area and that she accepted.
The subject stated that she also could not hear the conversations in the videos.
When asked about the word Helix, she said it did not mean anything to her.
She stated that she was in the wrong place at the wrong time.
During the interrogation, the subject was generally calm, but before answering some questions she hesitated.
While reading the summary of the statement, George suddenly blurts out, "Get the fuck out of here!" It is hard to hear George swear, but he is right.
"I need to go to Martin," I say.
George comes with me. I knock on the door.
"Come in," Martin says.
"Did you check the written names?" I ask.
"Alex's name and the fact that he works at the harbor are true, but since he is out of the city right now, we will not be able to take his statement," he says. "As for the name Travis, we could not find anything noteworthy. The sketch was distributed to the teams, but there is nothing yet," he adds.
George asks, "But we know the woman is lying, right?"
"For now we know nothing," Martin says. "Do not stop researching Helix. Find who finances the company, who they work with, what government contracts they have. I want to see a report before you leave."
I nod.
"Yes sir!!" George says, and we leave the room.
I return to my desk. These kinds of instructions relax me a little. When what is wanted is concrete, it is easier to find it. I research the news about Helix, the press releases, the technology pages, the investment reports. On every page I enter, I see the same images. Robots that look very much like humans but that I know are not human. Looking at their perfect faces feels disturbing. It says "maintaining order in high-threat environments." When putting someone on the ground and handcuffing them is written as "order," it becomes as if no one is getting hurt.
As the day gets longer, a strange tension starts inside me. Not a work-related tension. Independent from the harbor file. As if I am going to do something I have not done for a long time. When a person does the same routine for years, even a small change becomes an "event." That is why I try to act normal until the shift ends. I gather the reports Martin wanted. I note a few companies whose names appear in Helix's financing. I catch one or two connections, but they are not certain. I ask George for what he collected too. I put them all together and deliver them to Martin.
Near the end of the shift, George asks, "We're going directly from here, right?"
I nod.
"Good, I'm going to send you a location now. Let's meet there in 15 minutes. I don't want to leave my car here," he says.
"Deal," I say, and we leave.
17 minutes later, I am at the location. George has not arrived yet. I light a cigarette and wait. Two long and one short horn sounds. George is making it clear that he has arrived.
When we enter the bar, there is a slight hum inside. The smell of alcohol, the smell of fried things, people's conversations. George says we need to sit at the bar because "life flows there." We sit down, and the bartender greets George. I think about how often he comes here.
George orders 2 beers. Before drinking, I look around. Habit. Where the door is, where the exit is, whose hand is in their pocket, who is standing too close… It has been years since I left the field, but some things stay inside the body.
I take a sip of my beer.
"About Helix…" I begin, but George cuts me off.
"No work talk here, buddy," he says. "Today is the day we bring you back to life."
He raises his glass.
He waits for me to raise mine too. He clinks my glass, says cheers, and starts drinking. After empty talk and laughter, George bottoms out his third beer and suddenly becomes serious.
"Ethan, you need to do something," he says.
"Like what?" I ask.
"You need to move on with your life," he says.
I hate hearing this sentence. Because it is true. And true things hurt a person more.
"I am moving on," I say.
George narrows his eyes.
"No," he says. "You are not moving on. You are living a copy of the same day."
I do not say anything. Because I do not want to argue. If I argue, I will have to say that he is right.
After the hours spent drinking, my second beer is still standing in front of me. George, on the other hand, is drinking his eighth beer. Talking with him is generally enjoyable. I do not understand how time passes. He gradually starts getting drunk and while talking, starts slowing down and trying to remember words.
After a while, he gets up and goes to the bathroom. I am left alone on the bar stool. The bartender looks from a distance and signals, "One more?" I shake my head to mean I do not want one.
At that moment, a woman appears next to me.
"Is this stool empty?" she asks.
"It's empty," I say.
When she sits down, a nice smell comes to my nose. Not that alcoholic smell that smells nice like perfumes but burns the nose. I feel as if I am smelling a daisy freshly smelled from a garden.
The woman calls the bartender and orders something, but I cannot hear it because of the noise in the bar. Then she turns to me.
"You are not one of the ones who sits here often," she says.
"Is it that obvious?" I ask.
She laughs.
"It is obvious," she says. "Because at this hour, you are the only one I could see who is not drunk."
For the first time I look around me. Really, it is clear from everyone's face that they are drunk.
"What is your name?" she asks.
"Ethan. What is your name?" I ask.
"I…" she says, pauses and smiles. "Claire," she says.
"Nice to meet you," I say. There is always a smile on her face.
"Are you really pleased?" she asks.
I do not fully understand what she is trying to ask.
"I don't know… We just met," I say.
"Then for now let's say 'I'm glad to meet you,'" she says.
I laugh. I feel that this time my laugh is different.
Claire moves the conversation forward. She asks what I do for work.
"Federal," I say. I do not say more.
"Harsh," she says.
"Not harsh," I say. "Just… you are constantly being crushed under something."
"I'm in healthcare too," she says. "But we try to stop people from dying. You do too, but sometimes you also just watch."
For a moment, something moves inside me. As if this sentence touches me too closely. My eyes drift.
"Sometimes we just watch," I say.
It may be the first time I have said this to someone so openly.
Claire nods her head.
"That's the bad part," she says.
When George comes back, when he sees me next to the woman, he raises his eyebrows.
"Wow," he says.
With my eyes I tell him "shut up." George grins. He politely greets Claire. Claire smiles at him too.
George immediately says, "I'm going out for a cigarette," and throws himself outside. I get annoyed at how obvious this is, but at the same time it works for me. Because while George is next to me, I cannot talk this comfortably.
Claire plays with her glass.
"Your friend knows how to leave you alone," she says.
"Sometimes he knows too much," I say.
"He seems like he protects you," she says.
"He is also trying to do some things on his own," I say.
"You too?" she asks.
"You too what?" I say.
"Are you also trying to do some things on your own?" she says.
I stop for a moment. I do not know what I will tell this woman. Actually I do not want to tell. But I want to talk.
"A while ago… I lost someone," I say.
Claire does not avert her eyes.
"Someone close?" she says.
I nod.
"My wife," I say.
At that moment, when the word comes out of my mouth, a knot forms in my throat. Not a very loud emotional explosion. More like I stepped on a stone that has been standing in the same place for years.
Claire breathes slowly.
"When?" she asks.
"Four years ago," I say.
"Hard," she says.
"Hard," I say. I do not say anything else.
Claire stays silent for a while, then lightens the subject.
"It is thought that men like you are of two types," she says. "Either the kind who completely shut down, or the kind who fall apart. You are neither. You are the third type."
"What is that?" I ask.
"The one who looks proper on the outside and is shattered inside," she says.
This sentence annoys me because it is too close to the truth. But it is not completely true. If it were completely true, it would hurt more.
George comes back again, but this time he talks less. It is obvious that he does not want to bother me. There are gaps in our conversation with Claire, but those gaps are not uncomfortable. Most people are afraid of silence. Claire is not afraid. I like that. She wants to buy me a drink. I do not accept.
"Why?" she asks.
"Because then I will talk without thinking," I say.
She smiles.
"Maybe that is the problem," she says.
"Maybe," I say.
But there is something else behind that "maybe." If I talk without thinking, then afterward I will not be able to gather myself again. Then the next day, while again looking at the same walls, I will ask "why."
At one point, George gets up and leaves.
"I'm leaving," he says. "You?"
He looks at me and winks. I get annoyed.
"Go," I say.
And he goes.
He is deliberately leaving us alone. He made his own plan. On one hand I am swearing at him, on the other hand I think this might be good. Because for a long time, nothing had felt like it "might be good."
Claire wants to go outside.
"Shall we get some air?" she says.
We go outside together. The night of Chicago is cold. Our breath becomes vapor. There are people on the street, drunk laughter, a siren sound from far away. Claire does not smoke, but she watches my cigarette.
"Do you smoke a lot?" she asks.
"Too much," I say.
"Did you think about quitting?"
"I did," I say.
"Did you quit?"
"No," I say.
She laughs.
"Thinking is easy," she says.
"Yes," I say.
After a while, Claire says, "Shall we go home?"
This sentence is very plain. Neither shy nor challenging. As if she is saying "the weather is cold, let's go inside."
I stop for a moment.
"Okay," I say.
"Then let's go to my place," she says.
"Okay," I say.
We get into the car, she tells me the address. On the way, we do not talk much. I do not turn on music. Claire does not ask for anything either. There is silence, but it is not heavy. When we arrive home, we enter the apartment. She turns on the lights. Inside is very clean and organized. Very different from my house.
"Make yourself comfortable," she says.
I take off my jacket and hang it on the coat rack at the entrance. I sit on the wide green couch standing in front of the television. The fireplace in the corner catches my attention. Claire lights the candles around, turns off the lights, and comes back with a bottle of wine and two glasses.
"Can I just have water?" I say.
She gives me a glass of water and pours herself a glass of wine.
After talking a little, Claire comes closer to me on the couch. Then a little more. Finally there is a silence and she leans toward me.
I stand up.
I say that I need to go home.
She does not get angry, she does not shout, but I see a momentary disappointment on her face.
She smiles.
"This is my number. I will be waiting to hear from you," she says and hands me a card. There is silver-colored writing on the black card.
Claire HaldenInterior Designer(872) 555-6147
I get into the car and come home. I look at my phone. There is a message from George:
"Are you okay?"
Only this.
I also write only:
"I'm okay."
But this time that word feels less like a lie.
I throw myself onto the bed.
I wake up when the sun gets into my eye. I get up and close the curtain. I lie back down on the bed. I feel in a way I did not expect at all. There is a strange regret inside me and I knew this could happen. But I thought my regret would be toward Lily. I guess now I have accepted that she would want me to be happy too. This is strange because the reason for my regret is Emily. I can face my feelings toward her now.
I dry my hair and get dressed. I am not working today, but I still want to go to the harbor area and do a little research.