Michael Kramer called to ask why Clive hadn’t been at work. He tried to coax him by telling him they had plenty of promising research results to analyze; the project would finish in two weeks and then they could write their report. With a bit of luck, they could show up at the 27th International Bird Symposium in Copenhagen in October with a poster. They had roughly ten weeks to get it done.
“Sounds great,” Clive said. “You work it. I’m taking some sick leave. I’ve got an ear infection.”
“At your age?” Michael sounded surprised.
“Yes.”
“Are you okay?” his protégé asked.
“Never felt better,” Clive said and ended the call.
He sat holding the telephone for a while, then he called Kay. “‘New evidence is pouring out of the ground, Clive,’” he mimicked, while the telephone rang in his son and daughter-in-law’s house. Never heard such rubbish. There was nothing “new” about these bones, his idiot opponents had merely invented more fanciful interpretations. Franz’s wife answered. She sounded polite, but a little curt. Finally, Kay came to the telephone.
“Yes?” she said.
“How long are you planning on staying away? Come home, Kay. The place is a total mess.”
“Is that your way of apologizing?”
“Yes,” Clive said, laughing. “You know what I’m like. I’m a scientist. Come on home, honey.”
“Clive,” Kay said, “you don’t hit someone you love. And you don’t call three days later and pretend it’s no big deal, like you just did.” She hung up.
He called back immediately, but no one picked up the telephone.
During three more days and nights when Clive barely slept, he wrote a paper. His manifesto. When he had finished, he printed it out, placed the document on his desk, and took a nap. He dreamt about Jack, but the dream turned into a nightmare. Jack and Michael had both . . . they were . . . no, he couldn’t stand the thought of it. Jack and Michael couldn’t be compared, they weren’t even in the same league, and the mere thought that they. . . . Clive woke and touched his head. The sun had moved above the house and had been shining directly at his face while he snoozed. His stomach rumbled, but he had no appetite. He had tried every premade meal sold at the supermarket, every frozen pizza and casserole, every can and carton, and he felt sick. Their freezer was filled with food, but all of it required cooking. The previous day Clive had defrosted a leg of lamb and put it in the oven. How hard could it be? He promptly forgot all about it and when he finally detected the smell of roasting meat and raced to the kitchen, the surface of the meat was hard and dry. He picked at it, but it didn’t taste anything like it did when Kay cooked it. It tasted of burnt fabric.
He rose and fetched his manifesto. He wanted to have it published, not in a journal, but as a small book. On its cover would be a 3D depiction of Archaeopteryx—without this “new” femur that Helland and Tybjerg had conjured out of thin air, and which was now reproduced in every recent print of the bird. In Clive’s edition, Archaeopteryx would look exactly as it did when it was found in Solnhofen in 1877. Obviously Clive had been meticulous when he measured it in 1999. It was the most beautiful little bird in the whole world.
Clive sat down in the conservatory to proofread his text. His plan was to have it ready by the time he flew to Denmark.
He was deep in thought when there was a knock on the door. Someone put a key in the lock and Franz appeared.
“Hi, Dad,” he said, quickly.
Clive straightened up and reached out for the manuscript, which had slipped into his lap.
“Hello, Franz,” he replied, pushing up his glasses. “Do you want some coffee?”
Franz hesitated, then he shook his head.
“No, I’m a bit busy,” he said. “I’ve come to pick up some clothes and books for Mom.” He went upstairs. Clive stayed where he was and pretended to read. When Franz came back down he was holding a bag in one hand and, draped over his other arm, a garment bag containing Kay’s black dress with polished anthracite stones. Clive loved that dress. It hugged Kay’s hips and on the rare occasions when she wore it, she let her hair down and it would curl around her shoulders. The last time they had had sex had been an evening she had worn it. That was a very long time ago.
“What are you doing with that dress?” he demanded, hoarsely.
“Mom asked me to get it,” Franz replied.
“No,” Clive said. “That dress stays here.” He grabbed the garment bag.
“Don’t be stupid,” Franz said, firmly. “Mom needs it.”