Pym_ A Novel - Mat Johnson [33]
“You always knew that. You always knew me.” Angela laughed. And I laughed back because I did and I didn’t hate her for it. She had fear. I had fear. Our demons had just been working at cross-purposes.
“I do know you. That’s why when I heard about this, I knew I had to let you in,” I said and pushed Booker Jaynes’s folder across the table. I’d already sent her the scans, but I felt like the actual papers might serve as a talisman.
“Well, I’m at a crossroads. The marriage, the job even—I can’t work with him anymore. Infidelity will do that,” she said, and I gave a little shrug. Not enough to show my awareness of the irony in her statement. Bitterness was the enemy.
“Well, I’ll have to look further, but I’m intrigued, that I can say now. I know I wouldn’t have a problem getting a second lawyer to join as well.” She smiled, took a sip of the white I’d picked for the occasion. A pinot—a refined version of the rotgut I used to lug for her up to my fourth-floor walk-up. It worked. We made it all the way to dessert, talking about the lost days we once had together. She listened to my Pym ravings. She was fascinated. We kept talking in front of the bistro as the lights went off inside the place.
“Look, Chris, I could use a capital investment like this right now. Hell, I need adventure too. But, I’ll tell you, if I do this, if I do the crazy thing of coming all the way down to Antarctica, it won’t be about me,” Angela admitted to me, walking to her subway. “There’s someone I know who this would be even more important to. Someone who this would be a dream come true for. A special guy who needs this. Someone very important to me.”
I didn’t go for the kiss. At the gate, I shook her hand and received another hug for my restraint. Excusing myself before I burst, I floated back home. Technically I took the train, but I felt like I could have glided on the tracks and made it there just the same. No present worry, not a thought that wasn’t future or past. All my patience, my self-control, then victory. I promised myself I wouldn’t contact her again until we were below the equator. I wasn’t going to crowd her, scare her off. Give her any reason to second-guess the odyssey. I turned her over to Booker Jaynes, and I would just see her down there. See her on the ice. Wait for the opportunity to be cooped up with Angela Bertram on an utterly isolated Antarctic base. Let the inevitable take place.
“Niggas on Ice!” Garth yelled at me when I got the door open. It was late, he was early to sleep and rise, and I was surprised to see Garth even awake. But there he was, smiling, Antarctic images on his laptop and a doppelgänger of Shackleton’s Sorrow on the page he waved, compliments of my own printer and a whole cartridge of my colored ink. “Get this, they say he’s down there, dog. That’s the rumor, this is where he lives. The ultimate in Karvel spotting,” Garth ranted. I paid attention to him, but more to the large package I’d picked up at the door. “Mathis Estate” was listed at the top of the return address, in care of a law office in Hammond, Indiana.
I’d tried calling Mahalia Mathis, asking her to mail Poe’s letter to me, of course, but no answer till now. This wasn’t just a letter, though. It was as large as an icebox, and this made sense, because when I removed its outer paper, I saw that it was just that, a Styrofoam cooler. On top of the lid was a folder with not one copy of the Poe letter but five. All quality, professionally done. But the box, this huge box. Electric taped. Razoring the edges, I lifted slowly as Garth continued babbling about Thomas Karvel hidden away in Antarctica behind me. I was prepared for several things, a hat, tom-toms, maybe one of her performance gowns, but none of those were close to what I saw inside.