The Invisible Circus - Jennifer Egan [138]
A letter from Berkeley awaited her. It had come shortly after she’d left, in response to her own request for admission deferral. Since Berkeley didn’t offer this option, the letter said, Phoebe’s request was being treated as a withdrawal. If she wished to reapply for the subsequent year, 1979, she should note the usual November deadline.
Phoebe reacted to this news with disbelief, then panic. Frantically she called the Admissions Office, but the only concession she managed to wrest from the officer with whom she spoke was an agreement to revive her application to be considered for admission in January, versus the next September. She would learn in late October whether she’d been accepted.
On her second night home, Phoebe met her mother and Jack and Barry for dinner at Basta Pasta, a new restaurant in North Beach. Her mother and Jack arrived straight from work, holding hands. Barry came later, having driven in directly from the airport after a business trip to Tokyo.
The moment Jack greeted her, offhand, still breathing smoke from his cigarette, Phoebe saw how deeply she’d miscalculated his reaction to her disappearance. Jack’s pale blue eyes flickered with skeptical indulgence, a look he plainly reserved for those he viewed as a royal pain in the ass, yet had to treat well.
Jack had never been to Japan, and when Barry arrived, he was eager for information. “Barry O’Connor’s prediction: next big electronics fad,” Jack said. “Any ideas?”
“I’ve got it right here,” Barry said, and pulled from his briefcase a miniature Sony tape player with tiny earphones attached, inspired, he said, by the chairman’s wish to listen to opera while skiing.
Jack donned the headset and fiddled with the buttons. “Sound quality is unbelievable,” he bellowed at a volume that made Phoebe wince.
“What did you eat over there?” their mother asked.
“Raw fish.”
“Good God. What did that taste like?”
“Tasted raw,” Barry said, grinning.
“You guys act like you haven’t seen each other in months,” Phoebe said, more peevishly than she’d meant to.
Her mother turned to her. “That’s because we’re usually in close touch.”
There was a tense silence. Jack removed the headset and placed it quietly on the table. When he looked at her mother, Phoebe saw in Jack’s eyes a tenderness that startled her.
“Walked into that one, Pheeb,” Barry said, but no one laughed.
For the rest of the meal Phoebe sat in virtual silence. She’d wondered on the plane how much to reveal about her trip, but everyone’s questions had been so perfunctory. And it struck Phoebe then, with sudden, dazzling force, that she knew what had happened to Faith. She knew. She could say it right now, “I found out what happened to Faith,” and watch their lively faces go still with surprise. But Phoebe said nothing.
Afterward Barry offered to drive her home. They rode first to Coit Tower, hooded in fog but still swarming with tourists, some gamely feeding coins into the pay telescopes, as if these might have the power to bore through the whiteness. Barry parked and they sat in the Porsche.
“Look, I can see things are tense with you and Mom,” he said.
“Tense,” Phoebe said, half laughing.
“I think she was too scared while you were gone to really be mad,” Barry said. “So you’re getting it now.”
Phoebe looked out the window. “I think Jack hates me.”
“Give it some time.”
Phoebe glanced at her brother, amazed that he seemed to take no relish at all in her exclusion. She had an urge to confide in him, tell him what she knew about Faith, but as the moments passed, Phoebe reconsidered. Why? she thought. News of their sister was the last thing Barry wanted.
“Anyway,” he said, “I’m glad you’re back. For what it’s worth.”
“I don’t see why, Bear.”
He looked surprised. “Come on,” he said. “You’re my sister.”
In silence they gazed through the runny windshield. Now and then a cluster of lights flared up through the fog like live coals under white