White Noise - Don Delillo [49]
“Do you think it’ll come this way or not?”
“You want me to say it won’t come this way in a million years. Then you’ll attack with your little fistful of data. Come on, tell me what they said on the radio while I was out there.”
“It doesn’t cause nausea, vomiting, shortness of breath, like they said before.”
“What does it cause?”
“Heart palpitations and a sense of déjà vu.”
“Déjà vu?”
“It affects the false part of the human memory or whatever. That’s not all. They’re not calling it the black billowing cloud anymore.”
“What are they calling it?”
He looked at me carefully.
“The airborne toxic event.”
He spoke these words in a clipped and foreboding manner, syllable by syllable, as if he sensed the threat in state-created terminology. He continued to watch me carefully, searching my face for some reassurance against the possibility of real danger—a reassurance he would immediately reject as phony. A favorite ploy of his.
“These things are not important. The important thing is location. It’s there, we’re here.”
“A large air mass is moving down from Canada,” he said evenly.
“I already knew that.”
“That doesn’t mean it’s not important.”
“Maybe it is, maybe it isn’t. Depends.”
“The weather’s about to change,” he practically cried out to me in a voice charged with the plaintive throb of his special time of life.
“I’m not just a college professor. I’m the head of a department. I don’t see myself fleeing an airborne toxic event. That’s for people who live in mobile homes out in the scrubby parts of the county, where the fish hatcheries are.”
We watched Wilder climb backwards down the attic steps, which were higher than the steps elsewhere in the house. At dinner Denise kept getting up and walking in small stiff rapid strides to the toilet off the hall, a hand clapped to her mouth. We paused in odd moments of chewing or salt-sprinkling to hear her retch incompletely. Heinrich told her she was showing outdated symptoms. She gave him a slit-eyed look. It was a period of looks and glances, teeming interactions, part of the sensory array I ordinarily cherish. Heat, noise, lights, looks, words, gestures, personalities, appliances. A colloquial density that makes family life the one medium of sense knowledge in which an astonishment of heart is routinely contained.
I watched the girls communicate in hooded looks.
“Aren’t we eating a little early tonight?” Denise said.
“What do you call early?” her mother said.
Denise looked at Steffie.
“Is it because we want to get it out of the way?” she said.
“Why do we want to get it out of the way?”
“In case something happens,” Steffie said.
“What could happen?” Babette said.
The girls looked at each other again, a solemn and lingering exchange that indicated some dark suspicion was being confirmed. Air-raid sirens sounded again, this time so close to us that we were negatively affected, shaken to the point of avoiding each other’s eyes as a way of denying that something unusual was going on. The sound came from our own red brick firehouse, sirens that hadn’t been tested in a decade or more. They made a noise like some territorial squawk from out of the Mesozoic. A parrot carnivore with a DC-9 wingspan. What a raucousness of brute aggression filled the house, making it seem as though the walls would fly apart. So close to us, so surely upon us. Amazing to think this sonic monster lay hidden nearby for years.
We went on eating, quietly and neatly, reducing the size of our bites, asking politely for things to be passed. We became meticulous and terse, diminished the scope of our movements, buttered our bread in the manner of technicians restoring a fresco. Still the horrific squawk went on. We continued to avoid eye contact, were careful not to clink utensils. I believe there passed among us the sheepish hope that only in this way could we avoid being noticed. It was as though the sirens heralded the presence of some controlling mechanism—a thing we would do well not to provoke with our contentiousness and spilled food.
It wasn’t until a second noise became audible in the pulse