Thought Farm | Chapter 18

Missed Earlier Chapters? Visit the Thought Farm page and scroll to the bottom to find your place.

-18-

As I exited the freeway, I repeated Jamison Wunderlund’s personal motto as a mantra. I tried to focus beyond an omnipresent anxiety. I always look especially hard at things. Always, even when I don’t like what I see, I don’t turn away.

Instead of driving toward Atherton, I circled through the back roads of the university campus. I passed the student union and headed toward the main quad, an assembly of sandstone buildings styled like the old California missions.

I ignored the permit only sign and parked in front of the Stanford Church. It was close to the objective of my detour. Hoover Tower jutted from the ground like a two-hundred and fifty-foot bullet. The wind caught the fountain at the base of the stairs and sent a sheer mist over my face.

In truth, I wasn’t chasing an impulse. It was a calculation. If I faced the scene of Jason Loureux’s death, I could tell myself, however feebly, I’d at least dared to look. I was trying to save my strange fairy tale life. I hurried up the steps and into the phallus-domed building.

My heels tapped against the marble as I approached a young man behind the reception desk.

“How may I help you?” the man asked. Behind him, on the far wall, painted in Roman script, were the words: THE PURPOSE OF THIS INSTITUTION IS TO PROMOTE PEACE.

“I was hoping I could go to the observation deck,” I said.

“It’s closed, sorry.” He motioned toward a velvet rope that bordered the far edge of the lobby. “No public access beyond that point.”

I had fully expected the observation deck to be closed, but now that it was confirmed, I was disappointed. Or was I?

The receptionist rolled his eyes toward an exhibit room to his right. “You’re welcome to view Mrs. Hoover’s handmade lace collection.”

“I’ll pass,” I said. “When will the deck reopen?”

“Indefinite.” He shrugged, staring at my legs.

I wore high pumps with no hose. I smoothed my dress around my hips.

“How about the Hoover gun collection?” He motioned toward a room on the other side of the dome. “Genuine antique,” he said, feigning a drawl.

A portly man dressed in gray approached the counter. “How are you today, Senator Buckley?” The gentleman signed in, recorded the time, and walked behind the velvet cordon to the elevators.

“Senator. From the Midwest,” he whispered.

I stared as if to say, ‘so what?’

“I can tell you’re a real patriot.”

I watched as two uniformed security guards also strutted behind the velvet stanchion. One rested his hand on the end of his baton. The elevator swept open, and they disappeared behind burnished doors. “It must be busy around here after the accident,” I said.

“You’re not with the press, are you?”

I shook my head.

“Didn’t think so.” He eyed my bare legs again and leaned against the counter. “They’d have my job if they caught me talking to the press.”

“They?” I asked.

He jutted his chin toward a security camera. He rolled his eyes toward the opposite corner, where an identical camera was set up. “They’re big fans of security around here.” He mouthed the word paranoids.

Both the receptionist and the building’s stale air were growing tiresome. I wanted to leave, but an unquiet spirit hovered near. To convince myself I’d satisfied the purpose of my visit, I took a cursory pass through the main exhibit hall. An anthology of black-and-white photographs depicted scenes of war-ravaged Europe. I paused a long while to study a photo of a middle-aged assembly of world leaders. Finely clothed and generously proportioned, they posed with an emaciated barefoot child. It struck me their expressions of pride were gravely misplaced. I caught my own reflection in the photo glass. My hair looked wild and windblown.

Through the archway, I saw the receptionist occupied in a conversation with a young woman. As I was about to exit into the lobby, two tall, suited figures caught the corner of my eye. It was Scott with John Brookings, the man I’d met at the gallery the night of my opening. Engaged in animated conversation, they passed behind the velvet rope and boarded the elevator.

“Scott,” I called out. He didn’t hear me. I darted behind the cordon and called his name again, but the elevator doors sealed closed. The car paused on the seventh floor before it descended back to the lobby and swooshed open.

I pictured running from the building. The odd scene flashed in an instant through my mind, but in slow motion. It was as if I were about to die, and I’d seen my life pass before me in an eerie flicker. Something told me that all doors to my future would reflect the choice I was about to make. This is what’s meant by the moment of truth. I wanted to turn left and right at once. But to decide, at its root, is a kind of death, like suicide or homicide—a slaying of possibilities. The security camera angled nearer.

I longed to give in to my fears, to run home to my comfortable life. But something warned me that if I ran now, it would be the gravest mistake. I inhaled and boarded the elevator. As my finger touched the seven button, it glowed orange. The car rushed upward.

Share