Thought Farm | Chapter 7

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I have an organized and orderly mind. My thoughts are organized therefore my mind is orderly. Scott didn’t know, I tried to convince myself, aware that he’d spent the morning with his face hidden behind a tablet reading the news. There’s an explanation. I looked at Brenda standing at attention, dressed in what resembled a parochial school uniform, a sensible plaid skirt and white blouse. “Do you drink coffee?” It was a robotic question. I needed to busy myself.

“Well...Yes,” Brenda nodded, and her corn silk hair brushed her shoulders.

I am calm and rational because my mind is clear and organized. I am calm, calm, calm. My stomach collapsed into a black hole as I poured coffee into espresso cups and placed one before Brenda on the courtyard table.

Questions flooded my mind, but I sat silent. I stared at the ring on my finger, a rainbow under the sun, a ring a prince would give to a princess. A murky veil seemed to settle over me. I looked up at Brenda, who lifted the espresso cup to her lips, her little finger poised in the air. She gulped and twisted her face.

I couldn’t help but smile. “You might take honey.” I pushed a porcelain bowl across the table.

“Oh yes.” She nodded and reached for the bowl. “You know, I just came from the campus. It’s such a shock. I don’t know how he got up there.” Brenda topped the quarter cup of coffee with one part honey.

I wanted to run upstairs and hide beneath the covers until Scott came home. Don’t ask questions, I tried to tell myself.

“You don’t know how he got up where?” I asked.

“Hoover Tower,” she said. “What I can’t figure is how he got up on the observation deck after hours.”

“He fell from the observation deck?” I wanted to feel relief. The crazed man I’d seen the night before seemed capable of any number of acts, including stumbling from the heights of the university think tank.

Brenda shuffled through her purse and found a pad. “My notes.”

“Is that the story?” I pointed to a folded tabloid stuffed in her bag.

“Yeah.” Brenda spread the paper open on the table and pointed to the headline at the top of the page. It read:

STANFORD STUDENT TAKES FATAL FALL FROM HOOVER TOWER

Jason Leroux, a graduate student attending Stanford’s School of Behavioral Science, died shortly after 1:00 AM this morning after falling from the observation deck of Hoover Tower. Officials speculate the twenty-six-year-old student broke into the closed observation deck as a college prank and fell from the 250-foot tower to his death.

The article quoted the dean of students and the detective who had called the house that morning. It said the observation deck had been closed for construction, ironically, to be retrofitted for new guard rails.

“A school prank?” I was incredulous. “This doesn’t say anything about his mental illness.”

“Ooh.” Brenda wrote MENTAL ILLNESS on her notepad in caps. “I didn’t hear about that.” She drew a rectangle around the words and topped it with a big star.

“Don’t quote me,” I said, suddenly aware that while Brenda Breedlove might seem as harmless as a golden retriever, she was a reporter. “I don’t know anything about it. I really shouldn’t be talking to you.”

Brenda sat up straight and lifted her right hand as if pledging some Girl Scout’s oath of honor. “Don’t worry. A good reporter always respects her sources’ right to confidentiality.”

“You should be talking to my husband instead of me.” He can explain. Please, let there be an explanation.

“Oh, could I?” Brenda sighed, and her shoulders relaxed. “I tried to interview him on campus, but it was impossible to get in to see him.”

I needed to sort through my own questions. Why hadn’t Scott told me the student was his research assistant? Why had the student been so terrified of Scott? And most of all, why didn’t Scott tell me he was dead? Here, take this pill, I could hear him say. I saw myself take the pill into my mouth and swallow hard.

“Are you okay, Mrs. Stanton?”

“Why don’t you call back tomorrow?”

Brenda’s lower lip sagged. “That means I’ll miss my deadline.” Her puppyish eyes turned sad.

I pinched the pressure point between my thumb and forefinger. “He usually doesn’t get home until seven. I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to call then.” We could both interview him.

“Oh, thank you, Mrs. Stanton. Thank you so much. You don’t know how much this means to me.” She wrote a note on her pad. Her tone turned pointed. “What’s your number?”

I hesitated and relayed the information, feeling vaguely had. I eyed Brenda, who was bubbling like an Alka-Seltzer, and all suspicions fell away.

“I should be going.” Brenda reached for the paper on the table. As she swept up the pages, a headline at the bottom of the page caught my attention.

“Wait.” I placed my palm on the page and read the first paragraph.

NEW OMEGA INSTITUTE AWARDED DEFENSE CONTRACT FOR NEURO-METRIC RESEARCH

The New Omega Institute for Advanced Neural and Behavioral Research announced today that it was selected by The Defense Advanced Research Project Agency (DARPA) to develop a neuro-metric monitoring system as part of the military’s non-lethal defense initiative.

“What is it, Mrs. Stanton?”

“It’s nothing,” I said. “My husband works with NOI.” As I spoke, my voice sounded hollow and far away. Inside, I fought to hold a door closed against an awful weight. “It’s nothing.”