Factoring Humanity

Papineau nodded at him. “That’s right, at least not yet. But someday someone is going to build a quantum computer. And then we’ll know for sure.”

6

Kyle and Heather had dinner together every Monday night.

They’d been separated for a year now. It had never been intended to be permanent — and they’d never mentioned the D-word. They’d just needed some time, they both felt, to come to terms with Mary’s death. They’d both been on edge, sniping at each other, little things that shouldn’t have mattered at all escalating into huge fights, unable to console each other, unable to comprehend why it had happened.

They’d never missed a Monday dinner together, and although tensions were high since Becky’s visit four days ago, Kyle assumed that Heather would show up at their usual restaurant, a Swiss Chalet franchise a few blocks from their house.

Kyle stood outside, enjoying the warm evening breeze. He couldn’t bring himself to go in yet; Heather’s car wasn’t in the lot, and if she didn’t show, the embarrassment would be too much.

At about 6:40 — ten minutes late — Heather’s powder-blue skimmer floated into the lot.

Still, things were different. For an entire year now, they’d greeted each other on Monday nights with a quick kiss, but this time — this time they both hesitated. They entered the restaurant, Kyle holding the door for Heather.

The server tried to seat them beside another couple, even though there was no one else in the place. Kyle hated that at the best of times, and this evening he did protest. “We’ll sit over there,” he said, pointing to a distant corner.

The server acquiesced, and they were escorted to a booth at the back. Kyle ordered red wine; Heather asked for a glass of the house white.

“I was beginning to think you weren’t coming,” said Kyle.

Heather nodded, but her face was impassive. The lamp hanging above their table made her normally pleasant features look severe. “I’m sorry I was late.”

There was silence for a time.

“I don’t know what we’re going to do about this,” said Kyle.

Heather looked away. “Me neither.”

“I swear to you — ”

“Please,” said Heather, cutting him off. “Please.”

Kyle nodded slowly. He was quiet for a moment longer, then: “I went to see Zack on Saturday.”

Heather looked apprehensive. “And?”

“And nothing. I didn’t get into a fight with him, I mean. We talked a bit. I wanted him to agree to come to the forensics lab at the university. I was going to take a lie-detector test, prove that I didn’t do it.”

“And?” said Heather again.

“He refused.” Kyle lowered his eyes, looking at the paperite place mat with the current month’s chicken promotion illustrated on it. He looked up again and sought Heather’s eyes. “I could do the same thing for you,” he said. “I could prove my innocence.”

Heather opened her mouth, but immediately closed it.

It was a turning point, a crux. Kyle knew it, and he was sure Heather knew it, too. The future depended on what would happen next.

She had to be thinking it all through…

If he was innocent -

If he was innocent, she must know he’d never be able to forgive her for demanding proof, for her lack of faith. If he was innocent, then surely their marriage should survive this crisis. They’d both thought they would get back together again, sooner or later. If not by the beginning of the coming school year, surely by its end.

If he was innocent, the marriage should survive, but if Heather had doubt, and admitted it, admitted the possibility, would he ever be able to hold her again, to love her again? When he’d needed her most, had she believed in him?

“No,” she said, closing her eyes. “No, that won’t be necessary.” She looked at him. “I know you didn’t do anything.” Kyle kept his expression neutral; he knew she must be searching his face for any sign that he thought the words might be insincere.

“Thank you,” he said softly.

The server returned with their drinks. They ordered: a grilled chicken breast and plain baked potato for Kyle; the quarter barbecue chicken dinner with fries for Heather.

“Did anything else happen with Zack?” asked Heather.

Kyle took a sip of his wine. “He told me that Becky is in therapy.”

Heather nodded. “Yes.”

“You knew that?”

“She started seeing someone after Mary died.”

“It was the same therapist Mary had been going to,” said Kyle. “Zack told me that.”

“Mary was in therapy, too? Good God, I didn’t know that.”

“I was shocked, too,” said Kyle.

“You’d think she’d have told me.”

“Or me,” said Kyle, forcefully.

“Of course,” said Heather. “Of course.” She paused. “I wonder if it had anything to do with Rachel?”

“Who?”

“Rachel Cohen. Remember? Mary’s friend — she died of leukemia when Mary was eighteen.”

“Oh, yes. Poor girl.”

“Mary had been quite distraught about that. Maybe she started seeing a therapist over it — a little grief counseling, you know?”

“Why wouldn’t she have come to you?” asked Kyle.

“Well, I’m hardly a clinician. Besides, no girl wants her mother for a therapist — and I suspect she wouldn’t have wanted anyone I might have recommended, either.”