The Sculptor

Cathy suddenly realized that the FBI Agent had opted to take the longer route back to Providence-Route 1 instead of I-95-and more than the sincerity of his attempt at small talk, more than his disclosure of something personal, what settled Cathy’s tears was Sam Markham’s tone-a tone that for the first time that day was hesitant and awkward; a tone that for the first time that day made him seem human.

“That’s an interesting pairing,” said Cathy-surprised at the sound of her voice, at how eager she was to talk about anything but the day’s events. “How does an FBI agent end up marrying an oceanographer?”

“I wasn’t with the Bureau back then. Was actually a high school English teacher when I met my wife.”

“Aha. So that explains it.”

“Explains what?”

“The sonnet.”

“The sonnet?”

“Yes. I thought your analysis of Michelangelo’s poetry seemed a little too erudite, a little too insightful even for an FBI profiler.” The special agent nodded his approval-playfully and with exaggerated admiration. “My first clue should have been during our initial drive to Watch Hill, when you asked me if the sonnet that I received had been numbered like a Shakespearean sonnet.”

“Nonetheless,” said Markham, smiling, “an admirable analysis of the evidence, Dr. Hildebrant.”

Cathy smiled back.

“I have to admit,” he continued, “I’m a bit ashamed that I didn’t know about Michelangelo’s poetry. Perhaps I did at one time-way back when. But I’ve been with the Bureau for almost thirteen years now, and I guess you forget all that stuff if you don’t keep up with it.”

“You forget it even if you do keep up with it. At least that’s the way it’s been for me since about thirty or so.”

“Forty’s no better.”

“You don’t look it.”

“I still got four months.”

“I’ve got one year, six months, and twenty-three days.”

Markham laughed-and, unexpectedly, Cathy joined him.

“Ah well,” the FBI agent sighed. “I guess I’ll buy a convertible. Or maybe a motorcycle. Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do when you turn forty?”

“I’m not going to find out-going to stop counting at thirty-nine.”

“Sounds like a plan. But I’d buy twenty-nine from you in a heartbeat.”

Cathy was unsure if Markham had meant his last comment as a compliment-that is, if he was saying he would peg her for twenty-nine-years-old, or that he would figuratively “purchase” the age of twenty-nine from her for himself. And suddenly Cathy was transported back to college, to those rare but awkward one-time dates with men who mistook her shyness for aloofness, her intellect for arrogance. And despite the anxiety such memories brought with them, Cathy could feel herself beginning to blush as the FBI agent drove on in silence.

She hoped he didn’t notice.

“So how does a high school English teacher end up marrying an oceanographer?” Cathy asked at the next traffic light-her need to keep the conversation going, to push through her discomfort outweighing her usual bashfulness.

“I wish I had a romantic story for you, Dr. Hildebrant-”

“Please, call me Cathy.”

“All right. I wish I had a more romantic story for you, Cathy. But my wife and I met at a cookout in Connecticut -one of those mutual-friend-of-a-friend deals. She was still in graduate school at the time, but was working at the Mystic Aquarium in their Institute for Exploration. I had just landed a part-time teaching job in a little town nearby. You know the story. ‘Hey, I’ve got a friend I want you to meet,’ one thing leads to another, the hand of fate and all that. You get the idea.”

“Sounds familiar, yes.”

“Same for you?”

“Oh yes. My boss, Janet Polk. The woman you met this morning-the hand that pushed me.”

“Aha.”

“Twelve years ago. She was the friend of my husband’s friend who introduced us-my soon to be ex-husband, I should say.”

“I’m sorry about that. Dr. Polk didn’t come right out and say what happened, but I put two and two together when we traced your address to East George Street. You’ve always kept your maiden name? Never took your husband’s for professional reasons?”

“Never took it, no-partly for professional reasons, partly because my mother always kept her maiden name. Korean tradition. Most Korean women keep their family name. She never asked me, but I knew it would make her happy. So, like she had done for her father, I kept my father’s name. Nonetheless, an admirable analysis of the evidence, Agent Markham.”

The FBI agent smiled with a touché.

“Please, call me Sam.”

“All right then, Agent Sam. And please don’t be sorry. Best thing to happen to me in ten years of marriage will be my divorce decree next month. Janet’s the one for whom you should feel sorry. Really. She feels worse about it than I do-almost like she’s the one who’s responsible for the whole thing. Even asked me if I wanted my ex’s legs broken. And you know what? I think she meant it, too-think she meant to do it herself.”

Markham laughed.