‘One Thanksgiving – this would have been my second or third year at the Drake – I visited my brother, who worked as a military doctor, and I shared all of this. He told me about a patient he’d seen that day, a twenty-three-year-old soldier with an infected amputation who cursed the Afghans every time Daniel touched his skin. Daniel remembered him from a medical screening a couple of years earlier, when the soldier expressed so much anxiety about the state of Afghanistan – so much concern for its people – that Daniel almost ordered a psychiatric evaluation. He was worried the boy was too soft.’
Daniel had sat much like Luke did on Thursday – one leg cast over the other, his large eyes intent – but the skin beneath his eyes was dark and his formerly thick hair sparse. In that moment Varya remembered him as a boy, her younger brother, whose idealism had been replaced by something more realistic but just as simple, something she recognized in herself.
‘His point,’ Varya said, ‘was that it’s impossible to survive without dehumanizing the enemy, without creating an enemy in the first place. He said that compassion was the purview of civilians, not those whose job was to act. Acting requires you to choose one thing over another. And it’s better to help one side than neither.’
She fit the lid of the Tupperware on the bowl and thought of Frida, who was part of the restricted-calorie group. In the beginning, she called and called for more food. At home, Varya was haunted by those calls. There was something in the monkey’s shameless hunger that made her feel both guilty and repulsed. So clear was Frida’s desire for life, so visible the accusation in her eyes, that Varya nearly expected her to trade her rough, staccato shrieks for English.
‘I do grow attached to the monkeys,’ she added. ‘I shouldn’t say that – not very scientific. But I’ve known them for ten years. And I remind myself that the study benefits them, too. I’m protecting them, the restricted ones especially. They’ll live longer this way.’ Luke was quiet; he’d put his tape recorder away, and though his notebook sat on Annie’s desk, he didn’t touch it. ‘Still, you have to draw a line in the sand that says: “This research is worth it. This animal’s life is simply not as valuable as whatever medical advances that life can serve.” You have to.’
That night, Varya lay awake for hours. She wondered why she had shared all of this with Luke, and how it might reflect on her if Luke were to include it in his article. She could ask him to omit the conversation, but that would indicate a degree of doubt about her work, and the thinking required to accomplish it, that she did not want to project. Now she sits in her car, nauseated. She has the overwhelming feeling that she has not only put herself at risk but that she has also betrayed Daniel. When she thinks of meeting Luke at the lab, she sees her brother. It makes no sense. Their only similarity is their height, and yet the visual remains, Daniel waiting for her in Luke’s windbreaker and backpack, Daniel’s face transposed on Luke’s younger, expectant one. The image morphs, then: she sees Daniel in the trailer, a bullet in his leg and the floor a red pool, and she knows that if she had not been so withdrawn, he would have come to her about Bruna, and she could have saved him.
By the time the nausea is gone and her hands have stopped trembling enough to hold the steering wheel, an hour has passed. She’s never been late to work before, and Annie, to her relief, has brought Luke to the kitchen, where he is helping her weigh what food the monkeys have not eaten and separate next week’s pellets into puzzle feeders. Varya avoids him, working on a grant in the office with the door closed. At one point, someone knocks, and because Annie would not bother her, Varya knows it can only be Luke.
‘I thought I’d see if you’d like to go to dinner,’ he says when she opens the door. He has his hands in his pockets and, seeing her confusion, he smiles. ‘It’s already six o’clock.’
‘Not hungry, I’m afraid.’ She walks back to her desk to shut down the computer.
‘A drink? There’s resveratrol in red wine. You can’t say I haven’t done my research.’
Varya exhales. ‘Would this be on the record or off?’
‘Your choice. I thought off.’
‘If it’s off the record,’ she says, swiveling, ‘what would be the point?’
‘Networking? Human connection?’ Luke stares at her peculiarly, as if he can’t tell whether she’s joking. ‘I don’t bite. Or at least, I bite less than your monkeys.’
She turns off the light in the office, and Luke’s face drops into half shadow, lit only by the hallway fluorescents. She’s hurt him.
‘My treat,’ he adds. ‘To thank you.’
Later, she will wonder what made her agree to go when nothing in her wanted to, and what would have happened if she hadn’t. Was it guilt, or fatigue? She was so tired of guilt, which shrank only when she was working, and when she washed her hands, letting the tap run until it was so hot that the sensation was no longer one of water but fire or ice. It shrank, too, when she was hungry, which she so often was – there were times when she felt light enough to drift toward the sky, light enough to drift toward her siblings. And she was hungry now, but still, something made her go; something made her say yes.
They sit in a wine bar on Grant Avenue and share a bottle of red, a Cabernet that was grown and bottled seven miles south and which works in Varya immediately. She realizes how long it’s been since she’s eaten, but she does not eat at restaurants, so she drinks and listens as Luke tells her about his upbringing: how his family owns a cherry farm in Door County, Wisconsin, a combination of islands and shoreline that extends into Lake Michigan. He says that it reminds him of Marin, the land having belonged to Native Americans – in Door County, the Potawatomi; in Marin, the Coast Miwoks – before the arrival of Europeans, who took that land and used it for farming and lumber. He describes the limestone and the dunes and the hemlock trees, with their long fingers of green, and the yellow birch trees, which in late fall lay astonishing gold blankets on the ground.
During the off-season the population is less than thirty thousand, he says, but in the summer and early fall it grows by almost ten times that much. In July, the farm becomes frenzied, the rush to pick and dry and can and freeze the cherries a kind of madness. They have four kinds of cherries, and when Luke was young, each family member was assigned to collect one with a mechanical harvester. Luke’s father took the large, juicy Balatons. Because Luke was the youngest, he and his mother paired up to pick the Montmorency cherries, with their translucent yellow flesh. Luke’s older brother harvested the sweet cherries, firm and black and most precious of all.
Varya finds herself drifting as he speaks. She sees the cherries, their yellow and black and red, with the soft focus of a dream. He uses his phone to show her a photo of his family. It’s early fall, the trees a fuzz of mustard and sage. Luke’s parents have his thick blond hair, though theirs is lighter than Luke’s. His brother – ‘Asher,’ he says – is a young teen, his face pimpled but grinning openly, his hands on Luke’s shoulders. Luke can’t be more than six. His shoulders rise into Asher’s hands, and his smile is so wide it’s nearly a grimace.
‘What about you?’ he asks, putting the phone back in his pocket. ‘What’s your family like?’