Chapter Five
Tuesday
Livermore, California
Duane Hopkins left his job at the Plutonium Facility at precisely 4:30 in the afternoon, as he did day after day. He got in his old blue station wagon and drove home, picking up his son Stevie from the day nurse on the way.
The routine had been unbroken for as long as he could remember. Duane had no one else to take care of Stevie, and his entire life was an endless sequence of eight hours a day plodding through his job and the rest of the time tending to the boy.
In his small two-bedroom house, Duane situated Stevie comfortably in his chair while the boy cooed and made happy nonsense sounds as his scarecrow arms waved in uncontrollable directions. His head lolled from side to side.
Stevie had spoken no intelligible words in his life, and Duane had stopped expecting to hear them long ago. But even with the severe cerebral palsy, Stevie could communicate a great deal with his emotions and expressions. Duane could tell when his son was happy, and right now the boy was glad to be home in the familiar, comfortable surroundings with his father.
Duane turned on the television and let Stevie watch cartoons. In the kitchen he set a pot of salted water to boil and tore the top off a cardboard package of macaroni and cheese, which he would spoon-feed to Stevie while his own portion remained warm on the stove.
When dinner was ready, he wheeled Stevie to the Formica dinette table. He used a damp rag to wipe the drool from around the boy’s mouth, tucked a napkin under his shirt as Stevie’s bright eyes fastened on him. The boy opened his mouth to receive the creamy orange macaroni.
Duane listened as highlights from the President’s news conference were aired on the local news broadcast in the living room. He pricked up his ears, turning to look when he heard the Lawrence Livermore National Laboratory mentioned. He paid attention to some talk about the Lab’s Virtual Reality program, and he smiled.
“That man, Stevie,” he gestured toward the television, “He’s the one in charge of that sightseeing chamber you went in yesterday.”
Stevie seemed to understand and made more noises, but then he smacked his lips for another bite of his supper. Duane fed him and listened again, smiling as he thought of the tour the day before.
He had never seen Stevie quite so happy as when the illusion had transported them to Yosemite. Duane had never been to the mountains himself, though he had lived in California all his life. He had gone to high school in Livermore: his high school diploma, proudly framed, still hung on the mantelpiece next to the faded old photo of Rhonda, his wife, who had left him years before.
He had enlisted in the Army for a couple of years, received some training on the GI Bill, and came back to his home town where he began working at the Lab. He had been there for more than twenty years.
Now as he watched, Dr. Michaelson was saying many difficult technical things that Duane couldn’t quite follow.
“… hot topics in electronics include solid-state lasers, radiofrequency and optical devices—devices typically smaller than a pinhead. By ganging them together, you can imagine solid-state sensors no bigger than a postage stamp being able to transmit sound and pictures. Hang a postage-stamp-sized sensor on a wall, or scatter several of them in an area, and you’ll be able to monitor …”
Duane nodded, as if Michaelson were talking to him directly.
“… the actual chamber is lined with solid-state lasers, able to be phased, or coordinated, with each other. If you phase these guys right, you can create a ‘true’ hologram—one you can actually walk around, not just move back and forth in front of. The possibilities for remote surveillance are …”
Duane wandered into the living room to watch. As he saw the image, it startled him to see Dr. Michaelson standing next to the president himself, talking about their big initiative. It sounded as if some major work was going to come to the Lab. Dr. Michaelson sure sounded optimistic about it. That made Duane feel good and relieved.
After all the talk about the Cold War ending, budget cutbacks, program shutdowns, and layoffs, Duane had been uneasy for some time. Even with his high school diploma, at his age he doubted he could find another decent job if he got laid off from the Plutonium Facility.
The house was mostly paid for after twenty years, but Stevie’s medical bills continued to eat up most of Duane’s paycheck, not allowing him to move an inch ahead, barely letting him keep running in place. Duane didn’t like his job, had few friends among his coworkers, though he had worked quietly beside them for years.
After supper he spent an hour in the nightly ritual of dunking Stevie in the warm running bath. The boy splashed around in the water. He seemed to enjoy the heat and the buoyant freedom the bathwater gave his tortured body.
Duane noticed that Stevie’s cough was getting worse, phlegmy and congested-sounding. After toweling the boy off and swaddling him in his nightgown, he forced some cough syrup into Stevie’s mouth, wiped the red residue from the boy’s grimace, and put him to bed. Stevie rocked from side to side and continued to make noises long after Duane went back into the living room.
Duane crouched in the old rocking love seat, leaning over the Mediterranean-style coffee table. He pulled out a worn deck of playing cards.
For the rest of the evening the TV played a blurred succession of sitcom after sitcom, and Duane knew from the laugh tracks when he was supposed to chuckle at the jokes. He shuffled the cards and spread them down one by one in a line for another game of solitaire.
He stared at the cards, moved the appropriate ones and turned over new cards, studying for strategy, looking up at the sitcom when the laugh track grew particularly loud. He considered peeking under the two piles of cards that remained, wanting to see which would give him the best advantage, but he did not do it. If you cheated at solitaire, you were cheating no one but yourself.
In the bedroom Stevie coughed, then fell silent with sleep.
Duane considered changing the channel, but realized that it probably made no difference. He dealt out another game of solitaire and continued playing.