The Click

For several days Hitch paced through the house in a funk. He was infatuated with

Elana Wu and at the same time pissed she couldn’t … or wouldn’t help him. The only joy he got out of their meeting, besides her surprising beauty, was shoving a broken glass against the throat of Janine’s thug. He looked at his watch. Almost noon. Kathy and Christopher were coming for lunch and would be there any moment. He rushed to the deck and turned on the grill.

They ate burgers and chips in the fresh air and watched the hikers parallel the Potomac with wires dangling from their ears. Christopher talked about school and his history project. He was studying how early Christian theology evolved into a religious Ecclesian monopoly which in turn evolved into a political and social imperative for the betterment of humankind. Hitch listened with interest. His grandson was only eleven and already being indoctrinated. As a non-believer Hitchcock made his views known, even to Christopher, and that aggravated his only daughter who attended the Liberal Church of Spirituality at least twice a month. At one point she tried to get her parents to attend but neither of them would budge, Edna especially. She had studied Christianity, especially Catholicism, in college and wasn’t sure which was worse, the Catholic Church or the Church of the Ecclesia.

Later, while Christopher played on his grandfather’s computation shell, Kathy and Hitch cleared off the dishes and Kathy spread out on the kitchen table at least a dozen photos she had taken from her purse. Hitch stared at them in disbelief, as if they were the last thing in the world he expected to see.

“It was Dr. Delahunt’s idea,” she explained. “He said if I take pictures every day we will be able to monitor the progress.”

“I know, sweetheart, but isn’t that a bit over the …”

Just then Christopher showed up announcing he was ready to go home, causing Kathy to pull her father close to him and whisper. “Does it look to you like it’s getting worse?”

“No, absolutely not. Now go home. Get some sleep ...and don’t take a picture but once a week. I’m sure that will be fine.”

Hitch kissed Kathy and hugged Christopher before guiding them through the front door and onto the porch. As he did, a VAMA hearse drove past the house. After watching Kathy drive away, he rushed inside, then to the living room window where he caught another VAMA hearse pass by. He stepped into the kitchen, looked at the dozen pictures of Christopher’s V-Mark, and grimaced. It clearly grew darker and rougher by the day. He pulled out a magnifying glass from a drawer and could even see the blistering and general roughness reflected off the flash of the camera. Filled with anger, he picked them all up and threw them in the trash compressor. HUMMMMMMM.

He grabbed hold of his scud, tapped in a number, and paced. A hologram swelled up from his scud showing Rajiv Nadu making love with a different woman. Suddenly the hologram disappeared once again.

“Bad timing again old man. The answer’s the same. Talk to you soon.”

Before Hitch could respond, he heard the other end disconnect. “Son of a bitch!” He stomped into his bedroom, removed his shirt and headed for the mirror where he preened and flexed his muscles in anger, then picked up a pair of dumbbells and began curling until it hurt. He returned to the mirror, preened once again, then stared at his V-Mark, feeling its smoothness with his fingertips, observing its uniform Indian-redness. Distressed, his eyes shifted back to his reflection which returned a thousand mile stare as if haunted by what it saw. Only his reflection could know his deepest insecurities. He tried shaking it off and quickly opened a cabinet. Every shelf was covered with bottles of vitamins and supplements. He took one labeled “Primo—Get Raw Hard Rock Muscle in Minutes. He opened the bottle and swallowed a handful. That made him think about Elana Wu.

After flopping into an easy chair in the study, he pulled out his scud, did a quick search, and tapped on the results. Seconds later he could hear RINGING at the other end. An answering machine clicked on. “You have reached Barnaby Bloom. Please leave a message.”

Hitch decided not to. What he had to say was far too complicated. Instead, he clicked off and jumped from the chair. From the corner of his eye he could see through the window a vehicle lingering on the street. He poked his head out and the black VAMA hearse moved on.

He stepped out from the study onto his deck where the Falls could be heard. The afternoon sun had just crept behind a thick cloud and a cool breeze seemed to lift his spirits … just a little. He wasn’t planning on running, too much to do, but the crashing cry of Potomac whitewater and the sweet smell in the air made for an invitation he couldn’t refuse. After changing into shorts and running shoes, he drove off with Rigoletto plugged into his ears. It took him only a few minutes by car to reach the beginning of his favorite trail and off he went; first to the left, then the right along the river’s edge, and then up a steep hill overlooking the Potomac river. It reminded him of the ocean waves assaulting the beachheads in Cape Town and Rio de Janeiro, and the sun baked boulders along the river’s edge in so many cities in Neuropa. He loved running along water, but not today it seemed. Today Rigoletto scratched across his temples like new chalk across a whiteboard. Today his memories pulled him back only as far as his last visit with Delahunt, with Edna.

In the far reaches of his peripheral vision he saw the doctor chasing along side him pointing to the report, huffing to keep up, yelling above the roar of the river, “carrier of the ERAM-V virus, carrier of the ERAM-V virus, carrier ...” Delahunt’s words, repeated over and over again, drowning out Rigoletto, crushing his innermost ego, assaulting the high opinion he had of himself. He was the reason OJ died; he was the reason Christopher … Fury ignited the muscles in his thighs, in his calves, his feet pumping and pumping, faster, faster in hopes that the body could escape the suffering soul. He had to

outrun the guilt that would only paralyze him, that would only reduce to a silent prayer his ability to keep his promise to Edna.

The trail itself passed under foot as if it were invisible, while his favorite opera underscoring his profound shame provided the beat for each painful step he took and the pounding in his chest that would not chip away at his disquietude. He was no less responsible for the death of OJ than Rigoletto was responsible for the death of his daughter, Gilda.

The sweat bled through most of his t-shirt by the time he reached the front door. He was hungry but couldn’t think of food, too much on his mind. He had grown even thinner now since Edna’s death and the promise he made to her, a promise he doubted he would be able to keep. Before OJ and Christopher, he stood up straight, all six and a half feet of him. Lately, he found himself stooping over, as if his thinness refused to support the weightiness carried within his every thought.

Since he seldom carried his scud during a run, before the front door had a chance to close, habit drove Oliver into his study to see if anyone left a message. The red light on his computation shell was blinking, almost in synchronism with the yellow light on his phone tablet. He quickly called out. “Messages please.”

“Mr. Hitchcock, this is Barnaby Bloom. I see you called. I was wondering how long it would be before I heard from you. Please give me a call at your convenience.”