Her eyes went to the dates - March 15th on the letter, March 18th on the postmark, and today was April 1st. Anders giving her the files she’d asked for, half sitting down on the edge of her desk while he went over her data on proteins. Anders bringing her a cup of coffee because he’d picked one up for himself. Anders Eckman, tall in his white lab coat, his hair a thick graying blond. There was inside of her a very modest physical collapse, not a faint but a sort of folding, as if she were an extension ruler and her ankles and knees and hips were all being brought together at closer angles. At that moment she understood why people say You might want to sit down.
Fox had to do was reach a hand towards her, and when he did she took the letter from him and sat down slowly in the gray plastic chair beside the separator. This particular lab Marina had shared for seven years with Dr. Others had walls and walls of mice or monkeys or dogs. There were labs with stations for twenty technicians and scientists to work at the same time. There were more than thirty buildings on the Vogel campus, labs and office buildings of various sizes and functions.
“Eckman’s dead,” he managed to say before his voice broke, and then with no more explanation he gave her the letter to show just how little about this awful fact he knew. She didn’t think he had come all the way from his office in the snow, a good ten buildings away, to give her a weather report, but he only stood there in the frame of the open door, unable either to enter the room or step out of it. “I heard on the radio it was going to.” the window in the lab where she worked faced out into the hall and so she never saw the weather until lunchtime. When he tried again all he could say was, “It’s snowing.” When she saw him there at the door she smiled at him and in the light of that smile he faltered. Fox had the letter in his hand when he came to the lab to tell Marina the news. Who even knew they still made such things? This single sheet had traveled from Brazil to Minnesota to mark the passing of a man, a breath of tissue so insubstantial that only the stamp seemed to anchor it to this world. The news of Anders Eckman’s death came by way of Aerogram, a piece of bright blue airmail paper that served as both the stationery and, when folded over and sealed along the edges, the envelope.
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