Survival Of The Fittest

Laurence Walterson was a natural optimist, but even he found his hopes dimming as he drove in yet another slow circle around Frazier’s Glen. He should have arrived half an hour ago, honestly; the Ogilvies lived in the same neighbourhood. But every time he approached, his doubts compelled him to wait.

First, he wanted to give them time to prepare and steel themselves for the night ahead. Then he wanted some time to prepare himself as the charming guest he was so used to being. The third time around, he had no excuse. Since then, he had just been circling randomly. Waiting, he supposed, for some sign that there was still hope for a peaceful evening tonight.

He turned vaguely to the right to ask his wife for some soothing words; Eve could always calm him, whenever his stresses or fears began to gnaw at him. But she was already with her parents. She was too disappointed with him, presumably, after the night Theo was supposed to come home. Could he have been more sympathetic, more concerned? Would it have changed anything? He tried to remember.

The first time she called to tell him the buses hadn’t come back, she was irritated but still calm. He told her to wait: the buses could have been delayed, or perhaps they had gotten lost. The second time she called, she was concerned: no delay was supposed to last this long. He told her to wait, so that she could time her departure and invite the Ogilvies to join them. The third time, she called, she had already decided to return, and he had nothing to tell her. When she finally arrived, he tried to tell her not to worry, or at least not so quickly. It was a weak argument, and he expected a furious retort or disdainful flounce in response. But all she responded with a disappointed, almost pitying look. Eve left the morning after.

The original dinner plans had been scrapped from the first time she called, but they had rescheduled. But the tone had changed, inevitably, and now it felt more like going to a pity party or therapy session than any celebration. Perhaps that was for the best. For now, the pit in his stomach remained all-consuming, and he imagined it would be the same once they were done here tonight. But for a few hours, maybe they could find some distraction from the unhappy truth (no, possibility: nothing had been proven quite just yet).

A half-forgotten timer rang to indicate it was now 7:45. It had been three-quarters of an hour now. His guests (or hosts, now) would wonder where he was. So, with an uncertain care, he parked, walked to the porch, and rang the bell.

Alistair Ogilvie opened the door. "Hey, Laurence," came the gruff greeting, and it was clear from his tone and posture that Alistair was simply going through the motions. It was equally clear that that was all he'd been doing for some time now. It wasn't that he was especially apathetic towards the guest arriving at his door, or somehow felt a special degree of disdain and boredom towards the task of entertaining. Being borderline emotionless was just his default state now. A monochrome constancy was just an unerring, uninterrupted part of his life, in a way that shaving and exercising clearly were not.

The male Professor Ogilvie looked a mess. It turned out that Nick's ability to grow an impressive beard must have stemmed from his mother's side. Alistair's beard was patchier, thin in places. Perhaps with some trimming the goatee could have been respectable, yet the rest of it was a mess. He hadn't grown one in years. Had just kept to himself, focused on looking professional. Alistair had dressed up, of course, as was his obligation. He kept to his obligations. He was reliable. He prided himself on that. A steady work ethic, that was his chief selling point. He just lacked the energy to go above and beyond, and so it was with that grey lack of emotion that he beckoned Laurence to enter.

Normally Alistair was perfectly amenable wihen socialising with other academics. He wasn't as natural a networker as his wife, and often found himself searching for common talking points and frames of reference when talking to those in his own field. But with other academics, those outside the immediate confines of the world of business finance, that was the sweet spot for him to come into his element. He could converse with people there without risking getting too caught up in 'shop talk', able to share gossip and gripe about the realities of the academic life with people who both got it and yet had distance from the dramas he was embroiled in.

It was why he got along well with people like Laurence.

But today he was silent, and they both knew why. He didn't tell Laurence to take off his coats or his shoes - assuming that the man probably had the wherewithal to work that out for himself, perhaps at the back of his mind entertaining the thought of having a reason to kick him out and bring this night to a premature end if Laurence brought muddy footprints beyond the threshold - and instead walked straight into the living room. On one coffee table lay reams of books and papers, some professional, some academic, identified only as Christine's by the international relations focus that dominated the book titles. On another table was a half-finished jigsaw puzzle, a scene of the North Carolina coast, at least a couple of pieces dangerously close to falling onto the floor.

"Make yourself at home," Alistair murmured, slumping on the couch by the puzzle.

Laurence didn’t mind the his colleagues unkemptness, or even the general lack of warmth. It might not have been the customary response, but then the time for normality was long past. He removed his coat and boots carefully, slipping into a cleaner set of dress shoes quickly afterwards. Compared to Alistair’s disinterest, his close attention to the ceremonial niceties that preceded any meeting felt superficial, even artificial. Still, he didn’t want to let go of the remnants of normality himself. It felt like defeat, to accept the most likely outcome, even as he wondered if he wasn’t setting himself up for an even bigger fall.

But even remaining politely pleasant was difficult. The apathy of his host was infectious. It wasn’t that the house was suddenly leached of all emotion and light, but simply that that familiar air of excitement was stilled, slowed into nothingness. Its absence was neatly filled by a fragility, threatening to shatter at the first touch of darkness. He unpacked the week-old cake delicately, settling it down on one of the kitchen tables. Its cheery blues and bright yellows felt out of place in the sombre environment, almost disrespectful to the last week's events.

He found himself drifting into the living room, where a puzzle sat precariously on the ledge. He sat next to it, gently nudging it back into a safer position. On closer examination, it was a seaside scene, presumably, all half built wave and incomplete beach. Even incomplete, it exuded a certain tranquility; a jumble of pieces coming together into a more cohesive whole. It felt out of place as well, but in a more calming way, firmer and more lasting.

It was also a convenient topic for risk-free discussion: banal, positive, and ultimately meaningless. “Interesting puzzle you have here. When did you start on this one?”