Free Rus Like Everyone Else by Bette Adriaanse Page A

astronaut food, and a motion detector. But not his suit.
    Calm and focused, Mr. Lucas pulled his encyclopedias out of the book chest, the atlas, the medical almanac, the guide to psychotherapy, the history books, and the Hebrew dictionary. He pushed the chest away from the wall, looked behind it, shoved it back, pulled two cardboard boxes from under his bed, flipped them over, and went rummaging through them with both his hands as if he were swimming.
    Finally, he went into his yard, even though it was dark, andswitched the light on in the shed. He came back in ten minutes later, dragging a wooden box into the house. The label on the box read in Mr. Lucas’s own precise handwriting: “Items used during the brief period I worked at the Weekly Paper before everything went awry. Don’t open.” Below the label was another label, on which was written in the same handwriting: “Don’t open it, Sam.”
    â€œNot to worry,” Mr. Lucas said reassuringly to his old self, as he took a screwdriver and placed it between the box and the cover. “I will only take out the suit and put the box away immediately. Calm and focused.” He pushed the screwdriver down with all his weight but the lid would not open. He had nailed the box shut back then, and there were at least fifty nails in the wood. Eventually Mr. Lucas resorted to calmly thrashing the wood with a hammer until the cover splintered and he had access to his treasure. In the box lay a neatly folded green suit.
    Mr. Lucas sighed. Carefully he took the suit out of the box. He caressed the soft fabric. “Exactly how I remember it.” He looked briefly at the other things in the box. There was his old press card with SAM LUCAS on it, the raincoat, and the hat with a dent. “This might be useful,” Mr. Lucas mumbled as he took the raincoat out of the box. He decided to take the press card out of the box, for old time’s sake, and he also took the hat out and put it on. At the bottom of the box only Mr. Lucas’s old tape recorder was left.
    Without really making a conscious decision to do it, Mr. Lucas lowered his hand into the box, lifted out the tape recorder, and pushed the play button. Immediately, the voice of a much younger Mr. Lucas filled the room.
    â€œThe white van with blinded windows is still parked in front of my house. I know they have all seen it now. I know the police are in on it too. They were trying to frame me from the start. The original list I have obtained from the fire department did name fourteen, like I said in the article. They cannot accuse me—I have not been involved. It is the sixth day where I don’t go out, the people in the white van are—”
    Mr. Lucas hit the stop button with force. He covered his ears and closed his eyes and said, “Munumunumunumu.” The memories of the time he made that recording came straight back into his head: it was a few days after he’d stopped working at the newspaper; ithad been a difficult time for him, a time of clouded judgment. It had all been done with the best of intentions, but yes, yes, he did go too far, he did.
    Mr. Lucas pressed his hands over his eyes and said, “Stop, stop,” to the memories that were falling over one another, to his breath that was quickening, and to the stings in his chest. He opened his eyes, took the cassette out of the tape recorder, and pulled the tape out, cut it into pieces, held it under the tap, and pressed it deep, deep into the garbage bag.

Is there someone you know so well that you can tell almost for certain what that person is doing at this very moment? Is he alone now, or with someone? Is he talking, working, sleeping? Standing or sitting? Can you see him in your mind, how he’s holding his hands, his shoulders? Can you walk toward him and watch his face from up close?
    Come with me to see Mr. Lucas, step into his bedroom. We lean over his bed like a mother watching her child