Arguing light topics with Smithson is good for him. After ten minutes, he’s actually using the headrest. Fifty more, and he’s watching the scenery, his spine the same shape as his bucket seat. At ninety minutes, he allows that since the rain is holding off and she doesn’t need to avoid all distractions, they may listen to a podcast. Ripley chooses one about a Canadian con man who absconded to England in the nineties with millions of dollars’ worth of gold. She jokingly accuses Smithson of agreeing to the podcast in order to duck out of a debate that she was winning; he crossly asks if she wants to listen to the crimes or not.
Two episodes later, he’s hooked. “I know that street,” he announces proudly whenever the narrator mentions a road with houses that don’t have numbers, only names.
They break for sandwiches at a rest stop an hour from the border. Smithson insists on reading the historical plaque, then visiting the “scenic viewpoint,” which is just some farmland and, in the distance, a hill. She laughs at him, but he refuses to be shamed for spending twenty minutes watching crows gather around what’s probably a wolf’s leftovers. Ripley teases him as they pull back onto the highway. “First the alphabet games, now scenic outlooks. Don’t try this at home, or your family will disown you.”
He leans forward, head tilted up to the darkening sky. In her peripheral vision, Ripley catches the flutter of his right hand twisting the ring.
She glances over. “Sorry, have they actually disowned you and I’ve stepped in shit?”
“What a charming expression,” he says, but he’s wearing a small smile. Ripley wants to reach over and put her hand on his knee. She wants to rake her fingers through his curls and tug. She should have put the podcast back on.
“And no, I’m not disowned. All my siblings and I have trust funds,” he continues.
She decides to let the trust-fund thing slide. “Yes, Google said you had sixteen siblings.”
“Only four. Linus and Marie are older than me. The younger girls, Cavendish and Faraday, are still teenagers. No one calls Faraday by that name, though. She’s a Daisy through and through.” Ripley can tell from the curl in his voice that Daisy’s the sister who demands bolstering. His favorite.
“Marie and Linus, as in Curie and Pauling? And then Cavendish and Faraday? How did you dodge the famous chemistry namesake?”
“I got Alfred, actually. For Nobel. We all got James as a middle name. Even the girls.”
She can’t hold back a short, sharpha. “You areshittingme.”
He ducks his head, seeming pleased by her reaction. As if making her laugh makes him feel better. She focuses on the road, willing away the heat that’s climbing her neck.
“It’s true, alas. Or, itwastrue. I changed my name when I published my first paper. Now it’s James Alfred Smithson. Still rather a bear. One does wish to get out from under the legacy of it all. From time to time.”
“Right,” Ripley says slowly. She’s spent a month using his last name. His legacy name. Yes, he said she could, but she doesn’t feel great about it now. “What did your parents say when you told them you wanted to change it?”
“I didn’t tell my dad. It’s bad enough that I didn’t go intochemistry.” He raises a forbidding forefinger, his face assuming a scowl Ripley hasn’t seen before. “ ‘My children’s names honor the spirit of science. Whereas the vast majority of artists never make a living, much less a name, every scientific advancement matters. Science. Never. Dies.’ ”
His impression of his dad is terrifying, largely because he’s playing it as funny. She has the awful feeling she knows why he’s making light of his art.
“Anyway. My father still believes the name on my first publication was a clerical error, but he instructed me to carry on using James A. Smithson after that, since my professional identity was now established.” A ghost of a smile touches his lips.
“Smart,” Ripley says. “I mean, not many people are diabolical enough to place their first paper inNatureat twenty-one just to stick it to their dad, but good job you.”
“Hmm,” he says thoughtfully.
“What?” She glances over. He’s wearing his taxonomist face again: serious mouth, connections lighting up behind his eyes.
Oh, goddamn it. She would reasonably know he’s had papers inNature,yes. But knowing it was his first publication? And how old he was? That implies she looked up his biodata and did math. That shecares.
She thinks about the sheer number of secrets she could unintentionally reveal on this trip and seriously considers whether to turn around now.
“And your mom?” she asks. Better to keep him talking so she has less time to incriminate herself. “Did she ever suspect?”
“My mother died when I was fourteen.”
“Oh, shit. I’m so sorry,” Ripley says.
“You didn’t know. And it was a long time ago.”
“We don’t have to talk about her. I mean, it’s not exactly light.”
“It’s all right. My mum…she didn’t believe in tradition the way my father did. She’d have laughed.”
“She sounds lovely.”
