Schrödinger's Ball

by Adam Felber

  You do, however, believe in chronic depression. Don’t you?

  So, whether you like it or not, believe it or not, Deb is moving through the thickening air in her state of perpetual and vastly unfair grace. Storms, both actual and metaphorical, are brewing all around her—a vast and improbable mechanism has assembled itself and is rattling to life, the winds will rise, thunder will crack, lives will be made and ruined and lost and found, and everything that we are concerned with will change, including the life of one Deborah Johnstone, which will be shaken and altered along with everything else.

  But, really, don’t waste your worries on her—plenty of others need you much more. She’d tell you that herself, if you existed as anything other than an imagined observer.

  Chapter 14

  LIKE A GRAY DART, like a windblown cloud, like a tiny, hairy tumbleweed, Lester the Rat is streaking toward his goal. His movements are alarmingly swift and smooth, like a spider on a bedspread. He’s meatward bound, full speed ahead, and damn the torpedoes.

  Lester is moving, closing distance, completely focused. He’s within two feet of the generous morsel when the bird that’s been pecking away at it notices him. It startles, leaps, panics. By the time Lester has actually reached his goal, the bird is airborne, fleeing, frantic. Lester descends on the rapidly decaying prize, grabs it in his pointy yellow teeth, jerks his head upward to lift it off the ground.

  By this time, though he of course doesn’t know it, Lester is no longer strictly part of our story. He has served his purpose. He’s done, as far as we’re concerned—his necessary though inscrutable task fulfilled. Of course he’s not dead, nor has he done anything extraordinary in and of itself. But he’s not our concern anymore, and it would be kind of strange for you to continue to worry about him—after all, he’s just a rat.

  In case you’re interested, however, this is what happens next: Lester wolfs down the meat, turns, and runs back to the sewer grate, still chewing. He pauses there a moment, sniffing the air, and then vanishes into the underworld. There, slightly less ravenous than before, he sets out to retrace his steps toward more familiar territory.

  His name is no longer “Lester.” It never was, really.

  “I’m afraid I’ll be leaving soon,” said Dr. Schrödinger as we strolled out of the restaurant. “I have to be going.”

  He obviously wanted us to voice some sort of objection to this. And, as unthinkable as it might have seemed a few days before, we were somewhat inclined to do so. Still, the thought of reclaiming our living room and getting a break from his increasingly personal remarks was appealing, so we only inquired casually about the nature of his obligations.

  “No obligations, per se. Not at all. It’s only that I can no longer stay here, that’s all. I’ve been observed as matter, but now I must ‘wave’ goodbye—ha-ha-ha.” It was a lame joke, but we smiled politely. The old physicist had seated himself on a bench in the little park that abutted the restaurant. He patted the bench next to him invitingly, his eyebrows raised in an expression of such fervent hope that we had to laugh and join him. “You’ll have to take care of Werner, of course.” Werner, his cat. His actual cat, who dwelt somewhere within our house. We told him that we didn’t have the foggiest idea how to even find Werner.

  He sighed deeply. “The life of a scientist is not easy, is it?” he asked, presumably rhetorically. “We find ourselves so enrapt by our studies that we hardly notice the Byzantine structures our psyches are constructing in the meantime. Frustrated by the lack of daily attention, our personalities twist and turn themselves like forest trees straining toward the sunlight. So, if something goes wrong and we suddenly have to pay attention to our lives, the most bizarre things can occur.”

  We were not sure why he was saying this, though he seemed to have a very specific thing in mind. We were more than a little worried that some ghastly and distasteful confession was forthcoming from the old man. Perhaps, though, he was merely saying that scientists were crazy.

  “Scientists are crazy, is what I’m saying,” he went on, “and that craziness often comes in the form of self-neglect. A failure to build and maintain a connection with oneself and one’s social life. But the personal side of a person can’t be denied, and it will grow and change and mutate, whether noticed or not. Hence the bizarre delusions, the psychotic breaks, the absurd yet sometimes therapeutic neuroses. They’re not necessarily bad—sometimes they crop up to get us through difficulties, trauma-induced. But they’re just stopgap measures really.”

  The “Wise Old Man” look on his face combined with his evermore-direct glances had become infuriating—he was clearly not about to confess something about himself. We were livid, suddenly, and we demanded that the doctor either come right out and say what was on his mind or leave immediately. He remained calm, the very picture of the emotional detachment he was just prattling on about.

  “As I said, I will leave quite soon,” he said quietly, “but let me ask you one deceptively simple question, if I may.” He cleared his throat. “When I get up from this bench and leave, how many people will remain? Count carefully, mind you. Who will be here?”

  With that, he turned to face forward, gazing out into the park and the street beyond. We could not for the life of us understand what he was talking about. What kind of airy-fairy question was that? Did he expect an answer? What did this have to do with physics, anyway?

  We, too, stared into the middle distance, fuming, determined not to answer the old coot, who didn’t seem to mind.

  The bird, startled beyond sense, took off and fled in a state of panic.

  As we said, it was out rather late for a sparrow. It was, therefore, immediately confronted with the night sky and headlights and lamps and all sorts of things that it generally preferred not to encounter. Not only that, it was as near to hysterical as a tiny bird’s brain can become; the sight of a rat suddenly appearing out of nowhere in the lamplight a mere few inches from its beak—it was too much.

  So it flew erratically, trying to stay high enough to avoid the rat, low enough to have some sort of bearing on its position. It crested a building (vaguely familiar), swept down into an area with some trees (though not its own personal tree), thought it saw a shadow moving, swooped back up through the branches of the tree toward the black night sky.

  It’s only natural, then, that the agitated sparrow did not notice that the particular gap in the branches it flew into wasn’t a “gap” per se, but a black plastic bag that had been caught there.

  Like a game-winning hockey puck, the bird found the small aperture of the bag and flew directly inside; the bag detached itself from the branch; the bird, now thoroughly panicked, desperately tried to get away from the strange substance that surrounded it.

  It was a losing cause for the bird. The airborne bag zigzagged crazily, contracted around its prisoner, lost altitude, and then abruptly collided with a street sign, which further accelerated its descent to the pavement.

  There, in the middle of the road, the bag lay, fluttering slightly, not more than ten yards from where a few seconds before there had been a piece of meat, the bird itself, and a very sudden rat.

  “Maybe it’s just my brain trying to protect itself from possible rejection, you know? But that doesn’t really make sense, does it? I mean, it would explain me dreaming that Johnny was all dead and bloody on the bed, but what about the fire thing? I was awake there, Grant. And, besides, that was before we’d done anything. I mean, maybe I’d been picking up that it was going to happen or something, but that’d be one overactive defense mechanism, wouldn’t it? I guess what you said yesterday could be it—you know, I’ve been so upset about Furble that I’ve been repressing it, and it’s been coming out in all kinds of weird ways—but I don’t think I’ve really been repressing it, you know. What with all the crying and talking about it and thinking about it, I’d say that I’ve pretty much begun the grieving process in a proactive, healthy way, right? And there’s no denying that Johnny’s been weird, rig
ht? I mean, it’s not that bizarre to want to sleep with me, I guess—shut up, don’t even … But the other stuff, you know? He’s just been weird, we all know that, right? And there’s been other weird stuff, too, stuff that only I’d know that I definitely won’t get into…. I know this sounds classic, and now that I’ve slept with him I’m even more totally unreliable, but there’s something wrong, isn’t there? I mean, it’s not like I’m asking you if he’s said anything about me, because that would be, like, pathetically girly, and it’s not the point. Though of course, if he has said anything about me, you’d tell me, right? Just kidding. No I’m not. No, really, this isn’t an obsessive-girlfriend thing; Christ, it’s not even like I’m his girlfriend. I know that. It’s not about that. So, you know, what is this about?”

  “I’m not sure. I think I’ll just have to wait to read your short story when it comes out.”

  “You suck.”

  “Make me handsome, okay?”

  “You’ll be a retarded circus clown.”

  “That works for me.”

  … 18. And, abiding there, the Prophet Bernie did begin to think that the Lord had once more beset him with a Practical Joke, though He had promised never again to behave thusly. 19. All at once, Bernie beheld a wonder, and he repented having questioned the Lord. 20. For from the heavens there did fall a black sack, which did plummet from the sky and fall through the air, and did come to rest in the center of the Crossing. And the people there were amazed, for they had heeded Bernie not. 21. And the Prophet Bernie did say unto them, “Behold! For it is as I have told thee. The Lord has produced a sign, and thus has the Time of the Crossing arrived!” And the people beheld in wonder as Bernie strode forth into the Crossing, and they were amazed, and they shouted at him, “Beware! For, though thou hast foretold aright, the light doth flash that thou shouldst not walk!” But Bernie heeded them not, and set out upon the Crossing. 22. And Bernie did come to the Center of the Crossing, and there beheld a wonder. For lo! The sack which had fallen from the heavens did move, though the wind bleweth not! And Bernie did bend there in the Crossing, and did apply his eye to the wondrous sack. 23. And the Prophet Bernie beheld that within the sack there was entangled a small bird of the sky, whose wings were fouled ’midst the folds of the sack. 24. And the Prophet Bernie did cry out to the Lord in thanks, saying, “Lord, I thank Thee, for Thou hast made to me my purpose clear, and here in the Crossing shall I free this creature, or sacrifice it to Thee as Abraham did the ram in the place of his son, whichever that Thou dost require of me.” And the Lord did not then reply to Bernie, but left him to decide the matter unto himself, which was indeed the Sort of Thing the Lord was wont to do to Bernie from time to time. 25. And so the Prophet Bernie knelt there in the crossing and set about the freeing of the bird of the sky. 26. And as Bernie knelt, the strange talisman that had been his gift did fall from his pocket and rolled from his side, yet Bernie heeded it not. 27. And so rapt was he in the Lord’s task that he saw not the changing of the lights….

  himme with yer best shot! Why doncha himme with yer best shot….

  Damn the goddamn red lights round here! Got nothin’ left from the six of Mountain Dew and no more pinks or blues, neither, just a man and his machine, stop and startin’ all the way through. Two fuckin’ miles on the map, but I’ll be sittin’ here till my kebabs rot, ’cuz I missed that frickin’ turnoff. Good thing I got all kindsa grit, only a pro could see this one out, no doubt, no bout. “Bout?” Dunno what I’m sayin’ there….

  WHOA! Who’s honkin’? Fuck you! Oh. Green light. Musta taken a quick one there, twenny winks at most, no biggie. Okay, back on it. Man in motion. Pedal to metal. Oh, man—Zep! When she gets there she knows, if the store’s hours are closed, with a word …

  Lookit all these kids. Damn good-lookin’, some of ‘em. “College girls,” like on the Innernet. Or is that one a boy? Goddamn blurry. An she’s buy-eye-ing a stairway to hea-eh-vun…. Ivy League girls, they know all about it. Not that I could get anywhere near ’em now, not with the beer gut and the lines and the weird-ass mcgumly on my neck n’ all….

  If they’re a-bustlin yer hedgehog, don’t be alone now, it’s just a sprinklin for ol’ Nadine…. Hey! Another green light! That never happens here. Good karma, like the hippie kids say. Right through the center of the square, though there’s nothin’ square about it. Pedal to th’ metal! Might be at the drop before nine now, straight as nun piss over the river and along the whatever, I’ll know it when I see it. Kinda sad to be leavin’ all the college girls—best view in Beantown. “Beantown”—why the hell? Oh yeah, the baked beans—

  SHIT! Who’s that?! Get outa the road! It’s green, fer-chrissakes! Brake! Brake! Turn it! Can’t stop this fast—not my fault—he’s just standin’ there—not gonna hit him—gonna go off the fuckin’ road!—Right inta the park—can’t stop—FUCK! What’s that bump?—kids!—outa the way!—Move!—Can’t stop!—’Slike slo-motion—M’I gonna die?—Look out!—SHIT! SHIT!! SHIIIIIT!!!

  … An’ she’s buy-eye-ing a stair-air-way to heh-vun….

  Johnny Felix Decaté was glad that Deb didn’t want to talk. He was discovering things at an unbelievable pace, things that were obvious yet always hidden from him, things he could do or not do.

  For instance, he realized as they walked through the tiny park on their way to still more ice cream, he could stop his own heart. Just for a second or else it hurt, but he could do it. Johnny looked into and through things, right down to the small parts. He could see light moving like liquid, and he could slow it down if he wanted to, and it all made a kind of obvious sense that it never had before. Like what he’d done when he was on fire, but now he understood how.

  It was all incredibly, complicatedly simple. And beautiful.

  He saw that he now could fix a broken bone with a touch. He saw that in time, with the right couple of adjustments, he could learn to see through women’s clothing, which was something he’d always wanted to do as a kid. He could make plants grow faster. He could—Well, it was easier to consider what he couldn’t do, because the list of “could”s was suddenly far too big to conceive of. He understood the question now: He could, he realized all at once, fix the world in ways he’d always dreamed of doing.

  And almost immediately he decided not to do anything.

  Because, once his hands were off something, it would continue about its business, doing whatever it did, with no way for Johnny to know whether he’d made things better or worse. It was all too deeply interconnected—he could see the … strands of everything, some sort of ghostly strands, reaching out of things and into things and winding around other things. And he was part of it. When he moved his arm, a thousand million of the milky, translucent tendrils were tugged and pulled along with it, and they in turn pulled at others, each action reverberating endlessly through a tightly woven web….

  No. Best just to breathe and move and try not to disturb things too much. He wanted to see how one strand pulled on another, how it all worked together, and he became aware that he couldn’t do that unless he was very, very still—more still than he’d ever been—so that he didn’t disturb the patterns he was trying to watch. That, he decided, would be his new hobby. Watching and understanding the pattern of things.

  Part of that pattern, he saw with a start, was a big truck that had swerved out of its lane and was now heading for him and Deb and the old lady behind Deb and the tree behind her, which would be strong enough to stop the truck. Johnny saw the truck try to right itself, saw its course made inevitable by its front tire’s almost imperceptible slide upon an unnaturally large molecule underneath its tread, saw what now must necessarily happen. Grant and Arlene were safe, because, ironically enough, Arlene had shoved Grant playfully, and they were now a little ways out into the street. But he and Deb were directly in the truck’s path, him first, then Deb, etc.

  The face of the truck’s driver, over the headlights, was gorgeous. Johnny saw the look of panic and fear, and he wished there was time to
explain to the man that it was okay, that the accident was so inevitable as to make the word “accident” meaningless, that everything would work out. He also wished that it wasn’t happening, because he had just made plans to sit very still and watch everything and figure it out, and now there wouldn’t be enough time. This was somewhat frustrating, if inevitable.

  Moments before the truck reached him, a second or so really, Johnny realized that he could in fact stop the truck before it hit them. Instantaneously. He saw that he could do it, and then cradle the driver in a cushion of slightly hardened air, and prevent any of them from getting hurt at all. He saw, with just an instant left, how he could do this. There were good reasons to do it, and no reason not to, he thought.

  Until he saw what was going to be the first thing to hit him. There on the truck’s front end, on a collision course with his abdomen, a frayed black bumper sticker with yellow block letters bearing a familiar and ageless message: SHIT HAPPENS.

  Yes, thought Johnny Felix Decaté as his lips began a movement that would never get the chance to become an actual smile. That’s about right.

  The President of Montana (Oh, Get Over It Already) was watching the park, getting ready to cross the street, when he heard the screech of tires next to him. He turned and saw a massive tractor-trailer turning and braking at once, trying to avoid something in the crosswalk. It sped by him, decelerating, not moving fast enough to jackknife but not slow enough to stop in time.

  The PoM(OGOIA) turned to watch the truck slide across the intersection, heading right for the park. It was barreling down on some people, the President realized. Just before the bulk of the truck cut off his view, the President identified the potential victims as a young man, a young woman, and someone who might very well be—