There were two other times when the memory seemed real and not a dream. That was when Malcolm acquired a puppy, which disappeared after a couple of days, and then later a kitten, which disappeared after one day.
“Ran away,” his parents said, looking uncomfortable and refusing to meet his eyes.
Could it be?
No, impossible.
When Malcolm was thirteen, he had a friend. He had never had one before. Billy was as weird as he was, as socially inept, and just as interested in science fiction, fantasy, and horror. Billy, too, talked about writing and selling the stuff some day. Although neither of them knew it, Billy was considerably more talented than Malcolm and might well have had a respectable literary career had he not disappeared.
He came over one day to see Malcolm at a time when neither Malcolm nor his parents were at home. The front door was open, so Billy walked in, as he had become accustomed to doing. Looking for Malcolm, and curious about the grandfather Malcolm had once told him about, Billy climbed the stairs and entered the Tibbs attic. He was never seen again.
The next day, Malcolm’s father, his face grim and pale, arranged to have Grandpa Tibbs taken away to what he told Malcolm was a nursing home.
Years later, Malcolm received a letter from home saying that dear old Grampsy had passed on to a better world. The letter didn’t tell him that Grampsy had died in a hail of bullets during an escape attempt from the nursing home, or that the body had been immediately cremated, or that Malcolm’s parents, on hearing the news, cheered and hugged each other and made plans for a big evening out.
Nor did Malcolm watch his father ascend the stairs and bring down the reams of Grampsy’s memoirs and sit down at the kitchen table to skim them. He didn’t watch his father’s face turn paler and paler as he read until it matched the newer sheets of paper in color. He didn’t watch his father refuse to let his mother read any of it. He didn’t see his father haul the piles of paper covered with grandpapa’s lovely script out to the driveway and light them all in a giant bonfire and dance clumsily around it.
More years later, after Malcolm had started trying to sell his fiction professionally, he remembered those memoirs and wondered what had happened to them. He wondered if they might have contained some anecdotes from his grandfather’s career that he could have stolen and used in a story or a novel. Then he decided that whatever his grandfather had been scrawling so laboriously for so many years had probably been boring and pointless and worthless, and he dismissed it all from his mind.
* * * * *
Preoccupied as he was with himself, Malcolm rarely paid attention to politics. This was an unfortunate habit, albeit only one of many that characterized the confidant of the star-dwelling Merskeenians. Malcolm might have argued that the events he invented for those imagined beings in their ancient time and faraway place had a great impact on his bank account and were therefore more important than real events.
Daddy Longlegs had succeeded to his father’s estate, had made much money in the oil business, and had entered politics. In time, as we know, he would become Vice President of the United States, and later, on a doleful day, President.
Alas, he and Grammy had never been able to have human children bearing their own DNA. In a way, that didn’t matter, for they had come to think of the three little brothers as their very own human children. This had happened at an early point, perhaps on that August day when they had taken the three simians to church in their three little suits and Reverend Gregory had declared them cute little monkeys.
Earlier, Grammy had said she would raise them as though they were her own children, but the truth was that, until Gregory conferred his blessing upon them, she had begun to be increasingly bothered by their hairiness, their waddling walk, and their habit of climbing the drapes and, from a height where she couldn’t reach them, urinating and defecating on her new carpets.
She had sometimes been on the verge of condemning them as dirty, filthy, hairy apes and requesting that Daddy have them put down or at the very least put out — sent away to some traveling circus, perhaps. But Gregory had changed all that. So she schooled her heart and her mind and learned to keep newspapers spread over the carpets and in time she did indeed come to love the three brothers as though they had been her own and as though they had been human. After all, she couldn’t deny that they certainly were cute little monkeys.
Perhaps Daddy neglected the boys a bit. He was a very busy man. He flung himself into his official duties when he served as Vice President under the Great Confibulator.
Not that Daddy cared for all of those duties. Some of them he considered beneath him. For example, he had to chair the meetings of the group working on the Teeny Tiny Robot Soldiers Undertaking. Also the group working on the Fiendishly Fine Wire Initiative. And those weird biologists from the Suddenly Severe Tummy Virus Breeding Program. Not to mention the Wishful Thinking Anti-Missile Shield, and the Booby Trapped Eggs team, and those El Movimiento para Envenenar la Barba de Fidel Castro people. He hated all of them. Beneath him. Wacky. Silly. Small. He wanted to concentrate on the big, important stuff.
Like the National Cathedral.
Ah, the National Cathedral! That was something worth spending his time on.
Daddy had been charged by President Gone Away with finally completing the construction of the National Cathedral in Washington. This stunningly un-Constitutional undertaking had started many decades earlier and had moved along in fits and starts under a succession of Presidents, all of whom had ignored the whirling sounds emanating from the graves of the Founding Fathers.
There had been occasional opposition from the living, too, but the opposition had been waning for years, and finally Daddy sensed that victory was at hand. Even so, a small gang of fiendish Democrats who wanted to put a stop to the construction refused to budge. Daddy made a list of their names and where they lived and he bided his time.
Shortly after Daddy was sworn in as President, a couple of those awful Democrats wandered away into the Virginia wilderness one day and were eaten by orangutans. The surviving opponents quickly changed their minds, and the necessary funds for the completion of the Cathedral were appropriated. The remaining work was rushed through. A grand opening ceremony was held. Daddy was finally able to relax and enjoy himself a bit with his mistress.
Daddy’s determination to have the Cathedral finished didn’t stem from his religious devotion, which wasn’t particularly strong.
He was able to get Reverend Gregory installed as the Cathedral’s Director, and although the building was supposed to be a home for people of all faiths, in practice the services held there were predominantly those of the Church of the Moneyed Classes and were presided over by Reverend Gregory.
And fine services they were. Fine sermons, too. Daddy didn’t attend very often, but when he did, he was able to stay awake at least halfway through. Usually.
Gregory liked to start his sermons off with a bang. Often, he’d step up to the lectern, stand silently for a while looking at the great crowd filling the immense space, and then suddenly he’d yell, “USA! USA! Number One! Number One! Jesus wants you to remember that.”
That part would keep Daddy awake and smiling. After that, Gregory would tend to get theological, and that’s when Daddy’s eyelids would start getting heavy.
Gregory didn’t care. He was in his element. Let Daddy sleep. Gregory preached on.
“On this beautiful day, in this magnificent house of God, in this fine city, in this great country, the greatest country ever in the history of the world, let us give thanks that we are Americans and not pansy-ass Europeans or something even worse. How God has blessed us! I think he deserves a healthy round of applause. Don’t you?”
Applause.
“We have wealth. We have power. We have riches and abundance and glory and might and missiles and bombs and really great television shows. Most important of all, the people here in this really admirable building have lots and lots of money. Money, my dear friends,
is a sign of God’s blessing. Those who possess money are being rewarded for doing God’s will. Those who don’t have money — well, obviously God has turned his face from them. Money is the visible form in this world of God’s blessing, and it will be transformed for the wealthy into God’s eternal spiritual blessing once you pass from this world into the next.
“Therefore, God wants you to accumulate as much of his blessing here on Earth as you possibly can, so that you will be able to exchange it for a vast amount of his spiritual blessing once you are gathered to his bosom. As Jesus told us, it is easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than for a poor man to enter the Kingdom of Heaven.”
His audience nodded in happy agreement. Unlike Daddy, most of them didn’t find the theological sections of Reverend Gregory’s sermon to be tedious or difficult to understand at all. That was part of the man’s genius, they agreed — his ability to make even the most complex and subtle theological concepts simple and easy enough for anyone to understand.
Sometimes — rarely — Reverend Gregory would feel in a prophetic mood and would talk about trials and tribulations, the Antichrist and the Second Coming, the End Times and the Millennium. His audience didn’t care as much for these sermons as they did for the ones about the blessedness of the rich and their forthcoming rewards in Heaven, but Gregory had a soft spot for what he thought of as his Hell on Earth sermons. He could raise his voice a lot more and shake his finger sternly at the congregation and talk about blood and death and vast destruction and mighty armies clashing in the Middle East. It was a lot more fun. He hated to reach the end of such a sermon — namely, all the namby-pamby stuff about the syrupy-sweet peaceful and loving eternal kingdom of Jesus being established on Earth — but it was necessary to end with that, something upbeat, another promise to his audience of eternal good times which, he would assure them, they had earned.
There was good stuff along the way, though, before he got to the syrupy part. “Every knee shall bow! And America will be seated at the right hand of God, designated to rule the Earth in his name, to be his enforcers. That’s what we were chosen for. City on the Hill? No! Army of God in a fortress on the hilltop! We earned it by throwing off the yoke of British monarchy and fighting for our independence. Our forefathers were strong and brave and macho and hairy chested!” He waved his soft fist in the air, and his heavy jowls wobbled.
“They weren’t going to take orders from some effete old king over in England! No, they wanted to rule themselves! Free, independent, democratic, strong men. And in the day that is coming, we will be rewarded by being foremost of those who bow their heads and accept Jesus as their lord and master. When that glorious day comes, don’t you dare look the Lord in the eye! You will meet your Maker on your knees, like a true free, proud American Christian. Tremble in fear and be humble and contrite before Jesus your lord, because you are Americans! The best, the greatest, the most stupendously wonderful nation there ever was or ever will be.”
Zowie!
So let Daddy sleep. Reverend Gregory had a fine, powerful voice, and he seemed able to keep other people awake and listening to what he said. That was what counted — both to Gregory and to Daddy.
Daddy was already planning ahead to his reelection campaign. When that time came, at least once a week Gregory would use the National Cathedral’s pulpit to deliver a sermon supporting Daddy. That was the whole point.
Occasionally, Grammy complained about Daddy’s neglect of the boys. She didn’t understand just how far ahead Daddy was planning and how much of his attention that absorbed. He felt his own future was assured, so now he was putting his efforts into building careers for the boys.
He envisioned a life in politics for all of them, after an appropriate amount of time spent in the oil business. That’s how the Longlegs men did it. After some oil time, the boys would go into politics locally, although not at too low a level. Governorships, maybe. Then — and he smiled whenever he envisioned this — one after the other, they would become President.
Daddy decided to introduce the boys to the American public during a ceremony where everyone would be feeling happy, full of good cheer, and not thinking too deeply about politics. The event he had chosen was the lighting of the national Christmas tree, the first time he would be overseeing this grand national ceremony.
Christmas! An enormous Christmas tree! His boys beginning their journey to world domination! No wonder he was feeling cheerful as he crunched across the thin layer of snow covering the lawn in front of the White House. The sky was clear, the sun was bright, albeit low in the sky and weak, and the air was crisp and clean and cold. Ahead, the tree and the hand-picked crowd and the hand-picked reporters waited. Grammy and the boys were right behind him. It was a good day to be alive.
Until the reporter waylaid him halfway across the lawn.
At first Daddy suspected nothing. He thought the reporter and the cameraman hovering behind him were two of the hand picked, so he smiled graciously at them.
“Mr. President,” the reporter said, thrusting his microphone forward, “how do you feel on this lovely afternoon?”
“Grand day,” Daddy said. “Good day to be alive. Good folks. Good country. Fine tree. Looking forward to it.”
“As you know, sir, questions have been raised about the constitutionality of this ceremony.”
“What? Who?”
“Various people, sir. They wonder if it’s appropriate for the President, in his official capacity, to be participating in a ritual associated with one particular religious sect.”
“Christianity!” Daddy said, scandalized. “Not a sect! Christianity!”
“Yes, sir. The Christian sect. The national Christmas tree, the National Cathedral — what about citizens who aren’t Christians? For that matter, what about Americans who are atheists?”
“Atheists! Not Americans. You can’t call them Americans. Shouldn’t be allowed to vote. One nation under God. Says so in the Constitution.”
“No, it doesn’t.”
“Declaration of Independence.”
“No, sir. Not in there, either.”
The reporter would have said more, but Daddy had finally gestured to his Secret Service agents, who descended upon the two men in a swarm, rushed them into waiting cars, and drove them away to a forest in Pennsylvania, where both men committed suicide with well-placed shots to the back of the head.
“Atheists,” Daddy muttered. “Rubbish. Not real citizens. Christian nation. Bastard. Hurt my feelings.” He shrugged. “But I’m okay. I’m a Longlegs. Don’t cry for me, Argentina. Boys, you got that? Understand my point?”
The three J kids weren’t paying attention, though. Their eyes were fixed in wonder on the towering California redwood, one of the last of the remaining giants, that had been cut down and then transported in many stages by helicopter to the White House lawn, where it had been bolted back together and propped up to serve as the national Christmas Tree. They were too stunned and delighted to make any sounds at all.
It towered above all the other trees and even above the White House itself. In the bright lights, its trunk glowed a dark red. The deep, twisting vertical grooves in its bark were pools of shadow, hints of mystery. Dying, it sang (to those who listened) of a faraway misty forest, damp, chilly air, dim light, the sound of dripping water, the smell of moist earth, the deep, spongy forest floor, layer upon layer of life, plant life, animal life, insect life — above all, life.
Jibber thought it would be a really neat thing to climb.
“This way, boys!” Daddy said. He strode toward the podium on the lawn where he would make his perfunctory remarks before throwing the cross-shaped switch that would light up the great tree and remove another brick or two from poor old Thos. Jefferson’s wall. Not noticing that his three boys weren’t behind him, Daddy ascended the podium and grinned happily at the reporters and television cameras. He was at the top of the world! This was where he belonged!
There was a pause while a grou
p of aging men with expanding middles, wearing rough approximations to Revolutionary War army uniforms, trudged into view. It was the Capital Chapter of the National Musket Association. Grim-faced, determined, patriotic, the group marched in ragged order to the base of the immense tree. There they halted, executed an almost acceptable about face, and stopped, facing Daddy, their muskets resting against their right shoulders at varying angles approximating the vertical.
The chapter president waddled forward and positioned himself in front of them. “Musketeers!” he cried. “Present arms!”
Daddy watched the confusing, disorganized display with a smile frozen on his face.
Why were these ancient fools doing this? Why weren’t they in some rest home, watching the tree-lighting ceremony on television? Why did he have to endure this? He was the President of the United States! The leader of the free world! The most important man in existence! He didn’t have to eat broccoli, and he shouldn’t have to be subjected to this.
For a while, the Musketeers bumped into each other, dropped their weapons, spilled powder and musket balls onto the White House lawn, and in various ways provided great entertainment for their fellow citizens.
Malcolm, who had nothing better to do, was watching all of this on television, and for a few minutes, the Musketeers made him feel less sorry for himself. For that he felt grateful to the Musketeers, whom he normally considered a great scab on the body politic and a suppurating lesion in the national psyche.
The Musketeers finally got themselves sufficiently organized and ready to fire a musket volley in honor of Daddy, the White House, the nation, the Revolution, Christmas, Jesus, Santa Claus, gunpowder, and their dwindling testosterone. They stood stiffly, holding their muskets pointing at a forty-five degree angle, and pulled their triggers almost simultaneously.
The muskets belched flame and smoke and dirt and the occasional ramrod. Daddy and everyone else ducked. Musket balls pinged against the White House walls and bounced away and rolled across the lawns. Remarkably, casualties were identical to those suffered by the British forces at the hands of the Minutemen at the Battle of Lexington Green, when the Shot Heard Round the World began the American Revolution. Which is to say, there were no casualties.
Business Secrets from the Stars Page 18