Isaac Asimov's SF-Lite

by Gardner R. Dozois

  “You can’t come in. . . . Oh. hello. Dr. Cohen,” she said, the tone of her voice sweetening.

  “You see what this boyfriend of yours is like at work,” she called over her shoulder to Sharon. The girl needed a lot of looking after. Well, that was okay. She was here to look after her. “You have to keep an eye on these men or there’s no telling what they might do.” She had always kept a very good eye on Nathan . . . not that he’d ever done much, except lie on the couch and watch football. There was a cabinet on the window side, labeled “B bed” with sticky tape. She removed the bag with her clothing. Her good cloth coat was hanging on the hook. She took it and started to put it on. The sleeves were very tight, and, as she forced her arms into them, a distinct ripping sound was heard. Mrs. Birnbaum pulled off the coat and laid it over her shoulders. The nurse was staring at her, her mouth agape. “It’s okay,” Mrs. Birnbaum said. “I’ll sew it when I get home.”

  Nathan Birnbaum, as expected, was lying in bed watching TV when his wife and daughter entered. “Is your mother out of surgery?” he asked Sharon.

  “Oh, she’s out all right,” Sharon said, a little hesitantly.

  “A lot you care,” Mrs. Birnbaum said.

  “Say, what are you doing in my bedroom?” Nathan shouted.

  "Your bedroom? Well, I like that,” Mrs. Birnbaum said, seating herself abruptly on the bed. She folded her arms across her chest and stared out the window, refusing to notice him.

  “Dad,” Sharon said, sitting beside him and taking his hand, “there’s been a little problem.”

  “Problem?” he said. Mrs. Birnbaum turned to look at him.

  “Problem. Is she all right?”

  “No, Dad. She isn’t,” Sharon said.

  “Oh no. Oh, my Reba. My poor Reba. Is she.. .” Sharon nodded, then glanced at Mrs. Birnbaum and shrugged. Mr. Birnbaum began to cry. His wife softened. She got up and walked around the bed, pushed Sharon aside and took the place where she had been sitting. Nathan’s head was in his hands. She put her arms around him and pulled his head to her chest.

  “Shhh, shhh, it’s okay,” she said.

  Nathan squirmed out of her arms, pushing her roughly away. “What do you think you’re doing?” he asked.

  “What do you mean, ‘what am I doing?’ I’m comforting you,” she said.

  “Well, stop it,” he said.

  “Nathan, I’m your wife,” Mrs. Birnbaum said.

  “You’re not my wife, you little pervert,” Nathan said. “Get the hell out of here.”

  “Well, I like that! After thirty years of marriage.” Mrs. Birnbaum turned on her heel and stalked right out of the room.

  The bathroom was a mess. Towels were strewn everywhere and the toothpaste had been left capless to drip on the sink. So this was how Nathan lived when he wasn’t expecting her home. How like a man. She cleaned up the room, even before she looked herself over in the bathroom mirror. She did look a bit like Mike Cohen. What an ape. She wondered what it was that Sharon saw in him. Although, now that she got a real close look, he was much better looking than she had thought. Still, there would have to be changes made. She looked inside her mouth and examined the teeth. Not too many fillings. She seemed to be in good health. Well, that was a bonus. She ran her fingers through the short, dark, curly hair and wondered how long it would take it to grow. Nathan hated short hair, she knew.

  Her bladder had behaved quite nicely. It had been several hours since she’d last had to pee. Still, she had learned, in those last days of her illness, to take advantage of such opportunities as they came to her. Old habits die hard. She examined the pants for a button and found instead a tie. How unusual. Sort of like Nathan’s pajamas. She pulled the string and let them fall. The jockey shorts were tight, unlike Nathan’s boxer shorts, but otherwise similar to her own baggy panties. She’d never seen a pair before, other than in advertisements. She pulled them down to her knees.

  “Oh my,” she said. And she had thought Nathan was well built. She wondered if Sharon knew. No, she decided. Not her daughter. Still, this was going to be a problem. In all her life she had never touched any organ but Nathan’s. She certainly wasn’t going to start now. Not even with her own. But how did one use it? She tried cautiously and found she could sit on the toilet and let it dangle into the bowl.

  Sharon was sitting in the kitchen. The girl had her head on the table and was sobbing softly. Mrs. Birnbaum’s heart went out to her. Poor thing. Always thinking of her mother. But how could Mrs. Birnbaum make the girl see that this wasn’t such an awful thing? After all, look at the alternative. She could be lying dead on the operating table. She put a hand on the child’s shoulder and stroked her hair. “It’s okay, baby,” she said. She helped Sharon up and gave her a hug. “Really. It’s okay.” Sharon pulled her head back and stared deeply into Mrs. Birnbaum’s eyes. She sees me, Mrs. Birnbaum thought. She alone, of all the people in the world really sees me. The girl raised herself up on her tiptoes and kissed her. But wait. This was all wrong. Sharon was trying to stick her tongue in Mrs. Birnbaum’s mouth. She pushed the child away.

  “Ugh. That’s disgusting,” Mrs. Birnbaum said.

  “I’m sorry,” Sharon said. Her cheeks burned red.

  “You should be. A nice girl like you. I didn’t know you did things like that. You should be ashamed,” Mrs. Birnbaum said.

  “Mom,” Sharon said, using the word as if she’d just learned it, “Where is Mike? Don’t you think he might want to come back?”

  “So who’s stopping him?” Mrs. Birnbaum asked.

  “You are, Mother,” Sharon said. “You’re using his body. You aren’t supposed to be there. You’re dead.”

  “Dead?” Mrs. Birnbaum said. “Of course I’m not dead. How can I be dead? I’m standing here, right in front of you.”

  “Yes, Mom, but you’re standing there in Mike’s body. Suppose he wants to use it?”

  Nathan Birnbaum picked that moment to sweep into the room. “Are you still here?” he asked. “I thought you’d left. Sharon, are you aware that this boyfriend of yours is a little faygeleh?”

  “Is he?” Mrs. Birnbaum asked. “How do you know? Maybe I won’t let him come back after all.”

  “Daddy, what are you talking about?” Sharon asked.

  “Just now, upstairs, when you left the bedroom ... he tried to kiss me,” Nathan said.

  “Oh Nate, that was just me,” Mrs. Birnbaum said.

  “You see? He admits it!”

  “Dad, go away for a while. I need to talk to Mike alone, please,” Sharon said.

  “Good. Give him what for,” Mr. Birnbaum said. In a moment they could hear his footsteps on the carpeted stairs. It was only then that Sharon started talking.

  “Mom, I love you. You’ve been a good mother, always. But this is Mike’s body. Dad will never recognize you in it. Neither will the girls from Hadassah. None of your clothes will fit. Your jewelry would all look silly. Why, your ears aren’t even pierced. You can’t be Mrs. Reba Birnbaum in this body. It’s the body of a young man. A doctor. You always wanted me to marry a doctor, didn’t you?”

  “Honey, I don’t care who you marry, as long as he’s a man who can make you happy. It’s just that I thought a doctor, a lawyer, someone who makes good money, could, maybe, make you a little happier than anybody else.”

  “Mom . . . Mike makes me happy.”

  Mrs. Birnbaum looked thoughtful. There was something in what Sharon was saying. She'd look awfully silly in her furs like this. Nathan would be embarrassed to walk with her on his arm. True, her daughter still needed looking after, but Nathan was there. Maybe it was time to go. She took one last look at her house and her daughter, her prides and her joy. If this was the price of her daughter’s happiness, who was she to deny her? “Okay,” she said at last. “If that’s what’s best for you.” She seated herself at the table and a moment later her eyes closed.

  It wasn’t a moment before they opened again. “Where the hell am I?” Mike said.

&
nbsp; “You’re at my house,” Sharon answered. Her eyes were brimmed with tears, but she was smiling. “It's a long story, but I’ll explain later.”

  “Oh, Sharon, your mother. I'm so sorry.” He jumped up and took her in his arms and kissed her, and for quite a few moments they were much too busy to talk.

  “Now that wasn’t the least bit motherly,” Sharon said at last.

  By the day of the wedding, Sharon had almost convinced herself that the whole thing had never happened. Mrs. Birnbaum’s funeral had been a lovely affair with all of her friends and family in attendance. Nathan took it well. Within months he was safely ensconced in a Florida condo, where he could watch ball games to his heart’s content. The honeymooners landed in Hawaii without a hitch and attended a luau held in their honor. It had been a perfect day, and an even better night. The two lovers fell easily into an exhausted sleep.

  That night, Mrs. Birnbaum sat up in bed. She looked over at Sharon sleeping next to her. There were some sacrifices a mother had to make for her children, and one of them was learning to share. Mike wouldn’t mind. After all, half was better than none. Sharon might think she was all grown up, but you’re never too old to need a mother’s guidance. Mrs. Birnbaum smiled with satisfaction and softly patted her daughter on the back. “Now I can really keep an eye on you.”

  THE HEMSTITCH NOTEBOOKS

  John M. Ford

  “The Hemstitch Notebooks” was purchased by Gardner Dozois, and appeared in the August 1989 issue of Asimov’s, with an illustration by Robert Shore. It was one of a long series of Asimov’s sales for Ford, starting with his first sale to George Scithers and continuing under two other editors; the bulk of Ford's short fiction has appeared in Asimov’s, in fact, although he has also made sales to Omni, Liavek, Ripper! Under the Wheel, and elsewhere. Ford won the prestigious World Fantasy Award in 1984for his alternate-world fantasy novel The Dragon Waiting. His other books include Web of Angels and The Princes of the Air, and two Star Trek novels. The Final Reflection, and the comic extravaganza How Much for Just the Planet? which may well be the weirdest Star Trek novel ever written. His latest book is the novel Casting Fortunes.

  In the strange little piece that follows, he gives us a biting satire of the work of a certain Very Well Known Writer, one we think you'll recognize. . . .

  * * *

  Elliot Hemstitch (1896?—1954?!?) occupies a place in the literary firmament somewhere between the discount gun shop and the all-night liquor store. An unshakeable believer in the principle that there are certain things a man is required to do, and after doing them throw up, he distilled the products of his experience, particularly his experience of the products of distilleries, into a series of writings that will endure forever, not least because they are not very long, use no big words, and contain a great deal of sex and shooting things.

  Until recently, it was believed that all of Hemstitch’s work was in print and earning someone money. (The exception, of course, is Hemstitch’s unpublished first novel, the manuscript having disappeared when, during a long sea voyage, Hemstitch ate it.) This changed when the present author moved into an apartment formerly rented by screenwriter Patrick Hobby. While attempting to place cartons of rat poison, cartons containing a number of Hemstitch’s unpublished notes were discovered. The find led to considerable excitement in the present author’s circle, especially among his creditors. These are definitely genuine material, written with the authentic blue crayon in original Little Engine That Could and Cuddly Bear notebooks. The present author emphasizes again that the work is by Hemstitch himself, and anyone who says differently should be very careful starting his car.

  The present author has plans to return to the closet corner in search of further literary material, perhaps Hitler’s photo album or something negotiable with Howard Hughes’s name on it. But that is a subject for another time and another book contract. Now, we are pleased to present the following excerpts from the work of a man who shot straight at life and rarely missed, especially at very close range.

  For Whom the Bird Beeps

  The furry one came into the cantina. He did not walk as a coyote should, he flowed like brown fuzzy water along the floor to the bar and held up a finger, and though he did not speak the owner poured him a drink and he drank it. It poured over his teeth and around his tongue and down his gullet and past his duodenum and into his flat coyote belly, and then he filled out and stood up straight like a man coyote does, and his eyes had the light of those who have had the very big rock fall on them, or been blown up by the Acme dynamite, or have fallen off the high cliff and hit the telegraph wires and bounced up again. When a man coyote knows these things they do not go away from him. The coyote walked out of the cantina, straight with the tire marks down his back like sergeant’s stripes.

  The cantina owner came over to me and put the bottle of Acme mezcal with the Acme worm in the bottom between us. “Always he comes here,” said the owner, “and always he goes out again to chase the fast bird of the road. But never does he catch the bird. It is sad.”

  “It would be sad for the bird if he were caught,” I said, and the owner smiled at me as those who understand these things smile at those who do not understand these things and he said, “You do not understand these things. Always does the furry one chase the small fast one across the desert and the balancing rocks and the very deep canyons and the atomic test sites. Many things does he send away for from the Acme company, so that if not for him the Acme company would fail, and the Acme company people would have to take jobs in television, and would this be a good thing?”

  “No,” I said.

  “No,” said the owner. “It is what we call queserasera, the Doris Day thing.”

  “Fate,” I said.

  “No, that is a magazine,” said the cantina owner. “You are a stupid gringo, but I like you. You can drink the Acme mezcal so that it goes between your teeth and past your uvula and down your esophageal tract and not get the worm stuck in your mustache. It is good that a man should do these things.”

  I wanted to ask him some more about the furry one, but then the cantina doors swung wide, and an old one came in, and a young one, and a not so old one in a vest, and an extremely furry one, and they began to talk of the ships that go faster than light, and I turned away, for I do not like fast ships, especially after a lot of mezcal with the worm in the bottle.

  Outside, the big Acme truck was delivering packages. There was an Acme rocket sled and an Acme cruise missile and an Acme compact-disc player with wireless remote, and that was all I needed to know.

  The Banana Also Rises

  One of the young people who tells me they will overthrow the Republic or die stands in a small clearing, looking through binoculars. He wears a polyester jacket of a blue not found in nature, bell-bottomed trousers, white shoes and a matching belt. He is smiling, perhaps not knowing he does, showing teeth that are neither white nor even.

  We are deep in the Republic’s wilderness, a long way from its cantinas and its big malls. It is almost dawn. The young ones ask me not to describe the place too well. It is hard to hide when one wears Hawaiian shirts and Mondrian dresses with crude imitations of the Yves Saint Laurent label sewn in crookedly. But it is how they will dress. It is what they are.

  “There,” says the young man in the bluejacket, and hands me the binoculars. They are not good glasses. They are of plastic, and say “Souvenir of Rock City” on the side. I squint through them, and see a line of the Republic’s loyalists. All wear khaki bush jackets and baggy cotton trousers. All have epaulets with leather straps hooked through them, supporting small leather cases in odd shapes. One I know is a musette bag from the Army of Schleswig-Holstein.

  The binoculars start to hurt my eyes. As I hand them back, a lens falls out.

  “Our foreign aid,” the young man says bitterly.

  “That is not how they see it,” I say. “They say you have the backing of the big stores. That you are the puppets of the warehouse discounters,
and want only to plant their flags in the Republic’s outlets.”

  The young one spits on a gila monster. “That is how all you people see the world. It is always your stores and the other stores. But I tell you we will have stores of our own one day. They may not be big stores, but the prices will be fair.”

  “And will they take the credit cards?” I say.

  The young one frowns. “When the people are ready for the credit cards,” he says, and turns away, so I can see the label on his jeans. It says CALVIN KOOLIDGE. I say nothing.

  At the back of the line there is an American. He tells me to call him Brad, though the pink bowling shirt he wears says “Louie” on the pocket. He has the look of a man who has eaten radicchio and sashimi but now eats macaroni and cheese and canned tamales, which is a look that stays with a man, from somewhere a little north of his stomach.

  I ask him why he is here.

  “I couldn't look in the mirror any longer,” he says. “Not without seeing the wrinkles. In my sleeves, my back, my knees—oh, God, the wrinkles.”

  I ask him the same thing again. I have been here long enough to know that it is never the wrinkles. The ones like Brad have other ones to do their ironing.

  “All right,” he says. “It was Meryl Streep. But I don’t blame her.”

  I have heard this many times too, but I believe it. For so many of them it was Meryl Streep, playing Isak Dinesen in the big film that sold many tickets. But they never blame her.

  When the sun comes up there is a battle. There is no way to tell about a battle. You either know of it or you do not, and if you do not there are no words for the noise and confusion and horror that will make you know, no words that are worth the rates this magazine pays to go and get them. Maybe in the book to come later, the big book with the hard covers, it will be different.

  But I do have a minimum contract length, so I will tell you this: when it was over, there was much cotton on the field, getting rotten so th at you could not pick very much of it. There was much polyester as well, still pressed neatly. I thought of the gingham dog and the calico cat.