The Invention of Everything Else

by Samantha Hunt

  "Move on, soldier!"

  "I type. Yes, I type," Walter said, stretching his head, neck, his vocal cords forward out of the bucket of his helmet to chirp his answer.

  "You type?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Step out of line, soldier. Take this pass up to the gate there, and transport will bring you to the base. You'll receive your assignment there."

  "Yes, sir."

  And Walter went without once turning back. He was afraid that if he looked too happy with his assignment the Army might take it away from him. He cast his eyes down. He did not look at the other soldiers, who were being loaded onto convoy trucks destined for the front. He did not turn to look for Heshie. The guilt he felt was like an anchor in his belly. The soldiers were being issued rifles. They were going off to fight while Walter, by some chance happening, had diverted fate, plucked up by long delicate fingers, his mother's hand reaching down out of the sky. He'd been saved.

  No more than a thousand people lived in the town, and each one of them seemed entirely indifferent to the American soldiers and even to the war. The people, men and women, were primarily ropemakers. The outskirts of town were buffered with fields and fields of hemp plants that grew to extraordinary heights—ten, eleven, twelve feet easily. Once these plants were harvested in the fall the townspeople spent their winters in the factory turning the hemp fibers into rope that was later sold for nautical uses.

  It was here, about twenty miles outside of Lyon, that the U.S. Army decided to base an administrative office. It was remote and small enough to be unnoticed, easily camouflaged. Which was important because the job Walter, four fellow typists, and one commanding officer were given was to type up every single battle command, every call to advance, retreat, attack, establish medical facilities, sabotage rail lines, ship food supplies, rescue captives, assassinate leaders, accept surrenders, and even stay put. Everything, every order for ten cases of tinned ham, had to be typed on carbon papers so as to be reproduced in triplicate and shipped back to America, where they would be collected in a room filled with metal file cabinets.

  When Walter arrived, the other typists had been working together already for seven months. Two soldiers were wearing straw sun hats rather than regulation uniforms. There was a small shelf of books with a cardboard sign above it.

  LARRY'S LENDING LIBRARY

  SELF SERVICE

  5¢ a week per book or 10 cigarettes.

  No browsing and, Pavolec, that means you!

  On the shelf Walter saw Dostoevski's The Idiot next to a pulpy piece of work entitled In the Hall of Women by an author named Thad Black. This abutted a selection of Saturday Evening Posts, Ladies' Home Journals, and a collection of works by Edgar Allan Poe.

  The soldiers stationed with him here in the hemp fields of France were oddballs of a sort, including their commanding officer, a cryptologist named Horace Crosby, who had a dream to one day design terrifically odd-shaped swimming pools for a California clientele. The staff was made up of bookworms, birdwatchers, crossword puzzlers, and one mycologist who regularly harvested a bountiful crop of delicate mushrooms from the woods behind their office, which he would prepare sautéed in local butter for the soldiers.

  The office was filled with the clickety-clack of fingers pounding the oft-to-malfunction keyboards. The men typed quickly and peppered their official activities with more pleasant ones, like swimming in a creek they had dammed into a pool or reading or sleeping or writing daily letters home to their wives. Walter kept at Tristram Shandy. It was a very long book, and in between working and reading Walter would think of Freddie and sweat over a collection of poems he was writing to amuse her. Some ponderous, some absurd. One read:

  In a desert or in a wood,

  where lovers meet to reckon

  Hearts ecstatic rushed with blood

  Do to the lonely beckon.

  And another:

  Than beer there is no deeper brew.

  Than whiskey it is cheaper too.

  It comes in either can or bottle,

  And if a little won't, a lot'll.

  What'll I have? Well it must bubble,

  Till it tickles like a stubble;

  Makes the fumes rise in my noodle,

  Till I'm fuzzy as a poodle;

  Trickle thickly down my throttle—

  Oh, quickly open up a bottle!

  Here's a riddle not so subtle:

  What'll I have? Why beer! That's what'll.

  Beer and me let no man sever;

  A thing of brewery is a joy forever.

  So the war happened around Walter and he felt extraordinarily lucky when, after the armistice was signed in the Compiègne Forest in November 1918, he was allowed to return home to Freddie with a collection of dubious poems and a pair of Parisian silk stockings tucked into his duffel bag.

  He stood outside the door to their house. He'd imagined it happening in so many ways. She'd be sleeping on the couch and he'd bend low to kiss her awake, or she'd be standing at the sink and he'd wrap his arms around her waist, surprising her. But now that it was real, he was terrified to think he would actually see her. He stood outside the door. Should I knock? he wondered. Two years is a very long time, no matter how many letters home one has written. After a moment's hesitation Walter decided not to knock. He walked back into their home, and like a heat that's only been waiting for the oxygen it needs to ignite, Walter and Freddie consumed each other down to ash, down to the bone.

  Walter soon went back to work for the Water Department, and Freddie learned, nearly immediately, that she was pregnant. He was delighted, yet less so when seven and a half months after he returned home from the service, Freddie called down from upstairs, calmly, saying she needed to speak to him.

  "Call for the doctor." Her voice was slow. She was seated in a rocking chair looking out the back windows of their room down into the courtyard. "I am going into labor, Walter." She turned to look at him. "The baby must be premature." Her voice a whisper.

  He stared. She gripped herself, contorting into the rush of a contraction, and Walter continued to stare, trying to make sense of this schism of dates. Seven and a half months. Freddie was beginning to pant some. Sweat collected above her lip, and she had obviously been waiting up here in labor for some time already.

  "Walter," she said more desperately. "Call for the doctor." And he continued to stand there staring at her, weighing his options. He could reach into his torso, rip out his heart, and leave it here with her where she could finish crushing it underneath her foot, or he could believe her. Premature. She winced again. The contractions were coming fast. Finally she had to scream it. "Walter!"

  He sent a neighbor for the doctor and went back upstairs. Freddie, making her way over to the bed, had fallen onto the floor. Her belly seemed to be scuffling with her, moving on its own. "Here. Put your arm around my neck," he said, lifting her into their bed. Rigid. Kind. He gently undid the buttons of her high-necked blouse and helped her into a white nightgown. Walter saw quite quickly that birth was perhaps a more complicated process than he'd anticipated. The nightgown, where Freddie clutched it between her legs, was stained bright red with blood.

  "Walter," she said.

  He did not answer.

  "Something's wrong."

  Walter was staring at her. All the time they had been apart, he never felt separate from her. Two years away and still she'd been part of him. Until now. What was happening to her body at that moment scared him. She was coming undone. She was becoming herself, alone, a person without Walter.

  "Please," he said. "Don't." Imagining that she wanted to make some sort of confession that would explain why the baby was arriving after only seven and a half months.

  "Something is wrong with the baby. I can feel it. I can—"

  A knock at the door interrupted her, and Walter went to let the doctor in. Walter's face was a blank.

  The doctor held cotton batting soaked in ether over Freddie's mouth and nose. The fumes made Walter's hea
d swim. He remained dazed. He stared at Freddie for as long as he could, but it hurt him to see her twisted in pain. He turned to look out the back bedroom window. A squirrel sat nibbling something on a sill across the courtyard, and when he looked back to Freddie the ether had taken its effect. Walter fetched the things the doctor required. He said almost nothing. He watched the motions of the delivery. Freddie's hair was splayed out across the pillows. Things were happening too quickly. Where was his wife? Blood stained the wooden floorboards beneath the bed. It was a lot of blood. He touched the tip of his boot into it. The house seemed terribly silent for that much blood. But really, he thought, does blood leaking from a body have to make much noise? No, he decided. No, it did not.

  But then there was a scream and it was not Freddie, whose head had trailed off to one side on the pillow, a bit of drool escaping from her mouth. It was the child. "Your daughter," the doctor pronounced, again in a tone far too calm for any of this to be real. Walter held out his arms, and as he took charge of this tiny bundle her actual origins meant very little to him. She, he knew from the first moment, was his.

  "My daughter?" he asked the doctor as if he, in his medical training, could determine paternity at a glance.

  "Yes. Please take her, wrap her in this. Something's not right here." The doctor turned his attention back to Freddie, and Walter watched while blood thick as a boa constrictor flowed out of his wife. He stood and stared. The baby continued to scream and Walter held her, though he wasn't quite sure how.

  "Walter."

  Someone was speaking to him.

  "Walter."

  It was Freddie. Barely, but it was her.

  "Let me," she said but did not finish her sentence.

  He brought the baby over to her. "Freddie. Look. A baby girl." Freddie's skin was as empty as white glass in the light, green underneath it all. He leaned down, holding the baby close so that Freddie could see how its arms and legs moved on their own. How she'd made a person. He let her feel the heat coming off this baby. The doctor, or so it seemed to Walter, was arm-wrestling with this great snake of blood. He was covered. His hands barely recognizable as such.

  "Walter, I need to tell her something. Help me."

  "No," he said at first. He did not want to know the truth. He would make this baby girl his even if she wasn't. He didn't believe in punishment, Freddie's or his own. The child belonged to him.

  "I'll build it," Freddie said. "Help."

  "What? Help what?" he asked.

  "Yes," Freddie said.

  "Yes?" She wasn't making sense. And Walter understood what was happening. He lowered his head to her chest, the baby cradled there between them. "No, Freddie."

  "I'll build it," she said, but the sentence dropped off. Freddie's blood continued to spill down around the bed casters, and Freddie, only twenty-six years old, a mother for a moment, floated away on the stream of that much blood, away from Walter and away from the newborn child he would soon name Louisa.

  Azor had called last night. "She's ready," he said. "Arthur solved the problem. He's a mechanical genius. He knew about things I'd never even considered."

  Walter measured this assessment before asking, "What was the problem? The altimaplasticator or whatever you called it?"

  "Ah, no," Azor said. "Carburetor." He was speaking rather brusquely, officially, as if danger lurked somewhere nearby. "So if you want to go find Freddie, I'm ready. I guess. We can go tomorrow, though I don't much like it. I'm more of a future man than past. And Walter"—Azor breathed loudly once—"no matter what, you know, you won't be able to speak to her. I won't let you. There's too much risk involved. Louisa," he said.

  "You don't have to remind me." Walter spat it and then changed the tone of his voice to something far lighter, as only an old, old friend is allowed to do. "I'll be there," he said, and then Walter had kept it secret from Louisa. He didn't want her to worry. He didn't want her to think that he'd tell Freddie about the future, warn her not to have a child. He'd never do that. He'd never give up Louisa to get Freddie back again. He just wanted to see her once more, follow her through one day, hear her voice asking some merchant if there was much sand in his spinach.

  Plus he could already imagine what Louisa would say.

  Plus he'd be back by suppertime.

  The bus takes him to the village of Edgemere. It looks like rain, a storm coming across the water, so Walter walks the short way out to the airport quickly. Dried clumps of gray seaweed blow across the sandy road like tumbleweeds. Walter walks through one empty hangar, admiring the two or three planes that had not been moved to Linden Field in New Jersey when the Army closed down Rockaway Airport. He sees an old fire truck that looks like it might be more of a hindrance than a help if some unlucky aviator were to catch fire.

  In the hangar Walter giggles. He feels as if it's his first date with Freddie all over again. Walter calls out, "Hello!"

  Azor, looking serious, peeps his head out of the craft. "Hello."

  Arthur leans back to see. "Hello, Mr. Dewell," he calls before bending his head back to the project at hand.

  "Hello, Arthur!" Walter yells. He is very excited. "So what are you guys doing?" he asks.

  "Just some last-minute fiddling with the rotation of the parenthesizing accelerator. Earlier today the eutron manifold was shorting out on each bypass orbit," Arthur says without looking away from the craft.

  Walter gives a nod. It makes no sense to him, but he doesn't much care. He is lightheaded, ecstatic. "I don't know what the hell you two are talking about," he says.

  Azor pauses. "Here's the thing. I had to call the parts something. No one has ever made these parts before. I just gave them fancy names because I happen to like fancy names. You can call them whatever you want. You can call them mustard seeds and corn on the cob if you like."

  If Walter had a moment of doubt that this might be a fool's mission, it dissolves there and then. A man who has to forge his own tools, his own language, is a man who is going somewhere. Walter stands, his arms dangling at their sides, waiting for Arthur and Azor to finish.

  Finally Azor steps back from the craft and gives it a quick slap. "That ought to do it, Arthur. Now we just need to get Walter outfitted." With little fanfare Azor produces an old leather aviator's cap and a pair of greasy goggles. "There you are. You're ready now."

  "That's it?"

  "That's it."

  Walter slowly adjusts the leather cap into place, fidgeting with the chin clasp. Arthur rushes to his side in order to help him tighten the strap. Walter feels like a young boy again, uncertain about his life, nervous to see Freddie. "Hey there, Arthur. Not a word about this to Lou, huh?"

  Arthur says nothing but, without smiling, zips his fingers across his lips.

  The aviator's cap makes what is happening seem real. Walter moves 210 slowly, pulling the goggles over his head. With his absurd costume now complete, he watches as a sparrow who had been resting on one of the hangar's high crossbars flies out through the doors into the winter air outside. The storm clouds are moving in.

  "I want to say a few words on this momentous occasion." Azor, also wearing an aviator's cap and goggles, puffs out his chest, clasps his hands behind his hips, and stands before the craft. Arthur and Walter gather in front of him, striking thoughtful postures. Azor begins his oration there in the empty hangar. "Time," he says, looking not at Walter and Arthur but rather at some phantom audience filled with reporters and state dignitaries. "What is time?" Azor begins to pace. "I'll tell you." He stops. He eyeballs the invisible crowd, leaving them waiting for his words, wondering what the answer is. "The question itself is timeless."

  Walter scratches the top of his head through the leather cap. Arthur, polishing some grease from his glasses, looks eager to learn the answer to Azor's question.

  Azor continues. "Men and women, old and young." He freezes, smiling for the imagined cameras. "People throughout the centuries have asked, 'What the heck is time?'" And here Azor really draws back for dramatic e
ffect. There is not a sound to be heard in the hangar except the ticking of the cold air outside on the corrugated metal walls. He extends the pause even longer, then turns quickly and says, "Well, I'll let you know just as soon as I get back tonight." Azor does a quick soft-shoe and the phantom crowd disappears as he turns to Walter. "OK. Come on. You ready?"

  "That's it?"

  "That's it." Azor pokes his head outside the hangar door. "Oh, no."

  "What?" Walter asks.

  "They're back again?" Arthur wants to know.

  "I'm afraid so," Azor says. "Come on, Walt. We've got to hurry."

  "What's going on?"

  "Those guys from the Army," Azor says and points. There, far off, but making its slow approach down the runway, is an Army jeep.

  "Hold on," Arthur says. "I'm not sure about the heat transformer. I wanted to check it one last time."

  "It's fine, son. I looked last night."

  "But I didn't look yet, and—"

  "Don't worry. We've got to go. Now. Walt, come on." Azor has one eye on the jeep as he makes his way over to the time machine and begins to push it down the ramp. Walter joins in the effort and all three men watch while the craft rolls down to the launch pad.

  "Azor," Arthur says, but Azor pretends he doesn't hear. He follows the time machine outside.

  Walter makes his way down the ramp, closer to the craft, though his nerves are getting the better of him. Each step he takes is smaller and smaller, baby-sized, in some attempt to prolong his time here in this moment. Outside, he feels the first drops of rain on his cheeks. He places one hand on the rail of the craft's small gangway and turns to look behind him. A second sparrow flies out through the door. Walter takes this as a good omen and climbs aboard, turning once to wave goodbye to Arthur.

  Azor winks at Arthur. "You might want to hide out in those trees over there, Art" Azor points to a spot behind the hangar. "See you in just a moment, son." And with that Walter hears the door seal behind him.

  Azor has sensibly installed some lap belts since the last time Walter was in the craft. Though the belts are nothing more than a few bits of braided twine that each rider must secure by tying the ends in a tight knot across his thighs, Walter takes the precaution of fastening his. The jeep is getting closer, so Azor moves quickly, takes his seat and starts to fiddle with the controls. Walter stares at the console. It is truly a wonder that Azor built such a ship.