Dead Lines, A Novel of Life... After Death

by Greg Bear

  Baslan closed the door in Peters face with a solid clunk.

  Peter stood on the porch, dazed, face hot, like a kid reacting to an unkind trick. He slowly forced his fists to open. This is crap, he murmured, replacing his glasses. He had not wanted to come here in the first place. He walked quickly down the steps and along the winding stone path between the bamboo to the gate. The scuff of his shoes echoed from the stone wall to his left. The gate whirred open, expelling him from the house, the grounds: an unwanted disturber of the peace.

  On the street, he wiped his forehead with a handkerchief, then opened the car door and sat. He started the car, listening to the soothing, familiar whine, and tried to recall the answer Sandaji had given to Josephs question; despite everything, it remained clear in his head. He repeated her words several times, committing them to memory before putting the Porsche in gear.

  Slowly his breath returned and the muscle binding in his chest smoothed. The back of his eyes still felt tropical, however, as if they were discharging a moist heat into his skull.

  They were charlatans after all. Why go through that awful charade in the back room, then trot out a little boy in a Buster Brown outfit? Both had been stunts to gull the shills, trick the unwary into asking more questions, paying more money. That was as reasonable an explanation as any.

  PETER WAS HAPPY to leave Pasadena. His thick, powerful hands clasped the wheel so tightly that he had to flex his fingers. Ah, Christ! he shouted in disgust once again at all things New Age and mystical. There was life and this Earth and all the sensual pleasures you could reasonably grab, and then there was nothing. Live and get out of it what you could. Leave the rest alone. That other sort of madness could kill you.

  Then why did I reach out for Phil?

  Driving alone, his work done, the traffic on the 210 blessedly easy for this time of night, going back to his home in the hills, he pictured Phils rueful, ingratiating smile. On the highway, his tears flowed. His shoulders shook.

  And a pretty little girl in a blue sweater, pink shorts, and a tank top. Don't forget her. Ever.

  The loss and the old, much-hated self-pity just piled up and spilled. It was all he could do not to break into a mourning howl.

  All he could do, almost, not to spin the wheel and drive right off the freeway.

  CHAPTER 4

  PETER ROLLED OVER in the tangled sheets and opened his eyes to an out-of-focus bedscape. He blinked at a blur of satin trim coming loose from his brown wool blanket, then rubbed his eyes and closely observed another blur spotted with white: a rumpled pillow leaking feathers through it's seams. He was still half asleep.

  His hand fumbled on the bed stand for his glasses.

  A shaft of sun fell across one corner of the room from the skylight, reflected from the full-length mirror, and beamed over the space beside his bed. He made out dust motes in the beam. The motes danced with a puff of his breath.

  Nice to just sink, let sleep win. His head fell back onto the pillow.

  Eyes closed. Delicious blankness.

  Birds sang in the backyard.

  He opened his eyes again, arm twitching. The beam had shifted and the dust motes were swirling like spoiled cream in coffee. As he watched, bleary, they took a sort of elongated shape. He thought he could make out two legs and an arm. Small. The arm lengthened, adding a hand-shaped eddy. A face was about to form when he opened his eyes wide and said, bemused, All right. I'm waking up now. He leaned over and waved his arms through the sunbeam. The motes dissipated wildly.

  His jaw hurt. He was a mess and he stank. He got out of bed and straightened, hooking a temple piece around one ear.

  The night had been disjointed, filled with scattered flakes of dream, memories drawn up from a deep sea like fish in a net. The dreams had all possessed a jagged, surreal quality, as if scripted by restless demons, pent up for too long.

  Art, sperm, and sanity don't keep, Peter said to the face in the mirror.

  He thought about that for a moment, then padded into the bathroom to turn the hot-water tap for a shower. The old white tile in the stall was cracked and creased with mildew. The room smelled of moisture. It was a good thing the air up in the hills was dry or the floor would have rotted out a long time ago.

  As he dressed, his clothes became a kind of armor, like blankets wrapped tight around a childs eyes. The waking world was filled with traps designed to make him feel bad and he did not want to feel bad anymore.

  He stepped into old slippers and shuffled into the kitchen to make coffee in a French press, the only way he liked it. As he pushed the red plastic plunger down through the grounds, a bell-like tone came from the living room, not his house phone and certainly not his cell phone, both of which sounded like amorous insects. He finished the plunger push and went to look. Big throw pillows in Persian patterns covered an old beige couch. Two graceful sixties chairs made of parabolas of steel wire and slung with purple canvas supported massive green pillows, like alien hands offering mints. The big front window looked out over a garden left to itself the last nine months, and doing fairly well without Peters attention. Jasmine and honeysuckle vied with Helens old rosebushes to scent the air, and the splashes of red and yellow and pink in the late-morning sun were cheerful enough.

  The bell toned again. He peered back through the now-contrasty and dark spaces of the living room. Then he remembered. He had left the box of Trans on the table by the French doors. He had also carried one with him into Sandajis house in Pasadena.

  He opened the door, stepped out across the brick pavers to the upright oil drum closet, and fished out his coat. The unit was still in the coat pocket. He opened it and the display lit up at his touch.

  Hello? he said into the tiny grill.

  Peter, it's Michelle. Seven rings. Hope I didnt wake you.

  Just getting cleaned up.

  Good. Weinstein left a map. It led me to ten more phones in a box hidden behind the couch. Is that cute, or what?

  Pretty cute, Peter said.

  So I have fourteen phones now. I was trying to remember which one you put in your pocket. Did I dial the right number?

  You probably didnt dial anything, Peter said, looking at the circle of shaded graphic lozenges on the touch screen, numbered from zero to twelve.

  Yeah, right. Smartass. Well, I'm standing outside the house, on the drive. It seems to work out here.

  Great, Peter said, longing for coffee.

  Josephs curious to hear what that woman told you.

  I could come over now, Peter said, hoping his sincerity sounded thin.

  He's taking hydrotherapy. How about noon? Hell be ready by then and relaxed, and besides, you know that noon is the best time of his day.

  I'llbe there, Peter said, and stifled a small urge to say, Is a-comin, with bells on.

  Are you glad to hear the phone works?

  Trans, Peter corrected. Delighted. I'lltell whats-his-name.

  Weinstein. No, I'lltell him, once I convince Joseph. And I'lltell him you convinced me.

  Peter was picking the other units out of their box, just to give his hands something to do. Each was a different color: opalescent black, dark blue, red, a trendy metallic auburn, and the one he held, dark metallic green. They looked like props in a science fiction film. Something from the parts catalog in This Island Earth.

  It's our little conspiracy, Michelle said. Besides, it won't hurt you or me to help Joseph make another pot of money.

  What few telecom stocks Peter had owned had gone south long ago, leaving his retirement scheme in a shambles. Never mind, Peter said. I'lltalk to Weinstein when the time comes.

  If you insist. Noon, then. How do you end a call with this thing?

  Shut the cover, Peter suggested.

  Right.

  A click, then silence. Peter pulled the unit away, then raised it to his ear again. The quiet in the room seemed to deepen. He tried the other ear. Same thing.

  Actually, he was impressed. He had never heard voices so clearly o
n a phone. Michelle could have been right there in the house.

  Maybe Weinstein was on the up-and-up.

  * * *

  AS HE DRANK coffee and ate a bowl of Trix, Peter opened up the green Trans on the counter and punched the single button marked Help below the circle of numbers.

  Welcome to Trans, the display said. The message scrolled across, then shrank to fill the touch screen, with arrows pointing left and right at the bottom.

  Trans has voice recognition. Ask a simple question or say a key word.

  Dial, Peter said in a monotone. He had worked with computers enough to know the drill: Talk like a robot and the unit might understand.

  Would you like to dial a number?

  How do I dial? Peter asked.

  Trans works with a base-12 number system: 10, 11, and 12 are treated as integers. Every Trans unit has an individual identification number seven integers long. There are no area codes or country codes. To communicate with another user, dial the ID number of the unit you wish to connect to. Remember, a hyphen before 10, 11, or 12 means you should push one of those buttons rather than entering the component numbers (1 or 0 or 2) on separate buttons. Trans is base-12!

  Peter made a hmph face and wondered if anyone other than computer geeks would ever catch on to that. Whats my number? he asked.

  The number of your Trans unit is -10-1-0-7-12-3-4. Your unit has been used once to receive one call. You have not yet made any outgoing calls. Please use Trans as often as you wish to place a call anywhere on Earth. Don't be shy! There are no extra charges with Trans.

  My own personal Interociter, Peter murmured, lifting the unit and looking at it from above and below. There were no holes for a recharging plug or an earphone. Except for the top of the case, the unit was seamless.

  The Soleri bells gonged loudly outside the front door. Still in his robe, Peter marched across the slate floor to the door and peeked through a clear section of glass. Hank Wuorinosthirty-one, buff, his close-cut gelled hair standing up like a patch of bleached Astroturfstood on the patio. He reached out one tattooed hand to play with a drooping branch of jasmine. Peter undid the locks and opened the doors.

  Hey! Wuorinos greeted. I'm on a flick, a Jack Bishop film. I'm off to Prague. Wish me luck.

  Congratulations, Peter said, and stood back to let him in. Hank had gotten a start as a teenager handling lighting for some of Peters more decorous and ornate model shoots. The girls had nicknamed him Worny, which he had hated but tolerated, from them. Now he was a full-bore professional, IATSE card and all.

  Got some coffee? Hank asked.

  Half a cup. I can make more.

  Beggars can't be choosers. Hank followed Peter into the kitchen. He poured himself what was left from the French press and filled it to the brim with milk, then slugged most of it down with one gulp. Ive never been to Europe. Any advice?

  Ive never been to Prague, Peter said.

  I hear it's fatal sensuous. Beautiful women eager to get the hell out of Eastern Europe.

  Look out for yourself, Peter advised with some envy.

  Hank waggled his extended pinky and thumb. No worse than your average day at Peter Russells house.

  Did Lydia tell you about Phil?

  Hanks smile faded. No . . . what?

  He died yesterday.

  Hank was too young to know what to say, to feel, or to actually believe. Jesus. How?

  Heart attack or stroke.

  Death was new to Hank. He tried to find something appropriate, some sentiment, and his face worked through a range of trial emotions for several seconds. You going to the funeral?

  I havent heard about a funeral yet, Peter said.

  Lydia will want one, Hank said with assurance. Or at least a wake. But I'm leaving tomorrow. I won't be able to come . . . I could . . .

  Phil had introduced Peter and Hank. Hank had stayed with Phil and Lydia for a few weeks as a teenager. It had been a seminal moment for Hank Wuorinos, young runaway from Ames, Iowa. Lydia had probably shoplifted Hanks virginity. Phil had never much held it against Hank. Lydia was what she was. A real Hollywood career, after such an introduction to Los Angeles, was a sign of persistence and genuine talent.

  Go to work, Peter said. Phil would understand.

  Besides, I couldn't face Lydia, Hank said.

  Shed want you to stay over and console her, Peter said.

  Shit, Hank said, crestfallen. She would. You know she would.

  Peter held up the cardboard box. You'll need one of these to keep in touch, he said. Take your pick.

  Hank peered. What are they, Japanese Easter eggs?

  They're called Trans. They're like cell phones but they're free. You'll love them. They use a base-12 number system.

  Wow! They actually work?

  I just took a call on one.

  Hank picked the red unit and twisted it with delight in his hands. Hanks dark emotions were wonderfully transient. He had a job, he was about to see the world, and that easily trumped the death of poor, hapless Phil.

  No long-distance charges?

  Not so far. They're demos.

  Lets try.

  Peter indulged him. Just being around Hank cheered him. Peter showed him the help button and they took down the numbers of all the phones on two pieces of paper. Then they tried calling the different units from various rooms in the house, like boys with cans on strings. The sound was crystal clear. Hank was thrilled.

  They are so cool, he said. They're like Interociters.

  Thats what I thought, Peter said.

  How many can I have?

  Peter overcame an odd twinge of greed. Take two, he said. One for your girlfriend.

  I don't have a girlfriend, Hank said seriously, but I will find one in Prague. Ive been reading Kafka just to get in the mood. The tourist brochures say Prague is supposed to be the most haunted city in Europe. City of ghosts. A church made of bones. Thats what the DP told me. Who ya gonna call? The dark emotions returned and Hank picked up his cup of coffee in a toast. To Phil. Is this what it's like to get old, your friends start dying?

  Something like that, Peter said.

  AFTER HANK LEFT, Peter checked his answering machine in the kitchen. A red 1 flashed on the display. He rolled back the tapeit was a very old unit, he seldom bought new appliancesand listened.

  It was Lydia. She had a voice like the young Joanne Woodward, honey and silk and babys breath. She told him she was already in Marinshe had taken the trainand she had finalized arrangements. She said she would be at Phils house and gave his address and phone number. The wake would be late tomorrow. No funeral. Phil wanted to be cremated. Just a few friends, mostly from the time we were married.

  He listened to the message again. Double whammy: Lydia had used a phone, and Phil had a house in Marin.

  Whod of thunk it? Peter asked. His voice sounded childish, even petulant, as if he were resentful that Phil had kept secrets. Phil had kept secrets from his best friend and then ditched him.

  He went to pack his bag.

  CHAPTER 5

  JOSEPH STRETCHED OUT on a lounge chair with a florid towel spread over his legs. He listened to Peters report with a gray, still face. Not even the sun shining through the sunhouse glass over the pool could improve his pallor. He looked impassive, like an old king who has seen and done it all.

  When Peter finished, Joseph started to tap his thumb on his draped knee. Peter did not tell the rest of the story. He still had not made any sense of that part of the nights events.

  Sandaji took my money? Joseph asked.

  Her assistant did, Peter said.

  All Gods children need money, Joseph said with yielding disappointment. Peter had never heard such a tone of defeat coming from the man.

  Actually, I forgot to hand it over and had to go back, Peter said. I thought about just keeping it. Sometimes Joseph was cheered by confessions of human greed and weakness.

  I would have, Joseph said. What did she mean by that answer?

  Peter shr
ugged. I'm not much on this soul business, you know that.

  I didnt used to be. I'm giving it some real thought.

  Were getting old, Peter sympathized.

  Hell, you can still jog around the house and fuck when you want. For me, just going to the bathroom is a thrill.

  Bull, Peter said, shading his eyes.

  Yeah, Joseph said. Old man bullshit. I can still get it up, but I don't know that I want to anymore.

  They sat for a minute.

  Ive led a wicked life, Peter, Joseph said. Ive hurt people. Messed around and messed up every which way. Despite it all, here I am with the sun and the sea and the hills and the cool night breezes, living on twenty acres of paradise. Makes you think. Whats the downside? Wheres the comeuppance?

  Peter left that one alone. He was not in the mood for discussing ultimates.

  Where do we all go? Joseph asked in a husky whisper.

  I'm going to Marin, Peter said. To a wake. Thats sober enough, isnt it?

  Was your friend a good man?

  Peter shrugged. A better man than me, Gunga Din.

  Joseph cracked a dry smile. Was he your water bearer?

  He saved my life when I was at the end of my tether. And he braved many an insult for a chance to peer at the ladies.

  Sounds like he had at least one good friend, Joseph said, softening. Right before his eyes, Peter thought, the sun was melting this chilly man with the gray face. The sun and the thought of a wake.

  Youd love what I saw last night, Joseph said, apropos of nothing. He stared at the horizon, the hazy blue sea beyond the grass and hills. Do you believe in spooks, Peter?

  You know I dont.

  I hope I never see them again.

  Peter shivered involuntarily. He did not like this.

  Another silence.

  Joseph grimaced as if experiencing a stomach pain and waved his hand. I'lltell Michelle to give you a five-hundred-dollar bonus. Come say howdy when you're back.

  Peter prepared to leave. Joseph spoke out from across the pool. Michelle tells me those damn plastic thingies actually work. She's passing them around to her friends. Maybe I booted that whelp son of a bitch too early.