“You know what always bothered me?” Jim Thorne said. “I liked to see them primping or playing bridge or cutting one another, but I got uneasy when I saw them talking quietly.”
Wally sat looking bewildered. “We loved them. My wife . . . they were wrong when they said it was only sex. There were some, sure, but my wife is different. That house is her, and I’m full of her and she’s so much my world ... I wouldn’t exist without her ... oh, God, I mean what’s the purpose? What kind of human being is it that has no mate?”
Said Thorne, “More and more I think of the differences between us. Out loud I agreed with a lot of the bull, but, honest to God, privately I thought we were all one thing. Now, well, how are we different?”
“What makes you think sex requires two partners?” said Fraser thoughtfully, and we looked at him in disgust. “Go to hell,” he said.
“What is really awful is that they don’t know it’s happening,” said Wally. He stared at Fraser. “You like killing them, don’t you? You’re a sonofabitch. That poor woman you put to sleep like a damned cat the other day didn’t know what was going on. Don’t tell me it was her or us. I’m not willing to equate my life with a horde of helpless girls who are as much a product of nature as I am.”
“You’d better get busy and do the same thing yourself. And the babies, too. They aren’t human. Just keep telling yourself that.”
“I keep telling myself that we’re a bunch of murderers,” said Wally. “I’m convinced that we’d be better off if we publicized it. After it’s out in the open we can have every scientist in the world working on it. And that’s exactly what I’m going to tell the committee when we go in there. They had better listen.”
* * * *
Could the Conspiracy endure? They said it could. They promised me that it was possible, that we would find the solution. The mind of man was easily dedicated, they said.
I would have warned Wally if I’d had the chance. I would have told him not to trust Fraser. I knew only too well how much Fraser had changed. Long before the killing started, I had tried to back out. Fraser hadn’t said much after I spilled everything I thought and felt. All he had done was look at me, then he had said, “This is a crusade. Every man who drops out shoves the rest of us that much closer to the cliff.” I got the message. In, I stayed alive. Out, I didn’t.
I loved Wally like a brother. No really. That’s a remark the conditioners say is okay and proper. I delighted in Wally’s being. I won’t say he was a friend or a pal or my best buddy. Lately I’ve begun to see things in a clear light. To hell with them all, I loved Wally, period.
* * * *
This week I delivered twenty babies. One was a boy. I held him, cherished him, grieved. How could She do this to him?
Last night the committee executed Fraser. It was their last official act before they dispersed. He had been so vehement about keeping the silence, had talked so long and earnestly about how the women would view this as the supreme victory and how they would interfere with our trying to find a cure. Fraser had been wrong and they killed him.
There were too many female medics and scientists, and the whole thing suddenly blew wide open. It didn’t matter. The chances of our having found a solution had been very, very small and we ought to have realized it. Maybe we did. Maybe we knew. The felled giant may have had to be bludgeoned a few more times before he got the message. Anyhow, the human race fought its last big war in a quaint little place called ovaries. There was no bloodshed to speak of.
* * * *
Charlotte gave birth this morning.
“Do you want me to kill it?”
I stood beside the bed and looked down at her. This was what Fraser couldn’t understand. He had refused to believe they would be willing to go to any lengths because of love. They would even murder their own children, knowing full well that it would serve no practical purpose, simply to let us know how much we meant to them.
With tears in my eyes, I said, “That’s a beautiful healthy baby and I hope she lives to be a hundred.”
“I don’t give a damn what my grandchildren a thousand years from now will be like, or what they’ll be doing,” she said.
We were all in it together. The men and women of the world were united in fear. For the first time in history no one looked to their children for a better future.
“Did you kill any women or babies?” she said.
I lied and said yes. There were many demented souls who had killed. I allied myself with them without hesitation. I always was a pushover for lost causes.
* * * *
My daughters look like my mother. So do I. My father resembled his father, and that used to please me until I saw a photograph of grandfather’s mother. Everywhere I turned I saw women.
A computer might have said Nature’s plan was sensible. That is a word I always viewed with wariness. Subconsciously I may have suspected the truth all along. A thing is born and it is weak and unformed. The Maker knows this thing will be worthy one day (another suspect word, “worthy”; beauty is in the eye of the beholder; I wonder if She is myopic). Anyway, this thing must endure until it can stand alone. A helpmeet is what is needed. Pfft. There he is.
I feel as if I’m Everyman. I worked so damned hard, knocked myself out, turned up my toes early while the ballbusters continued. I made war, but I don’t know why. I seemed to exist on a high-tension wire while the ballbusters lazed and got fat. At times I was an aberration, in which case I would seek out a woman alone and then I’d open my overcoat and show her my nakedness. Or I’d rape. Or I’d beat.
I refute the above. I haven’t done those things. The idiots, the depraved, are the guilty, and I’m ashamed that we’re related.
Never once did I imagine that I, Everyman, my sum total, might be an aberration.
Often at night I get up and turn on the lamp. I sit on my bed and watch Charlotte sleep. In adjoining rooms the girls snore. They frequently have nightmares, which makes me wonder. Do they dream more than we? Charlotte has a habit of going to bed early. She doesn’t mess the bed by tossing and turning. Usually she sleeps on her back with the covers tucked under her chin. She looks like a papoose or a cocoon. Someday the adult will emerge from under the covers. Will it be a great deal like this woman or will it be different?
Thousands of women are coming to hospitals and clinics for abortions. This will solve nothing and they know it, but they do it anyway. This afternoon a big ugly fag threw her arms around my neck and cried. Little ones sit on curbs and watch with sad eyes. Rarely do I go out but that a group of women gathers and silently follows me. Teenagers come up to me and stare. They look so stunned.
Jim Thorne is cracking. He bought a rifle and in the evenings he stands by his upstairs window and draws a bead on every women who passes by. So far he hasn’t pulled the trigger.
I’ve been going to visit my mother a great deal. I sit on the floor beside her rocking chair and rest my head in her lap. She fondles my hair, and sometimes she weeps and tells me everything will be all right. I feel at peace with her. Like me, she is a thing of the past. Life, time, have abandoned both of us. For neither the son-lover nor the son will there be a tomorrow.
I stand in the middle of my house and listen to the darkness. It is all around me. Outside a low breeze sweeps along the street. I’m cold.
<
* * * *
Grace Rooney
TEETH
THOUGH I AM not a finicky eater, there are certain foods I do not like to eat in public. The sandwich, for example, embarrasses me because I cannot resolve the issue of how gracefully to dispose of that final corner. Usually I just pop it into my mouth after glancing over the area; this is done with practiced casualness.
Four months ago I had the added misfortune of sharing my table with an ingenuous-looking, curly-headed lad, whose eyes were directed toward observing me ingest my food. For days he stared at my mouth with fixity. As a result, I rescheduled my meals to allow me, instead of my regular
lunch at twelve, a snack, the neatest and least obtrusive being one quart of milk, sipped through a short, narrow straw. I was then comfortable in his presence. But I noticed one disadvantage: since my entire mouth was not engaged in eating, he assumed I would be interested in speaking with him.
“Excuse me, sir,” he said, “your teeth have a particularly glossy whiteness. Calcium deposits, of course,” he remarked, “if they’re real. Are they?”
“Certainly. I have always taken assiduous care of my teeth.”
After I said that, I pressed my tongue over the surface of each tooth and presented a glossier, whiter set.
He responded. “Ah, yes, I can see that.”
Since he had an annoying habit of unfurling his fingers in front of his mouth while speaking, I asked if he would repeat what he’d said.
“Of course,” he answered, “I said, ‘Ah, yes, I can see that.’ “
His lips hardly parted, and the words were squeezed out with much effort.
“You must be wondering why I’m concerned about your teeth,” he offered, flushing at his urgent need to explain.
“What?” (Sometimes I imagine that the fact of my beautiful teeth is related to the fact that I am slightly deaf. Psychologists acknowledge compensatory phenomena in the world of emotion, and one seeks analogies in all realms, especially if he is interested, as I am, in the Universal Oneness Hypothesis.)
He reiterated, adding that he is an avid student of orthodonture who delights in perfect teeth. Before he had time to explicate, I interrupted him with a basic tenet of the U. O. Hypothesis.
“Isn’t it remarkable that Imperfection superimposes Perfection on all it knows, thereby judging according to what it can’t know?” I extended my hand across the table as if passing him a microphone. He reacted as if I had.
“Well, teeth, when perfect, are naturally white, undefiled units, thirty-two ... in two rows ... in one mouth. We know that as perfection ... in teeth.”
Giving him the complete white effect, I interjected good-naturedly, “Or the least imperfection ... in teeth.”
“Your teeth are the most beautiful I’ve ever seen,” he emphasized, “and for a man your age . . . why . . . enjoying them, I’ve been unable to eat. I don’t suppose you have any cavities, no fillings either, I bet.”
“From overindulging in sweets, I have one surface filling in my wisdom tooth. It’s gold. Look.”
He leaned heavily on the table and scrutinized my gold filling. Then, like one in ecstasy, he lowered his eyelids and scanned all of the teeth. If my jaw had not tired, I’m certain, he would have stayed longer, marveling at their perfection.
For a short interval, neither of us spoke; the silence bound us.
“I wouldn’t mind exhibiting them,” I said. This delighted him so much that I suggested he take photographs of my mouth’s interior and perhaps X rays of individual teeth. I made an appointment with him for the next morning at his studio and he left me, both of us in good humor.
Before starting for his apartment, I brushed my teeth three times: first with Cow Brand baking soda and then, twice with Dresh, the ADA-approved paste. Thereupon I left my rooms, locking the door and placing the key under the welcome mat.
On the street a gray mottled tomcat leaped from the garbage heap to my side. His eyes were a violent shade of aquamarine, the parenthetical pupil bulging manlike at the center. Though of different Families, we were after all of the same Kingdom, Order, and Class; I allowed the encroachment. The cat, nevertheless, disturbed by the finer distinctions between us, deserted me at the end of the block.
From there, a bus transported me to the student’s living quarters.
“Ah, I am so glad to see you again.” He directed his greeting to my teeth and admitted me. Directly opposite the door was one window. In its scant light I discerned the skeletal framework of his studio-home. One flat cot, wrapped in an army blanket, jutted from beneath the windowsill. A human skull rested innocently on the bare kitchenette table. Tools, an aluminum flashlight, chisel and hammer, were strewn about the floor. Illuminating the exposed light bulb protruding from the low, ribbed ceiling, he revealed the room’s full starkness. Color was concentrated in reproductions of healthy, decaying, or corroded dentures. To evoke further images of corrosion, he had used yellow and orange crayons. I was unnerved. Where were his books, his signs of practice—the chalk pieces, fine carving knives? How could he study under these conditions: dismal, ill-lit, cold?
“Please make yourself comfortable,” he said. Unfolding a chair from which had been scratched the name of a funeral home, he settled it beneath the light.
“Thank you,” I stammered. “May I have a glass of water?”
“Would you prefer a shot of whiskey with it?” he asked.
Hoping that it would settle my nerves, I accepted. My eyes followed him to the peeling doors of the cabinet above the table. From it he removed a pint of whiskey and one shot glass. After measuring out full capacity, he emptied the whiskey into a six-ounce cheese glass, added water, and brought the drink to me.
“Won’t you join me?” I asked.
Rubbing his nose with the palm of his hand, he answered that he didn’t care to drink in the morning, yet I thought I had detected liquor on his breath when he met me at the door. The whiskey had an acrid taste. I gulped it down and he offered me another. Since I was still disturbed, I accepted.
After two more drinks, I felt warmer, more relaxed.
“My dear young man, how can you survive under these conditions? You must need many things. Have you enough to eat?” I was beginning to feel paternal toward him and concerned myself with means of assisting him. “Have you a position?”
“I’m a student . . . that’s my sole job at the moment. A student needs his mind and sources of stimulation. Presently you intrigue me and serve, as it were, as a text.”
I could understand that the reality of perfect teeth was more satisfying than a text’s substitutions. Truly I was warmly disposed toward him. How he flattered my teeth, how I revealed more and more of them, laughing open-mouthed at inappropriate times, exposing even the gums. But what harm could mutual enjoyment bring? Suddenly I was struck by a peculiar oversight: I had never seen his teeth. Moving closer, I raised my eyes to his face and waited for him to speak. He whirled to the window.
“I feel you don’t like my way of living. You think I should be ashamed of this room. Is that it?”
Patting his arm, I soothed, “Why, no, not at all. The important matter is that you appreciate your rooms. Allow no one to insult you in this way.”
For the first time he smiled at me. Too late did his hand pounce upon his lips. Horrendous sight. Grotesque image. He had no teeth. None. And his gums were ragged red bits of flesh. I was horrified. Still he smiled, unabashed.
“I see you’re appalled because I’m without teeth, because my gums are destroyed, because there’s no hope of inserting false teeth. Your reaction’s natural; it’s an ugly sight.”
His statement lessened the condition’s importance. I intervened with a comforting maxim derived from the U.O. eschatology: “The amoeba is toothless and he lives.” But the student sneered, air gasping from his nostrils.
“Now you can understand why I’m consumed with the beauty of your teeth.”
“Yes, that is obvious.” In my mind, I compared it to substitution. “Normally one would be concerned with his own teeth. In your case it’s only natural that you be engrossed with another’s teeth.”
“It’s not that exactly,” he interjected. “I’m only interested in the most beautiful teeth. For years I’ve searched through mouths.” His eyes were transfixed. “Two months ago I thought I’d found the perfect set in a young woman’s mouth. They were dentures. Besides, she had halitosis. I was about to give up when I met you.”
Concluding, he became excited and grabbed my arm.
“But what can you hope to gain from studying my teeth?” I asked.
He told me that he’d pretend they we
re his. That is, he planned to care for them, ask questions about them, in effect, know them better than I did.
“As far as I am concerned, you may do that if you like. Teeth can be tiresome. Sometimes I wish I had none,” I added, more to be kind than anything else. “Just sometimes, when I’m weary of caring for them.”
Since that first day in his room, I had endured interminable gnawing investigations by him. What a grueling business it was. He spent hours probing my mouth. He’d purchased tooth powders, tubes of paste, bottles of mouthwash, and jars of cocoa butter. Perpetually he begged that I brush my teeth before him and distort my face into many possible expressions: grimacing, laughing, crying, grinning, smiling, gasping, etc. He was fascinated by the teeth’s effect, peeking through the emotional contortions of my lips.
Orbit 13 - [Anthology] Page 21