Numbers Don't Lie

by Terry Bisson

  But before I could figure out what it meant (I knew, of course, who it was from), the phone rang. “There’s the answer to your question,” Wu said.

  “What question?”

  “You asked me if something here could already be going backward.”

  “Not there,” I said. “Here.”

  “By ‘here’ I mean here on Earth!” Wu said. “And as my calculations show, it is theoretically possible. Perhaps even inevitable. You know about superstrings, right?”

  “Sort of like superglue or supermodels?” I ventured.

  “Exactly. They hold the Universe together, and they are stretched to the limit. It’s possible that harmonic vibrations of these superstrings might shake loose discrete objects, so that they would appear as bubbles or reversals in local entropic fields.”

  “Fields? What about vacant lots?” I told Wu about the beaded seat cushion.

  “Hmmm,” said Wu. I could almost hear his brain whirring. “You may be on to something, Irv. Superstring harmonic overtones could be backtracking my sightline from the Edge of the Universe, and then following our fax and phone connections. The same way glass breaks along a line when you score it. But we have to be sure. Send me a couple of pictures, so we can quantify the— Ooooooops!” His voice dropped to a whisper. “Here comes my boss. Say hi to Candy. I’ll call you later.”

  * * *

  There was still plenty of afternoon light, so as soon as Wu hung up, I headed across the corner lot to Hoppy’s Good Gulf and borrowed the Polaroid he uses to photograph accident scenes. As I took the picture, I quantified for myself, by counting. The eleven beads on row four had increased to thirteen, and the other rows also seemed to be much improved. There weren’t many beads lying in the dirt. The seat cushion looked almost good enough to put in my car, if I had one.

  It was creepy. I didn’t like it.

  I returned Hoppy’s camera and took the long way back to the office, trying to make sense of it all. Were the falling leaves going to float back up and fasten themselves to the trees? Was Candy’s Volvo going to have four speeds in reverse? I got so confused just thinking about it that I put the photo into the wicker OUT tray of Whipper Will’s upright fax machine before I remembered—I guess realized is the word—that I had no outgoing. I could talk to Wu on the phone (when he called me) but I couldn’t fax him anything.

  Perversely, I was glad. I had done what I could, and now I was tired. Tired of thinking about the Universe. I had an important, indeed a historic, date coming up—not to mention a bar exam to study for. I opened a Caffeine-Free Diet Cherry Coke, spread my Corcoran’s on the windowsill, and lost myself in pleasant dreams. Mostly of Candy and that last little uniform button.

  * * *

  A Huntsville Parks Department professional has many obligations that run past the normal nine-to-five. Some of them are interesting, some even fun, and since Candy loves her job, I try to accommodate (which means accompany) her whenever possible. That night we had to stop by the North Side Baptist Union Fish Fry and Quilt Show, where Candy was the Guest of Honor in her neatly pressed, knife-creased khakis. The fish was my favorite, pond-raised cat rolled in yellow cornmeal, but I couldn’t relax and enjoy myself. I kept thinking of later; I was in a hurry to get up on Squirrel Ridge, the mountain. But one good thing about Baptists, they don’t last long, and by 9:15 Candy and I were parked up at the Overlook. It was a cool night and we sat out on the warm, still-ticking hood of the P1800 with the lights of the valley spread out below us like captured stars. My palms were sweating. This was to be the night I would propose, and hopefully she would accept, with all the privileges that entails.

  I wanted the evening to be memorable in every way, and since the Moon was supposed to be full, I waited for it to rise. As I watched the glow on the eastern horizon, I thought of Wu and wondered if the Moon would rise in the west after the “Reversal.” Would anyone notice the difference? Or would folks just call the west the east and leave it at that?

  It was too deep for me to figure out, and besides—I had other things on my mind. As soon as the Moon cleared the horizon, I got off the hood and dropped to my knees. I was just about to pop the question, when I heard a beep beep.

  “What’s that?” I asked.

  “Buzzer,” said Candy.

  “Sounds like a beeper.”

  “It is. Buzzer loaned me his beeper,” she said, reaching down to her waist and cutting it off.

  “What for?”

  “You know what for.”

  There are no phones up on Squirrel Ridge, so we high-tailed it down the mountain with the SUs howling and the exhaust barking, alternately. Candy’s big fear was alerting Gaithers, who was on duty that night, so we rolled into the parking lot of Squirrel Ridge, the nursing home, with the lights off. I stayed with the P1800 while Candy slipped in through a side door.

  She was back in half an hour. “Well?” I prompted.

  “Daddy hit Buzzer,” she said (or I thought she said) as we drove out of the lot as quietly as possible. “It’s cool, though. Buzzer didn’t say anything to Gaithers. This time. I figure we’ve got one more strike. Three and we’re out.”

  “Where’d he hit him this time?”

  “Not hit,” she said. “Bit.”

  “But your daddy doesn’t have any teeth!”

  Candy shrugged. “Seems he does now.”

  * * *

  And that was it for what I had hoped would be one of the biggest evenings of my life. My proposal, with its acceptance, with all the privileges that entails—none of it was to be. Not that night. Candy needed her sleep since she had to leave early in the morning for the annual statewide all-day Parks Department meeting in Montgomery. She dropped me off at Hoppy’s Good Gulf and I took a long walk, which is almost as good as a cold shower. It takes only twenty minutes to cover every street in downtown Huntsville. Then I went back to the office, cutting through the corner lot. In the light of the full Moon, the beaded seat cushion looked almost new. The top rows of beads were complete, and there were only a few missing on the lower section. I resisted the urge to kick it.

  There were two messages on Whipper Will’s ancient reel-to-reel answering machine. The first was just heavy breathing. A random sexual harassment call, I figured. Or a wrong number. Or maybe an old enemy of Whipper Will’s; most of Whipper Will’s enemies were old.

  The second message was from Candy. She had beaten me home. “This is going to be an all-day conference tomorrow,” she said. “I won’t get home till late. I gave your number to Buzzer, just in case. You know what I mean. When I get home, we’ll take care of our unfinished business.” She signed off with a loud smooching sound. For some reason, I found it depressing.

  It was midnight but I couldn’t sleep. I kept having these horrible thoughts. I opened a Caffeine-Free Diet Cherry Coke and spread my Corcoran’s out on the window ledge, overlooking the empty street. Was there ever a downtown as quiet as downtown Huntsville? I tried to imagine what it had looked like before the Bypass had bled away all the business. I must have fallen right to sleep, for had a nightmare about downtown streets crowded with newlyweds walking hand in hand. And all the newlyweds were old. And all the newlyweds had teeth.

  * * *

  The next morning, I woke up thinking about the beaded seat cushion. I decided I needed another picture for Wu, to make it a before-and-after. After my morning ablutions in the Good Gulf men’s room, I found Hoppy in the repair bay, fixing the front brakes on yet another Taurus. “Whipper Will’s Yank,” he said.

  “Right,” I said. I asked to borrow the Polaroid again.

  “It’s in the wrecker.”

  “The wrecker’s locked.”

  “You have the key,” Hoppy said. “Your men’s room key. One key does everything around here. Keeps life simple. ’Nuff said.”

  I waited until Hoppy was busy before I took the camera out into the corner lot and photographed the beaded seat cushion. I didn’t want him to think I was nuts. I printed the picture and
put the camera away, then hurried back to the office and placed the new photo next to the old one in the wicker OUT bin of Whipper Will’s ancient upright fax machine. If I had ever doubted my own eyes (and who doesn’t, from time to time?), I was convinced now. I had photographic evidence. The beaded seat cushion was in much better shape in the second photo than in the first, even though they were less than twenty-four hours apart. It was un-decaying right before my eyes.

  I kept having these horrible thoughts.

  At least there were no messages on the answering machine. Nothing from Buzzer.

  Even though I couldn’t concentrate, I knew I needed to study. I opened a Caffeine-Free Diet Cherry Coke and spread my Corcoran’s on the windowsill. When I woke up it was almost noon and the floor was shaking; the fax machine was huffing and puffing, creaking and groaning, rattling and whining. It stopped and started again, louder than ever. A sheet of paper fluttered down from the IN bin. I caught it, still warm, before it hit the floor:

  While I was still trying to decipher it, I realized the phone was ringing.

  I picked it up with dread; I whispered, “Buzzer?” assuming the worst.

  “Buzzer?” It was Wu. “Are you impersonating a device, Irving? But never mind that, I have a more important question. Which one of these Polaroids is number one?”

  “What Polaroids? You got them? That’s impossible. I never faxed them. I don’t have outgoing!”

  “Seems you do now,” Wu said. “I was faxing you my newest calculations, just now, and as soon as I finished, here came your Polaroids, riding through on the self-checking backspin from the handshake protocol, I guess. You forgot to number them, though.”

  “The crummy one is number two,” I said. “The crummier one is number one.”

  “So you were right!” Wu said. “It’s going from worse to bad. Even in downtown Huntsville, light years from the Edge, the Universe is already shrinking in isolated anti-entropic bubble fields. Anomalous harmonic superstring overtones. The formula I just faxed through, as I’m sure you can see, confirms the theoretical possibility of a linear axis of the Anti-Entropic Reversal Field following a superstring fold from the Edge of the Universe to downtown Huntsville. But observation is the soul of science, and by using your Polaroids, now I will be able to mathematically calculate the . . .”

  “Wu!” I broke in. Sometimes with Wu you have to break in. “What about people?

  “People?”

  “People,” I said. “You know. Humans. Like ourselves. Bipeds with cars, for Christ’s sake!” Sometimes Wu was impossible.

  “Oh, people,” he said. “Well, people are made of the same stuff as the rest of the Universe, aren’t they? I mean, we. The Anti-Entropic Reversal means that we will live backward, from the grave to the cradle. People will get younger instead of older.”

  “When?”

  “When? When the Anti-Entropic Reversal Wave spreads back, from the Edge through the rest of the Universe. Like the changing tide. Could be several thousand years; could be just a few hundred. Though, as your seat cushion experiment demonstrates, there may be isolated bubbles along the linear axis where . . . Whoops! Here comes my boss,” Wu whispered. “I have to get off. Give my best to Candy. How’s her dad, by the way?”

  Wu often signs off with a question, often unanswerable. But this one was more unanswerable than most.

  * * *

  Lunch at the Bonny Bag was strange. I had a whole booth to myself. Plus a lot on my mind. “Where’s Candy?” Bonny asked.

  “Montgomery,” I told her.

  “The state capital. That lucky dog. And how’s Whipper Will? Still sweet as ever?”

  “I sure hope so,” I said.

  “Did I ever tell you about the time he took a shot at my . . .”

  “I think so,” I said. I ordered the chicken salad, just for the adventure of it. Plus two bags of chips.

  Back at the office, I found two messages on the reel-to-reel answering machine. The first was heavy breathing. The second was ranting and raving. It was all grunts and groans, and I figured it was probably one of Whipper Will’s old enemies. The only words I could make out were “motherfucker” and “kill” and “shoot.”

  Nothing from Buzzer, thank God.

  I opened a Caffeine-Free Diet Cherry Coke and spread my Corcoran’s on the windowsill. I kept having these horrible thoughts, and I knew the only way to get rid of them was to study for the bar. When I woke up it was getting dark. The phone was ringing. I forced myself to pick it up.

  “Buzzer . . . ?” I whispered, expecting the worst.

  “Buzzzzzzzzz!” said Wu, who sometimes enjoys childish humor. But then he got right down to business. “How far apart are these two Polaroids?” he asked.

  “In time?” I did some quick figuring. “Eighteen and three-quarter hours.”

  “Hmmm. That checks out with my rate-of-change figures,” he said. “Mathematics is the soul of science, and beads are easier to count than stars. By counting the beads, then subtracting, then dividing by the phase of the Moon over eighteen and three-quarters, I can calculate the exact age of the Universe. Are you on Central or Eastern Standard time?”

  “Central,” I said. “But Wu . . .”

  “Perfect! If I get a Nobel, remind me to share it with you, Irv. The exact age of the Universe, from the Big Bang until this instant is . . .”

  “Wu!” I broke in. Sometimes with Wu you have to break in. “I need your help. Is there any way to reverse it?”

  “Reverse what?”

  “The contraction, the Anti-Entropic Reversal, or whatever.”

  “Turn around the Universe?” He sounded almost offended.

  “No, just the little stuff. The anomalous harmonic superstring overtones.”

  “Hmmm.” Wu sounded intrigued again. “Locally? Temporarily? Maybe. If it is all on strings . . .” I couldn’t tell if he was talking about the beaded seat cushion or the Universe.

  Whipper Will’s upright fax machine grumbled. It rumbled. It growled and it howled. The floor shook and the wall creaked and a warm sheet of paper came out of the IN bin and fluttered toward the floor.

  I caught it; I was getting good at catching them:

  “What’s with the Chinese?” I asked.

  “Multi-cultural synergy,” Wu said. “I’ve combined my calculations of the relative linear stability of the remote Anti-Entropic Fields on the superstring axes, with an ancient Tien Shan spell for precipitating poisons out of a well so that camels can drink. A little trick I picked up in school.”

  “Medical school?”

  “Caravan school,” said Wu. “It’s temporary, of course. It’ll only last a few thousand years. And you’ll have to use an Anti-Entropic Field Reversal Device.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Whatever’s handy. A two by four, a jack handle. All it takes is a short sharp shock. The problem is, there’s no way to tell what other effects might— Whoooops!” His voice dropped. “Here comes my boss—”

  * * *

  After Wu hung up I sat by the window, waiting for night to fall. Waiting for Buzzer to call. I kept having these horrible thoughts.

  When it was dark, I walked downstairs and into the corner lot. I carried a short length of 2x4 with me. I squared off and hit the ground beside the beaded seat cushion, just once. A short, sharp shock. Then again, on the other side. Another short, sharp shock. I resisted the urge to destroy it with a kick; it was an experiment, after all.

  I tossed the 2x4 into the weeds. The Moon was rising (still in the east) and a dog and a cat were standing side by side on the path, watching me. As they trotted off together, still side by side, a chill gripped my heart What if I had made things worse?

  Hoppy’s Good Gulf was closed. I used the men’s room and went back to the office. There were two messages on the machine. The first was a voice I had never heard, but I knew exactly who it was. “Where is that vicious pissant daughter of mine? Are you listening to me, bitch? I swore by God if you ever put me
in a nursing home I would kill you, and by God I will!”

  The second message was from Buzzer. “We’ve got a problem here, Yank,” he said. “The old man is uncontrollable. He threw a chair through a glass door and got into Gaither’s office, and now—”

  There was a sound of more glass breaking, and a scream, and a thud. I heard a beep and I realized that the message was over.

  The phone was ringing. I picked it up and heard the first voice again, but this time it was live: “You devil motherfucker bitch bastard! Where is my Oldsmobile? Did you give it to this nursing home nigger?”

  I heard Buzzer shout, “No!”

  “You fucking _______!”

  Then I heard a shot. I hung up the phone and ran out the door, into the night.

  * * *

  When you haven’t driven for a while, it can seem almost like a thrill. I wasn’t worried about the police; I figured they wouldn’t stop Hoppy’s Good Gulf wrecker, as long as they didn’t notice who was driving. So I turned on the red light and drove like a bat out of Hell out the four-lane toward Squirrel Ridge, the nursing home.

  I left the truck in the lot with the engine running and the red light spinning. I found Whipper Will in Gaither’s office. He had gotten the gun out of her desk. It was a brand-new pearl-handled .38, a ladies’ special. Whipper Will was holding it on Buzzer, who sat bolt upright behind the desk in one of those rolling office chairs. There was a bullet hole in the wall just to the left of Buzzer’s head.

  “Take all my money and put me in a God damned nursing home! That rotten little _______!” Whipper Will raved. He was talking about Candy—his own daughter. His hair was almost black and he was standing (I had never seen him standing before) with his back to the door. Buzzer was facing me, making elaborate signals with his eyebrows and diamond nose stud—as if I couldn’t figure out the situation on my own! I tiptoed across the floor, trying to avoid crunching the broken glass.