by Ron Savage
Sooner or later…
…we all fall asleep.
“You wouldn’t care for Africa,” Jonathan said, patting Phoebe’s thin shoulder. “Too many creepy-crawly things.”
“They must have hotels.”
“None in the jungle.”
“Can’t you stay home with me? Fifteen days isn’t long.”
“Uncle Jake’s a lot bigger and stronger than I am, baby. And I’ll be home on the weekends.”
“Promise?”
“I do.”
Phoebe’s attention seemed to be on the painting. She went over to it, squinting at the two figures seated at the table, her fingertips brushing the canvas.
He was about to tell her not to touch the thing. Since that afternoon when he and Simon entered the picture, Jonathan hadn’t been able to completely rid himself of anxiety.
“Daddy look.”
“…what?”
“C’mere a minute.”
Standing next to Phoebe, his gaze followed the direction of her pointing finger. He noticed the quiver in his daughter’s out-stretched arm as he turned to stare at the images. A white-faced owl was perched on the table. And with new, uncompromising detail, the senator saw Eddy grinning.
TWELVE
I
Simon laid on the bed, listened to his wife’s shallow, even breathing.
“Clever.” The only word Benjamin had said to him.
—Clever.
The more Simon tried for sleep the less it wanted him. He watched the moon from the open window, clouds passing over its gleaming face, light and darkness altering shadows in the room. An earlier rain had ended; the air, cooler now, a barely discernable breeze on the skin, the city washed and smelling of copper and freshly baked bread.
Clever.
He’d grabbed Benjamin, flesh solid at first,
becoming wet, soft clay,
then nothing.
Its substance lost in his tightly locked fists: Benjamin’s disappearing number, though not soon enough.
Clever.
The vision elusive, confusing, what the hell did I see? A brilliant incandescent wall filled with…
…children?
What he heard had been just as perplexing. Laughing. Weren’t they laughing? Like glass chimes you’d hang on a porch, hundreds of them.
Ethereal shapes gathered together, shifted away, playing in the wall of light. He had grasped Benjamin’s hands for a second, conceivably two or three, yet Simon felt the time there—wherever there was—to be an hour, maybe longer. The children’s voices bewildered him: groups speaking as one, but several groups, each slightly out of sync with the others.
We hope you brought us good news, little shepherd. We’re amazed how quickly your time is drawing to a close. Didn’t we just meet?
“It’s been…twenty-three years.”
Oh? How…extraordinary. Things do move on, don’t they? Well, our hearts are in the right place, anyway.
“You haven’t changed your mind, then?” Benjamin talking through the breaths and squeals of children: “Your creations, you’d let them be destroyed?”
And build again, don’t forget. We’re good at that. It’s been awhile since we’ve created much of anything. But what news do you have for us?
“There’s a chance.”
Only a chance?
“A…a fine chance.”
Excellent. We love a ‘fine chance’. The light coming from the wall intensified, or so Simon thought, the laughter and random chatter more pronounced. The groups seemed to break apart into many voices; finally, though, they solidified. We must confess, the idea of ending the abyss, of bringing us all together, has an attraction. We’ve always been partial to the beginnings of things. Perhaps having everyone with us would improve our general disposition.
“What of my flock? I suppose the agreement still stands?”
You’ll be their little shepherd in the abyss for a final millennium. But let’s not talk of this. Let’s discuss your ‘fine chance’. Ours is a simple concern: can a truly selfish man learn to experience the joy of our creations, to make sacrifices if need be, to bring that joy to others? Certainly your ‘fine chance’ has this concern in mind.
“It’s…it’s foremost in my mind.”
Then we’re finished here?
“—If you wish.”
We do wish. Perhaps you should hurry on, Benjamin. This time business doesn’t like to wait for us.
Simon now looked at the clock on the nightstand—3:45 AM, digital numbers a frosty green—the squealing children and the bright wall dissipating into the shadows and moonglow of the bedroom.
Eddy wants to go home, Simon thought.
Is that what this is all about for him?
The more Simon thought about the things he’d seen and heard, the angrier he felt. Don’t they pay attention? What sort of bullshit IS that? Joy and sacrifice, my ass.
Where are you, Benjamin?
Goddamn it!
Where?
“How can he be so out of touch?” Simon whispered to himself. “It took him—what?—twenty-three years just to fit in with us, to get a wardrobe and a fuckin’ haircut! And Eddy. My God, the guy looks like something from the Fifties, black leather jacket and those hokey boots. But at least he’s in this century. What does that say, Benjamin? Has your evil little friend shown more of an interest in us than you?”
Simon felt overwhelmed by all of it. If time constantly tricked them; if the world moved on without a hint, how would they know anything? Decades could pass—hell, a millennium—and they’d be oblivious. Did you miss Gandhi? Mother Teresa? What about good ole Albert Schweitzer? Remember him? We’ve got a list. You guys apparently have a LOT of trouble keeping up with current events.
Where are you, Benjamin?
II
His face reflected the white light of Dora’s computer monitor, and except for this, the study was dark. Simon sat there, wearing Jockeys and a T-shirt, staring at his computer. Then he typed:
S A I N T S
and clicked.
117,000,000 hits.
Then he saw:
CATHOLIC ONLINE SAINTS & ANGELS
The saints were done alphabetically, around seven hundred in the “A” section alone.
“You’re upset,” the voice behind him said, and seemed mildly amused.
“Nice that one of us is taking this well, Benjamin.” Simon continued to watch the monitor. “Did you know the Catholics have a web site? So far, I’ve counted seven hundred saints—they list them alphabetically—and I haven’t even gotten to the ‘B’s yet. Is that enough joy and sacrifice for you?”
“This wasn’t my decision.”
“You’re only following orders?”
“You could say that.”
“I think I’ve heard this before.” Simon turned, peering into the shadows, hand cupped at his brow. “Nuremberg Trial, wasn’t it? Remember the Nuremberg Trial? Or did that slip by you?”
“Yes, the Nazis.”
“Very good. They followed orders, too. Admittedly, our darker moment, the Nazis. Perhaps a flaw in creation, the inventor’s inventiveness. Unlike you and yours, we’ve always been a few points shy of perfect.”
“Listen, Simon, you have no idea how time—”
“—screwed up your interest? Hard for you folks to keep track of the mortals? Spare me. Am I to blame for that, Benjamin? Or is it the fault of the inventor? Oh, look, there’s Gandhi—whoops, somebody shot him. Did his whole goddamn life zip by a little too fast for the boys in the backroom?”
“You’re…right. Time does get away from us. I’m ashamed to say that, but I won’t lie. Before I met you, I thought I’d been gone for a couple of years, a decade at most.”
“Try centuries.”
“Yes.”
“Now Eddy’s about to do what? Murder us? And be rewarded for it? Isn’t that the deal? God’s rewarding him for a momentary lapse into death and destruction? Don’t you think—”
&
nbsp; “Then don’t let it happen, Simon. You know what’s needed.”
The light from the computer screen showed Benjamin seated in a leather chair next to the fireplace, his face and chest hidden by shadow, a khaki pant leg crossed at the knee. Simon could hear his breath.
“Tell me, Benjamin, will I die? Is that what’s needed?”
“Do you recall the girl on the subway? Mary Kathleen?”
“Yes.”
“You could’ve died there.”
“Those guys were about to rape her. Or the older one was going to do it.”
Benjamin leaned into the dim light, arms propped on thighs, his pale blue eyes fixed on Simon at the opposite end of the room. “I once came upon a man who was stoning a woman to death. His wife, I think. It takes a while to kill someone with stones. You have to aim for the head. The crowd watching them did nothing. I had to intervene.” Benjamin paused, as if considering the event, then he said, “Would you have stopped him, Simon?”
“You already know.”
“Tell me, anyway.”
“I would’ve helped her. Now answer my question. Will I die?”
“I’m not very good with predictions. How much are you willing to risk to help Phoebe? Or Dora?”
“So the outlook’s not promising.”
“…have faith.”
“Maybe God should have faith in us.” Simon absently ran his fingers through his hair; felt the anger return. “That thing I saw—God, or whatever—that psychotic thing needs to develop a little faith of its own. Suppose every time parents became dissatisfied with their kid, they’d toss it and have another?”
“We can’t expect to fathom—”
“Oh, please. Bullshit. I mean, if Noah and the flood wasn’t psychotic, what is? The thing saved one family and a bunch of animals, and murdered everybody else. I don’t call that sane, rational behavior, do you?”
“Simon, I’m only a messenger. It’s all I’ve ever been and all I ever will be. I can’t claim—can’t presume—to know how…” Benjamin stopped; seemed to be searching for the right word. “…God…how God thinks. What I do know is, we have a situation. If you want to call it ‘irrational,’ fine. But the situation’s here, and no amount of anger—and I understand why you’re angry—but no amount of anger will change our…problem.”
Simon turned from him, staring at the computer’s monitor, trying to cool down. Dora’s screen saver had kicked in: a small cartoon puppy with brown shaggy fur sat in black space, panting, blinking its large, dark eyes. Then a red ball bounced into view from the left of the screen. It rolled toward the dog who trapped it with his front paws. Sound effects followed this—sniff, sniff, woof, woof—and the large eyes gazed back at Simon, as if to say
Wanna play?
Woof, woof.
Wanna play catch?
III
She’d been resting a shoulder against the door leading to the study, watching him for a minute or two, the way the monitor’s glow accentuated his bicep in the shadow and light, the tautness of his T-shirt and…well…getting horny.
Dora rubbed his back with her fingertips now; saying, “Can’t sleep, huh?”
“What time is it?”
“‘Round four-thirty. Bad dreams?”
“That, and a visit from my friend,” said Simon. The sarcasm in his voice didn’t escape her.
“You want to talk?”
“Maybe later.” He nodded toward the computer screen. “I’ve been reading your article.”
“It’s just a first draft.” Discussing her work, his dreams, or even Benjamin, wasn’t on her mind at the moment.
“Great stuff.” He brought her flat right hand to his mouth, his lips brushing and kissing the palm. “You’re branching out.”
“The art scene’s becoming boring.”
“Not all of it, I hope.”
“When you’ve got the best, the others don’t seem to matter.” The tip of her tongue touched his ear. She felt him shiver. “How ‘bout a little fuck.”
“—Now?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Here?”
“Uh-huh.” She slipped off her panties and straddled Simon in the chair, face-to-face, feeling his cock go hard beneath her hand.
“Dora?”
“…shhh.”
“What about the baby?”
She looked at him. “What? You think you’re gonna poke it in the head?”
“Well…yeah.”
“I love you, Simon.”
“I love you, too.”
Raising herself slightly, she put him inside of her and eased down, a tiny groan at the sudden fullness, her arms locking around his neck, her cheek against the night stubble of his beard, and she breathed him in, the scent of him, that mix of faded, sugary mint cologne and sweat.
“…goddamn,” he muttered.
“Uh-huh,” she said.
Then things went quiet, except for the rhythm and the soft, small noises.
Dora: with half-opened eyes, staring at nothing, feeling him; toes on the carpet, lifting and releasing, lost to the gentle rocking and what was being thrust into her.
She heard Simon’s huffing, whispered voice on the rim of her consciousness. “…do you…do you…oh, shit…do you think he likes it?”
“Wha…?”
“The baby. Do you…think he likes…the motion?”
“Oh, yes,” she murmured. Her words seemed to belong to someone else. “He…he loves it.”
“…thank you, Jesus,” said Simon.
IV
Dora had curled up in his lap, head on his chest, looking at the monitor. A white cursor blinked silently over the title of her article on BioChem and Jonathan Clayman: “What Chemical Warfare and Politics have in Common.”
“I don’t think you’ll be winning any awards with the senator,” he said.
“BioChem won’t exactly be thrilled, either.” She kissed his neck, her index finger tracing the V of his throat. “They have enough anthrax in their plant to shame Iraq. You remember that inspection team?—mid-Eighties, I think—they found eight thousand liters of spores in Iraq, enough to kill pretty much everybody on the planet.” Dora twisted herself around, facing the computer, and began to scroll down her article. “Yeah, here it is: BioChem has twenty thousand liters of dry spores—that’s right in Camden, for God-sake, right over the goddamn bridge, maybe—what?—forty minutes from us?”
“Christ.”
“BioChem was like the major contributor to Jonathan Clayman’s senate run, and if the senator plays his cards they way they want, probably a big shareholder in his presidential campaign.”
“What’s he giving them in return?”
“You really need to read the papers, Simon.” She was still scrolling the article, thin shoulders hunched, catching a word or phrase to refresh her memory. “…next session, the senator will be co-chairing the Budget Committee, with special focus on Defense expenditures.”
“So biological warfare.”
“Since the Eighties. Counter-Terrorism, they call it. A knee-jerk reaction to Saddam Hussein. Maybe justified, I dunno. An eye for an eye thing. But illegal. And Jonathan’s up to his neck.”
“Good news for Robert McBaen and the glitzy wife.”
“He’d be difficult to beat, anyway. Hollywood in the White House is always a vote getter, and Patty’s a beauty.” Dora saw he was about to agree and then reconsidered. “You may find this hard to believe, Simon, but I’ve come to terms with not being the only beauty in the world.”
“You’re my beauty.”
“Such a diplomat.”
“Doesn’t it bother you having BioChem just across the river? Bothers the shit out of me.”
“Sweet boy, it doesn’t matter where you keep it. The stuff can spread over an entire continent in a few hours. It stores forever. And inhalation is the worst. No color, no smell, no taste; and if you don’t get treatment in twenty-four hours—just simple penicillin—it’s ninety-nine percent lethal. Charming,
huh?” Dora stared at the computer screen, re-reading one of the paragraphs. “Here, listen: you don’t start feeling the symptoms ‘til the sixth day, but then treatment isn’t effective. And the symptoms aren’t much different than the flu. Fever. Aches and pains. After awhile, though, you can’t breathe anymore.”
V
Simon listened to Dora as she read parts of the article aloud. Her legs straddled him, and he stroked her black hair, long now and done in ringlets like the Dora he had painted. With the pregnancy, she’d gained weight—breasts and thighs, mostly—enough to pass for the woman who had been in the Hedgerow Theater ages ago.
Eddy must have noticed the similarity, too.
That’s why you took my wife…
…and kept her…
…and kept her.
One thought followed another: and BioChem’s interest in the senator would also fit into your plan.
A test of the product, perhaps…
…an experiment gone bad.
Is that it?
What a good way to end the world, Eddy.
Simon had no trouble imagining the deed. The “accident,” a slip of the ole canister and, uh-oh, look at all those spores!
Where could you hide?
Nowhere, absolutely nowhere.
My dream version of New York, Simon thought, that’s what you’d have left. Minus the fires, of course. But a lot of empty buildings; and eventually, not even a bone to prove life had been there.
Eddy’s plan for the future, a wasteland for the occasional interplanetary traveler: Yes, my little gray and green friends, close those big eyes in the center of your foreheads and picture what fun we must’ve had. Step right up and watch the Earthlings stop breathing, watch’em turn red, blue and black, watch’em by the hundreds, by the thousands, by the millions.