The Year’s Best Science Fiction: Seventh Annual Collection

by Gardner Dozois

  I don’t remember how I got him out of the house. I spent that evening raging at myself, my situation, the plague that had blighted my life, aborted my career, turned me into a time bomb of thwarted need. So what if it came out that I was a carrier of the virus? Nobody gave a damn anymore. During the past few years, the deadly microorganisms that had built up strength in my system throughout the first ten had begun to decline. I might never die of AIDS now, might not even be infectious, nobody knew. Even if I were, the world had been immunized against me. Yet I felt infectious, consumed with longing for something that would certainly be destroyed if I tried to possess it. No amount of rational certainty that this was not so acted to defuse a conviction which had for so long been the central emotional truth, the virtual mainspring, of my life. For the past nine years I had abstained from sex for my own reasons of stress-avoidance, not to protect others; I had known this and not-known it, both.

  The truth was, I had lived as a leper too long to change my self-concept. Now here was this boy, who had guessed my guilty secret just like that and spoken it aloud without batting an eye. He would have to be replaced, possibly bribed … no, that was crazy thinking. Yet the thought of facing him was unendurable. I’d pay him off in the morning and dismiss him. The pain of this thought astonished me; yet I couldn’t doubt it must be done.

  I had not, however, factored in Eric’s own attitudes and wishes. The next day he showed up at the usual time and went straight to work in the kitchen garden, spreading straw mulch on the tomato and pepper beds, whistling the noble theme from the second movement of Beethoven’s Seventh. From the kitchen window I watched his tall, bony frame fold and unfold, gather the straw from the cart in armfuls and heap it carefully around the bases of the plants; and gradually I became aware that here was the only living being, not one of the Company, who knew The Truth. Gradually, it even began to seem a wonderful thing that somebody knew. Eric dragged the empty cart across the yard for more straw bales, then back to the nightshade beds. I regarded his back in its sweat-soaked tee shirt, the play of the shoulder muscles, the stretching tendons at the sides of his knees as he folded and straightened—and something fluttered and turned over in my middle-aged insides. “Eric,” I murmured in wonderment; and as if he had heard he turned his head, saw me at the window, waved and grinned. Then he stooped to gather another armful of straw and I fell back out of view.

  That grin … I dropped onto a stool, hearing in my head the incongruous voice of my best high-school friend: “He looked over at me from the other side of the class and it just really boinged me.” Boinged, I’d been boinged! By Eric’s cheerfulness, the wave of his long arm with its brown work glove at the end. I knew by then, I guess, that I wasn’t going to fire him; but I couldn’t see how to do anything else with him either.

  At noon Eric came to the house to wash up under the spigot before leaving, in his khaki shorts and old running shoes. He had taken off his shirt, and dust and bits of straw had stuck to the sweaty skin of his chest and back, and in the curly golden hairs of his legs and the blond mop on his head. He was a very lanky guy, pretty well put together, not a bit handsome. I regarded his long body with awe.

  “I’ll be late tomorrow, got a dentist appointment,” he said. “Listen, I wanted you to know I’m not going to say anything to anybody else about yesterday. In case you were worrying about it. I mean, I don’t go in for gossip much anyway, and even if I did I wouldn’t spread stuff around about you.”

  I managed to reply, “Thanks, I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t.”

  Eric started to say something else but instead stuck his head under the faucet for a minute, dried himself on his shirt, and slipped away around the house. There was a paperback novel crammed into the back pocket of his shorts, its title Sowbug! scrawled diagonally across the cover in screaming colors, and water droplets spangled his bare shoulders.

  And so we went on as before, but nothing was as it had been for me. Once again I became an actor, for I found myself against all sense and expectation carrying a blazing torch for a boy considerably less than half my age: a clever, nice, probably not terribly remarkable boy who (as the Companions agreed) was serving now as representative object of the pent-up love of half a lifetime. Eric, the wick for this deep reservoir of flammable fuel, became “Lampwick” in Company nomenclature: Lampwick, the boy who went to Pleasure Island with Pinocchio and turned into a braying jackass before the puppet’s horrified eyes.

  I felt like the jackass, let me tell you. Knowing the passion that so rocked me to be symbolic and categorical, hardly about Eric-the-singular-individual at all, made exactly zero difference to my experience of it. In the Company we’d been talking and thinking more about love since Elizabeth’s death, and they all thought it was great. All loves are part personal, part associational, the more worldly among them assured me. Go for it! Get it out of your system. Wasn’t your primary sexual involvement in the past with a teacher? Hey, the unconscious is a tidy bastard; naturally yours would think it fitting to pass the baton to the next generation by making you fall for a student of your own.

  And I have to admit that even the hopeless misery of this passion was, in a weird way, kind of fun. It rejuvenated my libido, for one thing. It took me out of myself. I no longer feared the lethal effects of stress so much, and in any case this stress was salutary too.

  I did take enormous care to protect myself from the humiliation of letting Eric catch me out, as he had caught me out about my antibody status. He never dreamed I seethed with lust for him, I feel quite sure of that. I think he did regret my aloofness—he was a sociable boy, and truly admired my work—but not so much as to be pained by it; and in any event Eric had other fish to fry that summer.

  My ankle had healed well enough by late July for me to take over the kitchen garden, and a bit later the processing of its produce, when that began to roll in; but I pretended a greater disability than I really had just to keep Eric around. And when my old mother in Denver had a stroke, making a visit unavoidable, I was happy to leave him in charge of both kitchen garden and melon plots. The special hybrids were looking great, but records on rainfall and hours of sunlight during this crucial month would have to be kept. I asked Eric to come live in the house while I was away, and promised him a bonus if he did a meticulous job of keeping the records.

  I decided not to fly, and drove west in an erotically supercharged state of psyche, sleeping in the carbed, peeing in the men’s rooms of seven states, feasting my eyes on hundreds of penises and fantasizing that this or that one could be Eric’s … I hadn’t done much of this recently and suspect I made a less convincing man as I grew older but I had a terrific time for a while, although to tell the truth I rather wore my imagination out. My mother was feeling better and received my attentions with gratified complacency; but the five grandchildren had become her life, and we regarded one another, benignly enough, through a glaze of mutual incomprehension. It seemed likely that I would see her next when I flew out for the funeral.

  All the same I stayed a week before returning by easy stages across the hot, dry, dusty plains, eager to get back but pleased to think of Eric still holding the fort in my stead. No point in pretending I couldn’t handle the work now, not after a drive like this. Anyway, the term would be starting soon. When I got back I’d have to let him go; and so I dawdled and fantasized across Kansas and Missouri, and late in the afternoon of August 30 was approaching Indianapolis when I told the radio to turn itself on and was informed that early that same morning there had been a meltdown at the nuclear power plant at Peach Bottom, on the Susquehanna River downstream from Three Mile Island.

  Luckily traffic was light. I managed to pull off the road without smashing up, and sat gripping the wheel while the radio filled me in. The disaster was unprecedented, making even Chernobyl look paltry. The Peach Bottom plant was fifty years old and overdue to be shut down for good. It had been shut down in the Eighties, then reopened in 1993, when improved decontamination technology had
reduced its radioactivity to acceptable levels. Though the plant had a history of scandalously inept management, technicians asleep on duty and so on, stretching back a long way, it didn’t appear that the meltdown had been caused by human error.

  From the standpoint of damage to nearby populations the weather could not have been much worse, given that it was summer. A storm system with a strong south-southwest wind had pushed the enormous radioactive plume across the fertile Amish farmland of Lancaster County; then a westerly shift had carried the plume over the continuous urban sprawl of Wilmington, Philadelphia, and Trenton. Heavy rains had dumped the hot stuff on the ground across that whole area. The storm had also put out the fire at the plant; damage was therefore horrific but, so far, highly localized.

  The plume had been washed to earth before it could enter the upper atmosphere—but in one of the most densely populated regions of the world. A very high death count from acute radiation poisoning was expected; the Amish farmers, working in the fields without radios to warn them, were especially at risk. Eight million people, more or less, had to be evacuated and relocated, probably permanently, for the Philadelphia-Wilmington area would be a wasteland for at least a decade to come, perhaps much longer.

  Terry Carpenter’s name was mentioned again and again. A moderate Republican Congressman from Delaware County, Carpenter was being described by reporters as a miracle worker. His understanding and the speed of his response suggested that Carpenter had planned carefully for just this sort of emergency. Because of him the cost in human lives would be far less, though no one person could cope with every aspect of a disaster as great as this one … (I’d crossed over and voted for the guy myself, last election. Good move.)

  People who had not yet left their homes had been urged to keep doors and windows shut and air conditioners turned off, to reduce inhalation uptake, which would be reduced somewhat anyway by the rain, and to draw water in their bathtubs and sinks before the runoff from the storm could contaminate the supply. Each was to pack a small bag …

  The radio went on and on as I sat by the highway, shocked beyond thought. My house, my garden, the campus, the hospital where I worked and the one where I had my monthly treatments, the Company, the experiment—all the carefully assembled infrastructure of my unnatural life—had melted down with the power plant. What in the world was I going to do? My trip had saved me from radiation poisoning, and from being evacuated and stuck in a Red Cross camp someplace; my car and I were clean. But my life was in ruins.

  And all the while, still in shock, I thought about Eric, whom I’d left to mind the store, who might be in my house right now with the doors and windows shut, waiting to be evacuated. Abruptly snapping out of it, I drove back onto the road and went off at the next exit, where I found a pay phone that worked and put the call through.

  But the phone in my house rang and rang, and finally I hung up and stood shaking in the already-sweltering morning, unable to think what to do now, stranded. Impossible to go back to Denver. Impossible to go home. Impossible also to find Eric, at least until things settled down. Eric, of course, would go to his parents’ house—only what if they lived in the evacuation zone? A lot of our students were local kids; it was that kind of college.

  I knew not even that much about Eric’s personal life, I realized with a furious rush of shame, and at this moment all my uncertainty and powerlessness fused into a desperate need to find him, see him, make sure he was all right. Of all the desperately threatened people I knew in the area of contamination, only this one boy mattered to me.

  I got back in my car and started driving. I drove all night, stopped at a western Pennsylvania sleepyside for a nap the following morning, drove on again. The radio kept me posted on developments. All that way I thought about Eric. Half of my mind was sure he was fine, safe in his parents’ (grandparents’?) home in Pittsburgh or Allentown; the other half played the Eric-tape over and over, his longness and leanness, the grownup way he’d handled my breaking down, his careful tenderness with the melon seedlings (like Mendel’s!), his reliability, his frank, unstudied admiration of my trial model, his schlock horror novel Sowbug! Why hadn’t I been nicer to him while I’d had the chance? Why had I played it safe? My house and garden were lost, my experimental records doubtless ruined by fallout, the work of the past decade all gone for nothing, yet worse by far was the fact that I had squandered my one God-given chance to come close to another person, thrown it away, out of fear. I beat on the steering wheel and sobbed. Eric, Eric, if only I hadn’t been so scared.

  Whatever happened now, I knew I would never again watch him fold that long body up like a folding ruler to tend the crops or sic the virus-loaded striped cucumber beetles onto a melon cultivar. That life was finished. There was nothing to connect us now, because I had wasted my one chance and would never get another. I was hardly thinking straight, of course; I was in shock. I’d heard my colleagues speak often enough, and wistfully enough, of promising former students from whom they rarely or never heard anymore. Students go away and teachers stay—that’s the way it’s always been, they’d say. Put not your faith in students. A card at Christmas for a year or two after they leave, then zip.

  But I wasn’t thinking of what Eric might or might not have done in some hypothetical future time; I was thinking of what I myself had failed to do and now could never do. I cried, off and on, for hours, being forced once by uncontrollable weeping to stop the car. I shed far more tears during that nightmarish trip than in my whole previous life since childhood. If I’d only put my arms around him, just one time, just held him for a minute, not even saying anything—if I’d just managed to do that—As the hours and miles went by my grief became more and more inconsolable, as if all the tragedy of the meltdown, and even of my life, were consolidated into this one spurned chance to become human. It didn’t matter whether Eric wanted to be befriended (let alone held) by me, diseased middle-aged spinsterish schoolmarm and part-time pervert that I had become; what mattered, beyond measure or expression, was that I’d been too cowardly even to consider the possibility of closeness with another person and now it was too late.

  I drove and wept, wept and drove. Gradually traffic going the opposite direction began to build up. Just west of Harrisburg a bunch of state troopers were turning the eastbound cars back. Beyond the roadblock only two lanes were open; the other two, and the four going west, were full of cars fleeing the contaminated zone. I pulled over, cleaned my blotchy face as best I could with a wet cloth, and got out. A trooper was directing U-turns at the head of a line of creeping cars. I walked up to him. “Excuse me, do you know how I can find out where somebody is?”

  The trooper turned, gray-faced with exhaustion. “You from Philadelphia?” I nodded. “I dunno, bud,” he replied—reminding me that I was still in my traveling costume of undrag. “In a coupla days they’ll know where everybody’s at, but it’s a madhouse back there right now, there’s eight million people they’re trying to evacuate. You had your radio on?”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “Maybe it’s too far to pick it up out here.” He took off his cap and rubbed his hand over his face. “Everybody that’s got someplace to go, that has a car, is supposed to go there. Relatives, whatever. That’s what all these people are doing. These are the ones from Lancaster and thereabouts—Philadelphia people were supposed to take the Northeast Extension or else head down into south Jersey or Delaware along with the Wilmington people. The ones that don’t have noplace to go, they’re all being sent to camps up in the Poconos or down around Baltimore. The Army’s bringing in tents and cots.”

  “For eight million people?”

  “Naaah, most of ‘em’ll have somebody they can stay with for a while. They figure a million and a half, two million, tops. Still a hell of a lot of campers. Who ya looking for?”

  “A student of mine, he was house-sitting for me.”

  “Local kid?”

  “I don’t know, actually.”

  The trooper looked
me over, red swollen eyes and rumpled, slept-in clothes, and drew his own conclusions but was too tired to care. “Probably went home to his folks if they don’t live around Philly. They’re telling everybody to call in with the info of where they’re at as soon as they get to wherever it is they’re going. There’s a phone number for every letter of the alphabet. A couple more days, if the kid does like he’s supposed to, you’ll be able to track him down.”

  “Sounds pretty well worked out,” I said vaguely. A couple of days, IF he was okay, and no way to find out if he wasn’t.

  “It’s a goddamn miracle is what it is,” said the trooper fervently. “That goddamn Congressman, Terry Carpenter, that son of a bitch was just waiting for something like this to happen, I swear to God, must of been. He had everything all thought out and ready to go. He commandeered the suburban trains in Philly, the busses, all the regular Amtrak trains and the freight trains too, that were anywheres around, and had ‘em all rolling within a couple hours of the accident, got the hospitals and so forth emptied out, and look at this here—” he waved at the six lanes of cars contracting into four, but moving along pretty well, at about forty “—it’s the same back in Philadelphia except at the ramps and like that.” The trooper put his cap back on. “I got to get back to work here. Don’t worry about your little pal, he’ll be okay. You got someplace to go? I can give you directions to a refugee camp.”

  “No thanks, I’m fine.” It was stupid to resent the trooper for what he was thinking but I did all the same.

  I edged my car into the stream of traffic being guided back the way it had come, but at the first exit slid out of formation and onto a little road that headed off into the mountains. I drove along for several miles, looking for a town with a phone; but when I finally found one, in front of a closed-up shop in a closed-up town, there was still no answer.