The Norma Gene

by M. E. Roufa

  So they totally didn’t expect it when Second Chance died of a stomach ailment not long after reaching his eighth birthday. He had never been ridden, never dandled a toddler between his horns, never posed with any famous nuns. He couldn’t be trusted. His owners insisted to the end that they had their bull back, that had he lived longer he would have shown his true personality. Or at least stopped maiming people. But it was not to be.

  This may have been the most dramatic proof that cloning a living thing was not the same as duplicating it outright. From C.C., the first cloned kitten, to little baby Miranda, clones were born and loved from their infancy with a passion that began diminishing with every passing year as the object necessarily bent under the weight of their parents’ unmet expectations. Where had their lost loved ones gone? Religious leaders saw this as irrefutable evidence of the human soul—the intangible part of a person that separated him or her from the lower beings. If the seat of the soul could not be found, they argued, then it was more evidence that humans were imbued with something intangible directly bestowed by God (conveniently turning a blind eye to any spiritual ramifications of why Rocky II didn’t enjoy being set loose in Rocky I’s favorite hamster ball). From the outset, people said they just wanted their guinea pigs (or terriers, or children) back, that they understood it wouldn’t be the same, that it would be enough just to hold the new creation. And after all the emotional and financial investment involved, they were understandably hesitant to admit any disappointment. So they easily saw parallels that didn’t really exist or that were universal across all species. “I still feel like we got 95% of Chance,” Second Chance’s owner told the press, after the second hospitalization. But even if that were true, that last five percent was crucial.

  When human cloning became a reality, researchers undertook massive studies, subjecting the first clones to a grueling course of mental testing that lasted through most of their lives (generally up to the point when their Alpha had died). Nothing ever came of it. If a clone carried any residual memories of their parent DNA, it was hidden very, very well. Even so, scientists who had insisted it would not be possible for a clone to carry even a hint of memory embedded within their genetic code back when human cloning looked like a political if not scientific impossibility, were now first in line for grant money trying to prove the opposite now that it had become a reality. It had become the Holy Grail of both the cloning and psychiatric industries.

  The hunt for a hidden memory bank wasn’t just out of compassion for the grieving people who comprised the majority of cloning’s customer base, though that was a part of it. It wasn’t just another middle finger salute to the Pope on behalf of the scientific community, though that was part of it too. The idea that somewhere locked within a human mind could lie the key to another human’s lifetime of experiences was just too irresistible to ignore. If a cloned woman could remember her predecessor’s life—even if she could only recreate her thought processes—it would mean a breakthrough in everything we understood about how the brain worked. More than that, it could mean a potentially earth-changing development in the advancement of thought itself. If scientists could find a way to clone Einstein or Hawking at the height of his powers, then somehow trigger those memories within a new person with the same remarkable native intelligence, it could promise answers to all of the questions those geniuses left unresolved. The mysteries locked inside people’s dying brains could be unraveled. Schubert’s Unfinished Symphony would decisively come to an end. Edwin Drood’s killer would be found. We would finally know just what the Mona Lisa thought was so funny.

  For someone who thought for a living, it would mean immortality.

  For Abraham Finkelstein, on the other hand, it meant someone was in for a heap of trouble.

  21

  Harold thumped Abe’s back, encouragingly. “You’ll be fine. Just think back to all those Douglass debates.”

  Abe smiled crookedly, annoyed. He wanted to choke the clonologist. It had started already. T-minus five minutes. They were standing in the newly christened “green room” (what was it with Harold and these extra layers of theatricality? Calling things what they were didn’t make artifice any less artful—or any more so. Especially not this particular artifice), which was actually the first of two connected rooms at the local Capitol Inn. Abe had hoped for something a little more dignified, or at least respectable, but Harold had vetoed him in favor of the slightly sordid but clearly patriotic Capitol. In all likelihood it was the best he could afford, though he wouldn’t admit that. There was a certain fitness to it, Abe decided. This dumpy motel was no more the Capitol than he was President Lincoln. Hopefully somebody out there would make that connection.

  Abe crumpled up his coffee cup, took aim at the trash can in the corner, running the commentary in his mind. “Finkelstein has the ball, two men on him, he breaks loose and goes for the three!!!” He looked both ways for imaginary guards, then hurled the soggy cup, missing by almost a yard. A brown dribble of humiliation leaked quietly into the faded carpet. Annoyed, he retrieved the cup and angrily lobbed it at the can from a foot away. He was already turned the other way when the cup bounced off the rim to land with a damp cardboard sigh on the carpet.

  “Are you sure you don’t want to wear the hat?” Harold asked. “The folks’ll eat that up!”

  “Yes I’m sure! Let it go already, I won’t do it!”

  “Hey, no biggie. It’s your party.”

  It’s my funeral, Abe thought, hearing his name—the Finkelstein part thrown away as inaudibly as possible—echoing across the front lawn.

  Abe wasn’t sure which assaulted him first—the glare of the klieg lights perched atop media vans, or the disorienting clickering of scores of cameras stopping and advancing, a spangled swarm of locusts all playing maracas. Harold had promised a giant turnout, but Abe thought it had been another example of the amazing smoke-blowing abilities of Harold’s ass, and in no way a real possibility. Sure, he’d expected some style section reporters, maybe the New York Times and NPR would show up. But this was the real thing. There were at least as many big TV logos out there as you’d see at presidential announcements—maybe not so many as during a sex scandal, but certainly more than you’d get for those run-of-the-mill fiscal crises. The mix of people was what intrigued him the most: odd groupings of television reporters, news service stringers, bloggers and school paper editors all thrown together on the hot macadam of the parking lot, all watching him with the same expectant look and many already taking notes. His eyes kept returning to one young reporter in a neon-yellow version of a conservative suit, standing off to the side whispering intriguingly into a microphone in Spanish. What could she possibly be doing here, he wondered. But then again, what were any of them doing here? Himself in particular.

  It was probably the wrong moment to start wishing he had dressed better, but steering his eyes down and away from the lights and the crowd, Abe accidentally got a clear look at his tie. He had successfully fought all of Harold’s insane Lincolnesque suggestions (particularly that ridiculous stovepipe hat), but in a moment of guilt, ended up pulling out a red, white and blue tie as a compromise. He had wondered why Harold never commented on his patriotism, but now his inadvertent self-inspection revealed to him what many of the gathered crowd had already scribbled into their electronic notepads: it was actually only a white and blue tie, with some of the white embellished in the darker red of either Merlot or marinara. Well, he tried. Or at least he had intended to try, which ought to be plenty.

  First Harold got up and said a few introductory words. How he was only the messenger bringing this tremendous historical miracle to the public’s eye, and what an honor it was just to be present as one of the crowd. In order to repress the urge to curl up in a fetal ball, Abe went back to studying his tie, sending his mind back through dates and restaurants to try to identify the source of the patriotic reds. Cabernet sauvignon? Fra diavolo? Could it be blood?

  Dr. Sanderson stepped up to the microphon
es next, giving a run-through of the facts of Abe’s case. DNA diagrams, height and weight comparisons, the illegal process by which the Finkelsteins had been able to obtain their son from collected upholstery fibers stolen from Ford’s Theater. From a scientific standpoint, this was fascinating stuff, but the audience was bored. Even the few science editors in attendance (most of the big media organizations had sent entertainment correspondents, some actually sent national news reporters) were fairly jaded; they had heard almost all of these facts before, years ago when it was new and fascinating, when the clones first started coming out. What was interesting about Abe’s case wasn’t that he had a case at all, it was Abe himself. Nobody cared about the strings of chromosomes. Not when they had the chance to meet him in person! But they all understood the role the scientist had to play; he was, in a sense, the carnival barker, pointing out the wonders they were about to witness. So they listened, half-heartedly, quarter-heartedly taking notes, until Dr. Sanderson’s presentation was through.

  It was blood, Abe remembered, and wine. He had been out with Sheila Fallon, they had gone back to her place, and he had tried to be suave with her antique corkscrew. In the act of opening the French wine she had brought out, had badly butchered his own hand and proceeded to go into just enough of a degree of hysterics over the amount of blood and possibility of needing stitches, to totally turn her off forever. No wonder he barely remembered the tie. He had shoved it way back in the rack for a reason. He studied his palm, looking for any hint of a scar. Any possible validation for his painful alienation of the beautiful Sheila. There was no sign of his ever having even been scratched. One of the tragedies of hypochondria is how little tangible evidence your suffering leaves behind. So the dark-red splotches carried a certain poignancy, Abe decided. Who knows—maybe Sheila would be watching this, wherever she was. Maybe she would see him with those bloodstains on his tie and feel sorry for him. Maybe all the girls who ever laughed at him would be watching and would see him with blood stains on his tie and finally realize—Oh my God, he thought, suddenly realizing how many people who knew him might possibly be watching—not to mention how many people who didn’t know him—What have I gotten myself into?

  Another slight push from behind, and Abe was at the rented podium in front of at least a half-dozen microphones, the smiling Harold hovering in the middle distance, trying to hide the worry-lines between his brows. Each interfering noise found its way to a stop like tumblers clicking into place, the camera shutters closed, the murmurs hushed. He was up, and everyone was waiting to hear what he had to say. No—much worse than that—waiting to hear what Abraham Lincoln had to say.

  It would be so easy to give them what they wanted, Abe realized uncomfortably. His years of holding classfuls of disdainful high schoolers’ attention had taught him that much. Just open with a joke, “Four score and seven years ago…” and they would be all his. Eating out of the palm of his pseudo-presidential hand. They would love him, he would fulfill the human side of their expectations without sacrificing the noble spirit of the original. He would be exactly what they wanted in an Abraham Lincoln. If Harold was right, he might even get rich. But he would never be free of them again.

  Abe opened his mouth, then shut it again. So easy. Sell your soul in exchange for a much worthier one. “Four score…”

  But he couldn’t do it. He licked his lips, tried to make eye contact with the cartoon alligator on the billboard across the street so as not to get tripped up by any of the expectant live people in front of him, and said what he was thinking.

  “Hi.”

  It wasn’t a great start, but at least it was folksy. Had he stopped talking there, he could have gone right back into the motel room and might still have won everyone over. But he kept talking. “My name is Abe Finkelstein. I’m a history teacher. A high school history teacher. I don’t know all that much more about Abraham Lincoln than you do. Possibly less than some of you. It’s not my fault I’m stuck in the body of a dead president. To be honest…” he could almost feel the audience leaning forward—was he going to make an “honest Abe” reference or joke? He was not. “I’m not really sure why I’m here. And I really don’t know what all of you people are doing here, either.” You people? Did he really just say, “You people?” From that point on, he had pretty much no chance of redeeming himself.

  Harold rocketed forward and tried to save him, his eyes searching the crowd for anyone sympathetic to make eye contact with. “What Abe means to say, is that while he realizes how important he is because of his heroic ancestor, he still wants to be appreciated for himself.” It wasn’t working. Nobody wanted to appreciate Abe for himself—“himself” being, apparently, a jerk. Abe could see a lot of hostile eyes dissecting him, and Harold’s glib spin control only made his own treason more evident. Well, at least speaking his mind now couldn’t make things any worse. He would try taking a positive angle.

  “Abraham Lincoln was a great president, a great man. But I’m not a great man. I’m just this guy who works in a high school. Or used to, anyway. Look, there are all sorts of great books out there about Lincoln you can read if you want. Or Calvin Coolidge. He was pretty interesting, too. ‘Silent’ Cal…” And just like that, he made it worse.

  There was a pause, as everyone silently rated him from 1 to 10 on a scale of how much they disliked him. Much too late, Abe smiled, hoping to defuse the tension. Again, Harold rushed in to try and save him. “Okay, folks, we’re all ready to answer some questions if you’ve got any.”

  So many voices called out at once that it was almost impossible to distinguish one from another. Abe wondered what the protocol was for dealing with these things. Was he supposed to call on people? Or just let the loudest guys win? He pointed to a woman with what looked like a kind face. “Yes?”

  “Mr. Finkelstein, have you ever had any flashbacks to your—Lincoln’s—time? Any sudden memories?” Kind face or not, her question was nevertheless the least-favorite, most-loathed, most-often-asked intrusion that had tormented clones’ existence since the very first clone had her very first therapy session. What was this woman, an idiot? Everyone knew that clones had no residual memories. They had known that since the very origins of cloning. Study after study had proven it. Did she think that somehow he would be different? Abe’s mind weighed three possible responses, two of which depended heavily on the word “moron.” He chose the third.

  “No.”

  It wasn’t an angry no, or a sarcastic one, merely a simple negative. But Abe leaned into the microphone a half-inch too far, and the word came out louder, sharper, ringing out with ear-spasming feedback. Even he was starting to hate himself. He twisted his mouth into a smile, trying to seem friendlier. “Don’t go away mad, just go away now,” was what his smile read. He gestured toward another less-threatening reporter.

  “Mr. Finkelstein, do you see any sorts of parallels or coincidences between your life and Abraham Lincoln’s?”

  Abe swallowed, leaned carefully into the mike. “Not really.”

  “Are you planning to grow a beard?”

  “Did you ever think about running for public office?”

  “Do you have any phobias about going to the theater, or are you okay if you just stick to the orchestra section?”

  “Ever do your homework on the back of a shovel?”

  “How about chopping down a cherry tree?”

  “That was George Washington!!!” Abe exploded. There was a ripple of laughter, immediately cut through by an unsettling voice from the back.

  “Mr. Lincoln, exactly how many of your friends are African-American?”

  “Wha—I don’t understand”

  “Well, you claim to be God’s gift to black people…”

  “I what???”

  “… Mr. Great White Hope, freeing the slaves and all that. You don’t know the first thing about black people!”

  “Me? I—I never said anything like that! Abraham Lincoln has nothing to do with me! For the last time, I’m just Abe F
inkelstein!”

  “That’s a Jewish name, isn’t it?”

  “What?!?!”

  However bad Abe had thought it would be, sitting and stewing on the motel bed just a half hour before, he had never dreamed it would be as awful as this. The heat from the klieg lights was starting to make his head swim. His stomach was hard at work making an ulcer out of the knowledge that whatever bad outcome came from this was all his own fault for agreeing to come out in the first place. And then it happened.

  “What do you have to say about the biographers who claim that Abe Lincoln was secretly homosexual?”

  “More power to him,” Abe responded.

  “So are you saying you’re gay?”

  “Is there a cloned Joshua Speed?”

  Immediately, a wave of indignation surged inside Abe. Not anger, not annoyance, but pure core-level shock, completely untempered and unstoppable.

  “Now look, I never had any sort of ignoble feelings for Joshua Speed! Joshua was my friend—nothing more. The amity between brothers is quite a natural thing, a show of unaffected love between men of similar sentiments and sensibilities. We were as David and Jonathan—no less, but no more. For God’s sake, he helped me with dear Mary when—Gentlemen, you are driving me to madness!”

  Almost at once, the words had started to flow out of Abe’s mouth in the powerful cadences of a born orator. If he had ever for a moment wanted the crowd’s attention, he had it now. Not a throat cleared, not an eyelid wavered. Where had that language come from? It was as if a secret key had suddenly turned in a locked box long hidden inside him. A stream of unconscious thoughts pouring out of him. No, he thought, not thoughts. Memories. For a heartbeat’s instant he could see Joshua, feel the warmth of his handclasp, his vague smell of raw tobacco and India ink. But how the hell did he know what India ink smelled like?