Dark Matter

by Sheree R. Thomas

“Henry’s marster shuck his head en knock de ashes off’n his seegyar.

  “ ‘ ’Spec’ I made a bad bahgin when I bought dat nigger. Henry done good wuk all de summer, but sence de fall set in he ’pears ter be sorter pinin’ away. Dey ain’ nuffin pertickler de matter wid ’im—leastways de doctor say so—’cep’n’ a tech er de rheumatiz; but his ha’r is all fell out, en ef he don’t pick up his strenk mighty soon. I spec’ I’m gwine ter lose ’im.’

  “Dey smoked on awhile, en bimeby ole mars say. ‘Well, a bahgin’s a bahgin, but you en me is good fren’s, en I doan wan’ ter see you lose all de money you paid fer dat nigger; en if w’at you say is so, en I ain’t ’sputin’ it, he ain’t wuf much now. I ’spec’s you wukked him too he’d dis summer, er e’se de swamps down here don’t agree wid de san’-hill nigger. So you des lemme know, en ef he gits any wusser I’ll be willin’ ter gib yer five hund’ed dollars fer ’im, en take m’ chances on his livin’.’

  “Sho ’nuff, when Henry begun ter draw up wid de rheumatiz en it look like he gwine ter die fer sho, his noo marster sen’ fer Mars Dugal’, en Mars Dugal’ gin him what he promus, en brung Henry home ag’in. He tuk good keer uv ’im dyoin’ er de winter—give ’im w’iskey ter rub his rheumatiz, en terbacker ter smoke, en all he want ter eat—caze a nigger w’at he could make a thousan’ dollars a year off’n didn’ grow on eve’y huckleberry bush.

  “Nex’ spring, w’en de sap ris en Henry’s ha’r commence’ ter sprout, Mars Dugal’ sole ’im ag’in, down in Robeson County dis time; en he kep’ dat sellin’ business up fer five year er mo’. Henry nebber say nuffin ’bout de goopher ter his noo marsters, ’caze he know he gwine ter be tuk good keer uv de nex’ winter, w’en Mars Dugal’ buy him back. En Mars Dugal’ made ’nuff money off’n Henry ter buy anudder plantation ober on Beaver Crick.

  “But ’long ’bout de een’ er dat five year dey come a stranger ter stop at de plantation. De fus’ day he ’uz dere he went out wid Mars Dugal’ en spent all de mawnin’ lookin’ ober de vimya’d, en atter dinner dey spent all de evenin’ playin’ kya’ds. De niggers soon ’skiver’ dat he wuz a Yankee, en dat he come down ter Norf C’lina fer ter l’arn de w’ite folks how to raise grapes en make wine. He promus Mars Dugal’ he c’d make de grapevimes b’ar twice’t ez many grapes, en dat de noo winepress he wuz a-sellin’ would make mo’d’n twice’t ez many gallons er wine. En ole Mars Dugal’ des drunk it all in, des ’peared ter be bewitch’ wid dat Yankee. W’en de darkies see dat Yankee runnin’ ’roun’ de vimya’d en diggin’ under de grapevimes, dey shuk dere heads, en ’lowed dat dey feared Mars Dugal’ losin’ his min’. Mars Dugal’ had all de dirt dug away fum under de roots er all de scuppernon’ vimes, an’ let ’em stan’ dat away fer a week er mo’. Den dat Yankee made de niggers fix up a mixtry er lime en ashes en manyo, en po’ it ’roun’ de roots er de grapevimes. Den he ’vise Mars Dugal’ fer ter trim de vimes close’t, en Mars Dugal’ tuck ’n done eve’ything de Yankee tole him ter do. Dyoin’ all er dis time, mind yer, dis yer Yankee wuz libbin’ off’n de fat er de lan’, at de big house, en playin’ kya’ds wid Mars Dugal’ eve’y night; en dey say Mars Dugal’ los’ mo’n a thousan’ dollars dyoin’ er de week dat Yankee wuz a-ruinin’ de grapevimes.

  “W’en de sap ris nex’ spring, ole Henry ’n’inted his head ez yuzhal, en his ha’r ’mence’ ter grow des de same ez it done eve’y year. De scuppernon’ vimes growed monst’s fas’, en de leaves wuz greener en thicker den dey eber be’n dyoin’ my rememb’ance; en Henry’s ha’r growed out thicker den eber, en he ’peared ter git younger ’n younger, en soopler ’n soopler; en seein’ ez he wuz sho’t er han’s dat spring, havin’ tuk in consid’able noo groun’, Mars Dugal’ ’cluded he wouldn’ sell Henry ’tel he git de crap in en de cotton chop’. So he kep’ Henry on de plantation.

  “But ’long ’bout time fer de grapes ter come on de scuppernon’ vimes, dey ’peared ter come a change ober ’em; de leaves withered en swivel’ up, en de young grapes turn’ yaller, en bimeby eve’ybody on de plantation could see dat de whole vimya’d wuz dyin’. Mars Dugal’ tuk’n water de vimes en done all he could, but ’t wa’n’ no use: dat Yankee had done bus’ de watermillyum. One time de vimes picked up a bit, en Mars Dugal’ ’lowed dey wuz gwine ter come out ag’in; but dat Yankee done dug too close under de roots, en prune de branches too close ter de vime, en all dat lime en ashes done burn’ de life out’n de vimes, en dey des kep’ a-with’in’ en a-swivelin’.

  “All dis time de goopher wuz a wukkin’. When de vimes sta’ted ter wither, Henry ’mence’ ter complain er his rheumatiz; en when de leaves begin ter dry up, his ha’r’mence’ ter drap out. When de vimes fresh’ up a bit, Henry’d git peart ag’in, en when de vimes wither’ ag’in, Henry’d git ole ag’in, en des kep’ gittin’ mo’ en mo’ fitten fer nuffin; he des pined away, en pined away, en fine’ly tuk ter his cabin; en when de big vime whar he got de sap ter ’n’int his head withered en turned yaller en died, Henry died too—des went out sorter like a cannel. Dey didn’t ’pear ter be nuffin de matter wid ’im, ’cep’n’ de rheumatiz, but his strenk des dwinel’ away ’tel he didn’ hab ernuff lef’ ter draw his bref. De goopher had got de under bolt, en th’owed Henry dat time fer good en all.

  “Mars Dugal’ tuk on might’ly ’bout losin’ his vimes en his nigger in de same year; en he swo’ dat ef he could git holt er dat Yankee he’d wear ’im ter a frazzle, en den chaw up de frazzle; en he’d done it, too, for Mars Dugal’ ’uz a monst’us brash man w’en he once git started. He sot de vimya’d out ober ag’in, but it wuz th’ee er fo’ year befo’ de vimes got ter b’arin’ any scuppernon’s.

  “W’en de wah broke out, Mars Dugal’ raise’ a comp’ny, en went off ter fight de Yankees. He say he wuz mighty glad dat wah come, en he des want ter kill a Yankee fer eve’y dollar he los’ ’long er dat grape-raisin’ Yankee. En I ’spec’ he would ’a’ done it, too, ef de Yankees hadn’ s’picioned sump’n en killed him fus’. Atter de s’render ole miss move’ ter town, de niggers all scattered ’way fum de plantation, en de vimya’d ain’ be’n cultervated sence.”

  “Is that story true?” asked Annie doubtfully, but seriously, as the old man concluded his narrative.

  “It’s des ez tru ez I’m a-settin’ here, miss. Dey’s a easy way ter prove it: I kin lead de way right ter Henry’s grave ober yander in de plantation buryin’ groun’. En I tell yer w’at, marster, wouldn’ ’vise you to buy dis yer ole vimya’d, ’caze de goopher’s on it yit, en dey ain’ no tellin’ w’en it’s gwine ter crap out.”

  “But I thought you said all the old vines died.”

  “Dey did ’pear ter die, but a few un ’em come out ag’in, en is mixed in ’mongs’ de yuthers. Ain’ skeered ter eat de grapes, ’caze I knows de old vimes fum de noo ones; but wid strangers de ain’ no tellin’ w’at mought happer. I wouldn’ ’vise yer ter buy dis vimya’d.”

  I bought the vineyard, nevertherless, and it has been for a long time in a thriving condition, and is often referred to by the local press as a striking illustration of the opportunities open to Northern capital in the development of Southern industries. The luscious scuppernong holds first rank among our grapes, though we cultivate a great many other varieties, and our income from grapes packed and shipped to the Northern markets is quite considerable. I have not noticed any developments of the goopher in the vineyard, although I have a mild suspicion that our colored assistants do not suffer from want of grapes during the season.

  I found, when I bought the vineyard, that Uncle Julius had occupied a cabin on the place for many years, and derived a respectable revenue from the product of the neglected grapevines. This, doubtless, accounted for his advice to me not to buy the vineyard, though whether it inspired the goopher story I am unable to state. I believe, however, that the wages I paid him for his services as coachman, for I gave him employment in that capacity, were more than an equivalent for anything he lost by the sale of the vineyard.

  THE EVENING AND
THE MORNING AND THE NIGHT

  Octavia E. Butler

  (1987)

  When I was fifteen and trying to show my independence by getting careless with my diet, my parents took me to a Duryea-Gode disease ward. They wanted me to see, they said, where I was headed if I wasn’t careful. In fact, it was where I was headed no matter what. It was only a matter of when: now or later. My parents were putting in their vote for later.

  I won’t describe the ward. It’s enough to say that when they brought me home, I cut my wrists. I did a thorough job of it, old Roman style in a bathtub of warm water. Almost made it. My father dislocated his shoulder breaking down the bathroom door. He and I never forgave each other for that day.

  The disease got him almost three years later—just before I went off to college. It was sudden. It doesn’t happen that way often. Most people notice themselves beginning to drift—or their relatives notice—and they make arrangements with their chosen Institution. People who are noticed and who resist going in can be locked up for a week’s observation. I don’t doubt that that observation period breaks up a few families. Sending someone away for what turns out to be a false alarm.… Well, it isn’t the sort of thing the victim is likely to forgive or forget. On the other hand, not sending someone away in time—missing the signs or having a person go off suddenly without signs—is inevitably dangerous for the victim. I’ve never heard of it going as badly, though, as it did in my family. People normally injure only themselves when their time comes—unless someone is stupid enough to try to handle them without the necessary or restraints.

  My father had killed my mother, then killed himself. I wasn’t home when it happened. I had stayed at school later than usual, rehearsing graduation exercises. By the time I got home, there were cops everywhere. There was an ambulance, and two attendants were wheeling someone out on a stretcher—someone covered. More than covered. Almost… bagged.

  The cops wouldn’t let me in. I didn’t find out until later exactly what had happened. I wish I’d never found out. Dad had killed Mom, then skinned her completely. At least that’s how I hope it happened. I mean I hope he killed her first. He broke some of her ribs, damaged her heart. Digging.

  Then he began tearing at himself, through skin and bone, digging. He had managed to reach his own heart before he died. It was an especially bad example of the kind of thing that makes people afraid of us. It gets some of us into trouble for picking at a pimple or even for daydreaming. It has inspired restrictive laws, created problems with jobs, housing, schools.… The Duryea-Gode Disease Foundation has spent millions telling the world that people like my father don’t exist.

  A long time later, when I had gotten myself together as best I could, I went to college—to the University of Southern California—on a Dilg scholarship. Dilg is the retreat you try to send your out-of-control DGD relatives to. It’s run by controlled DGDs like me, like my parents while they lived. God knows how any controlled DGD stands it. Anyway, the place has a waiting list miles long. My parents put me on it after my suicide attempt, but chances were, I’d be dead by the time my name came up.

  I can’t say why I went to college—except that I had been going to school all my life and didn’t know what else to do. I didn’t go with any particular hope. Hell, I knew what I was in for eventually. I was just marking time. Whatever I did was just marking time. If people were willing to pay me to go to school and mark time, why not do it?

  The weird part was, I worked hard, got top grades. If you work hard enough at something that doesn’t matter, you can forget for a while about the things that do.

  Sometimes I thought about trying suicide again. How was it I’d had the courage when I was fifteen but didn’t have it now? Two DGD parents—both religious, both as opposed to abortion as they were to suicide. So they had trusted God and the promise of modern medicine and had a child. But how could I look at what had happened to them and trust anything?

  I majored in biology. Non-DGDs say something about our disease makes us good at the sciences—genetics, molecular biology, biochemistry.… That something was terror. Terror and a kind of driving hopelessness. Some of us went bad and became destructive before we had to—yes, we did produce more than our share of criminals. And some of us went good—spectacularly—and made scientific and medical history. These last kept the doors at least partly open for the rest of us. They made discoveries in genetics, found cures for a couple of rare diseases, made advances against other diseases that weren’t so rare—including, ironically, some forms of cancer. But they’d found nothing to help themselves. There had been nothing since the latest improvements in the diet, and those came just before I was born. They, like the original diet, gave more DGDs the courage to have children. They were supposed to do for DGDs what insulin had done for diabetics—give us a normal or nearly normal life span. Maybe they had worked that way for someone somewhere. They hadn’t worked that way for anyone I knew.

  School was a pain in the usual ways. I didn’t eat in public anymore, didn’t like the way people stared at my biscuits—cleverly dubbed “dog bicuits” in every school I’d ever attended. You’d think university students would be more creative. I didn’t like the way people edged away from me when they caught sight of my emblem. I’d begun wearing it on a chain around my neck and putting it down inside my blouse, but people managed to notice it anyway. People who don’t eat in public, who drink nothing more interesting than water, who smoke nothing at all—people like that are suspicious. Or rather, they make others suspicious. Sooner or later, one of those others, finding my fingers and wrists bare, would fake an interest in my chain. That would be that. I couldn’t hide the emblem in my purse. If anything happened to me, medical people had to see it in time to avoid giving me the medications they might use on a normal person. It isn’t just ordinary food we have to avoid, but about a quarter of a Physicians’ Desk Reference of widely used drugs. Every now and then there are news stories about people who stopped carrying their emblems—probably trying to pass as normal. Then they have an accident. By the time anyone realizes there is anything wrong, it’s too late. So I wore my emblem. And one way or another, people got a look at it or got the word from someone who had. “She is!” Yeah.

  At the beginning of my third year, four other DGDs and I decided to rent a house together. We’d all had enough of being lepers twenty-four hours a day. There was an English major. He wanted to be a writer and tell our story from the inside—which had only been done thirty or forty times before. There was a special-education major who hoped the handicapped would accept her more readily than the able-bodied, a premed who planned to go into research, and a chemistry major who didn’t really know what she wanted to do.

  Two men and three women. All we had in common was our disease, plus a weird combination of stubborn intensity about whatever we happened to be doing and hopeless cynicism about everything else. Healthy people say no one can concentrate like a DGD. Healthy people have all the time in the world for stupid generalizations and short attention spans.

  We did our work, came up for air now and then, ate our biscuits, and attended classes. Our only problem was housecleaning. We worked out a schedule of who would clean what when, who would deal with the yard, whatever. We all agreed on it; then, except for me, everyone seemed to forget about it.

  I found myself going around reminding people to vacuum, clean the bathroom, mow the lawn.… I figured they’d all hate me in no time, but I wasn’t going to be their maid, and I wasn’t going to live in filth. Nobody complained. Nobody even seemed annoyed. They just came up out of their academic daze, cleaned, mopped, mowed, and went back to it. I got into the habit of running around in the evening reminding people. It didn’t bother me if it didn’t bother them.

  “How’d you get to be housemother?” a visiting DGD asked.

  I shrugged. “Who cares? The house works.” It did. It worked so well that this new guy wanted to move in. He was a friend of one of the others, and another premed. Not bad look
ing.

  “So do I get in or don’t I?” he asked.

  “As far as I’m concerned, you do,” I said. I did what his friend should have done—introduced him around, then, after he left, talked to the others to make sure nobody had any real objections. He seemed to fit right in. He forgot to clean the toilet or mow the lawn, just like the others. His name was Alan Chi. I thought Chi was a Chinese name, and I wondered. But he told me his father was Nigerian and that in Ibo the word meant a kind of guardian angel or personal God. He said his own personal God hadn’t been looking our for him very well to let him be born to two DGD parents. Him too.

  I don’t think it was much more than that similarity that drew us together at first. Sure, I liked the way he looked, but I was used to liking someone’s looks and having him run like hell when he found out what I was. It took me a while to get used to the fact that Alan wasn’t going anywhere.

  I told him about my visit to the DGD ward when I was fifteen—and my suicide attempt afterward. I had never told anyone else. I was surprised at how relieved it made me feel to tell him. And somehow his reaction didn’t surprise me.

  “Why didn’t you try again?” he asked. We were alone in the living room.

  “At first, because of my parents,” I said. “My father in particular. I couldn’t do that to him again.”

  “And after him?”

  “Fear. Inertia.”

  He nodded. “When I do it, there’ll be no half measures. No being rescued, no waking up in a hospital later.”

  “You mean to do it?”

  “The day I realize I’ve started to drift. Thank God we get some warning.”

  “Not necessarily.”

  “Yes, we do. I’ve done a lot of reading. Even talked to a couple of doctors. Don’t believe the rumors non-DGDs invent.”

  I looked away, stared into the scarred, empty fireplace. I told him exactly how my father had died—something else I’d never voluntarily told anyone.