by Mary Carmen
This craft was filled with cargo, including some platinum from the Murphy warehouses. The other cabins were entirely filled, though, and I decided to join the other fourteen passengers for most meals.
The conversation around the dining table was congenial, even though several passengers did not speak English. The evenings were full of poker games and chess, and I found my skills rusty. For the first weeks I lost money, and for the last weeks I made that money back and somewhat more.
The Captain always sat with us at dinner, and he was full of stories about the early days of interstellar flight. Each five years of his career had seen more comfortable cabins and faster speeds. He looked no older than Franklin to me, but he assured me he had been a captain with that spaceline for over thirty years.
The passengers included two single women, each returning from a visit to Farnoll after working on other planets for several years. One of these women asked me to dance one evening, and we struck up a friendship. About once a week we spent an afternoon in bed, mostly laughing. After over thirty years with the beautiful Anna and thirty days with the skilled Melody, I was happy just to be able to perform with this woman. It was a pleasant memory from the trip and little more.
Arriving in Omaha
On March 2, 2110, the spacecraft landed at the country’s busiest spaceport, in Omaha.
For the last three weeks of the trip, I had set the gravity conditioning in my cabin to the pull of Earth, and I had set the oxygen mixture to that of about two thousand feet in altitude, an approximation of the mixture of Pennsylvania altitudes I expected to live in. When the craft landed, I was able to easily walk without stopping to catch my breath.
The passengers were directed into a lounge area, and I saw a black-suited man with a sign with my name written on it.
“Are you looking for Tony Waltrop?” I asked him
“Chauffeur for Mr. Anthony Waltrop,” he said. “Ordered months ago.”
This was the beginning of my long relationship with the Muzz Motor Company, an outfit of wizened middle-aged men who drove reliable, antique cars on American highways. Each one insisted I call him Muzz.
“Yes,” Muzz-the-Soprano said, “we took this order in July of last year. We have been paid, and vury well paid, to drive you around for twelve months. We have already been paid for hotels and meals on the road for you and for the driver. We understand you will decide during that time where to live. Are you going home now?”
“No,” I said. “A year of looking sounds about right.”
Muzz told me he could take me as far as Illinois. Another Muzz was waiting there.
We headed east, to the small town in Iowa where Len and four of my children rested. I wanted to see the place and take pictures so I would not forget it. I suspected I would not go that way again.
It took two days to drive to the town and about four hours to find the cemetery, but it was worth the time. Len clearly had planned the entire plot with the family in mind.
A small mausoleum stood in the center of a grassy section of about fifty feet by thirty feet. Over the door was the word Murphy, and on the locked steel door were brass plates with the names of Len, Louella, each of their sons, each of their daughters, and each of my four departed children. At the very bottom I found a brass plate with my own name and the date of 2040, the year of my birth.
Muzz and I walked to a small office near the entrance to the cemetery and asked for a key to the mausoleum. The caretaker told us only the owner could authorize the unlocking of the door. Muzz talked for twenty minutes about the fact that my own name was on the door, in waiting. I found a small American bill, and this immediately produced what a lot of arguing could not.
Inside we found space for about twenty adult coffins. Len’s coffin was at the rear of the enclosure, and the four small coffins were just above him, all together.
The fabulous etched glass used for my pool was here, too, above the stone walls and just under the roof. These pictures, clearly by the same artist, showed the famous Granite Wall and the Ice Steps from Octula and the front of the gymnasium at St. Paul’s School in Vermont. Also etched were the symbol of the Olympic Games, a likeness of the Observatory at the Anthony Waltrop Wing of the Anna Murphy House, and a sketch of a large house I could not identify. The afternoon light came in through the likeness of the Granite Wall and gave the interior a wonderful glow. I found the place quite touching and very beautiful.
“Never seen it before,” the caretaker said. “I lot of expense and nobody to see it.”
I took my pictures.
Visiting Caroline
Anna’s sister Caroline lived in Des Moines, and I wanted to see her before Muzz and I drove east.
According to the date on the door of the mausoleum, Caroline was born in 2051, six years before my Anna. I had never met her because she had never visited Octula, but I had her address in my computer. We had sent her cards and letters frequently, and I had sent her pictures of my wing as it progressed.
Anna had never given me any of the messages from Caroline, but I had not taken offense. Caroline probably had not had anything to say to me.
But I was determined to take pictures of this aunt my children had never met.
Muzz and I drove to Des Moines and found the address on his street locator in the old Lincoln he was driving. The street was lined with large mansions, each set back from the traffic and many enclosed in heavy metal fencing.
At last we found the address and saw the sign: “Murphy House.”
I stepped up to the announcement system at the gate and buzzed. “Mr. Anthony Waltrop for Miss Caroline Murphy,” I said.
“Drive in,” the soft voice replied.
Muzz and I drove about five hundred feet up a driveway. There was the large house etched in the mausoleum’s glass. In front of a large set of double doors a sturdy woman of about sixty, dressed in black, was waiting.
“Aunt Caroline?” I asked.
“No, Mr. Waltrop. Miss Caroline is inside. Will you come in?”
Muzz and I entered a large foyer and looked around. Staircases framed the room, and a large desk occupied the center. Behind the desk was a woman with a managerial manner.
“Will you sign our register? Mrs. Wilson will get your tea, and you can wash your hands in the room under the stairs,” the manager said.
In a few minutes we were seated in a tidy reception room with tea and cookies. Muzz took a few cookies and wandered off to look at the Audubon prints on the wall. The manager entered with a woman in a wheelchair.
“Miss Caroline, this is your brother-in-law, Tony,” the manager said. “You remember, Miss Anna’s new husband.”
Anna and I had been married thirty-two years before.
Caroline looked at me and smiled sweetly. She said nothing, not then and not later. She sat upright in the chair and looked as if she might contribute something to the conversation at any moment, but there was no recognition of me or, really, at the mention of Anna.
After about ten minutes of the dialogue between the manager and me, I showed Caroline pictures on my computer of Len, Louella, Anna, and my five children. I also had a picture with all Caroline’s brothers, taken on the day Anna distributed her audited balance sheet. Caroline continued to smile.
Mrs. Wilson joined the group and, a few minutes later after I had taken pictures of everybody, wheeled Caroline away.
As they left the manager asked, “Did you find her looking well?”
“What is her prognosis?” I replied.
The manager sighed. “There has been no change in over twenty years. Every day is the same. She eats well, but she never speaks. She is no trouble, unlike most of the other residents.”
“How many people are here?” I wondered.
“Mr. Murphy built this place in 2076 for thirty residents, and we are always full. Most of them can pay something, but Mr. Murphy would not allow us to turn anybody out. Mrs. Waltrop is just the same. She pays for about seventy-five percent of the costs of
this place. We do not resuscitate and we rarely pay for surgery, but our people seem to live until their seventies anyway.”
“Thank you for your hospitality,” I said. “I will have pictures to show my children of their aunt, her comfortable home, and her good friends.”
To the Bank
Muzz and I spent that night in Des Moines and headed east in the morning. The highway was filled with snow, and I watched as Muzz expertly put chains on the rear tires.
“Nothing else to be done,” he said. “Iowa in March is vury unpredictable. Illinois will be better, so close to the Great Lake.”
We reached the Illinois border just after lunch, and the snow had almost entirely melted there. Muzz had removed the chains at midmorning, and I enjoyed the quiet ride through the farmlands.
Just inside the Illinois border I decided to have a look at the lake. Muzz drove north until the highway ran out.
“Just the tops of the buildings, now. There’s the Sears Tower,” he said, pointing to a short series of iron spikes about a mile off the shore.
We drove south to Peoria, where the new Muzz, Muzz-the-Greybeard, waited for his turn. I shook the hand of Muzz-the-Soprano and thanked him for all his kindness, pressing a bill into his hand.
“No, none of that, now. We have been vury, vury well paid, and Muzz said we ain’t allowed to take nothing more.”
We transferred the suitcases and the bags, now encased in carryalls from the spaceline, into an old Cadillac. I held onto my briefcase with my pictures and my computer.
Soon we were headed east again, and we stopped for the night after just one hundred miles. In March there were plenty of empty hotels advertising along the highway for our business.
After two more days, we were in Pennsylvania, just north of Pittsburgh. I told Muzz the address of my bank, and we followed the Cadillac’s directional system for about an hour until we were there.
I had never before been inside this bank. The think tank that had sent me to Octula had set up an account for me there, and I had transferred all my cash to the bank after I reached Octula.
The main floor was essentially empty, and the woman on the platform was speaking on the videophone. I waited.
When she was free to see me, I spoke to her.
“I want to see someone about my account and about opening a checking account,” I said.
“Oh, yes. Sit here. Do you have your account number?”
I opened my briefcase and took out my papers. These were payroll deposit slips sent from the think tank to my electronic address on Octula. They started in July of 2077 when I left for Octula and they ended in 2105 when Anna and I retired. I had not seen a bank statement during that time, but I had an idea of the balance.
“Marty, bring the coffee service,” the woman shouted to a young man at a teller’s window.
She printed out a summary statement for me and handed it across the desk for my review.
The state statement showed about thirty percent more than I had been expecting. It showed the deposit of Anna’s large check from Len’s estate, and it showed a huge figure for accumulated growth.
“When the amount in the account exceeded thirty thousand dollars,” the woman told me, “we started to move it into Universal Gold. Since 2080 Universal Gold has been very strong against the dollar. Of course, now that you are back, you may direct us to manage your funds differently.”
I was stunned. I knew half my salary was going into this account every month, but I had never expected it to amount to this immense figure.
I finally spoke. “I think I would like you to continue to manage my funds. I will need monthly withdrawals, of course.”
“Let me print up your retirement account, too,” the woman said. “Your employer transferred all its retirement accounts to our bank just after 2100.”
“Retirement account?” I asked.
“Yes, it appears it was part of a workers’ contract settlement in 2083. The hourly people negotiated what they wanted and the employer gave the same deal to the professionals, including those at work in other locations,” she said, rather offhandedly. “You can withdraw each month from that, now that you are over seventy, without any penalty.”
“I will need to think all this over,” I told her as I reviewed the retirement statement.
“Of course. In the meanwhile, I will set up the checking account. You can wire money or just charge to your credit cards. For those rare transactions where a check is needed, I will give you ten personalized checks now. That will probably last you several years.”
The manager, Ms. Turner, poured coffee from a silver urn, and we drank from Belleek china cups. She quickly handed me my checks, with the bank’s address showing as my home.
“We will start to send statements, if you prefer, or you can just come in here,” she said. “Are you’ns resettling in Pittsburgh?”
I told her I was not yet able to provide a permanent address and that I would come into the bank when I needed to see a statement.
Thinking Things Over
Muzz and I found a hotel near Turtle Creek. I told him I wanted some time to review the bank statements, and he told me to call him when I was ready to go out.
It took me five days before I had my thoughts together. I sat in the hotel room and ran the numbers for several options, calling the restaurant next door for my meals.
Finally I had decided what to do, based on these priorities:
· The care of my parents. They were both over ninety, if, in fact, they were still alive.
· Support for my only minor child, Harrison.
· A modest income for myself that I could not outlive.
· A home with a large plot of land for each of my children.
All this was based on being able to occupy my own home in Pittsburgh. I realized I needed to find out its status.
I called Muzz and we made plans to drive to my house on the next Sunday.
Maude Speaks
Muzz and I drove up to my house just after noon on Sunday, March 16, 2110.
The house was nearly unrecognizable. The large garage had disappeared, to be replaced with some kind of a living space, and the house in the back yard had been moved closer to the main house. The name on the mailbox was Maude’s family name.
“What me to come along?” Muzz asked. “Can’t hurt.”
I saw him finger his firearm through his coat.
“Just to the door,” I said. “We’ll see who answers.”
We walked the short distance from the street to the door. For a few seconds, no one answered the ring. Then, Maude appeared.
She was, of course, just my age, but she looked very worn. Her hair was unkempt and her clothes were faded.
“Yes?” she asked.
“Maude, it is Tony,” I began. “I would like to talk to you.”
“Tony! Get off my property! I will have nothing to do with you!” she shouted.
Muzz started to pat his firearm under his coat. I motioned him away.
“Maude, this is my house,” I said, trying to maintain a calm voice. “I have returned from Octula and need to reclaim it.”
“Go to hell! The first thing I did with that power of attorney was to put this house in my own name. It is mine,” she hissed.
“We shall see,” I said. “And what about my children? Where are they?”
Maude continued to stand coatless at the door on a cold March day. Muzz was restless after hearing all this private information about his fare, and he started to kick halfheartedly at the porch railing.
“Why do you care?” she snapped. “You never cared before.”
“I sent you one half of every dollar I earned,” I argued. “I expected that money to go toward the care and education of my children.”
“Every cent you sent and nearly every cent I earned went toward the care and education of my children,” she said, stabbing a finger at me with every word. “Oh, you can contact them, but they will spit in your damned face.”
I drew out a notebook from my coat and asked for the addresses.
“Kenny?”
“You won’t get the addresses from me. I’ll give you telephone numbers, and they can block your calls if they want,” she said.