Hadrian's Lover

by Patricia-Marie Budd

  “Don’t you worry about anything, Mr. Hunter. Mama Elena taught me how to bake. I can handle this. Now, where is your recipe?” As her voice fades, Dean groans in disappointment. He had wanted to do all this for Todd, had it all planned out, and then that girl had to show up. No, it’s not her fault, he tries to remind himself, stop blaming women. But he can’t stop himself, and even though he is aware of the unjust nature of his thoughts, he continues to berate Crystal Albright for her presence.

  * * * * *

  After dinner, Todd slips away from the festivities to visit Papa Dean in the master bedroom. Although surprised to see Dean looking quite healthy, Todd believed Crystal when she said he was really ill. He had thrown up in the kitchen sink, she said. Besides, Papa Dean would never abandon him. “Hey, Papa Dean, how are you feeling?”

  Dean sits upright on the bed. Blinking his left eye, Dean turns off the news wave he was watching through his vocal contact lens, colloquially referred to as “the voc.” The voc was the last of the new technology to enter Hadrian pre-6-13: phone, video, game console, timekeeper, camera, and wave link (with holographic screen and keyboard all in one). Microscopic solar batteries combined with the salt water of the eye help to keep the vocal lens charged. Coupled with a tactic tattoo or ear jewelry installed with microphone and speakers, the individual is constantly connected with Hadrian’s information wave. “I’m feeling a lot better, son. I’m so sorry I’m missing your party.” Concerned that Crystal might have botched Todd’s dinner and the cake, he asks, “Did everything taste all right?”

  “O, wow, Papa Dean; that supper was amazing.” Todd’s smile fans Dean’s heart. “Crystal said you had everything ready and that all she had to do was pop the buns in the oven. That beef stew was really something else. What were those big doughy things in it?”

  “Those are called dumplings. My papa…” Dean pauses momentarily, feeling the loss of dear family connections before continuing, “used to make them for me all the time.”

  “They were delicious.” Todd sits down beside Papa Dean. Dean reaches forward and rubs the back of Todd’s new shirt. It is made of thick hemp, a plant grown in Hadrian, so a common fabric, and dyed dark beige with a green foliage pattern (all dyes made by Dean using plants from his garden). “This shirt is really nice, Papa Dean. Thank you so much. Where did you get it?”

  “I bought the fabric and designed the pattern myself. I chose to handsew. I thought that would make it more personal.”

  “Wow!” Todd looks down at his shirt with new eyes, filled with admiration. “You handsewed this?”

  Dean smiles. “Designed the pattern myself.” Musing, he adds, “I sewed one for Frank’s birthday last month, but he’s never worn it. Isn’t flashy enough for him, I guess.”

  “Well, then Frank’s just stupid. I think this shirt is amazing!”

  The shirt is simple in its construction. The collar is only one-inch wide and is double the thickness of the rest of the shirt. The front panels, where the buttons and buttonholes go, are also double thickness and folded identically to the collar, as are the cuffs. Dean would have liked to create two buttonholes for cuff links, but Geoffrey advised him to go with buttons. “There is no point giving the boy what he can’t afford, and you always go overboard for his birthdays,” Geoffrey had remonstrated with Dean quite sternly. “How do you think Mike feels when Todd comes home bearing your expensive gifts—things he can never afford to buy the boy?”

  “If Mike paid more attention to his son, I’d care,” Dean answered back.

  To which Geoffrey reminded Dean, “Todd is not your son, and you have to trust that Mike Fulton is taking care of him.”

  But he’s not taking good care of him! Dean wants to yell back at Geoffrey when he suddenly realizes he is not arguing with his husband but sitting in his bedroom talking with Todd. It is amazing how powerful some memories can be, creating their presence so strongly in the moment.

  Todd, sensing Papa Dean’s distress, reaches forward to wrap his arms around the man’s neck. “I love the shirt. Thank you so much, Papa Dean.”

  Still hugging Todd, Dean asks, “Is your friend still here?”

  “Crystal? No. She had to go home.”

  “I’m sorry she left so early,” Dean lies while smiling freely. “You know I am feeling a little better. Would you mind if I rejoined the party? I’d like to taste some of that cake I had hoped to make for you.”

  “Crystal did a really good job!” Todd doesn’t realize how much his words hurt Dean.

  Swallowing his disappointment, Dean determines to sound chipper, so he claps his hands together and declares, “Well, then I better taste it to make sure it really is good.” Winking, he adds, “It’s not like we get chocolate every day.”

  Todd winces. “Mr. Hunter wasn’t too happy when he saw that cake.”

  Dean laughs. “I didn’t think he would be. The chocolate I purchased was contraband. But today is your birthday so he simply has to endure it.”

  “You shouldn’t get yourself into trouble for me, Papa Dean.”

  Dean gets up and Todd follows him to the door. “I can handle Geoffrey. Let’s you and I go join the rest.”

  As they walk down the hall, Todd proposes, “Hey, Papa Dean, how about when I become a bioengineer like my dad, I genetically alter the cocoa bean so we can grow it up here?”

  Dean wraps an arm around Todd’s shoulder. “That’s a wonderful idea, Todd. Best I’ve heard in years. Until then, though, let’s go enjoy what’s left of your illicit birthday cake.”

  * * * * *

  Salve!

  Extreme Weather

  HNN—Melissa Eagleton Reporting

  The legacy our forefathers have left us is never more prevalent than in days like this one. We all know of the changes to the earth’s weather systems as a result of global warming. We live in what used to be a thick boreal forest that is now more grassland. We live near what used to be tundra, now mostly boreal forest. Hudson Bay was once the world’s largest inland body of salt water—no more. As well as having to live with radical changes to earth’s bio-system, we also have to contend with the excesses of extreme weather. Without warning, the weather will change and, suddenly, we find ourselves swamped by torrential rainstorms or tornadoes descending where least expected. Worse yet are the super cell thunderstorms that used to show up only over locations much further south such as Montana in what used to be the United States of America, now a smattering of smaller countries, much like our own old Canada. What we are experiencing right now, over both southern quadrants and all of Antinous, is equivalent to the kinds of storms that used to hit desert regions in the rainy season. Meteorologists suggest that the rains pounding down on us will last for weeks. Tighten your belts, Hadrians, as very little yield is likely to come from this year’s crops. Already, city dwellers are complaining of having lost the bulk of their precious topsoil, and farmers are looking out, not onto the fields they have planted (if indeed they have planted any seed at all!), but at lakes! The question that sits in everyone’s mind right now is whether, after the rains finally stop and all the drainage has occurred, there will be enough time, and top soil, left for planting, growing, and harvest. I do hope you have taken precautions over the years and have extra preserves from last year’s growth since it is very likely our grocery stores will suffer a shortage of fresh fruit, grains, and vegetables this year! Remember, we do not bring in the same level of import as we have in the past. When a rough year hits Hadrian, we must all be prepared to ride out the worst of it. If your stores are low, do not be proud; speak to your neighbors. I am certain many a prudent man or woman has extra rations and will be more than willing to share.

  Vale!

  Spring Fever

  As it nears the end of May, planting season is quickly passing. Numerous rainsqualls attacking Antinous in the past couple of weeks have aborted all of Dean’s early attempts to get his garden in order. According to Melissa Eagleton’s report on Salve!, there is very little cha
nce of the rains letting up any time soon. The loss of this year’s garden is too much for Dean, and his sigh is both weary and discordant. The Hunter family garden is his pride and joy. Every year during the spring and summer months, he spends hours each day planting, weeding, trimming, pruning, and ensuring that the finest fruits, berries, and vegetables grow in the sprawling ledges of their backyard. It is a garden to please the eye as well as provide sustenance. The top three tiers are Dean’s flower and herb gardens, each with at least two fruit or berry trees: apples, pears, and Saskatoon berries and choke cherries. Cutting through the garden’s center is a path that helps Dean navigate up and down the various tiers. As one descends closer to the riverbed, Dean has one tier for sweet corn, another for a wide variety of vegetables including tomatoes, potatoes, beets, peas, carrots, cucumbers, onions, radishes, green and yellow beans, broccoli, lettuce, cabbage, and asparagus. The last tier is split with one side strictly for raspberries while the other half is divided between strawberries and blueberries. Dean is careful to keep the berries covered with cheesecloth so the birds cannot consume his crop. Interspersed throughout are the fallow tiers in which Dean alternates his vegetable and corn gardens. These tiers are kept well weeded so the soil can replenish and be used for compost storage. To keep these areas out of sight for visitors, Dean constructed temporary partitions to surround the unused areas. Geoffrey surprised Dean one year by commissioning an artist to paint images of the flowers and plants Dean most loves to cultivate on each of his partitions. This gift was given the first year after Dean’s garden won Hadrian’s Home Garden Award. Dean has garnered this award six times over the past ten years; the last three years consecutively.

  This year is different, though. Dean isn’t thinking about winning any awards, or trying to grow a new crop. Nor has he begun his annual ritual of digging his hands into the earth, spreading manure and compost, lovingly planting seedlings, carefully thinning and weeding. Instead, Dean has been holed up inside the house, watching the rain fall—too much rain. Not enough dry time has passed in between the rain for him to work the dirt, which, rather than being in soft beds, is now in thick muddy pools.

  Seated on the cushioned bench inside the bay windows, Dean stares morosely at the rain pounding down on his backyard. Gardening is his lifeboat, a ritual routine that keeps his mind from focusing on harsh memories—memories that recur every spring—always beginning on the Ides of March. “Et tu, Brute?” he mutters. Tears roll down his cheeks.

  This depression has been creeping up on Dean for over two months. Success at keeping it hidden and at bay was destroyed when the rains came. Prior to the steady downpour, Dean was keeping his mind focused on planning out the garden, getting seedlings ready, and cleaning out his garden shed. But the rainstorms came. And although it rains every spring, and Dean suffers low days as a result, this year the pounding down of the endless stream has swollen the river, flooding the first two tiers, drowning, and eventually washing away his precious berries. The other tiers have also been ruined as the heavy rains washed off all the topsoil he had worked so hard to build up and maintain over the years, reducing much of the garden to the stone and clay that lies beneath. To make matters worse, Geoffrey has been working late nearly every night for close to three months. With too much time on his hands, not seeing other outlets like sewing or house cleaning as options, Dean slowly has sunk deeper and deeper into a funk. So overwhelmed by emotion and memories he no longer tries to restrain in his mind’s recesses, Dean doesn’t hear the bubble pull up; they are such quiet vehicles. Its sudden appearance in the small parkway next to the backdoor startles Dean into awareness and fear sends the blood racing through his body. Quickly wiping his eyes, Dean dashes into the washroom where he splashes cold water over his face, hoping to hide his tired red eyes from his lover. What time is it? Dean wonders. The boys aren’t home from school yet. What’s Geoffrey doing here? In a panic, Dean blinks his right eye, looking at the clock to check the hour. It’s only 2:30, he groans. Geoffrey is two full hours early. Why is he home now? Maybe he knows. What to do? Go to the bedroom? Pretend to sleep? No, Dean realizes, that would tip Geoffrey off. Rushing into the kitchen, Dean begins to pull out pots and pans, quickly planning an elaborate meal that should take him a good two hours to prepare. Maybe Geoffrey will see that I’m busy, Dean hopes desperately, and go straight to his office instead of—of—of whatever it is that brought him home so soon. Terrified of being found out, Dean doesn’t even notice which vegetable he pulls out of the fridge. He just slams it down on the cutting board and begins chopping. Without realizing it, he is chopping apart a gourd he recently retrieved from the pantry for decorative purposes.

  * * * * *

  Salve!

  Our Oceans Overflow

  HNN—Melissa Eagleton Reporting

  Yes, the title for today’s Salve! is deceiving. Indeed the earth’s oceans have grown over the last century. The loss of over half the Arctic and Antarctic polar icecaps has reduced the size of every continent while increasing the oceans exponentially. Albeit a terrifying truth, tonight’s Salve! is on another type of overflow: the garbage barrage. When our satellite takes images of the earth’s oceans, one has to wonder whether there is more water or pollution. The oceans are literally overflowing with debris. Observe as our wall screen reveals horrifying images of garbage islands. So much human waste in the form of plastics: bags, bottles, utensils, you name it. Then there are various metals, from tin cans to car parts! Even human clothing! Everything man-made can be found in the swill that was once a beautiful ocean. There are simply too many refuse items floating out there for me to attempt naming them all. All of this garbage has collected over the centuries until now one can actually stand and walk on these debris mounds. There are literally thousands of these garbage islands. Our cameras even detected a small colony of humans living on one. There is so little livable land left in the outside world that some poor souls have resorted to making these floating rubbish heaps their homes. It is frightening to wonder what they eat and drink on their floating cities of garbage.

  Where the oceans’ waters still flow free, what was once a beautiful aquamarine has been contaminated yellowish orange, a sulfurous byproduct of oil spills. In other areas, the thick black oil of recent and centuries old spills has turned this once azure bowl into a region of Black Death. Compare these images of Mexico’s Gulf Coast, taken in the early twentieth century, to those taken now! The sight is absolutely grisly.

  Eutrophication, possibly one of the most deadly of ocean killers, is entirely man-made. Having used the ocean as our waste disposal system for too many centuries, we have added more than just toxic chemicals into our planet’s essential waters. We have flooded the oceans with fertilizers, causing exponential growth of algae. These little creatures have flourished to such an extent that they have literally consumed all of the oxygen in their surrounding ocean area, killing off all other marine life in the vicinity. Where there used to be the odd “dead zone” in our world’s oceans, now more than half of earth’s oceans are lifeless.

  Is it any wonder that our marine biologists work endlessly to ensure that the water we consume from our rivers connected to the Hudson Bay is clean? We also patrol our water border endlessly with a new breed of fisherman: the “detritus fisherman.” These brave men and women work tirelessly to keep humanity’s excess pollution from entering our waters. It is an endless, dirty, and backbreaking job. The worst part is our not knowing what to do with much of what we prevent from coming our way. In most cases, it is simply rerouted back to where it came from, as we have nowhere to put this accretion of decay. Our detritus fishermen do, however, continuously dig through and salvage from this garbage any materials we can use. We have salvaged glass for windows and metals for building. Much of what we can no longer dig deep into our earth to find is simply floating out there, waiting for us to grab and reuse. Being a detritus fisherman is a thankless, heart-wrenching, and backbreaking job. These people are the real heroes of Hadrian.r />
  Perhaps the most sorrowful images of our oceans are the hundreds of thousands of refugee ships floating among all the garbage and decay. These ships’ passengers were either forced off their land due to overpopulation or were desperately hoping to be allowed onto the North American continent where pockets of sustainable land still exist outside of Hadrian. Most of these people will die in their crafts on the ocean, either from thirst, starvation, or disease because no one will allow them onto their shores. As painful as it is for us, we too must turn these ships away. Time and again, refugee boats navigate their way into Hudson Bay from both the Atlantic and the Arctic Oceans, hoping to immigrate to Hadrian. I honestly cannot imagine how difficult it must be to turn away crying and emaciated children. But Hadrian’s borders must remain closed. There is too much risk of widespread disease, and as all our outside images have shown, where too many men dwell, the earth inevitably suffers. Our population is ten million. We will not allow that to grow either through baby booms or immigration. Population control is the first of the four cornerstones of Hadrian’s civilization. It is the very crux, the very pillar upon which our society was founded.

  The earth’s ocean waters are a grim reminder of why the human population must diminish and then be restrained from ever growing out of control again!

  Vale!

  Good News!

  Geoffrey seldom comes home early from the office. Today, however, is special. Thrilled by the morning’s success, he is anxious to find his partner and share the good news with him. The last thing Geoffrey is expecting is to find his husband suffering from another episode. Dean has been stable for over three years now. Their psychiatrist, Edgar, was like a gift from Hadrian. He prescribed Seroxat (an anti-depressant that has helped Dean cope with brooding fears and panic anxiety) as well as Zolam (a benzene for immediate relief when Dean suffers from a panic attack). Their monthly appointments have been worth every chit. The possibility that Dean is crumpled over inside does not even register in Geoffrey’s mind, though the steady rain of the past two weeks should have been warning enough. Unfortunately, Geoffrey is often too preoccupied with work to take note of the subtle changes occurring in his home. And, now that the boys are older, they don’t complain when Papa Dean is morose and not spending time with them like he used to. So, when Geoffrey arrives home, he is in a state of ignorant bliss: a man of all smiles.