by David Ohle
“I think I opened up a couple of Bunce's jellyheads. But I 'm not sure.”
“You're not sure?”
“No, I had been chewing stonepicks. I was seeing and feeling through cotton. I'm not certain.”
“I've told you about stonepicks. Say I haven't.”
“You have.”
“You had one in your mouth when I came in. Say you didn't.”
“I didn't.”
“So you opened a pair of jellies?”
“Yes, maybe I did. The recollection is full of holes.”
“But there is a recollection?”
“Yes, I woke up with it. It was strong. I checked my clothes, my vehicle. There was definitely jelly, and those nibs.”
“What did you do it with? ”
“I may have done it with my letter opener.”
“May I see it?” Moldenke gave him the letter opener, a simple chrome affair with swirls. He smelled it, touched it, gave it back. The cigars were halfway done. “I'd say you did it, or someone did it with your letter opener, wearing your clothes, and driving your vehicle. One or the other. I'm afraid I don't know what to say, Dinky. Bunce has a great deal of pull.”
“Help me, Burnheart.”
“I don't know, Moldenke. I just don't know. All I can do is be your friend. I'm only a scientist. I have my limits.”
“Should I run?”
“I'd sit still for a while.”
“What should I do?”
“I'd do nothing for a while.”
They blinked, coughed. The cigars wore down. Burnheart went to the lookout. “There it is. The city. The rooftops of the city. Back in the city again. My mood is changing sooner than I expected it would. I'll have to head back toward the country.”
“Burnheart. Stay longer.”
“No. I have experiments to run, rats and rabbits to feed. You know the game.”
“Are you leaving now?”
“Yes. I only came to bring you a letter I'd written and forgot to mail. I thought I'd deliver it personally as long as I was in the city. It may be the last time I'm here. My city moods come less and less often these days, and this one feels final.” He gave Moldenke a letter. “It may be a little out of date, as they say.”
“I'll read it anyway.”
“Well, Dink. I'll be seeing you. If you need my advice about anything, give me a call. Don't flounder around uncertain about things. Call me.”
“Are we friends, Burnheart?”
“Straight on, Dink. Double-clutching heart-mates. I'll see you around.” He left, closed the door softly behind him.
23]
He dialed 555-333-555333-555-333.
“Fernberg's Clock & Hock, Bunce on the line.”
“Mr. Bunce?”
“Yes?”
“I thought I'd call and sort of feel things out.”
“Who is this?”
“Moldenke.”
“Oh, Moldenke. I didn't recognize the voice. Throat polyps, is that it? You shouldn't be breathing so much, boy. Wear the gauze pads. Wear the gauze pads. Why do you think we give them to you? What do you want? I'm a busy man this season.”
“Like I said before, I thought I'd call and sort of—”
“I heard it the first time. Explain yourself.”
“Well, there really isn't too much in the way of things to explain, Mr. Bunce. I suppose, if you have to say something, say I'm testing. Throwing out my bait.”
“Don't tell me what to say.”
“I didn't.”
“Don't.”
“I won't.”
“The future lies ahead of us, boy, hanging there like a thunderstorm. Make yourself a shelter. Quit gassing, stop your aimless pissing-off. Collect things. Pull your coats tight. Get ready.”
“Mr. Bunce?”
“Yes?”
“Suppose, in a few minutes from now, suppose I get up from this chair and walk to the door, open the door, step into the hall, walk down the stairs, through the main gate, and out into the street. What then?”
“Don't bother, champ. You won't get past the open door part. I've got a man in the hall. You won't make it. Stay with the chair.”
“I'm beginning to itch.”
“He's beginning to itch.”
“Sores on the underthigh.”
“Sores on the underthigh, he says.”
“I'm not very comfortable with these restrictions.”
“He's not very comfortable. Moldenke! You gutted two of my very best street workers. You expect comfort, you expect to be left alone? Moldenke? ”
“What?”
“Look at the palm of your left hand.”
“I can't. The lights are out.”
“Wait a second. I'll turn them on for a minute.” The lights flickered and went on. Moldenke stood up, legs stiff, bloodless. He sat back down. The refrigerator hummed. The radio went on, the heater grille twittered like a redbird. Feet shuffled on the carpet in the hall. Somewhere in the building unit a toilet flushed.
“Did you do that, Bunce? Did you make the lights go on? Is my electricity somehow flowing through the Fernberg Clock & Hock?”
“Look at the left palm, Moldenke.” He looked at the palm.
“Okay, Bunce. I'm looking. Now what?”
“Are you looking at it closely?”
“As close as I can under the circumstances.”
“What are the circumstances?”
“Mucus collecting in one of the eyes. It's all but cemented shut.”
“Wear the goggles, boy. Why do you think we give you goggles? Now, hold the palm up there and look twice as hard.” Moldenke did that. “Are you looking hard enough?”
“I'm looking. I'm looking.”
“Pay attention to surface conditions, qualities of the skin, stuff like that.”
Moldenke studied the palm. The lights surged, the radio went louder. Outside, the wind picked up. The door of the refrigerator opened and swung back on its hinges. A weather report came on the radio:
Possible dry storms in the bottoms area, reports not confirmed, estimates of high winds, gauzemen working overshifts, nothing official, stay tuned, remain calm...
“Did you hear that, Bunce? ”
“Yes, I heard it. It was a good one. I liked it. "
What about the palm? Have you looked at it sufficiently?”
“Yes, I think so.”
“Good. Now, look at the pocket on the hip matching that palm you just looked at so intently.” Moldenke looked at the left pocket, examined it.
“Examine the pocket, Moldenke.”
“I am. I am.” He saw grease, hanging strings, and dirt.
“Good. Tell me what you see.” Moldenke told him what he had seen. “Fine. Look at the palm again.” He looked at the palm again. “Have you looked?”
“Yes.”
“Perfect. Now, put the palm in the pocket, along with the hand.” He put the hand in his pocket, along with the palm. “Is it in there good?”
“Yes. It's not so easy sitting down.”
“Good enough. Now, take it out.” He took it out.
“Is it out?”
“Yes. It's out.”
“Excellent, boy. Now, tell me what you've learned from this.”
“I suppose I've learned that the palm remains while the pocket wears away. Skin regenerates, cloth is a oneway business. Something like that. I learned something along those lines. Am I right?”
“Close enough, close enough. Hah! And they call old Burnheart a great scientist. I wonder about his pupil. Moldenke, you're a clever boy. Pure reason, almost untainted, white light, etcetera. I would probably love you, Moldenke, if times were right. I'd strap on my artificial vagina for you. We could slug a few pinebrews and watch some football. If things were only a little tighter, or a great deal looser than they are, who knows? Sure, I wear a smear of rouge. Sure, I've dug potatoes out of garbage hills. Sure, I've played my share of football. And what does it come to? A throat full of polyps and a set of fa
lse eyes. Moldenke, you're sliding downward. I am not your friend. The test is over.”
24]
He read the letter Burnheart had left:
Dear Friend Moldenke,
Some years back, as I gather, the government phased out the postal cats. Heretofore, as you may be aware, the government was actually paying them 10 chit a paper week to eat the rats and other rodents that were eating the mail, a kind of twisted food-chain deal. That plan went along nicely for a time, until some jellyhead in some post office hole decided that further rules were needed in order to stem the tide of profiteering, slave-holding, and poison-running, which rose among the cats. These rules were known as the Private Bag Ordinances (the P.B.O.'s), and they generally held that the rats of a given mail bag were the property, the private and exclusive property of the cat who could daily stalk the area of the bag. Naturally, this served only to increase the dominance of the stronger cats over the weaker cats, as you might expect. Not surprisingly, the weaker cats lobbied for ordinances declaring that all bags must be watched equally and that all proceeds should be divided accordingly.
Enough of this, Moldenke. I'm off to the greenhouse.
See you in the city.
As always,
Burnheart
25]
Burnheart called:
“Moldenke? ”
“Burnheart? ”
“Yes, speaking. Dink? One question: Why hasn't he thought of unplugging the phone?”
“The phone? The telephone? My telephone?”
“Right. Why not?”
“I don't know. I hadn't thought of it either.”
“Wrong, Dink. He's thought of it. He's considered it. A few years back I might have said he was capable of oversights, but not now. The most we can hope for now is chance and accident. Are you with me? Together, Dink. Me and you. We'll roll him like a pill in our fingers. Say, Dink? Have you noted my high mood?”
“Yes. You seem up. Upper than you were the last I saw you.”
“Naturally. I'm back in the country. One sniff of the peat and I'm mysteriously restored. Energy surges again. Now and again we toss a bucket of crabs out to the hogs. The hogs live among the pilings under the house. You've never seen this place, have you? That will have to be fixed. The country is almost alive with occasional activity. The other day I was sitting on a gum stump watching an unusual sort of insect crawl up a dead brush plant. A very colorful bug, stripes, crescents, long, fernlike antennae. You know the sort, Moldenke?”
“Sure I know. The decorator bug.”
“Yes, of course. The decorator bug. When he reached the top of a branch he attached himself by the hinder legs and began unfurling himself. Membranes fanned out, wings turned and adjusted themselves. And there he was, a flower. Later, other decorator bugs came along and settled in place-—buds, leaves, even a mock wasp. It was a natural gas, Moldenke. You'd never see that in the city, would you?”
“I guess not.”
“Then come to the country. Be with me and Eagleman.”
“Bunce says no moving. How would I get there?”
“Did I say we were friends?”
“Sure, but what if—”
“We'll have him picking his nose in the cold room. I'm convinced he has flaws. The only weapon he has is you, Moldenke. Follow what I say?”
“Yeah, but what should I do?”
“Test him.”
“Well, I already tried one test and it didn't-—”
“Never mind. I'll design the tests. All you have to do is execute them. Eagleman is with us. Nobody can cipher better than Eagleman. He'll carry us through this affair even if you don't. Moldenke, place yourself at our disposal. Will you do that? Remember who installed your hearts? I've held your old heart in my fingers. How close can two people get? You've already trusted me with your heart. How about a little surrender, Dink? Give us yourself.”
“Sure, why not? When do you want me? Will you come and get me?”
“No.”
“Can I drive out in my k-ram——”
“No. No. Wait awhile. I'll think about it, talk to Eagleman. I'll call you back tomorrow with a test. We'll spring a test on him tomorrow. Would you like to say anything? ”
“No... Except one thing. It may not be important.”
“Everything is. What is it?”
“I haven't flushed the water dump in more than a week.”
“Why not? ”
“There hasn't been a need to.”
“You're being oblique, Moldenke. Does that mean you haven't taken a dump in that long a time? ”
“Yes. That long.”
“That's a long time, Dink. In a day or two you'll be coughing it up. Not good for the hearts. A constipated system is a threat to the flow. Lie on the left side and press the abdomen. Have an old fashioned enema. We can't be running subtle tests with full intestines. Tell me, are you drinking liquids?”
“No. I don't have any. Somebody turned off the water, too. Probably Bunce.”
“Tell me, are you passing gas?”
“Seldom. A cold sputter or two every other day.”
“You've got the dry poots. Get on it. I'll ring you tomorrow. I'll have a test ready. Have a fair day.”
26]
In the morning two suns came up, brightening the room, yellowing the walls. He could see. He stood up and fell forward on elbows and a knee. Someone with a hammer could have driven a nail in his back. His feelings were gone. He was stung. He would have tried to move his legs had he been able even to imagine them. He thought of Burnheart. He imagined Burnheart. He pulled himself along the rug and up the bedside, turning his face to the lookout, to the suns. He sat on the bed, opened his shirts, gave his hairless chest to the light. He pressed the abdomen, formed fists and beat pain into his legs. A rush of blood, circulation, a stirring of deep nerves, feeling.
A greenbird flew to the lip of the lookout, grappled for footing, stunned, flapping off feathers, fell backward, down, streetward.
A city chicken cockled.
He would keep busy. He would find his lighter, the flints, the bottle of k-fuel. He would drag his kitty-file closer to the chair. He would exercise. He would write Burnheart a letter. Generally, he would move. He wouldn't remain seated any longer.
He sat on the water dump and wrote:
Dear Burny,
I'm not sure you can help me out of this unless you know me better than you do. How well do you actually know me? You sometimes refer to me as Dink, or Dinky, my school name, which is a nice, familiar thing to do. But what does it amount to when you consider all the other things about me you don't know? I realize it seems insignificant.
But it only seems that way. It really isn't. It is. It is significant. You can be assured that Bunce knows more than my school name. Burnheart, you should be more aware of me. You should know every lonely detail, everything, the whole Moldenke. For example: What did I do when I wandered away from the gauze mill? Did I take a job shrimping? If not, why so? Do you know that? You should. Bunce does. He could account for every moment. He has tapes, and I wouldn't be surprised if he also had films. Burnheart, please don't take this letter as an attempt at criticism, which is the most distant thing from my mind these days. No, it isn't that at all. It must be something else. Unfortunately, I don't know what. I enjoyed seeing you on your trip to the city and I look forward to being with you and Eagleman in the country. I've kept a picture of you on the wall. I've always looked up to you. If you ever came to me and said, “Rub something,” I'd rub it without a second thought. I've copied your signature too many times. I've read the letters thin. You send me your throwaway coats and I manage to need them.
I consider it an honor to wear them. How many of your test tubes have I washed? Ten thousand? How many solutions have I cooked on your k-flame?
I've used you as a laxative and a lubricant both. Still, I see you as a stranger. Burnheart, help me.
I'm getting along badly. Send me a woman. I need a woman. This morning the
last scab peeled off the crank. I'm ready; although I'm afraid I have no feeling.
Yours,
I surrender,
Moldenke
He balled the letter and threw it in the water dump.
The suns had gone above the building. The room dimmed. Had there been water he would have bathed. He opened the spigot, testing, got sour air and pipe vibes. He wouldn't bathe and go to bed. He hadn't dumped.
He closed the dead refrigerator door. It opened again, back on its hinges. He had startled something. It flew past his shoulder, tipping his ear, fluttering into the bed springs.
He would pass time reading Burnheart letters. He found the lighter, loaded in a new flint, filled the tank with k-fuel, sparked it, and read by its light.
Dear Moldenke,
You remind me of the tripodero. You know the tripodero? A small creature of the Newer England woods? I'm not certain whether it has met extinction or not as yet. But that doesn't matter. We have records of him, specimens. He'd race along the hedgerows, churning up the turf, always sensitive to danger on the other side. If he ever suspected it, why, he'd rise up on those three telescoping legs of his and have a look. A marvelous mammal, the tripodero. I wonder whether he's still alive?
Your Instructor,
Doctor Burnheart
The lighter grew hot in Moldenke's hands. The room cooled.
He read another letter, a short letter attached to the one he had just read:
Dear Dink,
If you sense danger, rise up. I'll be over the hedge.
Be cautious,
Burnheart
He chewed a stonepick and watched the moons come up, fell asleep in his chair.
27]
She came to him as a stranger in the Tropical Garden. He first saw her figure in the banana leaves. He spaded earth ceremoniously and watched her from the corner of his eye. She tossed a banana flower at his foot and warmed him with a flow of spirit and a smile. He raised his trowel and indicated the greenhouse.
They walked among the rows of succulents, pressing thick leaves between their fingers. She broke open the stalk of an ice plant, drew a circle on his forehead with its juices, made an x inside the circle. The space around them fell into silent patterns.