Emergence

by David R. Palmer

  Finally, was good to helpless birdbrain, and idiot twin likes him (Terry spends bulk of waking hours rowing with only one oar in water — but is never wrong about people).

  Not perfect, of course: Will be period of adjustment; may require gentle retraining (at bare minimum, driving habits need attention!).

  But issue not impending. “Ever after” is long time, and too young now myself for twosome involvement; while boy (implied conquests notwithstanding) hardly year, two years older. Question resolvable at leisure, without deadlines.

  Because doesn’t matter now…! Teacher was right — really are other people out there…!

  Hominems — my people! Perhaps 150,000, according to Teacher. Maybe more, maybe less — who cares! — numbers immaterial…

  Are others!

  And we’re going to find them.

  Together…

  VOLUME III — Part I

  Quest

  Surprise, Posterity, here I am again…!

  Gracious, who’d have thought, only months ago — still alive (knock wood) and everything.

  Not crowing, mind you; must admit, have been lucky Quite lucky. Incredibly lucky.

  For one thing, ultimate war’s bionuclear efficiency imparted breathtaking new scope to definition of “overkill”; for another, rigors intrinsic to existence in subsequent environment doing much the same for “unforgiving.”

  In fact, until quite recently your Humble Histographer brooded over eminently defensible, ever-deepening gloomy conviction that own small self constituted Earth’s entire remaining sapient population. Under such circumstances, “mere” mere survival ranks as clearly epic achievement — whether due in any part to own feeble efforts or not.

  No, certainly not crowing. Pleased. And not a little surprised.

  But pleasure, surprise, now secondary to almost inexpressible relief: Have found somebody!

  Finally — a real live person…! That he happens to be intelligent, able-bodied, sensitive, not unattractive, brilliant musician to boot — all immaterial.

  Quite suffices is alive!

  For, therefore (ipso facto, and in conjunction with dogged faith in Teacher’s opinions [as set forth in Final Letter], together with own unquenchable optimism), presence of one proves are others, too.

  Must be.

  Somewhere…

  However, have no intention of rushing headlong into romance, even if does turn out to be only game in town. Am only 11, after all. Shall indeed “carry out duty” for species’ benefit when time comes, should ultimate necessity manifest; but much prefer relationship growing from mutual attraction, compatibility, respect.

  Not that would be all that difficult (apart from initial strain intrinsic to meeting under present coercive circumstances) to become attracted to new acquaintance. Possesses many good qualities, few (at first blush) unforgivable faults. Not bad specimen, viewed objectively.

  Which is not to suggest totally lacks peculiarities, fair number of which would not be missed. For instance: Don’t know his name…! Won’t give straight answer; merely offers sidelong glance, elevates near-side brow, smirks knowingly, replies, “Think of me as ‘Adam.’ ”

  Now, not prude, nor naïve, don’t mind entendres, of whatever multiplication factor, but that’s old! Bet Eve thought so, too.

  (Wonder, sometimes, why always seems necessary to make so many allowances when dealing with 12-, 13-year-old boys [approximate real age, silly straight-faced assertion of 18 notwithstanding]. After all, I’m 11 — is it so unreasonable to expect from boys of comparable vintage demeanor at least as balanced, reasonable, logical, dignified?)

  Secondly, is genuine maniac behind wheel: Ambition, prior to End of World, was to become Grand Prix driver; campaign through Europe, world; win World Championship. Even days, that is; on odd days wanted to join NASCAR circuit, tour southern U.S., bumping fenders with “Good Ole Boys” at 195 miles an hour on superspeedways in Grand. National stock cars — which nearly describes how we met: at downtown Baltimore street corner — avoided collision by hair’s-breadth.

  (What? Regard unlikely only two people in city would “meet by accident”? Think again — better still, ask neighborhood insurance-history buff about famous 1902 claim wherein only two cars in entire state of Ohio involved in intersection crunch.)

  Adam’s third peculiarity is he… he…

  No. Can’t say it. Excerpt from conversation at breakfast first morning posthibernation sufficiently illustrative.

  Were bringing each other up-to-date on life stories. Adam had distinct advantage of me: Read Vol. II while I lay in coma.

  (Another indication of quality of boy’s brains, incidentally: To decipher contents, necessary to teach himself Pitman shorthand theory — did so in single day [took me two!]).

  Have, of course, exacted blood oath not to exercise newfound skill by violating this journal; thoughts immortalized in diary constitute — must be regarded as — privileged communication between writer, History.

  Anyway, since my knowledge of Adam then quite meager (sharp as tack, clever at EMT work, good cook, brilliant pianist, and drives like mishap studying to become catastrophe) boy necessarily carried bulk of conversation. Was filling me in on high points of existence prior to Armageddon:

  Parents unlikely pair: mother state senator, all-around busy, important person; father music director of Baltimore Symphony. Adam divided time between studying Muse, eavesdropping on Moving Shaking within state government.

  Determined early on art more fun than politics. And magnitude of talent soon emerged: genuine prodigy on piano; first public recital, age seven. “Father was so proud; mother, too. And I was tickled by all the adulation — amused, really, that something so easy should generate so much attention.

  “But it didn’t go to my head; I didn’t have time for such foolishness. I was obsessed with perfecting my skill and committing to memory more and ever more selections. And while I did try to devote equal attention to all the great masters, I gradually found myself spending more and more time studying the works and methods of one in particular. In a remarkably short time I came to be known not so much as a prodigy but as a Bachward child.”

  See…? Down through centuries we women have put up with menfolk who caroused; stuffed faces without thanks; missed baths; littered floors with cigar butts, ashes, smelly socks; nobly marched off to war, leaving us to fend for selves (brought home loathsome diseases, often as not); beat us; and, not infrequently, simply abandoned families altogether, because responsibility proved too much trouble.

  Okay. Can cope with that. If absolutely must. One way or another. Possibly with diplomacy; more probably to detriment of male in question. But can cope.

  This, however, another matter entirely! Lad inexhaustible font of misused words. Delights in puns of every description, lower the better; also in perverting familiar constructions to own depraved ends: Assembling engine is “mantling”; accumulation of scattered components is “persion,” competent person is “ept,” etc. When I made mistake of suggesting words existed which did job more precisely, without requiring listener to perform involuted dissection, analysis, Adam replied was fond of Bach-constructions.

  Truly is: Can dredge up Bach-related adjectives to mis-fit any occasion; more inapt or strained the usage, happier seems to make him. For instance, past girl friends’ phone numbers listed in Little Bach Book; smug about Bach porches, his Bach-alaureate, skill at Bach-gammon; swimming Bach-stroke in Bach-waters during laid-Bach vacations at cottage in Bach-woods, etc.

  But peripheral consideration; usually unexpected, often funny (sometimes over head), only occasionally irritating. A plus, generally. I think.

  However, further problem exists, presenting complications of another order of magnitude entirely: Adam interested in initiating repopulation project. Immediately or sooner. Wants to get me on my Bach. (Actually, “obsessed with” probably more accurate descriptive than “interested in.”) If, at given moment, somehow fails to be in midst of straight
forward proposition, is hinting. Broadly. Constantly.

  Initially broached (figuratively speaking) subject while describing rigors of growing up rich (still at same first breakfast — as I sat there, hardly 16 hours postcoma; barely alive; pale, thin ghost of former self):

  “…so even after both the grand jury and congressional committee absolved me of responsibility, the school withdrew permission to park the Lamborghini in the student lot, I had to be driven to class every day, everybody knew, it was terribly embarrassing, how long will it be before you’re recovered enough to sleep with me?”

  Paused; glanced from corner of eye, then quickly away; waited for reaction. And waited. And waited…

  Because object of affection having difficulty making mouth work. Reaction complicated: First, was dumbfounded; totally unexpected conversational turn, straight out of blue. Second, genuine no-foolin’ proposition something with which, at my age, have had little — oh, all right! — no experience. Third, blasé expectation — nay; cavalier assumption — of automatic assent quite took breath away — haven’t even decided to keep him yet…!

  Went from startlement to shock, directly thence to offended feminine sensibilities; but hesitated momentarily, reflecting before venting feelings — all in space of single breath. Concluded, after brief deliberation, probably not Adam’s fault. Entirely. From wrong side of tracks, after all; can’t be expected to behave like normal person. Besides, is young, healthy; puberty in full cry, bursting with urges. Doubtless views me as Heaven-sent solution; perhaps even hard-won prize, considering effort invested in saving life — of which notion shall promptly disabuse him…!

  (But consider parallel situation: If, when puppy does Terrible Thing in house, is immediately shot, replaced; is owner likely to end up with properly housebroken pet? Ever? Similarities existed here. Adam entitled to benefit of doubt during probationary/training period. Decided to let him live — pending…)

  So closed mouth firmly; took deep breath, released deliberately; declined, with thanks.

  “Oh, come on!” he coaxed heartily. “We’re both healthy young adults…”

  (Histographer’s Note: Actually said “adults.”)

  “…we like each other, and it’s just not healthy not to have a proper outlet for our tensions.”

  Now, recognize would be considered “old enough” in certain (now departed) cultures. Granted; not disputing point (no implying that was reason departed). Further, addressing question from purely mechanical perspective, am very probably “big enough” as well.

  However. Pragmatic as do try to be in every respect, find I cannot narrow down viewpoint; regard this question as solely practical matter — to say nothing of notion of debasing currency to point where becomes no more than casual recreation, temporary ennui remedy. True, not entitled to advance own opinion as expert — lack firsthand knowledge. Must rely upon instincts developed through exposure to Momma, Daddy, Teacher; their unvoiced opinions reflected in conduct toward selves, one another, world at large — and especially me.

  No, cannot put finger on precise dates, times, places; nor words, acts underlying own attitude. But do know that ingrained into very being is conviction that sex is small-but-important part of very complicated whole; blending liking-respect-tenderness-caring-need-love-coitus with implied lifelong partnership-family commitment, babies optional.

  Am not ready for babies: not physically, not emotionally — not now! Nor commitment. Yet. And if can’t cope with package in toto (including deliberate election to proceed to motherhood or not), then strongly misdoubt wisdom…

  Well, can work up to it, step-by-step. And undoubtedly will (if do keep him). But not beginning with that step. Period. No matter what “practical considerations” might seem to dictate!

  So initially sought to counter Adam’s enthusiasm with logic: Reminded him of age: Probably not fertile yet; and even if wanted to conceive at 11 — and don’t! — well-known amongst OB-GYN trade is fact that excessively young mothers produce generally frail, sickly offspring.

  “I’m sure that was true of Homo sapiens women,” Adam replied with irritatingly comfortable superiority, as usual ignoring objection’s nontechnical aspect; “but how much data has been accumulated on us?”

  (One of boy’s less appealing qualities: Instantly pounces on flawed reasoning; zooms in for kill without hesitation; gives no quarter, takes no prisoners.)

  “No, I don’t know if it’s true of us,” I admitted. “How could I know? How could anybody know? Who would have had time to assemble a data base on us? Only a few hundred people knew about us at all, even before; and they didn’t have time…”

  “Besides,” Adam interjected smoothly, “if you’re not fertile yet, then what does it matter? The only question we need to consider is whether it’s good for us; whether it will increase our chances of survival by improving our mental, emotional, and physical condition — which it will, you know; all the texts say so.

  “But if even the possibility of conceiving, and the potential effect of your age on our child, really bothers you that much and you’d rather hold off starting a family, that’s easily dealt with. So there’s nothing to prevent us from enjoying the benefits of an active, healthy, satisfying physical relationship. See…?”

  Open mouth to reply. Stopped. Noticed bottom-line issue well on way to vanishing amidst mechanics of debate. Quickly reviewed dialogue immediately preceding; concluded misdirection not accidental.

  (Obviously Adam exposed to unsavory influences during impressionable years [perhaps too much time spent in company of mother’s state government cronies]; had picked up verbal shell game skills — plus who knows what other tools comprising basic political arsenal.)

  Realized then: Might be well to watch step around Adam conversationwise. Always heretofore considered concept of “promise” sacrosanct, orientation which may prove liability: Would rather not find have agreed to something which, through failure to understand, follow transactional semantics to proper conclusion, binds me to something contrary to expectations, intentions.

  So switched to more direct approach: “I don’t care whether it’s true or not. That isn’t the point. I’m too young — I’m not going to get involved in sex. Not now…!”

  Like most H. post hominems, Adam has extremely sensitive hearing. But can be quite hard of listening: “Don’t get your Bach up,” he soothed. “I know, I know — this all has hit you pretty suddenly, and you haven’t had time to think it through. But you know as well as I do that there’re only the two of us. We don’t have a choice — we need each other. And even though ‘need’ is an awfully broad term, the heart of it, under these circumstances, is sex — I need you…!”

  “I don’t want to,” I repeated, somewhat more firmly (possibly because “need” touched nerve, eroded conviction). “At least not yet. I don’t doubt that one day I may want to — at the very least, I will cooperate to the extent necessary to rebuild the population.

  “But I don’t have a need yet — and I bet you don’t either; though I’ll grant you’ve probably got a pretty urgent want, the same as any adolescent male. We’re both too young — certainly I am. But even if we weren’t, I’ve never heard of celibacy killing anyone, so I don’t think we’re in any immediate danger; at least not from that quarter. And if it’s physical tensions you’re bothered with, you know the solution to that just as well as I do.

  “For Heaven’s sake,” I finished impatiently; look at me — I’m almost still a boy…!”

  “I have looked at you,” he replied with a knowing grin; “in the most minute detail, for six long days while you were comatose; while changing your diaper, bathing you, and maintaining your catheter. No one would mistake you for a boy anymore. You are somewhat unfinished here and there, but you’re very pretty. And I’m beginning to regret having been such a gentleman while I had you at my mercy. Did I miss my golden opportunity?”

  “I thought you weren’t into snuggling with corpses, and found catheters unromantic.�
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  “I’m not, they are, so I didn’t. But looking at you was very pleasant, in spite of your condition. And you aren’t unconscious now, and there’re no tubes in the way. Frankly, I don’t understand your attitude — I’d think gratitude alone would be enough to motivate you, if not compassion for a suffering fellow survivor…” This last delivered in tones of hurt puzzlement; wearing a trusting, wide-eyed, cocker-spaniel-puppy expression.

  (Adam shrewd at picking apart others’ arguments, but reckless about leaving opening for riposte. Always a mistake: No one who knows me would doubt willingness to snub slack once victim has rope enough to hang himself.)

  “I’m glad you feel that way. That means you do understand how I feel about it, and you’ll be happy to quit pestering me — if not from compassion, then out of gratitude.”

  “Gratitude…?” Adam’s expression fell. Belatedly realized he’d violated logic matrix, blown argument; but too stubborn to admit it, change tack, quit with grace.

  “Yes, ‘gratitude.’ Who pulled you out of that fire and stitched up your leg?”

  “Who got in the way and made me crash in the first place?”

  “Who was driving like a lunatic?”

  “Oh, yeah…?”

  “Yeah!”

  (Have been several conversations like that since then; all revolving around oldest disputed topic; all concluding in same general vein.)

  Apart from that, though, Adam seems pretty neat so far. Which is part of reason have not taken sterner line with him regarding nonstop campaign against my “virtue.” Could, certainly, and would bring results. Knows my karate ranking from reading journal; knows am well able to enforce wishes, if so choose.

  But don’t choose. Yet. And truly hope never becomes necessary. Only five when Momma Foster died, but had managed by then to impart to me her appreciation for fragility of male ego; care required to preserve from unnecessary bruising. Have encountered nothing during subsequent years to suggest wisdom of altering view (indeed, quite to contrary).