Orbit 18

by Damon Knight

  On her way to the bus, she couldn’t resist pausing by the abandoned factory where the path used to lead over the hill and down along the river to the falls. It was all grown over now, and she couldn’t remember exactly where it used to be. For a moment she caught her reflection in a cracked windowpane. It showed up clearly against the darkness inside. Was this the frail old woman that Reese had seen when he looked across his desk?

  “Marge, where’s the stuff from the cleaners?” Emma came into the kitchen.

  “The what?”

  “My raincoat, your . . . you forgot.”

  “I’m sorry.” She dried the last dish and sat down. Now was the time when she would normally be preparing the next day’s lessons.

  “That’s nice, and it’s supposed to rain tomorrow.”

  She could make some tea and read.

  “Marge?”

  “Hmm?”

  “You all right?”

  “Yes.”

  “You haven’t looked well all evening.” Emma felt her head.

  Margaret got up. “I'm at least ten years older than you are and I won’t have you treating me like a child.”

  As she hurried upstairs, Emma shouted behind her, “Then don’t act like one.”

  Her briefcase waited on the desk.

  “We hadn’t planned to give you such short notice, it just worked out that way.” He had spoken softly, so reasonably. “And it’s not as if you needed the time to look for another job.”

  “I should at least be given a day to warn my students of the change and to say goodbye.”

  “Mrs. Lockwood, I know that your students will miss you, but children really are pretty flexible that way, aren’t they?”

  “Marge, your briefcase.”

  Halfway down the walk, she turned. Emma was standing in the doorway, holding her briefcase. For a moment the scene seemed to freeze and Margaret saw her sister-in-law and their house from the stiff perspective of a photograph. It was an impersonal image of age. But maybe a new coat of paint and . . .?

  Emma handed her the case. “Your knee looks swollen.”

  “It’s not so bad today.”

  “You shouldn’t be running around from house to house. Why don’t you tell them that if they won’t give you a classroom job, you’ll quit.”

  And now she should tell her what she had been putting off all night and still felt reluctant to say. Afraid that Emma, who loved but could not understand her, would be glad. Or perhaps it was the inevitable questions that would follow. Margaret took the briefcase and waved goodbye.

  The bus left her off near the bottom of the hill and she climbed slowly, not wanting to push her leg. Acrid dye fumes rose up along the river, tainting the clear October air. As she approached the top she could hear the roar of the falls. In the early-morning light, the rainbow wasn’t visible from the road. Suddenly remembering, she stopped and tried to concentrate on the spot that would have been beneath the bow. After a moment she could see them. The vague, shapeless, shifting colors that couldn’t be an afterimage or a prismatic effect, not when they continued to exist with the sun at an entirely different angle. Yet it must be some trick of the eye. It seemed to her that they moved more quickly as she watched. Someone asked her a question and she turned, but no one was there. And she couldn’t remember actually having discerned any words. Perhaps it was the white noise of the falls, like thinking that one has heard one’s name called while running a vacuum cleaner. The ocean at Asbury Park. A sudden, vivid image disconnected from any other thought. She could feel the icy water, taste the salt, smell the vague fishiness of the shore. Sand was running down beneath her toes. Paul grinned like a child, spray glistening on his mustache and his coarse brown hair. This was their honeymoon. They took each other’s hand and ran.

  Margaret turned away quickly. Her husband had died thirty years ago, and her first student would be waiting.

  Past the falls she shivered once. It had seemed so real, almost like a hallucination. A long time ago, she had read something somewhere about stress bringing on senile dementia. No, she would not go that way. She would not.

  “Well, hello.” The hall outside smelled of urine, but as usual, the small apartment was clean and neat. “We weren’t expecting to see you so early.” Margaret sat on the couch, her usual place, while Mrs. Shepard brought over the TV table. “Mae is in the kitchen finishing lunch. She’ll come out in a minute.” But Mae was already at the door, smiling shyly.

  “Teacher?”

  “Hello, Mae. I had to come early today, but I can wait for you to finish your lunch if you . . .”

  Mae disappeared into the kitchen, came out a moment later with her notebook and a wide tipped felt pen. Sitting next to her on the couch, Margaret thought how small this nine-year-old was. It made her want to put her arm around her protectively. But when Mae’s infection was at its worst, Margaret had seen her bear up under what must have been excruciating pain without a whimper. And although she couldn’t put her finger on exactly what it was, Margaret suspected that Mae knew something that a seventy-five-year-old woman was only beginning to learn.

  The girl opened her notebook and placed it on the table. Mrs. Shepard got up. “I’ll be in the kitchen.”

  “No, please wait. There’s something I have to say to both of you.”

  Of all the goodbyes, this was the hardest. And yet she suspected that it might have been for this goodbye that she made the others. After she and Mrs. Shepard had each said the proper things, there was an awkward silence. For the first time in two years, Margaret felt a stranger in this house. She found herself afraid to look directly at Mae, who had said nothing at all.

  Finally Mrs. Shepard looked at her watch. “They’ll be expecting me back at work.” It was almost a question. Margaret got up. “You can stay if you like. Mae will let you out.”

  “No, I’d better be going. The other teacher could be here any time.”

  “Then we can walk together as far as Goodwear’s.”

  Suddenly Mae was beside them. “Can I come?”

  “No, honey. Who would walk you back?”

  “I can find my way.”

  “After you have glasses.”

  “Just to the end of the block?”

  “No, and don’t you keep starting this business. I don’t want to hear any more about it.”

  As they walked out, Margaret heard the door lock behind them. “Do you know yet when she’ll be getting her glasses?”

  “Soon, I think. But I’m not really sure what’s going on.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, you know those doctors. It’s hard to get them to say what they mean. First they tell me that the operation worked, now they say she’s not healing the way she should. So I don’t know when she’ll get them. It may even be the glasses won’t do her any good.”

  “Have you talked to Mr. Reese about getting her into a Special Class?”

  “I don't think they know exactly which class she belongs in yet.”

  “Listen, it’s been two years now. If you bother Mr. Reese often enough, he’ll find a place for her. And if it turns out to be the wrong one, she can always be moved later on.”

  They stopped in front of Goodwear’s. “Well, I think she’s best off at home for now.” And there it was, the cold note in her voice, her head half turned toward Goodwear’s as if it were mere haste that cut off the unwanted words.

  “Mrs. Shepard . . .”

  “I’m sorry, I can’t be late. Hey, you come visit us sometime now, will you?”

  She walked past the falls on the other side of the road. There was a 1:25 bus to catch and no time for gawking. But then she remembered Emma. It would be better to come home at the usual time and tell her it was today that she had been fired than to admit that she had kept it a secret.

  The park looked peaceful. The children who frequented it at lunchtime were back in their classes now. It might feel good to rest there quietly for a while. But as she turned to cross the street
she felt afraid. Of what? Madness? Merely because of a sudden, vivid memory earlier in the day? The light changed, but she didn’t cross. Even from here she could see the leaves twirling in the breeze. Once as children she and some friends had gathered them all together with only their hands to use as rakes. And when the pile was huge, they had each jumped in. Madness, it occurred to her, might be a giving in to one’s irrational feelings.

  Even so, on her way to the footbridge she was careful not to look at the colors. It felt good to sit down. The day had been trying and she was more tired than she had guessed. She stared absently at the falls. A breeze blew up from the water, gradually coating her glasses with mist. It didn’t really matter; she would wipe them when she was ready to leave. Her thoughts moved idly and scattered. The roar of the falls, a slow beat of waves, Paul called her out where it was deep, Mae printed large letters in the sand, she tried to see the word, the letters blurred, were shapeless colors, her head fell forward, “Ocean?” and she awoke. This time it didn’t surprise her to discover that no one was there. It had been an oddly characterless voice, not really a sound at all. Undoubtedly a dream. But even unemployed she was a teacher, and something in her wanted to respond to a question. Curiosity, the most precious of human assets, must be preserved. She smiled at herself and got up to leave.

  “Ocean?” and a feeling without a word.

  She froze, trying desperately to think of a reason. A trick? Slowly she turned her head. No, no one was anywhere nearby. And then again she felt without a word, but this time she realized what it should be and whispered, “Please.”

  “Ocean? Please. Ocean?”

  She ran. Unable to help herself. Stumbling and getting up again. She ran.

  “What happened?”

  Margaret sat down at the table, her hands were still trembling. “Something startled me in the park.”

  “You’re cut.” Emma ran a washcloth under the tap. “What was it?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Emma started to wash her knee, but Margaret took the cloth from her and did it herself.

  “I mean, what startled you?”

  “Maybe I was dreaming.” The soapy water stung.

  Margaret lay in bed and read as long as she could. Finally, reluctantly, she closed the book and turned out the light.

  Toward morning, she dreamed that she was walking by the abandoned factory near the falls. As she passed a window some movement caught her eye and she paused. There was the dull, mechanical throb of machinery muffled by thick walls. It was difficult to see past her reflection but there seemed to be men inside, moving within the rhythm of their machines. They must be renting the old fabrics factory again. Someone came closer to the window and smiled, waving for her to come in. But she must be mistaken because she couldn’t possibly know anyone here. He disappeared again, back into the gloom. Perhaps upon a closer look he had realized that she was no one he knew. Yet there had been something familiar about him. If she could cup her hands around her eyes and lean against the glass, she might be able to block out her reflection. But a cement trench filled with dye blackened water separated her from the window. Then she remembered a door along the side of the building. Once, as children, she and Paul had peeked in on their way down the path that led to the falls. Had the man in the window resembled Paul?

  It was difficult to find the path but finally she saw it, a thin line almost entirely overgrown. From here she could hear the distant roar of the falls. The door was unlocked but heavy, so much heavier than it used to be. As she got it open a crack, it seemed to her that someone was calling her name. But the voice was drowned by the deep, vibrating beat of machinery. As the door opened wider, the sound became deafening and then abruptly ceased.

  A shaft of sunlight from the door lost itself somewhere within the dust-laden darkness. She must have been mistaken. The place was empty. Or was he in another room? She thought of going in, but hesitated, listening to the silence.

  “Teacher.”

  Mae stood a little way down the path toward the falls. There was a notebook in her hands and she was smiling.

  Margaret closed the door and started down the path.

  Emma had the coffee perking. “Up so early?” She knew that it was Margaret’s habit to sleep late when she wasn’t working.

  “I have to go downtown.”

  “I thought yesterday was your last day.”

  "This has nothing to do with the Board of Education,” and then, knowing that Emma would never let it rest there, she added, "I just thought I’d do a little shopping.”

  Emma smiled. “You’ll get over it.”

  “What?”

  “The restlessness. You’ll come to like retirement. What you need is a hobby.”

  But she had tried retirement at sixty-five, losing her tenure only to find that for her nothing came even close to the pleasure of teaching. “It’s not as if you needed the money,” Reese had said. “After all, you have your pension.”

  It was a cloudy day with a sharp, chilling wind. There was no rainbow at the falls, but the shifting colors were still there. She crossed the bridge and sat down at the same bench. Her heart was beating rapidly and she wondered if she was putting too much of a strain on it. The small park was deserted. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly, trying to relax her muscles. Then she closed her eyes and whispered, “Who are you?”

  There was no reply. Here in the park she could smell the sweet scent of decaying leaves.

  “Who are you?”

  As she concentrated on listening, the roar of the falls seemed to grow louder.

  “Who are you?”

  She felt inside herself for a sense of an answer, but there was nothing there that she couldn’t identify as her own. She began to feel both relieved and disappointed. The monster was being exorcised, but so was something else.

  “Where are you?”

  Her hands were wet from the mist and getting cold. It was silly to stay. As she got up it occurred to her that students usually learned best when the new information was integrated with what they had learned before. She decided to try “Ocean.”

  And was startled. Something. Not a word so much as a feeling of recognition. A feeling from outside herself.

  "Where are you?” she asked again, but this time she tried to picture as well as speak the idea, and decided immediately that it would have been better to choose something more concrete. But before she could think of what to use, there was a reply.

  “Ocean? Please. Where are you?”

  Images accompanied the voiceless words. Images that were her own and yet somehow, now, no longer her own. Ocean was a complex set of sense impressions involving herself and Paul at Asbury Park, but seemed to lack any other meaning. “Please” was a need to know. And “Where are you?” was two children following a river.

  She sensed without seeing—the infant colors shifting restlessly, eagerly, somewhere beneath the mist.

  Margaret sat down again. A gust of wind rained leaves around her bench. Autumn, as every teacher knew, was a time for beginning.

  COMING BACK TO DIXIELAND

  Ain’t got nothing to do

  But sing me the blues—

  Hey, don’t God live out this far.

  Kim Stanley Robinson

  It figures, just as sure as shift-start, that on our big day there’d be trouble. It's a law of physics, the one miners know best: things tend to fuck up.

  I woke first out of the last of several nervous catnaps, and wandered down to the hotel bar to get something a little less heavyweight than the White Brother for my nerves. On one level I was calm as could be, but on another I was feeling a bit shaky (Shaky Barnes, that’s me). Now, we drank the Brother during performances back on the rocks, of course, between sets sitting at the tables, or during the last songs when someone offered it; and Hook would make his announcement, “We never know if this’ll make us play better or worse, but it sure is fun finding out,” and then pass it around. Which was the point; we had t
o play good this day, so I wanted something soothing, with a little less pop to it than the White Brother we’d brought with us, which amplifies your every feeling, including fear.

  So when I threaded my way through the hotel (which was as big as the whole operation on Hebe or Iris) back to our rooms, I expected the band to still be there sleeping. But when I’d finished stepping over all the scattered chairs, tables, mattresses and such (the remains of the previous shift’s practice session) I could find only three of them, all tangled up in the fancy sheets: Fingers, Crazy, and Washboard. I wasn’t surprised that my brother Hook was gone—he often was—but Sidney shouldn’t have been missing; he hadn’t gone off by himself since we left Ceres Central.

  “Hey!” I said, still not too worried. “Where’d they go, you slag-eaters!” They mumbled and grunted and tried to ignore me. I gave Washboard a shove with my foot. “Where’s Hook? Where’s Sidney?” I said a little louder.

  “Quit shouting,” Washboard said fuzzily. “Hook’s probably gone back to the Tower of Bible to visit the Jezebels again.” He buried his head in the pillow, like a snoutbit diving into bubblerock; suddenly it popped back out. “Sidney’s gone?”

  “You see him?”

  Fingers propped himself up on his elbow. “You better find Hook,” he said in his slow way. “Hook, he’ll know where Sidney gone to.”

  “Well, did Hook say he was going to the Tower of Bible?” No one spoke. Crazy crawled over to a bed and sat up. He reached behind the bed and pulled out a tall thin bottle, still half filled with cloudy white liquid. He put it to his mouth and tilted it up; the level dropped abruptly a couple of times.

  “Crazy, I never seen you hit the White Brother so early in the dayshift before,” I said.

  “Shaky,” he replied, “you never seen me get the chance.”

  “You going to get us in trouble,” I said, remembering certain misadventures of the past.

  “No, I’m not,” Crazy said. “Now why don’t you run down Hook, I’m pretty sure he’s in Sodom and Gomorrah, he liked that place”—he took another swallow—“and we’ll hold down the fort and wait for Sidney to come back.”