American Science Fiction

by Gary K. Wolfe

  “Charlie, go to the bathroom. Don’t you dare do it in your pants.”

  He wants to obey her, but his legs are too soft to move. His arms go up automatically to ward off blows.

  “For God’s sake, Rose. Leave him alone. You’ve got him terrified. You always do this, and the poor kid—”

  “Then why don’t you help me? I have to do it all by myself. Every day I try to teach him—to help him catch up to the others. He’s just slow, that’s all. But he can learn like everyone else.”

  “You’re fooling yourself, Rose. It’s not fair to us or to him. Pretending he’s normal. Driving him as if he were an animal that could learn to do tricks. Why don’t you leave him alone?”

  “Because I want him to be like everyone else.”

  As they argue, the feeling that grips Charlie’s insides becomes greater. His bowels feel as if they will burst and he knows he should go to the bathroom as she has told him so often. But he can’t walk. He feels like sitting down right there in the kitchen, but it is wrong and she will slap him.

  He wants his spinner. If he has his spinner and he watches it going round and round, he will be able to control himself and not make in his pants. But the spinner is all apart with some of the rings under the table and some under the sink, and the cord is near the stove.

  It is very strange that although I can recall the voices clearly their faces are still blurred, and I can see only general outlines. Dad massive and slumped. Mom thin and quick. Hearing them now, arguing with each other across the years, I have the impulse to shout at them: “Look at him. There, down there! Look at Charlie. He has to go to the toilet!”

  Charlie stands clutching and pulling at his red checkered shirt as they argue over him. The words are angry sparks between them—an anger and a guilt he can’t identify.

  “Next September he’s going to go back to P.S. 13 and do the term’s work over again.”

  “Why can’t you let yourself see the truth? The teacher says he’s not capable of doing the work in a regular class.”

  “That bitch a teacher? Oh, I’ve got better names for her. Let her start with me again and I’ll do more than just write to the board of education. I’ll scratch that dirty slut’s eyes out. Charlie, why are you twisting like that? Go to the bathroom. Go by yourself. You know how to go.”

  “Can’t you see he wants you to take him? He’s frightened.”

  “Keep out of this. He’s perfectly capable of going to the bathroom himself. The book says it gives him confidence and a feeling of achievement.”

  The terror that waits in that cold tile room overwhelms him. He is afraid to go there alone. He reaches up for her hand and sobs out: “Toi— toi . . .” and she slaps his hand away.

  “No more,” she says sternly. “You’re a big boy now. You can go by yourself. Now march right into that bathroom and pull your pants down the way I taught you. I warn you, if you make in your pants you’ll get spanked.”

  I can almost feel it now, the stretching and knotting in his intestines as the two of them stand over him waiting to see what he will do. His whimper becomes a soft crying as suddenly he can control no longer, and he sobs and covers his face with his hands as he dirties himself.

  It is soft and warm and he feels the confusion of relief and fear. It is his, but she will take it away from him as she always does. She will take it away and keep it for herself. And she will spank him. She comes toward him, screaming that he is a bad boy, and Charlie runs to his father for help.

  Suddenly, I remember that her name is Rose and his name is Matt. It’s odd to have forgotten your parents’ names. And what about Norma? Strange I haven’t thought about them all for a long time. I wish I could see Matt’s face now, to know what he was thinking at that moment. All I remember is that as she began to spank me, Matt Gordon turned and walked out of the apartment.

  I wish I could see their faces more clearly.

  PROGRESS REPORT 11

  May 1—Why haven’t I ever noticed how beautiful Alice Kinnian is? She has pigeon-soft brown eyes and feathery brown hair down to the hollow of her neck. When she smiles, her full lips look as if she’s pouting.

  We went to a movie and then to dinner. I didn’t see much of the first picture because I was too conscious of her sitting next to me. Twice her bare arm touched mine on the armrest, and both times the fear that she would become annoyed made me pull back. All I could think about was her soft skin just inches away. Then I saw, two rows ahead of us, a young man with his arm around his girl, and I wanted to put my arm around Miss Kinnian. Terrifying. But if I did it slowly . . . first resting my arm on the back of her seat . . . moving up . . . inch by inch . . . to rest near her shoulders and the back of her neck . . . casually . . .

  I didn’t dare.

  The best I could do was rest my elbow on the back of her seat, but by the time I got there I had to shift position to wipe the perspiration off my face and neck.

  Once, her leg accidentally brushed against mine.

  It became such an ordeal—so painful—that I forced myself to take my mind off her. The first picture had been a war film, and all I caught was the ending where the G.I. goes back to Europe to marry the woman who saved his life. The second picture interested me. A psychological film about a man and woman apparently in love but actually destroying each other. Everything suggests that the man is going to kill his wife but at the last moment, something she screams out in a nightmare makes him recall something that happened to him during his childhood. The sudden memory shows him that his hatred is really directed at a depraved governess who had terrified him with frightening stories and left a flaw in his personality. Excited at discovering this, he cries out with joy so that his wife awakens. He takes her in his arms and the implication is that all his problems have been solved. It was pat and cheap, and I must have shown my anger because Alice wanted to know what was wrong. “It’s a lie,” I explained, as we walked out into the lobby. “Things just don’t happen that way.”

  “Of course not.” She laughed. “It’s a world of make-believe.”

  “Oh, no! That’s no answer.” I insisted. “Even in the world of make-believe there have to be rules. The parts have to be consistent and belong together. This kind of picture is a lie. Things are forced to fit because the writer or the director or somebody wanted something in that didn’t belong. And it doesn’t feel right.”

  She looked at me thoughtfully as we walked out into the bright dazzling night-lights of Times Square. “You’re coming along fast.”

  “I’m confused. I don’t know what I know any more.”

  “Never mind that,” she insisted. “You’re beginning to see and understand things.” She waved her hand to take in all of the neon and glitter around us as we crossed over to Seventh Avenue. “You’re beginning to see what’s behind the surface of things. What you say about the parts having to belong together—that was a pretty good insight.”

  “Oh, come on now. I don’t feel as if I’m accomplishing anything. I don’t understand about myself or my past. I don’t even know where my parents are, or what they look like. Do you know that when I see them in a flash of memory or in a dream the faces are a blur? I want to see their expressions. I can’t understand what’s going on unless I can see their faces—”

  “Charlie, calm down.” People were turning to stare. She slipped her arm through mine and pulled me close to restrain me. “Be patient. Don’t forget you’re accomplishing in weeks what takes others a lifetime. You’re a giant sponge soaking in knowledge. Soon you’ll begin to connect things up, and you’ll see how all the different worlds of learning are related. All the levels, Charlie, like steps on a giant ladder. And you’ll climb higher and higher to see more and more of the world around you.”

  As we entered the cafeteria on Forty-fifth Street and picked up our trays, she spoke animatedly. “Ordinary people,” she said, “can see only a l
ittle bit. They can’t change much or go any higher than they are, but you’re a genius. You’ll keep going up and up, and see more and more. And each step will reveal worlds you never even knew existed.”

  People on the line who heard her turned to stare at me, and only when I nudged her to stop did she lower her voice. “I just hope to God,” she whispered, “that you don’t get hurt.”

  For a little while after that I didn’t know what to say. We ordered our food at the counter and carried it to our table and ate without talking. The silence made me nervous. I knew what she meant about her fear, so I joked about it.

  “Why should I get hurt? I couldn’t be any worse off than I was before. Even Algernon is still smart, isn’t he? As long as he’s up there I’m in good shape.” She toyed with her knife making circular depressions in a pat of butter and the movement hypnotized me. “And besides,” I told her, “I overheard something—Professor Nemur and Dr. Strauss were arguing, and Nemur said he’s positive that nothing can go wrong.”

  “I hope so,” she said. “You have no idea how afraid I’ve been that something might go wrong. I feel partly responsible.” She saw me staring at the knife and she put it down carefully beside her plate.

  “I never would have done it but for you,” I said.

  She laughed and it made me tremble. That’s when I saw that her eyes were soft brown. She looked down at the tablecloth quickly and blushed.

  “Thank you, Charlie,” she said, and took my hand.

  It was the first time anyone had ever done that, and it made me bolder. I leaned forward, holding on to her hand, and the words came out. “I like you very much.” After I said it, I was afraid she’d laugh, but she nodded and smiled.

  “I like you too, Charlie.”

  “But it’s more than liking. What I mean is . . . oh, hell! I don’t know what I mean.” I knew I was blushing, and I didn’t know where to look or what to do with my hands. I dropped a fork, and when I tried to retrieve it, I knocked over a glass of water and it spilled on her dress. Suddenly, I had become clumsy and awkward again, and when I tried to apologize I found my tongue had become too large for my mouth.

  “That’s all right, Charlie,” she tried to reassure me. “It’s only water. Don’t let it upset you this way.”

  In the taxi on the way home, we were silent for a long time, and then she put down her purse and straightened my tie and puffed up my breast pocket handkerchief. “You were very upset tonight, Charlie.”

  “I feel ridiculous.”

  “I upset you by talking about it. I made you self-conscious.”

  “It’s not that. What bothers me is that I can’t put into words the way I feel.”

  “These feelings are new to you. Not everything has to . . . be put into words.”

  I moved closer to her and tried to take her hand again, but she pulled away. “No, Charlie. I don’t think this is good for you. I’ve upset you, and it might have a negative effect.”

  When she put me off, I felt awkward and ridiculous at the same time. It made me angry with myself and I pulled back to my side of the seat and stared out the window. I hated her as I had never hated anyone before—with her easy answers and maternal fussing. I wanted to slap her face, to make her crawl, and then to hold her in my arms and kiss her.

  “Charlie, I’m sorry if I’ve upset you.”

  “Forget it.”

  “But you’ve got to understand what’s happening.”

  “I understand,” I said, “and I’d rather not talk about it.”

  By the time the cab reached her apartment on Seventy-seventh Street, I was thoroughly miserable.

  “Look,” she said, “this is my fault. I shouldn’t have gone out with you tonight.”

  “Yes, I see that now.”

  “What I mean is, we have no right to put this on a personal . . . emotional level. You have so much to do. I have no right to come into your life at this time.”

  “That’s my worry, isn’t it?”

  “Is it? This isn’t your private affair any more, Charlie. You’ve got obligations now—not only to Professor Nemur and Dr. Strauss, but to the millions who may follow in your footsteps.”

  The more she talked that way, the worse I felt. She highlighted my awkwardness, my lack of knowledge about the right things to say and do. I was a blundering adolescent in her eyes, and she was trying to let me down easy.

  As we stood at the door to her apartment, she turned and smiled at me and for a moment I thought she was going to invite me in, but she just whispered: “Good night, Charlie. Thank you for a wonderful evening.”

  I wanted to kiss her good night. I had worried about it earlier. Didn’t a woman expect you to kiss her? In the novels I’d read and the movies I’d seen, the man makes the advances. I had decided last night that I would kiss her. But I kept thinking: what if she turns me down?

  I moved closer and reached for her shoulders, but she was too quick for me. She stopped me and took my hand in hers. “We’d better just say good night this way, Charlie. We can’t let this get personal. Not yet.”

  And before I could protest, or ask what she meant by not yet, she started inside. “Good night, Charlie, and thank you again for a lovely . . . lovely time.” And closed the door.

  I was furious at her, myself, and the world, but by the time I got home, I realized she was right. Now, I don’t know whether she cares for me or if she was just being kind. What could she possibly see in me? What makes it so awkward is that I’ve never experienced anything like this before. How does a person go about learning how to act toward another person? How does a man learn how to behave toward a woman?

  The books don’t help much.

  But next time, I’m going to kiss her good night.

  May 3—One of the things that confuses me is never really knowing when something comes up from my past, whether it really happened that way, or if that was the way it seemed to be at the time, or if I’m inventing it. I’m like a man who’s been half-asleep all his life, trying to find out what he was like before he woke up. Everything is strangely slow-motion and blurred.

  I had a nightmare last night, and when I woke up I remembered something.

  First the nightmare: I’m running down a long corridor, half blinded by the swirls of dust. At times I run forward and then I float around and run backwards, but I’m afraid because I’m hiding something in my pocket. I don’t know what it is or where I got it, but I know they want to take it away from me and that frightens me.

  The wall breaks down and suddenly there is a red-haired girl with her arms outstretched to me—her face is a blank mask. She takes me into her arms, kisses and caresses me, and I want to hold her tightly but I’m afraid. The more she touches me, the more frightened I become because I know I must never touch a girl. Then, as her body rubs up against mine, I feel a strange bubbling and throbbing inside me that makes me warm. But when I look up I see a bloody knife in her hands.

  I try to scream as I run, but no sound comes out of my throat, and my pockets are empty. I search in my pockets but I don’t know what it is I’ve lost or why I was hiding it. I know only that it’s gone, and there is blood on my hands too.

  When I woke up, I thought of Alice, and I had the same feeling of panic as in the dream. What am I afraid of? Something about the knife.

  I made myself a cup of coffee and smoked a cigarette. I’d never had a dream like it before, and I knew it was connected with my evening with Alice. I have begun to think of her in a different way.

  Free association is still difficult, because it’s hard not to control the direction of your thoughts . . . just to leave your mind open and let anything flow into it . . . ideas bubbling to the surface like a bubble bath . . . a woman bathing . . . a girl . . . Norma taking a bath . . . I am watching through the keyhole . . . and when she gets out of the tub to dry herself I see that her body is diffe
rent from mine. Something is missing.

  Running down the hallway . . . somebody chasing me . . . not a person . . . just a big flashing kitchen knife . . . and I’m scared and crying but no voice comes out because my neck is cut and I’m bleeding . . .

  “Mama, Charlie is peeking at me through the keyhole . . .”

  Why is she different? What happened to her? . . . blood . . . bleeding . . . a dark cubbyhole . . .

  Three blind mice . . . three blind mice,

  See how they run! See how they run!

  They all run after the farmer’s wife,

  She cut off their tails with a carving knife,

  Did you ever see such a sight in your life,

  As three . . . blind . . . mice?

  Charlie, alone in the kitchen early in the morning. Everyone else asleep, and he amuses himself playing with his spinner. One of the buttons pops off his shirt as he bends over, and it rolls across the intricate line-pattern of the kitchen linoleum. It rolls towards the bathroom and he follows, but then he loses it. Where is the button? He goes into the bathroom to find it. There is a closet in the bathroom where the clothes hamper is, and he likes to take out all the clothes and look at them. His father’s things and his mother’s . . . and Norma’s dresses. He would like to try them on and make believe he is Norma, but once when he did that his mother spanked him for it. There in the clothes hamper he finds Norma’s underwear with dried blood. What had she done wrong? He was terrified. Whoever had done it might come looking for him. . . .

  Why does a memory like that from childhood remain with me so strongly, and why does it frighten me now? Is it because of my feelings for Alice?

  Thinking about it now, I can understand why I was taught to keep away from women. It was wrong for me to express my feelings to Alice. I have no right to think of a woman that way—not yet.