The Absolved

by Matthew Binder

  “Hello, Mr. Toczauer,” I say. “We have your blood test results. I’m afraid your anemia has worsened. I’d like to speak with you and your family about the next phase of your care.”

  “We’ve fought the cancer like hell, haven’t we, Doc?” the old man stammers. “But I’m tired, now. I know when I’ve been licked.”

  “Don’t you talk like that,” his wife objects. “You’re a fighter. You still got a few good rounds left in you, I know you do!”

  The wife is a nervous, birdlike woman with grey, straw-textured hair and very thin lips. She incessantly touches her face as she talks. Her son puts his arm around her.

  “He hasn’t been eating, Doctor,” she says. “Is that because of the anemia?”

  “Your husband is very sick, Mrs. Toczauer. His bone marrow is rapidly being replaced by scar tissue, leading to abnormal red and white blood cell production. This is causing his spleen and liver to become extremely enlarged.”

  The son, a chubby, ruddy-faced man of fifty, takes control.

  “So what’s the next step here?” he inquires.

  “In situations like your father’s, I’m required by the Quietus Law to inform you of the euthanasia option.”

  “Euthanasia?” the wife asks.

  “The intentional ending of a life,” I say, “to relieve pain and suffering.”

  “That doesn’t sound so bad,” Mr. Toczauer cautions. “Is this a normal thing for people to do?”

  “It’s not particularly common, no. Regardless of a person’s condition, it’s generally human instinct to cling to any semblance of life, no matter how poor its quality. However, just last month, I had a patient meet his end with great courage. He had a terminal case of non-Hodgkin lymphoma, and he decided it was his time. He conferred with his friends and family, and they scheduled a date that worked with everyone’s busy schedules. Those closest to him were able to be by his side. It was quite beautiful, actually.”

  “Hell, I’m sold!” Mr. Toczauer exclaims, turning toward his wife. “What do you think, honey, should we invite Cousin Wayne to my death party?”

  “How can you even joke about such a thing?”

  “This is nonsense,” the son says. “What other options are there?”

  “We can move your father into hospice, where we can make him as comfortable as possible.”

  There is a collective gasp from the family.

  “No, no, no,” the wife cries. “None of this is any good. Please, Doctor, anything that might save him.”

  “The only other option is another heavy dose of chemotherapy, followed by a bone marrow transplant. But you have to understand, these are extremely invasive procedures that will cause your husband extreme and unnecessary pain. The odds he’ll survive them are less than five percent.”

  The mother and children confer. The daughter makes an emotional plea about the sanctity of life and how it must be preserved at all costs while the mother and son nod.

  “I can’t stress the point enough,” I interject, “this series of procedures would be extremely painful, torture really, and, again, the chances of their success are very small.”

  I can tell these words are falling on deaf ears. Each of them has embraced their own brand of absurdity to rationalize an inevitable conclusion. In an effort to appear he’s tempering his foolishness with a modicum of reason, the son asks a final question.

  “And what about the cost? Will we have to pay for this out of pocket or would it be covered?”

  “These procedures are extremely expensive. The costs for them and the subsequent months of care, assuming he survives the initial chemo and transplant, will cost millions of dollars. Of course, your father, as a citizen, under the current laws of the National Healthcare System, is entitled to these services, if that’s what you choose.”

  The three huddle for a final consultation. After less than fifteen seconds, a decision is reached.

  “He is our blood,” the son announces, “and we have a responsibility to him. As long as he’s still breathing, then we have to continue doing everything we can to make sure he lives.”

  “And is this what you want?” I ask Mr. Toczauer.

  “If it’s what my family wants,” he says, “I’ll do it.”

  “Are you sure you believe this is for the best?” I ask the family. “It’s my professional opinion that there are more humane options.”

  Mr. Toczauer tries to speak but is cut off by his son.

  “We’ve made our decision, Doctor. Thank you.”

  “Very well,” I say. “We’ll get your father scheduled to begin his chemotherapy.”

  5

  Our increasing technological advances have driven greater and greater inequality. For decades, this didn’t seem to bother the politicians. Just as long as the overall economy kept growing, they didn’t care who was benefitting. However, in 2030, a tipping point was reached. So much of the economy’s money was concentrated at the top that it effected consumption. Rich people can only buy so many consumer goods, and when they run out of things to buy, they simply save their wealth, essentially removing that money from circulation. On the other hand, poor people spend every dollar they get their hands on. They have to just to live. A lack of savings may be bad for the poor people, but it’s good for consumption, and keeps the economy humming.

  To combat this problem, the government is now providing what they call a Basic Income to every citizen of the U.S. Essentially, the government is giving away money so people can buy the goods the machines and robots are making. Of course, the people are outraged that more money isn’t doled out. There are protests in the streets of every major city nearly every day. The battle cry is that the people don’t receive enough free money for them to really enjoy their freedom. The more progressive wing of our government advocates that there should be a sixty percent increase in the rate. That’s all well and good in theory, but our national debt is currently sitting at $102 trillion, and mounting. In my benevolence, I’ve declined to accept the stipend owed to me, instead donating it to charity.

  Outside the poor folks receiving Basic Income, there is yet another group, on the outermost fringes, that rarely gets discussed. These people, who don’t fit into The Absolved, are the mentally ill, the lunatics, the ex-convicts, and other random undesirables who never would’ve made it even during the heyday of the American economy, the ones you see hopped up on malt liquor and cheap drugs, sleeping on the streets in torn rags, with dirty faces and missing teeth: The Futile. Back in the day, The Futile could at least make enough to eat by panhandling and collecting bottles and cans. But now the streets are closed to beggars, and there are robots who collect all recyclable material.

  The Futile can’t collect Basic Income. In a day and age when all information and data is recorded on The Cloud, they have nevertheless managed to slip through the cracks. They’re outside the system, and once you’re out, it’s very difficult to get back in. It would be a tremendous test of skill and patience for even the most adept and able-minded of us to navigate the maze of bureaucracy required to get reinstated. How any member of The Futile might manage this remains a mystery.

  Some years ago, Rachel became terribly depressed at the notion that she provided no value to society. She had lost her management position at the bank when cryptocurrency replaced the US dollar as the world’s preferred means of money, and while motherhood filled her heart and hours with tenderness, love, and care, she wanted more out of life. The question then became one of how she could best contribute more. She made a list of ways she could feel wondrous by giving back. Then she prioritized her prospects according to feasibility and potential return on investment. She concluded that tutoring refugees would be the best way to make herself feel charitable, while simultaneously earning the admiration and veneration of everyone who knew her. Twice a week, for exactly two weeks, Rachel went to the local shelter to teach English to the refugee children who had escaped France after the successful Muslim insurrection. While she found thi
s feat of charity rewarding, it wasn’t enough. The satisfaction was too private. She needed something on a grander scale, visible to the masses, what friends and strangers alike would recognize as a shining achievement. That’s when she got the idea to start a program called Feed the Forgotten, or FTF for short—a large-scale food kitchen to aid society’s most needy. I warned her about the name and acronym.

  “Aren’t you afraid people will make jokes and call it Feed the Futile?” I asked.

  “Of course not,” she said. “Who could be so cruel?”

  As it happens, this is in fact what nearly everyone calls the program, including myself. Even Rachel called it that once, during an interview, a gaffe that cost me no small sum of money to hire a team of search engine optimizers to eliminate.

  I pull up to the event at 9:00 p.m. It’s still very hot, an atmosphere worsened by a ceiling of clouds that trap in the heat. A thin crescent of moonlight peeks through, providing a glimmer of hope that good may still predominate over evil. Despite these conditions, the line for food stretches out the front door, snakes around the building, down a small embankment, and ends in the park next to the bronzed statue of a robot carrying a human boy on its back that was erected in 2029.

  The FTF uses the cafeteria of an inner-city junior high. To get inside, one must pass through a proton beam scanner at the front door. The hallways are lined with lockers secured by electronic pin-codes. Along the wall, in outsized letters, reads a quote from a once prominent novelist who in recent years has fallen terribly out of fashion: “We work to satisfy our egos!” Through the quote, some hooligan has spray-painted a line, and, below it, scribbled, “We loaf because we have nothing else to do!”

  Rachel is leading a small team of volunteers. Over the years, they’ve developed a very efficient system. Thanks to automation, what once took fifteen people to accomplish can now be done with only three.

  One by one, the masses pass through a buffet of assorted fruits and vegetables, hot soups, crisp salads, breasts of chicken, flanks of beef, and multiple varieties of noodles, rice, cookies, and cakes. Each fills their plate to the brim, overwhelmed by the bounty. Standing at the end of the line, Rachel is there to greet each man, woman, and child with a warm embrace and words of kindness and cheer.

  At times like these I realize just how much Rachel means to me. She’s much more to me than a partner. She is a part of me. Without her, I’m incomplete, the lesser half of a greater whole. When I think of my small indiscretions, it’s almost as if the Taylors of the world don’t exist—practical nonentities. So intense are my feelings that I don’t even suffer remorse for my actions—meaningless, insignificant trifles! My heart is swollen with admiration and joy. I can’t bear to interrupt Rachel in her generosity.

  After an hour of this harmonious image, I’m disturbed by something strange and wicked. But it cannot be, I think. Not my Rachel, not my perfect flower, my idyllic, charming goddess. A small confrontation has flared up between her and one of her beneficiaries, in whose face Rachel is wagging an indignant finger. Then, after she’s completed her rebuke, the man looks away for a brief moment, and when he does, Rachel spits on his plate of food.

  We don’t return home ’til midnight. Rachel changes into her pajamas while I prepare myself a snack of gluten-free cookies and almond milk.

  “Wonderful event tonight,” I say, moderating my tone against any perceived aggression.

  “Perhaps our best one yet.”

  “It seems every week more and more people are finding themselves in need of your help.”

  “I only wish their numbers were even greater so I could be of even more service.”

  “I have something I need to ask you about, but because it’s so silly, I’m reluctant.”

  “Don’t be shy.”

  “I could’ve sworn I saw you spit in someone’s food.”

  “You saw that?”

  “I did.”

  “The man told me we live in an unjust society that has left humanity in the cold. How am I supposed to feel wonderful and noble about my contributions when the people I’m helping say such things?”

  I nod in tacit agreement and climb into bed, Rachel right behind. In minutes, she’s sound asleep and grinning, leaving me to lie here sick in my stomach.

  6

  Taylor has been hounding me to make more time for her. Nothing outlandish, just the usual list of gripes, misgivings, and injustices. The other day, for instance, we argued because I haven’t taken her to the theater. A production of Doctor Faustus has received five stars from all of the tastemakers, and though I don’t recall having made such a declaration, Taylor swears I’ve promised to take her. It’s possible I set an expectation during a moment of passion, but I can’t remember. The moment we finished, any such assurance was wiped clean away. And anyway, there’s too much at risk. A man can’t simply go gallivanting all over town with his mistress. There are rules, decorum, which at all costs must be abided. One’s own reputation and interests aren’t the single thing at stake. Other parties are involved—Rachel, for one. There’s not a mountain I wouldn’t climb or an ocean I wouldn’t swim to shield her from the humiliation of my indiscretions. And Taylor’s good name, there’s that to consider, as well. She’s just coming into adulthood, and life is hard as it is. If she’s not going to concern herself with remaining in good public standing, then it’s my duty to be vigilant for her.

  The day after Rachel’s event—yet another scorcher, whose crackling, glistening heat you can feel on your hands and behind the eyes—Serena and I are enjoying oysters and a dry French rosé at a restaurant on the Bay. She insists the acidity in the vintage works to balance the oyster’s saltiness, yet not to overpower it. I’m no connoisseur but I know what I like, and the two of us are now working on our second bottle, the main course yet to be served.

  My reason for inviting Serena to dinner is to ask if she can help secure Taylor a position in the second-year medical school class. Without names or details, I describe her circumstances—how a series of unfortunate restrictions prevented her from adequate study, landing her just outside the top twenty-five percent of first year students. I stress how ambitious and hardworking she is, how she desperately wants to avoid a job as an ass-wiper, or even worse, to fall into The Absolved.

  “Who is this girl you’re having an affair with?” Serena asks.

  “An affair? She’s a friend of the family … more of an acquaintance, really.”

  Despite my denial, Serena dives straight into a sermon about the perils of infidelity. I’ve never before heard her speak with so much passion. When compelled by a powerful emotion, there’s not another person alive capable of such a demonstration of charisma and persuasion. Her exhortations, while differing in subject matter, share a similar aesthetic to those of orators of yore, Martin Luther King Jr. and Winston Churchill.

  While certainly not arguing wholesale against adultery, Serena claims, for example, that affairs can be “both fun and healthy when done correctly.” She goes on at great lengths to instill in me respect for the pitfalls of an affair pursued improperly. The number one danger: falling in love with your lover.

  “A man in love with a woman who is not his wife,” she says, “is a doomed man. To put it bluntly, no good can ever come of a love born in sin. It can only lead to destruction and chaos. A man who pursues love outside of his marriage puts his entire life in danger. He’ll obviously lose his wife and family. But that’s just the start of it. Most likely, such a man’s professional life will be flushed down the toilet, because nobody wants to do business with someone who can’t act in accordance with the moral code of the institution of which he’s a member. A man so reckless as to fall in love with his mistress is a man who places no value on prudence or good sense. And when the principles of good conduct and discretion are lost, financial ruin is sure to follow. The second great danger is losing one’s vigilance. This can happen when a man who has a long history of affairs gets too cocksure and impetuous. His track r
ecord of success deludes him into carelessness, and thus down the path of tragedy.”

  Serena’s lecture leaves me full of pounding dread, enough, nearly, to cut off the affair immediately. While confident I will never fall in love with Taylor—for she is merely a dalliance, a charming and exquisite distraction from the everydayness of my regular life, an embodiment of amorous passion—there is a risk that I will fail to ensure my actions conform to my ethics. And where is my mind? It’s good to check in now and again: I’m certain my true heart’s desire remains with Rachel. I’m not so unwise as to think that tremendous physical chemistry can surpass the rock-solid foundation of sentimental and intellectual intimacy that Rachel and I have spent years forging. But I must be wary. I wouldn’t be the first man to mistake for love the feelings spurred by arousing the interest of someone so desirable as Taylor.

  “So will you help the girl or not?” I ask.

  “You’re really not sleeping with her?”

  “Of course not. I’m married to Rachel.”

  “A family friend, you say?”

  “Of sorts.”

  “And you’re very close to this girl?”

  “Not really.”

  “I see.”

  “What do you say?”

  “If she truly meant something to you, I would, but since you said yourself that she doesn’t, I can’t really justify throwing my weight around so that your girl can get a spot at the expense of another student, whose credentials are not up for dispute.”

  Serena’s refusal, clearly, makes things trickier than I’d like. That I can’t deliver is almost enough to make me take her to the theater, if only to soften the blow. But I can’t do it. A man in my circles is liable to cross paths at the theater with any number of colleagues or friends. I can imagine Taylor by my side, radiant in a splendid gown, proud on my arm, overjoyed by the wonderful show, when Dr. Cartwright from cardiology and his wife, Samantha, come bounding toward us, so that in a panic I’m forced to hiss at Taylor, “Take five steps to your left, and pretend you don’t know me!”