EMERGENCE (18 page)

"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."

"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).

Key word, of course, is "unnecessary"; would not hesitate to warn of impending consequences, employ force as required. But ever been possible for perceptive, intelligent woman to avoid direct confrontation while still getting own way: Merely question of discerning where buttons located, cataloguing effect of each, pushing in proper sequence—without getting caught at it. . . .

To that end, am studying Adam: Feeling out responses to subliminal suggestions; learning what psychological knee jerks exist, where kept, how triggered; reactions to my emotions, etc.

But proceeding carefully. Not uncomplicated lad, nor at all stupid (difficulty compounded by political psychology absorbed at mother's knee); will spoil everything if suspects manipulation attempt in progress. At least two probable consequences foreseeable: One, will realize am trying to avoid controlling him by force; and two, thereby have nose rubbed in very fact that I
can
.

Heart of problem, of course, is fact that Adam, while surely hominem,
not
member of AA group—I know: All names, addresses in Tarzan File. And
everyone
else alive today on planet, by definition, must be considered AB—must be regarded, absent substantial evidence to contrary, potential hazard to own life, limb, property. Wherefore, despite uniformly favorable data accumulated to present—including Terry's opinion—still reserving judgment; maintaining slightly watchful attitude where Adam concerned.

(True, beginning to feel something of an ingrate by this point; but learned through experience: Teacher not busybody; not in habit of volunteering superfluous suggestions. On rare occasions when did go to trouble of offering advice [particularly when so unambiguously phrased as to constitute, unmistakably, Considered Opinion], proceeding notwithstanding recommendation almost inevitably followed by Consequences, usually regrettable in nature.)

Have known Adam (consciously) only two days. Most of what have learned thus far limited to hearsay (his) or adduced evidence (own conclusions, based on observations). Have not, with own eyes, seen anything concrete enough to justify abandoning caution entirely—or confirm, for that matter. But preliminary impression favorable; rather suspect will cancel alert shortly; embrace (figuratively speaking) new acquaintance as companion, friend, partner—perhaps even (conceivably, someday, should events so devolve) mate.

Which will be distinct relief: Paranoia most wearing perspective for extended use; tiresome way to go through life. Trust more comfortable outlook—except when blows up in face, of course.

But doubt this apt to. Have often, during brief lifetime, entertained self by "people-watching"; plus always took advantage of opportunities to meet, get to know, as many people as possible. Thereby acquired something resembling competence at picking friends (at least those whom so labeled never betrayed trust). And while do perhaps weight Terry's judgment more heavily than should when forming own impressions of strangers, am not myself totally helpless in that regard.

And without being able to put finger on any specific event or reason why, feel
comfortable
around Adam. Have from first meeting postcoma. Almost as if have known him forever . . .

(Note to Significant Discovery Department: Just this moment realized—have felt this way with precisely three other people in whole life: Daddy, Momma, Teacher. Wonder what
that
means. Sounds like sort of question probably best not delved into too deeply just now. Or resolved in haste.)

Well, haste unnecessary; will have ample time to debate imponderables. Expect to be here several weeks at least, resting, eating prodigiously, exercising: Rehabilitation after physiological burnout amounts to substantial project; side effects no joke—not kidding when said almost died; did really bang-up job on self. Adam weighed me as part of initial diagnostic procedure; and, based on his data, had lost nearly 20 percent of total body weight, between water, tissue.

No, not sort of experience one bounces back from overnight. And still long way from even first bounce.

In fact, now that I think about it, this is quite enough for first effort: I'm
tired
. . . . !

Good night, Posterity

Help . . . ! Adam trying new approach: devious, insidious, unexpected—
fattening!

Also wonderful: Who would expect servant-raised-and-educated, musically gifted, apparently hedonistic, smooth-talking young stranger to be competent cook—no, cancel that—inspired master chef? Can't imagine where he finds this incredible variety of makings—meats, fruit, vegetables, etc. All prepared with genuine magic touch. . . .

(Manufacture same dishes myself; results merely adequate. But let Adam walk through kitchen, stop at stove, sniff pots' contents, somehow Something. Happens—something
wonderful!
)

And in present condition, trying to regain lost tissue, cannot begin to take objective view of offerings: Anything failing to bite me first goes to stoke fires (Adam has already used expression "feeding frenzy" [smiled when said it, but doubt really kidding]). In short, am ravenous; appetite running amok; not responsible for actions in presence of food—any food. But especially
this
food . . . !

Example, breakfast today: two homemade whole-wheat pancakes, dripping with real butter, drowned in clover honey; delicate two-egg/ham-cheese-mushroom omelet; four-ounce filet, crisp outside, medium-rare inside; hash-brown potatoes; ten-ounce orange juice, 16-ounce milk; megavitamin/mineral pills; huge bowl of
fresh strawberries!
(Where could he
possibly
have found fresh strawberries . . . ?)

Midmorning snack: half dozen hot, fresh blueberry muffins with thick pat of butter melted into each; big bowl of chocolate mint ice cream dripping with thick homemade hot fudge topping, sprinkled with nuts, buried under blanket of real whipped cream, capped with cherry; 16-ounce glass of homemade eggnog.

Lunch: large green salad covered with Adam's own
bleu
cheese dressing; two-inch-thick slice of rare standing-rib roast smothered in mushrooms, gravy; baked potato (skin crisped, suitable for crunching like cookie; insides removed, cream whipped, butter blended, then replaced); tender cauliflower swimming in exquisite cheese sauce; side dish of applesauce; fresh hot rolls; another 16-ounce glass of milk. Plus dessert: incredible
something
combining best features of angel food cake (laced with chocolate chips), vanilla pudding, covered with (so help me) miniature hot toasted marshmallows.

Midafternoon snack: two slices of completely egg-and-milk-saturated French toast, sprinkled with cinnamon, powdered sugar, liberally paved with butter pats, and dripping with maple syrup; colossal chocolate milkshake.

Whew . . . ! Isn't time for dinner yet; don't know what's planned. But doesn't matter; merely reviewing day's menu thus far imparts great sense of confidence for future (plus makes me hungry again): Know full well that whatever may be, will be work of sheerest culinary artistry. (Will
taste
good, too . . . !)

Obviously this is tough life: Gradually wake somewhere around midmorning to aromas wafting up from kitchen as Adam prepares breakfast. Ring to let him know am back among living.

Somehow puts preparations on Hold. Appears instantly in room to help me from bed (can walk myself, but balance not reliable yet; still awfully weak) to potty for morning dump. Thence into tub (which previously filled without waking me); turns on Jacuzzis, administers massage to get blood flowing again. Bathes me gently yet efficiently; impersonally, without "taking liberties" (either teasingly and/or in earnest), despite intimate contact necessarily involved (and notwithstanding undisguised libidinous ambitions). Assists me from tub, dries me with huge, thick, bath-sheet towels; dresses me to extent required by day's schedule (usually robe, slippers); dries, combs hair. Then, steadied by his arm, I walk to kitchen, where he completes breakfast, somehow picking up preparations where left off without even hint of difficulty.

After breakfast, again leaning on shoulder, I take quarter-mile hike (once around house,
inside
—no kidding!) for exercise; then lounge in library, reading while Adam practices piano. (In times past people world over paid
money
to hear poorer keyboard work than I get daily as private Muzak while enjoying fruits of most impressive book collection have ever seen.)

Adam wakes me when time to return to kitchen for midmorning snack (invariably fall asleep on couch); then back to library for more music, reading (as long as eyes stay open).