The Administrator (16 page)

“Who?”

“The beings that lived on the third planet. It must have had life of some kind. It was too rich a world not to harbor sentience. I wonder if they died with her, and if not, where did they go? I wonder if they realized what a precious thing they had in a planet as rich as she must have been? I wonder how they treated her. And how did she treat them?”

“Hold on there, girl, we’ll find out a lot of that when we can land on the planet, but don’t expect too much. I know what you’re thinking. You are wondering if this is the one—the one in the myth about where we came from.” He tenderly covered her small hand with his big, hairy one. “Shasta, this first test actually worked. At least it seems to have. We’ll soon know. The odds were astronomical against it working, but it did, because of you. Do you know what the odds are that the first system tested would turn out to be the bed of mankind?”

“I ... I didn’t say that,” she declared angrily and pulled her hand from his. “I just said that ... that....”

“I know what you said, and I’ve known you long enough to hear what you didn’t say. Forget it Shasta. The laws of probability are too great.”

She looked at him thoughtfully. “What are the odds?”

“Oh, only about a kazillion to zero, that’s all. But hey, with your luck, who knows? Now lets get out of here, okay?” He grinned his lopsided grin and turned to his console.

She set the course and laughed, “A kazillion to zero, huh?”

“Yeah.”

Pretty big odds, she thought, but she fixed her eyes on the third planet, and she watched it until it was just a speck on her screen.

Something stirred deep in the planet’s belly. Warmth began to encircle her vast girth. The beaten, dead Mother began to have a glimmer of consciousness. She had thought she was dead. Was she wrong? No. She was dead, and so was her father, but now He was alive again and sending life giving rays of heat to her tired body. Miles of frozen surface began to thaw. Rivers began to flow and form oceans in the deep crevices that time had gashed into her ruined skin. She felt life begin to stir deep in her womb. And something else—something even more miraculous—she felt them near—still light years away, but coming to her. Could it be? After all these timeless ages, could it be? Yes! She felt their nearness. Yes! Her children were coming home!

Skull

George placed the freshly plucked lilac carefully into the crack in the skull. “There ya go, Yoric. A little decoration for you.”

“George, why do you talk to that darned thing?”

He ran his fingers through his thick, auburn hair and looked at his wife. “What? This?” He wrapped his hands around the human skull and brought it up to eye level.

The lilac bloom sprouting from the top waved gently in the breeze from the open window.

“Yes. That! It’s gruesome, the way you talk to it.”

He held it aloft and chanted, “Alas, poor Yoric. I knew him well.”

Beverly crossed her arms tightly on her bosom. “You didn’t know him. That thing’s at least 100 years old, and I doubt that his name was Yoric. Stupid thing gives me the creeps. I wish we’d never found it at that darned auction. I don’t know why you keep it. Now put it down, and let’s go eat.”

George lowered the skull. “Did you hear that, Yoric? You give Bev the creeps.” He placed it gently on the table and shook his index finger in front of the hole which had once sported a nose. “Now you cut it out, or it’s back in the closet with you. You hear me, Yoric?”

Beverly laughed. “You’re crazy, George. You know that?”

“Sure. Have to be to get along.” He looked down at the gaily decorated skull. “Right, Yoric?”

“Stop it!” Bev shrieked and punched him playfully on the shoulder. “Come on. I’m hungry.”

“Okay, let’s go. Pizza all right?”

“Pizza’s great.” She grabbed his hand. “Come on.”

* * *

The next morning, Bev poured steaming, fragrant coffee into two mugs and carried them to the table. “Want some toast?”

“No, just coffee. Gotta rush this morning. Bunch of big-wigs coming to tour the gallery today. Gotta be my bright-eyed best. A little more caffeine, and I’ll be so wired, they’ll think I’m Superman.”

“Well, I must say I’m surprised you’re so awake this morning after staying up so late. Who were you talking to anyway? Did someone come over after I went to bed?”

George got up and walked over to the coffee pot on the counter. “Huh? I didn’t stay up very long. Went to bed right after you did. You were so zonked, you were snoring.”

“Snoring? I do not snore, you Cad.” She threw a pink package of artificial sweetener at him.

He ducked and laughed. “Missed me. Sure a good thing you quit that softball team. They would’ve lost for sure.”

She sailed another one. It landed with sloshy plop in his cup. “And I did hear you. Must of been after two o’clock. You were talking to someone in the living room. Now who came over?”

“I’m tellin’ you, I went to bed right after you did.” He fished the packet out of his cup with a spoon and grinned at her. “This one’s yours.” He dumped it off the spoon onto her napkin beside her cup. “Honest, Hon. No one was here. Didn’t even have the TV on. You must have dreamt it.”

She looked doubtful. “Well, maybe. But it sure seemed real. I even felt on your side of the bed, but you weren’t there. I remember using your pillow as a huggy bear.”

“That was me. You almost smothered me.”

Another sweetener packet sailed in his direction. “Did not.” She laughed and raised a mischievous eyebrow. “Hmmm. Maybe it was Yoric talking.”

George’s grin faded. A thoughtful look covered his dark, rugged face. “His name’s not Yoric,” he said as if he was talking to himself. “It’s Barlow.”

“Barlow? Why’d you change his name?”

“I didn’t. I ... I just know.”

“Just know? George, what are you talking about?”

His grin returned. He shrugged and patted her plump posterior. “Hell if I know. Just sounded good, I guess.”
      

“Well, I’m late for work, and you will be too if you don’t get going.” She set the coffee mugs in the sink, planted a full-lipped imprint of red lipstick on his cheek and rushed out the door with a casual, “See you tonight,” tossed over her shoulder.

George grabbed his coat, retrieved a monogrammed handkerchief from its pocket, dabbed at the lipstick on his cheek, and headed for the door to follow her out. “Why does she do that?” he muttered, stuffing the handkerchief back in the pocket. “Marking her territory?” He smiled at the thought. “Glad she’s not a canine. You know how they mark their....” He glanced at the skull on the living room table and stopped. “Well, Barlow, your lilac is dead. Do you need another one?” He touched the drooping flower, and it crumbled between his fingers with a sound like dried leaves being crushed by unknowing and uncaring feet. “Wow. It sure died fast. Like you sucked the life out of it.” He stared at the skull. Hollow, black, eye sockets stared back at him.

His coat slid off his arm and dropped unnoticed onto the floor.

“Hi, George. I’m home. What are you doing home so early? I thought ... you....” Bev’s voice trailed off as he turned from the window to look at her.

He held a paint brush in one hand and a paint pallet in the other. His eyes gained awareness slowly, as if he had just awakened. “What time is it?” he asked, his voice dry and hoarse like a chill, October wind.

“It’s six-thirty. What are you doing? You haven’t painted at home in months. Didn’t you go to work? Have you been here all day?” She eyed the canvas. “What’s that? A horse? George, you don’t paint horses. You do landscapes.”

“Yeah, I do, don’t I?” He turned slowly, as if he was waking from a dream, to look at the indistinct streaks of paint on the canvas in front of him.

Within the hastily sketched outlines, a well muscled horse reared. Its hind legs blurred into smoky, strokes of gray. Its forelegs pawed at the air, a look of panic flooding from its wild eyes and flared nostrils. Astride the horse, shoulder length hair streaming in the wind, perched a thin figure. The lines defining his torso were indistinct and blurred. Only his hands clutching the reins were clear. Tough and leathery like a bat’s wings, they gripped the reigns like talons and entangled themselves in the horse’s flowing mane.

“Damn,” he whispered. “Damn, that’s pretty good.”

“George, what’s wrong with you? Why are you....”

He shook his head and laid the brush and pallet down. “Nothing. Nothing, I just, just felt like painting. I called in sick at the gallery and just painted.” He brushed an unruly lock of auburn hair off his forehead that immediately fell back down to claim its rightful place. He looked into Bev’s eyes and grinned a weak smile.

Hands held stiffly on her hips, her lips drawn tight, she stared at him. “Called in sick? With the heads of the gallery coming?
 

“Lisa handled it. That’s what assistants are for. To handle things. I’m sure she did a good job. That’s what I pay her for.”

“Lisa? She’s an assistant, not ... not....” Her gaze stopped searching his face and lingered on the painting, then moved on to the windowsill. “What’s that thing doing there?” She pointed an elegantly manicured fingernail toward the window.

George turned and looked at Barlow perched on the sill, grinning his death’s grin, staring with sightless eyes at the painting. “Well, I—”

“I suppose it was helping you paint?” She braced her hands back on her hips. “Well, I’m sick of that gruesome thing staring at me. It gives me the creeps.” Suddenly, she reached for it. Her scarlet nails screeched across the top as she lost hold and it fell to the carpet.

Rolling, the skull buried its face in the thick piled carpet, then tumbled over to flash its ghastly smile again and again. Finally it thumped hollowly against a chair leg and came to rest, face up, eye sockets glaring.

“Oh shit! It felt like that damn thing jumped right out of my hand.” She turned to George, “Get rid of it! I refuse to touch it again. I don’t want it in this house. Do you understand?”

George rushed to pick up the skull. He cradled it in one large hand and caressed it gently. “Bev, you could of broken it. Why did you do that? I’m not getting rid of him. I can’t.”

“Can’t? Can’t? George, it’s a skull. A dead person’s head. It’s gruesome.”

“Bev, I—”

“Well, maybe you’d rather I left?” She stood stiff, waiting, tears threatened to erupt from her deep, brown eyes.

He set the skull back on the window sill and put his arms around her. “Honey, of course not. I love you.”

She pushed his arms away. “Then why won’t you get rid of it? Why didn’t you take care of the gallery? That’s our future, George. Do you think I want to be a small time copy editor all my life? I want our own graphics publishing company. I thought that’s what you wanted too. That’s why you’re at that stupid gallery pushing arrogant, no-talent artists’ paintings. George, you’ve got more talent than any of those fad sucking leeches. And that’s why I’m working at a third class publishing house. So we can save enough money to buy our dream. How can we do that if you don’t go to work?”

George breathed a slow sigh of relief. “That’s what you’re mad about? The hookey thing? Not Barlow?”

“Barlow? George, it’s a dead person. Not even the whole person, just a piece of him.” She began to cry softly. “I’m not mad about that damn thing. I’m scared of it.”

“But why, Bev? It’s just a—”

“Why?” She pointed to the painting behind him. “That’s why. Look, George. Look at the face.”

George turned toward the painting. He studied it. He gasped. The face of the rider was more distinct from across the room. It was his own face. And super imposed on his image, was a clear, unmistakable image of the skull, complete with the lilac sprouting from the fissure in the forehead. But it was not the image that made him gasp. It was the tortured, agonized expression on the face. As if that face bore all the agonies of all the souls in hell.

He paled, then his body stiffened. He spun around to face Bev again with a cold, hard gaze. “Christ, woman! It’s a painting. That’s all. Just a painting, and a damned good one at that. What’s your problem?”

She stepped back. The puzzled expression on her face twisted into shock, almost fear. “George? What’s wrong with you?” She took another step back and her calves collided with a chair. A low moan escaped her lips as she collapsed into it.

George’s face softened. “Oh, Honey, I’m sorry.” He knelt on the floor in front of her and took her hands in his. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

She flinched at his touch, but left her hands in her lap with his covering them. “George, what’s happening? I’ve never seen you like that.”

He smiled and ran a hand through his hair. “I ... I’m not sure. I just knew that I had to paint that.” He gestured toward the canvas. “I’ll get rid of it tomorrow and the skull too if it frightens you.”

Bev’s gaze darted from his face to the painting, to the grinning skull, back to his face, then came to rest on the painting. “What’s that in the background? A dead tree?”

“It’s the hanging tree.”

“Hanging tree?”

George stood up and went to stand in front to the painting. “Where they hung Barlow for killing his wife Eleanor.”