Read The Bradbury Report Online
Authors: Steven Polansky
The Bradbury Report (15 page)
Saturday night. I should get out, but how can I? It would be nice to laugh once in a while. Your husband dies and you become scary to your friends. They shy away. I need to run to the store for some disinfectant at least. Not tonight. I'm too tired. It's quiet outside. The calm after. We suffered some damage here, in town. Tree limbs down, patio furniture blown around. There'll be some cleanup. I didn't get the chance to check on my garden. One week to Dolly Day. Jesus. What an embarrassment. Let us all make total fools of ourselves, why don't we? I'll be in. I have to figure out something he'll eat or he'll starve to death. He drank some grape juice for me
today. I'm forcing fluids. With all the sweating and shitting he's doing, he must be dehydrated.
today. I'm forcing fluids. With all the sweating and shitting he's doing, he must be dehydrated.
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They just called. A man. I didn't recognize his voice. He wanted to confirm that they'd be picking up the clone Wednesday night at eight. They have verified the identity of the original. From the tattoo. You were right, he said. He is your Ray Bradbury. Not my Ray Bradbury, I told him. He told me how to read the code. The number on the clone's arm, which I didn't really see until this morning, is 1123043468. The first six numbers give you the birth date of the clone's original, in this case November 23, 2004. The last four numbers, 3468, are the last four numbers of the original's social security number. Easy when you know the key. They are sure Ray is still alive, which I'm happy to hear, though they haven't located him yet. I wonder if he and Sara still live in New Hampshire. I didn't mention that. I'm not sure why, but I didn't want to give that information, to be of that kind of help. I wonder how many children they have, what their life has been like. Then he said that because I knew the original, they'd been considering a new course of action, one that would further involve me, which they'll tell me about Wednesday when they come to get the clone. I said I didn't think I wanted to be further involved. That may be, he said. Condescending jerk. We'll talk about it Wednesday, he said. There'll be nothing to talk about, I told him. I was angry. I still am. The fact that I know the original is the very reason I ought not to be further involved. I should have said that. We'll see, he said. Then he hung up. He didn't even ask me how things were going.
I went up to check on him sometime midmorning. He was asleep. I'd left him on his side, but he'd rolled onto his back. He was breathing through his mouth, making little snoring noises. He was still wearing the shirt they'd brought him in, and it was filthy. I managed to get it off him without waking him up. It was soaked with his sweat and spattered with his vomit. I put it straight into the garbage. I need to brush his teeth. I could not have waked him if I'd tried, but it is not easy to get someone's shirt off when he can't cooperate. It is like making a bed with the person in it, which I learned to do when my husband was near the end. I saw the tattoo. We'd thought the clones must bear some mark of identification, but I was still a little shocked, really, to see it. The numbers were bigger and darker than you'd expect.
They'd clearly been tattooed. They looked aggressive and mean. I sat down in the chair by the bed and watched him lying asleep on his back with his shirt off. I let him air out. I've seen the clone, now, all over, top and bottom, back and front. I've touched him in the most private places. We'd believed the cloning process might result in some physical deformities, that the clones might be clubfooted or harelipped. Maybe worse than that. Not this clone, anyway. His body is beautiful. It is flawless. Everything is where, and as, it should be. He is more beautiful than I remember Ray being, though I never got to see Ray with his clothes off. Am I seeing him now? As he was then? Was he this beautiful? I was thinking about how he'd got an erection when I was cleaning him, about how I'd held it in my hand. I felt a long, deep tug down there. I touched myself. I hadn't thought to do that in a long time. Not since my husband died. Not when we were together.
Sunday. July 19. 9:15 p.m.They'd clearly been tattooed. They looked aggressive and mean. I sat down in the chair by the bed and watched him lying asleep on his back with his shirt off. I let him air out. I've seen the clone, now, all over, top and bottom, back and front. I've touched him in the most private places. We'd believed the cloning process might result in some physical deformities, that the clones might be clubfooted or harelipped. Maybe worse than that. Not this clone, anyway. His body is beautiful. It is flawless. Everything is where, and as, it should be. He is more beautiful than I remember Ray being, though I never got to see Ray with his clothes off. Am I seeing him now? As he was then? Was he this beautiful? I was thinking about how he'd got an erection when I was cleaning him, about how I'd held it in my hand. I felt a long, deep tug down there. I touched myself. I hadn't thought to do that in a long time. Not since my husband died. Not when we were together.
An odd day. They've all been odd, these days with the clone. I've given up on calling him Sonny. It doesn't suit him. He's too grave and sad. Uriah. Maybe it's Sunday. Sunday has always been unsettling for me, from the time I was little. I'm off kilter on Sunday. Even with my husband I felt aimless and empty. A free-floating anxiety, a niggling sense of some menace gathering, of something impending. Maybe Sunday is like this for everyone. I don't think it is. I didn't go to church today. It's worse when I skip church. Maybe it's dread, left over from childhood, about the start of the next week of school. But I loved school. Maybe something bad happened to me on Sunday once, and I've forgotten or repressed it. Maybe I will die on a Sunday. Sunday nights are especially hard. All the nights are hard now, clone or no. Even so, there is something different about Sunday night. I'm mournful, wary. I miss my children. I wish the clone would talk. Tonight I would like the company.
The vomiting has stopped. His bowel movements appear normal. Two times today, both times his stool was solid. I checked it for blood or worms. Why did I check? I'm a scatologist, a coprophile. I can't tell anything about his urine. And I am constipated, which I almost never am. Whatever the opposite is of sympathetic reaction. I'm eating dried prunes. I offered him some, and he ate them. The poor thing was starving. He gobbled them up. I
sautéed a chicken breast for his lunch. As if he'd been taking regular meals. It was noontime, anyway, and I took it up to him. He made a terrible face. It was a visceral response. The sight and smell of it disgusted him. I had two jars of baby food in the cupboard left from when
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was here in June with the kids. Vegetable beef, peas with rice. I tried feeding him with a spoon. He wouldn't open his mouth. I microwaved a pizza, cut it up in bite-sized squares. No go. Then he saw the prunes and ate them. I brought him a banana. I peeled it for him and broke off a small piece. He ate it and the rest of the banana without hesitating. He ate a floret of uncooked broccoli that had started to brown. He ate a whole carrot, which I held for him between bites, and a wedge of pear. I wondered where he got his protein. At dinnertime, as an experiment, I cooked some lentils with celery and carrots and ginger. He liked that and was willing to take it from a spoon. He ate some brown rice, also from a spoon. I gave him a slice of bread and butter. He drank some more juice from a sippy-cup; I am down to fruit punch, then water through a straw. I will try milk tomorrow. I have to get to the store. I looked at his teeth. They seem perfect. Straight and white. No sign of any dental work.
sautéed a chicken breast for his lunch. As if he'd been taking regular meals. It was noontime, anyway, and I took it up to him. He made a terrible face. It was a visceral response. The sight and smell of it disgusted him. I had two jars of baby food in the cupboard left from when
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was here in June with the kids. Vegetable beef, peas with rice. I tried feeding him with a spoon. He wouldn't open his mouth. I microwaved a pizza, cut it up in bite-sized squares. No go. Then he saw the prunes and ate them. I brought him a banana. I peeled it for him and broke off a small piece. He ate it and the rest of the banana without hesitating. He ate a floret of uncooked broccoli that had started to brown. He ate a whole carrot, which I held for him between bites, and a wedge of pear. I wondered where he got his protein. At dinnertime, as an experiment, I cooked some lentils with celery and carrots and ginger. He liked that and was willing to take it from a spoon. He ate some brown rice, also from a spoon. I gave him a slice of bread and butter. He drank some more juice from a sippy-cup; I am down to fruit punch, then water through a straw. I will try milk tomorrow. I have to get to the store. I looked at his teeth. They seem perfect. Straight and white. No sign of any dental work.
We are through with diapers. Hooray for that. The clone, it seems, is fastidious, left to his own devices. Or it's his dignity at issue. I wouldn't wonder. In the early evening, after dinner, I went up to check his diaper. I looked in. He was asleep. I leaned over the bed and began to pull down his pajama bottoms. He opened his eyes. When he saw me, saw what I was intending to do, he pushed my hand away. He tore off the diaper, which happened to be clean and dry, and threw it to the floor. He was angry. Offended, I now believe. I feared he would become violent. I am physically no match. Except that he is feeble. He pulled up his pajamas, covered himself, then sat up in bed. He would not look at me. He slowly rearranged himself on the bed so that he was sitting on the edge of it, his feet on the floor. He held his head in his hands. He stayed that way for what seemed a long time. I thought he might be crying, but he didn't make a sound. Then he stood up. It was the first time he'd been out of bed. He was shaky on his feet. I was afraid his legs would not support him. I went to him and took his arm. I spoke to him as reassuringly as I could. I said, It's all right. You're all right. You'll be all right. He began to walk towards the door. He moved
very slowly. I kept my hand on his arm to steady him. Would you like to use the bathroom? I said. I was guessing. Maybe he just wanted to get away. I couldn't tell if he understood. He did not look at me when I spoke to him. Let me show you where it is, I said. We walked together down the hall. He could barely shuffle. He was very weak, obviously disoriented and dazed. I went with him into the bathroom. I raised the lid on the toilet, lifted the seat, then flushed it once to show him how it worked. He looked at me. His face was full of sadness. It broke my heart to see his face. Ray's face. He stood in front of the toilet. His knees were trembling. He was like an old man, hunched over. He just stood there. I was thinking it might be he had never peed in a toilet before, that male clones urinated in those long metal troughs they have at ballparks, that they used toilets only to defecate, or maybe they sat down to pee. It might be he'd never used a toilet. I had no idea how to show him what to do. It did finally occur to me he might be waiting for me to leave him alone, that he might want me to give him some privacy. I went out into the hall. I left the door open and stood where he could not see me. After a few moments he closed the door. I was afraid he'd fall and smash his head against the sink or the tub, but I stayed outside. I heard the toilet flush. I heard the water running in the sink. When he opened the door, I took his arm. He wouldn't look at me. We made our way down the hall and into the bedroom. I helped him onto the bed. That's better, I said. He lay back down, turned his face to the wall.
very slowly. I kept my hand on his arm to steady him. Would you like to use the bathroom? I said. I was guessing. Maybe he just wanted to get away. I couldn't tell if he understood. He did not look at me when I spoke to him. Let me show you where it is, I said. We walked together down the hall. He could barely shuffle. He was very weak, obviously disoriented and dazed. I went with him into the bathroom. I raised the lid on the toilet, lifted the seat, then flushed it once to show him how it worked. He looked at me. His face was full of sadness. It broke my heart to see his face. Ray's face. He stood in front of the toilet. His knees were trembling. He was like an old man, hunched over. He just stood there. I was thinking it might be he had never peed in a toilet before, that male clones urinated in those long metal troughs they have at ballparks, that they used toilets only to defecate, or maybe they sat down to pee. It might be he'd never used a toilet. I had no idea how to show him what to do. It did finally occur to me he might be waiting for me to leave him alone, that he might want me to give him some privacy. I went out into the hall. I left the door open and stood where he could not see me. After a few moments he closed the door. I was afraid he'd fall and smash his head against the sink or the tub, but I stayed outside. I heard the toilet flush. I heard the water running in the sink. When he opened the door, I took his arm. He wouldn't look at me. We made our way down the hall and into the bedroom. I helped him onto the bed. That's better, I said. He lay back down, turned his face to the wall.
The oddest thing. I was sitting with him while he lay in bed. Sometime after two, midafternoon. It was hot. He was in my husband's blue shorty pajamas, lying on top of the spread, somewhere between sleep and waking, I'd been singing to him for half an hour, trying to soothe him, show him kindness. Human kindness I almost wrote. Three Little Fishies in that silly voice. Never Never Land. Show Me the Way to Go Home, both versions. Songs my mother sang to me, her mother to her. I tried to think of lullabies, but couldn't. Good thing I didn't think of Rockabye Baby, because I would have sung it. I sang Norwegian Wood, an old Beatles song my mother loved. I wondered if anyone had ever sung to him, if he'd even ever heard singing. Out of nowhere he began to shriek. Like a cat in a fight. I stopped singing. He sat up. He looked at the backs of his hands, then he rubbed them furiously against his legs. In an instant he was frantic. He began to claw at
the skin on his arms. Then the same on his shins and ankles, in a frenzy back and forth between his legs and arms, flaying himself. I could see he thought there was something alive and moving on his skin. I didn't know if he was asleep and dreaming, or awake and hallucinating. I put my hands on his shoulders and pushed him gently back against the bed. There's nothing there, I said. Go back to sleep. There's nothing there. As soon as I took my hands away, he was back up and scrubbing at himself. He did this for about five minutes, shrieking all the while. Then he stopped. He lay back and fell right asleep. Maybe he was asleep the whole time. I don't know.
the skin on his arms. Then the same on his shins and ankles, in a frenzy back and forth between his legs and arms, flaying himself. I could see he thought there was something alive and moving on his skin. I didn't know if he was asleep and dreaming, or awake and hallucinating. I put my hands on his shoulders and pushed him gently back against the bed. There's nothing there, I said. Go back to sleep. There's nothing there. As soon as I took my hands away, he was back up and scrubbing at himself. He did this for about five minutes, shrieking all the while. Then he stopped. He lay back and fell right asleep. Maybe he was asleep the whole time. I don't know.
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We are in for it now. I was sitting at the computer in the kitchen half an hour ago, writing these notes. I looked up and he was standing just inside the door from the dining room. He was watching me. I hadn't heard him come down. He hadn't made a sound. He didn't seem at all threatening, just interested in what I was doing. It was unnerving to see him standing there in my husband's pajamas looking exactly like Ray. Father, Son, and Holy Ghost. I poured him a cup of fruit punch. It was all I had. He drank it where he stood, right from the cup, no straw, no sippy-top. He opened the refrigerator, as he'd just seen me do. He poked around inside. When he touched something, I named it, bread, cheese, butter, eggs, as if I were teaching him the language. Who knows what he knows? He opened the cupboards, and I named the things he touched. He was very careful not to disturb or break anything. He turned the water on in the sink, then turned it off. He looked at my computer on the table, but didn't touch it. He seemed most interested in the framed photographs hanging on the wall by the cookbooks, and in the ceramic cookie jar on the counter in the shape of a bear. When it seemed he had seen and heard enough, we walked back upstairs. Climbing the stairs was hard for him. I led him back to bed, and sat with him until he was asleep. All of it very peaceful and sociable, as if we were old folks at home. One of us mute. He is up and about, on the loose. What do I do now?
Monday. July 20. 10:30 p.m.No hallucinations today. None I witnessed, anyway. I believe we are over the worst. He was awake for longer stretches at a time. We have dispensed
with diapers. When he needs to urinate or defecate he uses the bathroom. He seems to know what to do, seems grateful to be allowed to do it. No more howling. He is with me now in the kitchen, sitting beside me as I write this. He is watching me write without much interest, sipping hot tea from a mug. Still not talking. What if he can read?
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didn't talk until he was three. The other two talked early. Our pediatrician said he'd talk when he was ready, and he did, and then we couldn't shut him up, and now he's a philosopher. Maybe the clone isn't ready. For goodness sake, he's not a toddler. I can tell he is, by nature, gentle and calm, particularly so now he is off the drugs. He is stronger today, but still weak. It is late. He should sleep. I should walk him up to bed, but I like having him near me.
with diapers. When he needs to urinate or defecate he uses the bathroom. He seems to know what to do, seems grateful to be allowed to do it. No more howling. He is with me now in the kitchen, sitting beside me as I write this. He is watching me write without much interest, sipping hot tea from a mug. Still not talking. What if he can read?
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didn't talk until he was three. The other two talked early. Our pediatrician said he'd talk when he was ready, and he did, and then we couldn't shut him up, and now he's a philosopher. Maybe the clone isn't ready. For goodness sake, he's not a toddler. I can tell he is, by nature, gentle and calm, particularly so now he is off the drugs. He is stronger today, but still weak. It is late. He should sleep. I should walk him up to bed, but I like having him near me.
They called this morning. Exactly at eight. The clone was still asleep. I was just back from a quick trip to the store. I was afraid to leave him alone. I loaded up on produce and juice, and bought a cheapo intercom so I could hear him downstairs when he was in bed. There has been a change of plans. They are coming to get him a day early. Tomorrow night at eight. I am to have him ready to go, though they failed to tell me what that means. I will make sure he has clean clothes to wear. I'll pack a bag with some things for him to take with him. I think I may be sorry to see him go. I think I may want the extra day with him. Oh, well. Lose one Ray, you lose them all. I don't feel quite so glib.
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