The Tomorrow File (23 page)

Head turned. Eyes opened slowly. Widened in consciousness. Then recognition.

Weakly: “Hullo, chappie.”

“What’s this?” I said sternly. “What’s this?”

“Terminal nostalgia,” she said.

I caught my breath.

“Don’t fake me, chappie,” she said.

“Have I ever?”

“No,” she murmured. “No, no, no.” In diminishing volume until I couldn’t hear. “No, no, nooo. . .

I went over to one of the windows. I think I leaned my head against the frame. I was alert, aware of my own symptoms. Mental dislocation. Light-headedness. Something new: Physical vertigo. Weakness in the knees. A tilt. I thought I might fall. . . .

. . . annual visits to the cemetery at Mt. Clemens when I was a child. The grave of an older sister who had stopped at the age of three months from a respiratory infection. “Susan Bennington Flair, May 3, 1967—August 14, 1967.” A smirking granite cherub.

. . . natural bacon frying for breakfast. A treat on Sunday morning. The kitchen filled with the scent. Dividing up the thick Sunday newspaper, a section to each. Gobbling bacon, shouting news items to each other. Rollicking.

... my parents dressed to go out. Mother in a strapless black velvet gown. Her bare flesh glowing.
Glowing!
Excitement and electricity. Her naked body moving inside the gown, bursting to spring free. A choker of small diamonds, no brighter than her sparkle. Goodnight, Nick! Goodnight! Goodnight!

... a midnight storm when the thunder. . . .

I flipped a spansule into the air, caught it in my mouth. A salted peanut. I swallowed it down. In a few moments the trembling ceased; memories faded.

I went back to my mother’s bedside. I saw the dark green jar on the bedside table, picked it up, spilled a few of the pills into my palm. I recognized them.

“Did Dr. Bradford tell you about these?” I asked Mrs. McPherson.

She nodded.

“Please don’t leave them at the bedside.” I moved the jar across the room, to a dresser top.

I ate alone in the gloomy dining room. I sat at one end of the long oak table, surrounded by lost whispers and forgotten laughs. I had a slice of proham, a cold salad made of propots, two slices of natural

tomato—ruby red and mealy. I did what I could with it all, forking it down, staring at the walls, listening to echoes.

Then, in the library, I poured a large natural brandy. I took it up to Mother’s bedroom.

“I’ll stay awhile,” I told Mrs. McPherson.

She nodded and left. I sat in a cane-backed armchair, sipping my drink, watching the bed. Occasionally my mother stirred, moved uneasily, groaned or muttered. It was not natural sleep. That dark green jar contained a potent barbiturate.

I went over to the bed, put my hand lightly on her hot forehead. She relaxed, calmed; the moans ceased. I was standing there, feeling the paper-thin skin beneath my fingers, when Mrs. McPherson returned. She was carrying a tray of dishes, covered with a large plastinap. She hadn’t been gone more than fifteen minutes. She wasn’t giving an inch. Mother was
hers.
I left the two of them. Together.

It was a black night, mild and moonless. A tug hooted somewhere. A jetliner droned over. Then the silence crept back. I walked slowly down toward the water, peering about for the garden table and chairs. I found them, finally. I sat there in the dark, sipping my brandy slowly, almost tonguing it.

I stirred, eventually, when bright lights flashed on in the guesthouse. I heard loud music. New jazz. It was probably Beryl, dancing about in her red zipsuit or inspecting her bare breasts critically before a mirror, peering at them through a cloud of cannabis smoke. I went back to the house and called Millie. No answer.

I poured another brandy, took it up to my suite. I showered, dressed in tooty civilian clothes, called Millie again. No answer. I finished the brandy in two gulps. There was an effect now, a welcome lack of caution, irresponsibility triumphant. I drove into Detroit, singing.

Millie wasn’t at her apartment. I started a crawl of taverns we had visited together. I drank apetronac, petrovod, petrorum—whatever I saw first; it made no difference. I didn’t find Millie. By midnight I was moving sideways through a blurred world, slipping by everyone, giggling.

I found her finally. I was in a tumultuous place, somewhere, raised my head from my drink, looked in the mirror. A stranger there. And over his shoulder, across the room, there was Millie,

sitting with another ef and two tooty ems. I swung around on the barstool, so quickly that I spun off, staggering.

“Hey,” I yelled. “Hey, Millie!”

I went banging toward them, knocking into tables, chairs, shoving objects out of the way. A burly em suddenly stood before me. “Be good or be gone,” he said pleasantly.

I got a knee into his groin and he went down, mouth open. Grinning, I clawed my way toward Millie.

“Hey, Millie!” I called joyously.

Then I was in an alley. I was on the bricks, slime under my cheek. I doubled over, drew up my knees, covered my face with my hands.

They took me with their boots. Not speaking. Just breathing hard. It hurt. How it hurt.

Just before I went out, I heard an ef screaming, “Stoppit! Stop-pit! Stoppit!”

I came up slowly. Through a bloody haze I was staring at a plaster ceiling, paint chips peeling away. My chest was cold and wet.

I looked down. Millie was rubbing a plastinap of Jellicubes along my ribs. I looked around. Her apartment. And two uniformed bobs from the Detroit Peace Department, watching. One held my BIN card, one my purse.

“Oh, Nick,” Millie said anxiously. “Are you tip-top?” Beautiful question.

“Tip-top,” I nodded. “What time is it?”

“Almost 0200. How do you feel?”

“I told you. Tip-top. Would you make me some coffee?”

She scurried off. I slowly swung my legs over the edge of the bed. Cautiously, I sat upright. Something was wrong on my left side. I probed gently.

“Broken?” one of the bobs asked.

I took a deep breath. No sudden, sharp anguish. Just dull pain. “I don’t think so. Contused perhaps.”

“You want to press charges?” he asked.

“That wouldn’t be wise,” I said. “Would it?”

“No,” he said. “It wouldn’t.”

“Did I cause any damage?” I asked.

“You kicked an em in the balls,” the other bob said. “The manager.”

“Can I have my purse?”

I took out my wallet, riffled the bills. I thought some love was missing. But I had spent a lot.

“You think fifty will make him feel better?” I asked.

“Fifty will cure him,” one of them said.

I handed over the fifty, then added twenty more.

“Sorry for the trouble,” I said.

“It happens.” One of the bobs shrugged. “But an em like you—in a place like that. You want to watch it.”

They both nodded virtuously. I was given back my BIN card. They departed. I was getting out of my clothes when Millie returned, bringing a plasticup of something black and steaming. “Oh, Nick,” she said sorrowfully, looking at me.

“I vomited?”

“Yes, you did.”

“Not in here? “ I asked, horrified.

“No. In the alley. When they were picking you up.”

I took a sip of coffee. If it had any flavor, I couldn’t taste it. It wasn’t important. It was hot and wet. I took slow sips as I continued undressing.

“I’ll wipe off your clothes,” Millie said. “With a damp rag.” “Thank you.” I smiled. “Later. Is my face all right?”

"Your right ear is a little scratched. From the bricks. But you can hardly notice.”

I examined myself. Red blotches on shoulders, arms, ribs, hips, thighs, calves. I knew what color they’d be tomorrow, and the next day, and the next. And I could feel the pain starting in my back and buttocks. A complete service.

“Do you have any tape, Millie?”

“Tape?”

“Any kind. Mending tape? Electrician’s tape?”

“Nooo, I don’t think so. Nick, should I go out and get some?” “At 0200? Thanks, dear, but no. Do you have an old thermasheet I can rip up? I’ll send you a new one.”

“Don’t say that. You don’t have to give me anything.”

I tore long strips. I held one end in place, then slowly revolved. Millie wound me like a mummy. I kept telling her to keep it tight. Finally my thorax was wrapped, armpits to waist. It still hurt. But it would hold. I tucked in the loose end.

“I’m sorry, Millie,” I said. “Please excuse me. I know I ruined your evening.” “Oh, Nick ... I was so happy to see you again. Why didn’t you call?”

“I tried.”

It seemed a ridiculously formal conversation. A naked em, chest mummified, standing before a fully dressed ef.

“Another coffee?” she asked.

“No,” I said. “Two liters of cold water.”

“Do you think—” she asked tentatively.

“Let’s try,” I said. “But you must be very gentle.”

“Ever so gentle,” she cried happily. “I’ll do
everything
!” But I didn’t let her. For some reason I couldn’t compute, it was important to me that I give her profit. I never penetrated her child’s body that night, not once, but I employed lips, tongue, fingers, eyelashes, toes, until she was screaming with delight, and I had to hush her, fearing the neighbors would call the bobs again.

It went on and on. She seemed insatiable, but I would not end until she signaled me. Finally, she pushed me away and lay back exhausted, rosy and sweated.

“Who is Lydia?” she gasped.

“Lydia?” I said. “I don’t know any Lydia.”

“In the alley. Just before you passed out. You said, ‘Lydia.’ ” “Did I?” I said. “That’s interesting.”

Late the next morning I watched while Dr. Bradford examined my mother. She was awake, babbling nonsense.

“Yes, yes,” Bradford kept saying. “Yes, yes.”

I followed him out into the hallway. He was a short, thick, comose man. About my age. Competent.

“Well, doctor?” I asked him.

“Well, doctor?” he said ironically. “You want her force-fed?” “No. You want off the case?”

He thought seriously about that.

“I should,” he acknowledged.

“Strap her in—”

“Oh, don’t give me all that kaka,” he exploded angrily. “I’ve heard it all before. I simply have to do nothing—right? As if sins of omission are less tainted than sins of commission.”

“You want off,” I said stonily, “you’re off. It won’t change things.”

“Goddamned son of a bitching bastard!” he cried furiously. He actually stamped his foot.

“My sentiments exactly, doctor,” I said.

“Ahh,” he said. “The dear lady.”

This quote from Leon Mansfield startled me.

“Would you come up to my rooms, please?” I asked him. “A professional consultation. I have some natural brandy.”

“Only sensible thing I’ve heard today,” he grumbled, and followed me up the stairs.

I poured us each a glass. Then I stripped down. He took a look at the colors.

“Pretty,” he said. “Hit by a truck?”

“Two of them,” I said. “Check the ribs, please.”

He helped me unwrap the stripping of tom sheet. He probed me gently.

“Breathe deeply,” he commanded. “Again. Again. Pain?” “No punctures,” I said. “No fractures. I think.” “Contusions,” he said. “Here and here. Drive back with me. We’ll take some plates.”

“No,” I said. “It’s not that important. I’ll have it done when I get back to New York. I have wide tape here. Just strap me up.” “Idiot,” he growled.

“Exactly,” I agreed.

He taped me up. We finished our brandies. He wanted to give me a meperidine. I insisted on a codeine. It took me another brandy to get it. By the time he departed, he was feeling no pain. And neither was I.

I wandered about the grounds. A gray, overcast day. I was gray and overcast. Codeine plus hangover. But I was computing in a dazed kind of way, jumping circuits.

I think I ate something. I know I visited my mother again. We held hands and chatted away like magpies. Mrs. McPherson didn’t seem shocked, but I know Mother and I were trading absurdities. It pleased Mother. I think. It certainly pleased me.

Afterward, the pain coming on again, my whole body aching, I debated: Another codeine? No, I decided. Because the anxieties were worse than the pain. So I popped a new manipulated amitriptyline I just happened to have in my case. It worked on me like a hypnotic. Get rid of the anxieties and then you can sleep.

I slept until noon. I took a sponge bath and shaved carefully. I was tracking. A little deliberate, a little dulled, but functioning. My bruises hurt like hell. I accepted the pain gladly. I had been lucky and I knew it.

I spent most of the day with Mother. She had been off barbiturates for almost twelve hours; I thought it safe enough to allow her the natural vodka she craved. I cut it with water, but she didn’t notice. Her color improved, her spirits perked, she laughed.

The copter had taken off for the airport at 1700, to pick up my father. At 1730,1 took a bottle of natural brandy and glasses out to the lawn table. I waited for him there, not drinking. It was almost 1840 before I heard the copter throb. Beryl came slipping in neatly, hovered, set down gently. A skillful ef.

Ben Baker got out first, then turned to assist Father. He climbed out wearily, Clumsily. Sad to view. They ducked low as the main rotor revved, then slowed to a stop. I stood, called out. They saw me and came over. Both were obviously fatigued, depressed. “Nick,” my father said.

Ben Baker nodded briefly. I gestured toward the brandy. “Medicine,” I said. “Doctor’s orders.”

They accepted gratefully. Father downed his in one gulp, shuddered, drew a long breath, then held out his glass fora refill. We all sat down at the metal table.

“How is she?” my father asked.

“Better,” I said. “A little. I got some fluid into her.”

“Eat?”

“No. You have any luck?”

Baker shook his head gloomily-

“Can’t find it, Nick,” he said. “Checked out everything. It couldn't have happened, but it did.”

“And might happen again,” Father said. “Goddamn it to hell!” “Faulty input?” I suggested.

Baker shook his head. “No way. We’re still using plastic from the same shipment. It’s up to specifications.”