Afterlife Crisis

by Randal Graham

  If you haven’t recently thumbed your way through the Feynman archives, you may have forgotten that this Oan is a bird I’ve known for years and years — meeting her not in the so-called “sacred caverns,” but smack in the middle of this very hospice, where Oan had served, as previously indicated, as Sharing Room Director. And in that capacity she had been face-to-face with Feynman dozens of times — many of these quite memorable, at least so far as I’m concerned. Suffice it to say this cavern sequence to which she alluded was only the most recent instance of Oan slipping into my orbit.

  “You do recall meeting me in the sacred caverns, don’t you, Mr. Feynman?”

  “Oh, rather,” I said, but as soon as the words had crossed my lips I knew I’d been too outspoken. The strict letter of my retainer with Dr. Peericks specified that I was to closet myself with Oan, listen to her remembrances with interest, and then denounce them in no uncertain terms. Deny every charge. Tell her to go and boil her head. Convince her, in short, that what she remembered about any past entanglements with yours truly amounted to no more than a mere whatdoyoucallit. But this hadn’t occurred to me until I had “oh rathered” her recollections, giving her reminiscences the gold stamp of approval. I suppose I could have taken a stab at taking these words back, negating them with a quick, “whoops, I meant to say ‘no, I’ve no idea what you’re talking about,’” but I rejected this strategy out of hand. I mean to say, I’d just acknowledged a prior meeting in sacred caverns. Once you let a cat like that one out of the bag, you can’t just stuff the thing back in.

  “I just knew you’d remember me!” she said, clapping her hands and bouncing where she sat.

  “Quite,” I added, eager to move past this spot of unpleasantness, but my interruption failed altogether to stop her from polluting the scenery with hosannas.

  “I remember meeting you and the Intercessor in the grotto,” she continued, “as you conveyed him into the cavern and made your way to the river’s edge. I spoke to both of you by the river. You accompanied the Intercessor as he conferred with the prophet Norm Stradamus and stood by his side through the terrible battle between the Intercessor’s forces and their enemies.

  “I missed much of the battle encased in an amber shell,” she continued. “But those adherents who saw the battle said you played a vital role, helping the Intercessor overcome those who would stop us from communing with the universe and unleashing the true power of the Laws of Attraction. You were said to be very brave. You are held in great reverence.”

  Here she paused for a space, inhaling a lungful of O2 and looking as though she was approaching the point of bursting.

  “The Hand of the Intercessor!” she said — although “effused” might be mot juster, as she sat there beaming at me rather freely, like a dog eyeing its master with the expectation of imminent bacon. “Rapturous” sums it up nicely.

  “It’s an honour to be with you again,” she added, eager as ever to cross the t’s and dot the i’s.

  Since faulty memory circuits are becoming a theme in the present narrative, I should remind my public of the episode to which Oan had referred. This “Intercessor” chap Oan mentioned is a cove named Ian Brown, a garden-variety chump who had the pleasure of being my roommate at the hospice. This Brown, the mildest piece of cheese you could produce in a year of Sundays, was mistaken by Oan and the Church of O for some sort of harbinger or prophet of an otherworldly whatdoyoucallit named “the Great Omega” — a bird who resided in the beforelife and bestowed gifts on her people. Dashed silly of them, I know. But when it came to pass that Ian and self stumbled upon the Church of O in its sacred grotto — a slice of underground geography occupied by these robe-wearing yahoos — a spot of drama ensued ending with Ian and his wife biffing off to parts unknown and yours truly cajoled by Abe into signing up for my current mission, viz, the quest to find Isaac and thwart his plans. For present purposes, though, the critical thing is that this Oan, a bird who had known me for years and years, had just reported an accurate memory of Feynman. I was eager to hear more.

  “And apart from that?” I asked. “Do you remember anything else?”

  “Of course I do,” said Oan. “After the grotto, you were the talk of the entire assembly of acolytes — the finest example of what we aspire to be. You were the Hand of the Intercessor. The one who travelled at his side. An ordinary man who, through no special merit or talent of his own, managed to stand side-by-side with the Intercessor as he laid bare the truth of Detroit, showing us that the world truly can be remade through acts of will. ‘If you believe it, you shall receive it.’ You brought the Intercessor to us. You were his aide. You are a blessing to all who know you. As we shared stories of your works, and wrote songs of your struggle with the forces that opposed the Laws of Attraction, I came to understand that I was meant to be by your side. Standing with you, I mean. Twin souls, united in pursuit of a single, all-important goal — serving the Great Omega and laying bare her hidden truths!”

  That sounded like two all-important goals to me, but I was in no mood to quibble. Nor did I pause to take umbrage at the “ordinary man” rot she had spouted. Choosing to pick my battles, I pressed on.

  “But do you remember anything about me before we met in the grotto?”

  “Before the Intercessor?” said Oan. “Why, no, Mr. Feynman. We hadn’t met. Why do you ask?”

  “Dash it!” I said, having had it up to the eye teeth with this trend of deleting largish chunks of the Feynman history.

  “I’d have remembered meeting someone like you, whatever the circumstances,” she added, picking at her coverlet. “Someone so powerful, I mean. So influential. So in tune with the currents that shape our world. So thoroughly tied to matters of cosmic import; aligned with the Laws of Attraction and central to my own aspirations.”

  I’ll admit I liked the note of fanatical adoration she was striking, but I remembered that my priorities lay elsewhere.

  “And what of Zeus,” I said. “Do you remember a chap named Zeus?”

  “Zeus?” she said, eyes widening in a vacant sort of way.

  “Big chap?” I prompted. “Stands about eight-foot-six?”

  “Why, yes,” she said, looking pleased to be of assistance. “He was a patient at the hospice.”

  Once again her choice of words raised my brow.

  “Was?” I asked, seizing upon the critical bit of dialogue.

  “Why, yes. He escaped from Detroit Mercy at the same time as the Intercessor. I’m sure you’re aware the Intercessor was briefly housed in the hospice as a result of a most unfortunate misdiagnosis.”

  “Two chairs,” intoned the roommate, apparently feeling that she wasn’t holding up her part of the conversation.

  “And Zeus’s current location?” I pressed, ignoring the charred beazel. “Do you know where Zeus is now?”

  “I’m sorry, I don’t. I expect the police are searching for him. Dr. Peericks must be so concerned. Perhaps Dr. Peericks could tell you if he has been found.”

  Fenny seemed to see this instant as the prime time to scale the charred roommate’s leg and settle into her lap. Dashed familiar of him, I know, but the ways of hamsters are subtle and mysterious. The roommate responded to the affront by gently scratching Fenny behind the ear, as though the two were longtime chums.

  I turned my attention away from this cozy scene and continued with my remorseless interrogation.

  “So, you remember Zeus. You remember Ian Brown. You remember them escaping the hospice together. But so far as I’m concerned — nothing before the cavern sequence. You haven’t the faintest whiff of a memory of yours truly before we met in the sacred grotto.”

  “Of course I haven’t,” said Oan, a look of puzzlement spreading over her map. “That was the only time we met. The only time before today I mean. But despite that, Mr. Feynman, despite the fleeting entanglement of our auras, I was certain you would come to my aid.
I had faith that the Laws of Attraction would guide you to me, that the reverberating fluctuations of the universe would once again draw your aura toward mine, and that if I opened myself to the infinite possibili—”

  “Quite, quite,” I said. “But if you want to be scrupulously accurate, what brought me to you wasn’t the pull of any law of attraction or the entanglements of our whatdoyoucallits, but a note from Dr. Peericks. A note which says ‘pop down to the hospice, take a peep at Oan, and tell her she’s gone cuckoo.’ I give you the gist,” I added, waving off her look of dismay. “But what Peericks wants, in a nutshell, is for me to confer with you and convince you that those cavern memories you’ve been babbling about aren’t real. Imagination, I mean to say. The mere somethingorothers of a troubled mind.”

  “But Mr. Feynman!” she began.

  “I know, I know,” I said, raising a placating hand. “You mean to insist that your memories are the straight goods, that the cavern sequence proceeded exactly as you’ve outlined, and that any suggestion that you’re suffering from delusions is the overzealous babbling of a loony doctor eager to push his pet diagnoses and erase all the interesting bits of his patients’ personalities.”

  “It’s true!” said Oan.

  “But where does that get you?” I asked, in that incisive way of mine. “Consider the outcome. You stick to your current story, spilling the goods about apocalyptic battles in hidden grottos, and Doctor Peericks clings to the view that you’re several cards shy of a full deck.”

  “But surely, Mr. Feynman, if you were to—”

  “If I were to string along, supporting the company line, as it were, lending your account of the cavern sequence a spot of corrugation— ”

  “Corroboration.”

  “—or a spot of corroboration, if you prefer, then what will the harvest be? Do you think Peericks will be moved? Do you think a man like him, so hide-bound and steeped in scientific drivel, will take my assurance as absolute sooth? Will he pivot on the spot, change his mind, and publicly declare that his original diagnosis was all wrong? Do you think he is likely to chuck his prior findings and fling wide the hospice gates on nothing more than the combined say-so of a resident of the loony bin and one supporting chump who Peericks views as a total stranger?”

  “I hadn’t thought of that,” said Oan.

  “Think of it now!”

  “I see what you mean.”

  “He will not,” I continued, for I didn’t wish to leave the thing ambiguous, “see my words as concrete proof that your prior babbling should be taken as gospel truth, but will instead conclude that your certified goofiness has rubbed off on yours truly and infected the Feynman brain, leaving the undersigned in danger of a longish stretch in the hospice right beside you.”

  This held her. She chewed her lower lip for a space before responding. And when she did respond, all she managed to say was, “What shall we do?” in a tremulous sort of way, if tremulous means what I think it does.

  I leaned in.

  “It is vital that we secure your release,” I said, giving the words as much weight as I could manage. For, while I’d typically be sanguine or insouciant about this loony bird’s address, in the current circs my foreign policy rested on getting Oan declared sane and fit to consort with civilians. I was desperate to have Peericks point me in Zeus’s general direction, and to secure that simple favour, I needed to push along the medical louse’s loopy efforts to press his suit with Oan — a suit which couldn’t be pressed so long as Oan remained in statu quo. Everything hinged on her release.

  I couldn’t explain all this to Oan. If I came out with the straight goods and told her of Peericks’s tortured heart, she might respond with a cool, “What, that old toad? Thanks for giving me one good laugh for today,” and dash my plans to the ground. Even when dealing with a droopy soul like Oan, one has to tread carefully in such matters, sidling up to the tender words by throwing in the fancy touches preparatory to paving the way for true romance. So I rolled up my metaphorical sleeves and started in with the preliminary spadework, doing my best to appeal to her soppy and sentimental sensibilities.

  “We must secure your release,” I said, emphatically. “You see . . .” I paused, seeking to strike the right note, “my entire future happiness depends on it.”

  “Oh, Mr. Feynman!” she exclaimed.

  “I shouldn’t tell you this,” I said, sneaking up on the thing, “but . . . there is . . . an aching heart in Detroit Mercy.”

  “An aching heart?”

  “An aching heart,” I repeated.

  “But why does it ache, Mr. Feynman?” she asked, dewy-eyed and hanging on my every word.

  “Dash it,” I said, for this was threatening to take longer than I had hoped, “you know why hearts ache, Mistress Oan.”

  She seemed to shimmy a bit. Her voice, when she spoke, was whispery.

  “You mean . . . for love?”

  “Absolutely! Right on the bull’s eye. For love of you, I mean to say.”

  “Oh, Mr. Feynman!” she repeated.

  “But the dashed difficult thing,” I said, waving off the interruption, “is that this aching heart can’t bring itself to make its feelings known. It yearns to speak, but must stay silent. It wants to speak the tender words, to make plain its true feelings, but so long as you are closeted here, diagnosed as a loony and cooped up in the hospice, this aching h. can’t take the risk. Please don’t ask me to say more.”

  “But Mr. Feynman!”

  “No, no! I have said too much already. But know this: love waits for you, Oan, but cannot flourish so long as you stay bunged up in here.”

  As soon as I’d uttered them I knew the words “bunged up” shouldn’t have come within several miles of any attempt at pitching woo, but I could see by her rapt expression that Oan had let the error pass. She was hooked, as I knew she would be. Tell a droopy bird like Oan that she has a tortured, secret admirer and she can’t help but melt on the spot.

  “So you see,” I added, “we must secure your release.”

  “But whatever shall we do?” she asked, chewing the lower lip.

  “I have a plan,” I said. And the reason I said this was that I did, in fact, have a plan.

  “And the best thing about this plan,” I said, “is that it’s not only 100% foolproof, but also simplicity itself in execution.”

  “How wonderful!” she said, and probably would have danced a step or two but for the fact that she was seated.

  “The plan is this: You should lie to Dr. Peericks.”

  “Lie to the doctor?”

  “Like a public servant applying for reimbursement! What use is sticking to the truth when the simple act of falsifying the facts can get you out of chokey?”

  She didn’t seem to see the wisdom of my scheme.

  “But I can’t lie to Dr. Peericks!”

  “Of course you can. Simplest thing in the world. You just wait for his next visit and say, ‘Oh, Doctor,’ for I’m presuming you call him doctor, ‘Oh, Doctor, Mr. Feynman has cleared the scales from mine eyes, and I now remember all. That cavern story I told you never happened.’”

  “But, Mr. Feynman!”

  “I foresee your objection. You think Peericks will take convincing. That’s where I can assist you.”

  “No, it’s—”

  “I don’t mind at all!” I added, seeing that the bird was becoming a bit stirred-up. “I’m happy to help convince the old placebo-pushing pillmonger that you’ve resiled — do I mean resiled? — from your conviction that the cavern sequence happened as previously described, that you witnessed the City Solicitor and Penelope doing their best to shatter the cosmos at each other, and that you and the Church of O had unearthed proof that the beforelife was real. Why, I shouldn’t doubt that you’ll be out within the hour.”

  “But I can’t say those things, Mr. Feynman!” said Oa
n, although if you’d care to replace the word “said” with “shrieked,” you wouldn’t be far wrong.

  “But why not? It’s the surest path to freedom.”

  “But it runs counter to everything I’ve ever taught in the Sharing Room, Mr. Feynman. I’m not sure if you’re aware of this, but I’ve spent years working with patients in the hospice, helping them find their truths, helping them focus the Laws of Attraction and align their auras with—”

  “Quite, quite,” I said, trying my best to avoid the headache which always manifested whenever Oan vented spiritual truths. “But what does that have to do with anything?”

  “Authenticity, Mr. Feynman! It’s the core of all I believe. We must speak our own truth, and be our authentic selves. Only by being true to our own narrative, and walking our true path, can we attune ourselves with the Laws of Attraction. Only by heartfelt authenticity can we perfect our way of being, clarifying our auras and communing with the world. The truth of ourselves,” she continued, her words now brimming with soulful whatdoyoucallit, “is the only way to perceive the truth beyond.”

  “But dash it!” I said, feeling a good deal like a leaking balloon.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Feynman. I cannot abandon my truth.”

  I’d always known Oan was goofy, but I hadn’t budgeted for loopiness on so majestic a scale. Had my own schemes not rested on securing this freak’s release, I might have legged it at this juncture and written her off as a lost cause. Any lesser man would have done so. But we Feynmen are resilient. Where others clutch the hair and smite the brow, we soldier on.

  I gave the thing the cream of the Feynman brain, and was rewarded.

  “If you won’t change your story,” I said, “how about this: we stuff the ballot box. If Peericks won’t believe the cavern story coming from you and me, let’s give democracy a chance. Show Peericks that it is no mere duo which shares this memory of the cataclysmic goings-on within the cavern, but a whole platoon of more or less reputable citizens who can bear witness to the events. We flood the man with supporting evidence. Call the acolytes and the chorus. Call Norm. Call Llewellyn Llewellyn if you can. Dash it, wrangle the whole herd of those who were present—”