“The ravages caused by build-ups of toxic wastes in the body are also a major part of aging, but our nannies take care of all of that for you, cleaning the wastes out.
“Autoimmune problems, such as rheumatoid arthritis, are another component of aging. Well, we’ve learned a lot about the autoimmune system in trying to cure AIDS, and we can now take care of almost anything that comes along.
“But the very worst part of aging is the loss of memory and cognitive functions. In many cases that’s due simply to a lack of vitamin B6 or B12. It’s also caused by not enough acetylcholine and other neurotransmitters. Again, our nannies balance all the levels for you.
“And what about Alzheimer’s? It’s genetically programmed to kick in at a certain age, although the onset can also be caused by high levels of aluminum. Our nannies get down and dirty with your genes, turning regulators on and off. We find the instruction for Alzheimer’s, if it exists in your DNA—not everyone has it—and just prevent it from expressing itself.”
The man smiled. “Now, I know what you’re thinking. None of that is going to help me if I get shot in the chest by a mugger. Well, using patented Life Unlimited techniques, we can even make sure you live through that. Yes, the bullet will stop your heart—but our nannies monitor your blood oxygen levels and they themselves can deliver blood to the brain if need be, acting like tractors, pulling red blood cells. And, yes, you’ll need a heart transplant and maybe some other repair work—but your brain will be kept alive until that work is done.
“Okay—now you’re thinking, hey, what if that mugger had shot me in the head instead?” The pitchman lifted up a thin sheet of what looked like silver foil. “This is polyester-D5. It’s similar to Mylar.” He held the sheet by one corner and let it flutter in the air. “Less than half a millimeter thick,” he said, “but watch this.” He proceeded to attach the sheet of foil to a square metal frame, anchoring it on all four sides. He then produced a gun with a silencer sticking off the front. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ve got a special permit for this.” He chuckled. “I know how you Canadians feel about guns.” He aimed the pistol at an angle and fired at the foil sheet. Peter heard the pistol bark and saw a lick of flame shoot out of its nozzle. There was a sound like a thunderclap and something happened to the curtain behind the stage.
The pitchman went over to the metal frame and held up the Mylar sheet. “No hole,” he said—and indeed that was true. The sheet was rippling in the breeze of the air conditioner. “Polyester-D5 was developed for the military and is now widely used in bulletproof vests by police forces all over the world. As you can see, it’s quite flexible—unless it’s hit at high speed. Then it tightens up and becomes harder than steel. That bullet I fired a moment ago bounced right off.” He looked back. His assistant was coming onto the stage with something held in metal tongs. He dropped it into a little glass bowl on the podium. “Here it is.”
The pitchman faced the audience. “We coat the skull in a thin, perforated layer of polyester-D5. Of course, we don’t have to peel off the scalp to do that; we simply inject nanotechnology drones and have them lay it down. But with your skull protected by this stuff, you could take a bullet to the head, or have a car run over your cranium, or fall head first off a building, and still not crush your head. The polyester becomes so rigid, almost none of the percussion is transferred through to your brain.”
He smiled brilliantly at his audience. “It’s exactly as I said at the outset, folks. We can outfit you in such a way that you will not die—not through aging and not through almost any accident you can conceive of. For all intents and purposes, we offer exactly what we promise: honest-to-God immortality. Now, any takers?”
IT WAS THE FIRST SUNDAY of the month. By long-standing tradition, that meant dinner with Peter’s in-laws.
Cathy’s parents lived on Bayview Avenue in North York. The Churchill house, a 1960s side-split with a one-car garage, would have once been considered good-sized but now was dwarfed by monster homes on either side, causing it to spend most of the day in shadow. Above the garage was a rusting basketball hoop with no net attached.
Cathy’s thumbprint worked on the door lock. She went in first and Peter followed behind. Cathy shouted out, “We’re here,” and her mother appeared at the top of the stairs to greet them. Bunny Churchill—God help her, that was her name—was sixty-two, short, trim, with gray hair that she refused to dye. Peter liked her immensely. Cathy and he headed up into the living room. Peter had been coming here for years, but had still never quite gotten used to its appearance. There was only one small bookcase, and it held audio CDs and some video laser discs, including a complete run of Playboy Video Playmate Calendars since 1998.
Cathy’s father taught Phys. Ed. Gym teachers had been the bane of young Peter’s existence, the first inkling he’d had that all adults weren’t necessarily intelligent. Worse, Rod Churchill ran his family like a high-school football team. Everything started on time—Bunny was rushing even now to get food on the table before the clock struck 6:00. Everybody knew their positions, and, of course, everyone followed the instructions of Coach Rod.
Rod sat at the head of the table, with Bunny at the opposite end and Cathy and Peter facing each other on either side—sometimes they played footsie when Rod got into one of his boring stories.
This was turkey month—the first-Sunday dinners rotated between turkey, roast beef, and chicken. Rod picked up the carving knife. He always served Peter first— “our guest first,” he’d say, underscoring that even after thirteen years of marriage to his daughter, Peter was still an outsider. “I know what you want, Peter—a drumstick.”
“Actually, I’d prefer white meat,” said Peter politely.
“I thought you liked dark meat.”
“I like dark chicken meat,” said Peter, as he did every third month. “I like white turkey meat.”
“Are you sure?” asked Rod.
No, I’m fucking making this up as I go along. “Yes.”
Rod shrugged and carved into the breast. He was a vain man, a year from retirement, hair dyed brown—what was left of his hair, that is. He grew it long on the right side, and combed it over his bald pate. Dick Van Patten in a track suit.
“Cathy used to like drumsticks when she was a little girl,” Rod said.
“I still do,” said Cathy, but Rod didn’t seem to hear her.
“I used to like giving her a big drumstick and watch her try to get a bite out of it.”
“She could have choked to death,” said Bunny.
Rod grunted. “Kids can take care of themselves,” he said. “I remember that time she fell down the stairs.” He laughed, as if life should be one big slapstick comedy. He glanced at Bunny. “You were more upset than Cathy was. She waited until a big enough audience had arrived before she started crying.” He shook his head. “Kids got bones made out of rubber.” Rod handed Peter a plate with two ragged slices of turkey breast on it. Peter took it and reached for the bowl of baked potatoes. Friday evenings at The Bent Bishop somehow didn’t seem that bad right now.
“I was bruised for weeks,” said Cathy, a bit defensively.
Rod chuckled. “On her bum.”
Peter still had a long scar on his leg from a high-school gym accident. Those darned Phys. Ed. teachers. Such funny guys. He waited until everyone was served, helped himself to the gravy boat, then passed it to Rod.
“No thanks,” said Rod. “I’m not eating much gravy these days.”
Peter thought about asking why, decided against it, and passed the gravy boat to Cathy instead. He turned to his mother-in-law and smiled. “Anything new with you, Bunny?”
“Oh, yes,” she said. “I’m taking a course Wednesday nights—conversational French. I figure it’s about time I learned.”
Peter was impressed. “Good for you,” he said. He turned to Rod. “Does that mean you have to fend for yourself Wednesday evenings?”
Rod grunted. “I order in from Food Food,” he said.
&
nbsp; Peter chuckled.
Cathy said to her mother, “The turkey is delicious.”
“Thank you, dear,” said Bunny. She smiled. “I remember that time you played a turkey in the Thanksgiving play at school.”
Peter raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t know about that, Cathy.” He looked at his father-in-law. “How was she, Rod?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t go. Watching children dressed up as livestock isn’t my idea of a fun evening.”
“But she’s your daughter,” said Peter, then wished he hadn’t.
Rod helped himself to some cooked carrots. Peter suspected he would have gone to watch a son play in Little League.
“Dad never took much interest in children,” said Cathy, her tone neutral.
Rod nodded, as if this was a perfectly reasonable attitude for a father to take. Peter stroked Cathy’s leg gently with his foot.
CHAPTER 4
August 2011
The world goes through two seasons in six months. Should it be surprising that other things change a lot in that time, too?
Peter had downloaded this week’s Time from the net and was glancing through it. World News. People. Milestones.
Milestones.
Births, marriages, divorces, deaths.
Not all milestones were so cut-and-dried. Where were things such as the disintegration of a romance noted? What was the journal-of-record for lingering malaise, for empty hearts? Who marked the death of happiness?
Peter remembered how Saturday afternoons used to be. Lazy. Loving. Reading the paper together. Watching a little TV. Drifting at some point to the bedroom.
Milestones.
Cathy came down the stairs. Peter looked up briefly. There was hope in lifting his eyes, hope that he’d see the old Cathy, the Cathy he’d fallen in love with. His eyes fell back to the text reader. He sighed—not theatrically, not for her ears, but for himself, a heavy exhalation, trying to force the sadness from his body.
Peter had inventoried her appearance in that quick glance. She was wearing a ratty U of T sweatshirt and loose-fitting jeans. No make-up. Hair quickly combed but not brushed, falling in black bunches around her shoulders. Glasses instead of contacts.
Another small sigh. She looked so much better without the thick lenses balancing on her nose, but he couldn’t remember the last time she’d worn her contacts.
They hadn’t made love for six weeks.
The national average was 2.1 times each week. Said so right here in Time.
Of course, Time was an American magazine. Maybe the average was different here in Canada.
Maybe.
This year would be their thirteenth wedding anniversary.
And they hadn’t made love in six fucking weeks. Six fuckless weeks.
He glanced up again. There she stood, on the third stair up, dressed like some god-damn tomboy.
She was forty-one now; her birthday had been last month. She still had her figure—not that Peter saw it much anymore. These sweatshirts and too-big sweaters and long skirts—these bags she’d taken to wearing—hid just about everything.
Peter stabbed the PgDn button. He tipped his head down, went back to his reading. They used to make love a lot on Saturday afternoons. But, Christ, if she was going to dress like that …
He’d read the first three paragraphs of the article in front of him, and realized that he hadn’t a clue as to what it had said, hadn’t absorbed a single word.
He glanced up once more. Cathy was still on the third step, looking down at him. She met his eyes for an instant, but then dropped her gaze, and, hand on the wooden banister, stepped down into the living room.
Focusing on the magazine, Peter said, “What would you like for dinner?”
“I don’t know,” she said.
I don’t know. The national anthem of Cathyland. Christ, he was sick of hearing that. What would you like to do tonight? What would you like for dinner? Want to take a vacation?
I don’t know.
I don’t know.
I don’t know.
Fuck it.
“I’d like fish, myself,” said Peter, and again he stabbed the PgDn button.
“Whatever would make you happy,” she said.
It would make me happy if you’d talk to me, thought Peter. It would make me happy if you’d didn’t fucking dress down all the time.
“Maybe we should just order in,” said Peter. “Maybe a pizza, or some Chinese.”
“Whatever.”
He turned pages again, new words filling his screen.
Thirteen years of marriage.
“Maybe I’ll give Sarkar a call,” he said, testing the waters. “Go out and grab a bite with him.”
“If you like.”
Peter shut the reader off. “Dammit, it’s not just what I’d like. What would you like?”
“I don’t know.”
It had been building for weeks, he knew, festering within him, pressure increasing, an explosion imminent, his sighs never releasing enough of what was pent up, what was ready to blow. “Maybe I should go out with Sarkar and not come back.”
She stood motionless across the room from him. The staircase rose up behind her. It looked as though her lower lip was trembling a little. Her voice was small. “If that would make you happy.”
It’s falling apart, thought Peter. It’s falling apart right now.
Peter turned the magazine reader back on but immediately flicked it off again. “It’s over, isn’t it?” he said.
Thirteen years …
He should get up from the couch now, get up and leave.
Thirteen years …
“Jesus Christ,” said Peter, into the silence.
He closed his eyes.
“Peter …”
Eyes still closed.
“Peter,” said Cathy, “I slept with Hans Larsen.”
He looked at her, mouth open, heart pounding. She didn’t meet his gaze.
Cathy moved hesitantly into the center of the living room. There was quiet between them for several minutes. Peter’s stomach hurt. At last, his voice raspy, raw, as though the wind had been knocked out of him, he said, “I want to know the details.”
Cathy spoke softly. She didn’t look at him. “Does it matter?”
“Yes, it matters. Of course it matters. How long has this …” he paused “… this affair been going on?” Christ, he’d never expected to use that word in this context.
Her lower lip was trembling again. She took a step toward him, as if she meant to sit beside him on the couch, but she hesitated when she saw the expression on his face. Instead, she moved slowly to take a chair. She sat down, weary, as if the tiny walk down to the living room had been the longest of her life. She carefully placed her hands in her lap and looked down at them. “It wasn’t an affair,” she said softly.
“What the hell would you call it?” said Peter. The words were angry, but his tone wasn’t. It was drained, lifeless.
“It was … it wasn’t a relationship,” she said. “Not really. It just happened.”
“How?”
“A Friday night, after work. You didn’t come that time. Hans asked me for a lift to the subway. We went back to the company parking lot together and got my car. The lot was deserted by then, and it was pretty dark.”
Peter shook his head. “In your car?” he said. He paused for a long time, then said, softly, “You”—and the next word came slowly, unbidden, released from his lips with a little shrug as if there were no other word that would quite do—“slut.”
Her face was puffy, and her eyes were red, but she wasn’t crying. She moved her head back and forth slightly as though trying to deny the word, a word that no one had ever applied to her before, but then at last she also shrugged, perhaps accepting the term.
“What happened?” said Peter. “Exactly what did you do?”
“We had sex. That was all.”
“What kind of sex?”
“Normal sex. He just dropped his pants a
nd lifted my skirt. He—he didn’t touch me anywhere.”
“But you were wet anyway?”
She bristled. “I … I’d had too much to drink.”
Peter nodded. “You never used to drink. Not before you started working with them.”
“I know. I’ll stop.”
“What else happened?”
“Nothing.”
“Did he kiss you?”
“Before, yes. Not after.”
Sarcastic: “Did he tell you he loves you?”
“Hans says that to everyone.”
“Did he say it to you?”
“Yes, but … but it was just words.”
“Did you say it to him?”
“Of course not.”
“Did you—did you come?”
A whisper. “No.” And then a tear did roll down her cheek. “He—he asked me if I had come. As if anyone would have, in and out like that. He asked me. I said no. And he laughed. Laughed, and pulled up his trousers.”
“When did this happen?”
“You remember that Friday I came home late and had a shower?”
“No. Wait—yes. You never have a shower in the evening. But that was months ago—”
“February,” said Cathy.
Peter nodded. Somehow, the fact that this had happened so long ago made it more bearable. “Six months ago,” he said.
“Yes,” she said, and then, the words like a trio of bullets tearing into his heart, “The first time.”
All the stupid questions welled up in his brain. You mean there were others? Yes, Peter, that’s exactly what she means. “How many times?”
“Two more.”
“For a total of three.”
“Yes.”
Sarcastic again: “But ‘affair’ is the wrong word for this?”
Cathy was silent.
“Jesus Christ,” said Peter softly.
“It wasn’t an affair.”
Peter nodded. He knew what kind of person Hans was. Of course it hadn’t been an affair. Of course there was no love involved. “Just sex,” said Peter.
Cathy, wisely, said nothing.
“Christ,” said Peter again. He still had the magazine reader in his hand. He looked at it, thinking he should throw it across the room, smash it against a wall. After a moment, he simply dropped it on the couch next to him. It bounced silently against the cushion. “When was the last time?” he said.
The Terminal Experiment Page 4
