FSF, May 2008

by Spilogale Authors

"Pat Goslick,” I said.

  "Your father...?"

  "My mother lived in St. Joe. She was a senior in high school and gave up her baby to a very sweet couple, and I had no idea who my biological parents were, at least until a few years ago."

  What emotion that news brought, I couldn't tell. The face beside me was older than most, worn down by years of tropical sun and heroic worries. Sarah looked tired suddenly. But she appeared to be under control of her emotions. When a smile seemed necessary, she smiled. Then with a cautious tone, she said, “Huh. How about that."

  "So I guess I really belong here,” I said, making my voice loud enough to carry.

  Was it my imagination, or did the air beneath the tent grow quieter now?

  "Poor Pat,” said Sarah. “That was so sad, that crash."

  "And it was inevitable,” I snapped.

  She didn't make any sound.

  "I know a good deal about it,” I said. Then I took a step back, speaking even louder. “At least, I have a pretty clear idea what must have happened. Thirty years ago, give or take."

  The professional spy showed me a blank, watchful face.

  "Except I don't know exactly who's responsible for my father's death,” I called out. “Really, after all this time, that's the only question that wants me to find an answer."

  A glass of blood-colored punch was warming in my hand. The high heels that had been squeezing my poor feet seemed to have vanished, leaving me with the sensation of floating above the clipped green grass. My voice was nervous and a little too practiced, but that was forgivable since I'd been contemplating this moment for the last several months. With a calculated pace, I offered my life story to Sarah—nothing in the tale particularly important, but taking my time, allowing everyone with a vested interest the chance to learn about my little bombshell. Sure enough, some of the Golden Twelve drifted closer, pretending their own conversations but mostly eavesdropping on my recollections about being a difficult child for my poor adoptive parents. Others sent aides or girlfriends or various tagalongs—loyal subordinates who actually stood beside us, sometimes throwing out uninformed little questions, fishing for answers to check against whatever biographical material was being presently excavated on the Web. Was I genuine? And more important, was I dangerous? Probably and probably not, the Twelve finally decided. My story had progressed well into my adult years when the game-designers joined Sarah, followed by the others, each person finding some tiny piece of ground from where they could comfortably hear what I was saying and offer whatever they might to the conversation.

  I described tracking down my birth mother, and through her, my dead father. Then I paused, taking a deep useless breath before concluding, “And that's pretty much the story of my life. I hope you're not too bored, Ms. Younts."

  "Call me Sarah."

  "Sarah.” I took another breath, this time looking at each of the Twelve. Martha L. was standing farthest away, her sunglasses removed, those exceptionally large eyes staring at nothing but me.

  "'The story of a life,'” I said, offering an unexplained bow of thanks in Kale's direction. “A good friend once explained this to me: There's no such creature as a life story. As much as we'd like to think so ... as much as we need to believe in our own epic ... it is something that cannot exist."

  The ex-quarterback growled dismissively. Otherwise, nobody made a sound.

  "This is what I believe,” I warned. “What we call ‘life’ is just a mass of disconnected events, each more random than the last. It isn't even a string of incidents and accidents, because that implies sequential ordering, and the true ingredients of any life overlap, competing desperately with each other. Existence is not as organized as beads riding on a necklace. But the human brain, like or not, is built to find order in any chaos, even where it doesn't exist. That's why we can recognize Jesus on an egg yolk. That's why we can take any mishmash and build a good fat story out of it. Plot lines are a refuge, something hard-wired into our soggy little brains—a talent that probably gave our ancestors insights that genuinely mattered. And as a species, we love nothing better than that good final chapter where the loose ends are tied up, and some overarching moral is earned, and learned, and those characters left behind can add a measure of happiness to their illusionary life stories."

  Portions of my audience were losing their focus. Children and various assistants began hunting for fresh distractions. But none of the Twelve looked away, or blinked. Or in some cases, some of them seemed to quit breathing.

  "A high school graduating class that is wildly successful,” I said. “Twelve life stories, each generating the kind of fame that deserves envy and long-winded biographies ... and how can that be?"

  "Chance,” Kale called out from beside the punch bowl.

  "Always a possibility,” I conceded with a wink.

  "Or it's the end of a lot of hard work,” Carla offered. Probably alarmed by the sudden change of mood, our hostess had pushed her way to the front row, that fat face grinning wildly at her honored guests before giving me a warning stare. “Hard work and an excellent education coupled with Midwestern values ... that's what helped everybody here—"

  "Bullshit,” I said.

  She flinched.

  I said, “I've seen all of your test scores, Carla. Your IQ, and your college entrance exams ... maybe you don't realize this, but you consistently tested out as being smarter than eight of these success stories. You had the second best grade point average. You enjoyed the same background that you praise, and all your life, you have worked like a demon, Carla. Yet after three failed businesses and two useless degrees, you came back to this little town, and if that isn't enough irony, you work in your old high school as a guidance counselor."

  The woman shrank down.

  "I know every half-assed hypothesis that's ever been proposed,” I promised. “Have you heard the gene-for-fame notion? It assumes there's some rare mutation common to many if not all famous souls—a gene with subtle neurological enhancements that we can't yet test for; a gene that gives its recipient smarts as well as a burning ambition. But even if such a gene existed, nobody here is all that closely related to anybody else. I've checked. And if there were such a powerful gene, you'd expect that it would show up in quite a few other Missourians. Wouldn't you?"

  Nobody answered.

  "Of course there's the viral version of that same idea. A weird bug infects half of your class and leaves you brain damaged/mind-enhanced. How the physiology of such a plague would work is a mystery. But maybe there is something to it, and if the virus can mutate into a more communicable form, then our world might soon be home to millions of hypersuccessful individuals. And God have mercy on our souls."

  I laughed quietly.

  "Or maybe over the years, they have helped each other,” Carla mentioned. “Maybe? A synergy of talents, maybe?"

  This wasn't her favorite explanation. Carla grimaced as she spoke, realizing that if it was true, then her friends had long ago left her behind.

  I looked at Sarah. “Did any old classmates give you a helping hand? And did you even once do a favor for even one of them?"

  She said, “No,” to both questions.

  "Plenty of observers have checked the records,” I explained. “Except for our game-builders and a partnership that began in their freshman year, none of the Twelve have been substantially helped any of the others. Each of you has his or her own industry, niche market, or political party. In fact, from what I can see, some of you don't seem to particularly like each other."

  I said, “It's a stumper, this puzzle is. I mean, how could one little group navigate their way through so many random events and still end up at the summit? The pinnacle? For a long time, I've thought about this. I researched all of you, and I sought help from people more imaginative than I, and when I slept, I dreamed these fantastic, useless dreams about you. And after all of that, there's only one explanation that fits what I know."

  "You don't know anything,” our hostess decla
red.

  Carla was furious. Like me, she had an enormous investment in this gathering, and not only had I taken control of her party, I had ruined her carefully enforced mood of banal pleasantness. This wasn't the evening that she had spent months dreaming about, and the tears cutting into the blush on her cheeks made me feel empathy for the poor woman.

  I looked at Sarah then. I glanced at the game designers. And then in quick succession, I measured every other important face.

  "You had help,” I said. “Didn't you?"

  "Get out,” Carla demanded. “I want you out of my house—"

  "Thirty years ago, something happened,” I said. “I think I have a reasonable guess about when it happened, and maybe where ... although I've still got several competing hypotheses to explain what it was exactly and who actually gave you the help—"

  "April,” said Kale.

  My friend had slipped around from behind.

  "You're not welcome here anymore,” Carla assured me.

  "This really is getting weird,” said Kale, one big palm dropping on my bare shoulder. “How about you and I step out front for a little while—?"

  "If I leave,” I threatened, “then I'll tell the world what I know, or at least what I think I know. But if the Twelve sit down and listen to me, then I promise—I mean this—their secret will die with me."

  Carla grabbed me by the arm, yanking hard enough to bruise.

  But then Sarah pushed Kale's hand away and threw a comforting arm around Carla's shoulders. And after a long glance at the other Eleven, she said, “Darling,” to the sobbing, distraught woman. “Why don't you show us to your basement, darling? Right now, please. Please?"

  * * * *

  Fourteen people spilled into a cramped family room. The furnishings and paneled walls were badly in need of updating. In the adjacent laundry room, a rattling dehumidifier was waging a losing war against moisture and mold. I noticed the little table where plastic trophies and pot-metal plaques were put on display—honors achieved in softball tournaments and debate club and the like. The grand achievements of one obscure family; I noticed that nobody had taken the trouble to dust the golden batter standing on its narrow pedestal. Yet really, for all their wild successes, the Twelve had achieved little more that would actually last. Fifty years after their deaths, how many of these names would remain in the public mind? And if anybody remembered even one of them five hundred years from now, it would be more a testament to improvements in memory and minds—a civilization built on superintelligence, where the generations might entertain themselves by unveiling the most obscure trivia.

  Carla lingered at the bottom of the stairs, wringing her hands when she wasn't wiping her wet face.

  Finally Kale appeared, and after a concerned look in my direction, he led his old classmate back up the stairs, closing the door in his wake.

  "Pat Goslick,” I began.

  "We know,” the quarterback snapped. “He was your dad."

  With a beer in one hand, he was easing his frame into the best chair available. The others shared two beat-up sofas and three folding chairs found in a corner, while the rest settled on sofa arms and sofa backs or just stood flush against the ugly, water-stained walls. Two people were standing: Martha L. in the back of the room, and me in front, my back to the trophy table and my arms trying to relax at my sides.

  "Pat was the very best in your class,” I said.

  Maybe I feared disagreement; definitely I hoped to see heads nodding in agreement. But the reaction was as close to nothing as could be. A couple people used the pause to clear their throats. Others shifted their butts, trying for comfort in their new seats. Otherwise, I received looks of watchful indifference.

  "My biological mother told me,” I continued. “She claims that my father was the smartest person she'd ever known, and he was physically beautiful, and he was decent and kind, and by any standard, he was an exceptional athlete. Better than ‘that silly old quarterback,’ she claims."

  The old quarterback sipped his beer and said nothing.

  I said, “For a long time, my working hypothesis was that the rest of you had sacrificed my father. You robbed him of his talents and maybe his life too."

  "How could we have done that?” Sarah asked.

  "Black magic.” I shrugged, laughing at myself. “I really didn't understand the methods that you might have used. But in my endless research, I learned that during her junior year, the Congresswoman from Nevada went through a phase. She dressed Goth-style and played with satanic symbols and all that.” I looked at the woman, adding, “It was just a phase, I know. But what if you'd hit upon some ancient spell that could transform souls, and meanwhile leave my father sacrificed and dead?"

  The Twelve stared at me, offering nothing.

  "Except I don't believe in magic, black or white or any gray between.” With my hands, I swept that possibility aside. “And even if my father could have lived a full life, why does talent make success inevitable?

  "More than anything, chance is what builds success and fame.

  "And how do you manipulate chance? How can you guarantee that the die will come up your favor? Well, you clearly have to cheat somehow. And when it comes to the mechanics of cheating ... I'll warn you, these fields are not my usual strength. Like physics, for instance. And in particular, quantum physics."

  There.

  Most definitely, my audience stirred.

  "I know there was a pretty big UFO sighted during your senior year. And I've read about that series of cattle mutilations in that decade. Maybe one or both of these vague events have a role to play. But people are always seeing odd lights in the sky, and livestock always end up dead in odd ways. No, after a lot of hard consideration, I decided just to focus on the twelve of you, and my father too. Was there any point in time where all of you were together? A class, a club? Any event that joined each of you?"

  Again, most of the faces seemed distinctly uncomfortable.

  "Physics,” I repeated.

  Then I smiled, waiting until finally, from the back, the genuine scientist in the group asked, “What do you mean?"

  "In your senior year,” I pointed out, “everybody here took general physics from Dr. Westbrook."

  People glanced at one another.

  But not Sarah. She was as close to me as anyone and far too shrewd to give away clues during this clumsy interrogation. “What are you thinking, April? Just tell us, please."

  "Dr. Westbrook taught all of the sciences for one year,” I said, “and then he left just as suddenly as he arrived. Supposedly there was an affair with one of his students—"

  In reflex, half a dozen people glanced at Martha L.

  "And he left town that next summer, before the scandal turned public and ugly. But really, that isn't what interests me.” I smiled grimly, saying, “I've looked for the man's history, and I can't find much. There was a Dr. Westbrook working for MIT and then the Sandia laboratories, but all of his files, including every photograph of him, are either lost or drenched in secrecy. All I know for certain is that he vanished from the Sandia rosters, and soon after that, a man with his basic name arrived here, showing certification and looking for work."

  Martha L. was leaning hard against the wall, her head tilted back and the eyes halfway closed.

  I said, “And after living and working here ... after a few more years of wandering ... the mysterious Dr. Westbrook dropped off the face of the Earth. Which might just well be the literal truth."

  "What are you thinking?” Sarah prompted.

  "The man was a magician, but with theoretical physics. Or maybe he was never a true human male, but instead he was some agent or power or explorer or criminal from another time or dimension. Really, I don't have any clear explanation to offer. And maybe none of you do, either.” Then I shook a finger at them, adding, “But all of you took his physics class. And I think there was a day, probably late in the spring semester, when he decided to run an experiment with you.” I had to pause, breat
hing hard for a few moments. Then with my best pleading tone, I asked, “Am I a little bit close?"

  Sarah glanced at the others, and then she turned to me, saying, “Maybe we should go back to the party—"

  "Many-worlds,” I blurted.

  There. I watched eyes grow big and faces light up.

  "The oddest part of quantum mechanics, I think, is the many-worlds idea.” I felt thrilled and terrified. “Reality is built on an infinite number of discrete moments, each moment encompassing every possible configuration of matter and energy, and every Present splits into countless Nexts. And every Next splits and splits again. And maybe if you possessed sufficient power, it would be possible to take any life and then guide it through that endless tangle of possibilities...."

  No one moved. Whatever else I had accomplished that night, I could claim that I had genuinely stunned the Twelve.

  "What did Dr. Westbrook do?” I pressed. “Did he say, ‘Tell me where you want to be in thirty years, and I can make it happen.'?"

  I could hear people breathing. Even the old spy was excited enough to gulp at the damp, moldy air.

  Martha L. had turned sideways against her wall, eyes closed, showing me her lovely profile.

  "And so each of you did it,” I continued. “Not that any of you actually believed in whatever trick he was trying to perform. But it would have been fun—for kids, for anyone—playing that game where you paint some images of the big house where you're going to live someday, and the books you'll write, and the discoveries you'll make ... and how you'll defend our country in adventurous ways ... not to mention ending up rich and happy and exceptionally famous...."

  The quarterback pulled his bulk forward, dropping his half-drunk beer onto a battered little coffee table. Otherwise, the room was filled with people too weak to move or speak.

  "So that's what happened,” I said. And then, with a pride that I believed was earned, I added, “I guessed right! Didn't I?"

  Sarah looked up.

  In a measured tone, she told me, “No, April. No."

  What did she say?

  "In a lot of ways, no. Your story isn't at all what happened."