Taji's Syndrome

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

At the far end of the room, Guy Derelli was talking to the press, extolling the hard work done by the staff of the California State Department of Public Health and Environmental Services, and indirectly taking credit for their diligence.

  “Does that bother you?” Weyman asked Sylvia as they ate the broiled prawns that were being passed by red-jacketed waiters.

  “Does what bother me?” Sylvia asked; she had been watching the television screen where the latest proceedings of the Republican Convention were going on. “That Cornice is making foolish promises?”

  “No, that Derelli is hogging the limelight.” Weyman put his arm around her.

  “Oh, he deserves credit. He made unpopular moves in an election year and that takes guts. He might even have integrity for all I know.” She nibbled thoughtfully at another prawn. “I hope that the Standard Public School Blood Screen has enough information to let us reach most of the population with type-O blood. I’d hate to see anyone die now who doesn’t have to.”

  “Meaning everyone who doesn’t have type-O blood?” Weyman asked, the question a trifle brittle.

  “For the time being, yes,” said Sylvia. “What’s the matter? Are you feeling guilty because you have type-O blood and your Public Benefit contract entitled you to some of the first of the artificial genosubtype-h?” She read the answer in his eyes. “You’d better feel guilty about not telling me you were pre-TS. How could you do that to me?”

  “I didn’t want to upset you,” he said, repeating what he had been telling her since she learned he had been given the gst-h. “You were afraid I’d leave you, and I didn’t want you to think that would happen. I told you before I won’t leave you.”

  She sighed and finished the prawn. “I never asked that of you.”

  “I’m volunteering. Actually, I’m proposing,” he amended.

  “What?” She stared at him.

  “I’m proposing,” he repeated.

  “We’re in the middle of a political cocktail party,” she objected.

  “I know. I’m still proposing.” He gave her a swift, wide grin. “Well?”

  “Proposing what?” she asked, her cheeks coloring.

  “I like it when you blush,” he told her softly.

  “Proposing what?” she repeated.

  “Marriage. What else would I propose?” He snagged two prawns from a passing waiter. “Here.”

  She took the prawn. “Thanks.”

  A flurry of applause caused them both to glance in the governor’s direction and to see him give a genial wave to the assembled press.

  “It’s a pretty disappointing crowd,” Weyman said as if agreeing with something Sylvia had said. “But look at the poor show for the Republican Convention. Everyone’s scared of TS, and you can’t blame them.”

  “I guess not,” she said, sounding distracted. Her eyes were fixed on Governor Guy Derelli, but her thoughts were clearly elsewhere.

  “I’m not going to be sidetracked,” Weyman said with a little mischief in his eyes. “One way or another, I’ll get an answer out of you.”

  “I don’t know what to say,” she said, still refusing to look at him.

  A TV news crew with lights and cameras shoved by them; Weyman stepped between Sylvia and them so that she would not be jostled. “You could ruin the suspense and say yes.”

  She gestured with her free hand. “Weyman, that’s what troubles me about you.”

  ‘That I propose here? I’ll propose almost anywhere you like. Name the place.” He nodded toward the door. “Want to go have overdone chicken and dessicated vegetables?”

  “We have to. We’re supposed to be here. Azada told me to attend.” She finished the prawn. “You’re confusing me.”

  “How so?” He slipped his hand through her arm and started toward the banquet room doors.

  “By . . . by the things you do; by not letting those TV people near me, by opening my car door, by doing the laundry when I’m too busy, by making dinner or taking me out when we go late at night.” The banquet room was set for two hundred, fifteen of those places at a long table at the front of the room in the full glare of the lights, the rest at round tables that seated ten.

  “We’re at table number eight,” said Weyman, looking for the numbers. “It’s on the other side of the room. Come on.” He released her arm and took her hand, leading the way through the crush.

  “See?” she accused him as they reached table number eight.

  “What?” He was holding her chair out for her. “What’s wrong, Sylvia?”

  “Nothing.” She sat down and glared at the arrangement of plastic flowers in the center of the table.

  “Pretty strange reaction to nothing. Or don’t you like banquets?” Weyman asked, still unperturbed, as he took his seat. “If it’s the TS, we can wait to see what the blood work tells us. I won’t expect you to marry me if it turns out that you’ll be a widow before you’ve got all your table silver.”

  She slapped her hands down on the table. “That’s what I mean. That’s it?”

  This time he was truly puzzled. “What is it?”

  “Your damned, infernal, automatic, addictive consideration. You act like the things you do for me are . . . are fun.” She hurled the words at him.

  “I like the addictive part,” he said, and before she could say more, he added, “They are fun, Sylvia. Being able to do things for you is a privilege.”

  On the dais someone was testing the microphone; there were the traditional explosive taps and electronic squeals. The toastmaster, a local television anchorman, counted to five, blinked as a third bank of lights came on, and sat down.

  Four more people came to table eight and sat down.

  “I’m Jim Swayles; Immigration.”

  “I’m Jim’s wife, Nina.”

  “I’m Sylvia Kostermeyer—”

  “Doctor Kostermeyer—”

  “—with PHES and he’s—”

  “Weyman Muggridge—”

  “Doctor Muggridge—”

  “—NCDC-ED.”

  “I’m Sherry Wood, County Health Department.”

  “I’m Jesus Dominguez, Immigration.”

  Weyman gave the kind of smile he usually reserved for especially boring staff meetings. “You’ll have to pardon us. We were in the middle of a discussion and there’s a couple points we need to clear up.”

  “Weyman, for God’s sake,” Sylvia said in a lower voice.

  “If not here, tell me where?” He was all innocence.

  Double doors to the left of the dais opened and the first squad of waiters rushed into the room, starting to distribute what had been called Frutti del Mare salad.

  “Later; we can discuss things later. No one here wants to listen to this.” Sylvia looked guiltily at the others. “I’m sorry. When he gets his mind on something, there’s no getting him off it.”

  Nina Swayles smiled indulgently. “Jim’s just like that, too.”

  “When, Sylvia?” Something in his tone revealed his determination.

  “Tonight. We’ll settle it tonight, okay? But not right now. Look. Mayor Talley is going to say something.” Sylvia, who usually abhorred these dinners, found herself hoping this one would never end. She could feel Weyman beside her, and hated herself for relying on him to make polite conversation.

  During his address after the puddle of whipped chocolate goo that was billed as mousse, Governor Derelli introduced several of those he labeled “medical crusaders,” including Sylvia.

  “Well, stand up for the Governor,” Weyman prompted her when she faltered, blushing.

  “You mean, you were one of those working on TS all along?” Dominguez asked with increased respect.

  “Right from the beginning,” Weyman confirmed. “She was one of the docs who insisted that the
NCDC get involved.” He clapped enthusiastically. “A lot of people owe her their lives.”

  “Weyman, stop it,” she whispered as she stood, flattered and miserable at the same time.

  “Not a chance. You deserve a lot more credit than you’re ever going to get, lady, and I’m not going to let you throw away what comes to you, because it’s yours by rights.” He held her chair for her as she sat down.

  The speeches dragged on until after eleven. By then the room was stuffy and the TV crews were openly restive since they had missed everything but the late-night news. Finally Mayor Talley thanked everyone for coming and expressed her gratitude for all that had been done to help the victims of TS. She gave special thanks to the gentleman at her right, Captain Jacob Lorrimer of the United States Marine Corps, for his work in opening military medical facilities to civilians during the emergency, and Captain Lorrimer nodded acknowledgement.

  “What’s the most beautiful stretch of coast along here?” Weyman asked as he held Sylvia’s spangled sweater for her.

  “La Jolla, probably,” she said without thinking.

  “Okay. We’ll drive up there—you can guide me or you can drive, whichever you prefer—and we’ll finish our ‘discussion’.”

  She turned to him in dismay. “But—”

  “You said later. This is later. Let’s clear the air so we can both get back to work.” He held her arm and guided them both through the crowd. “You can say yes right now, but you might as well get your questions answered, so you can say it in comfort.”

  “What makes you so sure I’m going to say yes?” She stopped walking, and he stood beside her.

  “Because you’re a very smart lady, and no matter how much I scare you, losing me scares you more,” he told her very gently. “Which is good, because losing you scares me more than all the disease in the world, or all the disasters we face.”

  “Weyman—”

  “God’s own truth,” he said, holding up his right hand to swear.

  “All right,” she capitulated with a sigh. “Let’s go to La Jolla and thrash this out.”

  They drove in silence, .the radio picking up Broadway tunes from a station in L.A. There was moderate traffic, most of it moving fairly fast, but Sylvia refused to be rushed. She turned off I-5 at Van Nuys and drove out to the coast road, heading north around the point.

  “You can park any time,” Weyman suggested.

  “Can’t we keep driving?” she pleaded.

  “All the way to San Francisco, if it’ll make you feel better,” he said.

  “All right,” she said, taking up the challenge and heading up the coast. “Talk.”

  “First, I want you to know that if it turns out that my TS hasn’t responded to the artificial sub-h, then I won’t hold you to anything. I don’t want you chained to me while I die. That’s not part of the bargain.”

  “None of that ‘in sickness and health’ nonsense for you?” she asked, her eyes glittering dangerously.

  “I didn’t say that. I said that if I still have TS, the deal’s off. Something, sometime, will kill me. Something, sometime, will kill you. If we’re lucky, it’ll be years down the line, and we’ll go quickly, in our sleeps, from old age. It would tear me apart to see you suffer.” He leaned back, hands laced behind his head.

  “Lovely things you think about.” She kept her attention on the road and paid little attention to the shine of the Pacific Ocean on her left, or Weyman on her right.

  “You’re a doctor; you think about those things, too.” He took a deep breath. “So. If I have TS, that’s that. Anything else is a crap shoot and we’ll take our chances, how does that sound?”

  “Too noble for words,” she answered.

  He chuckled once. “I been called lots of things in my time but noble is a first. Tell me what’s troubling you about this? Can you honestly say you don’t want to marry me?”

  She swallowed hard. “I had an aunt. She’s twelve years older than I am. And she grew up with the old myths—you know, you go to school, you get a good job and you find a good husband and you have a good life and a good family. Only it didn’t happen that way. She had a three-year relationship with a married man when she was in her late twenties, and then . . . there were no more relationships. She went as far as she could with the job, and then she was stuck, and there was nowhere to go. It eroded her. Every day she lost a little of her self-esteem because none of the payoffs ever happened, no matter how right she did things.”

  “Are you sure that’s how she felt?” Weyman asked softly.

  “Yeah. I’m sure. I read the letter she left. Because I found her after she killed herself.” She took a deep breath. “I was sharing her apartment with her while I went to college.”

  “Oh, Sylvia.” He reached over and touched the back of her neck. “God, the things we go through.”

  “Anyway,” she said, while a part of her mind railed at her for revealing so much, “I realized then that the myths were dangerous and they could destroy you.”

  “And you decided that you’d never let them destroy Sylvia Kostermeyer.”

  “Something like that,” she allowed.

  “Even if you had to deny yourself what you longed for.” He leaned back again. “We all lose things we love. That’s the way it works. But to turn away from it because eventually we’ll lose it means you never have it at all. For a very intelligent lady, that’s rotten logic.”

  “How kind of you to point that out.” Her hands tightened on the steering wheel.

  “You don’t believe it yet, but it is.” He was silent for a time. “We’re not through this TS crisis yet. We’re only delaying the worst of it. And frankly, there’s no way I can make it through all by myself.”

  “In fact, proposing to me is selfish of you,” she expanded on his words.

  “Damn right.”

  “And you want to marry me because then you can handle working on this epidemic.” She shook her head.

  “And the other epidemics we don’t know anything about,” he appended. “And all the rest of it. If I have to go through the rest of my life knowing that I botched it with you . . . Sylvia, I didn’t propose out of convenience. It isn’t convenient being in love with a woman who lives across the country from where I work. I didn’t propose out of lust. If that were all I felt, or you felt, we’d both know it. I didn’t propose out of pity. I don’t pity you at all, though I am deeply saddened to know how difficult your life has been at times. I didn’t even propose out of loneliness. That’s the worst possible reason to propose, though because I love you I’d be very lonely without you; the thing is, Sylvia, the love comes first, not the loneliness; that’s the difference.” He put his left hand over her right one for a moment. “I’ve said my peace. If you can’t say yes, even though you want to—”

  “How can you be sure of that?” This time she did not sound as angry or as confident as before.

  “Because I’m not deaf, dumb and blind; and I’m not stupid.” He laughed. “If you’re so worried, we’ll take a year to live together, to work it out. Hell, we’ll take two years or five or however many you want.”

  “Are you patronizing me?” she asked uncertainly.

  He laughed out loud. “God damn, you are the most suspicious woman!”

  She tried to find an indignant accusation, but started giggling instead. “You bastard,” she laughed.

  “Does that mean you will?”

  “It means I’ll think about it,” she said, smiling and beginning to lose the tension that had gripped her all evening.

  “While we live together,” he added.

  “All right, all right, all right, while we live together.” Although she could not bring herself to say it, she suddenly felt idiotically happy.

  —Alexandra Porter—

  One of the older
geldings was down with pidgeon fever, and Alexa was with the vet when the phone rang.

  “Do you mind if I get that?” she asked as the ringing continued. “Elvira usually refuses to answer it.”

  “Sure,” said the vet as she examined the swelling that stretched from the base of his neck to between his front legs. “This poor fella isn’t going anywhere.”

  “I appreciate it,” said Alexa, and hurried out of the stable toward the house at a fast jog.

  “Porter Ranch,” she answered, a little out of breath.

  “Collect call from Harold,” announced the synthesized voice. “Will you accept charges.”

  Alexa swallowed hard. “Yes. Yes, operator. I’ll accept the—”

  “Thank you; go ahead please,” said the voice.

  “Mom?” he said tentatively.

  “Harold? Honey? God, it’s good to hear your voice.” She could feel tears on her face. “Where are you, Harold?”

  “Near Penticton. That’s in Canada.” His voice was lower than she remembered it from six months ago and he spoke hesitantly.

  “I know where Penticton is,” she said. “How are you, Harold?”

  “I’m okay. I guess. Yeah.”

  “Harold, what is it?” She tried to remain calm, but dread was poking its hot fingers on her spine. “Harold?”

  “It’s Dad.” His voice broke and he started to sob. “He just collapsed. Just like that.”

  “Harold,” she said, trying to calm him. “Harold, tell me where he is now.”

  “They took him to the hospital, about an hour ago.”

  “Which hospital?” Alexa asked, trying to keep her wits about her.

  “I don’t know. The big one near the old Peach Festival grounds. I didn’t get the name. Mom, I’m sorry.”

  “It’s okay, Harold. I’ll tend to that later.” She wanted to reassure him. “I’ll call Penticton later and take care of everything.”

  The boy was sobbing and he could not put words together. “Oh, Mom . . . he’s . . . he’s . . .”

  “I know what he is,” said Alexa with feeling. “I’ll make sure he’s taken care of. Don’t you worry about that. What about you? Where are you staying right now?”