How Like A God

by Brenda W Clough

  No, he wouldn’t make the same mistake again. No hasty, emotion-driven decisions. Anything he did with the power from now on, Rob resolved to consider carefully. There was no reason why he shouldn’t survey those scientists at NIH, for instance—try to predict what they might want to do, maybe select a sympatico one. Nobody who was into dissection, for instance

  With a start he remembered there were still loose ends to tie up: Angie,

  Ike, Pat the secretary and maybe her cheerleader daughter. Calling his sister and Ike would be long distance. He could do that cheaper from home. He put a big tip under his cup and hurried out.

  CHAPTER 8

  That afternoon driving over to pick up the kids, Rob had another idea. He had done his telephoning and found that it was easy to make people forget stuff. It was a piece of cake, making Angie and Ike forget what Julianne told them—they’d only half-believed her, anyway. Forgetting is easy. Now, listening to the news on the radio, he thought about Bosnia, where another

  atrocity had just been perpetrated against helpless civilians. Suppose he went to the President and offered to make the Croats and the Serbs forget about the entire thing? Just wipe the slate clean of a thousand years or so of attack and counter-attack. Of course the Yugoslavians would lose a chunk of history if he did that—all the war stories and songs and poems would go, for instance—but at this point, with people being dismembered in the streets, maybe they wouldn’t mind. It might be the perfect solution for some of those ethnic or religious conflicts with deep roots—Northern Ireland, for instance. Or Rwanda. Surely such power had come to him for a reason. If he could even partially heal some of these festering sores it would be worthwhile. It was a cheering line of thought, and Rob whistled as he opened Miss Linda’s gate.

  As usual the kids were delighted to see him. Davey gave Rob’s knees a large slobbery kiss, leaving a purple jelly stain on his jeans. Angela said,

  “Look, Daddo! Look what Annie do!” She turned a leg-thrashing somersault on the rug.

  “She just learned that today,” Miss Linda reported with pride. “What a big girl, huh?”

  “Good gosh, where’s the videocamera when you need it! Will you do that again for Mommy when we get home, sugar pie?”

  “Sure,” Angela said with confidence, and Rob had to laugh.

  “Come on, smarty, time to drift.” He caught her up in his arms.

  “Daddo, can I hold the videocam?” she asked sweetly.

  Startled, Rob almost dropped her. Was that unusually articulate for an eighteen-month-old? He glanced at Miss Linda. “She’s a clever cookie,” Miss Linda said with only mild surprise.

  “I wouldn’t be surprised if she could handle the videocam,” Rob said, turning it into a joke. By the time he had both children and all their paraphernalia loaded into the van, he had concluded it was just Angela’s latest verbal advance.

  Traffic was terrible going back through Fairfax. The rain had cleared, but a big truck had lost part of its load right in the middle of Route 50.

  Finally Rob was able to edge the van past the light at the intersection.

  “Lucky we don’t have to pick up Mommy today at the station,” he told the twins.

  “Why? Is she taking the bus tonight?”

  Rob’s blood froze. Had that been Angela talking? He couldn’t stop here in the middle of the highway. Instead he adjusted the rearview mirror to catch a glimpse of the two. Angela was looking out the window, so their eyes didn’t meet. Nevertheless there seemed to be an unnaturally intelligent

  light in the baby face. “Oh my god,” he groaned. “What have I done?”

  Gritting his teeth he stepped hard on the gas. He had to get them home as soon as possible!

  “Sometimes there’s a police car hiding here,” Davey remarked.

  Davey loved police cars—that was why he remembered, Rob realized. He forced himself to slow down. This was not the time to be stopped for speeding.

  What had he done to them, by his mere presence? Maybe the power, easily driven by emotion, was working through his natural paternal desire to help his kids grow and develop. He rolled through the suburban side streets without seeing them, stopping automatically at the stop signs and making all the correct turns, sick with fear. What will happen to them? Will it get worse? Is this permanent? How can I find out? What pediatrician would know?

  He almost whimpered with relief when he pulled into their own driveway.

  Cutting off the engine, he dashed out of the van and around to the side door. When he slid it aside, both children were staring at him with a kind of mild wonder. Davey was uncharacteristically grave as Rob unlatched his carseat. He held his arms out to be picked up. “Why are you sad?”

  Rob flinched. “I can’t tell you, son,” he whispered. “I can’t tell anybody.” “You can tell your family,” Angela said reasonably. She sounded so mature, maybe six or eight years old! Rob fumbled at her carseat’s latch, fallen Cheerios crunching under his feet.

  Davey waited on the sidewalk with a patience totally alien to an eighteen-month-old. “The keys are in the ignition,” he reminded Rob.

  Blindly Rob fetched them out and shut the van up. Ordinarily as he herded them up the walk to the front door they tried to chase butterflies or pick dandelions or eat ants. Now the twins led the way without instruction, and stood clear of the storm door while Rob unlocked the deadbolt.

  Inside, on automatic pilot, Rob emptied the diaper bags and rinsed the bottles out. He poured apple juice into sipper cups and carried them into the living room. Dozens of toys lay neglected on the rug. Angela was perched on the footstool, frowning as she pushed the buttons on the TV remote. “You want to see the Lehrer Report, Daddo?”

  “No!” Rob said vehemently. “No, please watch cartoons!”

  Davey turned over the pages of TV Guide. “Power Rangers is too violent for our age group, you know.”

  “This one time it’s okay.” Rob set the juice down and bolted from the room. My god, could the kid read already? He ran too fast up the stairs into the bedroom, slamming the door behind him. The blood roared in his ears, and black water seemed to rush over him. He fell half-fainting to his hands and

  knees. I would love to pass out, he thought foggily. I can’t deal with this. Come on, faint! But instead of overwhelming him, the friendly oblivion slowly ebbed. He found himself staring at the carpet, his fingers sunk deep into the green pile.

  He crawled up onto the bed and lay face down on the duvet. It was vital to analyze this thing rationally. Miss Linda hadn’t noticed any way-out precocity today. Rob remembered how she had been surprised when Angela had talked about the videocam. So this unnatural maturity only appeared when Rob was actually near the kids. With all his heart Rob prayed that this was true. Because then the solution was simple. He would keep away from them, and the children would revert to normal. Maybe even now, downstairs in the living room, it was far enough. Maybe they were babbling and romping and acting like regular toddlers again.

  Oh, let it be so! Rob rolled over onto his back and closed his eyes, mentally reaching out. Very gingerly he felt for Angela. In her little treble voice she was saying something about the Israeli-Palestinian negotiations. Rob jerked away. Obviously one storey wasn’t nearly far enough.

  He rolled to his feet. There was only one course of action open to him now, though he had no guarantee at all that it would work. It was almost six-thirty. Julianne’s bus would arrive soon. He kicked his leather loafers off and laced on a pair of athletic shoes. There was no time to pack

  anything, but he pulled his dark blue toggle coat out of the back of the closet. He ran downstairs again and into the living room.

  “Angela. Davey. I want you to remember this—I love you. Don’t ever forget it.” They would never forget, he knew it. All of himself, his entire being, was behind the words. He went down on one knee to hug them, first Davey and then Angela. “Mommy will be here in a minute, okay?”

  “Where are you going, Daddo?” Angela
demanded.

  “We’re too young to be left,” Davey pointed out.

  Rob couldn’t bear to answer. The truth was impossible, and he wouldn’t let his last words to the children be a lie. Without saying anything, he stumbled from the room, down the hall and out the front door. His keys still dangled jingling from the lock. He pulled them out and pocketed them, a last tiny gesture of hope.

  The sun was setting. The bus came into sight at the end of the street, and he ran to meet it. With a hiss of air brakes it slowed at the bus stop. He dashed up to the doors just as they sighed open. Julianne stood astonished at the top of the steps. “Goodness, Rob, what’s wrong? What are you doing here?”

  Rob leaped up the steps into the bus. “Jul, I—I have to go away. On business. A long trip.”

  Of course she accepted this instantly, because his words had muscle behind them, but still she was surprised when he hugged her tight. “What, you’re leaving tonight?”

  “On this bus. Right now. The kids are waiting at home for you. Don’t worry about me. Kiss me, quick!”

  “You know, man, I got a schedule to keep,” the bus driver said irritably.

  “Is she staying on or getting off?”

  Rob let her go. “Have a good trip, hon!” Julianne called brightly as she skipped down the steps.

  “Good-bye, Jul.” Rob stood on the top step as the doors shut.

  “Stand behind the yellow line, do you mind?” the bus driver said. “And no bills.”

  Rob dropped the quarters into the fare box and sank into the nearest seat. The pain in his heart was so dreadful he curled around it, bowing his head to his knees. He didn’t realize he was sobbing until the woman in the seat behind him touched his shoulder uncertainly. “Excuse me, are you all right?”

  He jerked upright, glaring. “No!” he shouted. “My life has collapsed! I’ve lost my wife and children! I am not all right!” The bus driver turned, his mouth open. Only a few passengers remained on the bus, and they all cowered. Trapped on a bus with a screaming nut—would he pull out an Uzi and start shooting next? “You don’t see me,” Rob commanded fiercely. “Forget this happened. Nobody sees me.”

  And of course nobody did. The tension evaporated instantly. The woman sat back again in her own seat, and the bus driver accelerated to make the light. The bus rumbled through the mild blue evening on its scheduled route, and Rob was alone with his grief.

  Part Two

  CHAPTER 1

  A gaudy dawn came slowly up in the east. Against the purple cloud streaks and pink sky the factory chimneys could have been cut out of black paper.

  Rob stared out the window at them. He felt gutted, empty. He had wept himself out, but the misery couldn’t be eroded by tears. Without thinking about it, he had transferred from bus to subway to the downtown bus depot, paying no fares, cloaked in his invisibility. He hadn’t bothered to note where this Greyhound was going. It had been the first departing interstate bus. That was all he cared about.

  When the bus stopped and everyone got out, Rob did the same. He followed

  the other passengers out into a cavernous and grungy bus terminus. From there he wandered aimlessly out into the city: New York City.

  I cannot bear this any more, Rob reflected dully. Oh God, if there is a god, take this thing away! It’s a curse. It has ravaged my life. I wish I were dead.

  Though it was so early, the narrow streets thronged with people. Rob walked like a ghost through them, unseeing and unseen. Millions upon millions of people lived in this city, all steaming with thought, thick with their histories. He couldn’t hold their minds at bay any more. It had been madness to come here. New York was the last place for him. He should have gotten on a bus to Michigan, or Tennessee, someplace rural.

  He walked at random for hours and hours through a repellent maze of grim commercial streets. At last he came to a park, a tiny wedge of struggling grass and broken bottles. One of the benches had been vandalized, its slats burnt away, but the other was still reasonably whole. Rob slumped down onto it, exhausted. He stretched out on his back and stared up at the slice of sky remaining between the tall gray office towers. The roar of city traffic surged in his ears, and the workings of a million minds scoured through his skull. I am not going to cope with this any more, he thought. I am going to do nothing and think nothing. I give up.

  Vaguely he felt the danger of this. When I think it, it happens. If I tell

  myself to die, I may very well die. But Rob didn’t care any more. He willed himself to stillness, to emptiness, to oblivion, and sank gratefully into the dark.

  Time passed, an unreckoned period that could have been forever. It was the rain that brought him back. Little annoying drops tapped on his forehead, refusing to go away. Then they rolled down into his eyesockets, forcing him to blink. Of themselves his dry lips parted and the rain trickled in. He realized he was horribly thirsty. He had neither eaten nor drunk since leaving home.

  Sullen thunder rumbled in the sky as Rob slowly sat up. His joints creaked, and his arms and legs were full of pins and needles. The rain poured down, digging its cold fingers into his scalp. He was soaked to the skin, right through his coat and jeans and shirt. It was night. The streetlights cast a ghastly pinkish light over the dirty wet avenue. There was only moderate traffic, so it must be very late. His watch said it was quarter to four on Sunday morning. Confused, he could hardly believe it. But he rubbed his chin—at least three days’ worth of bristle there. What a horrible city! How come no one had noticed a person lying here, trying to be dead, for three whole days? At the very least somebody should have ripped off his watch.

  A man walked briskly by, a bartender on his way to the subway. Rob glanced at himself through the bartender’s eyes and saw the problem immediately. He had never stopped doing his tarnhelm trick. He was so strong now, the trick could just run on automatic. His bleak despair might even have subconsciously repelled anyone who wanted to sit on the bench. It occurred to him that all he had to do was quit being invisible, and a mugger would come along and put him out of his misery. He’d be too weak to resist.

  Putting it like that made Rob realize he didn’t want to die. At least, not by being mugged. Or from starvation and thirst. That single trickle of rain had been enough to revive his will to live. The streetlights wavered and danced as he blinked at them, and he repeated to himself, I am not Superman. If I don’t eat or drink I will die. What a laugh if I die now after all, a real triumph of mind over matter. If there is a God, he has a sick sense of humor.

  He sat in the pouring rain without the strength to do more than lick the raindrops off his upper lip. More footsteps. He would have to ask this one for help. Rob dropped the tarnhelm trick and whispered, “Help.” I’m your friend, he thought at the man, who stopped in his tracks.

  “My god! Is that—”

  “Rob Lewis,” Rob supplied. The tinder-dry creak of the words surprised him. His voice was almost gone.

  “Jeez, Rob, what happened? You’re hurt!”

  “In pretty poor shape, uh—” He fished for the name. “-Jim.”

  “These gang members, they’re everywhere, like roaches! .New York’s going down the toilet! You must’ve got knocked on the head—what’d they get, your keys, your credit cards? Come on, I’m taking you home to Marge. Can you walk? Hey! Taxi!”

  Jim was a dapper older man, maybe in his sixties, but in great shape. He drew Rob’s arm over his Burberryed shoulders and hoisted him to his feet with ease. Probably he went to the gym every day. The first taxi was, naturally, off duty, but Jim bundled him into a second one and gave the driver an Upper East Side address.

  Good, Rob thought. Wouldn’t want to sponge off a garment worker or a waitress. My buddy Jim can afford to give me a meal. When a uniformed doorman opened the taxi door Rob decided to let all scruples slide. The doorman tenderly helped Rob into the elevator and promised, “I’ll buzz Mrs. Deacon and let her know you’re coming, sir.”

  “With Rob Lewis, tell her that,
” Jim instructed. Boy, will she be confused,

  Rob thought.

  The elevator arrived on the 22nd floor. Halfway down a long carpeted hallway Marge stood in a paisley bathrobe holding the apartment door open. “Jim, who on earth—”

  Friend, Rob thought at her hazily. “You remember Rob, don’t you, Marge?”

  “Of course I do! Oh, you poor boy, you’re drenched!” Marge was an easy twenty years younger than Jim, but old enough to be motherly. Rob let her take away his sodden clothes and bundle him into a hot shower, Jim interrupting only to press a brandy snifter into his hand. The brandy was excellent, but far too strong for Rob’s shrunken stomach. He had to run some of his shower water into it. I think I’m going to survive, he thought.

  That first day Rob ate chicken soup and slept, a genuine sleep, not the deathlike trance. In a couple of days he recovered his health and strength completely. By that time he was too uncomfortable to trespass on Jim and Marge any more.

  The problem was, saying “friend” didn’t make Rob their friend. He had nothing in common with Jim, a television executive, or Marge, who ran charity banquets. Because he wished it, they adored Rob, plying him with food and liquor, giving him the run of their ritzy apartment. But at the dinner table conversation limped. Rob didn’t dare confide his own affairs, and when the Deacons tried to include him in their chat he didn’t know or care about any of their concerns. They couldn’t remember where they had known Rob before—unsurprisingly—and that tended to throw a monkey wrench into any reminiscence or story.

  So as soon as he felt able, Rob took his leave. “You saved my life, Jim,” he said. “I’ll never forget it.”

  “It was nothing, nothing!” Jim protested. He squeezed Rob’s hand in a painfully muscular grip. “God, it’s been so great to see you!”

  “Why don’t you visit more often?” Marge demanded. “Bring the wife and children next time!”