World Enough (And Time)

by Edmund Jorgensen

  “Nothing looks broken,” Katherine was saying, “which is better than you deserve. But you should still get it checked out at the—”

  She looked up from Jeremiah’s hand and followed the direction of his gaze to the evidence of her cottage textile industry.

  “Oh. It’s a shawl,” said Katherine. “For Mrs. Chapin.”

  She looked back to Jeremiah and saw in his eyes that he was already familiar with her work.

  “Don’t tell anyone,” she said. “I found all this yarn unused in the storeroom, and with the climate on the fritz so many people were cold. But I don’t want word to get around too much—I hate knitting.”

  She seemed to be waiting for some response from Jeremiah, but he was not up to the challenge of coherent speech. He was in the grips of something suspiciously like an epiphany, and at the moment he was fully consumed with trying to understand how it was that all this time he had never fully seen in Katherine what was now so impossible to miss.

  Jeremiah had met people who were naturally kind, and they were wonderful people—probably kinder than Katherine, if there were a blood test to measure kindness per ml or some such. But they came by their kindness as tall people came by their height or brilliant people their smarts—as an accident of birth. In fact, kindness came so easily to these folks that not being kind was hard work for them. Katherine, on the other hand, did not come by her kindness naturally at all. Exhibit A: the two days of silent treatment she’d given Jeremiah when he moved into her room. None of the congenitally kind people Jeremiah had ever known could have kept that up. An hour or two in, they’d have been sweating and shivering at the effort it was costing them not to sleep on the sofa themselves so Jeremiah could take the comfy bed.

  Whereas for Katherine kindness took thought and work, and maybe something even harder. Just like Jeremiah, she had seen the absurdity at the beating heart of the world—had looked deep into it and held her gaze there for a long time. He could see that now, and could not imagine how he ever could have missed it. But Katherine had not reacted to the sight—as Boyle had—with bitterness and suspicion and fear. She had not even reacted like Jeremiah, with friendly but disengaged irony and ennui. She had looked upon the hollow universe and resolved to fill it with compassion—not as a frightened reflex or a natural inclination, but as a deliberate act of courage, and of will.

  He was not half in love with Katherine, Jeremiah realized, or 7/8ths in love, or even 34/35ths.

  “Katherine,” he said. His voice did not feel under his control—there was something that must be said, and said now—something that only he could say.

  “Yes,” said Katherine, her tone perfectly balanced between a question and an answer.

  “That’s the doorbell,” said Jeremiah.

  These were not the three words that had been struggling to escape his soul. Yes, they had other virtues—for example, if Jeremiah had uttered them competitively in the Olympics of declarative statements, even the French judge would have had to award him all available points for accuracy—for Jeremiah’s words rang as true as the bell they described. The same judge would have been justified, however, in recording a goose egg for the romance category, as Jeremiah’s last remark had caused a significant change in the atmosphere of the room, similar to the change in a balloon’s atmosphere caused by a pin.

  “Are you expecting anyone?” Katherine asked.

  “At this hour? Are you?” said Jeremiah.

  Katherine shook her head.

  The doorbell rang again, and gave the unmistakable impression that it would keep ringing until someone answered.

  “I guess I should get it,” Jeremiah said. There was, after all, no real use hiding from either Grubel or Mrs. Mayflower, and Jeremiah could not imagine who else would bother tracking him down this far outside office hours.

  As he answered the door, however, Jeremiah realized that his imagination had failed him in spectacular fashion. For the figure standing outside did not belong to Mr. Grubel or to Mrs. Mayflower, but to Jeremiah’s Canadian doctor stalker, and the intensity of his current brooding was palpable.

  “You don’t deserve her,” said the stalker. Which struck Jeremiah as an odd thing to say on several counts.

  His disagreement with the fundamental premise of the statement was not one of those counts—despite the nature of the scene that the Canadian doctor stalker had just interrupted, Jeremiah knew that wooing Katherine meant punching far above his weight. But why was this young man coming to knock on his door so late just to remind Jeremiah of this disparity? Jeremiah’s imagination, eager to redeem itself after its recent disgrace, offered up a possibility.

  The young man, Jeremiah imagined, was a yet unannounced gladiator in the battle for Katherine’s heart. This theory fit all available facts: the physical abuse in the cafeteria, the surveillance, the brooding intensity that had built to this late-night confrontation. At this thought, Jeremiah lost all fear. Indeed, he almost felt sorry for the young man who—unlike John Battle—did not represent a serious rival. For starters, there was the brooding intensity, which did not promise a life of romantic bliss. Then there was the small fact of his being Canadian. But Jeremiah also sensed opportunity in the chaos occasioned by the stalker’s late entrance in the sweepstakes for Katherine’s attention—a chance to highlight by comparison Jeremiah’s own adult, respectful behavior for Katherine, who was still standing behind him, watching this drama unfold.

  “Well,” Jeremiah said, “she’s an adult woman who can make her own choices, isn’t she?”

  “An adult woman whose boots you aren’t worthy to lick,” said the stalker. As he grew more excitable, his slight French-Canadian accent elbowed its way further into the foreground, so that for a split second Jeremiah was not clear on why he should be licking anyone’s buttes.

  “But she can choose her own boots.”

  “But you can’t lick them,” said the medical stalker.

  “I can if she lets me,” Jeremiah said. “I might not be worthy, but I’m capable.”

  “Excuse me,” Katherine said, “but could you guys finish the boot licking conversation somewhere else? Some of us have to be up early tomorrow.”

  At the sound of Katherine’s voice the stalker shoved Jeremiah roughly aside and stepped inside the room.

  “Who is that?” he said, pointing wildly at Katherine. “Who the hell is that?”

  “That’s Katherine, of course,” said Jeremiah.

  “What is she doing in your room?” the medical stalker demanded.

  “Actually—” Jeremiah began.

  “It’s my room,” said Katherine, “and I’d like you to leave it.”

  Something in the medical stalker snapped, and his long-simmering intensity boiled over into rage.

  “You two-timing bastard,” he shouted at Jeremiah. “Being engaged to the most wonderful woman in the world isn’t enough for you? You have to have some of this on the side?”

  “Engaged?” said Jeremiah.

  “And if you think I’m not going to tell Kimberly about this because of some manly code between men,” the medical stalker said, “you’re sorely mistaken.”

  “Kimberly?” said Jeremiah.

  “Don’t you dare say her name!” roared the medical stalker.

  Jeremiah took a discreet step backwards. Though the stalker, as previously noted, was nowhere near as physically imposing as John Battle, there was now a distinct air of desperation and uncontrolled fury about him, which was enough to make any man dangerous. Jeremiah could imagine a not-too-distant future where the young man swung as hard as he could at Jeremiah’s face and ended up hitting him quite painfully in the stomach.

  “There’s been some kind of misunderstanding,” Jeremiah said. “I’m sure we can clear it up.”

  “Maybe I should wait in my room,” Katherine said, “while you two work this out in the hall.”

  “You’re not going anywhere,” said the medical stalker. “I want you to hear exactly what kind of man you�
��ve been spending time with. A man who’s already engaged to someone else!”

  “Here’s the thing,” Jeremiah said, “I’m not engaged to anyone. And I don’t even know anyone named—”

  Jeremiah saw the medical stalker’s fury welling at the impending use of Kimberly’s name.

  “—that woman’s name you said starting with K that wasn’t Katherine,” he finished, which he hoped was specific enough given the circumstances.

  “I don’t believe you,” the stalker said. But he said it as if he wished to believe, and Jeremiah wished to encourage that wish.

  “This is my roommate, Katherine. She would know if I’m engaged. Katherine, am I engaged?”

  “Not to my knowledge. But why would I know or care?”

  Jeremiah could have done without the second part, for several reasons, but on the other hand the stalker’s face was now a blend of doubt and hope.

  “Then why did Kimberly say you were?” he asked. “Wait, are you calling her a liar?”

  At the mere suggestion of this slight, his fury welled up again.

  “No, no, never in a million years,” said Jeremiah. “I’m just saying there’s been a misunderstanding.”

  “So you’re saying Kimberly’s not engaged?”

  “Well,” Jeremiah said, feeling the waters grow a bit choppier again after a rather promising stretch, “unfortunately I can’t speak to that. I just know she isn’t engaged to me. Ask her yourself—just confirm that she’s not engaged to Jeremiah Brown. You’ll see.”

  “All right,” the stalker said, “But if it turns out you are engaged to her—”

  “I’m not,” said Jeremiah.

  “But if you are, then I’ll be back.”

  The stalker backed through the door and into the hall, scowling the entire way.

  The instant the door hissed closed behind him, Jeremiah turned to Katherine, who was already on her way into her bedroom.

  “Just so you know,” he said, “I’m not engaged.”

  “Then I won’t say congratulations. Just good night.”

  “Wait—Katherine—”

  But she had already closed the door behind her, and this time no amount of knocking and pleading seemed likely to draw her out.

  18

  So Very Unlikely

  Wednesday (4 days until arrival)

  The next morning, while Katherine was in the shower, Jeremiah passed the time cursing Bradley, himself, and especially the doorbell, an infernal invention that it seemed to him mankind could have done very well without. As if it could feel its ears burning, the doorbell rang again.

  His imaginative boundaries about who might be ringing having been recently expanded, Jeremiah considered waiting for Katherine to emerge from the bathroom—so that if it was the medical stalker returning to assault and batter him, at least there would be a witness—but at this cowardly thought Jeremiah’s inner grizzled veteran put together a string of epithets that could have stripped paint from plaster, and sighing in agreement, Jeremiah answered the door.

  At first glance no one was there, and at second glance as well, but then a peculiar scent found its way into Jeremiah’s nostrils. If he were forced to put a name to the scent—say for a new brand of aromatherapy candle—he might have suggested “strawberry lily coconut vanilla chloroform”—or, perhaps, if something punchier were called for, “tropical spring surgeon”. Looking down, he located the source of the scent: a small pink envelope which someone had left on the ground of the hallway. Jeremiah picked it up and returned to the room.

  He examined the envelope, careful not to hold it too close to his face for fear of passing out and waking up in a bathtub of potpourri, missing one of his kidneys. The envelope was addressed in red ink and a feminine hand to “Jeremiah”, but the i of “Jeremiah” sported a heart in place of the pedestrian dot. Once upon a time, seeing his name written by a member of the fairer sex, and with this cardiac flourish, would have made Jeremiah’s own adolescent heart beat faster. But now this envelope and its hearted i gave him an ominous, queasy sensation, concentrated in the general vicinity of his entire body. He took a deep breath, held it, and opened the envelope.

  Jeremiah, the letter began—complete with another heart—I don’t even know why I’m bothering (another heart) to tell you this (heart) because it’s so highly unlikely, (heart, heart, heart) but just in case a guy named Bradley says something to you about our being engaged, would you be the total sweetie (this was the only i in the entire letter, Jeremiah noted, dotted with a mere dot) that I know you are and just play along? Thanks I appreciate it sooooo much. xoxoxo Kimberly

  For such a brief text, this note contained an impressive number of mysteries to be plumbed. For example, why would Kimberly lie about being engaged to Jeremiah? This was not something other people usually did. Furthermore, what cause did she have to know that Jeremiah was a sweetie, with or without a heart-dotted i? For that matter, what possible purpose could anyone old enough to be on E4 have to dot any i with a heart? Oh, and incidentally: who in all of the infernal blazes was Kimberly?

  Jeremiah had been considering these conundrums over 30 seconds before the doorbell rang again. This time he did not hesitate to answer it.

  “Dr. Merrifield?” he said. For it was she, the same young Canadian doctor who over a year ago had treated the twisted ankle that Jeremiah had naturally confused with imminent death, and whom he had recently noticed again in the employee cafeteria.

  “I wanted to make sure you got my note,” said Dr. Merrifield.

  Dr. Kimberly Merrifield, Jeremiah presumed.

  In a pre-Katherine universe, Jeremiah might have felt differently upon learning the identity of his secret fiancée. Despite her being Canadian, and despite the fact her thorough and vigorous style of medical examination had caused him significant pain in his ankle, the fifteen minutes Jeremiah had spent under Dr. Merrifield’s medical attention remained a fond memory from his time as a passenger. During the visit he had abandoned his attempts to flirt with her only after multiple such attempts had fallen flat (for example, when she diagnosed him with hypochondria and he had replied that he was always worried he’d had that and she had stared at him without blinking for a full ten seconds and then said “No”). But they were not in a pre-Katherine universe, and Jeremiah had no wish to return to one.

  “Yes, I just finished reading it,” said Jeremiah.

  “It’s so highly unlikely that Bradley would actually bother to find you, but—”

  “Actually, he was here last night.”

  “Bradley?” Kimberly said, aghast.

  “Yes,” said Jeremiah.

  “Was here?”

  “Yes,” Jeremiah said again.

  “Last night?”

  “Yes,” said Jeremiah, for the hat trick.

  “It was so highly unlikely he would do that,” said Kimberly. “You should play the lottery.”

  “His visit didn’t feel like winning the lottery. He did not seem happy about our ‘engagement’.”

  “Did he harass you?” asked Kimberly.

  “Oh yes,” said Jeremiah. “Most definitely.”

  “Did he threaten you?” she gasped.

  “More or less.”

  “And did he harm you?” Kimberly asked with what sounded like her final breath.

  “Well, at one point he sort of shoved me aside.”

  Kimberly began to cry.

  “Don’t cry,” said Jeremiah. “I can handle a shove or two from a guy like that, let alone a bit of verbal harassment.”

  “It’s not that,” said Kimberly through the tears. “When I told him we were engaged, I said that if he really loved me, he would want me to be happy, which meant that he wouldn’t harass, threaten, harm, or even attempt to contact you. It was an experiment—a test of his love.”

  “Oh,” said Jeremiah. Despite Kimberly’s unsavory heritage and the inconvenience her insane plan had caused him, it was impossible to see the sobs wracking her body and, as the saying went, wi
sh such suffering even on a Canadian. A heart tender enough to dot every i with its own likeness must suffer this sort of wound deeply. “Look, you shouldn’t jump to conclusions just because he—”

  “And he passed,” said Kimberly. She sighed romantically between sobs, which were growing gentler now, like the tail end of a summer thunderstorm. “Bradley—oh, Bradley. Never mind, Jeremiah. There’s no need to pretend we’re engaged anymore—I’ll tell Bradley the truth as soon as I see him.”

  “I don’t understand,” Jeremiah said.

  “In the face of such incontrovertible evidence of love, I am forced to overthrow the Categorical Imperative, yield to his passion, and become Mrs. Bradley Bonaventure. What else is there to understand?”

  “But you told him that if he really loved you, he wouldn’t harass, threaten, or harm me.”

  “Yes,” said Kimberly.

  “And he did harass, threaten, and harm me.”

  “He loved me too much not to. Goodbye, Jeremiah, and thank you.”

  She turned to leave.

  “It’s just that—how could he have possibly failed the test?” said Jeremiah.

  Kimberly turned back around.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, if he hadn’t harassed, threatened, or harmed me, he would have been following the instructions you gave him to demonstrate that he loved you. But now you’re saying that since he did harass, threaten, and harm me, that was also proof he loved you. How could he have failed?”

  Kimberly actually staggered backwards a few steps.

  “You’re right,” she said. “I let emotion cloud my rational faculties. My experiment was flawed—my hypothesis was not falsifiable! Jeremiah, I had no idea you were gifted with a scientific mind.”