by James Morrow
“Sounds like witchcraft,” said Sparrow.
“No,” said Randstable. “Physics.”
Slowly, anxiously, Bonenfant licked lemon muck from his lips. For the unadmitted, evidently, there was urgency in every pleasure. He explained that, if let upon the earth, he would have been a civil liberties lawyer living in Philadelphia. He would have defended child murderers and neo-Nazis.
George stood up. “I would like to assert here and now that I am—”
The event that kept him from saying “innocent,” stopping his tongue as abruptly as an arrow stops a bird in flight, was the sudden arrival of the City of New York’s officers and men. Lieutenant Grass, Ensign Peach, Ensign Cobb, Lieutenant Brust, Chief Petty Officer Rush—and over two hundred others. Down the spiral staircase they came, straight into the main mess hall, a roiling mob.
Snatching steak knives from the banquet table, the front-line officers slashed themselves, then passed the knives to the waiting sailors. Chandelier light sparkled in the black rivers. Clouds of burning sulphur rolled through the mess hall. Unadmitted blood filled the wine glasses and frosted the desserts; it speckled Wengernook’s brow, splattered Sparrow’s hair, rushed down Randstable’s cheeks, matted Overwhite’s beard, stuck to Brat’s hands, pooled in George’s lap.
“Admit us!” cried the nullified descendants. “Let us in!”
A swamp of blood collected in the center of the table. It swirled and bubbled, spitting out ashes. As Peach and Cobb gestured toward the vortex, something took form—an ebony sculpture rising awkwardly from the ghostly tissues.
A model scaffold. A miniature noose. A little hanging corpse—a doll two feet long, its face a blob, its tongue lolling on black lips. Slowly, drippingly, like a reverse-motion film of a melting figurine, features emerged, eyes, nose, mouth.
George reached into his pocket and drew out his Leonardo. This family is mine, he told himself. No canceled generations can take it from me.
“Count One—Crimes Against Peace!” screamed Peach.
“Count Two—War Crimes!” screamed Cobb.
“Count Three—Crimes Against Humanity!”
“Count Four—Crimes Against the Future!”
The sculpted corpse had acquired Wengernook’s face. It wept tears of ink.
The cousins blew on the scaffold. The black oozy face transmogrified. Now Randstable was being executed for war crimes. Now Sparrow. Overwhite. Brat.
“They’re just trying to scare us,” said the general.
“They’re succeeding,” said Randstable.
“All they want is an explanation,” said Overwhite.
George pressed his lips to the painting, kissed Holly’s stepsister. He looked at the doll, saw what he knew was coming, a relentless transformation of the Brat-face into a George-face. He had always wished his nose was smaller. There will be a birth, he vowed. For unto us an Aubrey Paxton will be born. Nostradamus was on to something. I am innocent. Aubrey will be admitted to the good, resilient earth.
CHAPTER 9
In Which by Taking a Step Backward the City of New York Brings Our Hero a Step Forward
Morning finished reading the last chapter of Merribell Braddock’s Scarlet Passions, closed the book, and, without particularly meaning to, sighed.
Before her career was cut short by the end of the world, Merribell Braddock had single-handedly contributed over three hundred titles to the genre of romantic fiction. Scarlet Passions was as false as Olaf Sverre’s left eye, and yet, because it described the love of a woman for a man, Morning was touched. Poor extinct Merribell had reached right into Morning’s throat and raised a lump. The guileful author was making her see that her feelings for George—for his rough body and deceptively simple personality—definitely qualified as romantic.
“You’re one of them, aren’t you?” he said to her as he entered the office.
“Them?”
“The unadmitted. I love a shadow.”
“I’m human,” she said. “I’m human, and you love your dead wife, and I’m not her.”
George released a sharp, explosive moan. Why bring up Justine? Wasn’t it their duty to focus on the future? “You’re asking me to believe there were no unadmitted therapists in Antarctica? They had to go outside their race?”
“The McMurdo framers failed to anticipate the survivor’s guilt problem. When they went to Chicago to kidnap Randstable, I offered my services. I was given an audience with Sverre. He hired me. No pay—but I would get to live out my life, such as it is.”
She removed the sacrificial knife from the wall and rested the blade against her wrist.
“My blood is as red as yours, George. It’s as red as the blood of the innocents whose hearts were excised by this knife.”
He thought of her coming pain, winced. “Don’t. I’ve seen enough blood lately.” She was human.
Human…and something of a whore.
“How can you work for these…discontinuities?”
“I owe them my survival. So do you.”
“I hate them.”
“They come to see me. They are, as you might imagine, troubled. An intolerable case load. I try my best. I listen to them, but I can’t give them what they want.”
“They want—?”
“Memories. Real memories, with a bite. They tell me of their lovers, friends, careers, obsessions, but it all happened to somebody else. Seaman Sparks wants me to teach him what music was like, good music—jazz, baroque, not the treacle they pump through the intercom. He would have played the flute. Then there’s Lieutenant Grass. He’s trying to recall his brother—fishing trips, touch football. It’s rare for relatives actually to find each other. Not enough time, too big a continent, and if they do connect the ages are usually wrong. Old women run across their pre-adolescent husbands. Newlyweds stumble into their middle-aged children.”
“Are they always sad?” George asked.
“They have their flashes—moments you and I would call satisfaction, even joy. But most of the time, life is something they read about in a book. Yesterday Seaman Raskin said to me, ‘Imagine sittings in a gray, still, empty room, taking an endless true-or-false test, getting each question right, and realizing you’ll never experience anything else.’” She nicked her desk with the sacrificial knife. “Don’t ever confuse unadmittance with living, George.”
“I still hate them. Anybody would have signed that sales contract.”
“Let me guess. You’re feeling…betrayed? Framed? Manipulated?”
“All those things.”
“Manipulated by your therapist? By the darkbloods?”
“Both. You never cared about me.”
“Don’t say what you know isn’t true.”
“You just wanted to patch me together so I’d be fit to stand trial.”
With the sacrificial knife she began flipping back pages of Scarlet Passions. “Give me your Leonardo.”
“What makes you think I have it?”
“Give it to me.”
He pulled the painting from his shirt. She received it respectfully, holding it by the edges.
“I don’t know what to make of this.” Morning touched her unconceived daughter’s hair. “But I like what it shows. I like everything about it. Your hand is almost on my breast.”
She’s starting to get it right, he thought. Love. Marriage. Sex. Children. Species regeneration. “I must find a city with marble walls. They cure infertility there.”
“It could be a hoax, of course,” she said. “Nadine Covington’s bid for revenge.”
“I believe the painting. So do you.” Love. Marriage. Sex. But not necessarily in that order. “Tonight we’ll have a drink together in the Silver Dollar Casino.”
“No.”
“If we’re going to marry and raise a family, we should get to know each other.”
“I cannot have a drink with you.” She returned the Leonardo. “The darkbloods are here, George. They have gained the continent. Do you truly understand your si
tuation? If the judges find against you, nothing we want—a wedding, Aubrey, her siblings—none of it will happen.” Leaning toward him, she spoke in a frantic whisper. “From now on, we must never be seen together. We can’t let anyone claim that I lack objectivity. ‘Dr. Valcourt? Oh, she’s his ex-therapist, nothing more.’ I’m coming to your trial, friend. Morning Valcourt, witness for the defense. I know something that will help your case.”
“I won’t just walk away from you. I won’t.”
Her conspiratorial voice dropped even lower. “You will. Until the hour of my testimony, I’ll be gone from your life. Do you understand? Gone. Searching for me will prove futile. No one can master the back passageways here, the dead ends.”
“What do you know that will help my case?”
“I know that I care deeply about you.”
They parted not by kissing, not by hugging, but by discreetly brushing their fingertips together. For George it was one of the most fleshly and impassioned experiences of his life. The sensation lingered in his hands. The pleasure stayed in his memory, waiting to be called up whenever he wanted to feel it.
Captain Sverre was right. A year is nothing. So far, at age thirty-five, George had known twelve thousand days full of physical sensations, many of them astonishingly wonderful—drinking coffee, reading to his daughter, touching fingertips with Morning Valcourt. But a year is nothing. No wonder the unadmitted wanted to hang him.
The Erebus Poker Club did not accomplish much poker that weekend. Brat kept forgetting what beat a straight. Whenever it was Wengernook’s deal, he couldn’t remember which cards should go up and which down. Overwhite got the chips confused, insisting that he was betting five dollars when he was really betting one.
“These damn zombies,” said Brat. “They just don’t seem real to me, know what I mean? I wouldn’t be surprised to hear this whole business was being cooked up in Moscow.” Not a single aspect of the general—posture, visage, tone of voice—suggested that he believed himself. The unadmitted were here. They had gained the continent. They were as real as South African granite.
“Provided that the conservation of electric charge and the balance between particles and antiparticles are obeyed,” said Randstable, “there is nothing to stop a lot of molecules, even organic molecules, from materializing and then combining into lifeforms…er, assuming that the discrepancy is never noticed, of course.”
“And if the discrepancy is noticed?” asked Wengernook.
“The molecules disappear, naturally,” said Randstable.
“But we did notice,” said Brat. “And the zombies are still around.”
“That’s got me stumped too,” said Randstable.
“Know what I think, William?” said Wengernook. “I think you don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”
“I wonder if we’ll get a fair trial,” said George.
“I wonder if wishes are horses,” said Brat. He tried to shuffle, made a mess of it. “Believe me, fellas, the whole thing is a sham, like those show trials of Stalin’s. Our best chance would be a prison break.”
“My father was a lawyer,” said Wengernook. “All those counts against us—it’s what you call a retroactive indictment. We didn’t violate any laws, so they had to go out and invent some, ex post facto. If Bonenfant knows his stuff, he’ll get the case dismissed for lack of precedents.”
“Maybe we should testify,” said Overwhite. He checked himself for jaw tumors. “I see their point of view, more or less.”
“Hell, Brian, they’re a bunch of hanging judges,” said Brat. “This is vigilante vengeance. Don’t you understand?”
“I think we owe them something,” said Overwhite.
“We owe them nothing,” said Brat.
“We owe them an explanation,” insisted Overwhite.
“We’re innocent,” said Wengernook.
“They’re more innocent,” said Overwhite.
“If I was in their shoes,” said George, “I’d be curious about a lot of things too.”
She was not in her office. She was not in the skating rink. The bowling alley held no trace of her. The movie theater was empty.
He stayed for the feature, Panic in the Year Zero. In this low-budget melodrama from American International, Ray Milland survived a thermonuclear holocaust by driving into the country in a car full of groceries.
He went to the library. Morning was not there. He found a college biology text, leafed through it. The section on the male reproductive system was surprisingly detailed and frank. A gonad appeared in cross-section. Explicit drawings depicted the seminiferous tubules, the spermatids, the spermatogonia, and the spermatocytes. “Your secondary spermatocytes are failing to become spermatids,” Dr. Brust had told him. He closed the book and smiled with satisfaction. When I get to the marble city, he thought, I’ll be able to tell them exactly what needs doing…
He decided to try Lieutenant Grass’s hydroponic orange grove. Perhaps she liked oranges.
A fruity scent throbbed through the missile compartment as he slipped into Tube Sixteen. The tree looked vigorous and fecund. He grabbed an orange, tore it from the branch. Succulent. Perfect. Were oranges now extinct? Had unadmitted orange trees been permitted a fleeting tenure on the earth?
He left Tube Sixteen and, sitting down on the cold steel deck, began his vigil. In his mind the portrait of his latent family multiplied into an entire museum. He saw himself walking along a bright corridor, sun-washed windows on one side, paintings on the other. He paused before Morning in a wedding dress—at least, it was probably Morning, though it also looked a bit like Justine. The signature was Leonardo’s. Next he inspected a mental painting of himself and Morning making love, brewing the next generation. Oh, how he missed sex, how he hated subsisting on onanism. (We must never be seen together…I’ll be gone from your life.)
International Military and Civilian Tribunal: phooey. International Kangaroo Court. Yes, Brat had his faults, he was too hasty with his man-portable thermonuclear device, and he hadn’t understood that a nation that doesn’t exist doesn’t need to defend itself, but this “crimes against the future” stuff was really stretching it. Overwhite? A windbag, sure, but not a dangerous man. Randstable? He could barely walk across a room. Wengernook? He cheated at poker, but that was about it. Reverend Sparrow? Come off it. No, not one of George’s new friends deserved to be in this jam.
A hideous odor cut into his thoughts. He stood up, peered around Tube Sixteen. A young civilian reminiscent of Martin Bonenfant, but with blond hair and a baby-pink complexion, crouched in the middle of the compartment, opening a hatch in the floor. He wore a business suit. The stench evidently traced to the duffel bag on his shoulder.
The intruder disappeared through the hatch. Creeping forward, George followed him down.
A dark, mucosal passageway lay under the missile compartment. It might have been tunneled out by a large earthworm. (Were there unadmitted worms in the world?) The young man stepped into an alcove bathed in a sallow light of uncertain origin. Rusty iron rods went floor to ceiling, turning the alcove into a cage. Inside, a trapped bird the size of a pterodactyl snorted and squirmed.
George thought perhaps he was again seeing Mrs. Covington’s magic lantern show. But no, this vulture—his vulture, as Morning would have it—was alive, as alive as eaters of the dead ever get. It looked exactly as it had at ground zero—tattered wings, rancid eyes, steam-shovel beak, broken posture. And Morning had assumed it was a hallucination. Hah…
The vulture’s young keeper pulled a penguin carcass from the bag. He looked foolish standing there in his business suit, holding carrion. He pushed the penguin between the bars. The vulture pinned it against the floor with its claw, tore it to pieces, feasted noisily. The keeper winced and gagged, unable to constrain his disgust.
Sneaking back down the passageway, George began to tremble. My family is dead, my planet is dead, my gonads are dead, I’m a prisoner of the murdered future, I’m going to be hanged for a c
rime I didn’t commit, there’s a vulture on the submarine, a real vulture, a huge crazy real vulture…He climbed to the missile deck. A species without males—that’s what the ancient Egyptians believed, according to Morning. Inseminated by the winds.
It occurred to him that he knew nothing about Morning’s religious convictions. On Sunday he went to church, hoping she might show up.
The City of New York’s chapel was an all-purpose facility, with missals and icons suited to almost any sacramental need a sailor in the US Navy might have. George sat in the back pew along with the Presbyterian Brat, the Lutheran Wengernook, and three noncommissioned officers of indeterminate denomination. Ship’s Chaplain was a lieutenant named Owen Soapstone. George felt at home in Soapstone’s flock, for had the chaplain been born, he would have followed up his navy stint with a long career as a Unitarian minister. He mounted the pulpit and opened an Unadmitted Bible. A respectful hush settled over the congregation.
“In the end Humankind destroyed the heaven and the earth,” Soapstone began.
“Oh, boy,” said Brat.
“One-track minds,” said Wengernook.
“And Humankind said, ‘Let there be security,’ and there was security. And Humankind tested the security, that it would detonate. And Humankind divided the U-235 from the U-238. And the evening and the morning were the first strike.” Soapstone looked up from the book. “Some commentators feel that the author should have inserted, ‘And Humankind saw the security, that it was evil.’ Others point out that such a view was not universally shared.”
“I didn’t come to hear this crap,” Wengernook announced, rising.
A tremor passed through the chapel. The bulkheads moaned. As Wengernook stalked out, a lily-filled vase fell over and shattered.
Casting his eyes heavenward, Soapstone continued. “And Humankind said, ‘Let there be a holocaust in the midst of the dry land.’ And Humankind poisoned the aquifers that were below the dry land and scorched the ozone that was above the dry land. And the evening and the morning were the second strike.” Soapstone closed the Bible on his hand, a bookmark of flesh. “Many commentators reject the author’s use of the term ‘Humankind’ as bombastic and sentimental, arguing that blame should be affixed more selectively. Other commentators—”
