The Curiosity

by Stephen Kiernan

  “It cost fifty thousand dollars,” she says in a stage whisper. “I never put much faith in it, but he insisted. Nine years later”—she pokes his chest—“along comes you. Oh, I have plenty of faith now.”

  The judge takes off Gerber’s shades. “Thank you for sharing your story with me.”

  “You won’t get away that easily.” She wags a finger. “I want to ask you for something.”

  His eyes scan the crowd for me, but don’t look by the pillar. “Of course.”

  “I knew it,” she declares, as loudly as if she were telling the other people exiting the john. “I knew you would be generous.”

  The judge takes a dignified stance, courtly even. “How may I be of service?”

  “Isn’t it obvious? I want you to get them to wake him up.”

  “Oh, I see,” he says. “I’d be delighted to help, but I’m afraid that is beyond my—”

  “Don’t you go being humble on me,” she says. The woman tilts her head coquettishly, which maybe, I say maybe she could have gotten away with twenty years ago. Now it makes my insides turn. “I’m sure you have all kinds of influence with the scientists.”

  “I wish I did,” Frank says. “Regardless, they are far short of trying their experiment on me with other people.”

  The woman steps back, hands on her hips. “Are you saying no to me?”

  “My dear, I am saying that I have neither the influence nor the ability—”

  “I just cannot believe this.” She looks around as if for witnesses. “But you said.”

  “Pardon me?”

  “You said you would help us. All of us who have watched you, brought you into our living rooms, given you our attention.”

  “Wherever did you get such an idea?”

  “We must let our deeds be our ambassadors. What about all that?”

  “Hey, Judge, Judge Rice.” A skinny guy has come up on his other side. He’s dressed entirely in Red Sox clothing, from his hat to his sneakers. “How about it, fella? Would you sign my program for me here?”

  Old Frank takes the guy’s pen and scribbles, still talking to the woman on his arm. “Indeed I meant what I said, ma’am. But it did not concern your husband’s circumstances. It was intended for the people who maintain that I am not real.”

  “Me, too?” says a girl who’s been pushed forward by a trio of her teen friends. “Can I get an autograph, too?”

  Judge Rice, still holding the guy’s pen, looks her up and down. “My dear, you don’t have anything for me to sign.”

  “Sure I do,” she pipes, lifting up her shirt to reveal a belly so cute and young I’m not even allowed to think about it. The friends giggle behind their hands, three cases of speak-no-evil.

  Old Frank hesitates, you bet. “I don’t feel quite comfortable—”

  “It’s okay,” she says. “Go for it.”

  A passing guy wolf-whistles, and the teen gal flashes him a smile that would melt an ice cap. Which is when the biddy decides to give the judge a bop on the arm with her purse.

  “I believe you’re real,” she whines. “Real selfish.” She nods at the crowd that is beginning to gather, bringing them in on it. “How hard would it be to get the Lazarus people and the cryogenic people in the same room? Huh? How tough is that?”

  Oh, lady, I’m thinking, you just gave me an idea of what was going on when I stopped by the lab today. A guess at who those men were, and what’s in that green binder.

  Just then three truly hammered guys stagger up, arms over each other’s shoulders, still singing that annoying Neil Diamond song. “Hey, whoa!” the one on the right shouts, though he is only a few feet away. “Holy shit, it’s Judge Rice.”

  “Hey, man, my buddy here is getting married next weekend,” yells the guy on the left. “Any chance you could do the wedding? Like, are you allowed to do that stuff anymore?”

  By this time the expression on old Frank’s face is verging on panic, like a fish might look when he finds himself in a net. It’s hilarious, people pulling him in four directions at once. The crowd has grown, and the camera crew inches up the ramp, too. But I still hold back. It won’t hurt the guy to be humbled a notch, get a taste of the world without Dr. Kate playing goalie all the time. Besides, this is too good a show.

  Then the middle drunk guy, wearing a fast-food crown and looking so snookered he could have cartoon Xs for eyes, hauls his head upright like it weighs two hundred pounds, and he manages to get out two slurry words: “Bachelor party.”

  The other two immediately leap into some kind of crazy frat-boy dance. “Bachelor party, bachelor party.”

  “I’m not finished speaking,” says tracksuit lady, trying to climb the judge’s arm again.

  “Hey, mac, could I have my pen back?”

  “Could you sign my friend’s tummy, too, please?”

  “Bachelor party, bachelor party.”

  Okay, okay. It’s getting ugly enough that I’m heading over, ready to rescue. A security guard gets there first. He’s not the mellow Boston-Irish-been-around-forever type. He’s muscle-bound and swaggering, wearing enough gear for a tank. “Everything all right here?”

  Oh the frat boys vanish like smoke. Funny to see how fast they go sober, hoisting their buddy in the middle straight toward the men’s room. The teenyboppers are nearly as quick, bellies covered and flowing into the crowd. But Miss Pink Purse stays, fastened to the judge like a barnacle. He turns in his usual stiff way.

  “Hello, Officer. I was just explaining to this kind woman—”

  “You are not a nice man,” she says. “We have given you food, attention, clothes. How can you refuse to help?”

  He turns back to her. “I will attempt to speak with Dr. Carthage—”

  “No, you won’t. You’re just saying that to shut me up.”

  “Lady, why don’t you give this guy a little room, okay?”

  She balls her hands into little fists. “Maybe you are a phony after all. Just a big fake.”

  “Yes, that’s what I am,” old Frank shouts, his dander up at long last. “A fake. You figured it out. Now will you leave me alone?”

  “Let’s go, ma’am,” the guard says, stepping between them, almost bumping the lady with his chest. “Move it along here or we’ll have to send you home.”

  Frank leans toward the guard. “That won’t be necessary—”

  “Come on,” I say, pulling the judge’s arm. “Let’s get out of here.”

  The guard speaks over his shoulder. “You go ahead, sir, we’ll take care of this.”

  “Selfish phony,” the woman yells. “Complete faker.”

  “Besides,” the muscle-head adds, “wait’ll I tell my wife I helped out the frozen guy.”

  I drag old Frank, who cranes his neck backward. The crowd falls away as soon as there was nothing more to see.

  “Hey, wow.” I jostle him. “Aren’t you the Elvis of reanimation?”

  He shakes my hands off and gets right in my face. “We both know that you abandoned me completely.” And off he marches, straight for Section 37, Dixon ditched and deserted.

  Well, excuse the shit out of me, your fucking royal fucking highness.

  I wouldn’t have guessed Frank for a sulker, but he moped good and deep. Popped Gerber’s shades back on and shut the door behind. No cheers for the home team, no smile for the camera, goddamn teenager in paradise. That TV crew was going to love the postgame interview.

  “What happened back there?” Gerber asked.

  “Tell you later,” I said.

  “The twentieth century met the twenty-first,” the judge said, crawling back into his mope.

  No skin off me. The Yanks went into the ninth up 3–2, with two down. I was one out away from celebrating. But the Sox rallied. One guy hit to shallow right and got on base, then the next batter crowded the plate till he
got a walk, and bingo, there were two men on. The place was raging, and our Frank couldn’t help but stand and join the noise. Gerber stood beside him and whistled.

  Now, in the old days, when all was right in baseball, at a moment like that you could count on the Red Sox to choke like a snake eating a car. Instead this ham-handed galoot from the Dominican stepped to the plate, swung at the first pitch, and hit that ball so goddamn hard I imagine it is still up there somewhere, not quite ready to come down.

  So, pandemonium. Sox win, 5–3. The galoot ran the bases, his pals slapping him high and low as he crossed the plate, while the fans hollered themselves hoarse.

  “Nuff said,” the judge shouted, shaking his cap in the air. “Nuff said.”

  Folks nearby stared at us. Gerber gave me a look that said, What the hell? I shrugged. He laughed, shaking his woolly head, and yelled “nuff said,” too.

  Well, fine. The seats were free, I’d put away a half-dozen dogs, and Gerber bought the beers, so who cares who won? Aside from the crazy-lady episode, the judge had shown himself to be a generally good time, too.

  The loudspeaker started up this tune, “Tessie,” which I hadn’t heard before, and which brought the weirdest moment of the whole day. Some kind of victory song, is what it was. I just sat back while everyone else bellowed the lyrics. Then I happened to notice our old Frank, and he was moving his lips with the words. Not singing, but mouthing right along.

  Now you tell me: when would he have even heard those lyrics, much less learned them by heart? And I realized I was asking myself the same question for the ninety-seventh time: who in the hell is this guy?

  CHAPTER 29

  Just Like Aviation

  My name is Jeremiah Rice, and I begin to accelerate.

  I first noticed in mornings, because I woke earlier. Next I realized what was occurring with books; I was reading faster, finishing sooner, yet enjoying them no less. Madame Bovary fell in a single afternoon. It felt as vivid as inhaling with a perfumed kerchief over my face.

  Subsequently I grew aware of my mind, which shook off the seaweed of lethargy, regained its prior keenness, then seemed to attain more. I understood quickly, I replied promptly, I adapted readily. Still I dismissed these changes as the false allure of pride, the mind always overeager to praise itself.

  However, the final and most persuasive indicator was my appetite, hunger that no volume of Dr. Borden’s fortified gruel could assuage. I snacked, I nibbled anything in reach, I dined outside of his dictates. It was neither a matter of disobedience nor discretion. The rather, at the baseball game I devoured some of the foulest foods of my life’s experience, yet sought more. The next morning, expecting indigestion, I instead discovered myself standing at the chamber window, curtains parted slightly as that reporter chomped through doughnuts as a workhorse does oats, whilst I leered like a dog begging at table.

  I heard the door slide back. “Good morning, Kate. I’ve missed you.”

  “Sorry, it’s just Andrew.” The technician, a black man, hesitated in the doorway.

  “Ah, Andrew. May I ask you a question? I’ve been meaning to for some time.”

  “Of course.”

  “What is your training?”

  “Well, I was a Princeton undergrad. Now I’m at Harvard in cell biology, ABD.”

  “ABD?”

  “All but dissertation, sir. I’m writing my doctoral paper on you.”

  “How odd that is to hear. Please let me know if I can be of any help.”

  “You already are, sir. I’m studying your mitochondria, based on blood we’ve been drawing from you.”

  “I am relieved to know all those needle stickings have a purpose. But may I ask one more question, a somewhat delicate thing?”

  “Anything at all, sir.”

  “Your credentials, your standing here. Is this unusual for a Negroid man today?”

  “A little.” He gave a radiant smile. “But that’s due to the competitiveness of the schools I’ve attended, not my race. Plenty of black people go to college now, and a growing number have advanced degrees.”

  “I am glad of it.”

  “If I may, though, Judge Rice?”

  “Yes, what is it?”

  “We’re not called Negroid anymore. Just black. Or best, African American.”

  “Yes, I forgot that Dr. Gerber had mentioned as much. My apologies. And thank you for speaking with me today.”

  “It’s an honor, sir.”

  Andrew started for the door, then caught himself. “I nearly forgot. The reason I came in is that your first appointment of the day is here. In the private conference room.”

  “Thank you. Do you know where Dr. Philo is this morning?”

  He set a chair in the doorway, enabling me to exit later. “Sorry, sir, but I don’t.”

  Alone again, I removed Dr. Gerber’s electrodes, setting the tangle of wires on a side table. In the control room, Dixon was leaving as I entered.

  “Pardon me, do you know where Dr. Philo is today?”

  “You know, it’s been a while since she improved the scenery around here,” he said. “I think she had some deadline to meet for Carthage. ’Scuse me.”

  He hurried on, evidently heading for the washroom, leaving his box of doughnuts unattended.

  Oh,” the interviewer said, “I didn’t realize you hadn’t finished breakfast.”

  “One moment, please,” I replied, completing my purloined snack. “The person who manages my schedule has an obligation today, so I was unaware you would be coming. My apologies.”

  “No need to butter me up, Judge,” the reporter said, pulling papers from a briefcase. “It won’t influence what I write.”

  I marked the man for the first time. He was tall, well dressed, large hands but elegant. He gave his name—Steele—but his manner was off-putting. “Nor have I any reason to flatter or utter falsehoods,” I said.

  He nodded, not speaking, organizing his papers instead. He switched on a small box, placing it between us on the table.

  “What is that device?”

  “You honestly don’t know?”

  Long ago I developed a dislike for people who answer a question with a question. I decided to use Steele’s rhetoric back at him. “Why else would I ask?”

  He pursed his lips in a patronizing expression. “It records our conversation so I have an accurate transcript later. It protects you from being misquoted, and it protects me if you claim I misquoted you.”

  “Apparently accuracy is a concern for you.”

  If Steele was discomfited by my remark, he gave no sign. Nor did he embark based on prior news coverage, as other reporters had. The rather, he began by producing a copy of my senior thesis at Tufts. I scanned it with a sensation akin to vertigo, feeling the chasm of time that had passed since its composition. The document compared Iago’s powers of persuasion in Othello to those of Satan in Paradise Lost. Once upon a time I concerned myself earnestly with such things.

  “Any important memories about that project today?” Steele asked. “Anything significant come to mind?”

  “Only that humanity’s capacity for deception, and self-deception, remains undiminished.”

  “Anything about the project itself? What you read? The scholars you quoted?”

  I smiled, flipping through the pages. “I was twenty years of age. Though I will say that your questions do spark a desire to reread Milton.”

  Steele next showed me an article I had published in law school, in the review. It concerned interstate commerce and a dispute between rail companies in adjoining states.

  “Anything of note about that case you’d care to share?”

  “Strange, how little I remember from that time. A law review paper would be a major endeavor. Yet I would not have said I had published anything.”

  Next the man produced a Globe
clipping from the day I was sworn in as a judge. How he had reproduced that article onto a fresh sheet of paper baffled me.

  “Is there anything about your swearing-in that was remarkable? Anything you particularly remember?”

  I fell silent. Seeing that article reminded me of Joan, my confidante, my ballast. On the wintry morning it was published, she used her good sewing scissors to cut the clipping from the newspaper, then pressed it into her scrapbook using one dab of brown glue whose piquant scent reached me across the room. Other women seemingly had more time for such things. Joan included in her book only items she ranked as being of the highest order: an invitation to our wedding, the announcement of Agnes’s birth, her parents’ obituaries. Not the deed to our home, nor articles about cases I’d heard, however controversial or celebrated. Not one clipping, I now realized, from the dozens of news stories prior to our expedition. How had I dared to leave her? How had I trifled with what was most precious?

  “Judge Rice? Any comment?”

  “Forgive my reverie,” I said. “I was remembering not the event, but my wife’s response the following day.”

  “How do you explain having no recall of significant events and writings?”

  I failed to hear, for the moment remaining adrift. What good was life, without those most dear? The desire I felt to hear Joan’s voice, sharp and intelligent, was like wanting enough air to breathe. My craving for Agnes’s fierce hugs, those slender little arms, eclipsed entirely any interest in the here and now.

  I collected my wits. A judge must always pay close attention to what people before him are saying, yet I confess I needed to ask the reporter to repeat himself.

  “We’ll come back to it.” He eyed his notes. “What were your favorite cases, among those tried in your court?”

  “You are expecting a level of recollection quite beyond me, sir. The press of disputes was so great, I might strain to recall a trial two weeks after its conclusion. Yet you inquire about events that occurred more than one hundred years ago. Moreover, a trial’s result would be of paramount interest to the parties, but my concern consisted primarily in providing a fair process.”