by James Morrow
‘Ever hear of Robert Wengernook?’
‘Haven’t I seen you on television?’
‘Ah, another one of those,’ said Wengernook with mock distress. ‘Here I am in the goddamn D-O-D, and everybody thinks of me as the guy who does the scopas suit commercials. For my hobby, I’m the Assistant Secretary of Defense for International Security Affairs.’
‘My wife always wanted to be in a scopas suit commercial. The one with the lady knight.’
‘Really? Your wife was in that? Small world.’
‘No, she wanted to be. She would have been right for it too, because Justine was very pretty, everybody thought so. They say a warhead got her.’
‘You’ve got to believe me, George, I really thought the suits were good.’ Wengernook’s twitchy fingers knitted themselves into elaborate sculptures. His tongue, which was remarkably long, darted in and out like a chameleon’s. ‘I guess it’s Japan’s way of getting back at us.’
‘For Hiroshima?’
‘I was thinking more of import quotas.’ He lit a cigarette, puffed. ‘God, this is all so awful. You might suppose that on a submarine there wouldn’t be much to remind a man of his family, but that’s not true. I’ll see some fire extinguisher, and that gets me picturing the one I gave Janet last Christmas. You wouldn’t think a fire extinguisher would have such emotionalism attached to it.’
‘I’d like to talk about something else.’
‘Same here.’
But the tomb inscriber and the Assistant Secretary of Defense for International Security Affairs had nothing more to say to each other.
At the end of the week they transferred George to a cabin more suggestive of a civilian ocean liner than of a military vessel. The luxury suffocated him. He wanted Justine to be there, making fun of the kitschy floral wallpaper and reveling in the cornucopia that was the City of New York’s galley – eggs Benedict breakfasts, steamer clam lunches, lobster dinners – all served up by cheerful, redfaced enlisted men who seemed to be auditioning for jobs in some unimaginably swank hotel. He wanted Holly to be there, delighting in the tank of live sea horses and giving them her favorite names, the ones she had already bestowed on dozens of dolls and stuffed animals. These names, for some reason, were Jennifer, Suzy, Jeremiah, Alfred, and Margaret.
And so, despite posh surroundings and great food, George still felt himself a brother to jackals. His pipe was still turned into the voice of them that weep. Sometimes he smashed things until his knuckles bled. The Navy sent a seaman third-class around to clean up the mess. At other times he contemplated his closet, where Holly’s golden scopas suit and its shattered glove hung as if on a gibbet. He stared at the suit for hours at a time.
It would have saved her life, he told himself, although he suspected this was not true.
‘I should have tried harder,’ he moaned aloud at odd moments.
A small bubble of consolation occasionally drifted into his thoughts. If death were as final and anesthetic as he had been taught, then his family had at least been granted the salvation of nothingness. Justine could not now be mourning the death of her daughter. Holly could not now be wondering whether all this chaos somehow precluded her getting a Mary Merlin doll for Christmas. Thank God for oblivion, ran his Unitarian prayer.
The knock on George’s door had the brisk, impatient cadence of a person accustomed to getting his way.
‘It’s open.’ George sat on a plush divan reading the Book of Job for the third time that week. Once again he was finding the drama cruel and absurd.
A military man entered. His uniform, curiously, was of the United States Air Force. His presence on a Navy submarine entailed the incongruity of a rabbi in a cathedral.
‘You’re evacuee Paxton, aren’t you?’
George closed the Bible and said yes. The Air Force refugee approached, arm poised for a mandatory handshake. He was constructed of massive shoulders, a rough rock-like head, a formidable trunk, and limbs of simian length. A flurry of decorations and service ribbons hung from his breast opposite a nameplate that read TARMAC.
‘Major General Roger “Brat” Tarmac,’ the refugee said in a large, wholesome voice. Shaking hands with Brat Tarmac was a workout. ‘Deputy Chief of Staff for Retargeting, Strategic Air Command. I was in downtown Omaha when the Cossacks came. Had to do my Christmas shopping some time, right? So there I am, buying my sister’s kid this clown, when quick-as-shit a warhead goes off behind me, and the next thing I know I’m in the Navy. It’s all so crazy. The clown needed batteries – that was going to be my next stop. I keep telling myself, “Brat, face facts. You’ll never see those people again – your sister’s a casualty.” I say that, and I don’t believe it. She was a pilot. Like me. Flew strategic interceptors. Jesus. Incredible.’
George had never taken so immediate a liking to anyone before. Brat Tarmac was the sort of handsome, athletic soldier ten-year-old boys wanted for fathers, a fantasy to which George, at age thirty-five, was not entirely immune.
‘Coffee?’ George offered.
‘Affirmative,’ said the general.
Obtaining coffee aboard the City of New York was a simple matter of walking up to your cabin’s vending machine and pushing some buttons. ‘Cream and sugar?’
‘Black. In a dirty mug, eh? No frills for us bomber jockeys.’
A Styrofoam cup caught the stream. George’s hand made a spider over the rim, and he carried the coffee to his guest.
‘So far I’ve managed to locate all the Erebus personnel but that evangelist, Sparrow.’ Brat sucked coffee across his leathery lips. ‘We’ll be working with a pretty broad spectrum of talent. Wengernook is—’
‘I met him in the sick bay.’
‘Impressive guy, huh?’
‘Nervous.’
‘Intense. He should quit smoking. Then we’ve got Brian Overwhite of the Arms Control and Disarmament Agency, and you’ll never guess who they stuck in the cabin next to yours.’
‘Who?’
‘William Randstable. Remember when he beat that Cossack at chess? He was only seven or something.’
‘I don’t follow chess.’
‘It was a big propaganda thing for us. The kid worked at one of those think tanks for a while, then they put him on missile accuracy over at Sugar Brook or someplace. All in all it’s a pretty classy act our President’s putting together down in Antarctica. In a few days they’ll be calling the whole team together – after they run us through this survivor’s guilt crap – so we can chart out our options. God, I hope they’ve got a crisis relocation effort going. I can’t bear to think of this turning into a high civilian-casualty thing.’
‘Why Antarctica?’
‘A big chunk of real estate, right? Hence, a high warhead-exhaustion factor. Excellent place for a command-and-control center. Looks like the Joint Chiefs thought of everything – I’m a good man with an ICBM, Wengernook knows what we should commit to the European theater, Randstable can probably maintain a decent R and D effort throughout, and Reverend Sparrow will do wonders for our morale. All right, all right, I’ll admit it. We should all just admit it, right? We’re scared. We’ve never done this before. The cheerleader and the quarterback. You must be dousing your drawers, what with your MARCH Plan on the line and everything. I’m a big supporter of MARCH, you know. Over at SAC they called me the MARCH Hare.’
‘My plan? I don’t have anything to do with the MARCH Plan, General Tarmac. I’d never heard of it until Professor Carter—’
‘Modulated Attacks in Response to Counterforce Hostilities – that’s not your baby?’
‘No.’
‘The SPASM, then. You’re one of the geniuses behind the SPASM.’
‘The SPASM?’
‘Single Plan for Aligning the Services of the Mili . . . er, what exactly are you doing on this team, Paxton?’
‘Wish I knew. Two weeks ago I signed a really strange scopas suit contract.’
‘Scopas suits? Hell, they don’t work. We ran tests.’
/> ‘I have one that works. In my closet. It didn’t get. . . where it was supposed to go.’
‘You aren’t in the defense community? You aren’t at Sugar Brook or Lumen or anything?’
‘I inscribe tombstones.’
‘Tombstones?’
‘Lately I’ve been writing the epitaphs.’
‘Epitaphs? I hate to say this, Paxton, but they sure made a mistake evacuating you.’
‘I don’t want to be on the team. I just want to be dead.’
The MARCH Hare could think of no adequate response to this. ‘Dead?’ he said. He rubbed his hand across his hair, each strand of which was as straight and rigid as a sewing needle.
‘Dead?’ he said again. His waist was encircled by a utility belt from which hung an object that looked like a skyrocket. ‘Nice cabin you got here. Mine’s not bad, either. But then, the Navy always did have a sweet tooth, eh? I understand this boat hauls thirty-six E4 Multiprongs, all gassed up and loaded for Russian bear.’
George looked at the sea horse tank, studied the antics of Jennifer, Suzy, Jeremiah, Alfred, and Margaret. The previous day some babies had appeared. He could imagine Holly discovering them. The hallucinated sound of her oooooh’s and ahhhhh’s was like a jagged bronze bell implanted in his skull.
Brat got himself a second cup of coffee, drained it instantly, went for a third. ‘Epitaphs, you said? Hmmm, maybe they expect this fight to last so long we’ll all be needing a few well-chosen words over our heads. In any event, welcome to the show. We’ve got some tough decisions to make. Started your therapy?’
‘No. You?’
‘I suppose so. Mostly we just sit in Dr Valcourt’s cabin and palaver, for which the Navy evidently pays her the going rate. I tell her the main guilt I’ve got comes from not being at SAC when we retaliated.’ He grinned, forced a laugh. ‘Don’t let anybody kid you – our air-launched Javelin missiles are the finest a federal deficit can buy.’ His grin suddenly degenerated. He grabbed his mouth as if to forestall vomit. ‘Hell, I’m scared, Paxton.’
‘I don’t like Dr Valcourt.’
Brat took a deep breath. ‘Yeah, I know, kind of an ice cube, but I do enjoy our sessions. Maybe I’ll end up on the fun side of her pants some day.’ He crushed his Styrofoam cup. Coffee erupted over his fist. ‘Shit, wouldn’t you think they’d give us a few scenarios to mull over? You can be sure the Cossack generals aren’t sitting around in some goddamn submarine.’
Jeremiah Sea Horse and Margaret Sea Horse were kissing. ‘Have you ever noticed that when a four-year-old draws a human face, it’s always smiling?’ George asked. ‘At least, my four-year-old’s faces were always smiling. Her name was Holly.’
‘I’m sorry. War is hell, huh?’ Brat removed the skyrocket from its holster. ‘Jesus Christ – it’s really happening! Just about the most tragical thing a person can conceive of, and it’s . . . happening! The point is, after you get into one of these failed-deterrence situations, you can’t let the enemy call the shots. In quite a few scenarios – more than you’d think – the victor is the guy who gets off the last strike.’ Brat waved his weapon. ‘It’s small, but it packs a wallop. David and Goliath.’
‘A hand grenade?’
‘Nah, come on, we’re in the age of microtech, Paxton. The Navy may get to piss in gold cups, but turn to your Air Force for the state of the art. This is a one-kiloton man-portable thermonuclear device complete with delivery system. Looks just like—’
‘A toy,’ said George, edging toward the back of his cabin. Indeed, the missile was so toylike that, had Holly been there, she would have used it to send a teddy bear to the moon. ‘I would like you to leave now,’ he said. ‘I feel an attack of survivor’s guilt coming on.’
George spent the next four days in his canopied bed, under silk sheets, wishing for death. He cursed God, but he did not die. His mind wanted no dealings with whatever remained of the world, but his body declined to cooperate. His heart, unmindful of Justine’s fate, kept beating. His kidneys, indifferent to Holly’s absence, continued to filter. His mouth got dry, and he drank. His stomach growled, and was fed. George Paxton cursed God, and he cursed the false adage that time heals all wounds.
The only exercise he got that week came from walking in his sleep.
‘Well, well, who have we here?’
He was being shaken so vigorously that all his bones seemed about to disconnect. He opened his eyes. Six ensigns filled his field of vision. They became four. The vibrations stopped. Two ensigns – moon-faced, pudgy, not notably distinguishable from each other.
‘To begin with, you should salute us,’ said the first ensign.
‘Quite so,’ said the second.
‘Salute who?’
‘Ensign Cobb,’ said the first.
‘And his cousin, Ensign Peach,’ said the second.
‘Mister Peach, I do believe we are in the presence of George Paxton,’ said Ensign Cobb.
‘Do tell, Mister Cobb. Are you referring to George Paxton of the McMurdo Sound Agreement?’ said Ensign Peach.
‘One and the same,’ said Ensign Cobb.
Ensign Peach lifted a stray thread from the Navy insignia on George’s silk pajamas. ‘Some say we should build slow, inaccurate, invulnerable missiles,’ he said with a sly grin.
‘Thereby allaying Soviet fears that we intend to strike first,’ continued Ensign Cobb.
‘Whereas others say that a force of fast and accurate missiles—’
‘Is a more credible deterrent,’ said Ensign Cobb.
‘Because it does not imply mutual suicide,’ said Ensign Peach.
‘Contrariwise, some say the enemy command-and-control structure must be spared.’
‘So that the war can be brought to a negotiated end.’
‘Whereas others say you must hit command-and-control right away—’
‘So that the enemy will be decapitated and unable to retaliate.’
‘Contrariwise, if it was so, it might be.’
‘And if it were so, it would be.’
‘But as it isn’t, it ain’t.’
‘That’s strategic doctrine.’
‘Salute us, Mister Paxton.’
George fired off an uncertain salute.
‘Sorry,’ said Ensign Peach. ‘Not good enough.’
George saluted again.
‘Still not right,’ said Ensign Cobb. ‘Looks like we’ll have to put you in a torpedo tube after all.’
‘In what?’ asked George.
‘Don’t worry. You won’t be there for long,’ said Ensign Peach.
‘A minute at most,’ said Ensign Cobb.
‘And then – zowee, powee – off you go into the wild blue Atlantic!’
‘That’s the one with all the salt in it.’
‘Can you swim?’
‘Can you breathe water?’
Two facts entered George’s disorganized brain. He was afraid of these cousins. And they were dragging him down a corridor. He struggled. His muscles pulled in contradictory directions. Steam ducts and neon lights bounced by. He tried telling his captors they had no right to treat an Erebus evacuee this way, whereupon he discovered that Ensign Cobb’s sweaty hand was sealing his mouth.
The torpedo room was green and pocked with rivets. Muzak oozed through the air, countless strings performing ‘Anchors Aweigh.’ The ensigns hauled him up to Tube One, opened the little door. The chamber beyond, which reeked of brine and motor oil, suggested a womb in which man-portable thermonuclear devices were gestated.
Ensign Cobb held a copy of the McMurdo Sound Agreement before George’s uncoordinated eyes. It was a document of several hundred pages, bound with a spiral of barbed wire. He opened it and thrust Appendix C toward George. Appendix C was headed Scopas Suit Sales Contract.
‘That’s your signature, isn’t it?’ said Ensign Cobb.
‘Yes, but—’
‘Look, Mister Peach, he signed it!’
‘And with his own name, too!’
‘I�
��m a friend of General Tarmac’s,’ asserted George.
‘The MARCH Hare?’ said Ensign Cobb.
‘Right.’
‘Any friend of General Tarmac’s is an enemy of mine,’ said Ensign Peach.
‘Don’t forget to close your mouth,’ said Ensign Cobb.
‘Don’t forget to hold your nose.’
‘Don’t forget to write.’
‘We have always been with you—’
‘Waiting to get in.’
George swung at Cobb’s jaw. The connection was firm and noisy. Peach retaliated, planting a fist in the tomb inscriber’s stomach, thus awakening the dormant agony of his bullet wound.
I can take this, George said to himself after they had shoved him into Tube One and closed the door. I will not scream, Oblivion is what I wanted all along, and now here it is, oblivion, my good Unitarian friend.
The chill seeped into his flesh. His breaths echoed off the cylindrical walls. He decided that this was how his customers felt, snug in their caskets. Were they soothed knowing that a seven hundred and fifty dollar chunk of bonded granite sat overhead? He screamed. The reverberations knifed his eardrums.
He thought of the damage he had just inflicted on Peach. Had he seen correctly? Could it be? When he split the ensign’s lip, had black blood rushed out?
George wet his pajamas. The warmth was at once terrible and comforting. They had said this would take only a minute. Black blood. Just like Mrs Covington. An effect of the radiation? No, her visit to the Crippen Monument Works was before the war, wasn’t it? His wet pajamas grew cold.
Movies had always been fun, especially with Justine. Postmarital dates were the best kind. You could relax, and if there was no butter for the popcorn the world did not end. You sat there, bathed in conditioned air, waiting for the movie to start – any movie, it didn’t matter – like an astronaut in zero gravity, nothing pulling at you, no obligations . . .
The tube door opened. Someone grabbed his ankles and yanked him backward. The torpedo room smelled like burning hair, something he had not noticed before. The syrupy strings were now playing ‘Over There.’ George flexed his knees and stood up. Pain screwed through his shoulder bones.
A thirtyish man, handsome and stocky, dressed in an immaculate three-piece suit, grinned at him with what seemed like a surplus of teeth. His hair was auburn and abundant, like a well-nourished orangutan’s coat.
