The Old Reactor

by David Ohle

  “Wait,” Moldenke said. He asked the concierge, “Why were they marching out there this morning? Who were they?”

  “The Cowards that weren’t killed yesterday. They’re headed home. I hear they stay out by the Old Reactor.”

  Moldenke shook his head and pulled on his chin beard. “They’re an odd bunch, aren’t they? No one understands their customs.”

  “You can say that again,” she said. “Here’s another letter for you.”

  Dear Moldenke,

  You’d be happy with what I’m doing toward liberating Bunkerville. I’ve now organized the ice men. They’ve been on strike for three weeks. As a result I read in the paper that a check of available ice has revealed that sixty percent of it is contaminated with anything from insect parts and fish scales to mold, pieces of wood, paint flakes and human vomit. All of this because of my work for and dedication to freedom. I know you share my sentiments.

  I’ve had no luck in getting access to your aunt’s maintenance funds. But I won’t dwell on that right now. Instead, I’ll tell you, I’ve rented out a room to a jellyhead mason in exchange for repairing the crumbling wall on the north side. He is a nice sort, very quiet and reserved, but works hard. And the best part is he has a friend who knows a bit about plumbing. I’m thinking of renting another room to him on the same terms.

  That cesspool forming in the yard is getting a lot of complaints from the few neighbors who haven’t left for the countryside. There is a kind of mild, measured panic here as we anticipate the coming liberation.

  Anyway, I hope is all well with you and that you can soon return to take up the cause again.

  Ozzie

  At Saposcat’s, the breakfast special was meal with fried kerd. “Perfect,” Moldenke told the waitress. “What could be better for my stomach? I’ll have the special.”

  Salmonella’s lips pruned. “Kerd I like. I’ll vomit if I eat meal.”

  “There are other things,” Moldenke said. “Get what you want. You’re going to the Home today. Enjoy these few hours outside.”

  “I’ll have the fried kerd, a plate of mud fish, and a bottle of green soda.”

  “Be back with that in a minute.”

  Salmonella pouted and kicked Moldenke’s leg lightly. “You promise?”

  “Promise what?”

  “That you’ll take me back to Bunkerville when you go. Maybe my mother’s there. Maybe I’ll find her.”

  “I’m not going to promise anything. I could be sent back to Bunkerville any day anyway. I’m indeterminate. If you were my ward we’d have to say goodbye then and you’d be all on your own.”

  “Is Bunkerville free? Is it liberated?”

  “Not yet. You don’t want to go there.”

  “Are there apple trees in Bunkerville with apples to pick?”

  “I’ve never seen one.”

  “Have you ever eaten an apple?”

  “I know all about them from pictures.”

  “Take me to Bunkerville. I’ll grow the trees myself. Promise me right now you’ll take me to Bunkerville.”

  “There are still laws there and police. For a free person like you, it would be a jail sentence.”

  “What’s a jail?”

  “You’re locked up in a small room with metal doors.”

  “Why?”

  “For killing someone, for example. Stealing, cheating, fraud, the list goes on and on.”

  “Oh. That’s pretty stupid.”

  “They’re not free yet,” Moldenke said. “They’re still trying to control things, to keep order or something. They don’t want a chaotic situation.”

  Moldenke was served a bowl of meal and a side dish of kerd. He tucked right into the pasty mash with a spoon. Salmonella ate her mud fish from the head down—gills, bones, innards and fins. By the time she had finished, her gums were bleeding. She said, “Take me to the Home. I’m ready.”

  It was late in the evening when Moldenke and Salmonella arrived by streetcar at the Home. A lamp burned in a mud brick kiosk near the gate post. A Sister sat inside reading the City Moon and smoking a Julep.

  Moldenke said, “All right, Salmonella. I wish you the best. Go on to the Sister.”

  Salmonella took one step down and turned. “Don’t leave Altobello without me. We’ll go to Bunkerville, and when I’m ready we’ll mate, we’ll have some children, and we’ll grow apples.”

  The prospect of that happening seemed extremely remote to Moldenke, so he simply smiled and gave Salmonella an ambiguous nod. As the car pulled away, he watched her until she had explained things to the Sister and was headed toward the gate to the commons.

  Dear Ozzie,

  To get the maintenance money, you must go to the First Bunkerville Bank and tell them you are the appointed custodian of the house. If they ask for documentation or proof of any kind, see my aunt’s attorney. His name is McPhail and he has an office on Broad Street. It’s only a few blocks up Esplanade. I will write him and tell him you are to be the tenant and the responsible party when it comes to maintenance. You say all is well, but the things you list are alarming. Please take care of them as soon as possible. I am deeply concerned.

  As far as taking up the cause, I’m not sure liberation is the best thing for Bunkerville. I’ll postpone judgment on that.

  Your friend,

  Moldenke

  Moldenke, relieved that Salmonella was no longer around, had a yen for bear claw the next morning and caught the Arden car going to the Quarter. The car’s windows were open to cool, pleasant breezes and the sun shone brightly. There were even a few blooming crepe myrtles along the route. Things seemed quite mild and relaxing until the car stopped at the entrance to the Quarter for the usual boarding and inspection. A guard got on the car and walked up and down the aisle looking suspiciously at the passengers. Sometimes he would stop and bend over until his face was inches from theirs. When he came to Moldenke’s seat, he did just that. “Got yourself squirted, eh?”

  “Yeah, it’s not too bad, but it still stings and burns and itches sometimes.”

  “They tell me people are starting to swim in that pond out by the Old Reactor. They say the heavy water heals those deformations better than anything.”

  “All right. I might try that.”

  “I’ll tell you, if I ever get deformed, look for me in that pond.”

  Sensing that the guard was not as gruff as he appeared, Moldenke said, “Say, can I ask you a question?”

  “Of course, fire away.”

  “When you board the car and you stare at everyone, what exactly are you looking for?”

  “Nothing, it’s just for show. I enjoy doing it. I like people to remember what it was like before the liberation.”

  “I’m new here. I didn’t know.”

  “People forget what it was like. So I developed this act and they let me do it. Everybody gets a kick out of it.”

  “Thanks for the information.”

  “You bet. Welcome to the Quarter.”

  Moldenke got off at the stop nearest Big Ernie’s and saw a tobacconist’s kiosk with a rusty Julep sign. “You’re in luck,” the tobacconist said. “We’ve got the cork-tipped in stock.”

  “Good. You can’t get them over on the west side. I’ll have two packs.”

  The tobacconist looked at Moldenke’s pass card. “Sorry, only one at a time with this kind of card. You’ll get a better card after a year.”

  “Give me one pack then.”

  Walking on, Moldenke sat on the steps of the Church of the Lark to have a smoke. His matches were soggy and wouldn’t light easily. He had to strike them over and over just to get a hiss and a sputter. He began eyeing passersby for ones likely to have a match and chose a thin, anxious man he saw smoking the stub of a hand-made cigar.

  Moldenke took a few steps toward the man. “Pardon me. Do you have a light?”

  The man shivered a little, puffed on his cigar, and came toward Moldenke with a lit match. “Here you go.” Moldenke could now see th
e other side of the man’s face. One cheek and the right eye were deformed. Without lids, the eyeball protruded grotesquely. Some of the healed-over flesh of the face looked yellowed and waxen.

  “Thank you.” Moldenke inhaled deeply. It was the first Julep he’d had for a while.

  They sat on the church steps. “I’m here on indefinite,” the man said, “for stealing a duck from the park. What about you?”

  “Defacing a grave. Also indefinite. I see you’ve been squirted.”

  “A little jellyhead son of a bitch in the Park.”

  Moldenke turned his head. “They squirted me too. I took some on the ear, as you can see, and a little on the hand. Was he naked and wearing a fancy cap?”

  “Had a hell of donnicker, too. Slapped it with his knees when he was running at me.”

  “Don’t worry. I took care of that little menace, if you know what I mean—a favor for Big Ernie over at the bear claw place. That same jelly deformed his daughter.”

  “I know Big Ernie. The body on that daughter is so very nice. I’d give anything to mate with her, but Big Ernie doesn’t like me.”

  One of the Sisters burst out of the church with a broom and waved it wildly. “Get away from here, you bums.”

  “Hey,” the man protested, “aren’t you supposed to give us comfort?”

  The Sister grimaced and placed a hand on her hip. “Go on, get moving.”

  Moldenke and the deformed man parted company, going separate ways amid the sidewalk crush.

  The green light was on at Big Ernie’s. A line extended out the front door. Moldenke took his place behind a young free woman reading Burke’s Treatise. For a few minutes, as the line moved slowly forward, Moldenke looked over her shoulder and tried to read some of the text. With his weak eyesight it was impossible. “Excuse me,” he said, “why is everyone reading that book?”

  Without turning all the way, she said, “It’s the only one you can get these days. They’re old, falling apart, pre-liberation.”

  “Where can I get a one?”

  “People throw them away. I found this one in a gutter on the west side.”

  “Thanks. I’ll keep my eyes open.”

  Sorrel greeted Moldenke with a frown when he reached the counter. “What happened to your ear, Moldenke? It looks awful.”

  “Out on the Byway. Some jellyhead got me.”

  It was then that Moldenke saw how much Sorrel’s face had improved. Much of the scarring had gone away. Her lips were fuller and a healthy red.

  “You look better, Sorrel. Your face is healing. Are you treating it with something? Barrel honey maybe?”

  “I’ve been bathing in the Old Reactor pool. Something in the water re-forms flesh and bone. Everybody’s doing it. You should give it a try. I’ll go with you. Come here at eight sharp tomorrow. Knock on the door. We’re closed on Sunday.”

  “Very good. I’ll be here.”

  “Where is that nasty little girl you had?”

  “She’s in the Home. I’m rid of her.”

  “Good. How many claws?”

  “Give me four.” He showed his card.

  “Oops, sorry, you can get only two with that kind of card.”

  “Yeah, I forgot.”

  As he waited for the Arden car, Moldenke ate one of the warm bear claws, which settled well in his stomach. He would save the other one and offer it to the concierge when he got back to the Tunney. It would be a decent gesture and give him further leverage in maintaining his toilet privileges. He wrapped the waxed paper tightly around it, put it into his pocket, and boarded the car.

  There were very few open seats, all of them in the rear, where jellyheads generally liked to sit. It was a Saturday afternoon and free men and women were taking advantage of the pleasant weather while it lasted. Hundreds had been out walking in the Quarter and were now going home. Having no choice, Moldenke sat with the jellyheads. Next to him was an elderly female with a small, bulging suitcase leaking blood at the seams. “Hi, there,” the jellyhead said.

  “Hello.”

  “I apologize for the stink. There’s two heads in here, my husband’s and my lazy son’s. I’m taking them to Saposcat’s. We lived out by the Old Reactor.”

  “Did you ever bathe in the pond?”

  “When I was a kid, all the time. Then they wouldn’t let us anymore, after the liberation. That water was good for us.”

  “I’m going to swim there tomorrow.” He turned his head so that she could see the other side. “For this ear. Maybe it’ll re-form.”

  “Maybe it will, but I wouldn’t stay in that pond too long. What’s good for us might be bad for a regular like you.”

  “Thanks for the warning.”

  She hefted the dripping suitcase. “Excuse me, but next stop is Saposcat’s.”

  “Mine too,” Moldenke said. He stood up to let the jelly-head pass, his ankle throbbing, his ear still sore and burning. The two got off together. Moldenke held her elbow as she went down the steps, helping to balance the heavy suitcase.

  “Thank you so much,” she said.

  The two parted pays on the sidewalk—the jellyhead to leave the heads at Saposcat’s, Moldenke to the Tunney for some rest.

  When he got there, already tired with the day only half done, the concierge was bent over her commode cleaning the bowl with a long brush.

  “I have a bear claw for you, from Big Ernie’s in the Quarter,” he told her.

  “Oh, isn’t that sweet. Thank you.” She put away the brush and came to her little Dutch door, through which she could monitor any comings and goings in the foyer, the stairs, and the hallway. “I just love them.”

  “I’m going there tomorrow. I’ll bring you another one. I have a date with Big Ernie’s daughter. We’re going out to soak in the Old Reactor pond. It might help this ear.”

  “That’s nice. The water is wonderful and she’s a fine girl. I know her and Big Ernie. Would you like to use the toilet before you go up to your room?”

  Moldenke’s bowel, while not angry, was anxious. Better now than later it was telling him.

  “I suppose so, yes. Thanks.”

  The concierge opened the bottom half of her Dutch door and let him into her small apartment. He turned toward the little room with the commode and she followed him there, stepping on his heels once or twice on the way. When he tried to close the door, she stopped him. “Leave it open. I want to watch.”

  He’d been many times sitting hip to hip with strangers in public privies but never had anyone wanted to stand by and watch him empty his bowels. If that was the price he was going to have to pay now to have access to this sublime convenience, then he would pay it.

  “Do you mind if I read a bit? It isn’t going to come easily.”

  “That’s fine. I’m just watching. Do what you would do.”

  Moldenke looked up at a boarded-over window above the bathtub. “Too bad about that,” he said. “We could be getting some air in here.”

  “My husband did that when the liberation was happening. A lot of glass was getting broken.”

  Moldenke picked up Burke’s Treatise. He began reading the book’s introductory note. The words and sentences had to be read over and over to get any sense of them. What little he could retain was quickly forgotten. He put the book back on the stool. The concierge stood there, arms folded, watching without expression.

  “I don’t think I can go right now,” Moldenke said. “Maybe in the morning?”

  The concierge was displeased but understanding. “Go to your room, then. I hope you have something to show me tomorrow.”

  “I will, I will. First, I’m going to nap for a few hours, then I’ll go over to Saposcat’s and have some scrapple. That should generate anger down there overnight. Good afternoon.”

  Moldenke succeeded in sleeping until dinner time and felt hungry and refreshed when he rolled out of his cot. Downstairs the concierge stood behind her Dutch door. “Good afternoon, Moldenke.”

  “Hello. I’m off to
Saposcat’s. I’m sure there’ll be something substantial for you in the morning.”

  “I do hope so.” She closed the top of the door.

  At Saposcat’s, Moldenke pored over the menu, searching for something that would churn his stomach and anger his bowel. It would be good to empty them anyway before bathing in the Old Reactor pool. That would be the last place he would want to suffer an attack.

  When the waitress came, Moldenke ordered the scrapple.

  “We’ve got some in the back,” she said, then bent over and whispered, “it’s a few days old, fair warning. We can scrape off the mold for you.”

  “I’ll have that.”

  “Okay. Something to drink? What about our special tea? We make it with part heavy water. It’s lighter than full heavy.”

  “That’s good. Yes. The tea.”

  Moldenke enjoyed eating his scrapple, despite the foul taste. It was immediately filling and gaseous and gave him confidence that he would have a movement for the concierge in the morning. The light-heavy tea, clear and salty, slid down his throat like thin syrup.

  When he got back to the Tunney, after stopping to piss at the public privy, the concierge was not to be seen. He crept up the stairs to the third floor and down a hall to his room. On the way he passed ten or twelve other rooms. From some he heard sounds: a radio, sobbing, laughing, breaking glass, even the gleeful chirps of a young child. Sometimes at night, he’d heard a man coughing, another vomiting out of a window below. Yet, in the time he’d been here, he’d never seen anyone in the hallways, on the stairs, or in the foyer. There were twenty-four rooms on each of the three floors. If they were mostly occupied, as the concierge had said, where were the other tenants?

  Lying in his cot, Moldenke rubbed his ear with the barrel honey the concierge had given him, then fell asleep anticipating his date with Sorrel and a long soak in heavy water.

  When he put on his uniform the next morning, he saw that it was rumpled and rank. There was a fullness in his stomach and he was passing gas. A toileting stop downstairs to satisfy the concierge would be first, then a stop at the public bath to get the uniform washed and dried.

  “Good morning,” he said when he saw the concierge standing at her door looking at him sternly. “Nice day ahead.”