He stared at her with that unreadable, granitic face. For a few moments she thought he wasn’t going to answer. Then he said, “It is in the past. There is no point in talking about it. Today is today. I accept that.”
They remained silent for a while, listening to the sounds of life all around. At last Susan said, “Well, the great injustice of our lives is still in the future.”
The thought of it flooded into her. All of this gentle valley would be gone soon, turned into an open wound in the landscape. Tears came to her, half anger and half loss, and she got up to go back inside. When she reached the back porch, she paused to compose herself, wiping the tears from her face. Captain Groton, who had followed her, said in a startled voice, “You are secreting moisture.”
“Yes,” she said. “We do that from time to time, in moments of intense emotion.”
“I wish—” he started, then stopped.
“Yes? What do you wish?”
“Never mind,” he said, and looked away.
That night, lying in bed, she told Tom all she had learned.
“Sand,” he said in disbelief. “The bastards are moving us out so they can have bathtub sand.”
He was not feeling charitable toward the Wattesoons. After their dinner guest had left in his tinted limousine, Tom had gotten a call from the mayor of Walker, the closest Wal-Mart metropolis. The captain in charge of their evacuation was an unbending disciplinarian who had presented the residents with a set of non-negotiable deadlines. The news from Red Bluff was even less encouraging. The captain assigned there was a transparent racist who seemed to think evacuation was too good for the native population. Force seemed to be his preferred alternative.
“Larry wants us to mount a unified resistance,” Tom said. “A kind of ‘Hell no, we won’t go’ thing. Just stay put, refuse to prepare. It seems pretty risky to me.”
Susan lay reflecting. At last she said, “They would think it was an immature response.”
“What, like children disobeying?” he said, irritated.
“I didn’t say I agreed. I said that was what they would think.”
“So what should we do?”
“I don’t know. Behave in a way they associate with adults. Somehow resist without seeming to resist.”
Tom turned his head on the pillow to look at her. “How come you learn all these things? He won’t give me anything but the official line.”
“You’re his counterpart, Tom. He has to be formal with you. I don’t count.”
“Or maybe you count more. Maybe he’s sweet on you.”
“Oh, please!”
“Who would have thought I’d lose my wife to a potato?” Tom mused.
She quelled the urge to hit him with a pillow. “You know, he’s something of a philosopher.”
“Socrates the spud,” he said.
“More like Marcus Aurelius. I don’t think he really wants to be here. There is something in his past, some tragedy he won’t talk about. But it might make him sympathetic to us. We might win him over.”
Tom rose on one elbow to look at her earnestly. “My god, he really did open up to you.”
“I’m just putting two and two together. The problem is, I’m not sure what winning him over would get us. He’s just following orders.”
“Jeez, even one friend among the Wattesoon is progress. I say go for it.”
“Is that an order, Mr. Mayor?”
“My Mata Hari,” he said, with the goofy, lopsided grin she loved.
She rolled closer to put her head on his shoulder. All problems seemed more bearable when he was around.
* * * *
In the next few weeks, no one saw much of Captain Groton. Information, instructions, and orders still emanated from his office, but the captain himself was unavailable—indisposed, the official line went.
When she heard this, Susan called the Wattesoon headquarters, concerned that he had had a reaction to the odd menu she had fed him. To her surprise, the captain took her call.
“Do not concern yourself, Susan,” he said. “There is nothing you can do.”
“I don’t believe you,” she said. “You’re so in love with stoical acceptance that you could have toxic shock before you’d admit there was anything wrong.”
“There is nothing wrong.”
“I’m a nurse, Captain Groton. If you are sick, you have become my job.”
There was an enigmatic pause on the line. “It is nothing you would recognize,” he said at last. “A Wattesoon complaint.”
Concerned now that he had admitted it, she said, “Is it serious?”
“It is not mortal, if that is what you mean.”
“Can I see you?”
“Your concern is gratifying, but I have no need of assistance.”
And she had to be content with that.
In the end, Tom saw him before she did. It was at a meeting the captain couldn’t avoid, a progress report on preparations for the evacuation. “It must be some sort of arthritis,” Tom answered Susan’s questions vaguely. “He’s hobbling around with a cane. A bit testy, too.”
Not trusting a man to observe what needed to be noticed, Susan called Alice Brody, who had also been at the meeting. She was more than willing to elaborate. “He does seem to be in discomfort,” Alice said. “But that’s not the strange part.”
Aha, Susan thought.
“He’s taller, Susan. By inches. And proportioned differently. Not quite so tubby, if you know what I mean. It looks like he’s lost a lot of weight, but I think it’s just redistributed. His skin is different, too—smoother, a more natural color.”
“What do you think is going on?”
“Damned if I know.”
That was when Susan got the idea to invite Captain Groton to the Fourth of July celebration. Observing the holiday at all had been controversial, under the circumstances—but the city council had reasoned that a day of frivolity would raise everyone’s spirits. The Wattesoons regarded it as a quaint summer festival and completely missed the nationalist connotations, so their only objection was to the potential for disorder from the crowds. When the town agreed to ban alcohol, the occupiers relented.
Okanoggan Falls’s Fourth of July always climaxed with the parade, a homegrown affair for which people prepared at least three hours in advance. There was always a chainsaw drill team, a convertible for the Butter Princess, a Dixieland jazz band on a flatbed truck, and decorated backhoes and front-end loaders in lieu of floats. Deprecating self-mockery was a finely honed sport in Wisconsin.
Tom was going to be obliged to ride in a Model T with a stovepipe hat on, so Susan phoned the Wattesoon commander and asked him to accompany her.
“It will be a real demonstration of old-time Americana,” she said.
He hesitated. “I do not wish to be provocative. Your townsfolk might not welcome my presence.”
“If you were riding in a float, maybe. But mingling with the crowds, enjoying a brat and a lemonade? Some people might even appreciate it. If they don’t, I’ll handle them.”
At last he consented, and they arranged to meet. “Don’t wear a uniform,” was her last instruction.
She had no idea what a dilemma she had caused him till he showed up in front of Meyer’s Drugstore in a ragbag assortment of ill-fitting clothes that looked salvaged from a thrift shop. However, the truly extraordinary thing was that he was able to wear them at all—for when she had last seen him, fitting into human clothes would have been out of the question. Now, when she greeted him, she realized they were the same height, and he actually had a chin.
“You look wonderful,” she blurted out.
“You are exaggerating,” he said in a slightly pained tone.
“Are you feeling all right?”
“Better, thank you.”
“But your clothes. Oh dear.”
“Are they inappropriate?” he asked anxiously.
She looked around at all the American summer slobbery—men in baggy T-shirts and sandal
s, women bursting out of their tank tops. “No,” she said. “You’ll fit right in. It’s just that, for a man in your position.... “She grabbed him by the hand and dragged him into the drugstore, making for the magazine rack. She found an issue of GQ and thrust it into his hands. “Study that,” she said. “It will show you what the elite class of men wear.” Perusing several other magazines, she found some examples of a more khakified, Cape Cod look. “This is more informal, but still tasteful. Good for occasions like this, without losing face.”
He was studying the pictures with a grave and studious manner. “Thank you, Susan. This is helpful.” With a pang, she wished Tom would take any of her sartorial advice so to heart.
They were heading for the counter to buy the magazines when he stopped, riveted by the sight of the shelves. “What are these products for?”
“Grooming, personal care,” Susan said. “These are for cleaning teeth. We do it twice a day, to prevent our breath smelling bad and our teeth going yellow. These are for shaving off unwanted hair. Men shave their faces every day, or it grows in.”
“You mean all men have facial hair?” Captain Groton said, a little horrified.
“Yes. The ones who don’t want beards just shave it off.”
“What about these?” he said, gesturing to the deodorants.
“We spread it under our arms every day, to prevent unpleasant odors.”
Faintly he said, “You live at war with your bodies.”
She laughed. “It does seem that way, doesn’t it?” She looked down the aisle at the shampoos, mouthwashes, acne creams, corn removers, soaps, and other products attesting to the ways in which even humans found their own bodies objectionable.
Beth Meyer was manning the counter, so Susan introduced her to Captain Groton. Unable to hide her hostility, Beth nevertheless said, “I hope you learn something about us.”
“Your shop has already been very instructive, Mrs. Meyer,” the captain said courteously. “I never realized the ingenuity people devote to body care. I hope I may return some day.”
“As long as we’re open we won’t turn away a customer,” Beth said.
Outside, things were gearing up for the parade, and it was clear that people were spontaneously going to use it to express their frustration. Some of the spectators were carrying protest signs, and along the sidewalk one local entrepreneur had set up a Spike the Spud concession stand offering people a chance to do sadistic things to baked potatoes for a few dollars. The most popular activity seemed to be blowing up the potatoes with firecrackers, as attested by the exploded potato guts covering the back of the plywood booth. A reporter from an out-of-town TV station was interviewing the proprietor about his thriving business. The word “Wattesoon” never passed anyone’s lips, but no one missed the point.
Including Captain Groton. Susan saw him studying the scene, so she said quietly, “It’s tasteless, but better they should work it out this way than in earnest.”
“That is one interpretation,” he said a little tensely. She reminded herself that it wasn’t her symbolic viscera plastering the booth walls.
His radio chose that moment to come to life. Susan hadn’t even realized he was carrying it, hidden under his untucked shirt. He said, “Excuse me,” and spoke into it in his own language. Susan could not tell what was being said, but the captain’s voice was calm and professional. When he finished, she said, “Do you have soldiers ready to move in?”
He studied her a moment, as if weighing whether to lie, then said, “It would have been foolish of us not to take precautions.”
It occurred to her then that he was their advance reconnaissance man, taking advantage of her friendship to assess the need for force against her neighbors. At first she felt a prickle of outrage; it quickly morphed into relief that he had not sent someone more easily provoked.
“Hey, captain!” The man at the Spike the Spud stand had noticed them, and, emboldened by the TV camera, had decided to create a photogenic scene. “Care to launch a spud missile?” The people standing around laughed nervously, transfixed to see the Wattesoon’s reaction. Susan was drawing breath to extricate him when he put a restraining hand on her arm.
“I fear you would think me homicidal,” he said in an easygoing tone.
Everyone saw then that he understood the message of sublimated violence, but chose to take it as a joke and not a provocation.
“No homicide involved, just potatoes,” said the boothkeeper. He was a tubby, unshaven man in a sloppy white T-shirt. His joking tone had a slightly aggressive edge. “Come on, I’ll give you a shot for free.”
Captain Groton hesitated as everyone watched intently to see what he would do. At last he gave in. “Very well,” he said, stepping up to the booth, “but I insist on paying. No preferential treatment.”
The boothkeeper, an amateur comedian, made a show of selecting a long, thin potato that looked remarkably like his customer. He then offered a choice of weapons: sledge hammer, ax, firecracker, or other instruments of torture. “Why, the firecracker of course,” the captain said. “It is traditional today, is it not?”
“American as beer.” One segment of the crowd resented that the Wattesoons had interfered with their patriotic right to inebriation.
The boothkeeper handed him the potato and firecracker. “Here, shove it in. Right up its ass.” When the captain complied, the man set the potato in the back of the booth and said, “Say when.”
When the captain gave the word, the man lit the fuse. They waited breathlessly; then the potato exploded, splattering the boothkeeper in the face. The onlookers hooted with laughter. Captain Groton extracted himself with an amiable wave, as if he had planned the outcome all along.
“You were a remarkably good sport about that,” Susan said to him as they walked away.
“I could have obliterated the tuber with my weapon,” he said, “but I thought it would violate the spirit of the occasion.”
“You’re packing a weapon?” Susan stared. Wattesoon weapons were notoriously horrific. He could have blown away the booth and everyone around it.
He looked at her without a shade of humor. “I have to be able to defend myself.”
The parade was about to commence, and Susan was feeling that she was escorting an appallingly dangerous person, so she said, “Let’s find a place to stand, away from the crowd.”
“Over here,” Captain Groton said. He had already scoped out the terrain and located the best spot for surveillance: the raised stoop of an old apartment building, where he could stand with his back to the brick. He climbed the steps a bit stiffly, moving as if unused to knees that bent.
Okanoggan Falls had outdone itself. It was a particularly cheeky parade, full of double-entendre floats like the one carrying a group called the No Go Banjoes playing “Don’t Fence Me In,” or the “I Don’t Wanna Mooove” banner carried by the high school cheerleading squad in their black-and-white Holstein costumes. The captain’s radio kept interrupting, and he spoke in a restrained, commanding voice to whoever was on the other end.
In the end, it all passed without intervention from any soldiers other than the one at Susan’s side. When the crowd began to disperse, she found that she had been clenching her fists in tension, and was glad no one else was aware of the risk they had been running.
“What happens now?” Captain Groton said. He meant it militarily, she knew; all pretense of his purpose being social was gone.
“Everyone will break up now,” she said. “Some will go to the school ballfield for the fund-raiser picnic, but most won’t gather again till the fireworks tonight. That will be about nine-thirty or ten o’clock.”
He nodded. “I will go back to base, then.”
She was battling mixed feelings, but at last said, “Captain—thank you, I think.”
He studied her seriously. “I am just doing my duty.”
That night on the television news, the celebration in Okanoggan Falls was contrasted with the one in Red Bluff, where a lockdo
wn curfew was in place, fireworks were banned, and Wattesoon tanks patrolled the empty streets.
* * * *
A week later, when Susan phoned Captain Groton, Ensign Agush took the call. “He cannot speak to you,” he said indifferently. “He is dying.”
“What?” Susan said, thinking she had heard wrong.
“He has contracted one of your human diseases.”
“Has anyone called a doctor?”
“No. He will be dead soon. There is no point.”
Half an hour later, Susan was at the Wattesoon headquarters with her nurse’s kit in hand. When the ensign realized he was facing a woman with the determination of a stormtrooper, he did not put up a fight, but showed her to the captain’s quarters. He still seemed unconcerned about his commanding officer’s imminent demise.
The Year's Best Science Fiction: Twenty-Fourth Annual Collection Page 101
