by John Helfers
‘‘Bo’s got a place to run. Didn’t he tell you? His sister’s got a winter home in Freeport, and he and Earl have plane tickets. Me? They can’t hook me to any of this, Clete. Probably not you, either.’’ He paused and rubbed at the stubble on his chin. ‘‘Well, some of them guys in what’s left of the government are pretty smart. Maybe they can hook you. Not me, though. I don’t even have a Social Security number.’’
Cletus thought of Jimmy-Don. They’d trace him that way, through the poor, dead boy. He was Jimmy-Don’s second cousin and was listed in the city directory.
‘‘I’ll have to go up into the mountains,’’ Cletus said to himself. ‘‘Got me some shirttails I can hide out with.’’
‘‘All worth it,’’ Otis said. ‘‘All of it. We saved Graceland, Clete. We’re true Americans.’’
Cletus felt his chest grow tight as he slipped into the driver’s seat of his rusty Ford Explorer. It was four-wheel drive and operated on a converted engine with an animal fat and grease concoction. It would make it up the back roads in the mountains. Otis hefted himself up into the passenger’s side.
‘‘Graceland’s ruined, Otis. We didn’t save it. Didn’t think none of this through properly,’’ Cletus said. He thumbed the CD player; practically antique, it still worked. Elvis started to croon softly through the speakers. ‘‘Grenades, bullets, that big shell from the Dictator. Graceland’s pretty much gone.’’
Otis shrugged. ‘‘Someone’ll rebuild it after the politicians leave. And if they don’t . . . well, as you said last Thursday, Graceland was built for the King, not the president. The King’s long dead.’’
The president, too, Cletus mused.
‘‘Next in line for the presidency is some woman from St. Louis,’’ Otis continued. ‘‘Let them set up a new White House there. We saved Memphis from the Democrats and Republicans.’’ Otis sagged against the seat and closed his eyes. ‘‘It’s been a long night, Clete.’’
Cletus nodded as he drove toward the outskirts of the city, Elvis singing about being lonesome. Well behind the Explorer, the sky was still lit from the conflagration.
‘‘A long, good night,’’ Cletus pronounced with a touch of sadness in his voice. ‘‘But the South won this time, Otis. This time we finally had the better guns.’’
THE BABY STORE
by Ed Gorman
Ed Gorman was born in Minneapolis, Minnesota, and he currently lives in Iowa with his wife Carol, who is also a writer. He spent twenty years in communications, working at various times as a political speech writer, a writer-director of television commercials, a copywriter for several advertising agencies, and owner of his own small agency. He’s been a full-time fiction writer for almost a quarter century, working in suspense (his favorite genre) and Westerns, with a handful of horror short stories and novels. His fiction reflects his primary influences—Richard Matheson, Robert Bloch, and Cornell Woolrich—and among his best-known books are The Autumn Dead (mystery), Cage of Night (horror) and Wolf Moon(Western). He recently collaborated with Dean Koontz on City of Night, the second novel in Koontz’s modern Frankenstein series. His work has won the International Horror Guild Award, the Anthony, the Shamus and the Spur. He has also published six collections of his short fiction, and has contributed to a wide variety of publications, including The New York Times, Redbook, Penthouse, Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine , The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, Poetry Today and Interzone. With Martin H. Greenberg, he has edited more than twenty anthologies.
‘‘YOU KNOW HOW sorry we all are, Kevin,’’ Miles Green said, sliding his arm around Kevin McKay’s shoulder and taking his right hand for a manly shake. ‘‘It’s going to be rough and we know it. So whenever you need some time away, take it. No questions asked. You know?’’
‘‘I really appreciate it, Miles. And so does Jen. Everybody here has just been so helpful to us.’’
Miles smiled. ‘‘If you’re not careful, you’re going to give us lawyers a good reputation, Kevin.’’ He checked the top of his left hand where the holo was embedded. ‘‘Time for me to head out for LA. The rocket leaves in three hours.’’
The Miles incident had occurred at the top of the day, just as Kevin had been about to settle himself into his desk chair for the first time in two months. The firm of Green, Hannigan & Storz had been generous indeed with one of its youngest and most aggressive lawyers. But no amount of goodwill could quite take away the guilt he felt for the death of his son. No amount of time off could erase the blame he felt.
By day’s end, Kevin had been consoled by fourteen different members of the staff, from the paralegals to the executive secretaries to the firm’s reigning asshole, Frank Hannigan himself.
Hannigan had said: ‘‘I know Miles told you to take all the time you need. But if you want my advice, Kevin, you’ll get back in the game and start kicking some ass. And not just for the sake of your bonus this December. But for your mental health. You’re a gladiator the same as I am. The battle is what keeps you sane.’’ Hannigan frequently spoke in awkward metaphors.
As Kevin was leaving the office, he heard a brief burst of applause coming from one of the conference rooms. As he passed the open door, David Storz waved him in. ‘‘C’mon in and celebrate with us, Kevin. My son just graduated at the top of his class at his prep school.’’
Reluctant as he was to listen to even ten minutes of Storz’s bragging, Kevin stepped into the room and took a seat.
Storz, a balding enthusiastic man with dark eyes that never smiled, said, ‘‘This is quite a week for this firm, I’d say. Phil’s son jumped from second grade to fourth after taking a special test. Irene’s daughter wrote a paper on George Gershwin that’s going to be published. And now my boy is at the top of his class.’’
The people Storz had cited were sitting around the conference table, pleased to be congratulated by one of the firm’s founders.
No one seemed to understand that inviting Kevin in to hear people bragging on their children was a bit insensitive given what had happened to him and his wife. But then nothing ever seemed to deter the lawyers here from bragging on their kids.
More than winning cases, more than accruing wealth, more than performing as talking heads on the vid networks, the greatest pleasure for these men and women came from congratulating themselves on how well they’d designed their children at Generations, or what the populist press disdainfully called ‘‘The Baby Store.’’ Of course it wasn’t just this law firm. Designer children had become status symbols for the upper classes. An attractive, bright child obviously destined to become a prominent citizen was now the most important possession you could boast of.
These parents were unfazed by the media criticism insisting that the wealthy and powerful were creating a master race by genetically engineering their progeny. After all, as Miles had once said, ‘‘You design the child yourself. And it’s no sure thing. Every once in a while somebody designs a dud.’’
Kevin was able to leave before the liquor appeared. It would be a long session. Six fathers and mothers bragging on their children took some time.
‘‘May I help you, sir?’’
Only up close did the woman show even vague evidenceof her actual age. The plastic surgery, probably multiple surgeries in fact, had been masterful. In her emerald-colored, form-fitting dress, with her perfectly fraudulent red hair, she looked both erotic and efficient.<
br />
‘‘Just looking, really.’’
‘‘Some very nice ones. And feel free to read their biographies. Some of them are pretty amazing.’’
‘‘I don’t have much time today. I think I’ll just look at the holos.’’
‘‘Fine.’’ A smile that would have seduced a eunuch.
‘‘I’ll just let you look. If there’s anything you need, just let me know.’’
He spent equal time with male and female holos. They were all so perfect they began to lose individuality after a time. As Miles had said, people did, of course, design duds. The looks didn’t turn out quite right; the intelligence wasn’t impressive or even, sometimes, adequate; and then there were personality flaws, sometimes profound. Most of these problems resulted from parents who wouldn’t listen to the advice of the scientists and programmers. But their arrogance could be tragic.
Given what had happened, he settled on looking at the girls. These were finished products, used to guide the buyers in creating their own girls. He was particularly taken with a dark-haired girl of sixteen whose fetching face was as imposing as the amused intelligence that played in her blue-eyed gaze. Yes, good looks—and intelligence. Requisites for a leadership role later on.
He doted on the girl, imagining the kind of boasting you could do in a session like the one he’d just left. Even up against the likes of Storz and the others, this girl would undoubtedly triumph. Whoever had designed her obviously had known exactly what they were doing.
But then it was time to catch the bullet train home. He just hoped Jen was free of her depression, at least for a few hours.
He was never sure how to characterize the sounds she made—‘‘crying’’ was too little, but then ‘‘sobbing’’ was probably too much. He usually settled for ‘‘weeping.’’
She was weeping when he got home that night. He went upstairs immediately to knock softly on the door of the master bedroom. ‘‘Is there anything I can do, honey?’’ he asked, as he’d asked every night since the death of their five-year-old son two months ago.
‘‘Just please leave me alone, Kevin,’’ she said between choked tears. ‘‘Just please leave me alone.’’ Even given the loss they’d suffered, could this tragedy alone fuel so many endless days of bitter sobbing sorrow?
Dinner alone. By now he was used to it. An hour or so in front of the vid with a few drinks. And then bringing her a tray of food. Otherwise she wouldn’t eat. He’d come to think of all this reasonably enough as The Ritual.
After eating—she’d lost fifteen pounds from an already thin lovely body—Jen usually went into the bathroom and showered for bed. Afterward was when they talked.
‘‘Somebody at the office told me about a very good doctor. Very good with depression.’’
‘‘Please, Kevin. No more shrinks. I couldn’t take another one.’’
‘‘I wish you’d take the meds.’’
‘‘The headaches they give me are worse than the depression.’’
Sometimes he wondered if she wasn’t purposely punishing herself. Maybe her depression was her way of dealing with what she saw as her negligence in the death of Kevin Jr.
‘‘You know the doctor said he’d never heard of anybody getting headaches from this particular med.’’
‘‘That’s what I mean about doctors. They say things like that all the time. They don’t take the drugs. We do. We’re their guinea pigs. And when we complain about something, they tell us we’re just imagining it.’’
And so on.
The best part of the night was when she lay in his arms in the darkness, responding finally to his patience and kindness, trusting him once more as she had always trusted him in their young marriage. Sometimes they made love; sometimes the day-long siege of depression and tears left her too shattered to do much more than lie next to him.
Tonight he was afraid. He didn’t know if he should tell her what he’d done. He certainly didn’t want to set her off. But maybe the idea would appeal to her. Maybe she was ready now to talk about the rest of their lives. Maybe a talk like this was exactly what she needed to hear to make her forget—
He’d tell her about his impulsive visit to the Baby Store and—
But then he smiled to himself, for there, her regal blonde head on his shoulder, came the soft sweet sounds of her childlike snoring.
In the next few weeks he stopped at the Baby Store three times after work. On the second visit he asked if he could talk with one of the consultants. He kept assuring the doctor that he was only asking questions while he waited for his train. The doctor kept assuring him, in turn, that he understood that quite well.
On the third visit, his words seeming to come unbidden, Kevin explained how five-year-old Kevin Jr. had drowned in the small lake that came very near the front porch of their summer cottage and how Jen blamed herself for it. She’d been on the phone when he walked into the water. Kevin had been in the backyard dealing with some particularly aggravating gopher holes.
The doctor, a middle-aged man with kind blue eyes, said, ‘‘It’s especially traumatic when you lose a child you designed yourself. It’s a double loss.’’
‘‘I guess I hadn’t thought of that. You’re right. And we spent so much time making sure he’d be just right.’’
The doctor, whose name was Carmody, spoke gently. ‘‘I know why you’re coming here, Kevin. And I think you’ve got the right idea. But what you’re worried about is convincing your wife.’’
Kevin smiled. ‘‘You’re a mind reader, too.’’
‘‘Oh, no. It’s just that I’ve been through this process with a number of people over the years. Something unfortunate happens to the child they’ve designed and they’re not sure if they can deal with designing another one.’’
‘‘That’s right. That’s exactly right.’’
‘‘Usually the man is the one who suggests it. The woman is too lost in her grief. And he knows that she won’t like the idea at all. Not at first. And her feeling is perfectly natural. You’ll both feel guilty about designing another child. Kevin Jr. is dead and here you are going on with your lives—and replacing him.’’
‘‘I’m already feeling guilty. But I think that’s what we both need. A new child. While we’re still in our early thirties. With our lives still ahead of us.’’
Dr. Carmody nodded. ‘‘But it won’t be easy. She’ll resist. She’ll probably even get very angry. And she’ll feel even more isolated than she does now. She’ll think you don’t understand her mourning at all.’’
‘‘So maybe I shouldn’t suggest it?’’
‘‘Not at all, Kevin. All I’m saying is that you should prepare yourself for some very heated discussions. Very heated.’’
‘‘I don’t know how you could even think about another child now,’’ Jen said at dinner that night. ‘‘We loved him so much. It’s not like buying a new pair of shoes or something.’’
‘‘Honey, all I said was that it’s something to think about. You’re so sad all the time—’’
‘‘And you aren’t?’’
‘‘I guess I don’t have time to be sad most of the time. I’m always rushing around with w
ork and—’’ He knew he’d said the wrong, insensitive thing. He eased his hand across the candlelit dinner that the caterers had prepared so nicely. He’d wanted the right mood to introduce the subject. He knew that convincing her was somewhere in the future. ‘‘Why do you think I don’t sleep well? I’m thinking about Kevin Jr.’’
By the look in her blue eyes he could see that he’d rescued himself. And what he’d said hadn’t been untrue. He couldn’t sleep well these nights. And a good deal of the time during those uneasy hours, he thought of his son, his dead son.
‘‘I don’t even want to talk about it now,’’ she said. ‘‘Or think about it.’’ Her smile surprised him. One of the old Jen smiles, so girlishly erotic. ‘‘Tonight I want us to drink all three bottles of wine and just be silly. It’s been awhile since we’ve been silly.’’
He slid his hand over hers, touching it with great reverence. His one and only love. He missed her. The old her. ‘‘Well, if you want silly, Madame, you’ve come to the right guy. Nobody’s sillier than I am.’’
And they toasted his silliness. In fact, before they managed to stagger into bed and have some of that old-time sex of theirs, they’d toasted a good many things. And every one of them had been silly. Very, very silly.
Then came the day when he got home from work and found Jen’s personal holo filled with images of children from the Baby Store. Jen often forgot to turn the holo to FADE when she was done with it. His first inclination was to rush up the stairs to the exercise room and congratulate her for beginning to show interest in designing another child. But then he realized it would be better to let her interest grow at its own pace.
He was disappointed that she didn’t mention the holo that night at dinner. But the fact that she’d come down to dinner at all told him that the old Jen had not been lost to him after all. The old Jen was slowly returning to the shining presence he loved so much.
