by Various
Suvinder sighed. “Oh,” he said, “a few days.” It was longer than he’d anticipated.
“Sure, a few days, no more than a week. ’Course sometimes you hear about chronic cases, but those folks have problems, serious problems—psychological problems, y’know? That’s not you, right? You look pretty put-together to me.”
“Maybe. I don’t know.” Suvinder looked out the window. He could see the long shadow of the elephant, flitting over the roadside cacti.
“It always helps to talk about it. If you like. With this traffic, we’ll be on the road at least another—maybe ten or twelve minutes.”
“You want to know what happened?”
“If you feel up to it.”
Suvinder looked at the back of the driver’s head. Was this man genuinely concerned or simply morbid and curious? Suvinder decided it didn’t matter either way. “It was my best friend,” he admitted. “The funeral’s tomorrow.”
The driver looked in the rear-view again. His eyes moved from Suvinder and then to the elephant that trailed them, several car lengths behind.
“We were best friends at university,” Suvinder went on, “Right from week one. We did everything together. We both studied film and we produced a few shorts together—good stuff, too, considering the shitty equipment we had to work with.” Suvinder took a deep breath. “It turns out he had a heart disease, something serious. He had it all the time and he never told me. Nobody ever told me.”
“Geez,” said the driver, whistling a single descending note, “no wonder you got yourself such a big fellah. Almost there now, by the way. You know which terminal?”
The Las Vegas airport loomed ahead. When the taxi slowed to climb the entry ramp, Suvinder’s elephant closed the gap.
“Doesn’t matter which terminal,” Suvinder commented darkly. “International, I guess. I’m flying with Air Canada.” When the driver didn’t ask for any more information, Suvinder went on with his story. “There was a girl. Her name was Sarah and she was a drama student, an actress—or at least she aspired to be. Peter and I—man—we clawed over each other tooth-and-nail to get her in every one of our shitty little movies. More than likely, she was the only reason they were remotely bearable.”
“You don’t say,” said the driver, turning around in his seat.
Suvinder hadn’t noticed the taxi had stopped. “She dated us both. After we graduated, we agreed things would stay on the level. We’d all remain friends—just friends. But then, well,” Suvinder paused to knock his head lightly against the glass. “Then they both moved across the country and I stayed put in Toronto. I guess I thought I had something good going at the time. With my work, I mean.”
The driver opened his door and popped the trunk and Suvinder finally caught on. His elephant was loitering at the entrance to international departures, and a man in an orange vest was madly waving his arms, urging the cab driver to drive away.
Changing his ticket to Toronto-via-Vancouver wasn’t as expensive as Suvinder expected. Air Canada offered a generous bereavement discount that was a tenth of the price, plus the usual service charges and airport tax. The airline’s charity was less surprising, however, when the clerk informed Suvinder that the cargo plane charges for simultaneously shipping an elephant would be triple the cost of a standard fare. Suvinder whispered a prayer and handed over his AMEX card. After producing the unsalable pilot for Street Chefs, his charge account was fast approaching overdraft. Miraculously, the tickets cleared, but the first available flight didn’t leave until the middle of the night.
When his plane finally set down in Vancouver, Suvinder was already too late to attend the ceremony. Instead he would go straight to Peter’s burial. He rented the cheapest car on the airport lot, briefly consulted a roadmap and sped recklessly toward West Vancouver with his elephant struggling to keep up.
Capilano View Cemetery was a gorgeous expanse of greenery cut through by winding roads, evergreens and bare oak trees. The north-shore mountains loomed across the bay, and the Vancouver air was like a moist sponge, a welcome change after the desert cold of Nevada. The cemetery grounds were so large they seemed derelict, and it took Suvinder some time to locate the plot.
Chairs—thirty or forty of them—were set out in rows and most were already occupied. Suvinder was relieved to find that his was neither the largest nor the smallest elephant in attendance. When he joined the group, his animal took its place among the others, milling around an idle bulldozer, presumably the one used to excavate the grave.
He found a seat at the rear. Beside him was a man of girth, dressed in a suit that was comically small and ill-fitted. He wore a thick moustache and his eyes were deeply bloodshot. “Go ahead,” he said, a moment after Suvinder had already sat down, “There’s no one sitting there.”
“Thanks,” said Suvinder, leaning forward in an attempt to catch the man’s eye.
But the man didn’t look up from the ground. He only said, “I was his secretary.”
“You worked for Peter?”
“Two years. Almost two years. I never would have thought—” he trailed off and threw a backward glance over his shoulder, toward the herd. “That’s mine over there. That big old African. Who’d have thought, heh?”
Suvinder looked over his shoulder. The man’s elephant was even larger than his own and Suvinder felt his cheeks colour with an unexpected pang of shame.
The large man sniffled and cupped his mouth in his hand. “Never in a million years. Never—never, ever—would I’ve expected to show up at the guy’s funeral. He was so damn young.”
“I guess it was a surprise for a lot of people.”
“Yeah. How’d you know him?”
“We went to school together.”
Peter’s secretary slung a heavy arm round Suvinder’s shoulders. His grip was stifling; his breath smelled of rye whiskey. “You go way back, hey? Looks like you’re holding up pretty well.”
“I’m coping.”
“Good for you.” The man used a thick finger to draw an invisible circle in front of his face. “What’s all this blubbery get you? Not a goddamn thing. Honestly, I only feel worse. And I’ll bet the damn African’s ready to dog me for weeks and weeks.” He blew out a syrupy breath and the strength of his embrace faltered. Gently, like a drowsy child, he placed his head on Suvinder’s shoulder and closed his eyes.
An uncle Suvinder had never heard of spoke at length. Only when he made reference to Peter’s “adoring wife and family,” did Suvinder catch sight of Sarah, who until then had been just another dark figure among many. She was sitting at the far end of the front row, evidently between Peter’s mother and the brother Suvinder had spoken to on the phone. When the uncle’s eulogy had deteriorated into tears, the minister took over. He concluded the ceremony just as a light rain began to fall. To bring him out of his stupor, Suvinder slapped the secretary’s meaty thigh.
“Sorry,” said the large man, wringing his hands.
The coffin was lowered into the ground and the mourners began to leave. A number of them filed between Sarah and her husband’s grave. Hands were reassuringly squeezed; soft words were exchanged; Sarah and her mother-in-law were kissed lightly on the cheek, again and again.
Peter’s secretary didn’t bother saying goodbye to anyone. He rose suddenly and lurched toward the cars.
“Are you sure you’re okay to drive?” Suvinder called after him.
“I’m fine,” he replied. “Tell them I’ll skip the reception. I’m going home.” The man found his car—a rusted Mazda—and puttered away with his elephant thundering alongside. Suvinder kept his eye on the vehicle as long as he could. Just before the car moved out of sight, it veered drunkenly toward the shoulder. Responding quickly, the man’s elephant trumpeted forward and the secretary swerved back on course. Suvinder smiled. He imagined the secretary would arrive home in one piece, just as long as he didn’t get over Peter’s death before he got there.
When Suvinder turned back, most of the mourners had
left the gravesite. When he saw Peter’s brother help his mother out of her seat and lead the old woman away, Suvinder moved forward.
When he was still a few feet behind her, Sarah turned. “I didn’t think you’d made it,” she said.
“It was a hassle getting here,” Suvinder explained. “When you called I was in Las Vegas.”
“Working?”
“Yeah.”
“How’s everything going for you?”
“It’s going okay.” Suvinder looked around at all the empty chairs. The cemetery’s custodial staff was already clearing them away. “I certainly wasn’t doing as well as Peter.”
Sarah nodded. “Peter did pretty good for himself. But you know, Suvinder, he only ever ended up a moneyman. He never got his hands dirty and he never really produced anything. Not like you.”
Suvinder almost laughed. “Never anything worthwhile, Sarah, believe me.” He took a seat beside her—the place where Peter’s brother had sat through the ceremony. Sarah’s hair, pulled up from her face in an austere bun, smoothed her features and made her even younger than he’d remembered. Then he made out the lines in her face, the dark patches under her eyes. But no, those were always there, weren’t they? It was as if she hadn’t aged at all. “Who cares about what I’m doing?” he said, “What about you? How’ve you been, Sarah? How’re you holding up?”
“It’s difficult, but I guess I’m okay. I knew about Peter’s health right from the start, but like I said on the phone, it was still—”
“Sarah!” Peter’s brother was calling from the last car still parked nearby. “Are you coming with us?”
Suvinder nodded to the man but the gesture went unacknowledged.
“I’ll stay a bit longer,” Sarah called back. “You take Mom back to the home. I’ll meet you there soon.”
Peter’s brother climbed back into the car. When he pulled away, two of the biggest elephants Suvinder had ever seen—twins, it seemed—followed the car down the path. Suvinder returned his attention to the grave. “He’s really gone, isn’t he?”
Sarah stood up abruptly. Suvinder felt compelled to do the same. As he rose, she threw her arms around his waist and burrowed her face in his chest. “I’m awful, Suvinder. You must think I’m a monster.”
“What? No, don’t say that, Sarah. You’re not a monster.”
“I’m a terrible person.”
Suvinder squeezed her. He stroked her back. He rested his chin on the top of her head. They were all motions he’d made once or twice before, years and years ago. But then he saw what she meant. There were only two elephants left on the grounds—his and hers. Sarah’s elephant was small and frail. It moved with a crooked gait. It was sickly. And worse. It was walking away.
“Don’t you see?” she said, her voice trembling and tight. “I told you. I’m not fit to live. It should be me in that box.”
A moment later, Sarah’s elephant hobbled into the evergreens and vanished. Suvinder watched it go. Part of him wanted to call after it, but what good would it do?
“What happened?” he asked. “Did something happen between you guys?”
“There’s not much to tell. There’s no ‘big thing.’ We just went in different directions. And we drifted.” As if to demonstrate, she pushed Suvinder away. “You know what we did the week before he died? We talked about a divorce.” She gestured to the open grave and laughed wretchedly. “I guess he was pretty serious about it, hey?”
Suvinder didn’t know how to respond. He saw that now, with the chairs cleared away, his elephant was the last one on the grounds. It approached and stood a short distance off, its dark skin gleaming with rain.
“I’m quitting my job,” he said.
“What?”
He sat down again and stared into the grave. “I’m gonna sell my half of the company—to my partner. He’s wanted to have his own thing for a long time anyway. Besides, it’s not all it’s cracked up to be, Sarah. It really isn’t.” He looked up at her. “I was thinking I might move back out west, start again.”
She offered him her hand. “Maybe now’s a good time to start again.”
“Maybe,” he said. He put his hands on his knees and stood on his own. He walked to his elephant and touched it for the first time, running his fingers over the flank. The skin was warm and wet and rough. He turned back to Sarah. “C’mon,” he said. “I’ll give you a lift to the reception.”
Originally published in On Spec Fall 2005 Vol 17 No 3 #62
Robert Paul Weston is the author of several award-winning novels for children and young adults, including Zorgamazoo, The Creature Department, and Blues For Zoey. His short fiction has appeared in The New Orleans Review, Kiss Machine, Postscripts, and others. He lives in London, England.
Sticky Wonder Tales
Hugh Spencer
Hey Squiffy:
Sorry to hear about the bowel infection. Even sorrier to hear that it’s one of the intelligent ones.
Just how intelligent do you think? If you’ve got one of the stupider batches I’ve heard that you can sometimes pacify them by watching sitcoms from the 1960s and early 1970s. Not Dick Van Dyke or Green Acres, because there’s some hidden smart stuff and surrealism in some of those.
No. Try the blandest thing imaginable—like The Brady Bunch or The Partridge Family. That ought to settle ’em down. No, scratch The Partridge Family, I hear it’s a bit dangerous if the bugs go totally comatose.
Otherwise, how is the mutation coming along? Not too fast (because we’ll miss you), I hope. Not too slow either (because that would be boring).
Everything is such a question of fucking balance these days.
Cheers,
Andrew:
I agree with you on your last point. You have to keep on evolving but not so much that they don’t know where to send the bill for the Science Fiction Book of the Month club.
Can you believe that such a quaint institution still exists?
Anyway, to answer your main question: the process seems to be moving along pretty well. The bacteriological route is uneven and kind of painful, but what can I say? The price was definitely right.
Maybe I should have done what you did and gone the technological route.
Have they moved you on to any new simulators?
Best,
Hi Squiffer:
They put our whole team into the most advanced model of our oldest and most obsolete simulators. I think that’s better than being assigned to the least advanced model of the middle-range systems. But you know what a dangerous optimist I can be.
I can be realistic too. Which is why I know there’s absolutely no way some guy from the suburbs of Steel Town is going to get hold of any exotic tech. At least not this fast.
Our trainer explained that could be some kind of an honour. “An unusual challenge for advancement.” Which is boss-code for “this job is going to be so boring that it will fossilize your brain or so dangerous that it will melt your gonads.”
Maybe both.
Anyway, the “unusual challenge” is trying out some Super Culture chatter that might be some technology teaching software. Of course, it could be random eruptions of interstellar gas. Our team gets to figure out which.
No problem, it only ought to take twenty, maybe thirty years.
Even if it does turn out to be something meaningful, it doesn’t necessarily follow that the information will be anything particularly important. It could be blueprints for the intergalactic equivalent of those little plastic tabs for bread bags.
Then again, it really might be some profound existential insight. Real meaning of life stuff. We’re talking at least 80 million civilizations and a shit load of space and eternity.
Profoundly yours,
Andrew:
I had a great dream last night.
I was back in our old house in Saskatchewan. It was the dead of January; snow everywhere, about three in the morning. You know, one of those unbelievably black, bleak and frigid nights.
I really miss them sometimes.
Anyway, I turned away from the kitchen window for a second to take a sip of cocoa, and when I look out again, there’s this amazing shifting wall of aurora borealis everywhere. Along with the electrical crackling in THX sound and it’s like high noon with an ultraviolet sun. Then the effect fades and it goes back to night again. But it’s hardly black out there now. I’m looking at some planets—gas giants—floating over the snowdrifts. Five different variations of Jupiter out there—the multicoloured bands of gas take up over a third of the sky.
Which makes a striking contrast to the outline of the old Greek Orthodox church on 105th Street.
Un-fucking-believable . . . as I believe the Bard once put it.
I suspect the dream was some kind of psychic compensation for a longstanding disappointment that we never got any Big Ships.
The dream also helped me not worry so much that I’d completely forgotten Annie’s eighth birthday yesterday. I can understand how you can evolve beyond some old friendships, but forgetting about your kids? Another downside of this Process, I suppose.
Speaking of which, I’ve got to go now. The bacteria have reached a developmental phase that makes me extremely flatulent. I’m still connected enough to my family to notice that they dislike it if I don’t deal with this problem in the bathroom.
Got to pass some gas on my way to the stars.
Bloatedly,
Squiffoid:
Sorry about your fart-attacks. Hope you got around to fixing the bathroom fan before all this started.
Are you still ticked about the lack of Big Ships? Get over it, guy!
Maybe what I’m about to tell will be a bit of a consolation. Probably not, because it’s happening to me and not you, it’s just likely to tick you off even more.
But what the hell, I’ll tell you anyway. The software we’re using to drive the simulators is indeed meaningful. It seems to be some kind of mission programme in a solar system that we’ve never heard of.
