“After they do the head work I’ll have different tastes, and I’ll get nothing but the best. Museums—hell, I never went to museums before. And as far as movies, I’ll just wait for them to come out on chip. Then I’ll curl up with my handler and go to sleep in front of them.”
“Of course, the movie will be in black and white to you.”
“Heh.”
Jason didn’t mention—didn’t want to think about—the other changes that the “head work” would make in his father’s senses, and his brain. After the craniofacial procedure, his mind would be as much like a dog’s as modern medicine could make it. He’d be happy, no question of that, but he wouldn’t be Noah Carmelke any more.
Jason’s dad seemed to recognize that his thoughts were drifting in an uncomfortable direction. “Tell me about your job,” he said.
“I work for Bionergy,” Jason replied. “I’m a civil engineer. We’re refitting Cleveland’s old natural gas system for biogas... that means a lot of tearing up streets and putting them back.”
“Funny. I was a civil engineer for a while, before I hired on at Romatek.”
“No shit?”
“No shit.”
“I was following in your footsteps, and I didn’t even know it.”
“We thought you were going to be an artist. Your mom was so proud of those drawings of the barn, and the goats.”
“Wow. I haven’t done any sketching in years.”
They stared at the mural, both remembering a refrigerator covered with drawings.
“You want me to draw you?”
Jason’s father nodded slowly. “Yeah. Yeah, I’d like that.”
Someone from the clinic managed to scare up a pad and some charcoal, and they settled down under the maple tree. Jason leaned against the fence and began to sketch, starting with the hindquarters. His father sat with his hind legs drawn up beneath him and his forelegs stretched straight out in front. “You look like the Sphinx,” Jason said.
“Hmm.”
“You can talk if you like, I’m not working on your mouth.”
“I don’t have anything to say.”
Jason’s charcoal paused on the page, then resumed its scratching. “Last night I read a paper I found in the restaurant. The Howl. You know it?” The full title was HOWL: The Journal of the Bay Area Transpecies Community. It was full of angry articles about local politicians he’d never heard of, and ads for services he couldn’t understand or didn’t want to think about.
“I’ve read it, yeah. Buncha flakes.”
“I found out there are a lot of different reasons for people to change their species. Some of them feel they were born into the wrong body. Some are making a statement about humanity’s impact on the planet. Some see it as a kind of performance art. I don’t see any of those in you.”
“I told you, I just want to be taken care of. It’s a form of retirement.”
The marks on the page were getting heavy and black. “I don’t think that’s it. Not really. I look at you and I see a man with ambition and drive. You wouldn’t have gotten all those stock options if you were the type to retire at 58.” The charcoal stick snapped between Jason’s fingers, and he threw the pieces aside. “Damnit, Dad, how can you give up your humanity?”
Jason’s dad jumped to his four feet. His stance was wide, defensive. “The O’Hartigan decision said I have the right to reshape my body and my mind in any way I wish. I think that includes the right to not answer questions about it.” He stared for a moment, as though he were about to say something else, then pursed his lips and trotted off.
Jason was left with a half-finished sketch of a sphinx with his father’s face.
-o0o-
He sat in the clinic’s waiting room for three hours the next day. Finally Dr. Steig came out and told him that he was sorry, but his father simply could not be convinced to see him.
Jason wandered the lunchtime crowds of San Francisco. The spring air was clear and crisp, and the people walked briskly. Here and there he saw feathers, fur, scales. The waiter who brought his sandwich was half snake, with slitted eyes and a forked tongue that flickered. Jason was so distracted he forgot to tip.
After lunch he came to the clinic’s door and stopped. He stood in the hall for a long time, dithering, but when the elevator’s ping announced the arrival of two women with identical Siamese cat faces he bolted—shoving between them, ignoring their insulted yowls, hammering the Door Close button. As the elevator descended he gripped the handrails, pushed himself into the corner, tried to calm his breathing.
He landed in Cleveland at 12:30 that night.
-o0o-
The other hard-hats at his work site gave him a nice card they had all signed. He accepted their sympathies but did not offer any details. One woman took him aside and asked how long his father had. “The doctor says five weeks.”
Days passed. Sometimes he found himself sitting in the cab of a backhoe, staring at his hands, wondering how long he had been there.
He confided in nobody. He imagined the jokes: “Good thing it isn’t your mother... then you’d be a son-of-a-bitch!” Antacids became his favorite snack.
The little house he’d bought with Maria, back when they thought they might be able to make it work, became oppressive. He ate all his meals in restaurants, in parts of town where he didn’t know anyone. Once he found a copy of the local transpecies paper. It was a skinny little thing, bimonthly, with angry articles about local politicians and ads for services he wished he didn’t know anything about.
Four weeks later, on a Monday evening, he got a call from San Francisco.
“Jason, it’s me. Your dad. Don’t hang up.”
The handset was already halfway to the cradle as the last three words came out, but Jason paused and returned it to his ear. “Why not?”
“I want to talk.”
“You could have done that while I was there.”
“OK, I admit I was a little short with you. I’m sorry.”
The plastic of the handset creaked in Jason’s hand. He tried to consciously relax his grip. “I’m sorry too.”
There was a long silence, the two of them breathing at each other across three thousand kilometers. It was Jason’s father who broke it. “The operation is scheduled for Thursday at 8 a.m. I... I’d like to see you one more time before then.”
Jason covered his eyes with one hand, the fingers pressing hard against the bones of his brow. Finally he sighed and said “I don’t think so. There’s no point to it. We just make each other too crazy.”
“Please. I know I haven’t been the best father to you...”
“You haven’t been any kind of father at all!”
Another silence. “You’ve got me there. But I’d really like to...”
“To what? To say goodbye? Again? No thanks!” And he slammed down the phone.
He sat there for a long while, feeling the knots crawl across his stomach, waiting for the phone to ring again.
It didn’t.
-o0o-
That night he went out and got good and drunk. “My dad’s turning into a dog,” he slurred to the bartender, but all that got him was a cab home.
Tuesday morning he called in sick. He spent the day in bed, sometimes sleeping. He watched a soap opera; the characters’ ludicrous problems seemed so small and manageable.
Tuesday night he did not sleep. He brought out a box of letters from his mother, read through them looking for clues. At the bottom of the box he found a picture of himself at age eight, standing between his parents. It had been torn in half, the jagged line cutting between him and his father like a lightning bolt, and crudely taped together. He remembered rescuing the torn photo from his mother’s wastebasket, taping it together, hiding it in a box of old CD-ROMs. Staring at it late at night. Wondering why.
Wednesday morning he drove to the airport.
-o0o-
There was a strike at O’Hare and he was rerouted to Atlanta, where he ate a bad hamburger and
floated on a tide of angry, frustrated people, thrashing to stay on top. Finally one gate agent found him a seat to LAX. From there he caught a red-eye to San Francisco.
He arrived at the clinic at 5 a.m. The door was locked, but there was a telephone number for after-hours service. It was answered by a machine. He stomped through menus until he reached a bored human being, who knew nothing, but promised to get a message to Dr. Steig.
He paced the hall outside the clinic. He had nowhere else to go.
Fifteen minutes later an astonished Dr. Steig called back. “Your father is already in prep for surgery, but I’ll tell the hospital to let you see him.” He gave Jason the address. “I’m glad you came,” he said before hanging up.
The taxi took Jason through dark, empty streets, puddles gleaming with reflected streetlight. Raindrops ran down the windows like sweat, like tears. Jason blinked as he stepped into the hard blue-white light of the hospital’s foyer. “I’m here to see Noah Carmelke,” he said. “I’m expected.”
-o0o-
The nurse gave him a paper mask to tie over his nose and mouth, and goggles for his eyes. “The prep area is sterile,” she said as she helped him step into a paper coverall. Jason felt like he was going to a costume party.
And then the double doors slid open and he met the guest of honor.
His father lay on his side, shallow breaths raising and lowering his furry flanks. An oxygen mask was fastened to his face, like a muzzle. His eyes were at half-mast, unfocused. “Jason,” he breathed. “They said you were coming, but I didn’t believe it.” The sound of his voice echoed hollowly behind the clear plastic.
“Hello, Dad.” His own voice was muffled by the paper mask.
“I’m glad you’re here.”
“Dad... I had to come. I need to understand you. If I don’t understand you, I’ll never understand myself.” He hugged himself. His face felt swollen; his whole head was ready to implode from sadness and fatigue. “Why, Dad? Why did you leave us? Why didn’t you come to Mom’s funeral? And why are you throwing away your life now?”
The bald head on the furry neck moved gently, side to side, on the pillow. “Did you ever have a dog, Jason?”
“You know the answer, Dad. Mom was allergic.”
“What about after you grew up?”
“I’ve been alone most of the time since then. I didn’t think I could take proper care of a dog if I had to go to work every day.”
“But a dog would have loved you.”
Jason’s eyes burned behind the goggles.
“I had a dog when I was a kid,” his father continued. “Juno. A German Shepherd. She was a good dog... smart, and strong, and obedient. And every day when I came home from school she came bounding into the yard... so happy to see me. She would jump up and lick my face.” He twisted his head around, forced his eyes open to look into Jason’s. “I left your mother because I couldn’t love her like that. I knew she loved me, but I thought she deserved better than me. And I didn’t come to the funeral because I knew she wouldn’t want me there. Not after I’d hurt her so much.”
“What about me, Dad?”
“You’re a man. A man like me. I figured you’d understand.”
“I don’t understand. I never did.”
His father sighed heavily, a long doggy sigh. “I’m sorry.”
“You’re turning yourself into a dog so someone will love you?”
“No. I’m turning myself into a dog so I can love someone. I want to be free of my human mind, free of decisions.”
“How can you love anyone if you aren’t you any more?”
“I’ll still be me. But I’ll be able to be me, instead of thinking all the time about being me.”
“Dad...”
The nurse came back. “I’m sorry, Mr. Carmelke, but I have to ask you to leave now.”
“Dad, you can’t just leave me like that!”
“Jason,” his father said. “There’s a clause in the contract that lets me specify a family member as my primary handler.”
“I don’t think I could...”
“Please, Jason. Son. It would mean so much to me. Let me come home with you.”
Jason turned away. “And see you every day, and know what you used to be?”
“I’d sleep by your feet while you watch movies. I’d be so happy to see you when you came home. All you have to do is give the word, and I’ll put my voiceprint on the contract right now.”
Jason’s throat was so tight that he couldn’t speak. But he nodded.
-o0o-
The operation took eighteen hours. The recovery period lasted weeks. When the bandages came off, Jason’s father’s face was long and furry and had a wet nose. But his head was still very round, and his eyes were still blue.
Two deep wells of sincere, doggy love.
Zauberschrift
A cruel wind tugged at Ulrich’s cloak and threw rain in his face as he topped a small rise. The weather had worsened steadily as they neared the village, and the mood of his traveling companions Agnes and Nikolaus had soured along with it. But now, as they emerged from the trees, Ulrich’s spirits rose as he recognized the ragged cluster of buildings that had been his home nearly twenty years ago.
“Welcome to Lannesdorf,” said Agnes, her expression grim.
At first it seemed that little had changed. There was the mill, its wheel turning rapidly in the swollen creek; there the tiny church, there the cottages of Konrad and Georg. But as they approached, Ulrich saw how badly the village had been battered by months of constant rain and wind. Several houses had collapsed completely. From those that remained, thin ribbons of smoke rose only a short distance before being shredded by the relentless downpour. A few dispirited goats stood in the street, their ears drooping and their wool hanging soddenly. No people were visible.
The feeling that lodged in Ulrich’s throat was a strange compound of nostalgia, hope, and despair. He prayed he would be able to find some way to help.
-o0o-
Ulrich had barely recognized Agnes when she had first appeared at his shop in Auerberg. The ample, jolly woman he had called “foster mother” during the three years of his apprenticeship had become thin and stooped, her face lined and most of her teeth gone. Behind her, the young man she had introduced as Nikolaus the pastor clutched his hat to his chest; he was as thin as she, and his shaven cheeks were sunken. Ulrich was keenly aware of their worn and smelly clothes, and hoped they would leave before any of his more prosperous customers saw them.
“Why have you come all this way to ask my help? I am no wizard—I never even finished my apprenticeship. I am just a dyer.”
“I know,” said Agnes, “but Johannes always said you showed great promise.”
A twinge went through Ulrich at those words—the pain of lost opportunity. He had been making excellent progress in his apprenticeship when his father and three older brothers had been taken by the bilious fever. Suddenly, unexpectedly, he had found himself in charge of his father’s business. It brought him a tidy income, to be sure, but also a thousand spirit-sapping tasks that left him exhausted at the end of each day.
“Tell Johannes I thank him for his generous words.”
“Alas, we cannot,” said Nikolaus, “for he passed away twelve years ago.”
“May God keep his soul,” Ulrich said. “But what of his partner Heinrich?”
Agnes’ face was bitter. “He and Johannes had a great argument, and he left Lannesdorf not long after you did. In any case, he too has passed on.”
“Have you asked your lord for assistance?”
“Graf Erhart sent soldiers, but they could do nothing against the weather. This is wizards’ business.”
Ulrich began to appreciate their predicament. “And no wizard will help you?”
“We lack the money for a master wizard, and no ordinary wizard will touch another’s spell. But you were Johannes’ own apprentice; surely that gives you some special connection with his work?”
�
�Perhaps... I don’t know. It’s been twenty years.”
“Please, sir,” said Nikolaus. “Our crops are drowned. Men and beasts alike are sick with hunger. Please. You must help us.”
Ulrich turned away and pretended to busy himself with a length of dyed cloth, so as not to meet Nikolaus’ miserable eyes. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I have my business to tend to.” Three journeyman dyers, constantly in need of instruction and correction. A roof that needed mending. Taxes to be paid. He sighed.
“There is one more thing,” said Agnes. “Bechte daughter of Wolfgang lies grievously ill.”
Ulrich’s head snapped around at that name. “Bechte?” She had been too young to marry when he was forced to leave.
“Bechte. She has the lung fever.” Agnes’ expression was knowing, but sympathetic. “She asked specially for you.”
They left for Lannesdorf that very day.
-o0o-
Agnes the widow of Friedrich lived with her family in a typical two-room peasant cottage, with wattle and daub walls, a dirt floor, and a roof of thatched straw. By comparison with Ulrich’s three-story house in Auerberg, it was little more than a box made of sticks held together with mud. It lacked windows, chairs, and chimney; smoke from the hearth-fire exited through a simple hole in the roof. “Mind the wall, there,” she said as they entered. “You could put your elbow right through it if you’re not careful. We keep trying to patch it up, but in this weather nothing ever dries.”
Ulrich dropped his traveling bag on the table. “Take me to Bechte,” he said. “I must see her at once.”
Agnes’ son Michel looked up at that, his eyes wide. “Oh, sir... you may see her, but I fear she cannot see you.”
Space Magic Page 5
