by Various
“Mommy, I don’t like broccoli,” insisted Susan will all the persuasive powers accorded to her at age five.
“Nobody likes broccoli,” I muttered under my breath, “Just shut up and eat it.”
“Now Susie, you know you have to at least try everything on your plate. Broccoli is good for you. And it’s really quite tasty.” To prove her point she speared a green floret and popped it in her mouth. “See? And Daddy eats his broccoli, too.”
“Actually, I’m stuffed… ,” I began, until Larissa shot me a look that indicated I would eat some broccoli now or being condemned to discussing my failure to do so for the rest of my life. “That’s right, Susie. Everyone eats their broccoli.” I picked up a small piece and tried to get it from mouth to stomach in the fewest possible moves. The glass of Pinot Grigio helped.
Susan watched this display with some satisfaction. If she was going to be tortured, then everyone had to suffer. Then she paused. “What about Abe?”
“Quite right, I must eat my broccoli, too.” He bit down into a piece and appeared to wince. A second bite brought a renewed look of pain. I was pretty sure that this grimace was the universal symbol for, “I hate broccoli.”
“Oh, please, Abe, you’re our guest. You don’t have to eat your broccoli if you don’t want to.”
“How come Abe doesn’t have to and I do?” Her tone suggested that the American Civil Liberties Union would be receiving a call in the morning, asking if the Fourteenth Amendment’s “equal protection” clause applied to the Berman dining room.
“Because Abe is our guest and Abe is a grown up. But Mommy and Daddy are eating their broccoli.” She took another bite and motioned me to do the same. At this stage I was willing to concede the point to Susan. I agreed with her. I’ve never liked this vile substance either. In fact it was one of the few issues on which I had agreed with George H. W. HHBush. Fortunately, Abe came to the rescue.
“According to my guidebook, broccoli is a good source of vitamin C, biotin and riboflavin.” He looked at Susan. “Are you getting enough riboflavin?”
“Riboflavor? What’s that?”
Abe appeared startled, as if he wasn’t expecting his guidebook to be questioned. “I don’t know,” he said, “but the book says we need to have it and it’s in broccoli. Why don’t we each eat one to make sure we’re getting enough?”
He took another bite of broccoli and grimaced. This made Susan laugh. “Now it’s your turn,” he told her.
She took a bite and made exaggerated faces in return. This went back and forth, and by the time they were through, they had each eaten about half the vegetables on their plate.
“Perhaps we should have corn tomorrow night,” suggested Larissa, clearly not eager for a repeat of this display.
“What’s for dessert?” I asked Rosa, who had come in to clear the plates. “I think we really earned it tonight.”
• • •
After dinner Larissa went off to give Susan her bath and get her ready for bed. Abe and I sat on the back deck. It was a cool, California evening. Lit only by the lights in the house, we were virtually invisible to our neighbors.
“I’m sorry if my staying here caused any trouble,” Abe said, but I cut him off before he could go on.
“Larissa was simply startled, that’s all. Of course next week when her father is here for our Thanksgiving holiday dinner might be a different story.”
“Why is that?”
“Because her father is a bigot. He doesn’t like foreigners, and he’s not especially fond of even Americans who come from other parts of the country. I don’t know what he’ll make of you. He’ll probably start complaining about the Martians.”
“Well, we’re in luck then,” said Abe. “Brogard is in a different stellar system entirely.”
I wasn’t sure if that was a joke or not. “Do you have prejudice where you come from?”
“How do you mean?”
“Well, for example, Larissa’s father hates everybody from New York. He grew up in New York City and thinks it’s a dirty, money-grubbing place, and he was glad to come out here to retire. He once met someone at a party from the city of Rochester, which is upstate, several hundred miles away from New York City, and took an immediate dislike to him. The funny thing is, according my mother-in-law, it turned out the guy from Rochester hates New York City, too.”
Abe appeared somewhat baffled. “I’m not quite sure I follow. You mean Larissa’s father dislikes someone based on where he’s from, not who he is individually?”
“Where’s he from, what his religion is, what groups he belongs to, what color his skin is… I don’t believe he’s expressed any opinion on blue skin, but I’m sure we’ll find out.”
“You’ll pardon me for saying this, Jake, but the man sounds somewhat irrational.”
“No ‘somewhat’ about it. He’s completely prejudiced. The National Conference of Christians and Jews wanted to give him an award for being such a perfect bad example for everyone else. You have anything like that on Brogard?”
“Not at all. I find it a very alien concept.”
I sighed. Here was something Brogard had to teach Earth. This might be the basis for our movie. I’d have to remember to tell Junior about this in the morning. “I know this doesn’t put Earth in the best light, Abe, but you make Brogard sound like a utopia, without any hatred or fighting.”
Abe sat up with a start. “Who said we had no hatred or fighting? Oh my, we have enough of that for dozens of story cycles in just a single season. Sometimes the violence gets completely out of control.”
Now it was my turn to be baffled. “But you said…”
“… that we have no prejudice. Anyone who hates another person has a reason specific to that person. It would be foolish for me to dislike a Brogardi because his skin was a lighter or darker blue than mine, or because he grew up on the Southern Continent and I grew up on the Western.”
“So why would you fight?”
“Well, take my mother’s brother’s son, Kuni Lemmel. When I was oh, it would be roughly ten years old in your terms, I had not gone to school one day. I was a good student and enjoyed my studies, but I wanted to experience what it would be like to break the rules, to not do what was expected of me.”
“You played hookey.”
“No, I walked along the river… Oh, I see, that was one of your colloquialisms again.” He pulled out his little guide book and scribbled a note to himself, holding it up to the light coming from the kitchen window. “In any case Kuni saw that I wasn’t in school and told his father who told my mother. Naturally she told my father and he punished me rather severely.”
“Was this a major infraction?”
“On Brogardi, no. It wasn’t encouraged, of course, but it was understood that developing children need to test limits by a little harmless rulebreaking now and then.”
“So what was the problem?”
“Well, my father was not a typical Brogardi. His son was not going to be an ordinary child. You saw me trying to eat your broccoli tonight? My punishment was many times worse and it lasted for an entire season.”
“Wasn’t that rather severe?”
Abe made what I had come to understand was his “unpleasant experience” face. “Yes, it was. And if I saw Kuni in front of me right now I’d have to give him a thorough thrashing.”
“Let me understand this, Abe. This cousin of yours ratted you out when you were a kid and you’re still holding a grudge? Didn’t you get even with him then?”
Abe paused as if he was digesting what I had said. Then he gave his laughing wheeze. “‘Ratted you out.’ That’s a very good one. I’ll have to remember that. Yes, of course I took my revenge then, but the score is far from settled. This may go on for a long time to come.”
I thought about that. “I’m sure glad you have no prejudice on Brogard, Abe. I don’t think your people would be able to handle it.”
• • •
Susan was all tucked in and it wa
s time for her bedtime story. I always hated to miss this time of day because it was a special father-daughter moment. We had started with baby board books—some of which had survived for Elizabeth to inherit—and she was now beginning to enjoy the collected works of Dr. Seuss on her own. My job, besides helping her drift off to sleep, was to read a chapter from a more advanced children’s classic. Currently we were working our way through Winnie the Pooh and The House at Pooh Corner for the second time, and we had just finished our favorite story, when they fail to find the mysterious “heffalump.”
Larissa had gotten her into bed, and I brought Abe along to say goodnight. I started to pull Pooh off the shelf, when Susan said, “Can’t Abe tell me a story tonight?”
“I don’t think I had better,” he said quickly. “Besides, I want to see the way you do things on Earth, not bring my Brogardi ways with me. Perhaps some other time, Susan.”
Susan accepted that her friend didn’t want to tell her a story and let it go at that. She sat up so that Larissa could lean over for a good night kiss, and then motioned Abe over so he could receive his. He was apparently aware of the Earth habit of social kissing in various contexts, but his awkwardness made it clear that it was not one with which he had grown up.
Larissa indicated to Abe they should leave, as I sat on the edge of the bed to begin our ritual. She turned the pages of the book to the story she wanted to hear tonight and handed it to me. I picked it up and began to read about Kanga and Baby Roo in the Forest.
While I read Susan the story Larissa made up the guest room for Abe. Fortunately it had a separate bathroom so he could have complete privacy. Again our ignorance on just how similar—or dissimilar—the Brogardi were from humans had us at a disadvantage. He told us he slept about seven hours a night which, given the hours we kept with baby Elizabeth, meant at least one of us would probably be up when he was.
“I opened up the couch and brought in the bedding, but he put all the pillows under his feet. He said he sleeps better with his feet raised,” Larissa said.
“If he’s happy, then Junior is happy, and I’m happy.”
We were in the kitchen figuring out with Rosa what leftovers to freeze and which to dispose of when Abe came in. He was still fully dressed.
“You know, Abe, it occurs to me that you don’t have any luggage. Where are your belongings?”
“Back at the embassy in New York. I’d just as soon leave my stuff there if you don’t mind. I’m rather enjoying my Earth clothes.”
Larissa looked at his Ducklings shirt. “Well, you’re going to need more than what Jake can pick up at the company store,” she said, turning to me, “Dear, I’m sure you can arrange to get our guest everything he needs.”
Everyone seems to be certain what responsibilities I’m able to take on. No matter. We were just biding time until Abe’s studio home was ready and the film was set for production. “I’ll figure something out in the morning.”
“That’s wonderful,” said Abe, “Now, can I trouble you for some baking soda?”
Baking soda? What strange Brogardi ritual required that at this hour? We had absolutely no idea as to what ablutions the Brogardi performed or how they performed them.
“No problem,” I said, pulling the box off the shelf. “Is this a substitute for some kind of Brogardi item you need?”
“Actually, my guidebook said a little baking soda dissolved in water is good for indigestion. I’m afraid my system is still struggling with the broccoli.”
I handed him the box while Larissa gave him a glass of water and a spoon. I made a mental note: No chicken. No broccoli.
• • •
The next morning was festive as Rosa presented us waffles for breakfast and Susan introduced Abe to the joys of maple syrup. Larissa made do with an English muffin and coffee. She had had to take in a lot of fluids during the few months that she was breast feeding Elizabeth, and these days seemed too tired to have breakfast.
“But Mrs. Berman, breakfast is the most important meal of the day,” insisted Rosa.
“I know,” Larissa replied sticking the bottle of formula in Elizabeth’s mouth, “That’s why I’m feeding the baby.”
Abe had no trouble succumbing to Rosa’s entreaties for seconds and insisted she showed him how they were made. While he was off in the kitchen getting a lecture on the varied uses of the waffle iron, the phone rang. It was Junior.
“Good morning, Jake. How’s our little movie star?”
“Learning how to make waffles in Spanish, I think. Isn’t it a little early for you to be in the office?”
“It’s almost lunchtime in New York,” he said, not pausing for any discussion of this non sequitur, “Dick tells me he’s going to have the bungalow ready after the holiday. I told him not to spare any expense. You might bring Abe by to get his specifications.”
“Will do, chief.”
“Next, the script. Since time is of the essence on this I’ve got somebody working on the scenario right now. We should have a script by mid-December and be in pre-production by New Year’s. Start thinking about the advertising campaign. We’ve got to get a teaser trailer out with our holiday product that gets everyone excited about our film without telling them anything.”
“Not telling people anything is my specialty.”
“Good,” said Junior. He was so gung ho on this project I couldn’t even get a rise out of him with sarcasm. It was something he let me get away with in private conversations, but he usually took it as a challenge to one up me. Not this morning. “How’s the family? They’re treating Abe okay?”
Clearly the second question was the important one. “Everyone’s doing just fine, Sly. Abe is already learning what it’s like to be a star.”
“Well don’t wear him out. Keep up the good work, Jake. Speak to you later.”
Soon it was rush hour as Susan boarded the school bus, and Larissa headed out to the court house taking Elizabeth to day care on the way. Ordinarily I’d be joining this frenzy as well, but this morning my job was sitting at the other end of the table, soaking up the last of his maple syrup with a final bit of waffle.
“This stuff is wonderful. This is going to be a taste sensation on Brogard.”
“Glad you enjoy it.”
“Do you know how they do it?” he asked.
“Do what? Make waffles?”
“No, turn those huge maple trees into syrup.”
It was going to be a long day.
Marko Kloos became eligible for the John W. Campbell Award for Best New Writer with the publication of Terms of Enlistment (2013), from 47North.
Visit his website at www.munchkinwrangler.com.
* * *
Novel: Terms of Enlistment (excerpt) ••••
TERMS OF ENLISTMENT
(excerpt)
by Marko Kloos
First published as Terms of Enlistment (2013), by 47North
• • • •
Chapter 1
Farewells
“YOU SHOULD go see your father,” my mom says from the kitchen.
I look up from my book reader and glance at her. She is putting a meal tray into the warming unit, so she can’t see the smirk I’m giving her. I go back to reading about the destruction of the Pequod, which is a much more interesting subject right now.
“Did you hear me, Andrew?”
“I heard you, Mom. I’m just ignoring you.”
“Don’t be a smart-ass. Are you not going to go and say good-bye before shipping out?”
“Why the hell should I? He’ll just be drugged out of his mind.”
Mom takes the meal tray out of the food warmer. She walks over to the table and puts the tray in front of me, with emphasis.
“Put that thing away for dinner, please.”
I let out a sigh—also with emphasis—and turn off the book reader.
“You’ll be in training for months, Andrew. With the way his cancer is going, you’ll probably never see him again.”
“G
ood,” I say.
Mom glares at me with an expression that’s a blend of sadness and anger, and for a moment, I’m expecting her to slap me across the face, something that she hasn’t done since I was ten. Then her glare softens, and she looks out of the window. Thick bands of rain are pouring down onto the concrete gerbil maze of our Public Residence Cluster. I hate rainy days—the moisture makes the smell worse. Piss and decaying garbage, the ever-present aroma of the welfare city.
“He’s still your father,” she says. “You’ll never get another chance to speak to him again. If you don’t go and see him, you’ll regret it someday.”
“You broke his nose when you left him,” I remind her. “You weren’t too broken up about the cancer. Why the hell should I care?”
“That was seven years ago,” Mom says. She pulls out a chair and sits down at the table. “A lot of stuff has happened since then. He was proud of you when I told him about your acceptance letter, you know.”
She looks at me, and I try to ignore her gaze as I peel off the seal on the meal tray. The flavor of the day is chicken and rice. There’s not much you can do with the processed protein in the Basic Nutritional Allowance to make it appealing. I poke the fake chicken patty with my fork and look up to see that Mom is still looking at me with that dejected expression she has when she’s trying to make me feel bad about something. I hold her gaze for a moment and then shrug.
“I’ll go and see him,” I say. “And if I get robbed and killed on the way over there, I hope you feel bad about it.”
• • •
My room is just big enough for a bed, desk, and dresser. The furniture is made out of stainless steel, bolted to the floor so we can’t dismantle it for scrap. The dresser is half empty. I don’t own enough stuff to fill it up.
I open the top drawer, and toss the book reader onto the small pile of clothes inside. I traded a box of ancient rimfire ammunition for it last year, and the guy who traded with me thought I was a complete moron. The school property stickers are impossible to remove, but the public-housing police doesn’t get excited about school hardware. When they do their sweeps, they only look for guns and drugs. I could keep the book reader hidden if I wanted, but the cops get suspicious when they find nothing illicit at all.
