Green fluid and bubbling brain matter dripped from the sundered head of the kneeling mannequin.
Junichi Daisuke, nishikigoi, dendrologists, police officers, catering chefs and reporters watched Derrick W.R. Dulande’s molten mind eat through the dais.
Several people clapped.
Chapter XVI
Heroic Intentions?
Champ Sappline leaned back in his chair, displaying his yellow t-shirt, which read if you think this shirt is yellow, you’ve got piss eye. “I saw what happened with that Dulande guy last week,” the garbage man said to the fellow on the other side of the desk. “That was awkward, right?”
Mr. Johnson snorted and replied, “That’s a bit of an understatement.” The amiable black shepherd with the soothing voice plucked a piece of fluff from his olive tweed suit and put it into the dispose hole.
“Do they know who did it?” asked Champ. “Who killed him?”
“Currently, no.”
“I can’t believe anyone’s taking what he said seriously. Our souls are squids in a crater in some hollow moon and they’ll float into the sun if we kill somebody? I mean, how can anyone take that shit seriously?”
“Only a few thousand people are taking it seriously, and they are ostracized and unbalanced people whom nobody else takes seriously.”
“Yeah,” the garbage man said, “but when I was watching, I got an idea about why CCI chose to re-body my father.” He nodded and shrugged. “Resurrect a decorated fireman, put him in a station, get him in the news doing good deeds—a positive CCI story to counterbalance the grief you’re getting because you gave a mannequin to Dulande.”
“As I’ve said before,” Mr. Johnson replied, scratching his neat beard, “the resurrection choices are made on a floor of this building to which I’ve never even been. Regardless, Dulande is dead and our commitment to re-body Eagle Sappline remains.”
Champ placed a sheaf upon the desk and slid it to the shepherd. “My lawyer said that the contract looks good.” (R.J. the Third’s cousin had examined it for him, gratis.) “My fingerprints are on it.”
“Wonderful,” said Mr. Johnson, sliding the sheaf into a slot in his desk. “Do you read books?”
“Nope.”
The shepherd nodded and double-tapped the lily in his ear. “Send Mr. Champ Sappline the audio version.” The fellow then dialed off the device and returned his attention to the garbage man. “I put an audio file in your vault. Please listen to it before our next meeting.”
Champ was not a fan of homework. “What is it?”
“Three narrated transcripts, each of which details the reunion of a resurrected person with his or her loved ones.”
“I’ll check it out.”
Doubt played upon Mr. Johnson’s face. “Reorientation for re-bodied people who have been gone for decades is often very difficult. Please listen to the files.”
“I will, I promise. I’ll tap them when I’m sucking garbage next week.”
“Wonderful.”
Chapter XVII
The End of Spring
Clothed in a loose brown blouse, beige slacks and matching heel slippers, Lisanne walked past myriad blue cubbies and a dozen adjustable-height drinking spigots. Soon, she descried a living wall marked ‘115’ and walked through it, entering a round room within which sat two dozen eleven-year-olds in baggy blue uniforms. Standing in front of the Brooklyn City children was their instructor, Miss Karlsson. The tall beauty wore the same type of baggy blue uniform as her students.
“We have a special visitor joining us in our interaction session today,” announced Osa, gesturing with a long arm at Lisanne. “This is Miss Breutschen.”
Twenty-four heads swiveled, tilted back and focused upon the guest.
“Say ‘Guten Morgen’ to Miss Breutschen.”
“Guten Morgen, Miss Boychin!” roared the congregation.
The sound hit Lisanne like a wave, and she winced.
“Snapdragon,” said Osa.
A chubby Chinese-American boy looked up at the teacher.
“There’s no need to yell.”
“Okay!”
“Where should I sit?” Lisanne saw an empty bench at the rear of the room and pointed to it hopefully. “There?”
Osa shook her head. “I’d like for you to actively participate in today’s congregation.”
“She’s scared!” yelled Snapdragon.
“I am not,” said Lisanne, inexpertly hiding her apprehensions. She had not been confined with a group of children since she was one herself, and she did not know what they were capable of doing. The undertow of regression infantilized her. “I’m not scared.”
Osa suppressed a guffaw. “Please come to the front of the room, Miss Breutschen.”
“Miss Boychin’s gettin’ all red!” observed a black girl.
“She is,” agreed the instructor. “What is that type of reaction called?”
Thirteen children said, “Blushing.”
Snapdragon yelled, “Gettin’ red!”
“Yes,” Osa replied, “Miss Breutschen is blushing.”
Lisanne’s cheeks burned scarlet as she walked over to Osa and looked murderously into her beautiful face.
Turning to the congregation, the instructor asked, “Why do people blush?”
The roar of simultaneous answers ended the moment that Osa put an index finger to her lips. Lisanne was impressed by her mate’s authority over the children.
The instructor said, “Answer only when I make direct eye contact with you. Why do people blush?”
Osa looked at a short blonde boy.
“Because they burped at the table and didn’t mean to do it.”
Osa looked at a black girl.
“’Cause they got caught stealing peppermint cookies.”
Osa looked at Snapdragon.
“She wet her pants.”
“I did not,” Lisanne clarified to the congregation. The petite blonde wanted to flee and hide in the bathroom.
Osa again suppressed a guffaw. “Those are specific reasons why a person might blush, but how does a person usually feel when he or she blushes? Answer only when I make direct eye contact with you.”
The children silently awaited the teacher’s gaze.
Osa looked at a chubby Latin girl.
The child chewed her lips and furrowed her brow and shook her head, ruminating furiously.
“It’s okay to say, ‘I don’t know.’”
The Latin girl said, “I don’t know.”
Osa looked at a small black-haired girl who had an artificial right leg that was made out of polymer plasticore.
“People blush when they’re embarrassed,” said the child.
“Autumn is correct. People blush when they’re embarrassed.”
“Is she your mate?” inquired Autumn, pointing to the guest.
“She’s my mate.” Osa kissed Lisanne on the cheek.
“Kiss her, Miss Boychin!” coaxed Snapdragon. “Kiss Miss Karlsson on the neck!”
“Behave,” admonished Osa.
The boy gripped his desk, gyrating with excitement.
“Snapdragon is very immature,” Autumn informed Lisanne. “He’s been crazy ever since he had his puberty.”
The petite blonde had heard her mate speak of this particular girl as the most advanced child in any of the school’s supplemental social courses for home-schooled youths.
Autumn looked at Osa and inquired, “Why’d you embarrass her if she’s your mate?” The prodigy shook her head. “That’s not very nice.”
“Although I found it a little funny, my goal wasn’t to embarrass Miss Breutschen, but to include her in our congregation.
I’d like for all of us to interact.”
“But she’s so damn old,” observed the small blonde boy.
Osa eyed the youth supremacist. “Reggie. Try to avoid calling a person ‘old,’ since it can hurt someone’s feelings, and it means different things to different people. Miss Breutschen is thirty-eight: To you she might seem old, but to a person who is seventy or eighty, she would be considered quite young.”
The blonde boy nodded his head. “Gotcha.”
“Does anybody have any questions for Miss Breutschen?”
“Who’s in charge?” asked the skinny black boy. “Which one of you is the leader?”
“There is no leader,” said Lisanne. “There are things Miss Karlsson wants to be in charge of and there are things that I want to be in charge of. We share.”
Autumn commented, “Sounds like a kibbutz.”
* * *
An hour later, the congregation filed out through the living wall, and Osa and Lisanne were finally alone.
The tall beauty kissed her mate properly upon the lips and hugged her. “I’m sorry. I hope that wasn’t too embarrassing for you. Did you like them?”
“They are very entertaining.”
Lisanne looked through the ellipsoidal window that faced onto Prospect Park. Floating gardens and abstract topiary circled the green landscape, casting shadows like fast-moving clouds upon the tuffgrass, where brigades of children in baggy blue one-piece suits ran chaotically. Several students climbed plasticore steps that led to a fenced-in tier of swimming aspic.
The petite blonde remarked, “That uniform seems like the type of thing that children laborers would be forced to wear in an old film about a futuristic dystopia.”
“I’ll quote the institution’s mission statement,” defended Osa. “‘The loose one-piece outfit is designed to diminish prejudices begat by discrepancies of gender, physique and class. Later in life, when the one-piece-wearers are more sophisticated and have entered society, they will have a greater aptitude for assessing individuals meritoriously, rather than superficially.’”
Osa unhooked a solarcel from the mote aquarium and added, “The other thing that the uniform offers home-schooled children is an immediate sense of community. When they first get here, they see a group of kids wearing the same exact uniform that they have on, and they realize—in a visual way—that they belong to a society much larger than just their family and the people in their apartment building.”
“There is a logic there,” admitted Lisanne.
Outside, Autumn scampered up plasticore steps and ran upon the surface of the aspic pond, sinking centimeter by centimeter until she was overwhelmed by the viscous mass. Snapdragon bounded after her.
Lisanne remarked, “I understand why you are so exhausted on Mondays and Wednesdays.”
“Yeah. And the committee’s talking about giving me extra sessions on those days. I said, ‘Expect lots of field trips.’”
Outside, Snapdragon landed in the aspic beside Autumn. Slime splattered.
“Is Autumn always going to have an artificial leg?”
“No, but it’s safer to transplant a real one after she’s stopped growing. They’re re-balancing her blood now.” Osa looked outside at the slime-covered girl. “She’s pretty great, huh?”
“She’s obviously the smartest, but Snapdragon is my favorite.”
Osa waved her hands in the air as if she were shooing flies. “Enough work talk. What’d you plan for this weekend?”
“We’re going to New Orleans.”
Stunned, the tall beauty stared at her mate. “Um…tonight?”
“Yes. Our shuttle’s at sixteen-thirty. Everything’s booked.”
“I thought we were going to have dinner or see a concert or something like that.”
“On Sunday we will have known each other for exactly three months: I want us to celebrate our first season together.”
“Oh…wow…um…I haven’t packed,” remarked Osa.
“You have new clothes waiting for you in our hotel room.”
“I’ll need to ask my neighbor to walk Cyclops.”
“I’ve already taken care of that.”
Osa’s smile was enormous. “Celebrating our first season together?” she said, shaking her head in disbelief. “You, Lisanne Breutschen, are as sentimental as you are meticulous.”
“We need to leave school in no more than eleven minutes.”
“A smidge more meticulous.”
* * *
The gondolier, a twenty-two-year-old Creole of mixed parentage who was dressed in a mustard cloak, guided his vessel up Bourbon Canal, the central waterway in the French Quarter of New Orleans. Seated in the middle of the craft beside Osa, Lisanne leaned her head against her mate’s shoulder and inhaled the spice-scented air.
The tall beauty raised a beaker to the petite blonde’s lips. Lisanne sipped the sweet mixture of lime, absinthe and cardamom, swirled it in her mouth for a delicious moment and swallowed. Festoons with purple, gold and green lights adorned the mossy building façades on either side of the avenue and hung across the night sky like frozen fireflies. The variegated bulbs were perfectly mirrored in the dark water, and the reflection created the illusion that the gondola was not afloat upon a canal, but flying in the center of a tunnel that had been decorated with myriad sparkling motes.
The vertiginous depths pulled Lisanne forward, and a smiling, multicolored face rose up from the reflected sky below. A long arm pulled the dizzy woman back into the craft, securing her.
“Don’t fall in,” warned Osa.
“Danke.” Lisanne clutched her mate’s sinewy balustrade.
“Absinthe is strong. Be careful.”
“This is beautiful,” Lisanne said and then looked at her mate. “You are beautiful.”
“Thank you. And thank you so, so much for arranging this—you know I’ve always wanted to come here.” Osa pressed a kiss to Lisanne’s forehead. “This is wonderful.”
A cluster of college kids roared and drank upon the third floor of a building directly above a sheltered gondola dock, and a girl in a bikini, hands clapped to her mouth, ran to the rail.
Lisanne looked away. Behind her, nauseous splashes were followed by a grim groan.
“Wouldn’t want to fall into this water,” remarked Osa.
“Nor would I.”
At the back of the craft, the gondolier said, “They send out eau trolls every night.” His Creole accent turned his words into bubble gum.
“What’s an eau troll?” inquired Lisanne, tittering.
(“You’re really drunk,” whispered Osa.
“A little.”)
“She’s a submersible,” the gondolier said, “that collects junk from the water and keeps her clean. Excrement, bottles, beads, fried oysters and microscopic things—she filters them all and puts them into different stomachs in her belly.” He swept his fiberglass paddle in a wide arc. “This is as clean as your New York drinking water. Cleaner, maybe.”
Concentric rectangles of colored light grew, surrounded the craft and diminished. Lisanne pulled Osa’s arms around her like a shawl.
The gondolier steered away from a floating shanty that lay directly in the middle of the waterway. A giant bronze crawfish wearing a toque lounged upon the roof of the shack. Crimson lasers shot from the crustacean’s eyes, and red neon whiskers twirled madly.
“Mmm. That smells delicious,” remarked Osa.
Lisanne inhaled, and the aromatic confluence of gumbo file, cayenne pepper, mustard seed, cumin, garlic and bay leaves elicited a buried memory from long ago. “I’m almost certain that I walked on this street when I was a child,” she said to her mate.
“It was a famous one.”
Curious, the petite blonde faced the gondolier. “Pardon me.”
“Oui, Madame?”
“When was the city submerged?”
“I was a little boy.” The Creole stroked the water with his fiberglass paddle as he ruminated. “Twenty thirty-nine it began, though it was not all like this—some areas were flooded and others still dry. In forty-five, they decided to turn it into a water town and flooded it all.”
“Merci,” said Lisanne.
The crawfish-surmounted shack receded.
“When’s our dinner reservation?” asked Osa. “That place made me hungry.”
“I made it for twenty-two-thirty.”
“What time’s it now?”
The petite blonde withdrew her lily, put it in her ear and tapped it thrice. A woman’s voice said, “The time is twenty-one forty-six. You have one new priority message from caller Mr. Johnson in the Reorientation Office.”
Lisanne’s stomach dropped.
“Mein Gott,” she whispered. “Mein Gott.” Her mouth became dry.
“What?” Osa looked at Lisanne. “What is it?” There was fear on the tall beauty’s face.
“Sie haben zurückgerufen.” Lisanne’s eyes filled with tears, and the purple, gold and green lights swelled in her vision until their luminous edges touched and formed new colors. “Sie haben mich zurückgerufen,” whispered the shocked woman.
“English, please,” implored Osa, frightened and clutching her beaker of absinthe.
“They called. The Reorientation Office called back! There is only one reason why they call.” Tears of joy poured down Lisanne’s face, and she laughed, her eyes sparkling with a hundred colors.
Corpus Chrome, Inc. Page 14
