Afterward she said, “How was your trip?”
“All right.” The hell it was, but I can’t talk about it. Not even to you. “Any word from Chuck?”
“Nothing new. When it comes to college, sophomores are more expensive than freshmen—and my son is no exception.”
“No problem.” They went to their bedroom and began to dress. “Just as long as he keeps in mind that the one abortion last summer is the only one I intend to pay for.”
“He knows, Ed. He does listen to you; the lesson took.”
“Yeah, he’s a good kid.” Now they moved into the kitchen; he put ice and bourbon into a short glass.
He saw her looking at him. “Anything wrong, Ed?”
He paused to take a sip, thinking. “Not really. I . . . had a dream that bothered me.”
“What about?”
He shook his head. “It’s gone foggy now.” Then, remembering their need for honesty, he tried to patch it up. “It’s just that it wasn’t—I wasn’t me.”
“And that’s important, isn’t it? Of course it is.” She came to him and rubbed her short dark hair against his cheek, then moved to kiss him. “Don’t worry—you’re you, all right.” Her arms tightened around him.
He laughed. But after dinner, still jumpy from the puzzling experience, he drank heavily. At bedtime, sleep, when it came, was uneasy.
* * * *
He woke expecting hangover, and saw bare beige walls. Hope split; he worked a clumsy arm free of the covers and saw it plump and flabby. But his head was clear and free of pain.
All right, goddamn it—it’s real. His calmness surprised him, and the unexpected relief he felt; he found that he was concerned with the problems of Melanie Blake, that fat stubble-headed turnip. Even though, during sleep, her toilet training had not held up.
Later, cleaned and fed—he handled the spoon passably well—he was wheeled again onto the balcony. The thin man who approached a few minutes later reminded him of a small gray rooster.
“I’m Dr. Phipps, if you don’t remember. They tell me you don’t. This is an absolute miracle; I’m going to be wearing you out with tests, I’m afraid.” The thin face bisected itself in a grin, then pinched back to normal. “But of course you can’t read yet—can you?”
Think fast. “Yes—yes, I can—some, at least. From TV commercials, it would have to be. But there’s a lot I don’t know—and I don’t know how much.”
Phipps nodded vigorously. “Sound attitude. Maybe TV isn’t all bad, after all. But you can’t write, of course?”
“No. I don’t know the motions, and even if I did, my hands don’t do what I want, very well.”
“Of course not. Well, don’t worry. Plenty of time for everything— you’re young.”
The doctor went inside, brought out a light chair, and sat. “Now tell me, have you begun to plan ahead yet? For your own life?”
Tricky—the answer, not the doctor. “Only a little.” Carlain shifted is mind into Melanie’s situation. “I have to train my body as well as my mind. And I do know enough . . . well, that I’ll have to learn a way to support myself, outside.”
Phipps laughed, a warm, high-pitched cackle. “No you won’t. You’re rich, girl. That won’t help you walk, of course.”
“Rich?” Then, “I hadn’t even thought—why, I must have a family. Do I?”
Phipps blinked. “Your parents are dead, I’m afraid. They used to visit regularly. There’s a brother—he’s several years older.”
“Does he come to see me?”
“No. He’s in the East somewhere. But he hasn’t come here since . . . well, for some years.”
“I can understand that.”
Phipps’s eyebrows raised. “We must notify him. I’ll—”
“No! Not yet!”
“But why? Certainly he should know.”
“He might come here.” Carlain motioned, indicating his head and body. “I want to lose some weight and grow some hair before anyone sees me. Anyone from outside, I mean.”
The doctor nodded. “Yes. I see,” and he began a new subject. Relieved, Carlain enjoyed the discussion.
He liked Phipps. The man gave information freely, without dickering for it, explaining how physical therapy kept arms and legs from atrophy, “but you’ll need a thorough physical and a gradual exercise program, to get you up and walking. Your heart and lungs simply aren’t geared for it at the moment.” Carlain understood but, impatient, he didn’t like it much.
After a break for lunch and rest, Phipps administered an IQ test Carlain went along with it, but warily, on watch for things that Melanie could not know. He remembered that some children’s programs taught simple arithmetic, but he wasn’t sure how much. By deliberating, leaving blank all doubtful questions, he ran the time out before reaching the “heavy” questions at the end of each section. Phipps said, “These results won’t be accurate, of course. We’ll retest in a month or two, after you’ve had a chance to plug the gaps in your knowledge.”
Carlain balked at taking evaluative tests such as Personality Inventories. “Dr. Phipps, I don’t have a personality yet. I have no personal experience; it’s all someone else’s that I saw or heard. And didn’t even know it, at the time. I think maybe I’m just a stack of records—and I hate that.” Does it ring true? Probably; this is as new to him as it is to me.
Phipps’s face showed concern. He said, “You’re a person, Melanie, and I like you. We can do the personality tests later.”
You like this fat bald statue? I don’t. But Carlain said, “Can I have some books? I want to find out the difference between what I know and what I don’t. Dr. Harkaway is moving me out of the ward into a room tonight, so I’ll have a place to put things.”
“Certainly. Any books you want, Melanie.” Nice thought, but I’ve snowed you. How would Melanie know what she needs?
At dinner his spoon gave him no trouble, and later his bowels moved by his volition rather than their own. Then, in his room, he looked at the tides of his stack of books, deciding what he would pretend to learn first.
He had already learned the most important thing. This day had been June fourth. Like it or not, Ed Carlain was working a split shift.
* * * *
According to the terms of the contract between man and alcohol, Ed’s own June fourth came complete with hangover. He looked to the other side of the bed; Margaret was up and gone.
He rolled back and dozed for a time. When he got up, his liver had metabolized most of the overdose; his body was sluggish, but his mind functioned clearly. And he knew where he stood, now.
He spent the day catching up on business details, paper work. When Margaret came home with a huge array of bundles from a shopping spree he recognized the symptoms: anytime Margaret felt neglected, she spent money. Instead of complaining, ceremoniously he arranged the packages in a large circle and gently pulled her down in the center of it. What happened next did her dress no good at all, for they did not wait on the niceties of disrobing.
And that night in all innocence they slept cuddled together in only one of their twin beds.
* * * *
Something—somebody—on top of him, panting, hurting him. What the hell! Then he realized who he was and knew what was happening to him—but not who was doing it. He tried to grab the head above him, in the dimness relying on sound more than sight The hands didn’t go where he wanted—almost but not quite. Finally he caught a handful of hair, held it tightly while he worked his thumb down the forehead-over the brow ridge, then he jabbed! The other screamed and hit him; he jabbed again and the rapist broke free and ran.
The night nurse and orderlies asked questions, but there was not much he could tell them. Eventually the nurse gave him a sleeping pill.
* * * *
Shaken, Ed woke to deepest night. He turned the bed lamp on, the dimmest setting, and lit a cigarette. His heart beat fast; his hand trembled. He told himself that from where he was, there was nothing he could do about Melanie. A
fter the second cigarette his nerves calmed. He turned out the light and went back to sleep.
* * * *
The morning of June fifth produced more facts than anyone wanted. Dr. Harkaway swept through the ward, muttering, “That degenerate!” Dr. Phipps moved more slowly, and said only, “Dependable help is hard to find.” Ed Carlain was most impressed by the news that he was two months pregnant—maybe by the same stud, maybe not
“I want an abortion.”
‘That would require a court order,” said Dr. Harkaway. “And your brother would have to sign a consent form.”
“Do you want my brother to know what happened here?”
“You can’t expect us to do anything illegal!”
He thought. Yes, the information would have been on TV. “Up in Washington State, it’s allowed. And eighteen’s the age of majority for it”
“But you’re not legally competent. Your brother—”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Harkaway!” said Phipps. “She will be declared competent as soon as we can arrange a hearing. But we haven’t time for that now. And I don’t see that there’s any problem. She turns up in a wheelchair escorted by her own doctor. What other doctor is going to ask the wrong kind of questions?” He looked at Carlain. “You’ll wear a wig, of course.”
“If you want to stick your neck out” said Harkaway, “go right ahead. Just don’t tell me anything about it”
Phipps ignored him. “I’ll round up some clothes and the wig, and make a couple of phone calls. Tomorrow, with any luck, Melanie, I’ll run you up to Vancouver in my station wagon. But right now, let’s give you the rest of that physical exam.”
“Sure, Doctor,” said Carlain.
* * * *
The results were better than he had hoped. Heart and lungs were sound; the planned exercise program could proceed. Testing the limits of his strength, they found he could stand for brief periods—first holding on to something for support and then, with practice, by himself.
So they could weigh and measure him: height, five-nine; weight, one-ninety-five. My God! At least forty pounds to go, maybe fifty! Then he had an idea.
Dr. Phipps did not own a Polaroid camera, but Nurse Ahlstrom did. He explained, “I have a long way to go; it’s going to be discouraging sometimes. But if I have a record—a picture now and maybe once a week from now on—I can see how I’m improving.”
So he stood nude against the wall and the nurse snapped the picture. At his request she marked date and weight in the margin before handing him the print
He looked and was repelled. The light-brown scalp stubble did not show in the photo. And the face still showed no expression; he had not thought to try to smile. “Well, at least this will be the worst of them. And thanks.”
* * * *
Ed Carlain as himself had a quiet day. Accepting the fact of his dual existence, now he could get back to work. He sat down to study the query from a San Francisco company, asking about something rather unusual in the way of field communications systems. Shortly he reached for a scratch pad and began doodling possibilities.
Hardware was not Ed’s specialty; he was an idea man. Once he roughed out a workable schematic, others would fill in the details. But first he had to sell it and that meant a trip to San Francisco.
His thought hit a tangent streak. Should he fly, or drive? And if he drove . . .
But what the hell could he do at Coos Bay?
* * * *
Riding to Vancouver made a pleasant change. Dr. Phipps, no speedster, drove carefully; Carlain relaxed and enjoyed the scenery. He was in no hurry; he needed the abortion but did not especially look forward to it. Eventually, they arrived.
Dr. Flores was a woman of about forty, slim and attractive, with black hair in a coiled braid. She first seemed puzzled by her patient’s appearance, even a little irritated, until Phipps told her, “Melanie is recovering from a paralytic condition; we think there was a glandular problem earlier, also. Two months from now you won’t recognize her.”
Without giving details, he implied that the pregnancy was due to contraceptive failure and that the “D. and C.”—as both doctors called it —was needed for reasons of health.
Then all too soon the preparations were done and he was on the table. As the cold metal entered him, he flinched. Dr. Flores had wanted to use general anesthesia, but that would have meant staying overnight to recover from the effects. Neither he nor Phipps wanted that delay.
It hurt afterward, but nothing like what he had feared. After an hour’s rest on the couch—perhaps longer; he had dozed—Dr. Flores pronounced him fit for travel. But during most of the return trip he lay on an air mattress in the back of the wagon.
Home again, he spent a quiet evening and retired early.
* * * *
Ed completed his schematic and copied it neatly for presentation, but Margaret was not on hand to help him celebrate; she was spending the evening and night with Carl. The liaison seldom inconvenienced Carlain, but this time, he thought, it sure as hell did.
He thought of calling a redhead he saw sometimes, but looked at his watch and shook his head. Too late in the evening.
He curbed the impulse to take bottle comfort. For one thing, he hadn’t decided whether to fly or drive next day, and he did not enjoy driving with a hangover.
* * * *
He slept well and woke in Melanie’s room, clean and dry; his toilet training was winning. At breakfast he attempted for the first time to master the use of knife and fork. Coordination came more easily each day, and after a few mishaps he coped well with the tricky tools.
Then he was introduced to a new piece of apparatus—his “walker,” a light metal framework on casters, to aid in support and balance as he stood or walked. Phipps helped him up into it the first time and was surprised at how well he did. Only for short periods, of course—but still “impressive,” the doctor said.
“I’ve been toughening my arms by rolling the wheelchair back and forth a little way until they get tired.” What Phipps must not guess, he thought, was that Carlain knew how to walk, eat with knife and fork—all the things that a restored Melanie could not know. “I think my legs have had it for now,” he said. “Back to the old chair, I guess.” After helping him sit again, the doctor left for other duties.
After lunch, Carlain dozed for a time and then wheeled out onto the balcony. A cool breeze refreshed him—off the ocean, probably, yet it brought tree scents, not salt air; a row of hills lay between him and the Pacific.
For a while he concentrated on exercise, then rested, his mind idle. From below, a flash of light caught his attention. He looked; someone by the motel fountain had a mirror—no, it was binoculars—and the afternoon sun reflected off their lenses. He looked away, blinking at the green afterimages. When he looked again he saw the person—a man—wave an arm.
His eyes worked better now; he squinted, to sharpen the focus. Even at a distance the man looked familiar. And then—
Jesus Christ! That’s ME!
He looked around, back into the ward. “Nurse Ahlstrom! Do you— does anybody have a pair of field glasses? Binoculars?”
“I believe Dr. Phipps does. Would you like to use them?”
“Please. And, if you could—right away?”
“All right, Melanie”; and the nurse left.
First he seethed with impatience. Then he realized, I’ll know, if he stays—if I stay—that the glasses are on the way. Because of course he knows whether I get them or not. If I do, he won’t leave yet. Then he could wait patiently, if not calmly.
The binoculars were big, heavy; he had to brace his elbows on the chair arms. He fumbled at the focusing adjustments a moment before he mastered them, and then the view came sharp and dear.
Suck in your gut, Ed! I’m not the only one who needs exercise. As though by telepathy, the man did. That’s better. . . .
The man lowered the binoculars; now his face could be seen fully. He smiled, then raised the glasses again. Th
e viewer above set his own aside, and attempted a smile. The man waved and was answered in kind, then made a beckoning motion and pointed northward. This time the answer was thumb and forefinger making a circle, the other fingers straight. Right on! The man waved once more and walked away, around the building and out of sight. The one above sat, wondering, What was that all about? He knows I have to go to him as soon as I can—because I know it.
And late, just before sleep, he thought, Why am I going to do something, tomorrow, that is so totally unnecessary?
* * * *
Waking in Seattle, Ed wondered the same thing. He had not decided, the night before—his own night before—whether to drive or fly. Now somehow the decision was made for him. But by whom? Not by Ed as Ed or by Ed as Melanie.
Universe 10 - [Anthology] Page 20
