by Greg Dragon
The National Population Stabilization and Quality of Life Enhancement Act of 2077 paid parents 150,000 credits for each child they had sterilized at birth. It was amended to pay for only two procedures after some couples and single mothers tried to produce a baby a year to collect enough of the government pay outs to last a lifetime. Actuaries had calculated that any addition beyond two children to the food credit and health care programs was not cost effective, even if they could never reproduce.
Tim wondered how society had fragmented. Dr. Graves was a prime example, Tim thought as he recalled America’s transformation.
In 2014, the President had mollified fears with a mandate of having private companies, instead of government agencies, collect and store data on all phone calls and emails.
But the private companies proved much more adept at the data collection than the government. No longer burdened by that task, tens of thousands of governmental employees were reassigned and spent their workdays sifting through the data. The monster had grown for the last eighty-one years and now it categorized each of America’s 489,205,446 citizens as low risk, potential risk, medium risk, high risk, subversive, or rebel. Each of those categories had dozens of subcategories.
Anonymity and privacy, the words came to Tim after he realized the jabbering girl he had been sitting next to for forty minutes remained somewhat anonymous because he still did not know her name and probably never would. Societal norms now allowed name exchanges if a third party introduced two strangers. But her life was an open book, as if Tim had become her confessor.
In between her detailed descriptions of Randall, Tim sent off messages by his smart watch to two editors in SLD, querying them about his two story ideas.
He refocused on her. Maybe she would feed him more story ideas before they landed.
What had Bethany said before their marriage soured? “Tim, why can’t you see how God is sovereign? He put you and me together to be one.”
What if Someone up there really is watching out for me? Tim wondered.
Of the 705 possible passengers to sit next to, he had ended up by the perfect source: a SLD teen, worldly wise beyond her years and appearance.
* * *
Dress for the meeting with Chan Lee was business attire, Bud informed Tim, as they went through Customs at L.A. International Airport. “Meet me there at 7 p.m. sharp.”
“Right, boss.” Tim watched the customs agent rifle through his suitcase.
“Anything to declare? Any alcohol, buffalo or other game meat?” The agent watched Tim for telltale signs of nervousness.
“No, ma’am.”
“Do you have any contraband, such as fireworks, weapons, or illegal drugs?”
“No. If we just came from South Dakota, why is Customs checking our luggage?”
“According to your stated purpose of trip and expenditure records, you spent time at Cheyenne River Standing Rock Reservation. What is allowed there is not allowed here.” She closed his suitcase. “Next in line.”
Tim’s immersion back into SLD continued while he rode the subway to his living complex. No one on the train smiled or carried on a conversation. Acknowledging other passengers consisted of elbowing past them to try and find a space in the standing room only sections of the rail cars.
The first heartfelt greeting he received came from his cat as he entered his apartment because her dish held crumbs. Moose rubbed his hands with her face as he poured dry food into her bowl. The smell from her litter box made Tim wish he were back in South Dakota inhaling the kind of fresh air never available in SLD.
“What’s wrong with Charles? It looks like he didn’t clean out your box at all.” Tim dumped the nasty mess into a plastic bag and made a mental note to chastise his son. He frowned again when he found his son’s note taped to the bathroom mirror. It read: Mom told me to bring your blue suit home so she could get it cleaned. Charles.
“Oh, man.” Tim dreaded a rematch against Bethany and calculated what sort of gift might buy enough temporary peace to avoid one. He did not find the second note by the door until he was exiting his apartment. He dusted off the impression his shoe had made on it when he had arrived home. The small envelope was addressed to Bud, but Tim opened it, anxious for anything to better understand his client.
The enclosed note was short:
Dear Bud:
Thank you for getting us a place to live in.
Love,
June
Tim placed the note back in the envelope. He did not notice when it missed his pants pocket and slid to the floor.
* * *
The ride from L.A. Central to L.A. North Central allowed Tim to plan the rest of his day:
Give Bethany gift
Put on suit as fast as possible and leave
Meet with the Lees
Graciously accept payment from Chan
Go home
Start working on Fixed Baby article
Task number four was uncertain. Tim hoped Chan Lee would be willing to give him a little extra for latching onto his son’s impossible dream. Tim was Sancho; Bud, Don Quixote, the Man of La Mancha tilting at windmills. If there was no payment, tough luck, Charlie, that’s the way the fortune cookie crumbles, Tim thought.
Armed with a box of wrapped chocolate, Tim rang the bell to his former home at 6 p.m. He had no choice; Bethany changed the locks after he had moved out. Her smile disappeared as she unlocked and opened it.
“Sweets for my sweet.” He handed her the gift. “Sorry, but I need my suit again. Big meeting with my clients.”
“It’s in the room.” She carefully unwrapped the box, planning to reuse the ornate paper and green ribbon.
“In a rush. Meeting is at seven.” Tim hurried off to change. He was knotting his tie when his eighteen-year-old son Charles joined him without knocking.
“Hi, Dad.” He tossed his head until his shoulder length brown hair revealed his puffy, bloodshot eyes.
“Hey, Charles. Thanks for feeding Moose while I was gone. Litter box smelled pretty stinky, though.”
“I was in a hurry, I guess.”
“How do I look?” Tim pulled on the coat.
“Just like you always did whenever you went off to work on your stories. Mom says that you’re working on a book now.”
“Looks like that’s in the toilet.” Tim held a forefinger to his lips. “But don’t tell your mother.”
“You two ever going to get back together?”
Tim took his hand from the doorknob. “I doubt it. But I still love you. You know that, right?”
“Yeah, sure, Dad.” Charles’ shoulders sagged as he shuffled by his father to his room.
His son’s disappointment seemed to ricochet until every bit of it caught Tim in his gut. His pain went from physical to emotional as the walls seemed to contract onto him. How he hated this place where his wife tried to imprison every memory of him. But his son’s words deflated his desire to be right, the innocent party in a relationship torn apart.
When he entered the living room, Bethany offered to share her gift. He picked the darkest piece of chocolate to match the darkness engulfing his soul. It began to melt in his hot sweaty fingers as he stared at it and cleared his throat.
“Bethany, will you forgive me?”
She recoiled from what seemed as an invisible punch to her solar plexus. During her fifty-two years since professing faith in Jesus Christ, she forgave many people, some more than once, but always unilaterally, silently, without telling the recipient. This was the first time anyone had asked her for forgiveness. Scenes of hurts that had pierced her soul flashed in rapid sequence through her confused mind.
“Are you asking me so we can get back together again?” That scenario terrified her more than granting forgiveness.
Tim stopped staring at the now gooey piece of chocolate he had squeezed into an odd shape. “No. I just want to make peace, some kind of peace, with you and our kids.”
* * *
Although no dinner await
ed him, Tim did receive Nora Lee’s hospitality in the form of tea and almond cookies. After small talk, Chan convened the meeting to decide the fate of his son’s dreams. He pointed at Tim’s watch.
“Why do you wear such an old and out dated computer watch?”
“My grandpa passed this down to me when I turned ten. He said it was state of the art when he bought it back in the 2020s. Sure, it can’t project holograms or interface with robots and androids because its software is probably sixty years old. It’s slow but it gets me by.”
“So you wear it to honor the memory of your grandfather?”
Tim cocked his head. “You know, I think you’re right. I never really thought of it that way before.” He patted the watch’s screen.
“Perhaps that is why I am so insistent on the path I have laid out for my son. I want him to also honor his grandfather.”
“I will honor him in my book, Father,” Bud said. “And you. I plan to tell of how both of you taught me to seek truth.”
Chan pursed his lips. The recipient of many rash promises from family members and employees alike, he had spent hours wondering why his son would trade security for such a high risk venture. “So, how was your visit with Dr. Graves? Did he offer his opinion of your book?”
“He lied, exactly like I knew he would,” Bud said. “He even denied The Club existed until we mentioned the ad he ran to find prospective members for it.”
“Surely you have developed skills and possess a sense for whether people are telling the truth or lying, Mr. Beheard. What was your impression of Dr. Graves?” Chan asked.
“He struck me like someone who values his privacy more than everything else. I think he mainly put The Club together for his wife’s sake, to give her something to do besides gamble so much. I asked around about the Graves at the casino. She loves to gamble.”
“And what is your honest opinion of my son’s conclusion that Dr. Graves placed implants in The Club members in order to control them and use their influence to take over the world to some degree?”
Seeing Bud’s pleading expression changed Tim’s planned answer. He squirmed until his chair moved an inch to his right. “Bud is my client, so I have to try and help him achieve his goal of a book, whether I agree with the book’s contents or not. I hope you believe that, especially since you read that other book I ghostwrote.”
“Showdown in Hong Kong?” Chan asked. “I understand how the one whose name goes onto the cover of the book has the final say. To be fair to you, I am prepared to give you 12,000 credits for your services to this point. Publishing anything about Dr. Graves will likely result in a lawsuit by him. If I am involved by paying you to ghostwrite the book then Dr. Graves can sue me also. It is much too risky for me to get involved.”
Tim stifled the smile curling the end of his lips upward. He had expected 10,000 credits at most for him to walk away forever from Bud’s dream.
“But, Father.” Bud stood and waved his arms. “You’re not being fair to me. You believe Dr. Graves instead of me.”
He ran from the living room to the back yard. At first he threw pebbles at his father’s prized fish. Then he picked small unripe apples to bombard the pond, before moving to other trees holding riper fruits. By the time Tim and his father joined him, he contemplated whether to roll the trees planted in containers into the pond.
“We have reached a compromise during your absence.” Chan shook his head when he saw the results of Bud’s tantrum. “You will pay Mr. Beheard a 10,000 credit advance. Agreed?”
Bud stared at Tim, who shrugged and held out his hands, palms up. “I guess that’s fair, Father.”
“In addition, you and Mr. Beheard will share the royalties from the book’s sales. That way, I am not involved. If Dr. Graves sues for you two for libel, he cannot come after me because I made no payments to Mr. Beheard.”
Bud smiled for the first time since landing at L.A. International that morning. He bowed to his father and shook Tim’s hand.
“And you will also return my pond to its once pristine condition.” Chan swept his arm from side to side while he pointed. “Excuse me. I have other matters to attend to.” He returned to the house.
Bud lowered his voice to a hoarse whisper. “How did you get him to agree to all of that?”
“I didn’t. It was all his idea. It’s better than nothing.”
Bud rubbed his hands. “Well, you better go home and sleep off any jet lag you still have.”
“Why?”
“You still want another source besides me since Dr. Graves didn’t cooperate, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay. I’m going to give you one. He’s The Club member Dr. Graves called Mr. Americas.”
16
Brent Fulsome’s grandfather, Stuart Fulsome, died the same year Brent was born, 2052. Having lived forty-three years of one century and fifty-two years of another, Grandpa Stuart reckoned that made him an expert on most subjects, including Tennessee. He recorded his musings in his journal:
Tennessee is the most important state of all 50. That be so because it borders 8 other states, more than any other state ever did or ever will unless they decide to chop some of them up into pieces. But that ain’t all. We got Nashville and Memphis. Nashville exports country music all over the world. And Memphis? Birthplace of the blues and rock and roll. What other state has all that for bragging rights?
Stuart’s love of Tennessee and music passed to the next generation. All eight of his children played instruments or sang. Brent’s’ father played mandolin and his mother played piano for the church choir.
Brent and his sister-in-law Gretchen sang while she drove him to his wife’s sick bed.
Rock of ages
Cleft for me…
They did not stop singing until they reached the gravel parking lot of a small medical clinic in a city of about 5,000 people. Its sole doctor met Brent in an empty waiting room filled with more sorrow than hope, more loss than recovery.
“What’s wrong? Where is she?”
“It looks like a genetically modified plant organism has formed a symbiotic relationship with certain bacteria that live on our skin. Those infected by it very rarely recover,” Dr. Farrington said. “So far there is no known treatment.”
“Why isn’t she at a healing center instead of this clinic?” Brent’s expression went from fear to anger as he waved his hands at peeling brown paint on the walls and ceiling.
“The last patient with this who I sent to a Knoxville healing center was transferred to an isolation ward somewhere and we never saw him again. I did not want to do that to your family.”
“Family?”
“I’m afraid your daughter is infected now too. I didn’t know how contagious it is. Follow me.”
He took Brent to a cramped room and removed two protective suits from a locker. Brent felt claustrophobic after he slid into the rubber gear from head to toe. After adjusting the oxygen settings on the tanks attached to their backs, the doctor led Brent into a small room with two beds.
They alternated between each bedside. Brent tried to communicate with his unconscious wife Mary and console his frightened daughter Karla. The doctor checked the blisters covering most of Mary’s skin and almost a quarter of Karla’s. He increased the drip rate of the IVs attached to his patients and led Brent out of the tiny ward.
Brent thought he was a water moccasin shedding its skin as he took off the suit that had protected him from his wife and daughter.
The next evening Mary died.
Because the funeral workers feared contamination, Brent helped Dr. Farrington place her rigid body in a coffin designed to contain the microorganisms that had killed her. The casket remained sealed until it slid into a chamber for cremation at the town’s lone funeral home. Brent objected to the lack of tradition.
“No wake or funeral service or even a memorial service. Why?”
The exhausted doctor told him to sit in an office large enough for one healer and anyone who
needed healing. “There was no choice. We can’t afford to let the authorities know that I didn’t send Mary to a healing center. If they find out, I’d lose my license. Then this city would get medical care from a nurse android. You know that they come preprogrammed to ration the care they give.”
“What? I didn’t know they might yank your license. I’m sorry.”
Dr. Farrington coughed and fumbled with the stack of worn medical books he preferred over any computer. “We have to decide what to do with Karla.”
“What do you mean?”
The doctor turned on an antique music player and cranked up the volume dial until a Beethoven symphony convinced Brent he was seated in the midst of the string section of a symphonic orchestra. He leaned forward to hear the one who had delivered him from his mother’s womb.
“Can’t be too safe these days. Never know who might be eavesdropping on us. What I tell you now, you did not hear from me.”
Brent nodded and moved his chair closer to hear the doctor’s lowered voice.
“I’ve heard through the grapevine that standard protocol now is to keep the patient alive at the isolation units they use to study any new disease.”
“So they can heal them, right?”
“Maybe a year ago it was that way. But now, they experiment on them to see if they can develop a cure, or at least a treatment to contain the pathogens. If the patient appears terminal, they even infect them with something else to run other experiments. No way was I going to let that happen to Mary. Besides, you would have never even seen her body after she died if I sent her off to a healing center.”
“So you’re keeping Karla here, too, then?”
The doctor frowned. “This disease is very painful, worse than shingles. Treating your wife and daughter has almost depleted my pain killer supply. I won’t get a new shipment in until next month sometime.”
