Irregular Verbs

by Irregular Verbs

  “No milk,” Geraci said. “I am sorry. My men, they do not always think of such things.”

  “It’s all right,” Dave said. He took another drink and set down the cup, casting around for something else to say.

  “It’s a long time you’ve been working at Broadcast?” Geraci asked.

  Dave nodded. His head was starting to swim, his stomach churning.

  “You enjoy it there? It is a good fit for your skills?”

  “Sure,” Dave said, the words pouring out of his mouth like syrup. The chair seemed to have tilted under him, and he tried to right himself.

  “You are editing videotapes currently? Cutting inconsistencies?”

  “Yes.”

  Geraci leaned down, lifted a briefcase off the ground and set it down on the table. For a moment Dave thought it was his briefcase, but saw that it was black where his was dark brown. Geraci opened it and drew out a beige folder, opened that and spun a page around with splayed fingers.

  “This is a copy of your log, from Wednesday. Do you remember this?”

  Dave nodded again; the room shook with the movement of his head and he swallowed hard to avoid vomiting. He didn’t understand what this was about—he couldn’t think—

  “Here,” Geraci said, placing his little finger on a few words Dave had written halfway down the page. “Do you see what this says?”

  Squinting, Dave tried to bring the page into focus. “I’m sorry—I can’t—”

  “‘Thirteen minutes forty seconds to fifteen minutes twenty-five seconds,’” Geraci read, “‘President Nixon mentioned. Watergate reference.’ Do you remember this?”

  “I—yes,” Dave said.

  “I have seen this sequence you edited. The character who is speaking, he speaks only of Nixon.” Geraci leaned forward. “So tell me, Mr. Lawson, how is it that you know of a Watergate?”

  Dave laughed despite himself. Was that all this was about? They didn’t know about the record, about—

  He was reeling, knocked back by the force of Geraci’s blow. The door behind him opened, and strong hands gripped his arms and pulled him upright.

  “I do not find this so funny, Mr. Lawson,” Geraci said. He was cradling his right hand in his left, stroking it with an aggrieved expression on his face.

  “I’m sorry,” Dave said. The room was spinning around him.

  Geraci looked down into his open briefcase, pulled out what looked like a small tackle box. He reached for its latch with his hand, paused and looked up at Dave. “Are you convinced of the seriousness of this business?”

  “Yes,” Dave said.

  Geraci’s hand rested on the tackle box, his fingers idly playing with the latch. “Then please tell me. Why is it you feel you must record this mention of Watergate?”

  “I—I must have heard it once before, remembered it.”

  Giving him a look of intense fatigue, Geraci said, “It is neither your job nor your place to remember, Mr. Lawson. Your job is to find things that can only confuse the people, and to help them to forget those things. You are to forget those things as well.” He glanced down at the open folder in front of him. “You were a student of history, Mr. Lawson. Was this not made clear to you?”

  “Yes. I—it was. I’m sorry.”

  “Good.” Geraci drew a page out of the folder with his free hand, spun it around so that it faced Dave—his other hand still on the tackle box. “This is a confession to the denial of history and also an apology, most heartfelt and sincere. You will sign it at the bottom, please.”

  One of the men behind Dave put a pen in his hand. “And—that’s it?” Dave said. “I just sign it, and—”

  “Of course there will be consequences,” Geraci said. “Before you can be once more in a position of trust you will have to prove yourself worthy of it—but that chance may be given, in time. All you need do is sign.”

  Dave leaned forward, tried to read the page; the letters swam in front of him. “I can’t read it,” he said.

  “It is of no consequence.”

  He reached out with the pen, felt his arm being guided to the page. A blot of ink formed at the beginning of a horizontal line, and after a moment he signed.

  “Very good,” Geraci said. He picked the tackle box up by the handle, put it carefully back in his briefcase. “I am pleased to see you begin the path to rehabilitation.”

  The hands holding Dave upright released him, and he slumped forward. He watched Geraci stand, pick up his briefcase and go to the door; on his way out somebody stopped him, and they spoke briefly.

  Geraci turned back to face Dave. “A moment more, please,” he said, and Dave heard a change in his voice: a crack in his superiority, a hint of bitterness. “My supervisor wishes to speak with you.”

  Dave watched as Geraci stepped back to let the tall man with the long black coat come in. The tall man gave a small nod and Geraci stepped outside, closed the door.

  “David?” the tall man asked, moving to stand where Geraci had sat. “Or is it Dave?”

  “I told him,” Dave said, his voice cracking. “I signed the paper. I signed it. . . .”

  “I know,” the tall man said. He leaned down to reach under the rim of the table, and Dave could hear his coat creaking; it was real leather, not plastic. The man drew a small metal device out from under the table, twisted it. “There. We can talk freely now.”

  Dave frowned at him, daring now to look the man in the face. He had brown curly hair that swept back from his forehead, a sharp nose and a thin moustache. “What are we going to talk about?” he asked.

  The man tucked the tail of his coat under him, sat down. “History.”

  “I told you—I already signed—”

  “Not that.” The man leaned back in his chair, dropped his arms to his sides. “You made a copy of that clip Geraci was fussing about, didn’t you? You collect things like that.”

  Dave said nothing.

  The man shrugged. “It’s not worth denying it. I only raised the subject because it should make some things more clear to you; so without you confirming or denying it, let’s say we both know there are things that don’t fit anymore, pieces of a puzzle that no longer exists. That’s not an accusation. All right?”

  He took a breath. “All right.”

  “Good. Now I want you to understand—I am one of those pieces.”

  Dave’s head was starting to clear, recovering from Geraci’s blow and whatever had been in the coffee; still, he wondered if he had heard the man right. “I don’t understand,” he said.

  “That group you belong to, I know you collect things that are remnants of the old history—things the device didn’t manage to change along with the rest of the world. I’m like that: the new history put me here, but I remember who I was. Who I am.”

  “So—you’re not—”

  The man glanced past Dave, at the door. “There are a few of us, and we’re very close to control of the device. The problem is, a weapon is only useful if you know where to aim it. That’s why I need you.”

  “Because I know the history,” Dave said. He hesitated, not sure how much to say, but the man seemed to know everything already. “The old history. You need me to help you change it back.”

  The man was silent for a moment, then shook his head. “It’s what you know of this history we want—the differences between the histories, so we’ll know how they put themselves in charge.”

  “But you have to change everything back. That’s why we’ve been gathering all those pieces—so we can reconstruct the old history—”

  “Which is why they’ve left you alone,” the man said. “Your little group is a joke—you think you can change the world by collecting stamps.” He stood up, swung a briefcase from the floor onto the table and opened it. From within he drew out the album, reached into the jacket and pulled out the record, holding it in both hands. “You think this can change
the world.”

  “Please,” Dave said.

  The man pressed both his thumbs to the middle of the record, flexed it so that the vinyl began to bend. “Would you give your life for this? It means nothing.”

  Dave dropped his gaze to the table. “It’s history. It’s what’s real.”

  “You of all people should know there’s no history,” the man said. “There’s just what we choose to remember.”

  After a moment’s silence Dave looked up, into the man’s eyes. They were a dull brown like his hair, steady and sane. “The new history you’re going to make, it’ll be just as much a patchwork as this one,” he said. “What makes you think it’ll be any better?”

  The man shrugged, lay the record flat on the table. “It’ll be ours.”

  “Fine,” Dave said, though he could not make his tone match his words. “How will you contact me?”

  “Don’t worry about that,” the man said. He slid the record into its jacket, put the album back in his briefcase and closed it. “I think it’s best if you stay close.”

  “Wait—you mean I can’t go home?”

  The man sighed, smoothed his leather coat as he stood. “You were going to disappear either way, Dave. I’ve told you things I can’t let anyone else know, and you’ve already shown you don’t stand up to questioning.”

  “But—”

  The man went to the door, turned back to Dave. “Well?” He said. “Are you coming?”

  Maura climbed up the wide steps to the Broadcast building, the soles of her new shoes fighting to grip the ice. Monday, again; it felt like it was always Monday. She left her coat in the cloakroom, headed for the kitchen to drop off her lunch. On her way from there to her desk she noticed one of the workstations was empty, wondered if it belonged to that man who had been chatting her up last week. She had half-expected to run into him at the shoe store, had thought she wouldn’t mind if she did; he was funny, and it pleased her to see the way she made him nervous. She hadn’t seen him yet today—what was his name?

  “Excuse me,” someone said, tapping her on the shoulder.

  She turned around to see who it was: a man in his early twenties, blond hair cut short and over-formally dressed in shirt and tie. “Yes?”

  “I’m starting today,” the man said. He glanced down at a sheet of carbon paper in his hand. “Workstation thirty-seven, do you know where that is?”

  Maura nodded, nodded towards the empty workstation she had passed earlier. “Welcome aboard,” she said.

  “Thank you.”

  The young man gave her a small, nervous smile and hurried off. She watched him go for a moment, turned to go back to her own workstation. The boy had disturbed her train of thought—what had she been thinking about?

  Ah well, she thought as she sat down, cued up the first of the day’s tapes to edit. If it was important she was sure it would come to her.

  HEROIC MEASURES

  The nurse stopped her on her way into the room. “You need to sign this,” she said.

  The old woman peered at the page the nurse had handed her. Somehow she was unable to focus on the right part of her glasses, and the paper was a blur. “What is it?”

  “Directions for his care. Just check this box for resuscitation or this box for no, then sign at the bottom.”

  “Is it that serious?”

  “It’s just routine. Do you need some time to think about it?”

  She shook her head; she knew what he would want. Still unable to make out the letters she followed the nurse’s finger, checked and signed, handed the page back. “Thank you,” she said, and went on into the room.

  He was lying on the bed, his eyes closed, his form as muscular as ever but looking somehow deflated. It was emptier than in any hospital room she’d ever seen, only a heart monitor beeping softly and rhythmically; no IV, no tubes of saline solution running to his arm, no beeping and whirring and probing machines. The skin that had turned away uncounted bullets wouldn’t admit them.

  His chest rose and fell, slowly, shallowly, and every few seconds he twitched with the dream-tremors that had consigned them to separate beds all these years. A pair of black-framed glasses sat on the end table next to the bed; he still wore them most of the time, from habit, must have had them on when he fell.

  She watched him breathe for a minute or so. It didn’t look much different from regular sleep, except for his pale, dry skin and lips, and the crust that had formed over his eyelids, sealing them shut. This is the kind of care he gets, she thought, after everything. She went into the half-bathroom, picked up a rough beige washcloth and moistened it with warm water from the sink, then went back to the bedside and started dabbing at his eyes.

  “I’m sorry,” a voice said from behind her. Turning, she saw a dark-haired man in his thirties—or maybe his forties; the older she got, the more all people younger looked the same age—wearing a lab coat over brown slacks and a windowpane checked shirt. “The nurse should have told you. We think he might be having small seizures, and we’re worried what might happen if his eyes are open. Without his control, I mean.”

  She nodded, dabbed the cloth on his forehead instead. How long had his skin been this pale, the veins so visible? “I’m—”

  “Yes, I know,” the man said, holding out his hand. “I’m Dr. Weller. I’m glad we were able to reach you. Was your trip all right?”

  “It was fine.” In fact she had no memory of it: no memory of anything between being called away from the conference and seeing the nurse at the door. “How bad is he?”

  Weller looked away slightly, scratched the side of his head, above his right ear. “Well, that’s hard to say,” he said. “We have only the simplest tools available. No X-ray, no CAT scan—none of it will penetrate his skin. So really I’m just left with an EKG and a stethoscope.”

  “And?”

  “And we don’t know. Who knows what’s normal for him? We’ve seen what look like little seizures, like I said. It might have been a stroke, but we’ve got no way to tell.”

  She looked over at him on the bed. He still looked strong; his hair, white as it was, still fell in that curl over his forehead. “So what are you doing?”

  The doctor shook his head. “There’s not much we can do. Even if we knew it was a stroke, it would be too late to give him a plasminogen activator—a clot dissolver—even if there was a way to get it in his bloodstream. Frankly, anything we could give him probably wouldn’t be as effective as what his own body can do. He’s shown an amazing ability to heal himself over the years.”

  “What are you doing to keep him hydrated?” she asked, annoyed. At what age, she thought, do you start being treated like a child? Or do doctors talk like that to everyone?

  “Ice. I don’t know if he can choke, but we don’t want to take the risk. So we’ve been taking crushed ice—there’s a machine down the hall, in the pantry—and letting it melt in his mouth.”

  She gently put a finger to her husband’s lips. “I don’t think he’s gotten that in a while.”

  Dr. Weller had the grace to look embarrassed. “Labour’s always at a premium in a hospital. Even for someone like him—if there’s a good chance it’s just the natural way of things, more urgent care takes priority.”

  The natural way of things. Who knew what that was, with him? “I’d like you to show me where the ice machine is, please,” she said. “And I’d like a cot brought in, if you can spare one.”

  As it turned out, they couldn’t. What they had instead was a padded chair, like a recliner; it wasn’t terrifically comfortable, but you could lean back far enough to sleep when you had to. Not that she was sleeping much. She was the only one to watch him: his parents were long dead, her sister half a continent away and too frail to travel besides. No children, of course. Even if it had been possible between them, and who knows if it had, the risk was too great: if he took after his father, one kick while in
the womb. . . . As for adoption, she’d never have thought he’d be against it, but he’d always said it would be too complicated. So it was just the two of them.

  And now, just one.

  Luckily it was near Christmas; their neighbour’s son was out of school, could gather a bag full of clothes and books and bring them to the hospital. She had given up on her bifocals, wore her reading glasses most of the time and switched to the others when someone came in or she went to get water. She had started out by reading to him, Edgar Rice Burroughs and Dickens, his old favourites, gave up after a day. Now she saved her voice and reread Scoop.

  She saw a fuzzy grey-and-white centaur shape moving past the door, heard the breakfast cart rolling by. Switching to her distance glasses she patted her husband on the arm, dog-eared her book and headed for the pantry. After a few days she knew the rhythms of the hospital: the big water cups, the ones that held a litre, were put out on the pantry shelf right after breakfast and disappeared soon after. Every morning she grabbed two, filled one with water for herself and one with ice for him. Like being back at the paper, she thought, timing your break to a fresh pot of coffee, knowing the times when there wouldn’t be a line at the Xerox machine. She took a long while filling the mugs, to give the nurses ample time to change him before she got back.

  He was stirring when she got back to the room. She knew, now, which tremors could be soothed with a gentle hand or moist washcloth and which would lift him inches off the bed, set him thrashing hard enough to crack bone. This was a small one, and she took up his hand as she sat down. “It’s okay,” she said.

  His mouth opened. “Luh—” he croaked.

  Her hand shut in surprise, jerked back in case his should close out of reflex. She reached into the mug of ice, slid a small handful into his mouth. “Just let this melt.”

  Nodding, he moved his jaw around then swallowed. “Cold,” he said in a rasp.

  She reached over for the washcloth that sat on the table, dabbed at his eyes. “Do you need anything?”

  “Where?”