“May it please the Court, if we continue this evening, how long a recess does the Court contemplate?”
“—and rebuttal having been concluded, we are ready to rule. But first a statement by the Court. Inasmuch as a novel point in Constitutional Law is involved in this matter, if an appeal is made, the Court will, under the Declaratory Relief Act of 1984, on its own motion send the matter directly to Federal Appellate Court with recommendation that it be referred at once to the Supreme Court. We cannot say that this will happen but there are aspects which lead us to believe that it could happen; this matter is not trivial.
“We have heard the petition, we have heard witnesses. and seen exhibits. It is possible to rule in one of four ways:
“That both Johann Sebastian Bach Smith and Eunice Evans Branca are alive;
“That Eunice is alive and Johann is dead;
“That Eunice is dead and Johann is alive;
“That both Eunice and Johann are dead.
“The Court rules—please stand up, Miss Smith—that this person before us is a physiological composite of the body of Eunice Evans Branca and the brain of Johann Sebastian Bach Smith and that in accordance with the equitable principle set forth in ‘Estate of Henry M. Parsons v. Rhode Island’ this female person is Johann Sebastian Bach Smith.”
22
“—take it that you are offering me your lovely body. Sorry, m’dear. I have no interest in women. Nor in men. Nor in rubber garments or high heels or other toys. I’m a sadist, Miss Smith. A genius sadist who realized quite young that he must become a surgeon to stay out of the clutches of Jack Ketch. Sublimation, y’know. Thanks just the same. A pity, you do have a magnificent body.” (Well, Boss, you got turned down. It’s a lesson every woman must learn. So you bresh your hair and start all over again.)
(Eunice, I’m relieved. But he was entitled to the lagniappe if he wanted it.) “I’m your Galatea, Dr. Boyle; I owe you anything you care to name—short of sawing off my skull. The debt remains on the books. All I was offering was symbolic down-payment. But you don’t respond like a typical Australian—nor sound like one, either.”
“Oh, that. I’m a fake, dear. From the Sydney slums into a sadists’ finishing school—a stylish British boarding school, a ‘public’ school right out of the second drawer. Then on to the University of London and the best surgeons in the world. Put your pretty robe on and I’ll be going. I say, would you mind having that extr’ordinary slow-motion somersault filmed in stereocinema for my archives?”
“Where shall I send it, Doctor?”
“Jake Salomon knows. Keep your pecker up, m’dear, and try to live a long time; you’re my masterpiece.”
“I’ll certainly try.”
“Do. Ta ta!”
An unidentified flying object roughly disc-shaped was reported to have landed in Pernambuco and its humanoid crew to have visited with local yokels; the report was denied officially almost faster than it reached the news services. The number of licensed private police in the United States reached triple the number of public peace officers. Miss Joan née Johann Smith received over two thousand proposals of marriage, more than that number of less formal proposals, one hundred eighty-seven death threats, an undisclosed number of extortion notes, and four bombs—not any of which she received in person as they were diverted to Mercury Private Courier Service under procedures set up years earlier. The waldoes of one package-opening bunker had to be replaced; the other bombs were disarmed.
The Postmaster General died from an overdose of barbiturates; the career Assistant Postmaster General declined an interim appointment and put in for retirement. A woman in Albany gave birth to a “faun” which was baptized, dead, and cremated in eighty-seven minutes. No flowers. No photographs. No interviews—but the priest wrote a letter to his seminary roommate. The F.B.I. reported that recidivism was up to 71%, while the same rate figured only on major felonies—armed robbery, rape, assault with a deadly weapon, murder, and attempted murder—had climbed to 84%. The paralysis at Harvard University continued.
“Jake, the last time you refused to marry me, you did promise me a night on the town if we won.”
Mr. Salomon put down his cup. “A delightful lunch, my dear. As I recall, you told me at the time that a nightclub check was no substitute for a marriage license.”
“Nor is it. But I haven’t nagged you about marrying me since you accorded me the honor of first concubine. Uh…erase ‘first.’ I have no idea what you do with your time when you’re not here. Well, I don’t have to be ‘first.’” (Twin, never crowd a man about sex. He’ll lie.) (Pussy cat, I’m not crowding Jake about sex; I’m confusing the issue. He’s going to take us nightclubbing and we’re going to wear that lush blue-and-gold job—it’s meant to be seen, not just modeled for Winnie and put away.)
“Eunice, surely you don’t think I have anyone else?”
“It would be presumptuous of me to have an opinion, sir. Jake, I’ve stayed close to home all during this hearing—a little shopping, mostly with Winnie along. But now we’ve won and I see no reason to be a prisoner. Look, dear, we can make it a party of four—a girl for you and a boy for me—and you can come home early and not lose any sleep you don’t want to.”
“You surely don’t think that I would go home and leave you at a nightclub?”
“I surely think I can stay up all night and celebrate if I want to. I’m free, over twenty-one—my God, am I over twenty-one!—and can afford a licensed escort. But there is no reason to keep you up all night. We’ll call Gold Seal Bonded Escorts and fill out our party. Winnie’s been teaching me what the kids call dancing—and I’ve been teaching her real dancing. Say, maybe you’d rather escort Winnie than some dollikin picked out of a catalog? Winnie thinks you’re wonderful.”
“Eunice, are you seriously proposing to hire a gigolo?”
“Jake, I’m not going to marry him, I’m not even going to sleep with him. I expect him to dance with me, smile, and make polite conversation—at about what a plumber charges. This is doom?”
“I won’t have it.”
“If you won’t—and Heaven knows I would rather be on your arm than that of a paid escort—will you take a nap? I’ll get a nap, too. Do you need help to get to sleep? Money Hums, I mean, not horizontal calisthenics. Although we have that in stock, too.”
“I don’t recall saying that we were going out. Nor is there anything to celebrate, Eunice. We haven’t won until the Supreme Court rules on it.”
“We have plenty to celebrate. I’m legally me—thanks to you, darling—and you no longer have to report as my conservator; my granddaughters have lost on all points. If we hold off celebrating until the Supreme Court maunders over it, we might both be dead.”
“Oh, nonsense! You know I’m about to leave for Washington; I expect to be able to arrange for an early spot on the calendar. Be patient.”
“‘Patient’ is what I’m not, dear. Surely, you’ll arrange it; you always do arrange things—and the Administration owes me that and will expect more from me. But, Jake, your jet might crash—”
“That doesn’t sway me, it’s my death-of-choice. Since my genetic background doesn’t permit me to hope for heart failure, I’ve been counting on cancer. But a crash is still better. Anything but a long, slow, helpless dying.”
“You’re rubbing my nose in the mistake I made, sir. Will you let me finish? You once pointed out that you had only ten or twelve years, based on the actuarials—whereas I had at least half a century. Not true, Jake. My life expectancy is null.”
“Eunice, what the devil are you talking about?”
“The truth. Truth you have conveniently forgotten—but which I am aware of every golden second. I’m a transplant, Jake. A unique transplant. No statistics apply to me. Nobody knows, no one can guess. So I live each wonderful day as all eternity. Jake my beloved master, I’m not being morbid—I’m being happy. When I was a little boy there was a prayer Mama taught me. It goes—
“Now I lay me
down to sleep;
“I pray the Lord my soul to keep.
“If I should die before I wake,
“I pray the Lord my soul to take.
“It’s like that, Jake. I had not used that prayer in almost ninety years. But now I use it…and go happily to sleep, unworried about tomorrow.” (Twin! You lying little bitch! All you ever say is a Money Hum.) (It’s the same thing, Puss. A prayer means what you want it to mean.)
“Joan Eunice, you once told me that you had no religion. So why do you say this child’s prayer?”
“As I recall, what I told you was that I had been a ‘relaxed agnostic’—until I was dead for a while. I’m still an agnostic—meaning that I don’t have any answers—but I am now a happy agnostic, one who feels sure deep in her heart that the world has meaning, is somehow good, and that my being here has purpose, even if I don’t know what it is. As for that prayer, a prayer means whatever you make it mean; it’s an inner ritual. What this one means to me is a good intention—to live every moment as Eunice would live it, did live—serenely, happily, and unworried by any later moment including death. Jake, you said you were still worried about Parkinson.”
“Somewhat. As a lawyer, I don’t see how he can get his hands on it again. But as a shyster at heart—don’t quote me!—who has taken part in many a back-room deal, I know that even the Supreme Court is made up of men, not angels met in judgment. Eunice, there are five honest men on that court…and four from whom I would never buy a used car. But of the honest ones, one is senile. We’ll see what we shall see.”
“So we will, Jake. But don’t give Parky a thought. The worst he can do is to strip me of money. Which I wouldn’t mind; I’ve discovered that more money than is needed for current bills is a burden. Jake, I’ve got enough tucked away that even you don’t know about that I’ll never miss any meals. Parky can’t touch it. As for Parky himself, I’ve erased him from my universe and suggest that you do likewise. He’s damned by his own I.Q.—leave him to nature.”
Salomon grinned. “Okay, I’ll try.”
“And now you go do whatever it is you have to do and forget that I tried to inveigle you into a pub crawl.” (Twin, you’re giving up too easily.) (Who is giving up?)
“Eunice, if you really want to—”
“No, no, Jake! Your heart’s not in it. While you are in Washington I may sample the fleshpots of this decadent village but I promise you that I will be closely guarded. Shorty, probably; he frightens people just with his size. Nor will I go alone; Alec told me that he and Mac didn’t have much trouble slipping the leash, and Winnie can make a fourth.”
“Eunice.”
“Yes, dear?”
“I am like hell going to step aside for those two wolves.”
“Why, Jake, you sound jealous!”
“No. God save me from falling prey to that masochistic vice. But if you want to see the seamy side of this anthill, I’ll find out where the action is and take you there. Dress for it, girl—I’m going to shake the moths off my drinkin’ clothes. Formal, I mean.”
“Bare breasts?” (Could you have done better, Pussy Cat?) (Pick up the pup, twin. I concede.)
“‘Much too good for the common people.’ Unless you intend to paint heavily, plus a lot of that sparkly glitter stuff.”
“I’ll try to do you proud, dear. But you will take a nap? Please.”
“A long nap at once and a dinner tray in my room. H-hour is twenty-two hundred. Be ready or we jump off without you.”
“I’m scared. Want help to get to sleep? Me? Or Winnie? Or both?”
“No, I’ve learned how to do it by myself. Perfectly. Though I admit it’s more fun with two pretty little girls chanting with me. You get a nap. I may keep you up all night.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And now, if I may be excused.” Mr. Salomon stood up, bent over her hand and kissed it. “Adios.”
“Come back here and kiss me right!”
He glanced over his shoulder. “Later, my dear. I don’t believe in letting women be notional.” He left.
(Who won that round, Boss?) (He thinks he did, Eunice—and you tell me that’s how it ought to be.) (You’re learning, twin, you’re learning.)
They had been lunching in her lounge. She went into her boudoir, sat down at her stenodesk to phone—picking it rather than the viewphone because its phone was not a viewphone. She used it with hush, and with ear plugs.
Shortly she was answered: “Dr. Garcia’s office.”
“This is Mrs. McIntyre’s secretary. Is the Doctor in and, if so, can he spare a moment to speak to Mrs. McIntyre?”
“Please hold. I will inquire.”
Joan passed the time reciting her meditation prayer, was calm when he answered, “Dr. Garcia speaking.”
“Mrs. McIntyre’s secretary, Doctor—hush and secure?”
“Of course, Eunice.”
“Roberto dear, do you have news for me?”
“‘The Greeks have captured Athens.’”
“Oh! You’re certain?”
“No possible doubt, Eunice. But don’t panic. You can have a D. and C. at once with no chance of your privacy being breached. I’ll get Dr. Kystra, the best possible man and utterly trustworthy. I’ll assist, there won’t even be a nurse present.”
“Oh, Roberto, no, no, no! You don’t understand, dear—I’m going to have this baby if it’s the last thing I ever do. You’ve made me terribly happy.” (Now we’ve really got something to celebrate, Boss darling. But don’t tell Jake, huh?) (Nobody, just yet. How soon does our belly bulge?) (Not for weeks, if you don’t eat like a pig.) (I want pickles and ice cream this instant.) (So don’t.)
The Doctor answered slowly, “I misunderstood the situation. But you seemed quite nervous when I took the specimen.”
“Certainly I was, dear; I was scared silly that I might not have caught.”
“Uh… Eunice, I can’t help feeling personally responsible. I know you’re wealthy—but a marriage contract can exclude any ‘fortune hunter’ possibility and—well, I’m available.”
“Roberto, I think that’s the sweetest—and bluntest—proposal a knocked-up broad ever got. Thank you, dear; I do appreciate it. But, as you pointed out, I am wealthy—and I do not care what the neighbors think.”
“Eunice, I am not simply accepting my responsibility… I want you to know that I do not regard marrying you as a chore.”
“Roberto darling, it is not your responsibility. For all you know I’ve been sweetheart to the regiment.” (We’ve tried, haven’t we, twin!) (Don’t joggle my elbow, dear; he wants to be noble.) “It’s my baby. Who helped me is my business.”
“Sorry.”
“I meant that you mustn’t feel any responsibility. If you did help me, I’m grateful. I’m grateful even if you didn’t. Roberto? Instead of trying to make an honest woman out of me—difficult—why don’t you remove that implant from Winnie’s pretty thigh, then place another sort of implant where it will do the most good…then make an honest woman out of her. Much easier, she leans that way.”
“It’s a thought. Truthfully it’s a thought I’ve considered quite a lot lately. But she doesn’t want to leave you.”
“She need not. Oh, she could stop pretending to be my maid, but this is a big old barn, several spare suites. If you get her pregnant, she and I could chum and giggle about it and have our babies almost together. I’ll shut up and stop trying to run your life. Two questions—I had planned to go out on the town tonight, to celebrate the good news I expected to hear from you. Must I stick to soft drinks now?”
“Not at all. Shortly we’ll put you on a diet and limit your drinking. But tonight you could get stinking drunk and the only effect would be a hangover. You don’t lose a baby that easily…as millions of women have learned.”
“May not get stinking but I may soak up several glasses of bubbly. Last question—If you’re able to sign off, would it suit you to lose a night’s sleep helping me celebrate? Officially it’s to celeb
rate our court victory. That ‘the Greeks have captured Athens’ will stay secret a while longer.”
“Uh—”
“You sound fretted, dear.”
“Well, to tell the truth I have a date with Winnie.”
“Oh! I expressed myself badly. I have a date with Jake; I hope that you and Winnie can make it a four. I wasn’t asking you to spend a night with me in that sense—although I certainly would not be averse if it could be managed some other time without hurting our Winsome. The moments you and I have been able to steal have been too short, dear. I think you are a man it would be sweet to be leisurely with.”
“I know that you are such a woman, Eunice.”
“Go along with you, you tell that to all your female patients. Doctor, you are a delightful wolf. Will you wait ten minutes before phoning Winnie? I have a favor I want to ask of her.”
“Ten minutes.”
“Thank you, Roberto. Off.”
Joan switched to the house intercom. “Winnie? Are you busy, dear?”
“Just reading. Be right in.”
Joan met her at their connecting door. “Nothing much, hon. I want you to call O’Neil and tell him that I wish to speak to Finchley. In my lounge. Sure, I could phone O’Neil myself, sweet, but I want it to look more formal.”
“Sure, Joanie. Do I stay and chaperon?”
“Winsome, you know darn well that all I ever want is fake chaperonage—and sometimes a jigger. This time I don’t need a jigger—but I do want to ask Finchley something privately and he will speak more freely if you aren’t around. So let him into my lounge, come tell me he has arrived, and don’t come back in. Go on into your own room and close the door. Then stay there—you are going to receive a phone call in about eight minutes.”