Overload

  “I like this coffee,” Nim said. “Is it a new brand?”

  Ruth shook her head. “It’s because you’re not drinking it on the run. Did you hear what I said about Leah and Benjy?”

  “Yes, and I was thinking about it. I’m proud of the kids too.” He chuckled. “Is this my day for compliments?”

  “If you’re wondering if I want something from you, I don’t. Except I’d like us to have breakfast this way more often.”

  He said, “I’ll work on it.” He wondered if Ruth was being especially agreeable because, like himself, she sensed the gap which had been growing between them of late—the gap created by his own indifference and, more recently, by Ruth’s mysterious pursuit of some private interest, whatever that might be. Nim tried to remember, but couldn’t, when they had last made love. Why was it, he speculated, that a man could lose sexual interest in his own attractive wife, yet desire other women? He supposed the answer was familiarity, along with an urge for fresh territory, new conquests. Just the same, he thought guiltily, he should do something about sex with Ruth. Perhaps tonight.

  “There were a couple of times on that TV show when you looked angry, ready to blow,” she said.

  “But I didn’t. I remembered the stupid rules.” It wasn’t necessary to explain the management committee’s “moderate line” decision. He had told Ruth about it the same day it happened and she was sympathetic.

  “Birdsong was baiting you, wasn’t he?”

  “The son-of-a-bitch tried.” Nim scowled, remembering. “It didn’t work.”

  Davey Birdsong, who headed an activist consumer group called “power & light for people,” had been on the TV talk show too. Birdsong had made caustic comments about Golden State Power & Light, ascribing the basest motives to everything the company did. He bad implied that Nim’s personal objectives were no better. He also attacked GSP & L’s latest application for an increase in rates, on which a decision was due soon. Despite all these provocations, Nim had kept his cool, reluctantly staying within the guidelines he had been given.

  “This morning’s Chronicle says Birdsong’s group, as well as the Sequoia Club, will oppose the plan to develop Tunipah.”

  “Let me see.”

  She passed the paper. “It’s on page seven.”

  That was something else about Ruth. Somehow she managed to stay a jump ahead of most others in keeping herself informed. It was characteristic that, as well as preparing breakfast, she had already been through the Chronicle-West.

  Nim riffled pages and found the item. It was brief and told him no more than Ruth had done already. But it gave him the idea for a course of action which made him impatient to be at his desk. He gulped the rest of his coffee and stood up.

  “Will you be home for dinner tonight?”

  “I’ll try to be.” As Ruth smiled gently, he remembered how many times he had said the same thing, then for some reason failed to show. Irrationally, as he had in his car the evening he had gone to Ardythe’s, he wished that once in a while Ruth would be less patient. He asked her, “Why don’t you blow up occasionally? Get mad?”

  “Would it make any difference?”

  He shrugged, not knowing what to make of her response, nor how to answer.

  “Oh, there is one thing. Mother phoned yesterday. She and Dad would like us to go over for dinner a week from Friday and take Leah and Benjy.”

  Inwardly Nim groaned. Going to the home of the Neubergers, Ruth’s parents, was like entering a synagogue; they proclaimed their Jewishness in myriad ways. The food was always announced pointedly as kosher; there were reminders that the Neubergers kept two separate sets of utensils and crockery, one each for flesh and dairy food. There would be a prayer over bread and wine before dinner as well as a ceremony over washing hands. After dinner would be solemn prayers which the Neubergers, in Eastern European tradition, referred to as “benching.” If there were meat at table, Leah and Benjy would not be permitted to drink milk, as they liked to do at home. Then there would be the not-so-subtle pressures, the wondering aloud why Nim and Ruth failed to observe the Sabbath and holy days; glowing descriptions of bar mitzvahs the Neubergers had attended, along with the implication that, of course, Benjy would attend a Hebrew school so his bar mitzvah would take place when he reached thirteen. And later at home, because the children were the ages they were, and curious, there would be questions for Nim to answer, questions he wasn’t ready for because of the ambivalence within himself.

  Ruth invariably kept quiet at such times, though he wondered occasionally if her silence wasn’t really an alliance with her parents against him. Fifteen years ago, when Ruth and Nim were married, Ruth made clear she didn’t care one way or the other about Jewish observances; it was an obvious reaction to the Orthodox strictness of her home. But had she changed? Was Ruth, beneath the surface, a traditional Jewish mother, wanting for Leah and Benjy all the trappings her parents’ faith demanded? He recalled what she had said a few minutes ago about him-self and the children. “In fact they idolize you. Whatever you say, it’s as if it came from God.” Were the words an artful reminder of his own Jewish responsibility, a silken nudge toward religion? Nim had never made the mistake of taking Ruth’s gentleness at its face value; beneath it, he realized, was as much real strength as any person could have.

  But apart from all that, Nim knew there was no valid reason not to go to Ruth’s parents, as she asked. It didn’t happen often. And Ruth demanded very little of him, ever.

  “Okay,” he said. “Next week’s pretty clear. When I get to the office I’ll make sure about Friday and phone you.”

  Ruth hesitated, then said, “Don’t bother doing that. Just tell me tonight.”

  “Why?”

  Again a second’s hesitation. “I’m leaving right after you’ve gone. I’ll be out all day.”

  “What’s happening? Where are you going?”

  “Oh, here and there.” She laughed. “Do you tell me everywhere you go?”

  So there it was again. The mystery. Nim felt a stab of jealousy against the unknown, then rationalized: Ruth had a point. As she had reminded him, there was plenty he didn’t tell her.

  “Have a good day,” he said. “I’ll see you this evening.”

  In the hallway, he put his arms around her and they kissed. Her lips were soft; her figure beneath the housecoat felt good. What a damn fool I am, he thought. Yes, definitely, sex tonight.

  10

  Despite his haste in leaving home, Nim drove downtown at a leisurely pace, avoiding the freeway and using quiet streets. He employed the time to think about the Sequoia Club, mentioned in this morning’s Chronicle-West.

  Though it was an organization which frequently opposed the programs of GSP & L, and sometimes thwarted them, Nim admired the Sequoia Club. His reasoning was simple. History showed that when giant industrial concerns like Golden State Power & Light were left to their own devices, they paid little or no heed to protecting the environment. Therefore a responsible restraining force was needed. The Sequoia Club filled that role.

  The California-based club had achieved a national reputation for skill and dedication in fights to preserve what remained of the natural unspoiled beauty of America. Almost always its methods were ethical, its arguments judicious and sound. True, the club had critics, but few failed to accord it respect. One reason was the Sequoia Club’s leadership, which, through its eighty years of existence, had been of the highest caliber, a tradition which the incumbent chairman—a former atomic scientist, Laura Bo Carmichael—was continuing. Mrs. Carmichael was able, internationally respected and, incidentally, a friend of Nim’s.

  He was thinking about her as he drove.

  What he would do, he decided, was make a direct personal appeal to Laura Bo Carmichael concerning Tunipah and the other two power plants which Golden State Power proposed to build. Perhaps, if he argued the urgent need convincingly, the Sequoia Club might not oppose the projects or at least would be moderate in opposition. He must arrange a
meeting as soon as possible. Preferably today.

  Nim had been driving automatically, paying little attention to street names. Now he noticed, at an arterial stop, that he was at the intersection of Lakewood and Balboa. It reminded him of something. What?

  Suddenly he remembered. The day of the explosion and power failure two weeks ago, the chief dispatcher had produced a map showing life-sustaining equipment in use in private homes. Colored circles on the map denoted kidney dialysis machines, oxygen generating units, iron lungs and similar apparatus. At Lakewood and Balboa a red circle had warned of a person dependent on an iron lung or some other kind of powered respirator. The equipment was in an apartment building. For some reason the memory had stayed with Nim; so had the user’s name—Sloan. At the time, he recalled, he had looked at the small red circle and wondered what Sloan was like.

  There was only one apartment house at the intersection—an eight-story, white stucco building, modest in design but, from its outward appearance, well maintained. Nim’s car was alongside it now. A small forecourt contained several parking spaces, two unoccupied. On impulse, Nim turned in, wheeling the Fiat into one of the empty places. He got out and approached the apartment house entrance.

  Above a series of mailboxes was a score of names, among them “K. Sloan.” Nim pressed a button beside the name.

  Moments later the front door opened. A wizened old man appeared, wearing baggy trousers and a windbreaker. He looked like an ancient squirrel as he peered at Nim through thick lenses. “You ring Sloan?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “I’m the janitor. Rings down my place, too.”

  “Can I see Mr. Sloan?”

  “Ain’t no Mr. Sloan.”

  “Oh.” Nim pointed to the mailbox. “Is it Mrs. Sloan, then? Or Miss?” Unaccountably he had assumed Sloan to be a man.

  “Miss Sloan. Karen. Who’re you?”

  “Goldman.” Nim showed a GSP & L identification card. “Am I correct in believing Miss Sloan is an invalid?”

  “You could be. Except she don’t like being called that.”

  “How should I describe her, then?”

  “Disabled. She’s a quadriplegic. Know the difference between that and a para?”

  “I think so. A paraplegic is paralyzed from the waist down, a quadriplegic through the whole body.”

  “That’s our Karen,” the old man said. “Been that way since she was fifteen. You want to see her?”

  “Do you know if it’s convenient?”

  “Soon find out.” The janitor opened the front door wider. “Come in. This way.”

  A small lobby matched the building’s exterior; it was simple and clean. The old man led the way to an elevator, motioned Nim inside, then followed. As they ascended he volunteered, “Place ain’t the Ritz. But we try to keep her shipshape.”

  “That shows,” Nim said. The interior brass of the elevator gleamed and its machinery hummed smoothly.

  They got out on the sixth floor. The janitor led the way and stopped before a door while he selected a key from a large bunch. He opened the door, knocked, then called out, “It’s Jimmy. Brung a visitor for Karen.”

  “Come in,” a new voice said, and Nim found himself facing a short, sturdy woman with a dark skin and Hispanic features. She wore a pink nylon smock similar to a nurse’s uniform.

  “You selling something?” The question was asked cheerfully, without hostility.

  “No. I was just passing and …”

  “Never mind. Miss Sloan likes visitors.”

  They were in a small, bright vestibule which opened onto a kitchen on one side and what appeared to be a living room on the other. In the kitchen, cheerful yellows and whites predominated; in the living room the decor was yellow and green. Part of the living room was out of sight and from it a pleasant voice called, “Come in—whoever you are.”

  “Leave you now,” the janitor said from behind Nim. “Got things to do.”

  As the outer door closed, Nim stepped inside the living room.

  “Hello,” the same voice said. “What do you know that’s new and exciting?”

  Long afterward, and through the months ahead when fateful events unfolded like succeeding tableaux of a drama, Nim would remember this moment—the first in which he ever saw Karen Sloan—in sharply vivid detail.

  She was a mature woman, but appeared young and was extraordinarily beautiful. Nim guessed her age at thirty-six; later he would learn she was three years older. Her face was long with perfectly proportioned features—full, sensuous lips, now opened in a smile, wide blue eyes appraising Nim with frankness, and a pert nose, suggesting mischief. Her skin was flawless and seemed opalescent. Long blonde hair framed Karen Sloan’s face; parted in the middle, it fell to her shoulders, with golden highlights glinting in a shaft of sunlight. Her hands were on a padded lapboard, the fingers long, nails manicured and shining. She wore an attractive light blue dress.

  And she was in a wheelchair. A bulge in her dress showed that a respirator was beneath it, breathing for her. A tube, emerging below the dress hemline, was connected to a suitcase-like device secured to the rear of the chair. The respirator mechanism emitted a steady hum along with a hiss of air, inward and out, at the normal pace of breathing. The chair’s electric components were connected by a cord to a wall power outlet.

  “Hello, Miss Sloan,” Nim said. “I’m the electric man.”

  The smile widened. “Do you work on batteries or are you plugged in too?”

  Nim grinned in response, a trifle sheepishly, and uncharacteristically he had a moment’s nervousness. He wasn’t sure what he had expected but, whatever it was, this exquisite woman before him was completely different. He said, “I’ll explain.”

  “Please do. And won’t you sit down?”

  “Thank you.” He chose a soft armchair. Karen Sloan moved her head slightly, putting her mouth to a plastic tube extending on a gooseneck. She blew softly into the tube and at once her wheelchair swung around so she was facing him directly.

  “Hey!” he said. “That’s a neat trick.”

  “I can do lots more. If I sip instead of blow, the chair moves backward.” She showed him while he watched, fascinated.

  “I’d never seen that,” he told her. “I’m amazed.”

  “My head is the only part of me I can move.” Karen said it matter-of-factly, as if speaking of a minor inconvenience. “So one learns to do some necessary things in unusual ways. But we got sidetracked; you were going to tell me something. Please go on.”

  “I started to explain why I came,” Nim said. “It all began two weeks ago, the day we had the power failure. I saw you as a small red circle on a map.”

  “Me—on a map?”

  He told her about the Energy Control Center and GSP & L’s watchfulness over special power users, like hospitals and private homes with life-sustaining equipment. “To be honest,” he said, “I was curious. That’s why I dropped in today.”

  “That’s nice,” Karen said. “To be thought about, I mean. I do remember that day—well.”

  “When the power went off, how did you feel?”

  “A little frightened, I suppose. Suddenly my reading light went off and other electrical things stopped. Not the respirator, though. That switches over to battery right away.”

  The battery, Nim observed, was a twelve-volt type, as used in automobiles. It rested on a tray, also fixed to the wheelchair at the rear, below the respirator mechanism.

  “What you always wonder,” Karen said, “is how long the power will be off, and how long the battery will last.”

  “It ought to be good for several hours.”

  “Six and a half when fully charged—that’s if I use the respirator only, without moving the chair. But when I go out shopping or visiting, as happens most days, I use the battery a lot and it gets run down.”

  “So if a power cut happened, then …”

  She finished the sentence for him. “Josie—that’s who you met coming in—would have
to do something quickly.” Karen added knowledgeably, “The respirator draws fifteen amps, the wheelchair—when it’s in motion—another twenty.”

  “You’ve learned a lot about the equipment.”

  “If your life depended on it, wouldn’t you?”

  “Yes, I expect I would.” He asked her, “Are you ever alone?”

  “Never. Josie is with me most of the time, then two other people come in to relieve her. Also, Jiminy, the janitor, is very good. He helps with callers, the way he did with you.” Karen smiled. “He doesn’t let people in unless he’s sure they’re okay. You passed his test.”

  They went on chatting easily, as if they had known each other a long time.

  Karen, Nim learned, had been stricken with poliomyelitis just one year before the Salk vaccine went into widespread use in North America and, with Sabin vaccine a few years later, wiped polio from the landscape. “My bug bit too soon,” Karen said. “I didn’t get under the wire.”

  Nim was moved by the simple statement. He asked, “Do you think about that one year much?”

  “I used to—a lot. For a while I cried over that one-year difference. I’d ask: Why did I have to be one of the last few? And I’d think: If only the vaccine had come just a little sooner, everything would have been different. I’d have walked, danced, been able to write, use my hands …”

  She stopped, and in the silence Nim could hear the ticking of a clock and the soft purr of Karen’s respirator. After a moment she went on, “Then I got to telling myself: Wishing won’t change anything. What happened, happened. It can’t be undone, ever. So I started making the best of what there was, living a day at a time, and when you do that, if something unexpected happens, you’re grateful. Today you came.” She switched on her radiant smile. “I don’t even know your name.”

  When he told her, she asked, “Is Nim for Nimrod?”

  “Yes.”

  “Isn’t there something in the Bible …?”

  “In Genesis.” Nim quoted, “ ‘Cush also begat Nimrod who was the first man of might on earth. He was a mighty hunter by the grace of the Lord.’” He remembered hearing the words from his grandfather, Rabbi Goldman. The old man had chosen his grandson’s name—one of the few concessions to the past that Nim’s father, Isaac, had allowed.