“But you said I have the mutated staph, too!”
“You almost certainly do. Yes . . . And so will everyone else, before long. Deaths. . . in New York State alone . . . passed one million this morning. Six and a half percent of the . . . population. . . . Did you really think you could hide on your side of . . . the . . . river . . .?”
“Randy!”
“Go . . . home.”
I strip off his lab coat and wad it up for a pillow, bring more ice from the refrigerator, try to get him to drink some water.
“Go . . . home. Kiss everybody.” He smiles to himself, and starts to shake with fever. His eyes close.
I stand up again. Should I go? Stay? If I could find someone in the hospital to take care of him—
The phone rings. I seize it. “Hello? Hello?”
“Randy? Excuse me, can I talk to Dr. Satler? This is Cameron Witt.”
I try to sound professional. “Dr. Satler can’t come to the phone right now. But if you’re calling about Sean Pulaski, Dr. Satler asked me to take the message.”
“I don’t . . . oh, all right. Just tell Randy the Pulaski boy is with Richard and Sylvia James. He’ll understand.” The line clicks.
I replace the receiver and stare at Randy, fighting for breath on the floor, his face as gray as Sean’s when Sean realized it was murder he’d gotten involved with. No, not as gray. Because Sean had been terrified, and Randy is only sick.
My work is what matters.
But how had Sean known to go to Sylvia? Even if he knew from Ceci who was on the other side, how did he know which people would hide him, would protect him when I could not. Jack could not? Sylvia-and-Elizabeth. How much did Sean actually know about the past I’d tried so hard to keep from touching him?
I reach the elevator, my finger almost touching the button, when the first explosion rocks the hospital.
It’s in the west wing. Through the windows opposite the elevator banks I see windows in the far end of the building explode outward. Thick greasy black smoke billows out the holes. Alarms begin to screech.
Don’t touch the elevators. Instructions remembered from high school, from grade-school fire drills. I race along the hall to the fire stairs. What if they put a bomb in the stairwell? What if who put a bomb in the stairwell? A lot of people in dark clothing cross the back lawn and quietly enter Dan and Ceci’s house next door; carrying bulky packages wrapped in black cloth.
A last glimpse through a window by the door to the firestairs. People are running out of the building, not many, but the ones I see are pushing gurneys. A nurse staggers outside, three small children in her arms, on her hip, clinging to her back.
They aren’t setting off any more bombs until people have a chance to get out.
I let the fire door close. Alarms scream. I run back to Pathology and shove open the heavy door.
Randy lies on the floor, sweating and shivering. His lips move but if he’s muttering aloud, I can’t hear it over the alarm. I tug on his arm. He doesn’t resist and he doesn’t help, just lies j like a heavy dead cow.
There are no gurneys in Pathology. I slap him across the face, yelling “Randy! Randy! Get up!” Even now, even here, a small part of my mind thrills at hitting him.
His eyes open. For a second, I think he knows me. It goes away, then returns. He tries to get up. The effort is enough to let me hoist him over my shoulder in a fireman’s carry. I could never have carried Jack, but Randy is much slighter, and I’m very strong.
But I can’t carry him down three flights of stairs. I get him to the top, prop him up on his ass, and shove. He slides down one flight, bumping and flailing, and glares at me for a minute. “For . . . God’s sake . . . Janet!”
His wife’s name. I don’t think about this tiny glimpse of his marriage. I give him another shove, but he grabs the railing and refuses to fall. He hauls himself—I’ll never know how—back to a sitting position, and I sit next to him. Together, my arm around his waist, tugging and pulling, we both descend the stairs the way two-year-olds do, on our asses. Every second I’m waiting for the stairwell to blow up. Sean’s gray face at dinner: Fucking vigilantes’ll get us all.
The stairs don’t blow up. The firedoor at the bottom gives out on a sidewalk on the side of the hospital away from both street and parking lot. As soon as we’re outside, Randy blacks out.
This time I do what I should have done upstairs and grab him under the armpits. I drag him over the grass as far as I can. Sweat and hair fall in my eyes, and my vision keeps blurring. Dimly I’m aware of someone running toward us.
“It’s Dr. Satler! Oh my God!”
A man. A large man. He grabs Randy and hoists him over his shoulder, a fireman’s carry a lot smoother than mine, barely glancing at me. I stay behind them and, at the first buildings, run in a wide loop away from the hospital.
My car is still in the deserted driveway across the street. Fire trucks add their sirens to the noise. When they’ve tom past, I back my car out of the driveway and push my foot to the floor, just as a second bomb blows in the east wing of the hospital, and then another, and the air is full of flying debris as thick and sharp as the noise that goes on and on and on.
Three miles along the East River Road, it suddenly catches up with me. All of it. I pull the car off the road and I can’t stop shaking. Only a few trucks pass me, and nobody stops. It’s twenty minutes before I can start the engine again, and there has never been a twenty minutes like them in my life, not even in Bedford. At the end of them, I pray that there never will be again.
I turn on the radio as soon as I’ve started the engine.
“—in another hospital bombing in New York City, St. Clare’s Hospital in the heart of Manhattan. Beleaguered police officials say that a shortage of available officers make impossible the kind of protection called for by Mayor Thomas Flanagan. No group has claimed credit for the bombing, which caused fires that spread to nearby businesses and at least one apartment house.
“Since the Centers for Disease Control’s announcement last night of a widespread staphylococcus resistant to endozine, and its simultaneous release of an emergency counterbacteria in twenty-five metropolitan areas around the country, the violence has worsened in every city transmitting reliable reports to Atlanta. A spokesperson for the national tarn of pathologists and scientists responsible for the drastic countermeasure released an additional set of guidelines for its use. The spokesperson declined to be identified, or to identify any of the doctors on the team, citing fear of reprisals if—”
A burst of static. The voice disappears, replaced by a shrill hum.
I turn the dial carefully, looking for another station with news.
By the time I reach the west side of Emerton, the streets are deserted. Everyone has retreated inside. It looks like the neighborhoods around the hospital look. Had looked. My body still doesn’t feel sick.
Instead of going straight home, I drive the deserted streets to the Food Mart.
The parking lot is as empty as everywhere else. But the basket is still there, weighted with stones. Now the stones hold down a pile of letters. The top one is addressed in blue Magic Marker: TO DR. BENNETT. The half-buried wine bottle holds a fresh bouquet, chrysanthemums from somebody’s garden. Nearby a foot-high American flag sticks in the ground, beside a white candle on a foam plate, a stone crucifix, and a Barbie doll dressed like an angel. Saran Wrap covers a leather-bound copy of The Prophet. There are also five anti-NRA stickers, a pile of seashells, and a battered peace sign on a gold chain like a necklace. The peace sign looks older than I am.
When I get home, Jack is still asleep.
I stand over him, as a few hours ago I stood over Randy Satler. I think about how Jack visited me in prison, week after week, making the long drive from Emerton even in the bad winter weather. About how he’d sit smiling at me through the thick glass in the visitors’ room, his hands with their grease-stained fingers resting on his knees, smiling even when we couldn’t think of anything to s
ay to each other. About how he clutched my hand in the delivery room when Jackie was born, and the look on his face when he first held her. About the look on his face when I told him Sean was missing: the sly, secret, not-my-kid triumph. And I think about the two sets of germs in my body, readying for war.
I bend over and kiss Jack full on the lips.
He stirs a little, half wakes, reaches for me. I pull away and go into the bathroom, where I use his toothbrush. I don’t rinse it. When I return, he’s asleep again.
I drive to Jackie’s school, to retrieve my daughter. Together, we will go to Sylvia Goddard’s—Sylvia James’s—and get Sean. I’ll visit with Sylvia, and shake her hand, and kiss her on the cheek, and touch everything I can. When the kids are safe at home, I’ll visit Ceci and tell her I’ve thought it over and I want to help fight the overuse of antibiotics that’s killing us. I’ll touch her, and anyone else there, and everyone that either Sylvia or Ceci introduces me to, until I get too sick to do that. If I get that sick. Randy said I wouldn’t, not as sick as he is. Of course, Randy has lied to me before. But I have to believe him now, on this.
I don’t really have any choice. Yet.
A month later, I am on my way to Albany to bring back another dose of the counterbacteria, which the news calls “a reengineered prokaryote.” They’re careful not to call it a germ.
I listen to the news every hour now, although Jack doesn’t like it. Or anything else I’m doing. I read, and I study, and now I know what prokaryotes are, and beta-lactamase, and plasmids. I know how bacteria fight to survive, evolving whatever they need to wipe out the competition and go on producing the next generation. That’s all that matters to bacteria. Survival by their own kind.
And that’s what Randy Satler meant, too, when he said, “My work is what matters.” Triumph by his own kind. It’s what Ceci believes, too. And Jack.
We bring in the reengineered prokaryotes in convoys of cars and trucks, because in some other places there’s been trouble. People who don’t understand, people who won’t understand. People whose family got a lot sicker than mine. The violence isn’t over, even though the CDC says the epidemic itself is starting to come under control.
I’m early. The convoy hasn’t formed yet. We leave from a different place in town each time. This time we’re meeting behind the American Bowl. Sean is already there, with Sylvia. I take a short detour and drive, for the last time, to the Food Mart.
The basket is gone, with all its letters to the dead man. So are the American flag and the peace sign. The crucifix is still there, but it’s broken in half. The latest flowers in the wine bottle are half wilted. Rain has muddied the Barbie doll’s dress, and her long blonde hair is a mess. Someone ripped up the anti-NRA stickers. The white candle on a foam plate and the pile of sea-shells are untouched.
We are not bacteria. More than survival matters to us, or should. The individual past, which we can’t escape, no matter how hard we try. The individual present, with its unsafe choices. The individual future. And the collective one.
I search in my pockets. Nothing but keys, money clip, lipstick, tissues, a blue marble I must have stuck in my pocket when I cleaned behind the couch. Jackie likes marbles.
I put the marble beside the candle, check my gun, and drive to join the convoy for the city.
ARS LONGA
In 1993 Mike Resnick called me up to ask for a story for his anthology By Any Other Fame. He stipulated only that I tell him, in advance of writing the story, which celebrity I wanted to write about. He had contacted a lot of writers, and he didn’t want duplication.
I pondered for a few weeks. When I called Mike and told him “Walt Disney,” he said that Walt Disney was already taken. What, I complained, how can that be? It’s only been two weeks! And I need Walt Disney! I must have Walt Disney! Allow me the head of Walt Disney!
Mike thought about it and agreed. His other claimant to Walt was David Gerrold, and Mike’s reasoning was that David and I were such different writers that there was no remote chance we would use our joint celebrity in the same way.
Mike was right. David’s Walt Disney became a dictator. Mine became . . . what selfless dedication made him.
THE FIRST TIME I SAW WALT, I KNEW HE WOULD BE A GREAT MAN. OH, I know everybody and his brother says that about the famous, or those about to become famous. But in my case it’s absolutely true. I saw that earnest little boy dressed in his hand-me-down knickers and tom shirt, and I just knew. I wouldn’t say that if it wasn’t true. The town of Marceline entrusted me with their precious children for fifty-two years, until my retirement. I’m a member in good standing of the First Congregational Church. You may ask anyone in Marceline about Annie Peeler’s veracity.
I’ve never been interviewed for a newspaper before.
Would you like more tea, Mr. Snelling?
Yes, of course, about Walt. Of course I understand your time is limited and this will only be a small article, although I do think the papers might pay more attention to the fine arts instead of all these cheap movies and so-called pop songs with their suggestive lyrics and . . . Art is the thing that unites us, lifts us out of baser and more jaded selves. Art is what justifies our being.
Yes, I did tell Walt that. I told all my pupils that, right from the first day of school. It’s a great mistake to think third-graders can’t understand. Children hunger for greatness, and in a place like Marceline they see so little of it around them. That’s why I’ve always hung fine art prints all around my classroom, even in the early years when they cost me most of my salary. I used to travel to Kansas City on the Atchison, Topeka, and Santa Fe to buy them. Renoir and Rosetti and Monet and Whistler and of course Burne-Jones. Children will open like blossoms in the presence of great art, with proper guidance. I’ve always believed that. Why, when I graduated from Normal in 1894—
Yes. Walt.
As I say, I knew right away he was special. He sat at his desk in those patched hand-me-downs—his father, you know, was as mean with money as with everything else—drawing his little pictures in the margins of schoolbooks so old they had pages missing. I think they’d been his older brothers’ books, and Walt’s father just didn’t give a hoot if all of Milton and most of long division had just been wantonly ripped out.
His mother? What mother?
Oh, don’t write that down, I’m sorry I said it. It wasn’t a very Christian thing to say, was it? I’m sure she did the best she could, poor thing, married to Elias Disney. Never any money, of course, and what was worse, no education or refinement, no chance to pass on a sense of the finer things in life. Just the same, to let him go around in those torn knickers, scrounging pencil stubs out of wastebaskets, sketching his little things in the margins of schoolbooks because no one recognized and nurtured his talent at home . . . If ever a boy needed mothering, it was young Walt.
I bought him his first sketchbook, you know, and a box of decent pencils. His little face just lit up. He was a grateful child, always, and quick to see an opportunity. Right away he started copying Edward Hicks’ “The Peaceable Kingdom.” He liked animal pictures, although of course later on I tried to steer him toward people. I always impressed on the children that the human form is the noblest expression of the painter’s art.
Young Walt’s first copy wasn’t very good, of course—he completely missed the painting’s spiritual dimension—but he kept at it all year, and gradually his drawing improved. I remembered he copied Burne-Jones’ “The Mill” very credibly, and also Gauguin’s “The Yellow Christ.” Oh, yes, we had Gauguin, even though some of the parents didn’t like it. Too strange and—I don’t want you to get the wrong impression here, these are all lovely people in Marceline, good solid Christian people, but they do have provincial tastes. There’s no getting around it. But I kept Gauguin up on my walls even when a delegation of parents went to the principal to object. I’ve always had a little rebellious streak of my own. And more important, of course, is that education must never bow to the trivial or th
e provincial. Education of the young must always embrace the highest of ideals and attainments.
Which is why I was glad when Walt’s family moved to Kansas City at the end of the school year. Oh, of course I was tom up inside; some days I truly didn’t think I could bear losing him. But I thought that in KC he could have proper art lessons, go to museums . . . Ha! Just shows you how much I knew about Elias Disney!
He bought a newspaper route, you know, for the Kansas City Star. Little Walt and his big brother Roy had to get up at 3:30 in the morning to meet the delivery truck and deliver hundreds of papers before school, struggling through the snow and rain in the dark. It almost broke my heart when Walt told me that in the winter he would lie down and doze in the corridors of apartment buildings, because they were warm, and in the summer he’d play with toys left overnight on the porches of children whose fathers weren’t the skinflint, lucre-minded louts that Elias—
What? How did he tell me that? Oh, I went to KC every few months to visit him. By then I knew I was that poor, talented little boy’s only hope. I met him during the noon recess of his school, a dreadful place full of coarse children and underbred teachers. It disgraced the name of education. I took Walt to a decent tearoom for lunch, and I brought him art supplies, and most of all I encouraged him. Never give up, I told him over and over. Look at Van Gogh. Look at Paul Cezanne, with his own dreadful father. There is more in life than daily drudgery to bring ephemeral journalism to uncaring philistines.
More tea?
Yes, Walt did continue to draw during those years. I remember a lovely still life, a fruit piece, a little bit in the style of Cezanne. Very promising. Of course, nearly all his time was taken up by the newspaper route, and finally I saw that something would have to be done. So when Walt was fourteen I went to see Elias Disney.
“You have to send that boy for Saturday lessons at the Art Institute,” I said.