Sense of Wonder: A Century of Science Fiction, page 306
Elaine, suitcase and all, arrived as the bartender set drinks on the table. “Am I late, Larry?” He shook his head; they kissed briefly.
“Where do you want to go?” he asked. “Anyplace special?”
“Yes, I think so, if you like the idea. If you don’t think it’s too far.” She sipped the chilled vermouth. “There are some lakeside cabins a little north of Fond Du Lac. I was there once, with the great white bottle-hunter.”
“Oh? Memories?”
She made a face. “He hated it; I loved it.”
“Do you remember the name of the place? Maybe we should call first.”
She shook her head. “It’s past the season. School’s started; all the little sunburns are back in their classrooms.”
“Okay. I’ll take the chance if you will.”
They left their drinks unfinished.
* * * *
The cabin was at the north end of the row, adjoining a grove of maples. The inside was unfinished, the studding exposed, but the bed was comfortable and the plumbing worked. They sunned beside the lake, swam a little, and dined on Colonel Sanders’ fried chicken. Correct dinner attire was a towel to sit on.
“Tomorrow we’ll go out and eat fancy,” he said, “but tonight we’re at home.”
“Yes, Larry. Just don’t lick your fingers, or I’ll swat you.”
Indian summer cooled in twilight; they had waited for the heat to slacken. Now, he thought, comes our time together. It did, and not much later, again.
Then they sat side by side on the bed. He brought a wooden chair to hold cigarettes, ashtray and two bottles of cold beer. For a time they talked little, busy smoking, sipping beer, touching each other and smiling. It’s just the way it was, he thought.
He touched the breast, small and delicately curved, that was nearest him.
“I was never much in that department, was I?”
she said.
“Beauty comes in all sizes, Elaine.”
“Yes, but you know, I felt so one-down, with Frank and Rhonda. She was so damned superbly—uh, endowed, it just killed me.” She was smiling, but she stopped. “It did, you know. Literally.”
He was running his hand through her hair, bringing it over to brush slowly across his cheek and then letting it fall, over and over. “I don’t understand.”
“Larry, I knew I had a lump. For more than a year, before you found out and made me see a doctor—what was his name? Greenlee.”
“But why—?”
“I didn’t have much, and I was afraid of losing what I had. So I tried to think it wasn’t serious. And the worst—I don’t know if I should even tell you…”
“Come on, Elaine. You and I can’t afford secrets.”
She butted her cigarette with firm straight thrusts. “All right. Greenlee told me, after the examination, that if I’d gone to him earlier I could have gotten by with a simple mastectomy at worst, and not too much of a scar. But I couldn’t take the idea, Larry. So I put it off, and ended up with that ghastly double radical, all the muscles, all that goddamned radiation and—you know—and even that was too late.” Her eyes were crying but she made no sound.
“Jesus, Elaine!” He had to hold her, because there was nothing else he could do. And besides, he had to hold her.
Finally he spoke. “You just made up my mind for me; you know that?”
“About what?”
“What you said. Next time we’re together we tell each other, even though we didn’t. If we can; I’m not sure. But if we can—look; the record says I’m with you again, right after this time and then a few months back in college. And first thing, I’m going to try to tell you. About how we’re the same, and then about the cancer too.”
“But I’ve lived that, Larry. And died of it.”
He was up and pacing. He laughed shortly, without humor, and went to the refrigerator. He set two fresh beers on the chair and sat again.
“I’ve never tried to change anything before, Elaine. I guess I thought it couldn’t be done. Or I was too busy keeping cover to think of making waves. I don’t mean I followed any script; I didn’t have one. But I went along with how things were, and it all seemed to fit. Not now, though.” He gripped her shoulder and turned her to face him. “I don’t want you to die as you did.”
He was really too tired for sex, he thought. But he found he wasn’t.
* * * *
They planned to stay until Monday, but Sunday came gray, cold with wind and rain. So for breakfast, about ten o’clock, Larry scrambled all the remaining eggs, enough for four people. They had more toast than they could manage, and gave the rest to a hungry brood of half-grown mallards.
In the cabin, luggage packed. “I hate to leave, Larry.”
“I know. Me too.” He grinned. “We could stop at a motel for seconds if you like.”
She shook her head. “No. It wouldn’t be the way it is here.” So they didn’t. Except for a mid-afternoon snack break, he drove nonstop, and pulled up to let her off at her apartment house.
“It can’t be as good, Elaine, but we’ve got to see each other anyway. I’m only here through November ninth.”
“I don’t know how long I am, of course. But, yes—I have to see you.
After the kiss she walked inside without looking back. He drove home, trying to put his mind in gear for Judy.
But Judy wasn’t there, and neither were her possessions.
The letter was on the kitchen table:
I’m sorry Larry but I’m bugging out. I don’t know what’s wrong but I know something is, you aren’t the same. It’s not just you going off this weekend, I need people to be the same. I love you, you know that Larry, but you changed on me. The day you went to the bank you came up different. I need you to be the same to me, I need that. So I’m bugging out now. Don’t worry, I’ll call off all the wedding present stuff, you won’t be bothered with it. I do love you when you were the same and I’ll miss you a lot.
Judy
Well. She didn’t say where she was going; it could be anywhere. The hell with unpacking; get a beer, sit down and think it out.
Two cigarettes later, the memory came—the time she told him about this.
“Remember when I ran out on you, Larry? I was really spooked; I don’t know why, now. And I never knew how you found me. You didn’t even know I had a cousin Rena Purvis.” He laughed and memorized the name, as he did all things concerning his future in someone else’s past.
Rena Purvis’ number was in the book. He dialed the first three digits, then thought a moment and hung up. He dialed Elaine instead.
A man’s voice answered. “H’lo? Who’that?” Kemo Sahib had a good start.
How to play it? “Mr. Marshall? Mr. Garth here. I have the report Mrs. Marshall requested early last week.”
“S’okay. I’take it, fella.”
“I’m sorry—Mrs. Marshall’s instructions…would you put her on the line, please?”
“I said I’take it. Or leave it. Take it or leave it. Get it?”
“Perhaps Mrs. Marshall could call me back? Mr. Garth?”
The slurred voice harshened. “Saaay—you’ the bastard she was off with, right?”
The hell with it. “The very bastard, Joe; the very same. Your own stupid fault, Joe—waste not, want not. Now, are you going to put Elaine on the phone, or am I going to come over there and show you just how much of a bastard I can be if I put my mind to it?”
It took Marshall three slams to get his phone safely on the hook; the crashes hurt Larry’s ears. That was dumb of me, he thought—or was it? Should he get over there in a hurry? No. Whatever else Elaine felt about her husband, she wasn’t afraid of him…and the slob had sounded completely ineffectual. So, give it a few minutes…
It took twenty; then his phone rang. “Hello. Elaine?”
“Yes, Larry. Joe…”
“Any trouble? I can be there fast.”
“Noise trouble, is all. As usual. He’s settled down; he’s telling his troubles to his glass teddy-bear. What in the world did you say to him?”
“Sorry. I tried to play it nice but he wouldn’t. So I laid the truth on him. Maybe I shouldn’t have?”
“No, that’s all right. I’d already told him, and that he and I are through. We were talking about changing things, Larry? I’m doing it. I don’t know if it will work; I lived through four years with him after this, so probably I get stupid and relent. But for now, I’ve had it.” She paused. “But you’re the one who called. What is it?”
He told her, reading Judy’s letter aloud. “… and then I didn’t call her. And maybe I shouldn’t go bring her back, even though I did. Because I think I made her a lush, not being the same, not being able to be the same. What do you think?”
“I think you’re not through talking yet, and I’m not done listening.”
It wasn’t easy, but he had to laugh. “Yes, Elaine. Will you come live here?”
“Where else?”
“Tomorrow?”
“I haven’t unpacked my suitcase.”
“Shall I come get you?”
“No. I’ll take a cab.”
“All right. You have the address?”
“Yes. And number 204, right?”
“I’ll leave the door unlocked. Hell, I’ll leave it open!”
* * * *
Time, stolen from a programmed future, was sweet. Despite everything, he felt occasional guilt about Judy. But she didn’t call, and neither did he. Joe Marshall called several times, more or less coherently. Larry always answered, gently, “Forget it, Joe.” Elaine simply hung up at first recognition.
All too soon, like Judgment Day, came November ninth. They made a ceremony of it, with dinner in the apartment from none other than Colonel Sanders. Larry did not lick his fingers. Later, in bed, they did everything slowly, to make it last until…whenever.
* * * *
He woke. Elaine’s face was close above his; her smile was wistful. “Hello, Larry. Do you know?”
To see, he had to push her soft hair aside; the ceiling was gray-green. “I know. But what’s the date?”
“November tenth, 1970.” Her voice was level, cautious.
He whooped. He kissed her with fierce joy, with elation; he kissed her out of breath. “Elaine! We changed it! I didn’t skip!” Tears flowed down her cheeks, around her laughing mouth.
For the second part of their celebration he scrambled eggs in wine; it was messy, he thought, but festive.
“How much can we count on, Larry?”
“I don’t know; we can’t know.” He held up the envelope with its carefully detailed records. “But this is useless now.”
“Yes. Don’t throw it away yet. I want to see where you’ve been, and talk about it together.”
“All right. We can sort it out later.”
It was a new life; he set out to live as though it would be endless. They couldn’t marry, but Elaine filed for divorce. Joe Marshall filed a countersuit. It didn’t matter; no law could force her to live away from Larry Garth.
New Year’s Eve they drove to Chicago for dinner and night’s lodging at the Blackhawk. The occasion was a thorough success.
* * * *
The ceiling was silver, with fleeting iridescent sparkles. He came awake slowly, feeling minor aches one by one. Whatever this was, it was no part of college. For one thing, he hadn’t often slept double there, and now a warm body pressed against him.
He turned to see. Only a brief spill of hair, salt-and-pepper, closely cut, showed between covers and pillows. He drew the cover away.
She would age well, he thought. Then Elaine opened her gray eyes.
He had to say it fast. “I’m new here, Elaine. Straight from 1970. Nothing in between.”
“Nothing? Oh, Larry, there’s so much. And I’ve had only a little of it myself. Back and forth—and it’s all so different.”
“From…before, you mean?” His fingers ruffled her hair, then smoothed it.
“Yes.” Her eyes widened. “Why, you don’t know yet, do you? Of course not; you can’t.”
“Know what, Elaine?”
“How much have you had after 1970? How many years?”
“How much have I used up? I don’t know—twelve years? Fifteen, maybe. Why?”
“Because it’s not used up; it’s all new!” Her hand gripped his wrist tightly, to the edge of pain. “Larry, I came here from ’75—from a time I’d had before, married to Joe. But this time I was with you. This time we’re together all the way.”
He couldn’t speak and his laugh was shaky, but his mind flashed. I’ll have to die again, he thought—or will I? And then: We’ve gained ten years together; could we make it twenty? I’ve never had the actual wedding to Darlene! What if…
But he said only, “There’s a lot to tell, isn’t there?” And so much he wanted to ask, when there was time for that.
“Yes.” She turned her face upward, wriggled her head and neck hard into the pillow, then smiled. “I saw Judy once, in ‘74. She married a lawyer and had twins. And she wasn’t a lush.”
“I’m glad.”
“I know. You were when I told you then too.”
He laughed. “What lives we lead, Elaine. What lives…”
Then he remembered. “But you. Are you—?” The bulky comforter hid her contours. Two breasts, one, or none? He told himself it didn’t matter. She was alive, wasn’t she?
“Oh, I’m fine, really,” she said. “It worked. Of course the scar was horrid at first. To me—you never seemed to mind. But it’s faded now; you can hardly see it.”
“How long—?”
“It’s been five years.” She must have seen the question in his face; she shook her head. “No; I don’t know how long I live—or you. This is the oldest I’ve been. And I haven’t known a you who’s been older.”
“Elaine? How old are we now?”
She smiled, and then her mouth went soft and full. She pushed the cover back and turned to face him squarely. He looked and saw that she had lost nothing of herself, save for the tribute to the years. Part of him that had been prepared to comfort and reassure her took a deep breath and relaxed.
“How old?” she said. “Old enough to know better, I suppose, but I hope we don’t.”
“Does it matter? We’ll have time enough to be young.”
One of them reached out, and the other responded.
* * * *
Copyright © 1974 by Terry Carr.
OCTAVIA E. BUTLER
(1947–2006)
While science fiction sometimes revels in being something of an “outsider” genre, and a fair number of literature professors see genre fiction as nonliterary, Octavia Butler was one of the few SF writers who was widely accepted (and widely popular) both in academic environments and in fandom, along with Ursula K. Le Guin, Philip K. Dick, Samuel Delany, and a handful of others. In 1995, Butler became the only science fiction writer ever awarded a MacArthur Foundation fellowship (the so-called “genius grant”).
Born in Pasadena, California, Butler was primarily raised by her mother and grandmother after her father died when she was young. Butler had a difficult time in school (she was a shy daydreamer who was later diagnosed as dyslexic) but she began writing by age ten, and in writing SF at age twelve after watching Devil Girl From Mars (1954) and realizing she could write better than that.
While she attended Pasadena City College, Cal State Los Angeles, and UCLA, the two experiences that Butler credited with her later success were the Clarion SF Writers’ Workshop and the Screen Writers Guild Open Door Program, both in 1970. The latter was designed to help Latino and African American writers specifically, and is where she met author Harlan Ellison, who became her mentor.
Butler’s first published story was “Crossover” in the 1971 Clarion anthology, but her first real success in the field came with the publication of Patternmaster, the first novel in her Patternist series, in 1976. Mind of My Mind followed the next year. She continued to publish the Patternist books, and by the time her stand-alone novel Kindred (which used time travel to explore American slavery) was published in 1979, Butler was able to support herself by writing full-time. In the late 1980s, Butler published the Xenogenesis trilogy, about an alien race that breeds with humans, and she began the Earthseed series in the 1990s. The first book, Parable of the Sower (1993), was nominated for a Nebula but did not win; the sequel, Parable of the Talents (1999), did win the Nebula. She won a Nebula for “Bloodchild” as well, and Hugo Awards for “Bloodchild” and “Speech Sounds” (1984).
Butler died at age fifty-eight after falling and hitting her head on the sidewalk outside her home.
BLOODCHILD, by Octavia E. Butler
First published in Isaac Asimov’s Science Fiction Magazine, June 1984
My last night of childhood began with a visit home. T’Gatoi’s sister had given us two sterile eggs. T’Gatoi gave one to my mother, brother, and sisters, She insisted that I eat the other one alone. It didn’t matter. There was still enough to leave everyone feeling good. Almost everyone. My mother wouldn’t take any. She sat, watching everyone drifting and dreaming without her. Most of the time she watched me.
I lay against T’Gatoi’s long, velvet underside, sipping from my egg now and then, wondering why my mother dented herself such a harmless pleasure. Less of her hair would be gray if she indulged now and then. The eggs prolonged life, prolonged vigor. My father, who had never refused one in his life, had lived more than twice as long as he should have. And toward the end of his life, when he should have been slowing down, he had married my mother and fathered four children.
But my mother seemed content to age before she had to. I saw her turn away as several of T’Gatoi’s limbs secured me closer. T’Gatoi liked our body heat and took advantage of it whenever she could. When I was little and at home more, my mother used to try to tell me how to behave with T’Gatoi—how to be respectful and always obedient because T’Gatoi was the Tlic government official in charge of the Preserve, and thus the most important of her kind to deal directly with Terrans. It was an honor, my mother said, that such a person had chosen to come into the family. My mother was at her most formal and severe when she was lying.
