Jack Womack, page 12
“Oh, Norman—” He lifted his hand as if to slap; didn’t.
“Stay awhile and if you need a little help gettin’ on your feet, I’ll do something.”
“Appreciated.”
“Main thing you’re going to need if you’re going to be sticking around, though, is papers. First thing in the morning I’ll call a friend of mine, he’s good with that sort of hooey. He owes me a favor anyway.”
“Should Jake and Oktobriana be papered as well?”
He seemed surprised. “That’s not necessary.”
“This ain’t no mission house,” said Wanda. “Anybody wants to eat they going to give me a hand, no matter how bad you’re feeling when you wake up in the morning. You’re going to help me keep the joint picked up and you’re not moving in permanent.”
“Don’t be so hard-nosed this time of night, Wanda,” he said. “I’m beat to the bricks.” The rhythm below began again, shook the room’s floor. The horns sprayed uncountable notes through the muffling underfoot. The sound attracted; it was so human. “There many Negro generals in your army?” he asked, laughing.
“Sixteen, at present,” I said. “Natural selection. Nothing other.”
“Maybe where you’re from,” he said, that head vein of his close to explosion. “Probably even have a Negro President—”
“For two years,” I said. “He was shot in Kansas City—”
“Like they’re always saying, Wanda,” Doc said softly; happiness of unknown origin nearly aureolaed his face. “Better times ahead. See?”
“Shit,” she said. “We’ll never see ’em. I’m going back to bed.” She turned, left the room. Perhaps only my perception of their conversations made so much seem as riddle.
“You just got to laugh it off,” Doc said. “She’s moody, this late. And she wasn’t expecting company. Come on. I’ll spread out some sheets on the front room floor so you two can make up pallets. Peewee can sleep on the davenport. I’m guessing you all know each other fairly well.” I shrugged. “Good thing tomorrow’s Saturday,” he continued, replacing his medical tools within a worn leather bag. “Let’s cross the hall. Good music playing to go to sleep by, ain’t it? The Prez—”
So, perhaps we could trust; perhaps not. Choice wasn’t inherent. Onearmed, Jake cradled Oktobriana during transit, his face free of either pain or concern. Into his glassed eyes she directed her glance. Even at my distance her fire flamed full, her unfathomable devotion keen to burn, if not both, then one; if not one, then the other. I lugged the bags, doubtful now as to the essentiality of all that we’d brought.
“You got nightclothes in your bags?” Doc asked.
“Her bags,” I said. “We weren’t expecting an overnight.”
“Some spies. Don’t even bring pajamas—”
“I have no frivolous sleepwear,” Oktobriana muttered.
“Just keep bundled up good, then,” he said. Their apartment resembled old ones I’d seen, though theirs was of purer form: woodwork’s edges weren’t rounded by the usual palimpsest of pain layer; all original fixtures were properly placed; the walls ran smooth beneath mauve-flowered paper. A large front room, kitchen and hall evidenced; downhall, I estimated, was the bath, their bedroom and possibly more. The three-meter ceiling enlarged the roomspace by inference and impression, lessened the massive furniture’s bulk. All windows along Eighth Avenue’s wall were open; this room’s ceiling fan almost succeeded in cooling air.
“I’ll get what you need. Make yourself at home,” said Doc. For a moment we stood in crystal stillness; a grinding shatter from without tore away all calm. The elevated ran along Eighth, I recalled, just outside, five floors above.
“We’ll adapt,” I said, fingering loose optimism’s crumbs.
“If need be,” said Jake, settling slow into an overstuffed chair, favoring his injured arm, resting his head upon an embroidery draped across chairtop. Oktobriana unbundled, sitting upon the rowboat-sized couch; in silence stripped her shirt and trousers, stretched and yawned, showed underarm puffs, pink nubs of nipple, stomach’s flat board, an untrimmed tuft of dark at belly’s base. I shifted my look away; saw, looking again, then she looked at none but Jake. Jake tried not to see her; did, did again, and eyeshot, as if to gaze overlong would make him as stone, or worse. Rewrapping within the sheet tucked round her earlier, she lay down, coughing as if she smoked; she didn’t.
“How’re you feeling?” I asked again, my voice cracking as if with rebirthed glands.
“Tired,” she said. “New York is always so hot?”
“Usually,” I said, realized that I referred to a different climate. “Often.” Finding another chair, one with arms so wide that it could have seated four, I sat alone.
“What’s behinding?” Jake asked. “A mainframe?” Turning, I saw only a wooden box, its leering face made of two knobbed eyes, a clear yellow dial of a nose, a broad fabric smirk.
“A radio,” I said, studying the dial. “Stromberg-Carlson.”
“So oversize?” he said. “Why?”
“Vacuum tubes,” said Oktobriana, her eyes closed as she lay down. “Communication media here operates only with use of many vacuum tubes wasting much valuable space in inefficient manner. Is most unavoidable hindrance if need to employ progressive technology is seen.”
I thought of our own tech; how to recover it. “Where’s the tracker show him, Jake?”
“It’s set still to Moscow grid,” he said, looking. “The light flickers, the green shows. He’s viabled, wherever he is.”
Doc returned, bearing a load of bedware; threw sheets upon the carpet, placed covers and pillows on an empty chair.
“I’ll let you all do the setting up,” he said. “I got to get some shut-eye, myself. Get you some towels in the morning.” He spotted the tracker. “What’s that?”
“We’re following our friend with it,” I said.
“I’ve never seen anything like that,” he said.
“Of course. Jake, we’ll reset it in the morning. At this hour I’m barely thinking, much less thinking straight.”
“Maybe in the morning,” Doc said, “you can tell me what the future’s going to be like.” Morning, yes; it wasn’t something you wanted to hear before sleep. “Good night,” he said, leaving the room for hall’s darkness. In several minutes we’d made our beds. Oktobriana sneezed, groaned and stirred again.
“Is extra pillow there?” she asked. “Such hard springs in these cushions.”
We’d no extras. “I’ll try to snare one,” I said, rising and moving downhall to where light showed underdoor; the sound of waterrush within comforted me that it was bath and not bed.
“Doc?” I asked, tapping the wood. There came the sound of closure’s click, and of medicine chest’s slam.
“What, Luther?” he asked, whispering as he opened the door; a pinprick at elbow joint yet bled, a round dark dot rising from his skin. “Need something else?”
“Oktobriana needs another pillow if you’re spared.”
“Right in the closet here. I’ll get it.” When he tugged a long chain, switching on hall light, I saw he retained his sleeveless under, though his shirt was long removed. When he grasped a pillow topshelved I saw something right-shoulder centered, half hidden by shirt strap.
“You get that under fire, Doc?” I asked. “A warscar?”
“What?”
“On your back.”
“Never saw one of these?” he asked, so quietly I barely heard; he turned to show. Upon facing me again, he switched off the light before I might see his eyes, passed me the pillow. “See you in the morning.”
“Good night,” I said. “Thank you.” He slipped behind the bedroom door, shutting it close, leaving me feeling as if accidentally I’d cut into his soul. Returning to the front I saw Jake’s suit piled next to where he lay between his covers. Oktobriana, already asleep, had pulled her thin white sheet tight round her; she sweated so that she seemed even more nude then than when she had been. Shy in strange women’s presence, anxious to conceal inadvertent reaction, I retained my pants as I turned off the room’s lamps and lay down. The floor felt almost soft.
“What’s to be done, Luther?” Jake asked.
“Sleep,” I said. “We’ll earplay. I don’t gather all that’s up.”
“I gather none,” he said; fell silent after. The elevated’s grumble seemed barely heard after the first two hours, and came almost to comfort. Towards dawn I awoke, finding the room lit with sun’s amber glow, summerlight full of haze and wet, banded by the elevated as if by an arbor’s ribs. Flies tickled my skin as they reconnoitered.
“Jake—” I heard; gave no sign of my listening. Earlier—how much earlier, I couldn’t say—she’d awakened and crept floorways, sliding next to Jake, between his sheets. From across the room I watched, giving ear to inaudible murmurs. When she pressed close, he pulled away; when she wrapped round, he unbound. She slipped and rolled, dove undersheet, rubbed and nuzzled; clung to his shoulders as if her hold on him were all that kept her from sinking. Her energy astonished; still, she drew no reaction. Throughout all Jake remained still, as if to move would be his end. She must have felt to be loving the dead.
“I can’t,” he said at last. With voyeur’s view I saw her cry, doelike, with no sound other than the hush of tears rushing down her cheeks.
“Jake,” she said. “Brazhny.”
She returned to the couch, leaving her bastard behind, his perfect control undisturbed. Before sleep took me again into more bearable state, I recalled inescapably clear what I’d seen; remembered the impression in Doc’s back, the mark which reawared me with Alekhine’s warning, that all that seemed familiar would show as other as time passed. The notion buckled my mind, the memory terrorized it. Scars etched Doc’s back, but this was no scar; a message passed without tattoo’s signal. He carried a brand name: an elongated oval keloid-raised from his shoulder blade. The oval’s upper curve read NO DEPOSIT; the lower, NO RETURN. Centered within that ring, in the oldstyle script used to the day we absorbed them, their mark: PROPERTY OF THE COCA-COLA CO., ATLANTA, GA.
6
“HUNGRY?” DOC ASKED SHORTLY AFTER WAKING US AT NINE, while we dragged ourselves free from sleep’s grave. Jake and I hadn’t chowed since Skuratov’s treat the night previous plus one, so many years gone by.
“Is a scrubber close?” Jake asked, unfolding his blackened whites. Hearing no reply, he remarked: “Supply detergent and I’ll tub it.”
Oktobriana rose, her sheet sticking to her as if with glue. “Detergent is not yet invented, Jake,” she said.
“We got laundry soap,” Doc said, grasping the drift. “Won’t you ruin that suit if you soak it? Won’t it shrink?”
“It’s sized and set,” said Jake, standing, keeping his sheet onehanded before him. My suit, of highest corporate style, was of course naturalized, and its wrinkles were such that it appeared to have been plowed under by tanktread nightlong.
Doc nodded, semblancing that he understood. “How’re you feeling, miss?” he asked. “You want to take a bath?” Her sheet unwrapped as she stood; Doc averted eyes, seeming not so comfortable with nudity’s sight without an examtable near to certify propriety.
“Too early for feel of water on skin,” she said, kneeling before one of her cases, reaching forward for the other, her left leg rising for balance. “My name is Oktobriana. Mother’s familiar name for me was Chada, if you find that more easy to say.”
“I couldn’t call you child, miss—”
Wanda padded in; sighted upended Oktobriana and blew. “Put on some clothes, girl!” she shouted. “Don’t you see those damn windows are open?” Oktobriana, unnerved, drew a shirt round her top half. Wanda spotted Jake tugging his own sheet round. “Ever’ damn one of ’em buck naked. In my house—”
“Where else they going to dress, Wanda—”
“What if some cop looked in and saw you two in here with her? Running around bareass like she was the main course at a buffet flat. That’s not how you act around here—”
“All right, Wanda,” Doc said, moving hallways. “Jake. Luther. Thisaway.”
“Haul ever’ one of us down to the precinct house,” Wanda continued; noted Oktobriana’s deliberations. “They may want to see what they’re missing, girl, but I don’t. Put on some pants.”
At bathroom’s threshold we stopped as if bluntaxed; Turkish lavatories weren’t so primitive. Jake stared at the toilet as if deciding how to disarm it.
“She’s always beefin’ this time of morning,” said Doc. “What’re you looking at, Jake?”
“You know this is flooded?” Jake said, regarding the bowl. Doc clamped a hand onto his mouth, keeping from shooting untoward word.
“See that chain hanging down? Do what you got to do, then when you’re finished, give it a good hard yank.” Overhead, we sighted the chain’s root emerging from a wall-affixed porcelain tank. “This is the tub,” Doc continued, explaining. “Want to take a shower, use the top two knobs there.”
“Recognized,” said Jake, reaching past the curtain, pressing the knobs with his fingers.
“They turn,” said Doc. Stepping hallways, he added: “You don’t both have to go at once if you don’t want to. We got plenty of water.”
“Unintended,” I said, closing the door and seating myself upon the shut lid. Beneath the tub’s freestanding legs showed a lakebed’s sediment, a host of life. Running my shaver cross my face I wondered what feelings remained from the dawn encounter I’d eavesdropped; had no desire to inquire, yet. When Jake untubbed I saw he’d dressed within; his drying suit dripped from his frame, its ivory restored.
“Alkaline,” he noted, with slim fingers touching a waterdrop to his tongue. “It’ll loosen the fabric if used overmuch.”
“So don’t.” As Jake examined his look in the mirror I readied, and stepped in. Standing beneath gurgling waters, the drizzle itching rather than washing, or so it felt, I considered the ease with which one might, if prepped as I was in such sitch, slide into alien culture. Years past I’d first entered New Guinea incog with my select team, coming as wanderers that we might meld into the day-by-day for a time and so work our subterfuge upon the chosen before our opposition showed, leaving quietly as we’d come once we finished, trailing behind us changed minds and scraps of consumed belief. All we did at first was appear, needing help; within hours found locals keen to assist, our strangeness alluring overmuch. Once attracted, success assured. Such, I told myself, didn’t differ here; it was the old case of the advanced circling the primitive to accomplish broader goals.
As in induced afterimage, I suddenly recalled his Cain’s mark, and felt rather rounded myself.
Feeling near-human again once toweled and redressed, I returned to the front, seeing Oktobriana again sitting close to Jake; nonetheless, he evidenced no passion. Doc lounged in a nearby chair; I hadn’t seemed to disturb conversation. Wanda appeared at kitchen door, a white apron shielding most of her Halloween orange frock’s shine.
“Anybody want to come give me a hand?” she asked. “Anybody want to eat?”
“That means us,” said Doc. “Somebody got out of the wrong side of bed this morning,” he said to us, winking.
“Oktobriana and I require conferencing,” I said. “We’ll assist shortterm.”
“Let’s get to it, Jake,” he said, rising.
“Jake,” I said, catching him in midflight. “Let’s reset the coordinates. The green’s still on?”
“Still,” he said, tossing it, disappearing into cook’s void. “Dot’s not moved.”
“Tiny buttons on side,” Oktobriana said, looking after his path. “You know latitude and longitude here?” I nodded. “Punch them in. Moscow grid will be replaced by New York area grid.”
“How many are in memory?” I asked.
“All major cities and all Russian cities with populations over five thousand.” Clatter’s sound rebounded from the near distance. “No, Jake. This way. That’s right,” we heard Doc say. As the grid reformed, fifty kilometers rounding midtown showed. Repressing, I gained closer view In Jersey, amidst the lines of nonexistent express lanes, his speck showed blue.
“Hasn’t moved,” I said. “Unconscious, possibly. Dying, perhaps. Brokenboned or stuck in the mud.”
“But living still,” she said. “We must see if machine survived fall.”
“Maybe Doc can drive us back out there,” I said. “What’s purposed, though? It’s chanced you can effect readjustment?”
“No foreseeable chance, but is worth effort,” she said. “Not foreseeable does not mean impossible.”
“Can we contact Alekhine somehow?” I asked. “Your transferral’s possibility must have seemed an option.”
“He did not recommend.”
“Still you must have incorporated a contact mode.”
“There is method of signaling, yes, but remember that I did not expect to be in city of New York if transferred. As said, Sashenka was stationary at both times of use. Such shift in location while moving from one plane of earth to other was not foreseen.”
“What’s the signal method, then?” I asked. “If he’s—”
“Likely he is not,” she said. “I prefer to leave as last-chance attempt.”
“That’s senseless,” I said. “If it’s remotely chanced it’s worth it. What’s the method?”
“These trackers have special method of contact capability without danger of observation. Sanya obtained pair for us before first visit. By resetting tracker I can signal to show arrival using Morse code. Transmit location and message in white flashes on tracker screen.”
“What happened to yours?”
“Disappeared immediately before I left Dubna. Made me realize time had come to move. I knew they could find me but hoped they would not see effort as necessary. With mine, certainly, they knew I could see them—”
“So let’s transmit to Alek—”
“Without access to mainframe resetting of tracker back to original use is thereafter impossible. Where is mainframe here? As said, this is vacuum-tube existence. Holding only one instrument it seems senseless to rush till we have our device back in hand recovered, yes?”
