Carmen Dog (15 page)

The one picture that is not of a well-known animal is a large color photograph of five clowns. Two are dwarfs, while one is very tall and very thin, and though he has a large, painted-on smile, Pooch is quite sure it is the same man as the one she has just met wearing the conservative brown suit.

All the while that Pooch is sipping tea and examining the pictures, Chloe is explaining how she came to be there and how she became yet another Rosemary in a little candlelight ceremony at which she had made a solemn promise to uphold Rosemary standards and to work hard to make the world safer for females of whatever shape and size and in whatever state of change, regardless of whether heading upward or downward on the evolutionary scale. She had doubled back, she says, to the spcac meeting after helping to create a diversion so that Pooch could escape. The police had been searching everyone as they came out—or rather, trying to, but there was much too much confusion. Some of the creatures, though they can't actually fly, can almost fly, and these had fluttered about, and taken great leaps into the air with the help of their wings, or had sat, poised and unafraid, at the top of the ornamental lintel. Others crept about on all fours and then ran out between the policemen's legs.

Chloe does not mention that she herself had gotten quite carried away and, not being able to hold herself back, had had a great deal to do with all this fluttering about. (Were she at all canine, she surely would look rather sheepish telling about it.) She had chased hither and yon and pounced and had quite a romp, though no real harm done to anyone except for the loss of a few feathers and the tip of one tail, not counting that Chloe herself had gotten a feather stuck in her throat for a while. Very unpleasant. At any rate, the police were thoroughly confused and Chloe had had fun until a creature not unlike herself, but much larger, began chasing
her
. She does not tell this part, but rumbles out her tale, smiling, half in a whisper, half self-satisfied purr. And actually she has already forgotten the episode of being chased up into a tree that was already filled with creatures she had but a moment before chased up there herself.

"Then,” she says, “one of the Rosemarys brought me here and we had the ceremony, and after that a very good mackerel dinner to which I contributed my cream, butter, and smoked oysters from Valdoviccini's."

While talking, Chloe has handed the baby to a rather shapeless, fat-cheeked yet sharp-nosed creature with mixed white and orange hair swept back from her face. It is not long before she and Pooch recognize each other, for she is none other than Cucumber (Pickle for short), the very guinea pig who lived down the block back on Long Island. She is much changed, however, being now almost completely a young woman, though a bit dumpy and dull-eyed. Pooch remembers that reflex she used to have: the almost overpowering desire to chase, catch, grab Cucumber by the back of the neck, and shake. Now, thank goodness, that desire seems gone, either because Cucumber is much more a woman or because Pooch is. Or perhaps she's just too tired and grateful to Cucumber for relieving her of the baby for a moment. Pooch hopes that it is the womanliness, the humanity, that has changed her. That would be a good sign, indeed.

They kiss and a tear comes to Pooch's eye, for seeing her brings back memories of happier days with the master and mistress and of the scratchy mat by the door. Difficult as the work had been, she had had several chances to listen to the Saturday afternoon opera and once in a while she had seen Kenneth Clark's “Civilization.” A few times she had actually seen these through without interruption. Suddenly Pooch begins to cry in earnest. Actually, though tears have come before, many times and copiously, this is the first real “relaxed” crying she has done since all this began. Though this is not really “home” and her dear master is not here, she is safe and among friends and perhaps even about to be a part of some splendid and noble Rosemary movement.

They all gather round to hug her and stroke her and rub her under the chin, even the tall, thin, sad clown. Chloe heats up her milk, and Mary Ann—flop, flop, flopping about on her wide feet and sometimes tripping over herself—brings out one of the pallets. The green creature with the big teeth sheds a few tears of her own, grinning at the same time, but that's just her way and no harm meant. They put Pooch to bed in a corner, where she falls asleep instantly. While she sleeps, the various Rosemarys return one by one until they are all back except for the one real Rosemary, who is no doubt off on some mission more important than any of the others. Perhaps she has gone to check up on the recently formed Academy of Motherhood.

The doctor does not know how many Rosemarys there are. He waits and counts nine altogether, including the first two (Chloe and Pooch). Then there is a long, long period when none of them come at all. It's growing late. Almost ten o'clock and the doctor has had no supper, or lunch for that matter. He decides that now is the time to barricade the door. He'll do this first, hungry and tired as he is. Of course they will hear him hammering them in, but that won't make any difference. The roof is four stories high and there are no places to perch by the steeply pitched eaves and no places to climb down, even for one as adept as Phillip.

After nailing them in, using spikes and heavy boards, he goes down to make himself some supper, but he's no cook, and anyway he's too tired to do more than eat a few cupcakes from the cage dispenser. Finds they are delicious. He is thinking, thank goodness Rosemary had seen to it that they are full of nourishment. If not for her, where would the experimental animals be? Starved, maybe. He must admit that Rosemary is, has always been, a great help. But what about that phone call from the police? What has she been up to? As far as he can tell, she's always been on his side. But he'll not even call the police about those boarded up in the attic. He decides to get a good night's sleep and then he'll decide what to do about all this. He forgets that there's been no one around, now what with his locking in all the Rosemarys, to feed his experimental creatures in the basement, or to lock them back into their cages for the night. He even forgets that the window in his laboratory is still unbarred and wide open, arranged as it was for the escape of number 107 with a stool and a bookcase forming a ladder.

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Worms awaken into birds, and music bursts from their astonished throats.

—Tom Disch

The new academy of Motherhood and related concerns occupies a building on Fifty-seventh Street. It looks rather like a fortress; indeed, it
is
a fortress, for no one wants motherhood defenseless in the modern world, or at the mercy of primitive forces. Major stumbling blocks are the mothers themselves. (Perhaps in the future a small monetary reward for mothering might not be out of line.) It is hoped that, under the aegis of the Academy of Sciences, motherhood will be modernized and mechanized and become a true science. Certainly it can be at least as scientific as psychology or linguistics could ever be. It is also to be hoped that the Academy of Motherhood will become the place to birth future administrators.

On the ground floor of the motherhood building there is a shop with updated motherhood items. In one section: straps, harnesses, leashes, pens, gates for doorways, tranquilizers, etc. In another section: intercoms, closed-circuit tv, word processors, etc. In another: flow charts, comparison charts of how other children do at the equivalent ages, record-keeping books ... all the software of motherhood.

So far, the experimental mothers have been kept on the top floors. They are examined every week to see how their unborn babies are coming along and to try to ascertain just what sorts of babies can be expected from any given mother in the throes of any given changes. Former mothers cook and clean for them. The Academy realizes that, no matter how civilized a country may become, there will always need to be people one can leave the dirty work to (as well as the sitting around listening to the nonsense of young people); and who better to leave this work to than mothers and former mothers?

At this very moment a search is under way to find the Maximum Mother (the mm, as she is referred to), so that she may be honored by the Academy. She should have the quiet dignity befitting a mother and yet so rare in mothers. It is hoped that she will exemplify all the best qualities of motherhood and that she will show other mothers that they too can set new records in the field. (It has been so little studied that surely new records will not be hard to set once the mothers are pushed in the direction of efficiency and dignity.)

The Academy of Motherhood, with its thick walls and small windows that don't open, will surely be one of the last, if not
the
last, buildings to fall into the hands of the opposing forces should it ever come down to that. That is as it should be: motherhood as the last bastion of the reliable, the reasonable, the sane, and the scientific.

The Academy is surely the best place for the doctor to call in the morning after his good night's sleep. It would, he is thinking, serve all those Rosemarys right if they were forced to become experimental mothers. Yet he hopes his own Rosemary is safe. He wonders if perhaps he still loves her. But why not? She's never given him cause not to. He hopes she's not been kidnapped and brainwashed.

But now the doctor is dreaming of a huge, engulfing Rosemary rolling over him ... a kind of wave, and he is tumbled about in her surf helpless. It's scary, but it's also exciting, sexy. Nonetheless, he wakes up screaming. It's three in the morning. And now the door to his bedroom is opening slowly and a Rosemary is coming in. (It's been a long time since they slept in the same room, and it's been a long time since she dared to open the door and walk in like this without even knocking; though, of course, it's also been a long time since he shouted out in his sleep.) He is instantly wide awake and poised. Ready. She comes closer, leans over him so that he can smell the rubber mask and hear her asthmatic wheeze. In the dim light from the hall he can see her familiar lumpy silhouette, though since he's lying down he can't get any sense of her size. What sort of Rosemary is this? he wonders. Thinks it most likely can't be “his” Rosemary since she's wearing a mask. He waits for her to lean even closer, then grabs the mask and rips it off and, in the next gesture, turns on the bedside light, pieces of torn rubber dangling in his hand.

She looms, swells up, glitters. Yes, it
is
she. “His” Rosemary. Got to be. The one he used to love. Might love even yet and in spite of everything. My God! Staring at him. The Great Mother. What he wants to do is bow down. What he wants to talk about is love. Wants to bask in her shadow. Lie at her feet. Say, “I've always loved you,” and all of a sudden, he thinks he has.

"I want you to call the Motherhood Academy first thing in the morning,” she says. “I want you to turn us all in to them. Myself included."

It's clear to the doctor that, for all her changes, and in spite of all the Rosemarys in the attic, “his” Rosemary has been on the side of reason all along. (Should he suggest that she put herself up for the Maximum Mother award?) “I will, I will,” he says, so eager to please that he jumps out of bed. But now he can see how big she really is (compared to his six feet three), and the light is just right for her to be at maximum shimmer. Awed, he says aloud what he thought a moment ago: “I've always loved you.” He is remembering a quote from Marcus Aurelius: “Does the emerald lose its beauty for lack of admiration? Does gold, or ivory, or the color purple?” But right after that he remembers that Marcus Aurelius also said: “Never allow yourself to be swept off your feet: when an impulse stirs, see first that it will meet the claims of justice.” He will be cautious. This may be a trap to get on his good side. Or a way to infiltrate the Academy of Motherhood and take over powers of motherhood for themselves. Is it too late to take back the assertion of love?

Rosemary doesn't bother answering his words of love. She probably knows him better than he knows himself, or perhaps she's lost interest in whatever he may think of her. “As to the creatures in the basement,” she says, “you will find they have already fled through the laboratory window. The poor things are, however, without suitable clothes and will not get far, especially if they stick together, which I presume they will. They'll have ‘inmates' written all over them. I expect they'll be returned soon. Come. Let's make a meal for them. They have not even had any supper, poor babies."

As a matter of fact, the phone does ring just then and the doctor is informed that his experimental animals have been rounded up and will, in a few minutes, be delivered to his door. At first they had been mistaken for a group of prostitutes in the wrong part of town, which is why they had been arrested, and then it was decided to take them to the pound. But when they heard this the creatures, with Phillip as their spokesman, had confessed that they were part of the doctor's important experiments and wished to be returned to him.

Together the doctor and Rosemary go down to the kitchen, where he intends to keep an eye on his wife. Actually, he can't keep his eyes off her. How fast and efficiently she moves about, mixing, pouring, turning things on and off almost in the same motion! She is puffing and wheezing, but that does not detract in the slightest from her glamour. In fact it somehow makes her even larger than the larger-than-life she already is to him. There hardly seems room for them both in the spacious kitchen, and every time her fur touches him as she passes it gives him prickles up and down his spine. He has a hard time keeping Marcus Aurelius in mind. He wonders if he should read Ovid instead.

"One of these days—I hope soon—I will join my fellow hyperborians,” Rosemary says. “My body is not designed for these latitudes.” She is at this moment chewing on an ice cube. The doctor wonders if she is warning him of the impossibility of their ever having a life together in the future.