Nebula Awards Showcase 2009 (8 page)

The Starkes quit on eternity when Brother Porter took their silver Packard and crashed it on the fishhook turn just outside Los Gatos. Bill Starkes loved that Packard and, even though Brother Porter walked away with hardly a scratch, something about the accident made Bill lose his faith. For someone with all the time in the world, he told us while he waited for his wife to fetch her things, Brother Porter surely does drive fast. (In his defense, Brother Porter did tell the police he wasn’t speeding and he stuck to that. He was just in the wrong lane, he said, for the direction in which he was driving.) (He later said that the Starkes hadn’t quit over the crash, after all. They’d been planted as fifth columnists in Always and left because we were all such patriots, they saw there was no point to it. Or else they were about to be exposed. I forget which.)

The next to go were Joseph Fitton and Cleveland March. The men just woke up one morning to find Joe and Cleveland’s cots stripped bare and Cleveland’s cactus missing from the windowsill, without a word said, but Wilt told me they’d been caught doing something they didn’t think was sex, but Brother Porter did.

I couldn’t see leaving myself. The thing I’d already learned was that when you remove death from your life, you change everything that’s left. Take the petting zoo. Parrots are pretty long-lived compared to dogs and goats, but even they die. I’d been there less than two years when Chowder, our little foxhound, had to be put down because his kidneys failed. He wasn’t the first dog I’d ever lost; he was just the first I’d lost since I wasn’t dying myself. I saw my life stretching forward, all counted out in dead dogs, and I saw I couldn’t manage that.

I saw that my pets from now on would have to be turtles or trees or nothing. Turtles and trees don’t engage the way dogs do, but you can only have your heart broken so many times until it just won’t mend again. I sat with Chowder and pulled him into my lap as he died and I was crying so hard for all the Chowder-less years ahead that I understood then and there that immortality was going to bring a certain coldness, a remoteness into my life. I hadn’t expected that, but I didn’t see a way out of it.

Here’s another thing that changes: your investment strategies. As Wilt would say, we were all about T-bills now. Wilt said that often. I got real tired of Wilt saying that.

 

How It Went On:

Time passed and I felt pretty good about my situation. No one at Always died, and this was a powerful persuasion given how very old some of them were. Not that I needed persuading. I wasn’t the youngest woman anymore, that was Kitty Strauss, and I didn’t get the queen of hearts so often, but that was okay with me. Only the parrot was left from the petting zoo, so you couldn’t really call it a zoo now, and I didn’t see as much of the tourists and that was okay with me, too.

Three years in, Wilt had decided he’d gone for immortality prematurely. It had occurred to him that the older residents lived their full lives first, and only arrived in Always when they were tired of the flesh. Not that he wanted to wait as long as some. Winnifred spent every meal detailing the sufferings her arthritis caused her, as if we women weren’t already listening to her toss and turn and hack and snore all night long.

Also, he hadn’t managed to scrape up the second twenty-five hundred dollars we owed and it wasn’t likely he would, since Brother Porter collected all our paychecks as a matter of course.

So Wilt told me that he wouldn’t ante up again for eternity until he’d slept with at least twenty-five women, but no sooner did he move into San Jose than he was on his way to the Pacific Theater as a mechanic on the USS
Aquarius.
For a while I got postcards from the Gilberts, Marshalls, Marianas, and Carolines. It would have been a real good time for Wilt to be immortal, but if he was thinking that too, he never said it.

In fact, the postcards didn’t say much of anything. Maybe this was navy policy or maybe Wilt remembered that Brother Porter vetted all our mail first. Whichever, Brother Porter handed Wilt’s postcards to me without comment, but he read Mother’s letters aloud in the dining hall after dinner, especially if someone was in the hospital and not expected to recover or was cheating on her husband or her ration card. I listened just like everyone else, only mildly interested, as if these weren’t mostly people I’d once known.

Brother Porter said Mother’s letters were almost as good as the
Captain Midnight
radio show, which I guess meant that up in the big house, he had a radio and listened to it. Lots of Mother’s friends were being neglected by their children. You might say this was a theme. No one ever needed a secret decoder ring to figure Mother out.

It didn’t seem to me that the war lasted all that long, though Wilt felt otherwise. When he got back, I’d meet him from time to time in San Jose and we’d have a drink. The city of Always was dry, except for once when a bunch of reporters in the Fill Your Hole club rented out our dining space, invited us to join them, and spiked the punch so as to get a story from it. It ended in a lot of singing and Winnifred Allington fell off Brother Porter’s porch, and Jeb Porter, Brother Porter’s teenage son, punched out Harry Capps as a refutation of positive thinking, but the reporters had left by then so they missed it all.

Anyway Brother Porter never explicitly made abstention a condition and I never asked him about it in case he would. I still got my age checked whenever we went to a bar, so that was good. It renewed my faith every time it happened. Not that my faith needed renewing.

Now that Wilt was dying again, our interests had diverged. He was caught up in politics, local corruptions, national scandals. He read the newspapers. He belonged to the auto mechanics’ union and he told me he didn’t care that the war had ended so much as I might think. The dead were still dead and he’d seen way too many of them. He said that war served the purposes of corporations and politicians so exactly that there would always be another one, and then another, until the day some president or prime minister figured out how to declare a war that lasted forever. He said he hoped he’d die before that day came. I wonder sometimes if that worked out for him.

Once while he was still at Always, Wilt took me to the ocean so that we could stand on the edge and imagine eternity. Now when Wilt talked politics, I’d fill my ears with the sound of the ocean instead. Corporate puppet masters and congressional witch-hunts and union payola—they all drowned together in the pounding of the sea.

Still I went out with Wilt every time he asked. Mostly this was gratitude because he’d bought me eternity. Love had gone the way of the petting zoo for me. Sex was a good thing and there were plenty of times I couldn’t sleep for wanting it. But even if sleeping with Wilt wouldn’t have cost my life, I wouldn’t have.
There was a match found for me at last. I fell in love with a shrub oak,
I read once in high school in a book about Thoreau, who died more than a hundred years ago and left that shrub oak a grieving widow.

When I first came to Always, there were six Erle Stanley Gardner mysteries in the women’s dormitory that used to belong to Maddie. I read them all several times. But I wasn’t reading anymore and certainly not murder mysteries. I’d even stopped liking music. I’d always supposed that art was about beauty and that beauty was forever. Now I saw that music was all about time. You take a photograph and it’s all about moment and how that moment will never come again. You go into a library and every book on the shelves is all about death, even the ones pretending to be about birth or rebirth or resurrection or reincarnation.

Only the natural world is rendered eternal. Always was surrounded by the Santa Cruz Mountains, which meant tree trunks across streams, ghostly bear prints deep inside the forest, wild berries, tumbles of rocks, mosses, earthquakes and storms. Out behind the post office was a glade where Brother Porter gave his sermons, had sex, and renewed our lifespans. It was one of those rings of redwoods made when the primary tree in the center dies. Brother Porter had us brick a wall in a half circle behind the trees so it would be more churchlike and the trees grew straight as candles; you could follow along their trunks all the way to the stars. The first time Brother Porter took me there and I lay smelling the loam and the bay (and also Brother Porter) and looking up, I thought to myself that no matter how long I lived, this place would always be beautiful to me.

I talked less and less. At first, my brain tried to make up the loss, dredging up random flashes from my past—advertising slogans, old songs, glimpses of shoes I’d worn, my mother’s jewelry, the taste of an ant I’d once eaten. A dream I’d had in which I was surrounded by food that was bigger than me, bread slices the size of mattresses, which seems like it should have been a good dream, but it wasn’t. Memories fast and scattershot. It pleased me to think my last experience of mortality would be a toothpaste commercial. Good-bye to all that.

Then I smoothed out and days would go by when it seemed I hardly thought at all. Tree time.

So it wasn’t just Wilt, I was finding it harder to relate to people in general, and, no, this is not a complaint. I never minded having so little in common with those outside Always and their revved-up, streaming-by lives.

While inside Always, I already knew what everyone was going to say.

1. Winnifred was going to complain about her arthritis.

2. John was going to tell us that we were in for a cold winter. He’d make it sound like he was just reading the signs, like he had all this
lore,
the fuzzy caterpillars coming early or being especially fuzzy or some such thing. He was going to remind us that he hadn’t always lived in California so he knew what a cold winter really was. He was going to say that Californians didn’t know cold weather from their asses.

3. Frankie was going to say that it wasn’t her job to tape our mail shut for us and she wasn’t doing it anymore, we needed to bring it already taped.

4. Anna was going to complain that her children wouldn’t talk to her just because she’d spent their inheritance on immortality. That their refusal to be happy for her was evidence that they’d never loved her.

5. Harry was going to tell us to let a smile be our umbrella.

6. Brother Porter was going to wonder why the arcade wasn’t bringing in more money. He was going to add that he wasn’t accusing any of us of pocketing, but that it did make you wonder how all those tourists could stop and spend so little money.

7. Kitty was going to tell us how many boys in the arcade had come onto her that day. Her personal best was seventeen. She would make this sound like a problem.

8. Harry would tell us to use those lemons and make lemonade.

9. Vincent was going to say that he thought his watch was fast and make everyone else still wearing a watch tell him what time they had. The fact that the times would vary minutely never ceased to interest him and was good for at least another hour of conversation.

10. Frankie was going to say that no one ever listened to her.

 

It was a kind of conversation that required nothing in response. On and on it rolled, like the ocean.

Wilt always made me laugh and that never changed either, only it took me so much longer to get the joke. Sometimes I’d be back at Always before I noticed how witty he’d been.

 

What Happened Next:

Here’s the part you already know. One day one spring—one day when the Canada geese were passing overhead yet again, and we were out at the arcades, taking money from tourists, and I was thrilling for the umpteenth time to the sight of the migration, the chevron, the honking, the sense of a wild, wild spirit in the air—Brother Porter took Kitty out to the cathedral ring and he died there.

At first Kitty thought she’d killed him by making the sex so exciting, though anyone else would have been tipped off by the frothing and the screaming. The police came and they shermanned their way through Always. Eventually they found a plastic bag of rat poison stuffed inside one of the unused post office boxes and a half drunk cup of Hawaiian Punch on the mail scale that tested positive for it.

Inside Always, we all got why it wasn’t murder. Frankie Frye reminded us that she had no way of suspecting it would kill him. She was so worked up and righteous, she made the rest of us feel we hadn’t ever had the same faith in Brother Porter she’d had or we would have poisoned him ourselves years ago.

But no one outside of Always could see this. Frankie’s lawyers refused to plead it out that way; they went with insanity and made all the inner workings of Always part of their case. They dredged up the old string of arsons as if they were relevant, as if they hadn’t stopped entirely the day Brother Porter finally threw his son out on his ear. Jeb was a witness for the prosecution and a more angelic face you never saw. In retrospect, it was a great mistake to have given immortality to a fourteen-year-old boy. When he had it, he was a jerk, and I could plainly see that not having it had only made him an older jerk.

Frankie’s own lawyers made such a point of her obesity that they reduced her to tears. It was a shameful performance and showed how little they understood us. If Frankie ever wished to lose weight, she had all the time in the world to do so. There was nothing relevant or even interesting in her weight.

The difficult issue for the defense was whether Frankie was insane all by herself or along with all the rest of us. Sometimes they seemed to be arguing the one and sometimes the other, so when they chose not to call me to the stand I didn’t know if this was because I’d make us all look more crazy or less so. Kitty testified nicely. She charmed them all and the press dubbed her the Queen of Hearts at her own suggestion.

Wilt was able to sell his three years among the immortals to a magazine and recoup every cent of that twenty-five hundred he put up for me. There wasn’t much I was happy about right then, but I was happy about that. I didn’t even blame him for the way I came off in the article. I expect coquettish was the least I deserved. I’d long ago stopped noticing how I was behaving at any given moment.