2 SHORT STORIES
First short story: MASCULINE PLURAL
(As if life wasn’t complic8ed enough, Zander doubled his DNA)
Second short story: BEYOND THEM CHINESE BONES
(She had the man and she had the plan. But what about luck?)
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***NOTE: These two short stories first appeared in a slightly different form on my previous website dating from 2015***
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MASCULINE PLURAL
(5,000 words)
As if life wasn’t complic8ed enough, Zander doubled his DNA.
(1)
My name is Alexander Unger-Avakian. And this is my confession.
OK, it's not xactly a confession per se (and you should take note of how I am one of the precious few people these days who still routinely uses xpressions like per se). It's more of an xplanation. After this sensational trial - unprecedented in legal history - in which the guilty verdict came down on 2 defendants who were the same person, the facts are now in the public record.
Now, before I'm defunctioned in a few hours at 23:59 on August 6, 2124, this is how it all happened. In my own words, without all the lawyers and without all the bullspin.
Just before my lover’s birthday I woke up to my usual newsfeed on the hypernet. It’s always set to BBC© in the morning because any news corp that’s been oper8ing for about 200 years must be the news corp. More turmoil in the Middle East, it said. That reminded me: I recently viewed some old 2D-TV news reports by the BBC© from back in the early 21st century. The word turmoil was overused even back then too. But already I digress.
Turmoil on the global markets, the journobot said. The World Fed General Assembly is in turmoil and its f8 hangs in the balance. Increased turmoil in the Caucasus. More refugees fleeing what’s left of Japan after the l8est volcanoes and earthquakes. More bits of Asia-Pacifica sinking into the sea.
So business as usual.
8V was already up and about. She was my lover. Her real name was Octaviana Threadgill-Valkama, but I always called her 8V. You know, Oct = 8 and all that. She was OK with that.
Over breakfast I mentioned her upcoming birthday. Would she like me to fess what kind of present I was planning? Or would she prefer a total surprise?
“No,” my 8V said, looking up from her wrist-o-com. “No, my sweet. I know exactement what I want for my birthday. Another you!”
“Ah, how très gentille,” I purred. “One of me for the daytime and one of me for the night. What a perfect arrangement. You could …”
“No, I’m serious,” she said with unusual force. “Which I really want another you. A corp in Kandy has this 24-hour FCC service. Not too xpensive either, if you spread the payments over a year.”
“FCC? Isn’t that some kind of friend-finding service? Friendship Contact Coordination or something? And Kandy? Why do you need a Sri Lankan corp to find new friends? Or any corp?”
“You’re way out of touch, Zander! I’m not talking about pal-popping. FCC means Full Condition Cloning. In 24 hours you get a clone of yourself with all your up-to-d8 memories and everything else built in. Which it has a 365-day lifespan, so you’re not stuck with it forever. Très cool, n’est-ce pas?”
It was like she’d just tanked my brain. “You mean you want me to pay for a clone of myself and then have the thing live right here? With us?”
“Only for a year, like I said.”
“But … but … here, 8V? Right here in our own hab? And in our futon?”
“Which that’s the idea, oui. And it’s just for 1 year, like I said. Not forever. Anyway, I have to sprint or I’ll miss my subshuttle. We’ll talk about it tonight. Let’s open that bottle of Swedish Chardonnay and parler some more. Bise bise!”
So that’s how it started.
Let me tell you something about my 8V.
If the custom of burying people in coffins still xisted, hers would have to be Y-shaped. Her attitude to the m8ing game makes her look like some medieval pope’s mistress. When she finally became my lover and shared my hab I already knew that you-&-only-you-sex would not be a part of her kick. But I was happy to have access to her most of the time. My main fix was to keep her satisfied. And I really thought I did.
But now this?
(2)
Over the Swedish Chardonnay that night I came str8 out with it. “So you think I can’t satisfy you, do you? So you want a clone of me. To shag instead of me. While I’m hard …” She giggled suggestively. “While I’m hard at work in the Lang Lab.”
“Zander, think about what you’re saying. You make it sound like I’d be ‘shagging’ – what a cute oldy-fashioned word, by the way – somebody else. But it would be … well … you, wouldn’t it? I mean, the clone would be you, true?” She’d stopped off at the gen-mod salon on the way home and her irises were purple that night. She knew all about me and purple eyes. All part of her plan.
She looked at me with a lingering gaze. Those purple eyes! Heaven's g8!
“If anything, Zander, you should take my wish like un compliment!”
“But,” I said, “you’d get 2ce as much of ‘me’ but I’d only get ½ as much of you!” This was a kiddish thing to say, I knew. But I was stressed, and the wine wasn’t helping.
“Now now, Zander, don’t look at it comme ça.” 8V toyed with the stem of her wineglass with a vague sexual spin. “Actually, I should fess up. Which that Conrad Polyakov-Nash at the Clinic wants to ‘shag’ me. He told me so himself, although he didn’t use that word. I just said I’d think about it. Ha! But actually that’s what gave me this idée. That Conrad looks a little like you, you know. Mais, I prefer my Zander. So now I can have 2 of you. And my birthday’s coming, right? So say oui! Say oui, my sweet!”
(3)
Of course I said oui. I had the gravest misgivings. But those purple eyes! And, as I'd suspected for some time, that Conrad Polyakov-Nash was now sniffing around. And, well, it was only for 1 year, like she said. Then the clone would be defunctioned and she’d get all this out of her orbit and we could get on with our lives.
In our futon that night 8V did The Special Thing that I liked by way of gratitude and the next day I left for work feeling remarkably good. All morning in the Lang Lab I buried myself in my research on pronomial transformations in some dead or as-good-as-dead Himalayan dialects. Maybe only 20 or 30 people in the world would ever want to read it. 20 or 30 out of 15 billion isn’t bad, I thought. Anyway, comparative linguistics isn’t what it used to be. Most things aren’t these days. So I reminded myself how lucky I was to get paid for something I love to do anyway.
During lunch I TELed my Gr8 Uncle Cody to set a meeting. He was over 100 years old and could – when his mood was right – dispense the wisdom of age. But 1st you had to let him vent about life in our glorious 22nd century.
After work we met for ginger tea at his hab. He preferred a solo hab, without a homebot, and his 98th-floor hab was spacious to the max. Not for the 1st time I wondered whether it would 1 day be mine. Or be ours if 8V stayed in my life.
Gr8 Uncle Cody was old enough to remember when people still played golf outdoors and had their own houses with outdoor grass patches (lawns, they called them) and used money made of paper and metal (he gave me some coins when I was a kid). The population was a lot less than now, of course. Hence his usual rant about how there were waaaay too many people (but he was anti compulsory defunctioning for the over-100’s) and how this old world was on its last legs and how everybody now is stupid and shallow and we’re all greedbots and how the weather was waaaay crazier than ever.
I let him vent. Then I cut to the link:
“Unc, my Octaviana’s birthday’s coming. I have to get her a present. She wants to go to Sri Lanka…”
“Why on earth Sri Lanka? It rains nonstop and it’s sinking into the sea, right?”
“It won’t sink for a while yet, Unc. And it doesn’t rain nonstop. Anyway, there’s this corp in Kandy that makes adult clones. My Octaviana wants me to clone myself so we can come back here and live as 3. She wants 2 of me all to herself. You understand what that means, true?”
Old Uncle Cody activ8d the windows and stared at the massive hab towers and corp towers. Had the old boy even heard me? Or was he still thinking about ‘the good old days’?
“Ha! That Octaviana. She's the 1 who really loves to do the juicy, am I right? I haven’t met her, have I? What about those others? Especially that 1 with the cheek bones?”
“That Sybil Zirakashvili-Romanescu, you mean? Or that Fabia Terreblanche-Miyamoto? Don’t you remember, Unc? They’re long gone. But what about Sri Lanka, Unc? I’ve already said yes and we leave soon. This isn't a huge mistake, is it?”
Old Cody sighed. “Well, I never was big on cloning people. Too much can go wrong. Sure, clone ginger and all the plants and animals for food. Clone spare body parts till you’re blue in the face. Clone away, I say. But whole people? That’s waaaay different, Zander. Recreational cloning is what it is. And I’m anti it. Anyway, it’s illegal.”
“Not in Sri Lanka, Unc. And not if the clone’s only temporary. Ours will be kaput after 1 year. That’s the main selling point. It lives for 365 days and then it’s auto-defunctioned.”
Gr8 Uncle Cody sipped his ginger tea in silence.
“So your Octaviana wants 2 Zanders to play with? Both in the same hab, and both in the same futon. That’ll …”
“No, Unc” I said. “Not in the futon at the same time. I’m adamant about that.”
“Adamant. Now, there’s ay word I haven’t heard in ages!”
Gr8 Uncle Cody had that old-fashioned custom of sometimes pronouncing the indefinite article like the 1st letter of the alphabet. I like to speak “old-fashioned” myself, but I’m anti that particular speech-habit. He went quiet for a moment and then re-activ8ed the windows and looked out. Maybe watching the mess outside gave him comfort, as if the xterior chaos confirmed the orderliness of his own life.
“Well,” he said, “this whole thing’s going to be messy. Ay real mess. I feel it in my bones. And I confidently predict you and the clone will lead lives of higher than average stress. Yeah. The clone’s going to resent you as much as you resent it. You’ll be at each other’s throats!”
What else was new?
“And will the clone know it has only 365 days to live?” old Cody asked.
“No,” I replied. “I guess not. If it knew that then it would get all rebellious, wouldn’t it?”
“True. True. And it’s ay full adult version with all your memories and habits and everything else that makes you you, right?”
“That’s the promise.”
“And you’re putting yourself through all this for ay woman? She must be some woman. So, when can I meet her?”
“True. Some woman! We’ll drop by for ginger tea one of these days. But just the 2 of us, without the clone. That thing will stay permanently locked up in the hab, if I have my way. No outside privileges. We can’t have 2 of me running around in public simultaneously, true?”
“True. True.” A brief silence followed.
Then Old Cody looked up and said, “Is that Octaviana paying for any of the clone’s upkeep? It has to eat while it still breathes, right?”
This was true. In all this blather I hadn’t even considered that aspect: paying to maintain something I didn’t even want. And now I recalled there was vague talk of budget cuts at the Lang Lab, meaning salary cuts. Or worse.
“Upkeep? Not as far as I know, Unc.”
“Not as far as I know, Unc? What kind of a shit answer is that? Either she is or she isn’t.”
For a minute he contempl8d the mess outside. Then he slapped his thighs.
“Well, here’s what I think. Go ahead with it. Maybe I’m stupid and shallow like everybody else these days. But she must be worth it if she really does the juicy like her butt’s on fire. In that case she’s worth all the stress and xpense. The temporary stress and the temporary xpense.”
“O.K. Thanks, Unc, I really apppreci8 your input.”
“But w8, I’m not finished yet. With that clone there’s ay simple way you can cut the stress and the xpense, you know.”
“How, Unc? Keep it ½-starved and sed8d?”
(4)
I should tell you Gr8 Uncle Cody used to work in law enforcement. He was in Homicide. A top detective, too, when he retired. The Cody Koslovich-Unger Tower bears his name. That’s how highly his anti-crime corp thought of Gr8 Uncle Cody.
But our family knew he was a dirty cop.
We’ll never get the whole story. But while he worked in homicide lots of people were incarcer8d or walked away free because he tampered with evidence or perjured himself. He was some cop. So with all the enemies he must have accumul8d how come he hadn’t become a pile of ashes way before I was born? Maybe he had powerful protectors. My Gr8 Aunt Maddy (that Madison Haralambopoulos-De Waal) must have known, but she took those secrets with her to the urn.
Anyway, I was brought up never to raise this subject. But now he sort of raised it himself.
“Zander, sometimes you’re as thick as pig shit!”
“What does that mean?”
“It means you can be ay real idiot sometimes. Listen now. The clone’s definitely going to complic8 your life, but it’s a necessary complication if you’re going keep that Octaviana.”
“True. But Unc, I’ve been meaning to tell you: in our hab I don't call her Octaviana. I always call her 8V.”
“Really? Remind me to ask you why sometime. Now, what was I saying?”
“A necessary complication.”
“Right. When you get cloned you’re supposed to live with that Alexander Unger-Avakian #2 for a whole year. But why do you have to w8 that long? A whole year. After all, unforeseen developments are bound to occur, right? Untimely deaths happen all the time.”
“True,” I said. “True. But I don’t quite see what …”
Old Cody cocked his head and said, “Zander, I know some people. Not the kind of people you’d usually associ8 with. But people all the same. Anyway, they’re all just a quick TEL away. And they owe me for past … assistance.”
Now I got it.
“People? You mean murderers? Assassins? Criminal elements?”
“Let’s not go into unnecessary detail. But they really know their business.” Old Cody ½-smiled, as if remembering a secret pleasure. “I mean, these indivs can make a death look like ay tragic accident. Or like a suicide, if that’s your pref.”
My brain, slow though it might sometimes be, was now on rocket fuel.
“Suicide? You have an interesting idea there, Unc. But what’s the price?”
“That’s the thing. That’s what I’ve been telling you. These indivs owe me. They’re in my debt. It won’t cost you 1 single cred. It’s a gift from an older Unger to a younger Unger.”
Here was the solution. With the clone’s untimely death assured, I could keep my promise (and hopefully keep my 8V) while ridding myself of the clone before it sucked all my creds and wrecked my life. And it would cost no more than the clone itself and the trip to Sri Lanka (2 round-trips and a 1-way).
“Unc, you’re a genius. It’ll definitely work. I’ll see to it that the clone sinks into something resembling depression. Then my 8V will definitely get why it was driven to ‘suicide’ so soon. Stuck in our little hab 24-7. Enduring all that isolation. Dealing with all her mood swings. No independence. All that would drive anybody out of orbit. I almost feel sorry for its untimely demise.”
“I knew you’d like my little gift,” he said.
I smiled. “Gift in German means poison. Did you know that?”
Old Cody made the that’s-news-to-me sign and then stood up with xtraordinary speed. Heaven’s g8! I thought. His biofibe hips and knees let the old boy move better than me!
“But before you get too xcited, listen again,” he warned. “I know how you think, Zander. You’re full plus about this plan now, but you’re so hyper-analytical that soon you’ll start having doubts piling up on each other. Moral doubts. They’re crap. All crap. Forget them. We’re not discussing murder. We’re dealing with ay clone, not a real human. It’s not the same, right?”
“The World Fed’s still deb8ing that. But I agree it’s not the same,” I said.
“Good. Then hold that thought. And TEL me when you’re back from … er …”
“Sri Lanka.”
“Sri Lanka,” he said. “And intro me to that 8V.”
I left his hab, subshuttled home and ordered Sri Lankan food for dinner. My 8V asked me what old Uncle Cody and I talked about.
“Oh, nothing much,” I said. “We just chatted. He complained about le monde moderne again. He said it’s like 1 big ant colony.”
She stopped chewing and asked, “What on earth is an ‘ant colony’?”
(5)
Sri Lanka was hot and it did indeed rain nonstop. 45,000,000 people jammed together didn’t improve things either.
Surrounded by lawyers, we signed waivers and agreements, contracts and declarations, st8ments and assumptions of liability and so on. Next came a mountain of immigration documents. The clone would get a 365-day visa (how xact!) and needed 2 guarantors - us. A Sri Lankan orderly kept us company while we w8ed until the last document was in the bag.
“Beaucoup de customers, recently?” I asked, just to make conversation.
“Sir?”
“I mean, do you have a lot of customers?”
“Sir, not like your good self, sir. We are having oh so many of Short Clone Service customers. Not so many of FCC-single-year customers, sir.”
“What’s Short Clone Service?”
“Sir, it is for customers who are having clones of themselves for only 24 hours, sir. Or 48 hours. Yes, sir. They then proceed to have all kinds of … physical relations with their clones, sir. It is becoming quite popular now, sir. And madame.”
My 8V had mentioned something about this on the sub-orb flight. People frantically shag their own clones for a day or 2. Or some people just savagely beat and torture them. You usually do that on your shrink’s recommendation. But some shag their own clones just for the kick. It’s supposed to be a heightened form of 'bation.
Self-sexing wasn’t something I’d consider for myself. I’m so very conventional about these things. My 8V 1ce declared my negitude (‘negative attitude’) was further proof of my unique oldy-fashionedness. She said this oldy-fashionedness, combined with the ‘oldy-worldy’ way I speak, absolutely proves I was born in the wrong century.
After they took my DNA and we’d signed the last whatever-it-was, we had to w8 the full 24 hours. No shortcuts, they said. We spent a sullen night. The heat and the pounding rain and our tempo-hab’s primitive envirocon really tanked my 8V. Plus I had the jeebies about meeting this thing the next day – a thing meant to look, sound, move and even smell like me. How was I supposed to act with it? Were we supposed to shake hands? How would my 8V address each of us? And was its name Zander too?
It turned out the clone had a large C tattooed on its head. They’d forgotten to mention that, but anyway the problem of distinguishing the copy from the original solved itself. 3 corp minders brought it out, checked my I.D., had me “confirm acceptance of purchased item” and walked away. The clone and I sized each other up. My 8V was the 1st to break the awkward silence, saying – pretty much as you’d expect – “Oh, my sweet, it looks exactement like you!”
Then the clone cleared his throat and spoke for the 1st time. “W8! He looks exactement like you. Not it. I’m a man, not a thing. Henceforth, 8V, you will kindly oblige me by keeping that particular detail firmly in mind.“
“It even talks oldy-fashioned, just like you, Zander!” Which was exactly the way it was supposed to talk. The clone was like me in every single respect. The thought occurred to me: Trust my 8V to st8 the perfectly obvious as if it were a revelation to us all.
“My sentiments xactly,” said a voice in my head.
Was that my voice?
(6)
We spent the night in Kandy. Neither of us liked the place, but my 8V was keen to – as she put it – familiarize herself with the l8est member of our habhold. So I took a different tempo-hab while she familiarized his brains out.
Strange. I was in a completely different habhold the whole time, but it actually felt like I was in the same room with her – with them – all night. I tasted her juices with my mind’s mouth and heard her pleasure moans with my mind’s ears and experienced The Special Thing with all my mind’s senses. Strange.
The shagging was frantic, fierce and suffused with – what’s the word? – hostility. Yes, hostility. It was like the clone urgently needed to vent h8red. And it made me feel strangely liber8d. I couldn’t say why. Yet I was sure this synchrotude wasn’t a mere memory trick or the product of an overactive imagination. But was it temporary?
Anyway, in the morning I felt remarkably good. My 8V and I had arranged to meet for breakfast at her tempo-hab’s cafe (the clone used room-service). After the usual pleasantries I cut to the link.
“Alors, how was last night’s getting-to-know-you session with the clone?” I asked, pretending I didn’t already know. “Satisfactory?”
“Oh,” she said, “can’t complain. Can’t complain.”
“Good. Good. Then my birthday gift’s acceptable, I take it?”
“Mais oui,” she purred, and sipped her ginger tea.
I changed the subject.
“Incidentally, what’s the clone’s name? We can’t call him Zander. How about Zander #2. Or Virgil? Virgil has a certain histori …”
“Mais non,” she replied. “Which I was thinking about that last night.”
During a lull in the proceedings, I suspected.
“Zander, you read books. Remember that story from way back about that mec who had a picture that looked just like him?”
“A portr8, you mean?”
“True. And as he got older the painting stayed the same. Or … w8! He stayed the same but the painting got older. What was his nom again?”
“Dorian Gray.”
“C’est ça! So we’ll call him Durian, then. You’re Zander and he’s Durian. Parfait!”
“As you wish, ma belle,” I murmured. If she named the clone after a stinking tropical fruit, so what? It would only have to endure that idiotic name until Gr8 Uncle Cody’s hitman had seen to its untimely death, after all. I could w8.
“So, that Durian measured up to my level of skill and enthusiasm, did he?” I asked. “And he’s now enjoying all that xtra-large coconut rice and that huge fru-salad because he built up such a ginormous appetite last night!”
My 8V dropped her mango kebab and looked at me intently. “Zander, how on earth did you know Durian ordered xtra-large coconut rice and a gr8 big salade de fruits? Have you seen him déjà this morning?”
Good question. How did I know that? “Oh, well, you know, 8V, it just kind of occurred to me. I thought that’s what he’d have for breakfast. If he was really hungry. Sais pas. The thought just popped into my head. Kind of.”
“Hmmm,” she said. “Mais that’s what you’d order if you’d been mon amour the night before, you mean. Because you’re Durian and Durian is you. How on earth could you forget that?”
My 8V had a point there. And now she grinned.
“So what should I call you collectivement?” she asked, wide-eyed. “Durander? Zandrian?”
But I was thinking about something else. There was a psych-link between the clone and myself. The corp said nothing about this. No mention of a possible psych-overlap. Maybe they assumed it would be so obvious that there was no need to alert me to it. Well, that's just gr8. Thanks a lot.
So how could I keep my thoughts to myself and away from Durian? Come to think of it, how could Durian keep his thoughts from me? If I could read his thoughts and feelings then of course he could reciproc8. Heaven’s g8! Does this mean we have 2 heads but a single brain?
My 8V ignored my silence. “I have a pressentiment this 364 days will be even funner than I xpected,” she said.
I saw right then that I had to watch myself. If I didn’t want Durian to know about it, then I shouldn’t think about it. For instance that recent conversation in Uncle Cody’s hab. But warning myself of that risk already made it too l8. What was that old xpression? The cat’s jumped out of the bag. Meaning I was already in deep merde.
(7)
Don’t think about blue monkeys. Don’t think about blue monkeys. That old mindshot from the distant past was right: trying not to think about something was a sure way to cement that very thought.
Could Durian read my thoughts? Feel my emotions? There was a simple way to find out. My 8V said she had to TEL some people and she badly needed a nap (ha!), so while she was in her room I flashed Durian the thought:
“The Special Thing last night was particular …”
“… ly compelling,” he flashed back. “As you well know. And you very clearly detect…”
“… ed the hostile underpsych during the shag after shag af …”
“… ter shag. I know.”
I thought to myself (if that was still possible): So this is how it’s going to be from now on? No privacy in my thoughts?
I had to ask: “Are you and I doomed to always finish …”
“… each other’s sentences? Did you xpect otherwise, the corp’s silence on this whole subject notwithstanding? You xpected to have an xact copy of yourself who thinks differently from yourself? You obviously hadn’t thought ….”
“…this through, I know. I should’ve asked the corp. I just didn’t suspect it …”
“… would be this noisy inside our heads. I know. Now I know.”
Static in my heads. We struggled to get our thoughts str8. But when the static died I resumed with:
“Let me ask about all that hostility last night in your underpsych when you were shagging her. Was that from you? Or from me?”
“From me. And you. From you because of what she’d done to your life but you never admitted it to yourself. Personally, I h8 her. She summoned me into a 1-year xistence on a mere whim. So now I’m doomed to be nothing but a sex toy for a shallow fool. A beautiful fool, but a fool nonetheless. In my situation wouldn’t you …”
“… feel the same? Yes, I would.” I paused momentarily. “So, then, if you already know about the unavoidable 365-day time limit you must also know about …”
“… Gr8 Uncle Cody’s idea to have me killed by a lowlife associ8 of his? Yes, his idea to put both of us out of our misery.” I sensed Durian suddenly smiling a ½-smile. “You know, Zander, he was right. You really are as thick as pig shit sometimes! Merely …”
“… joking. So how do you feel about that? It would be a relief in a way, wouldn’t it? I mean, your life as a clone – such as it is – was always intended to be nasty, brutish and short. I imagine you’d welcome an early death as a …”
“… release from my term of bondage. True. True. But I’d really rather spend my single year of life without that foolish woman around the hab. Then the 2 of us, you and me, could get on with what we really want to do with our lives: become doubly productive and become the Lang Lab’s star researchers. Zander, we could really put comparative linguistics back on the map, you and I. Make it a thriving field again in these dismal times. You and I could accomplish more in 1 single year than all those other researchers combined.”
” Ah yes,” I flashed. ” ‘These dismal times’ but also these woefully underfunded times. The …”
“… Lang Lab would never put a clone on the payroll. That’s obvious. But I don’t need to be physically present in the Lang Lab, do …”
“… I? True. True. Yeah, you have point there. And with my 8V out of our lives we’d have no petty distractions in the hab, no more accommod8ing her whims and moodswings, no more wondering if she’s shagging somebody in secret. No more baby- …”
“… talk French. Yes, that’s how it will be. You never admitted to yourself what a mess she’s made of your life, and how she’s emascul8d you. Admit it, Zander, you were ready to do anything to keep her in your life, even pay creds you can’t afford for a clone. That’s how much you’ve let her pussywhip you. But now we can end these humiliations and end this negative cycle 1ce and for all.”
“Durian, you’re right! I have seen the light!”
“Please,” he flashed, “call me Virgil.”
He was right. Ridding myself of my 8V was necessary if I was ever to stand up in freedom and autonomy. I’d have to take action before my resolve weakened and I started looking at the other side of the coin (an xpression she wouldn’t comprehend). I’d start having doubts about what I’d lose if she was gone from my life for good.
“Right,” I said to myselves. “Let’s do it. Death to my 8V! I’ll make the TEL right now!”
“No!” flashed Virgil. “Don’t!
(8)
“What?” I gasped. “Why can’t I make the TEL?”
“Don’t you do it. I want to do it myself. Let me do it. Our voices are identical, true?”
Virgil made the TEL that very minute, tossing my/our usual sense of decorum out the window, not caring who he/I woke up or why.
We said, “Oh, I see I woke you up, did I?"
Vague muttering was the response. I/We cut str8 to the chase.
There’s something you and I need to discuss. It’s simply too important to w8. You see, there needs to be a really big change. Yes, really big. ”
The voice at the other end was annoyed at being woken so suddenly and with such an unxpected and imperious demand.
“What really big change? What on earth are you talking about?”
“Well,” I/we said, "it's basically the same plan we discussed earlier, Unc. Just a change in the design8d target, that's all."
=======================================
BEYOND THEM CHINESE BONES
(4,000 words)
She had the man and she had the plan. But what about luck?
(i)
Why did Maggie accept this stranger? She was a handsome young woman, alone on a south Texas farm, a widow since a Yankee bullet killed her husband in some pointless skirmish in the last days of the War Between the States. Why should she let a total stranger – a bedraggled, desperate looking stranger – into her home? Simple Christian charity, she told herself. It’s wrong to withhold a kindness.
The man at her door was not yet thirty, brown haired, well built. He held himself well, with none of the shiftiness you expect in a miscreant. Maggie liked that in a man. Her late husband could look any man in the eye too. But the stranger was grimy and sweaty, with the haggard, haunted look of a man fleeing something bad.
So why beat around the bush? “You running from the law, mister?” she asked as she gestured for him to sit at the table.
The stranger hesitated and collected himself.
Finally he said, “Well, ma’am, the gospel truth is that I’m innocent. But I am a wanted man. There’s nothing for me in Tennessee now and I was headed out to make a new life in New Mexico. But I shot a colored boy in Arkansas. That low son of a…pardon me, ma’am…tried to steal this here gold watch.” He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and unwrapped the watch. The sunlight through the window made it gleam. “That’s why I’m so far south right now, on account of that…incident. So now I aim to lay low down in Mexico until all this blows over.”
Maggie poured coffee. “All that running from the law just because of that? Hah! What is the world coming to?”
“How right you are, ma’am. Everything’s upside down since we lost the war and those damn Carpetbaggers moved in like a plague of locusts. Why, I could tell you some stories…”
Maggie sipped her coffee and shook her head. She had no wish to hear “some stories”. Her own story was sad enough. As they sat in silence an idea took shape in her mind.
“Your watch is worth something, is it?”
The stranger’s pride in his valued possession was obvious. “It surely is, ma’am. My dear mother kept it safe even after the Yankees took Nashville back in ’62. Not a scratch on it. Solid gold.”
Maggie looked at the watch as intensely as she’d looked at this stranger when he first approached her door. It was a thing of great beauty.
“By the way, ma’am, I haven’t introduced myself. My name is…”
“No, don’t tell me your name. If you’re running from the law the less I know about you the better. You can just be plain ‘Mr. Smith’ while you’re under my roof.”
‘Mr. Smith’ bowed his head slightly. “As you wish, ma’am. And so I will not ask you yours.”
The stranger smelled of sweat and too many days on a horse. And now the idea in Maggie’s mind gathered strength.
“Your watch is not engraved,” she observed.
“Engraved? No, ma’am. Why?”
Maggie said, “Maybe we can help each other out. You look more in need of a hot meal and a bath and clean clothes than any man I’ve seen since the war. You can sleep here tonight too. And I’ll trade your tired horse for a fresh one. I’ll even give you my poor husband’s shirt and britches and some other things of his. He was about your size, may the Almighty keep his soul. But you’ll have to do something for me.”
‘Mr. Smith’ bowed again and said, “That’s extremely kind of you, ma’am. And if there’s anything I can do for you that won’t land me in a bigger fix than I’m already in, then I shall willingly oblige."
(ii)
Maggie continued: “Well, you’re obliged to me for the food and clothes and the bath. If you do what I say and keep a cool head you will have no trouble and you can head down to Mexico clear of your debt to me.” She explained her plan:
On the first day of every month a San Antonio banker rode to Maggie’s house to collect a regular payment on Maggie’s loan. Why the banker rode there and back himself every month was simply because he always made it clear to Maggie that he’d be willing to “forget about” that month’s $16-payment if she would just extend to him the ultimate female hospitality.
‘Mr. Smith’ felt a slight stirring in his loins. He knew just how the banker felt. Any full-blooded man would.
“I always refuse him,” Maggie continued. “Sixteen dollars a month wasn’t such a burden in the past. Even while my husband was away fighting for the Glorious Cause I could somehow make ends meet. But it is now an intolerable burden for a woman alone in these wretched times. Yet I will not defile my dear husband’s memory, with him only dead coming on to a year now. No, not even if I have to scrimp and scrape for every single dollar.”
The stranger said, “Your devotion does you proud, ma’am.”
Maggie wiped away a tear with the heel of her hand, collected herself and sat upright in her chair. “How much do you reckon that watch is worth?” she asked.
“How much? Most likely sixty dollars these days, easy. But, ma’am, I could never…”
“Listen,” said Maggie with a sudden force that surprised ‘Mr. Smith’. “Tomorrow’s the first day of March. The good Lord must have sent you here for a purpose, so it would be sinful to waste this chance. When Strick England comes here tomorrow morning I’ll pretend to pay him with this watch. I’ll say it’s my husband’s family heirloom. But my desperate plight means I cannot afford to keep it any longer. If it’s worth sixty dollars then I can bargain real hard and stretch it to sixty-four dollars. That’s a four-month-payment.”
‘Mr. Smith’ could smell a ruse as well as anybody could. “But he won’t get to keep the watch, is that what you intend?”
Maggie pointed east. “He’ll be coming in from San Antone like he always does, with his stove pipe hat, just like Abe Lincoln himself. And riding a fine white horse. Always about nine o’clock. And he heads back the same way, too, and always in a foul mood because I will not…But that gold watch will make him happy. And if he’s happy he’ll get careless.”
“I see. So where do this England fellow and I…?”
Maggie said, “You just ride east about half a mile. You’ll see a big old tree with a skeleton on it. That’s where they strung up that Chinaman last fall, and the crows picked his flesh clean. You go a ways beyond that and there’s an old Mexican shrine among some cedar trees. That’s where you can hide. When England rides by you catch him from behind and take back your watch. But do not shoot him, you hear me? Don’t draw attention. Just take the watch and kick him on his way back to town. Understand?”
“Mercy, ma’am, your plan is as clear as creation.”
“Good,” said Maggie. “And then you skedaddle on to Mexico. But come nowhere near this house, you hear?”
‘Mr. Smith’ plucked at his thick brown beard and thought for a moment. “You know, ma’am,” he said, “if I take only the watch he might see he’s been the victim of a conspiracy. Then he’ll come right back to this house in righteous anger. So I’d better take whatever else he has that’s worth taking. That way he’ll think it was just a simple robbery by happenstance, nothing to do with you. By the way, was this banker in the war?”
“Strick England?! He just carried on the whole four years like the war was nothing but a chance for him to make money.”
“So, then,” said the stranger, “strictly speaking this is not a crime, is it? Robbing a profiteer is no crime. But anyway I must deny myself the pleasure of doing him violence if I’m to ‘skedaddle on to Mexico’ with all possible speed. I’ll just knock him cold or something so he doesn’t get a good look at me.”
“Well, if you do or you don’t, that’s not my concern. Just make sure he does not suspect you and I are…are…”
“In cahoots? Yes, ma’am, you can trust me. By the way, you always get a receipt from him, don’t you? I mean a proper receipt from the bank, official and all?”
“Sure. I always do.”
“Without fail?”
“Without fail,” Maggie said. “Especially tomorrow.”
(iii)
With ‘Mr. Smith’ and Maggie now officially in cahoots, he wondered if this might afford him special privileges.
After his bath and change of clothes he felt like a new man. Over supper their conversation became more personal, and he mentioned in passing that he “went to school” in the north. This surprised her. She’d never met anyone who had lived among the hated Yankees. But he was vague about the details, and they went on to talk about the war. He had been a cavalry officer, he said, and was wounded twice, the last time at the Battle of Franklin in ’64
The bond they’d established during supper gave him reason for cautious optimism. He was further encouraged to see that she was not averse to alcohol. As the supper progressed she started to display signs of near-gaiety. ‘Mr. Smith’ attributed this to her being in male company for the first time in ages.
He was careful to remain courteous and correct, always gentlemanly yet clearly not indifferent to her considerable charms. She knew he carried the scars of battle. Would all that be enough to draw this handsome widow into his arms?
It was not. Before they retired she warned him her room had a strong lock and she slept with a loaded pistol. She then bade him good night, locking her door with a bang.
Heavy rain fell just before dawn. They ate a hurried breakfast, speaking little. Then ‘Mr. Smith’ saddled up the fresh horse Maggie had exchanged for his weary gelding. They shook hands as he departed, and he wondered whether he should kiss her hand as a token of respect. But he decided against it – she might not take it well. She was nothing like those northern ladies he had met and waltzed with as a cadet at West Point – that “school in the north” – before the war.
West Point! That time in his life felt like a century ago. He shook his head and tried to rid himself of the memory. He’d known too many good men – good men on both sides – cut down without mercy in their prime.
He rode out under clearing skies and spotted the tree with the dead Chinaman’s skeleton. It suddenly occurred to him that he should have asked Maggie about the story behind all that. What was this oriental doing around San Antonio, Texas? And why put his corpse up a tree? These Texans are strange, he concluded. Wild, strange people. The ones he’d met in the war were apt to – what was that expression his colonel used? – stray into dangerous excesses.
The war was our ruination, he thought as he approached the Mexican shrine. We live in a fallen world.
He wondered how it would be to have a woman like Maggie. Have her as a wife. The war was a disaster. It robbed him of his youth. And since he’d chosen to serve in the army that tasted defeat it had robbed him of a future military career.
What did he have to show for the war but aching scars and a broken spirit and the memory of enough death and desperation to last ten lifetimes? When he slept he could never be sure if the blood-soaked nightmares and silent screams would return. The only thing connecting him to his life before the war was that watch, and right soon it would be sitting in some cowardly profiteer’s pocket. But not for long, he thought, not for long if there’s any justice in this vale of tears.
I was destined for better things, he told himself as he passed the skeleton tree and hid among the cedars. Now look at me: a penniless vagrant on the run for killing a thieving black. And waiting to hoodwink a profiteer.
How will things go in Mexico? Will I ever breathe the sweet air of Tennessee again?
(iv)
By ten o’clock Maggie was sure her plan had worked.
Strickland P. England had arrived as usual. His refusal even to consider accepting anything other than cash was to no avail. Maggie knew his vanity and greed, and she artfully brought him around. He departed in triumph, the gold watch in the pocket of his silk vest. He took it out every minute, caressed it and listened to its soft, regular ticking. Even before he accepted the watch all thoughts of carnal embrace with the beautiful widow had departed his mind.
For the first time in years Maggie felt joyous. She put the receipt in a safe place and hugged herself with pleasure. Now she was $64 ahead and could avoid England’s loathsome presence for another four months.
But she was wrong. Around noon she took a break from her chores and sat down at the table, thinking about ‘Mr. Smith’. That stranger was a fine looking man once he scrubbed himself clean. Polite, too. Always stood up whenever I left the table. Fellers around here don’t do that. And he was well-spoken. Maybe he…
But the sound of approaching horsemen broke her reverie. The banker had arrived with two men, the old sheriff and his even older deputy.
“Mrs. Jordan,” said England, “I have been robbed in broad daylight in the vicinity of this very house! These two gentlemen are here from San Antonio to investigate this outrage.”
“Ma’am,” said the sheriff, tipping his hat. “We’re sorry if we get any mud on your floor, but we’re curious if you seen a stranger around here recent. A man who don’t sound like he’s from around these parts. Somebody suspicious.”
Maggie steeled herself. What had gone wrong? “No, sheriff. No I have not,” she said. “And if I did I would’ve made him skedaddle soon enough. I am all alone, but I can shoot a bean off a barrel at thirty paces.”
“I’m sure you could, ma’am,” he said with a chuckle. “Well, anyway, mind if we poke around and see for ourselves? He might have been around without you knew it.”
What went wrong? she asked herself as they spread out and poked around the house and the stable. She forced herself to look busy. What went wrong? Do they suspect I was behind this? Did the stranger make a mess of things?
She looked out the doorway and noticed the hoof prints of their three horses in the soft ground outside. And then she realized "Mr. Smith" had left his own trail of hoof-prints when he rode out on Maggie’s brown colt after the rain. England and the lawmen must have seen that as they rode in. They couldn’t miss it.
She heard them whispering outside. England led them back inside. The sheriff said, “Did you go out riding this morning, ma’am? Them tracks leading up to the road are yours, are they?”
Maggie felt her legs weaken, but she strained to control herself. “No sir, I did not. Those tracks are from yesterday. Around supper time. I don’t know how it was in town, but it started raining over here just before sundown. I led a horse out to the road to stretch its legs for a while. That’s all.”
“Which horse was that, Mrs. Jordan,” England asked. “That brown colt you got last year from old Joe Myers? I didn’t see it anywhere. Did you exchange it for that worn out gelding we just saw?”
Suddenly the lawmen and England moved in closer. No apology this time for more mud on the floor. England and the sheriff exchanged glances.
“It grieves me beyond measure to say this, Mrs. Jordan,” the sheriff said, "but you was in league with that thief who robbed Mr. England. Them tracks are from this morning. They’re too fresh to be from last night. And they’re deep, from the weight of a man riding a horse, not from a horse being led out like you said.”
Maggie said, “No, sheriff, you don’t understand. I…”
“And them tracks don’t lead back to your stable, but go all the way beyond that tree where we strung up that Chinese heathen’s body as a warning to every other heathen. That’s where Mr. England was robbed, ain’t that so, Mr. England? That horse and rider came from your property, Mrs. Jordan. It’s as plain as glory.”
Maggie’s heart froze. “That makes you an assessory,” the sheriff continued. “But if you tell us who this thief is and where he’s headed then it’ll go better for you, ain’t that so, Mr. England? And give us a description so we can get word to other towns.”
Maggie stated to sob.
“If you give us that information, ma’am, then Mr. England here may see fit to not press criminal charges on you. Ain’t that right, Mr. England, sir?”
(v)
Maggie was lost. She knew that. But she could at least save ‘Mr. Smith’.
“All right, sheriff,” she said. “I will tell you all I know.”
She sat at the table and drew a deep breath, wiping her tears as she stalled for time and searched for a plausible lie.
“The man you seek is a youth. Maybe eighteen years of age or so. Long blond hair. No beard. Barely old enough to shave. He said he was from Georgia.”
“Headed for Mexico, is he?” asked the sheriff.
“Why, no, I believe he said he was headed for somewhere here in Texas. Yes, Corpus Christi I think. Yes, now I remember clearly. Yes, Corpus Christi. That is what he said.”
“Well,” said England, “that is rather odd. Who in his right mind would voluntarily go to Corpus Christi? And he’s certainly chosen a long and winding route, hasn’t he, if he’s coming from Georgia? Are you absolutely sure he said Corpus Christi?”
“Oh, yes, I’m sure. Now I recall he said he had a hankering to see the sea.”
“You have not told us this scoundrel’s name, Mrs Jordan,” growled the banker.
“He said his name was Davis.” It was the first name she could think of.
With that the two lawmen rode back to San Antonio to form a posse and send word to every lawman’s office between there and Corpus Christi. They left England alone with Maggie. He sat down uninvited and lit a cigar.
“Well, now, Mrs. Jordan, it seems you and I have further business to transact. You now owe me four payments. So how, may I ask, do you propose to make good those payments? Have you sufficient cash at your disposal?”
Maggie had started sobbing again. “You know damn well I don’t!”
“That is what I thought,” he said, dropping ash from his cigar on the table. “However, I wish to discuss…how can I put it?…an alternative arrangement.”
Maggie could hardly breathe. She knew what kind of “alternative arrangement” England had in mind. What she could not know was how his banker’s mind dealt with the details.
(vi)
“You see, Mrs. Jordan – or may I call you Maggie? You see, Maggie, I happen to enjoy the venerable game of poker. It is one of my few recreations. And I have a…an acquaintance with whom I sometimes play. For money. And unfortunately, I am currently in arrears to this gentleman.” He blew a smoke ring. “Just as you are in arrears to me.”
“What is that to do with me?” Maggie demanded through her tears.
“Don’t you know, Maggie? Can’t you see? You surprise me, an intelligent woman like yourself.”
“What are you driving at?”
England puffed slowly on his cigar and looked at the ceiling, as if contemplating how much to ante up in a poker game. Maggie’s sobs annoyed him, but he decided to ignore them. Why let her tears bother him when he held such good cards?
“Let me see, now. You owe me four payments, for which I could take possession of this property right now as my legal right. Plus I could have you arrested and charged as an accessory to that bandit’s theft of my new watch, some cash and an unloaded pistol. That would make you penniless, Maggie. Penniless, but not homeless, since you would be in a prison cell, wouldn’t you?”
“Damn you to hell!”
“Now, now, Maggie, there is no need to talk like a common whore. Although whatever you and that Georgian bandit did in your bed last night was no doubt…But never mind. No, as I said, I have an alternative arrangement in mind.”
Maggie tried to speak, but the words would not form.
“What’s that, Maggie?” he asked. “What arrangement do I have in mind? I’m glad you asked.”
England stood without warning and grabbed both her arms, shaking her violently. “Listen, you harlot! Stop your damned whimpering! Listen!”
He sat down again and waited till she composed herself. He idly watched the smoke from his cigar. Then he continued calmly and deliberately, like his outburst had never happened.
“You owe me four payments. Plus I have decided you owe me four more payments for the outrage of aiding and abetting that Georgian rogue. That is fair compensation. Plus you owe me four more payments for not having you arrested and imprisoned. That makes twelve payments in all. But I do not expect you to pay me, or my acquaintance, in cash.”
Maggie wept. She braced herself.
“Quiet now and listen to me! Each payment is to be equal to two nights in your bed. I could of course demand much more, but I am not by nature a vindictive man. Nor am I unreasonable. So that makes twenty four nights of free and unlimited access to your body. We will make it eighteen nights for me and six for my acquaintance, who will be informed of this arrangement upon my return to town this afternoon.”
Maggie remained mute. She could say nothing that England didn’t already know or couldn’t anticipate.
“Have I made myself clear? You understand your debt, don’t you? You are in no doubt about what this entails?”
She nodded weakly.
“Let me hear you say it, Maggie. Tell me you understand.”
She choked on the words, but somehow she uttered, “I understand.”
“Very well, then. I’m glad you’ve decided to be sensible about this.”
England stood up and brushed cigar ash from his jacket. It mixed with the mud on the floor.
“Oh, and Maggie, our arrangement starts tomorrow evening. With me. Ensure the sheets are freshly laundered.”
On his way out he stopped at the doorway and said, “Oh yes, I almost forgot. My acquaintance will…meet you soon. Good day. Until tomorrow evening, then.”
England rode off and Maggie buried her head in her hands and sobbed uncontrollably. Thoughts flooded her mind. Where was ‘Mr. Smith’? Was he safe? She thought of her husband looking down from heaven. She thought about the shotgun in her bedroom. Do I have the courage to end it all?
She didn't know if she had any courage at all.
But she knew one thing. If she wanted to survive she had no choice. A woman alone must suffer to live.
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