NEW: Trillobiography, WIP 4/?
Lisby
Aimee and Jeremiah, too. I worked hard all day and sat
on the hacienda roof at night, sipping beer and talking to
Wyatt about things that needed doing in Tombstone.
When I went home, my family wasn't there. Jeremiah
was with Bessie and the girls; Sculee stayed with
Moldar.
I can't lie to you because you've already heard about it: I
did get drunk at Kate's in the patient company of
Thomas A. Becket. (He's always attracted attention here
with his Goderville fashions, but this new purple...what
the hell is it called? A _hoopelande_? And those curled
toes on his shoes.... He looks like such a pouf that I call
him 'Thomas A. Assbait.' Becket says you gave him this
purple-pansy dress for his good service to you. My god,
tell me that you didn't dress Petunia the same way.)
I knocked back tequila, or "succumbed to the worm," as
Kate calls it, while Becket sat on the adjacent barstool
observing the tin-piano maelstrom. Kate got him talking
about the Before Time. Becket said that he used to live
far north, in the country above our old one. He'd been a
lawman, too, with a bright red uniform the color of
Kate's satin corset. One summer day, the bees came and
left bodies bloating in the streets. The immune survivors
had no weapons to fight the Federals who rounded them
up and shipped them to the same Factories that processed
us. Before they took him away, the Bluttos shot his dog.
Becket said he could still see blood on white fur and
brain matter on asphalt. My stomach did a sickly flop.
Eventually, Becket rolled me home. Sweetheart that he
is, he stayed to make sure I didn't suffocate in my own
upchuck. Wyatt and Virge came around the next
morning. They sat at my table, drank the coffee Becket
had brewed, and watched me lay on my chair like wilted
lettuce.
"He sure is green," Virge pronounced sagely.
"Sure is," Wyatt agreed.
I'll spare you a verbal portrait of my dry heaves.
That drinking binge was the nadir of my depression. By
mid-afternoon, I was on my way to Bessie's to check on
my son. I found Jeremiah living the petit sultan's life.
The girls had him in Bessie's four-poster bed, tarted up
in face paint and a long frilled shirt cut down from an
old nightgown. His mouth opened like a baby-bird's to
let them spoon in bread pudding.
Jeremiah looked at me standing in the doorway, and I
swear, Sylvie, he droned in regal boredom, "Oh, you, da
da."
I crossed my arms on my chest. "Having a tough time,
kid? I feel real sorry for you." Jeremiah understood me,
or at least my tone. He ducked his head and grinned. For
an instant I was looking at Moldar, at the playful smile
that I remembered, the one I'd wanted him to show me
at Sanctuary. You know, in all probability, I have two of
them now. How can Fate be so kind to me when others
have been so deprived?
I shooed everyone away and sat on the bed with
Jeremiah. Moldar's young reflection gave me hugs and
big spitty kisses that really cracked me up. It all ended in
a tickle brawl, participation in which the ladies would
not be denied. Jeremiah's giggling is like water on the
dry basin of these hearts.
Listen, Sylvie, before I forget, I need to understand what
Moldar may have gone through at Cherry Hill. I want to
know what the conditions there were like: the climate,
the rations, the punishments and labor quotas. Wyatt and
Virgil told me they were segregated from the day they
were blanked. They said they never really saw the inside
of the detention yard. (Holliday is of no help either.
When I asked about Cherry Hill, he shuddered and said
he's repressed it all, then popped open his pocket flask
for a "medicinal" swig.) My brothers said that you were
among the general camp population until Chancellor
culled you out for leadership training and sequestered
you with them. So, can you bear to tell me about daily
Simp life at Cherry Hill?
My wife was in the Sanctuary courtyard when I arrived.
She hesitated, and for a moment I was afraid she'd turn
and walk away. But she strode toward me with all
Sculee's characteristic purpose, then launched herself
into my arms leaking Aimee's uninhibited tears.
There was hugging and kissing, and after we'd gotten
that out of the way, we discussed Moldar's condition.
Generally, she told me, he was improving. His lungs still
sounded rotten, but he was fairly coherent and visibly
less emaciated for the constant stream of fluids and
nutrients dumped into his veins. Solid food was just
possible. When she tried to feed him, she said, he might
refuse to eat or throw up soon afterward. But Luther
could "stare" him into holding down things like poached
eggs and toast. (Oh, for Boggs's preternatural powers.)
Another improvement: Moldar had begun
communicating by nodding or shaking his head. That
and hissing.
"Hissing?"
Aimee grimaced. She explained that Moldar ranged
between quiet passivity, the kind of Newborn hysterics
resolved by a whiff of The Happy and gentle restraint,
and a glowering fierceness punctuated by feline
protestations. "He curls his fingers like claws," she
admitted sheepishly, "but it's defensive. He doesn't
attack. And it only happens when someone startles him."
"Uh-huh." I was trying to reel in my eyebrows. Then
there was a vibration in my head like wheat running
through a sieve. Rattle, rattle, rattle-- kerplunk: the
answer. "It's Little Buddy," I blurted. Aimee's squint
made it plain that she was blank on the Biodevice,
although she'd once spoken to me of a monster she'd
removed from Moldar, only to have the Feds--or
whomever they were--promptly install another.
When I reminded her, she looked relieved. "So that's
what's wriggling around down there."
"Wriggling?"
"Yeah. I've seen something under the skin in the small of
his back. At first I thought it was a muscle spasm, then I
got scared that it was a really big tapeworm. You say I
took one of these things out of him?"
"That's what you told me."
"Hmmm." She frowned. "Well, I'm a Simp's uncle
now."
Moldar was propped up in bed, eyes turned to the cream
and red mountains beyond the window casing. This time,
when he looked toward me, he stretched out long pale
arms.
Moldar knew me. Aimee'd said he would, but I didn't
believe until those arms beckoned. I crushed him to me
with the strength of my affection, wanting to weep, but
he was already in the throes of hitching, silent sobs. The
old pattern reemerged: Walt the comforter and safehouse
to Moldar in anguish-- a role I'd cherished once my self-
loathing had numbed through the repetition of his
suffering. As big as my biceps and balls had been then, I
hadn't stopped Them from hurting him. I'd been a stick
boy against a brick. But I'd held him, by god. I could
still hold him now.
Finally, Moldar sighed and rested against me. His close-
cropped hair bristled uncomfortably against my neck and
chin, but it smelled of soap and herbs. I held the hand
with the disconnected IV port still taped in place, rolled
his fingers around with my own, saw the calluses,
scabbed knuckles, and ragged fingernails. The Feds had
worked him hard, it seemed, right up until the fucking
train pulled out. Then I held Moldar at arm's length and
observed with relief that Sculee wasn't shitting: he was
visibly improved-- still far from healthy, but plodding
thatwardly. When the Gaunts clear up I think he'll look,
give or take, as I remember him. (Which is pretty odd,
actually, since it _has_ been nearly five years on Planet
I'dreallyrathernotbe.)
When I asked Moldar if he understood me, he nodded
and I swear I hallucinated a hallelujah chorus. But when
I entreated him to speak, his gaze dropped, the lids
hooded his eyes, and he didn't respond. Boggs had
already threatened me with death and a spanking if I
pushed Moldar on the talking thing, so I backed off,
spoke instead about how I shouldn't have expected him
to recognize me; Speaking of rejuvenation, isn't Sculee a
hot babe?; Hey, Tombstone has a baseball team that
could sure use his help. He'd loved the game, if I
remembered right....
Moldar sidled up against me as I sank back against his
pillows, my useless words adding to the happy fluff that
engulfed me. Yet as I babbled and floated in cotton,
another part of me staggered. I was holding Lazarus; I
was holding the Resurrection. Only Draper's return could
have been such a frickin' miracle. I stopped talking to
kiss his forehead and the tip of his nose. Then I felt a
vibration deep inside his chest. When I drew back,
Moldar's irises had expanded into black ovals. One hand
rose to clumsily pat my cheek.
"Hi," I acknowledged, understanding and remembering.
"Yeah, it's me. It's Walt. I'm back." The vibration grew
stronger and the black eye portals shut as Moldar slowly
relaxed. I held them. Moldar and Little Buddy, for one
body housed both. Whatever had befallen them in these
last years, they'd survived it together.
February 18
Hello again, Sylvie. Becket has arrived with your latest
letter. Aimee thanks you for all the information on
Elliot. Since I wrote about our worries, Jeremiah has
experienced a growth spurt, and so have the other half
dozen baby boys who appear to be his age, as if they're
from the same batch or something. No, we haven't
introduced Jeremiah to Moldar. When we told him there
were ten probable Hims toddling around town, Moldar
curled up on his cot and wept. No one could comfort
him. I've experimentally mentioned Jeremiah twice since
then. Both times Moldar's eyes grew glassy with tears.
The baby, Aimee, and I were at home together the other
evening when the Lights came. As his salt-white mother
stiffened in her seat by the fireplace, Jeremiah waddled
across the floor. He put his small hand to her mouth as
she started to shriek. "Mama no no," he said, frowning.
And Mama shut up. She sat there, mouth open, eyes
wide, but damned if she wasn't silent. I held her hand
and Jeremiah played on the floor at our feet until the
Things arrived. We lost about three hours, but no one
disappeared or became young or has reported any odd
wounds or waking visions of seed-shaped eyes, so go
figure. And as for how Jeremiah stopped Aimee's
screamie-jeebies, go figure, too. However, the event has
made Wyatt and Virgil wonder if they can work the
same magic. You're asked to get Elliot to try it, the next
time you've got Lights over Luxury House or whatever
you call the spiffy place you live in.
And, yes, if I can get Camilius Fly, the town
photographer to haul his equipment to Sanctuary, and if
Moldar doesn't wig out, we'll get his picture so you can
see how your son will most likely look as an adult (I do
think better eating and dormancy habits, and fewer
traumas, will make Elliot more robust). I can't blame
you for wanting to view the proof of the pudding. My
promises that Elliot will make the population salivate are
hollow against the photographic evidence. Meanwhile,
believe me if you can: Moldar is an attractive man--
even now, when he's somewhere between a pallid invalid
and walking wounded. I know he was too gorgeous to
breathe oxygen when we first met.
Aimee has been raving about the locals humping
Moldar's leg when he returns to fuller glory. I've
watched his face when she goes on about his sex appeal.
There's a quizzical, concerned expression that translates
as "I can't believe she's saying this." He's realizing that
Sculee's been largely usurped by a nutcake called Aimee.
I loved Aimee before I remembered Dana, and having
both is a delight for me. Moldar, however, will have to
tolerate a new personality dominating a familiar body.
I'd take comfort in examples of partners who've accepted
each other's integrated selves, but I don't know anyone
who has found a Before-life Love, moreover worked
through this integration thing.
6: 35 P.M.
I'm writing from home now. Of course, I never said I
was writing from the office, so who the fuck cares.
To continue: Moldar's up and walking, but he'll pass out
if he stands up too fast. He conked his head on the bricks
a few times before Doc and Sculee figured out the
problem, so someone stays by his side whenever he
moves around.
You asked about scars. I got a look at Moldar's body just
recently. Until that day I'd only caught glimpses of him
partially or fully nude. I was off duty, playing Angel
because Aimee and Boggs were at the clinic. As I led
Moldar out of the courtyard, where he'd sat in the soft
winter sun, his face tensed with discomfort. His body
hurt. God, I sympathized.
I asked Moldar if he wanted a massage. Therapeutic
touch is central to the Sanctuary cure, but Moldar'd been
rejecting it with definitive headshakes. This time,
however, he raised his eyebrows and pointed at me. I
grinned, thrilled by the novel interaction. "Yeah, I'll
give you the massage, Moldar." Inside his room, I closed
the door and rooted around in the pineboard cabinet for
oil. He was naked when I turned, holding his white robe
in a ball over his stomach and genitals.
My smile faded as I came slowly forward, thinking I
should tell him that being touched again was part of
healing, that no one inflicted pain inside Sanctuary, that
he could tell me to stop any time-- all the gentle
reassurances I'd heard as a Newborn. I reached out,
letting him watch the slow ascent of my hand to his
shoulder. "I won't hurt you. Lay down. It'll feel good."
(Have you noticed that when I actually speak, I revert to
caveman? For all that you and Petunia have endured my
conversational prose, I think anyone who knows me in
person would shit and die if I spoke to them the way I
write to you.)
Moldar nodded again, then caught my hand as I removed
it, guided it to the low middle of his back. Beneath my
palm, his skin was unnaturally hot. "That's where Little
Buddy is, right? I remember," I assured him. "I won't
hurt him either. Go ahead and lie down."
Moldar eyes drifted across the mattress and his body
followed. But after the surprising ease of his movement,
I saw his fingers dig into the bedcovers. When I squirted
massage oil into my cupped hand, he shivered and
actually bit the blanket beneath his face. I knew what he
was thinking. Of course I knew. "Moldar, relax. I won't
go near your asshole." (See, Sylvie. Caveman.)
Moldar twitched and shook for the first few minutes,
until his hyperactive reflex was overwhelmed by the
meltdown of his shoulder muscles. As I worked the flesh
beneath my hands, I saw old whipmarks. Circled my
thumb around a nub of scar tissue just above his left
shoulder blade, then traced a thin pink line along his
spine from his first vertebrae to his coccyx. There were
more recent lash marks across his buttocks and thighs.
And the goddamned tattoo. Evil green. I'd add that to his
list of scars-- wouldn't you?
Sculee told me that she's seen marks in other places.
Places I wasn't straying near that day. She thinks they
messed with his 'nads. I've also seen a large scar high on
Moldar's left thigh. Sculee told me that he was shot there
years ago, when she was in her first youth. That's why
she knows for sure he's
February 19
I was interrupted yesterday by an Angel who burst
through my front door shouting that there were Bluttos
in Sanctuary. I threw down my pen and sprinted out of
the house into the twilight, ran toward the spired
structure that is our sanctum, a healing place the Feds
had promised never to enter.