Small Magic: Collected Short Stories Part 9

Quinton's lips fell into a mocking half-grin. "Well, yes. We've had complications with your husband's case. If you'll come with me."

He ushered Molly into a cube of white-washed walls with a simple table in the middle. She'd been wringing her hands since the fountain, and only now, having sat down, did she tuck them in her lap. "Where's my husband?"

"In a minute." Quinton sat opposite her. "As I said, we've had a problem."

Molly blinked. "Where's my husband?"

"Your husband canceled catastrophic recovery six months ago."

Molly caught herself against the table edge. "No...no..." Six months ago, she thought, we planned our trip...

"We see this all the time...CR is expensive. We start a regeneration immediately, timing being important to save the brain." Quinton tapped his temple. "The problem is...well, regeneration stops when such errors are found. The process is entirely automated. No insurance...well."

Molly's face bleached as white as the room. "Where is my husband?"

"The brain is intact, I a.s.sure you...but..."

"But?"

Quinton sighed. "This is never easy. Here." He held a small remote control toward one wall. The wall slid into the ceiling, revealing a gla.s.s pane and a parallel room on the opposite side, only the other room didn't contain a table and chairs. On the floor, something human but half-formed, a limbless torso, squirmed. Molly's first thought was of a great, hideous worm, but then the thing's head flashed to the open wall, showing a face the color of raw chicken. Roger's blue eyes blinked.

Molly stood, covering her mouth. "Oh G.o.d..."

Quinton stepped next to Molly. "Like I said, the brain is still intact. But-"

"You have to fix him. Use the accidental death money...or the pension...from the company."

Quinton shuffled his feet slightly. "We can't do that. The regeneration process, once arrested, cannot be restarted. His body-what's left of it-wouldn't survive the strain. There would be irreparable brain damage, not to mention the tissue."

Inside the other room, the thing writhed and flopped toward them.

"Oh G.o.d, Roger." Molly touched the gla.s.s.

"He can't see you, ma'am. It's a two way mirror."

She nodded, wiping her damp cheeks.

"Legally, we don't have to inform the spouse. He's officially dead." Quinton held up the remote. "If there's no next of kin, we simply neutralize. We like to give spouses the option...only if you want to. It tends to help with closure."

"Option?" Molly shuddered. "There has to be another...what about prosthetics? Can't he speak?"

"His neuromuscular structure isn't sufficiently regenerated to support any prosthesis. He doesn't even have vocal chords at this stage. I'm not sure how he-it worked its way across the floor." Quinton stepped to the table, laid down the remote, and moved to the door. "Look, when you're ready, the blue b.u.t.ton." He opened the door. "The process is completely painless. If you don't feel like you want to...well that's fine, too. Just let the front desk know."

"You can't do this to Roger!"

Quinton paused at the door. "Roger no longer exists. He died this afternoon, crushed in one of the die-presses at his job. That thing has no legal rights. I'm sorry."

Molly slumped to the floor. She pressed her palm against the cool gla.s.s, watching as the thing on the other side opened and shut the hole where its mouth should have been. Its blue eyes fluttered against the gla.s.s wall.

"Oh," Quinton held the door open. "Make sure stop by the receptionist's desk, either way. There'll be a few papers to sign."

Chapter 44: Consultation.

The thing stoops as it lumbers through my door. The eyes blink, shades drawn over milky cue b.a.l.l.s.

It grunts.

Trudging toward me, it allows both hands-if you could even call the gnarled, wicked ma.s.s of flesh at the end of its arms hands-to drag the floor. The knuckles sc.r.a.pe the carpet, shhhhhk, leaving an oily trail. Blood? Something else?

Me: choking on my heart. My hands sweat.

The mouth opens, revealing rows of teeth like broken chalk, only green. It lifts its body onto a desk, hand/claws on the bottom, clacking against wood with yellow nails.

It grumbles. Kind of sounds like "How's my kid doing?"

Chapter 45: Different Strings.

We found the other bas.e.m.e.nt during a summer rainstorm while visiting Grandma J. Neither of us could p.r.o.nounce Grandma's real name, her Polish name. We knew the 'j' made a 'y' sound. We knew she lived in a creepy house. We knew her backyard spanned three acres, an old corner lot on which Grandpa J, dead for ten years then, operated a service station. The station was gone, leaving a concrete slab. Weeds and unruly trees had conquered the three acres, knotting them in a mess of organic chaos.

Usually, we ran through the neighborhood with boys and girls who lived near Grandma, playing football or baseball in the quiet streets. Cloistered by the rain, Mother suggested we go to the attic and look for toys, some of the things she enjoyed as a child. Grandma's attic wasn't a pure attic, but an unfinished section of the second floor reached through a small door in the wall of one bedroom. Dust covered everything. Cobwebs threatened, but, in addition to a shared fear of spiders and birthday, Alice and I were curious. Curiosity trumped arachnophobia, especially for ten-year-olds. Grandma's attic held treasures. The centerpiece was the cedar chest.

We'd never opened the chest-a long, coffin-shaped box of polished cedar, but Alice pried back the lid that afternoon. We found Grandma's linens inside, yellowed to a dirty ivory over time.

Alice swept a tablecloth around her shoulders, and swooshed through the room. "Look, I'm the attic ghost," she said.

I pulled out the rest-napkins, more tablecloths, curtains-and found the door with a metal ring set at one end.

"What's this?"

"Huh?" Alice peered over my shoulder. "A door. A trapdoor. Maybe it's a secret pa.s.sage."

"There are no secret pa.s.sages." I tugged the cold handle, and the door groaned open. A stairwell led down.

"See, dummy."

Alice and I climbed down, hearts pounding, and found a small room. I expected dust and mold, the stale odor of the rest of the unused corners in Grandma's house. Instead, it smelled clean, of strawberries and fresh water. A soft glow illuminated the s.p.a.ce, but no windows. No lights. Three doors led from the first room, each matching the others in the house. Alice opened one, and found another room with more doors. Clutter littered the floor of the second room: boxes of old magazines, tins of food, a mesh bag with marbles, a carton of shiny black pencils.

We left that day after visiting five rooms, each with at least three doors. We left before getting lost in the maze-that's how we felt about the other bas.e.m.e.nt: a maze. I moved the trunk and opened it again, but the stairs remained.

"It's magic," Alice said. "A secret for you and me."

"Just the two of us," I said. We made a solemn, twins-only promise.

Over the next few years, we visited the other bas.e.m.e.nt each time at Grandma's, forgoing the wilds of her yard or the drowsy warmth of her kitchen and living room. We brought a ball of string, tied it to a post in the attic, and, like Theseus, used it to find our way home through the labyrinth of doors and rooms. We carried flashlights, not content with the dim light, and searched through crates and boxes for treasure. And treasure abounded: a garishly painted ceramic cowboy, stacks of china, small medals and ribbons from foreign militaries, envelopes stuffed with old letters, metal toys with chipped paint.

We never found another way into the other bas.e.m.e.nt-not in the house or the yard or anywhere nearby.

We grew older, Alice and I. Fourteen did something to both of us. On a sunny afternoon, Alice betrayed me. I'd mowed Grandma's lawn, and after the sweaty work, I ducked through the attic doorway, and found the open chest.

"Alice?" I called. She didn't answer.

I traced the string down the stairs, through doors, and found them, Alice and Kurtis-a neighbor boy with whom we used to play in the street. Their hands twined together and lips pressed close.

When she saw me, the color bleached from Alice's cheeks. "Oh...I-"

We didn't speak that night. I lay awake, brooding, feeling betrayed. Left behind.

The next day, she begged me to go down again, together, just the two of us like old times.

I brought a pair of scissors from Grandma's sewing basket.

We wound through the maze, our wrists tied to different strings in case we found ourselves separated. Alice stopped in a room with only one box, water damaged and stacked with old records. I fingered the scissors in my pocket, backing toward the nearest door so I could grab the end of her tether and run once it was cut. My grudge ran deep; a promise was a promise.

"It's for the best," Alice said. "We can't always take the same path."

My sweaty palm slipped against the cold metal handles. "What?"

"This," and in one quick motion, her hand flashed with a knife blade. Her string fell limp to the floor. She smiled, and slipped through the door behind her.

I was frozen. After a moment which stretched as long as my fourteen years, I moved. Too late-Alice had vanished in the maze. I tried to follow, I twisted k.n.o.bs and tried, but nothing. Not even a trace of her footprints in the dust.

For me, it was the last trip.

I've kept a snip of her string, a reminder of promises, jealousy, and a selfish, childish decision I would have made twenty years ago had she given me the chance. I have it tucked away in a s...o...b..x with other mementos. The fibers have grayed over the years, and both ends are frayed, but it was Alice's string. My sister's string.

Chapter 46: Blue Collar Boys.

The MedService van squealed to a halt in front of 2113 Rosebud Court five minutes after receiving the call. Two men climbed out, both wearing the company coveralls in navy blue-third shift navy blue. Name tags were st.i.tched on the left breast of each: Rick and Tony.

"'Right, Tony. What's the deal here?"

Tony, scratched his four-day stubble and read from his pocket MedMate. "Male...age 55...apparent overdose...not sure on what. Wife wants the works. Blood type," he paused, "get this: B-."

Rick shook his head. "B-? Really? I can't remember the last B-."

"Yep. Looks like another oil change."

They unloaded the machines from the back of the van. Rick, shorter and stouter than Tony, towed the larger device, the black box with tiny wheels and a long, coiling tube. Tony hoisted the briefcase sized apparatus and casually tucked it under his shoulder; he also grabbed a canister with "B NEG" stenciled on the side in red. The wheels of the big machine rattled across the asphalt as Rick pulled.

A woman answered the door-pinched face, mousy hair. Her eyes were wide and nervous.

"Ma'am...you put in a call?"

"Oh-yes-oh." Her voice was high-pitched, grating. She fumbled with the doork.n.o.b. "Harold. He's in the bedroom."

Tony wiped his feet on the mat, but Rick didn't bother. He had the big machine, and pulling it up even a single step was a ch.o.r.e. They followed the mousy woman through the hall. In the bedroom at the end, a man lay on the bed, pale as skim milk. He wasn't moving.

"Just be a few minutes."

The woman stared at the wall for a moment, and then, as though zapped with a small current, startled. "Yes...thanks...is he going to be okay? I'm sorry I don't know what he, you know..." She made a gesture like popping pills into her mouth.

Rick pried open Harold's blue-tinted lips and began to feed the black tube into his mouth. "We see this all the time," he said.

She nodded, leaning against the doorway. "I just...I don't know why he did this. I mean, he takes pills for his back. Pain meds, that's all. We have the prescription. But I found all of those. I counted."

Trying to ignore the chatter, Tony pressed his MedMate to Harold's exposed arm. He squinted at the tiny screen. "Oh man. Gotta get different blood," he muttered.

Rick looked up from the panel on the big machine. He had flipped the engage switch, and the device made a low humming sound, occasionally sucking and popping as fluid and semi-solid matter rode the snake-like hose out of Harold's mouth.

"What?" he asked over the sound.

"He's a tamp."

Harold's wife frowned. "What...what's a tamp?"

"A tampered record. Somebody wanted us to pump him with the wrong blood."