Collected short stories, p.122
Collected Short Stories, page 122
One person rides the buggy up the slope just so far, then dismounts and comes the rest of the way on foot. I call out, "Aisha," with a hopeful tone. But it isn't my lover. When the helmet lifts, I see another face peering up at me, the expression cautious and calm. "Tenwolf," I say, and he nods at me. Then he drops his head again, watching his boots, making absolutely sure of his last few steps.
Lunar dust and human grease give his work suit a comfortably filthy ap-pearance. He turns on his radio, and I hear his breathing. He hears mine. He stops short and turns in a slow circle, gazing across the floor of the crater. With a tone of confession, he admits, "I've never made it up here be-fore." Then he adds, "I see why you like this place. With the array below, and this sky-"
"Is Conrad dead?" I blurt.
"Don't you know?" he asks.
"He looked like he was," I admit. "But his suit managed to seal itself, and I couldn't tell if the wound was fatal..."
The man turns to face me. "How about Opal's message to Earth?" he asks. "Want to know if it got sent, or if your heroics stopped it just in time?"
I start to ask, but my voice is gone.
Tenwolf steps a little closer and looks up into the sky for a long moment. "When I was a boy," he begins, "we had this black Labrador retriever." And then he tells me a decidedly odd little story that involves lying to a dog.
His fable means nothing to me. But just the same, I listen.
Then Tenwolf looks down and halfway winks at me, admitting, "I've been thinking about that stupid dog today. For the first time in years, I bet."
"Why?" I have to ask.
If anything, he's disappointed that I don't see what is obvious to him. He shakes his head, one hand gesturing at the sky. "All this beauty and all this space, and most everything is perfectly sterile. For maybe ten million light years in every direction, nothing lives but us. One wet world, and the few of us up on this desiccated chunk of rock."
I shake my head. Yes, there are awful things to consider.
"Why would God create such a universe?" Tenwolf asks me. And himself. And God, too, I suppose.
"I can't imagine why," I admit, "I keep wondering just that...!"
"But it's pretty obvious, isn't it?" Tenwolf begins. And he hesitates, waiting for my eyes to meet his. "The universe isn't created yet. It isn't even close to being finished." He almost laughs, telling me, "The universe has rolled only partway down that long slope, and then it got hung up. It got it-self stuck. And God, being God, found the most elegant means of delivering the next little nudge. He made life, but only just enough of us. Just enough that He could be sure that here and there, now and again, we'd stumble into his trap. Stumble in with very little warning, and then accidentally put His Creation back on track."
I look at Tenwolf, and then I stare up at the empty sky.
"The Blessed were right," he tells me. "Eventually, an intelligent species-if it survives and spreads across the stars-will stumble into one of God's traps."
"Traps set by God," I whisper.
"A good, moral lie," says Tenwolf. And then he laughs loudly, making him-self nearly breathless. "That's what the stars are, you know. And the infinite worlds. God is lying to dogs, telling us there's nothing out here but good hunt-ing, and empty fields, and Sundays meant for sleeping on warm covers..."
Magic with Thirteen-Year-Old Boys by Robert Reed
Magic takes many forms. In recent years, we've seen White Magic, Black Magic for Dummies, and Magic for Beginners. Now Mr. Reed contributes his own tale of supernatural arts with this inquiry into some of the shadowy recesses of human sexuality. Despite the title of this tale, parents might want to vet this one before sharing it with youngsters.
They do love to talk. There always has to be conversation before, and afterward, unless they're deeply drunk, words are pretty much mandatory. Nothing makes women happier than hours of empty, soul-baring chatter. There's even a few of them that need to talk while they're doing it. Of course their words get awfully simple, if it's during. They grunt out commands and sometimes encouragement, and a few favorite phrases are repeated with predictable rhythm. But if a man can hold his cadence, and if he knows what she likes, it isn't boring. Simple and busy and very crude noise wrapped around a fair amount of pleasure, or maybe a huge amount of pleasure. Then it's finished, preferably for him and for her both, and everyone gets a few moments of silence marked with wet breathing and spiritual insights.
* * * *
"Ted?"
"Yeah?"
"Are you awake?"
"No, I'm not."
"No?"
"Hey!"
"Are you awake now, Ted?"
"That fingernail!"
Without a trace of sorrow in her voice, she says, Sorry. Then after a deep sigh, she asks, What are you thinking?"
"Nothing."
"Liar."
"Okay. You caught me."
"So what's on your mind?"
"You."
"Good answer."
Good enough to earn a few moments of uninterrupted quiet.
"Ted?"
"Who?"
She ignores his response. I have a question, she announces. I've been meaning to ask this since, I don't know when. A couple weeks, at least...."
"What's the question?"
"Do you believe?"
"In what?"
"Anything at all, she says.
He says, Gravity, and laughs for a moment. I wholeheartedly believe in the abiding force of gravity."
"That's not what I mean, she warns. I'm talking about faith. In God and that sort of stuff."
"Stuff?"
"You know what I mean."
"Stuff."
"Do you accept things you can't see? Forces and powers that exist outside the realm of pure reason?"
"Gravity, he repeats.
"Don't joke, Ted."
"I mean that. He sounds sincere and perhaps a little angry. Most of human history has been lived happily without the concept of gravity. People never imagined that bodies in space attract each other. Even with Newton's equations ... they work only in limited situations. And the deepest parts of Einstein's work still don't address every condition in our universe, much less in those other realms that may or may not exist."
A hand waves in the darkness. Fine. Gravity."
"Here's something else to consider, he says. We can't tell for certain that every mass in the universe attracts every other mass. It's impossible to do the necessary research. I mean, yes, the Earth pulls down on us. And two metal balls suspended on delicate wires will attract one another in the proper way. But what about two naked people sprawled out on sweaty sheets? That work has never been done in the laboratory. Who knows if the law of nature holds in our circumstances? He laughs again, briefly. So really, you can see, this business about gravity is one enormous leap of faith."
She says, Sorry."
"Apology accepted."
A pause. Anything else?"
"What do you mean?"
"Is there anything else you have faith in?"
"Oh, sure."
"Are you going to say, Evolution'?"
"Hardly, he says. Natural selection has been proven more thoroughly and far more convincingly than gravity has ever been."
"Okay. What about magic in general?"
"What about it?"
"Do you believe in it?"
"In magic?"
"Do you understand the question?"
He sighs.
"You can't accept magic, she decides.
"Think not?"
"Judging by your tone"
"You can't read my tone, and I'd bet anything you can't read my mind. Little Miss Believes-in-things-that-can't-be-seen."
"Sorry."
He takes a long moment, then asks, What do you mean by magic'?"
"Anything and everything that's miraculous, she begins, with feeling. Magic is everything that shouldn't happen. Magic can conjure up the most amazing things, and usually from nothing."
"'From nothing,' he repeats.
"Magic has rituals and rules. And when it has real power, magic can harm the weak and the sloppy. But there always must be a few great wizards in our world, and with their spells, they achieve wonders. That's why magic exists. That's why it is something worth treasuring."
"Yes."
"What?"
"I said, Yes.
"You buy the idea of magic and spells?"
"Very much so."
"All right. What kinds of magic?"
After a moment, he says, No."
"What?"
"I won't tell you."
"You will too."
"Why? You want to hear about my little run-in with the mystical world?"
"Of course."
"Okay then. I was thirteen."
She says nothing.
"Thirteen, he repeats.
"You were a boy. I heard you."
He takes a breath and then another breath before saying, You don't know anything about being a thirteen-year-old boy. Understand?"
"Okay, she squeaks.
He takes one final deep breath. I was with my best friends, he says, and one day, seemingly by accident, we happened across a magical book."
* * * *
They were playing in a woodlot behind their subdivision. Ted had seen a fox the night beforea beautiful graceful dream of an animaland with the help of his two closest friends, he was searching for the fox's den. What the boys would do when they found it, he had no idea. But the hunt managed to hold everybody's interest for nearly an hour, leaving the three of them hot and thirsty, and ready for some new adventure.
That's when Phillip found a backpack tucked under a juniper tree.
Scott didn't approve. You should have left it there, was his opinion. It doesn't belong to you, so put it back now."
Phillip was the brave one in their group. Scott believed in rules and obedience, while Ted was somewhere between. Exactly where he fit depended on the day and his mood.
"Don't you want to see what's inside? Phillip asked. Then he shook the pack, something with heft bouncing inside.
"No, Scott said. That isn't ours"
"But maybe there's an ID, Ted mentioned. We'll find the owner and give it back, and maybe even split the reward."
The rationale meant something to Scott. Sensing something fun, Phillip didn't want any owner to be found, but it served his needs to nod confidently, saying, Yeah, let's look for a driver's license or something."
The pack was old, the gray-green nylon fabric thin as tissue in places, a couple tears mended with rusted safety pins. The object was dirty enough to show that it had been outside for a few days, but not as filthy as it would have been if it were exposed to last week's heavy rains. The back pocket had been left open, Phillip discovered. It was empty. The zipper to the main pocket fought his tugging, but he managed to pull it open far enough to look inside, turning the pack to where it could fill with sunshine.
Many years later, Ted would still remember his friend's face changing. The blue eyes just lit up, and a mouth that was usually held in a tight smirk fell open. Then a small, deeply impressed voice said, Not here."
"What is it? Scott asked.
Phillip clamped both hands over the open pack, sealing in the contents. Back this way, he said. In the gully."
Better than anyone else in the world, those three boys knew the local terrain. It took several minutes, but once they stopped running, they were out of sight of every human eye in Creation, squatting on a flat piece of the ravine floor, forming a triangle around this most unexpected treasure.
"Okay, Phillip said, releasing his hands.
"What is it? Scott inquired, leaning back warily.
"Take a look, Phillip said to Ted.
Whatever was inside, Ted guessed that it wasn't dangerous. At least it wouldn't bite or explode. So he reached in blindly, feeling a stack of thick paper bound together with fat rubber bands. Then just for fun, he faked pain, jumping back as if a set of fangs had stabbed his fingers.
"Oh, crap! Scott blurted, tumbling onto his butt.
Ted laughed at his cowardly friend, and then he pulled out a stack of photographs. Suddenly every boy was staring at the top image. Even Phillip, who knew what to expect, was staring. Everybody took a small step back, and Ted dropped the discovery on the dusty ground. And all these years later, he could still see the contorted face of the young woman and an astonishing amount of her naked body and what the faceless man was obviously doing to her.
* * * *
"Porn, she says.
He doesn't respond.
"I thought you were talking about magic, she complains. Not just some dirty pictures."
"I told you, he says. I was thirteen."
"Yeah, I remember."
"A new-born adolescent."
She decides not to speak.
"You won't understand, he says. You can't. Even if I was to tell you the whole story"
"I thought you just did."
"No. That's just the beginning. I was setting the scene. The important stuff comes later."
"Is that a pun?"
"Do you want to hear this, or not? Because I don't have to tell it."
"I'm listening, she promises. Go on."
But he doesn't say one word. Not immediately. He seems to be debating the relative merits of what he has begun, and when he finally does speak, he does so slowly, cautiously, as if at any moment, given the tiniest excuse, he will stop talking and never again say one word about this intimate subject.
* * * *
The boys quickly recovered from their shock. Phillip knelt and studied the top image. Then he wiped both hands against his sweaty shirt, and with the others close beside him, he touched the page. The photograph had been glued to a sheet of what looked like thin cardboard, stiff and pale gray, larger than the picture and cut to size with long scissors. Two fat red rubber bands held the book together. Phillip removed the top band and then its partner, taking the trouble to place both inside the empty pack. Then he paused and grinned, enjoying a quick deep breath before turning the page.
The next photograph was smaller, and it was black-and-white, and it was nearly as memorable as the first. A different girl was holding herself in a completely different position. What must have been a brilliant flash gave her body a silvery-white glow that was at least as captivating as what she was doing. The man seemed to be the same man, judging by the proportions of his body. But the bed was different, and the room around the bed too, and if it was the same camera as before, it was being used in a very different fashion.
The third page had four color Polaroid pictures set in a specific order, each equally faded by time. This time, there was no man. But again, the girl was fresh. She looked young and exceptionally tall, but like the first two women, she seemed to be wholly oblivious to a camera, busily doing things with herself that were as bizarre as they were captivating.
In all, there were thirty pages.
The boys counted the photographs and arrived at several general conclusions: Each page held a different girl, and when a man was visible, he was probably the same man, or at least a fellow with a similar body. But the girls were never the same. Not in age or build, and sometimes not even in their race. The only similarity was that each of them was young, and in some fashion, lovely.
About their lover, nothing seemed exceptional. Even boys of thirteen had enough experience in the world to feel sure about that. The man's legs were not lean or particularly muscular, nor was any dimension about his body anything but average. Whenever he was standing, his stomach looked pudgy. Perhaps he had handsome features, but there was no way to tell since his face was out of view. But the women's faces were always visible; with each astonishing image, it was the face that the boys eyes were drawn to first.
Among the three of them, Phillip had the most experience with pornography. His older brother had amassed a considerable library of Playboys and Penthouses and even a few Hustlers. And most important, Phillip had a practical smartness about things most thirteen-year-olds never even thought about.
"This doesn't make sense, he complained.
Scott was flipping back through the book now, slowly, page by delicious page. What do you...? His voice faded, hands adjusting the fit of his jeans. What doesn't make sense?"
"Each one's different, Phillip said.
Ted was staring at the faces and breasts and other stretches of honest, captivating anatomy, committing details to a memory that would never again function at this very high level.
"He's got to be some kind of stud, Scott replied, aching with envy. Whoever he is, the guy knows how to get girls."
"I don't mean the different girls, Phillip said. I mean the cameras."
Confused, the other boys glanced at their friend.
"We can check again. But I don't think it's ever the same camera twice, Phillip continued. Just like it's not the same girl. And does that make sense?"
Ted hadn't considered the matter, not even for half an instant.
"Thirty cameras. Who owns thirty cameras? Phillip flipped back up the Polaroid page. You're a stud, okay. And you like taking pictures. But who in the hell uses a new camera each time?"
"He's rich, Scott offered. Which explains how he gets them, too."
Phillip shook his head. Okay, he's loaded. But why would a rich dude bother with a freakin Polaroid?"
Ted began to appreciate the problem, although he couldn't imagine that it meant much. What mattered were the photographs themselves. Who do you think they belong to? he asked, trying to steer the topic.
"And why put the book out here? Phillip pressed. This is an adult. He's got a house of his own, somewhere. Why stick this kind of thing in an old backpack and dump it in the middle of the woods?"
Ted had wondered about that problem, at least in passing.
But in one critical issue, Scott was miles ahead of his friends. I don't care how many cameras were used, he announced, or why this was lost out here. This book belongs to us now. That's what matters. The cowardly, law-abiding boy had finally found something worth taking. Turning back to the first picture, he said, What we need to do, right now ... we've got to figure out what we're doing with this wonderful gift."
