FSF, September-October 2010 Read online

  Only Axel said anything then. He wasn't falling anymore, but he wasn't completely sure where he was, as if it had all been a long journey. He looked up at Dr. Margaret and asked, “We can't give up, can we?"

  Dr. Margaret looked down and gently placed her hand on his back. “We didn't give up, Axel.” With a wearier voice she completed the thought: “But we lost."

  * * * *

  It is a terribly empty feeling to be on the other side of a closed door, like the one to Tom Groverton's office and quarters, where Tom and Dr. Margaret took Diogenes.

  The saurs waited outside—all of them. They crowded the second-floor corridor from Tom's door to the edge of the stairs. Hubert brought Hetman and his bed up on the lift. Hermione rode along with him.

  There was nothing to do in the corridor, but they didn't know where else to go, with Diogenes in there. They just wanted to be as close to him as possible.

  Axel pressed his head to the door and tried to listen in.

  "Maybe,” he broke the uncomfortable silence, “maybe they're trying to bring him back!"

  "Axel,” said Kara, with a long pause before she spoke again. “He can't come back."

  "But—but—” Axel held out his forepaws to her. “There's all this cool science stuff like I see on the video. Is there something they can use to bring Dio back?"

  "Would that there were,” Doc said softly.

  Agnes turned around sharply and stared straight at Axel. “Do you think they'd use something like that on a saur? No! Humans would use it for themselves and everyone else can go to hell!"

  "Agnes,” Sluggo said with more than the usual alarm in his voice, “you can't—say—not Tom! Not Dr. Margaret!"

  "Humans can turn on you—at any time!"

  "Stop it!” Kara lowered her neck until she could look Agnes straight on. “You're upsetting the little ones! You're upsetting everyone!"

  "I don't care!” She raised her tail over her head. “The little ones should know!"

  "If I may point out the reason—” said Doc.

  "You never shut up, do you?” Agnes brought her tail down hard against the floor. “You just go on and on! You inflated blowhard! You—"

  "—the reason we are here.” Doc completed his sentence and sighed.

  Kara stared at Agnes. “You have no respect!"

  "Are you all idiots?” Agnes looked only more determined to continue. “Don't any of you remember—"

  "Please!"

  The entreaty came from the direction of the little bed—raspy, but insistent, and clearly audible above the din. “This is not a time to fight!"

  Agnes looked over at the bed and lowered her tail. No one but Hetman could ever make her relent. She glowered at Kara, at Doc—at all the saurs around her—jaw set tightly and brows curved downward.

  "I...I just don't like closed doors!” She turned away from them to stare at the door, her sides expanding and contracting with her slow, fierce breathing.

  Axel stayed at the door, hoping to hear something.

  Preston sat with him, legs straight out before him as if he were still working at his keyboard. It looked awkward but for Preston it was familiar and comfortable.

  "I thought I heard them doing something in there,” Axel said, with his head to the door. “But they were just talking."

  "Sometimes talking is doing,” Preston said.

  "Remember,” Axel said, pulling his head from the door, “in the Franky-stein videos, when they put the Franky-stein guy on the big table? And they put the lightning stuff through him so he's alive again?"

  Preston nodded.

  "Maybe they got one of those machines like that. Maybe they can put the lightning stuff through Dio."

  "That's just a story, I'm afraid,” said Preston. “When they really put the lightning—er, electricity—through someone, it kills them, except in small amounts, like the paddles Tom used."

  "But stories got real stuff in them too, don't they? I mean, you write stories too. Don't you have a lot of real stuff in your stories?"

  "I do,” said Preston, looking at Axel sadly, “but the real stuff I put in is what's inside the characters. All the gadgets and laboratories and space ships—I make that part up."

  "Oh.” Axel let his legs slip out from under him and sat down. “Oh."

  "I wish we did have a machine."

  "Me too,” Axel replied, but with little enthusiasm, and then his eyes lit up.

  "We could build one!” He hopped up again. “We could go to Reggie!"

  "But that would take a while, Axel. Maybe weeks. And by then it would be too late for Dio."

  "Oh,” Axel said again.

  "Even if you could build a machine, that is."

  "Oh."

  "I think what we have to do now,” said Preston, “is prepare to say good-bye."

  "I—” Axel shook his head. “—I can't!"

  The door opened. Axel and Preston quickly moved out of the way as Dr. Margaret came out.

  She looked very tired as she knelt down in front of the saurs—so she wouldn't have to look quite so far down at them—at all those eyes staring back at her.

  In all those eyes, she knew, were memory and consciousness. They knew what they were and they remembered what they had been.

  "Is everyone here?” she asked.

  "Yes,” Kara replied, looking back at the saurs gathered in the corridor.

  "Dio's not here,” Kincaid, a bright yellow corythosaur, added, then realized what he'd just said. “Oh!"

  "How is Tom?” Bronte asked.

  "Not good,” said Dr. Margaret. “He feels like he could have done more."

  "Hmmph!” said Agnes, eyeing the doctor suspiciously.

  "We have to make plans,” said Dr. Margaret. Words like “funeral” and “burial” weren't spoken.

  She asked them, “Do you remember Bick? And Runyon?"

  "Of course we remember them!” Agnes shouted. “You think we're witless or something?"

  Bick was a tiny triceratops who fell asleep under a chair one night and never awoke. Runyon, an iguanodon, was found by Hubert one day on a bookshelf, curled up and lifeless.

  "We buried them outside,” said Sluggo, “under the crape myrtle tree. We thought they'd like the flowers in the summer."

  "Red rocket crape myrtles,” said Elliot, the orange stegosaur.

  "That's right,” Dr. Margaret said. “And now we have to do the same for Dio."

  "He always did like that crape myrtle tree,” Bronte said. “He took some little silk flowers to the graves, too. When the wind blew them away he'd run out and set them back."

  Veronica, next to Elliot, whispered, “He was always doing things like that."

  Dr. Margaret continued. “We talked to Susan Leahy at the Foundation. She's coming out tomorrow for the—"

  "The vegetation?” Axel offered.

  "Visitation,” Dr. Margaret said.

  "Better to get it done quick,” said Charlie the triceratops. His mate, Rosie, tapped him with her forefoot and shook her head.

  "We'll have a memorial service,” the doctor said. “The way you want to do it."

  "Will we see him?” asked Kara.

  "If you'd like."

  "We can set up a site for him too,” said Preston. “Like we did for the others. We can post pictures and things."

  "That would be wonderful,” said Dr. Margaret.

  "And we'll pick some music he liked,” said Veronica.

  The Five Wise Buddhasaurs nodded their approval.

  "And everyone should have a chance to say a few words.” Bronte looked down at Guinevere. “To say what we feel. How we remember him."

  From somewhere, Ross had managed to find another chunk of parsnip, a morsel of which flew out of his mouth when he shouted, “Ab-by!"

  "This isn't the time to listen to the radio,” Alphonse told him. “Besides, I left it down—"

  "No!” Ross said. “Send mail! Tell Abby!"

  "Oh,” Alphonse said. “I'm not sure that's her j
ob, but we can find a station address, if you want to send her a mail."

  "Oh-KAY!"

  "And can we have—?” Jean-Claude started, the digits of his forepaws knitted together plaintively.

  "Yes?” Dr. Margaret tried to help him along. “What would you like?"

  "Can we have—something—to eat?"

  Agnes shouted, “Is that all you ever think about? What—you want them to cook up Dio on a spit or something?"

  "Oh! Noooo!” Jean-Claude shook his head vigorously. “Nooo! We couldn't eat someone we know!” Pierrot, standing next to him, nodded in agreement.

  "Why not?” Agnes marched over to them. “They've probably already got him cut up and cooked in there already!"

  "Agnes! You can't say that!” Sluggo said, but Agnes nudged him away.

  "For all we know,” she shouted, “Tom could have killed him! Beating on his chest! Trying to electrocute him! Maybe that canister had poison gas in it!"

  Dr. Margaret stood up.

  "Agnes! We need to talk! Now!"

  She reached down and firmly picked the saur up between forelegs and hind legs.

  Agnes didn't resist but shouted to the others, “See? See? I told you they can turn on us! Saurians! Defend yourselves! The humans have gone berserk!"

  The crowd parted as Dr. Margaret carried Agnes to the attic stairs.

  "I feel sorry for her,” said Rosie, watching the two disappear upstairs.

  "How can you?” said Kara. “After all those terrible things she said!"

  "I meant Dr. Margaret.” Rosie shook her head.

  As the saurs watched, Doc noticed the door of Tom's office open a few centimeters. He pressed the door gently until it opened a little farther and stepped in. When he turned around to close it he found himself facing Axel.

  "You'd better not come in,” Doc told him.

  "I have to!” Axel pleaded. “I have to see Dio!"

  "Perhaps—” Doc didn't want to draw the attention of the others, which would surely occur if he left Axel outside. And then, as much as he wanted to spare him any greater distress—"Quietly,” he said, stepping to the side and allowing him entrance, then pushed the door back until he heard it softly click shut.

  * * * *

  Dr. Margaret took Agnes to the “museum,” which was what they called the attic space where the saurs kept all sorts of things they wanted to save and things that were sent to them. Shelves and cabinets were filled with plastic figurines, china dolls, cushions, dried flowers, model cars, a pair of reading glasses, boxes with photos, folders of greeting cards, little drawings sketched with unsteady child-fingers—all sorts of things. Saurs could come up here and remember, or pretend to.

  A small table was placed in the center of the room, a set of plastic stairs leading up to the top and a couple of wooden chairs close by. Dr. Margaret placed Agnes on the center of the table, drew up a chair, and sat down, facing her.

  Agnes looked back, silent and furious.

  "I'm not going to tell you what you can or can't say."

  "I don't care,” said Agnes.

  "I really need you to keep your head. We all need you to, to get through this."

  "I don't care."

  "We're all hurting—"

  "I DON'T CARE!” She walked to the edge of the table, turning her back on Dr. Margaret.

  "If you can just save your anger—"

  "For what?” She pounded her tail against the table. “That's all I have! All I have is anger!"

  "That's not true."

  "What do you know? I hate! I hate death! I hate life! All the rest of it is crap and fairytales. Even the fairytales I tell the little ones! It's all crap and I hate it!"

  "Tom did everything he could for Diogenes. Dio had a deformity in his right ventricle. He didn't want anyone to know and he didn't want anything done that would take funds away from the rest of you. Tom couldn't do much more than he did when the time came. Agnes, there isn't a human anywhere who cares more about you than Tom, and it is so—” for the first time she raised her voice, “—so unfair for you to jump on him like that!"

  Agnes looked down over the edge of the table, still facing away from the doctor. “So what do you want me to do?"

  "I don't know.” The doctor stood up, lost between anger and fatigue. She walked to one of the shelves not far away, where she found a small wooden box. It had once been lined with a red fabric that was meant to resemble velvet, but most of its color and soft fuzziness had worn away over the years.

  Agnes heard her at the shelf and turned to see what she had been looking for.

  At the sight of the box she exploded. “What are you doing? Put that back!"

  Dr. Margaret took it over to the table and set it down.

  "PUT THAT BACK!"

  The doctor opened the box. Inside was a chain with a gold-plated Star of David: a child's piece of jewelry.

  "Don't touch it!” Agnes looked at the little star.

  Without touching the contents, Dr. Margaret pushed the box a little closer. “Once there was a little girl who loved you very much. Is that a fairytale?"

  "That's different! She wasn't like—she—"

  "What do you think she would have wanted you to do?"

  The jaw Agnes held stern and taut as a matter of course began to tremble. She shut her eyes as if against tears, which saurs cannot produce, but her face reflected all the agonies that accompany them. Her mouth opened as if she intended to wail, but no sound came out, not until she whispered the name “Molly,” bent her legs and lowered herself to the surface of the table.

  The doctor stayed with her for a few minutes, then left her in the museum, promised she would never tell—not Tom, not anyone—about what happened here, and went down to help the other saurs with their planning for Diogenes.

  * * * *

  Tom had been sitting at his desk since Dr. Margaret left the room, eyes closed, hands together but not in a very prayerful way. It looked more like a tangle of fingers. His head rose and fell slightly with the rhythm of his heavy, slow breaths. It occurred to him that he was making himself breathe in a way that he hadn't been able to do for Diogenes. That only tightened the knot of fingers on his desk.

  He could barely bring himself to glance at Diogenes—his body, really. Dr. Margaret had covered him with a bed sheet, all but his head. On Dio's face was no expression of repose, no “peace of death.” The face was constricted—the record of one last searing pain.

  Tom remembered that same tightening of the facial muscles—that look of bewilderment—on his father's face. He wasn't supposed to see, but he had crept into the room where his father's body had been found. He had wanted to give him one last hug, but instead recoiled in horror.

  He made a vow back then, in his boyish way, that if he could ever vanquish death he would. “Death, thou shalt die,” went the old sonnet. But there wasn't much about death in the poems he read that wasn't contradicted in the world he experienced.

  Tom's desk phone chirped. He picked up the handset, thinking it was Susan Leahy, calling again with more directions, or it might have been the woman she had recommended for the funeral arrangements.

  "The origin of this call cannot be traced,” Reggie informed him. “Do you wish to accept the call?"

  Tom took a deep breath and said, “Accept."

  "Hello."

  On the other end was a trained, modulated male voice, like an actor or a newsreader, who said, “Tom, all we want to do is help."

  He had heard the voice before and pressed the button to disconnect the call.

  Almost instantly the phone chirped again. He waited to pick it up until he was sick of hearing the noise. He looked out his window, at the woods surrounding the house, as if he could spy on the callers who were obviously spying on him.

  How did they always know?

  "The origin of this call—"

  "Accept,” said Tom. He didn't know why other than it might be seen as a sort of penance.

  "Tom, your employers are w
ithholding a vast storehouse of knowledge—research of great potential. The world can be a healthier place. A happier place. A better place. Why are they preventing this? Tom, we know you're a good man. If we—"

  He hit the “disconnect” button again, this time with more force. There were limits even to penance.

  He looked down at his desk, placed his elbows upon it, and covered his head with his hands.

  "Forgive me for disturbing you, Tom."

  Tom's head rose with a start. He looked toward the door and there stood Doc and Axel.

  "Have you been here long?” Tom turned his chair to face them.

  "A few moments."

  "Is there something you need?"

  Doc shook his head. “Not precisely."

  "I need a little time to be alone, if you don't—"

  "That's why I'm here.” He took a step forward. “I feared you'd wish to be alone. I understand the need for solitude. But grief and solitude do not always meet to advantage. Like a couple of drunken companions, they can get themselves into trouble."

  Axel tapped him on the side, just above his hip. “Can I see now?"

  Doc looked at the table across the room, the bed sheet and the shape of the figure beneath.

  "Patience,” he whispered. “A few moments."

  "You know my history well enough,” he said to Tom. “I was purchased for a little boy. A bright little boy, with a splendid imagination. And good—unlike many of the former owners of my friends here. But he was a very sick little boy, who spent much time in the hospital. Consequently, so did I. My job was to be his companion and—to some degree—his protector."

  He took another step forward, his tricky leg a little trickier than usual. Tom bent down, picked him up, and gently placed him on the desk.

  "I thank you. It's easier to talk at this level. I was designed, as you can see, to approximate, with some license, the great tyrannosaurus rex, once considered the fiercest predator to ever walk the earth. True or not, it would be hard to convince any little boy that it was otherwise. That's how the little boy thought of me.

  "He frequently had nightmares. His disease, in these dreams, manifested itself as something he first called ‘the gray man.’ Later on he called it the ‘shadow man’ and ‘the shadow thing.’ Its nature changed a little from dream to dream, but the shadow thing's purpose never altered. It was there to take him away."