EMERGENCE (19 page)

And then time for lunch. Afterward we repeat therapeutic hike; following which I nap until afternoon snack-time. Generally manage to remain awake thereafter, reading, until dinner.

After dinner Adam gets serious: Plays the Good Stuff; each work straight through rather than, as in practice, taking run after run at trouble spots. Makes it count. For that I stay awake. Don't even read.

Evening finally winds up with modest bedtime smackrel (no more than 1,500 calories or thereabouts); and so to bed, perchance to dream (generally of food).

Despite nursing schedule, Adam finds time to keep himself clean, groomed; kitchen spotless; do laundry; as well as housecleaning (dusting, carpets, etc.) for those areas of house I get to see; and still is as conscientious about taking care of Terry as would be myself if able.

Finally, manages—somehow!—to find, prepare that astonishing variety of wonderful food! (Where
could
he have found those strawberries . . . ?)

And throughout remains uniformly considerate, optimistic " . . . cheerful, thrifty, brave, clean . . ." etc. Having person like that around could get habit-forming. (Probably what he's up to—auditioning [
would
make some lucky woman terrific househusband]).

Only, if continue to let him wait on me hand and foot—never mind feeding me like this—in six months will be too fat to move. (Suppose
that's
what he's up to . . . ? Perhaps likes his women ample?)

If so, have long way to go. Only week since coma ended. Been eating, sleeping with remarkable devotion to duty ever since; and condition improving, true—color back to normal, no longer dehydrated, metabolic balance restored—but haven't begun to gain weight; still pretty puny example of Womanhood in Flower. If had any competition, doubt Adam would give me second glance. No, strike that; would look, but sympathetically: awfully nice person—for adolescent male, of course.

And
is
adolescent male, let's not forget. Far from perfect. (I mean—anyone who can be
that
cheerful in morning . . . !)

Further, he . . . No, can't go on. Quote from breakfast this morning
(breakfast,
mind you) quite damning enough:

" . . . was the loneliest summer of my life," he mused pensively. "Mother was seized by this notion that I should learn something resembling discipline involving areas beyond music. She decided that I should work mornings in her office. She reasoned, I suppose, that this would force me to get up early, which in itself would be Good For Me. Besides, discovering what it meant to work in a proper work setting, earning a minimum wage, would 'be good for your perspective.' That's what she said—I thought my perspective was fine just as it was.

"So I became an office boy. Not
just
an office boy: the
junior
office boy—the lowest of the low. I was given responsibility for sorting, storing, and checking in and out the innumerable little IBM type-balls, or elements, of the various sizes and fonts that Mother used in her official correspondence—it was a big office and there was a bunch of them.

"The work was boring and seemed without real value. However, I determined to put the best possible face on the situation and went about my duties cheerfully, earnestly, and doing my best to be nice to everyone."

Adam smiled, eyes going distant. "In particular, I did my best to be nice to the secretaries; of whom there was a considerable number, and each better looking than the next. True, some were slightly older than I; but that had never stopped me before—I've been out with many women in their twenties. In fact, some of my most interesting and, uh, productive dates have been with older, more worldly women. It looked as though the summer was shaping up nicely, apart from the job itself, of course.

"So you can imagine how disturbed I was when, after better than a week there, I had yet to get one of these ladies to respond to anything beyond the most businesslike inquiry: 'Thank you for returning that Orator-10 element, Miss Peach, and here are your Elite-12 and Italic-12. Have a nice day.' 'Thank you, Adam.' Beyond that—
nothing
. . . !"

Had no idea where he was going with this; didn't particularly care. Good company, diverting conversationalist; lived interesting life to date, related it entertainingly.

But didn't distract me from
food.

"It was terrible," Adam continued plaintively. "I began to wonder if something was wrong with me: Maybe a postnasal infection had left me with an unspeakable variety of halitosis, of which only I was unaware. Or maybe I had deodorant failure. Or perhaps someone had circulated a vicious rumor that I had herpes—or worse, perhaps Mother had interdicted me . . . !

"I asked her about that and she denied it. Now, to my knowledge, she never lied to me. She was a fine lawyer and a consummate politician, true; and it was often necessary to listen closely to make sure that the words one heard carried the meaning they seemed to on the surface—but she never
lied. . . .

"Well, by the end of the first month I was completely at a loss. I didn't know
what
to do; which way to turn. I had discharged my job duties flawlessly. I had kept track of all the elements without error; given them out, taken them in, ordered new ones from IBM; all in the most charming, helpful, personable manner possible—and I
am
my mother's son: I know my social psychodynamics.

"All to no avail, however: The ladies simply would not socialize with me, no matter what I did or didn't. My self-esteem was in shambles; my reputation as a roué was crumbling.

"Finally at wits' end, I sought advice from one of Mother's senior advisors. He was a wily old fox, versed in the intrigues of political life—but more importantly, he knew
people.

"I told him my problem. He smiled paternally and patted me on the shoulder. 'Adam,' he soothed, 'don't let it get to you. It's nothing you've done, or can do; it's your
job.
'

" 'My job?' Now I was more in the dark than ever. All I do is keep track of the—'

" 'Elements,' said he. 'Of course they won't associate with you. Don't you understand? You're
taboo, the element boy. . . .' "

Silence echoed through kitchen. Froze, glaring, fork halfway to mouth. Adam's expression a study in puzzled innocence.

Terry picked up vibrations; emitted long, low whistle; said, "How
'bout
that."

After counting to ten, slowly, again became aware of blended aromas rising from feast spread before me. Weighed benefits, liabilities. Carefully. Violence such a transitory satisfaction. Decided to let him live.

But just imagine: If do decide to keep him, will spend whole rest of life never knowing when something like
that
due again—but positive out there, somewhere. Waiting. With my name on it. . . .

Good
night!

Surprise! Adam just
asked
to accompany us when search resumes for AAs—instead of baldly declaring intentions, per usual practice.

(This, standing alone, offers hope: May be making progress; perhaps housebroken status achievable within foreseeable future.)

So agreed. But with conditions. . . .

First: Must understand agreement embodies no implied secondary (read "sexual") acquiescence. Will be partners; sharing resources, proceeds, risks, hardships—period.

Second: Pooling brains, agreeing wherever possible on course to be followed—but with
me
ultimately setting policy. My decisions final. If time allows, prior discussions permissible; but if crisis looms, or events .move quickly, orders must be carried out without hesitation.

Pecking order necessary: Present-day environment unforgiving; indecision, inexperience, lack of teamwork—all erode chances for survival. Despite Adam's slight age advantage, am more experienced in survival in world-as-is; been knocking about, self-sufficient, for months. Plus own education vastly broader, again despite age difference; for have devoted bulk of waking hours to emulating Rikki-Tikki-Tavi ("Run and find out!"); trying to learn something about everything, become "generalist" before settling down to specialty.

Adam, by contrast, has learned lots about very little; narrowed interests too early: From own observations, is unparalleled at keyboard, in kitchen; first-rate EMT; efficient domestic (Lord!—entire ancestry, along with ghosts of most of Baltimore's Upper Crust, must be spinning in graves at that summation!); plus shrewd student of people.

Clever also, according to hearsay, at mechanics, electronics. Demon inventor, tinkerer: Most stereo equipment throughout home product of Adam's handiwork; plus garage contains (says he; haven't been out there yet) numerous highly modified automobiles, none of whose designers would recognize, all of which boast performance, mileage, handling, durability far exceeding manufacturers' specifications.

But since Man's Passing, has existed (notwithstanding brash persona) as conservative stay-at-home, scavenging as need arises. Explorations limited to forays about already familiar (to him) city, suburbs. Totally unprepared to set off into wilderness.

Therefore, final condition: Must apprentice to me as karate student. Two reasons: First, we
will
encounter inimical ABs en route—utter certainty, this. Would be comforting to know partner competent to guard my back (plus will feel lots better knowing Adam able to take care of himself should something happen to me—certainly not least probable outcome in post-Armageddon conditions).

Second, instructing
him
good therapy for
me:
Am wreck; going to take weeks of rest/food/exercise to restore me to combat-readiness, and sparring only training better than
kata.

Into second week now. Stronger; can walk unaided, bathe self—though in habit of sociable morning soak by now; luxuriating to Jacuzzi-driven hot water, massage, lazy prebreakfast conversation, laughing at Terry: Silly goose decided if we can, he can—and conducts most energetic baths imaginable at poolside (tubside—
tub
side [size blurs distinction!]); perched carefully on rim, grabbing huge beakfuls, slinging all directions, flapping violently, squawking ecstatically, drenching everything within ten-foot radius—all without getting more than tiniest sprinkle on feathers.

Have begun Adam's training. Initial work revolves around exercises to enhance balance, flexibility, coordination, strength, reaction time, speed; aiding student to recognize feel of own
ki
; learning to concentrate flow; focus, direct through body to attain instantaneous, automatic (preferably correct!) reaction, counterreaction, striking power.

Adam is, of course, quick study (suspect all hominems natural athletes, barring prohibitive physical defects). Mastered principles underlying balance in record time (yes, quicker than me here, too); same with footwork, physics governing striking power. Working now to establish basic group of hyperalert, hair-trigger reflexes which constitute foundation of martial art; "secret" of blindingly fast; shockingly violent, concentrated frightfulness:

Competent, well-trained student reacts without thought. Interlocking, interdependent, multiplex daisy-chain of yes/no decisions, once programmed into subconscious, form automatic "combat computer." Conditioned reflexes evaluate degree of threat, determine quality of response. All takes place too quickly for conscious thought, formation of don't-hurt/hurt/hurt-lots/
kill
intent.

(Which explains why throwing surprise mock punch at karate student, especially relative beginner, such folly: Newly keyed-in responses imperfectly integrated; subconscious misjudges seriousness of threat, overreacts. Before playful intent apparent to cerebrum, foolish acquaintance has paid price. Particularly risky game if done quickly—hurrying even most proficient of masters surefire ticket to own funeral.)

At this stage, however, all proceeds with deliberation, precision. Though weak, am able to perform necessary instruction. And drilling with Adam of immeasurable benefit to own condition: Each day can feel strength returning; body ever more ready to respond to demands.

And while lack even semblance of combat-readiness thus far, my response speed, accuracy, power have Adam's complete attention. Demonstrated in beginning that, slowed and weakened as I am, he cannot land blow of any kind; can block anything he throws, hand or foot; don't even look rushed. Yet can touch him anywhere, anytime, with any limb, despite his best efforts.

Brooded initially about effect on Adam's psyche (Momma Foster's caution again) of revealing how
far
beyond him I am in combat skills, but proved needless concern: If sensitive about being bested by "mere female," conceals it well; responds to challenge like Thoroughbred to touch of whip—most competitive soul have ever met! Uniform reaction to every demonstrated weakness (after eyes grow round) has been to knuckle down, do flat-out damnedest to match me.

And know from own lessons: Demonstrated superiority necessary for effective teaching: Student's appreciation of instructor's prowess
must
approach level of awe. Progress in karate matter of conquering own frontiers. Regularly necessary to issue outrageous pronouncements calculated to hype student's self-confidence (subliminal autosuggestion one of karate instructor's most effective tools) to enable performance exceeding then-assumed limitations. For as each new threshold crossed, matters little whether task once impossible (as well may have been, without overstimulated neuromuscular responses): Karate, at journeyman levels, hinges at least as much on psychology as finely honed physiology.

Felt good to get back into training. And better to have sparring partner. Doing us both good: Adam enjoying workouts; benefit to me simply incalculable.

Of disadvantages, only two immediately apparent: One, believe it or not, appetite actually increased (compounding Adam's awe!). And two, between meals, drills, sleep
constantly
. . . !

Good night, Posterity.