Jim and the Flims (3 page)

“You tweaked genes?” said Val. “Isn't that bad?”

“It might be,” I said. “If we ever got good at it. At this point, it's like we're trying to program a computer by hitting it with a hammer. When I started, I thought I'd be helping people to decorate themselves with tentacles instead of tattoos. Or that I'd grow myself an extra dick.”

“There's something wrong with your first one?” said Val pertly.

“Lately I haven't checked,” I said, studying her. “I live alone with my dog.”

Val was vivacious and cute, with a playful curve to her lips.

“What?” she said as I continued gazing at her.

I gathered my courage. “Would you want to go out tomorrow night? We could get some food and see a punk show.”

“Not a regular punk show,” said Val.“Zonked sweaty boys elbowing me. Maybe the women's roller derby? That's punk, too, a little bit. I know some of the women who skate.”

“That'd be perfect,” I said. “Just so I'm with you.”

“Deliver the
mail
!” said Val, acknowledging the compliment.

“How come you're always at home?” I asked, wanting to keep the conversation going. “Are you a grad student?”

“I'm a kindergarten teacher,” said Val, drawing herself up and giving me a stern stare.

“I'll sit on my mat. I'll eat my slice of apple.”

“That's good, Jim.” She went back to being a pretty girl in her yard. “I have a short work-day. It's nice.”

We started seeing each other a lot. Val didn't seem like a teacher at all—she liked to dance, she joked about sex, and sometimes she'd smoke pot with me. Not that we partied all that much. I'd cleaned up somewhat after my Wiggler flame-out.

I loved talking with this woman. Even more than the things she said, I liked the music of her voice. Our conversations were like opera duets, where the rich, vibrant tones matter as much as the specific words. Val was naturally good-humored, always ready for fun. And my dog loved her.

Our romance took its course. Val moved in with me, and we got married.

Finally my life was on the right track. Val and I were, like, California-style salt of the earth: a kindergarten teacher who grew cactuses, and a mailman who dabbled in high-tech research. I liked how low-stress it was being a mailman.

Val and I spent a lot of time just hanging around our little pink cottage, being comfortable. Other times we'd go on road trips, camping near the sea, bringing Droog on the trips. We even started to talk about having a baby.

I became more and more removed from biotech. If I could enjoy life being happy with Val, that was enough. Even so, I was still playing with my scanning-tunneling microscope a little bit. It was cool to be able to see stuff all the way down at the atomic level.

“I have something to show you,” I told Val one night after supper. “My favorite molecule.”

It was February, with a fairly powerful rainstorm outside. Droog was asleep on his cushion by the heating vent. I'd worn a slicker and boots to deliver the mail that day, and had gotten wet just the same. Dear Val had greeted me with a nice pot of lentil soup.

“Where does your molecule live?” asked Val, her face warm in the candlelight. We liked having little romantic dinners, complete with candles and wine.

“The molecule's a she,” I said. “I call her V. She's on the porch.”

“Inside your junk pile?”

“That's it. Come on.”

My STM was a small mound of random-looking tech equipment. I had a computer with a big-screen display, a binocular optical microscope for bringing the STM's tip close to the sample sled, a set of piezoceramic widgets for moving the tip, and an electrical transformer that smelled of ozone.

The rain was picking up, with water flowing down the window panes in wavy sheets. The dark palms were whipping back and forth, and thunder boomed across the sea.

“Lightning!” said Val, glancing out the window, her eyes soft and dark. “It's like you're the mad scientist in his laboratory.”

“Just where I've always wanted to be,” I said. “With a beautiful wife to care for me. I'm glad our roof doesn't leak.”

“We wouldn't want your pet molecule, V, to get wet.” She giggled and perched herself on the beat-up old armchair we kept out here.

I cranked up the scanning-tunneling microscope, and the transformer made just the kind of rising whine that you'd expect from a science-fiction lab. I checked the positioning of the sample, then threw the switch that engaged the piezoceramic manipulators. They made a nice clicking sound. I set them to sweeping Ira's metallic hydrogen tip back and forth across the sample surface. An image began developing on my computer screen, an archipelago of dots.

“What is this molecule?” asked Val.

“It's you! I took skin flakes from your hairbrush, extracted some DNA, and fixed one of the strands to a graphite plate. See how shapely you are?”

We could see a blurry double helix, coiled around like a kelp stalk on the beach.

“Oh, don't tell me you want to tweak my genes!” protested Val. “Ugh.”

“Just admiring them for now,” I said. “We'll use the old-school method for any tweaks.”

“Tonight might be a good time to try,” she said softly.

I went over to her and gave her a kiss. And then we were in bed, making love. It definitely added some spice to know we were doing it for real. Unprotected. Hoping to make a baby. I felt an odd tingle in my spine.

Just as we came, lightning struck a power pole across the street. It was a strange moment—for an instant I couldn't tell if the lightning was out in the world or inside my body. The lights in our house went out, and the scanning-tunneling microscope on the porch made a popping noise that was lost in the astonishing clap of thunder.

For a second or two, Val and I lay there stunned and half-deaf. Droog was whining in the kitchen. A siren sounded in the distance. In the velvety darkness, I seemed to see a glowing yellowish dot come zigzagging into our room. A tiny shape seemed to wriggle at the center of the dot.

Val cried out. The orb homed in on us and disappeared in the tangle of our bedding.

“Did something just now crawl inside me?” exclaimed Val, her voice rising. She sat up, throwing back the sheets. “I swear I felt a tingle down there—what's going on, Jim! Help!”

I fumbled for the matches on the nightstand and got a candle going. My hands were shaking.

Beautiful naked Val was next to me, her eyes big and wet. Seeing her made everything seem safe.

“It's okay,” I told her, putting my arms around her.

“But I saw something flying towards us,” insisted Val. “Like a bug.”

“A lightning bug,” I said, trying to joke. “It was just an afterimage. From the flash. Nothing crawled inside you. No way.” I gave her belly a gentle pat. “Nothing in there but you and me.”

Val peered down at herself and let out a shuddery sigh. She managed a little smile. “What a story for the baby. If this was the time.”

A fire truck rumbled into our street with its radio going. The rain was still pouring down. We could see a charred utility pole and some sparking wires. We put on our robes, got some cookies from the kitchen, and stood by the window watching, with Droog at our feet. The firemen put up barriers around the live wires and left.

Before returning to bed, I looked in on my scanning-tunneling microscope—it had blown a heavy spark, charring the sample on its little sled. The metallic hydrogen tip had shattered into a little stub. I turned off all the power switches and set the sample sled on a corner of my desk.

The next day I figured out that the power surge had shorted out something in the STM—but I didn't get around to fixing it. The sample sled stayed there on my desk where I'd put it.

Winter turned to spring. Green sorrel sprouted all over the back yard. And one day Val had some news for me when I came home from work. As soon as I walked in, I could see it on her happy face.

“You saw the doctor?” I asked.

“We're expecting!” she sang. “It's gonna happen. Oh, wow, Jim, do we have to start being grown-ups?”

“Never,” I said. “We'll be the cool kind of parents.”

“How will we know what to do?”

“You've got a head start,” I said. “From teaching kindergarten.”

“I hope I'm not one of those mothers who's always
reasoning
with her baby,” said Val. “Loudly so everyone around can hear. Because, because, if and then.”

“The baby,” I said, trying out the word.

“Baby, baby, baby,” echoed Val. “That's such a funny word. It sounds chubby and cute.”

“Mama Val. I like it.”

It was a hard pregnancy. Val was hungry all the time, but she threw up a lot, too. She'd fill a plate with food, then stare at it in disgust. And she was having nightmares—but she didn't want to tell me what they were about.

One day in August I came home from work to find Val on the couch, sobbing into her hands. Droog was sitting on the rug, anxiously watching her.

“Oh, Val. What is it, dear?”

“That glowing dot, Jim—that's what's inside me.”

“What do you mean?” I said, the hair rising on the back of my neck. I sat down next to her and put my arms around her. “Don't make yourself crazy, Val. Relax. It's just the pregnancy wearing you down.”

“It's not a pregnancy!” she cried, pushing me away. Her voice was loud and harsh, and her face was blotchy from weeping. “That little spark flew inside me, Jim! From your horrible machine. It's not a baby, it isn't. I want it out!”

“It's...it's been six months, Val. Are you sure that—”

“Take me to the doctor,” she sobbed. “Take me now!”

“Okay, fine. I can phone for an appointment. Or—”

“Now! I can't stand another minute!”

Our obstetrician was a calm, competent Vietnamese woman who had an office near the hospital. I phoned and told her that we were having a crisis, although I wasn't exactly sure what it was. Dr. Ngyuen told us to come straight to the emergency room.

The aides got Val into a gown and laid her one of those high hospital beds on wheels. A gurney. Ugly word. After a quick moment alone with Val, Dr. Ngyuen came over to me. Something was horribly wrong.

“We're going into surgery, Mr. Oster,” said the doctor.

“What's wrong? Will Val be okay?”

Dr. Ngyuen reeled off some medical terminology. And then something about a tumor. My heart was pounding so hard I could hardly understand a word.

“I don't want to,” Val was sobbing from her rolling bed. “I don't want to.” An intern was injecting drugs into her arm.

“I love you,” I told Val, my eyes stinging. I leaned over and kissed her. “You'll make it through this, darling. I'll be right here.”

“It's all your fault,” she said.

And then they wheeled her down the hall.

I sat in the waiting room. I'd look away from the clock for as long as I could stand it, and when I looked back, the minute hand wouldn't have moved at all. I prayed, wanting to connect to the one mind I've always imagined to be glowing behind the scenes. But what if Val and the baby died? I looked back at the clock. It still hadn't moved. Hundreds of people came and went, hundreds of names were called. And then, all at once, it was my turn.

Dr. Nguyen looked shaken, unsure. “I'm very sorry,” she said. “Val's gone.”

“But—”

Dr. Nguyen led me into a windowless office off the waiting room and got me to sit down.

“It was a very aggressive cancer,” said the doctor, slowly rubbing her hands together—as if wanting to wash them. “A florid pathology.”

“But where's Val? Can I see her? And what about the baby?”

“Incinerated,” said Dr. Nguyen, pausing after the word. “As a biohazard measure. I'm very sorry, Mr. Oster. I know this is difficult for you.”

“Incinerated? Like trash? Val and our baby?” I was on my feet. “My whole life? Incinerated?”

“Please, Mr. Oster. We'll get you a relaxant. You should call someone to help get you home.”

I threw back my head and howled.

Three days later, I had a funeral for Val. Chang and Droog helped me dig a hole for Val's ashes in the sandy soil of a bluff above Four Mile Beach where she and I had camped. One of Val's friends was studying to be a rabbi, and she said some traditional words. I filled the hole and set a little pyramid-shaped rock on top. And then the mourners came to my cottage for a reception. My landlords, Dick and Diane Simly, stayed away, even though I'd invited them.

I served bread and lentil soup, the same as the meal I'd had with Val the night she'd gotten pregnant. And Val's friends brought some other stuff, like cold cuts and roast chicken. Funeral meats. I absolutely couldn't believe this was happening.

We sat in my back yard, drinking and smoking a little pot, with the guests chatting, and me not saying much. Whenever I tried to talk, my voice broke. To try and keep it together, I kept focusing on tiny visual details like a pebble or a twig, imagining that God and maybe Val were hiding inside.

And then Skeeves, of all people, showed up. With the barest of nods, he walked past me, got himself a beer in my kitchen, and started nosing around on the side porch where I kept my defunct scanning-tunneling microscope. I could dimly see him through the screen, touching things, picking things up. Skeeves rarely held still.

A minute later he was back outside, with his beer in one hand and his other hand in the pocket of his baggy shorts.

“What are you doing here?” I asked him in a low voice as he came near. “You didn't know Val.”

“But I'm involved,” said Skeeves. “I told Ira to get you that sharp tip. Chang told me about the sad outcome.” He turned his head like a bird, fixing me with one of his oddly flat eyes. “Did you get a chance to see the thing that was growing inside her?”