The Sound of Life and Everything (6 page)

8

Mama blew into the office like a Santa Ana wind,
full of hot air and dusty heat. I settled in to watch the fireworks, but she didn't want to talk to Mr. Lloyd or even Gracie. She wanted to talk to
me.

Gracie tried to talk her out of it, but Mama was insistent, so Gracie handed her the form to sign me out of school. When she got to the reason, Mama scribbled, “None of your beeswax,” then chucked the pen at Gracie and took hold of my hand. I expected her to drag me home (and string me up by my toenails), but she took me to the drugstore, which doubled as St. Jude's soda fountain.

I glanced up at Mama. “Is this supposed to be my reward?” She knew how much I loved the world-famous Mother Lode, seven scoops of chocolate ice cream with all the fixings.

Mama shook her head. “Think of it more as a bribe.”

If I'd been wary before, I was downright suspicious now. She had me so on edge that when the bell above the door jingled, I nearly dove for cover.

Chester Richmond, St. Jude's resident soda jerk, did his best not to notice. As the dispenser of sodas and keeper of the bar, he'd learned how to ignore the strange things people did. “Well, if it isn't my favorite customer!” he said, flinging his dishrag over his shoulder.

I held up both hands. “Since you and me both know you're only usin' me to get to Gracie, let's just skip the small talk and cut straight to my ice cream.”

Chester winked, actually winked, before he headed off to get my Mother Lode. I scrambled onto a bar stool to await his return, but Mama just sagged against the nearest counter. She looked like she was carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders (or at least the weight of St. Jude).

I knotted my arms across my chest. “I'm not sorry I creamed Walter.”

“Gracie said you
didn't
cream him.”

“It's the thought that counts.”

Mama chuckled tiredly. “I'm actually more interested in your conversation with Miss Fightmaster.”

I blushed despite myself. “I really wasn't tryin' to interrupt her lesson. I just wanted to know.”

“I believe you,” Mama said. “And it ain't wrong to ask questions. I just don't think St. Jude's ready for the answers we've been gettin'.”

“Is that why you didn't tell Daddy?”

Mama sighed. “It's complicated.”

Before I had a chance to press her, Chester came back with my Mother Lode. “That's seven scoops of chocolate ice cream with caramel sauce and slivered almonds.” He set the bowl down with a flourish.

“And you even remembered not to douse it with whipped cream.” I shoved a spoonful in my mouth. “I'll put in a good word for you with Gracie.”

He winked again. “I'd like that.”

“Want a bite?” I asked Mama.

Mama shook her head distractedly. She was too busy watching Chester, who'd pulled the dishrag off his shoulder and was wiping down the counter at the other end of the bar. When he turned his attention to the sink, where a heap of sudsy dishes was waiting to be rinsed, she finally relaxed.

“Let me ask you something,” Mama said. “How'd you feel when Dr. Franks first showed us that pod?”

I shoved another spoonful in my mouth as I thought back on that day. The moment when the Japanese man stumbled out of that horse pill would be forever etched on my memory, but the details were already fading. I could barely remember what the place had smelled like, let alone how I'd felt.

“I don't know,” I admitted. “I don't think I believed him.”

“I didn't,” Mama said. “Not even when it split in half and spit out that Japanese man. I was sure it was a trick designed to reopen old wounds—or maybe to get your auntie to give 'em more than Robby's blood.”

I licked a glob of caramel off the spoon. “It sure looked like you believed him.”

“Well, after I thought about it for a second, I realized it couldn't be a trick.”

“Is that why you got angry?”

“I wasn't angry,” Mama said. “I was afraid. More afraid, in fact, than I've ever been of anything.”

The only other time I'd seen Mama scared was on the day we'd received the telegram:

PFC DANIEL HIGBEE WAS KILLED IN ACTION STOP YOU MAY EXPECT HIS BODY IN THE NEXT THREE TO FOUR WEEKS STOP SO SORRY FOR YOUR LOSS STOP

“Why were you afraid?” I asked. “Is it because of what he is?”

Mama's eyes widened. “I'm
terrified
of what he is.”

That reminded me of the conclusion Auntie Mildred had come to about Robby's death, but before I had a chance to ask Mama what she meant, Chester turned off the water. Mama clammed up at once, but he didn't even glance in our direction, just dried his hands off on a towel and disappeared through a door marked
EMPLOYEES ONLY
.

Mama sighed again. “But I'm not afraid of him for the reasons you might think.”

It was like she'd read my mind.

“He's not natural,” she went on. “Dr. Franks took a flake of blood and turned it into a man—and not even the right man, but some other man entirely. That's God's work, Ella Mae.” She pressed her lips into a line. “Or maybe it's not even that.”

I'd thought the same thing, but hearing those words come out of someone else's mouth made them seem more threatening. “What are you tryin' to say?”

“I'm sayin' the less Daddy knows, the better, to answer your first question.”

I crinkled my nose. Daddy said she liked to talk until she finally made sense, but sometimes it took a while.

“Don't worry, sweetness,” Mama said. “These things always have a way of workin' themselves out.” She tugged one of my braids. “But in the meantime, maybe you should try to stay on Miss Fightmaster's good side. And steer clear of Walter. Heaven only knows we have enough numbskulls to deal with.”

I couldn't agree more.

9

Mama was more than ready for the next observation.
That Friday, she suggested that I go to bed early so I'd be ready to leave first thing Saturday morning. When I asked her why she was so anxious to get jabbed with a needle, she said some things were more important than keeping yourself safe. Dr. Franks might have won the battle, but he wasn't going to win the war.

But if that was the case, we were going to have to win it with one less ally. When we swung by Auntie Mildred's place on our way to the lab, Gracie was the one who actually answered the door. Mama yelled something about courage and taking a stand against evil, but Auntie Mildred ignored her, and Gracie had no choice but to bid her good day. I could tell she wanted to ask what the fuss was about, but she was too chicken to do it. It was probably just as well. I doubted I could have explained even if I'd wanted to.

We pulled into the parking lot of Ingolstadt Laboratories just a few minutes late. A convoy of black Cadillacs had parked next to the curb, but they were the only cars in sight.

“Where is everyone?” I asked as I climbed out of the Studebaker.

“Beats me,” Mama said.

As we marched into the lobby, Mama squeezed my hand. I couldn't decide whether it was more for my benefit or hers.

“I'm Anna Higbee,” she said. The secretary didn't look familiar, but then, they never did. “We have an appointment with Dr. Franks.”

The secretary didn't bother to look up from her paperback. “Dr. Franks canceled his appointments. He doesn't like entertaining when Dr. Pauling's around.”

“Who's Dr. Pauling?” I asked.

“The head honcho,” she said, nodding toward the portrait. “Word on the street is that Dr. Franks hasn't been entirely up-front about the research he's been doing, but I wouldn't mind if they sacked him. The guy's a real drag. Did you know he tried to fire me when I forgot to spit out my gum?” She pretended to blow a bubble. “Like I said, a real drag.”

“Don't worry,” I said. “We're good at keepin' secrets.”

“Well,” Mama said after clearing her throat, “as much as we'd like to sit around here and chat, I'm afraid we have to go.”

The secretary motioned toward the door at the far end of the lobby. “Well, then, go ahead.”

“Just like that?” Mama asked.

“Just like that,” she replied. “Unless you'd rather reschedule?”

“Oh, no, that won't be necessary.” Mama dipped her head. “Thank you.”

The secretary grinned. “Of course.” And with that, she waved us through.

I wasn't sure exactly why the secretary hadn't sent us packing, but I wasn't about to question her. Thankfully, the other secretaries didn't bother us as we made our way into the lab. In fact, the last one even took us directly to Dr. Franks, who was pacing in a room like the one from our first visit. But no giant horse pill waited on the other side of the glass, just a dozen metal tables with pairs of plastic chairs.

Dr. Franks didn't turn around when the door opened behind him. “We need to do this quickly, Jackson, before Linus takes his tour.”

“Who's Linus?” I replied.

Dr. Franks twisted around, clutching his clipboard like a shield. “I thought I told Imogene to cancel my appointments!”

“Guess we didn't get the memo,” I said.

Before Dr. Franks could come up with a suitable reply, another door opened, and a team of assistants poured into the room, spreading out around the tables like ants around a picnic. They looked like the same assistants from the week before, though it was hard to say for sure. President Truman could have been hiding behind one of those masks, and I wouldn't have known.

I sidled up to Dr. Franks and sneaked a peek at his clipboard (a move I'd learned from Sergeant Friday). His arm was covering most of it, but I could make out the man's picture—it was definitely him—and the first part of his name.

“It's Takuma!” I said.

Dr. Franks turned the clipboard upside down. “Hasn't anyone ever taught you to mind your own business?”

“But this
is
our business,” Mama said as she arched an eyebrow.

Dr. Franks resisted, but he was no match for Mama's eyebrow. It only took a second for him to hand the clipboard over.

Mama's gaze darted from one end to the other. “He was born in mid-May, same as Daniel.”

I tilted it down so I could get a better look. “And he died on Iwo Jima, same as Robby.”

While me and Mama exchanged a loaded glance, Dr. Franks took back his clipboard. “Bring him in, Jackson,” he said into the intercom.

The door opened again, and the Japanese man shuffled in. He wasn't wearing handcuffs, but he looked like a prisoner just the same. His head was bowed, his shoulders were hunched, and his black hair was matted with grease. I wished I'd brought a comb to give him.

“Where are the others?” Mama asked.

“The others?” Dr. Franks replied.

“Yes, the others!” Mama said. “Your band of half-formed misfits! What have you done with them?”

Dr. Franks stuck out his chin. “I haven't done anything. They're . . . unavailable.”

“Unavailable as in they've been detained or as in they've left the building?”

Dr. Franks glowered. “Now, that is
certainly
none of your business.”

Unaware of the drama unfolding on our side of the glass, the Japanese man took a seat at a nearby table. He hunkered down instinctively, as if he'd gotten used to cowering, but when he spotted me, he sat back up. I wanted to press my hand to the window, see if he'd press his back, but he wouldn't have been able to reach.

Dr. Franks glanced at his clipboard. “He's made remarkable improvement over the last several days. Physically, he was already operating in the ninety-sixth percentile, and I'm happy to report that his brain is catching up.”

“How do you know?” I replied.

“Because we've been monitoring his brain activity.” Dr. Franks checked both ways. “And because he
talks.
”

Mama's eyes narrowed. “What's he said?”

“Oh, nothing of substance. ‘I'm tired.' ‘I want an apple.' ‘I need to urinate.' It's in Japanese, regrettably, which is why we've brought in a translator, but it supports our working theory that he
is
Takuma Sato. That I've literally brought a man back from the grave.”

I scrunched up my nose. “Didn't you already think that?”

“Well, there was always the concern that we created a facsimile—a lookalike, if you will.” Dr. Franks licked his lips. “But it looks like I've regenerated Takuma Sato himself.”

I shrank away from Dr. Franks, who was eyeing the Japanese man like a starving man might eye a piece of prime rib.

“Let's get started, Jackson,” he said into the nearby intercom. Over his shoulder, he added, “And since you're already here, you might as well stay to observe.”

“Oh, don't you worry,” Mama said, thumping him on the back. “We won't be goin' anywhere.”

One of the assistants, likely Jackson, sat down at the same table. “Please state your name for the record.”

Another assistant leaned over the Japanese man's shoulder and mumbled something in his ear.

“Takuma Sato,” the man said.

The other assistants scribbled down his answer, though they must have known what he was going to say.

“And your date of birth?” Jackson asked.

The translator mumbled something in his ear again, and the man replied in Japanese.

The translator cleared her throat. “He doesn't understand the question, sir.” Her voice was high and squeaky.

Jackson leaned forward. “Then ask him when he was born.”

The translator asked, and the Japanese man answered.

“He's lost track of the days,” the translator said slowly, “but he thinks it's been fifteen since he woke up in the sub.” Her eyes crinkled at the corners, and I got the impression she was smiling. “Probably not the answer you were looking for.”

Dr. Franks's face turned purple. “Don't write that down!” he barked.

The assistants' hands froze over their clipboards. A few tried to erase whatever they'd just written (but only when they thought he wasn't looking).

“And Miss Ryland,” Dr. Franks went on, “please refrain from sermonizing on the subject's answers!”

Miss Ryland ducked her head, though her eyes didn't stop smiling. I pressed a hand over my mouth to cover my own grin.

Jackson removed his mask, revealing a stubbly chin. “We're not communicating very well, are we?” He propped his elbows on his knees and looked the Japanese man in the eyes. “We just want to figure out if you remember where you came from.”

Miss Ryland whispered something to the man, who slowly shook his head.

“I don't see why you care,” I said after Dr. Franks chucked his own clipboard, “seeing as you already know.”

Self-consciously, he retrieved his clipboard. “But I want to know if
he
knows.”

“One out of two ain't all that bad.”

Dr. Franks harrumphed.

“Well, maybe he'll remember soon.” Under my breath, I added, “He
has
been dead, you know.”

Dr. Franks rolled his eyes. “I know.”

The interview continued without another interruption. Jackson asked the Japanese man every question he could think of, including what six times thirty-nine was (two hundred and thirty-four) and what the Japanese man liked to do (talk to Jackson, mostly, but also eat fruit cocktail). I thought his answers were impressive—I wouldn't have remembered my times tables if I'd been dead for seven years—but Dr. Franks just stood there scowling.

Finally, Jackson asked, “Do you remember how you died?”

A haunting silence filled the room. I gripped the windowsill instinctively. He hadn't remembered much, just a vague flash or two, but he might remember this. If you cut out the years between his death and rebirth, it had only happened a few weeks ago. And if he remembered how he'd died, would he remember killing Robby?

The Japanese man looked around, then set his sights on me. I couldn't look away.

Last summer, me and Theo had found a stray dog at the pier. Theo had scampered off, blubbering something about rabies—if those Clausens knew anything, it was how to retreat—but I'd held my ground. It was like me and that dog had been able to say a bunch of things without saying one word. Eventually, Theo had come back and convinced me not to leash him, but a part of me had always wondered what friends we might have been if I'd been brave enough to take that dog home. As I locked eyes with the Japanese man, I wondered the same thing.

The man dropped his gaze first and whispered something to Miss Ryland.

“He doesn't remember,” she murmured, keeping her eyes on the table.

Dr. Franks pounced on the intercom. “He must remember something,” he hissed. “So push him, Jackson. Make him work. We need precise responses if we want to be able to complete a full analysis.” Under his breath, he added, “You
know
he's our last hope.”

This seemed like just the sort of thing that Sergeant Friday would write down in his little black notepad. But I didn't have a black notepad (or a way to carry it, for that matter), so I committed it to memory.

Jackson shifted uncomfortably. “Is there anything you'd like to add?”

Miss Ryland posed the question, then waited for his response. The man drew a quick breath, then distinctly said, “No.”

He said it in Japanese, but somehow, I understood (and for some reason, I believed).

Dr. Franks smacked the intercom. “He's lying!” he insisted, then spun sharply around and leveled a finger at Mama. “This is your fault, isn't it?
You
planted that sample.
You
sabotaged my research. You're probably in league with the boys from Cavendish themselves! But how could they have known my other subjects wouldn't—?”