Drop by Drop

10

At one end of the main waiting room in the Hilda Staunton Memorial Hospital a massive wallscreen extended from floor to ceiling, wall to wall. For the safety of patients and their families it was not interactive, and was tuned to the blandest programming available.

Recently there had been an insistent demand for network news.

As Gloria Delmonico entered the room to summon her next patient a commentator was saying, “The Change is being reported throughout Africa, the Antipodes and Asia, but it’s hitting hardest in the most technologically advanced areas. For once, the developed countries are on the front line of a calamity.”

The word “calamity” sent shock waves through the room.

A massive woman perched on a king-sized pillowcase filled with crushed ice gave a shriek of hysteria. By the time Gloria reached her side the woman was flailing her arms. One of her fists hit the psychologist squarely in the stomach.

Lights flashed behind Gloria’s eyes. She heard a roar like the sea. She started to say, “How irresponsible…” Then the sea rolled over her.

At first Gerry could not understand the message from the hospital. The AllCom was spitting static. When he realized Gloria had been injured he ran to his car in the parking lot at RobBenn. As he roared through the front gate the guard called out, “Hey, you just got here!”

“Wrong! I just left.”

He found his wife in a private room, propped up on pillows and looking sheepish. “They shouldn’t have called you, I’m fine. One of the patients was hysterical, that’s all.”

“You’re coming home with me as soon as they release you.” He took one of her hands in his. Her fingers were icy. “Are you sure you’re okay, Muffin?”

“Better than okay, me and our baby both. She’s tucked up safe inside me, that little accident didn’t hurt her a bit.”

Gerry’s heart gave a leap. “Our baby! Did they tell you it’s a girl?”

Her smile filled the room. “Some things a mother just knows. But let’s keep it our secret for now, okay? I don’t want to jinx anything.”

By the time Gerry spoke to Jack again, Gloria was at home. Jack drove to their house with a large bouquet wrapped in florist’s paper lying on the seat beside him.

“She’s in the bedroom,” Gerry said as he opened the door. “Go on in and I’ll fix us some coffee.”

His wife was sitting in an overstuffed armchair with a book open on her lap. Through the window behind her Jack could see Evan Mulligan’s chestnut mare grazing in her pasture.

Gloria greeted her visitor warmly. “You shouldn’t have bothered, Jack, but it’s sweet of you to bring flowers.”

“Nobody ever calls me sweet. How’re you feeling?”

“Embarrassed over all the fuss. I’m going back to work tomorrow.”

“That’s good, I guess—if your doctor says it’s okay.”

“He does, and the hospital needs me. People are really…”

“Spooked?”

“Yes, some of them. Then there are the stalwart types who deal with whatever comes.”

“That’s me,” said Jack.

“I know; I wouldn’t expect to see you in my department. Sit down in the other chair and tell me what’s going on outside. Gerry doesn’t talk about it because he doesn’t want to worry me, and our internet’s down. That’s why I’m reading a book.”

Her brown eyes were pleading with him.

He tried to answer without conveying the unease he felt. “The media’s still treating the Change like some sort of freak show. I suspect the authorities are trying to keep a lid on things as long as they can, but rumors are flying. We should take them with a grain of—”

“What’s happening, Jack?”

“The Change has begun affecting computers.”

“In Sycamore River?”

“Everywhere,” Jack said bleakly.

Gloria unconsciously clutched her book. “What’s next?”

“We’ll probably lose our connectivity; perhaps the whole global network. Anything that depends on computers could fail, and that’s just about everything we rely on.”

“Everything?”

“A lot,” he amended, “but it won’t happen all at once, and in the meantime someone may figure out a way to stop it. Your husband thinks the Change may be attracted to differing molecular structures and is moving from one to another.”

“Do you agree with him?”

“Gerry knows a lot more about science than I do. I have some theories of my own, but—”

“I can’t take this in, Jack.”

“No one can, not yet.”

From the doorway Gerry said, “Care to make a guess as to how much time we have before the real panic sets in?”

Jack stood up and took the tray and cups from him. “I hope this is stronger than just coffee.”

“My wife’s off alcohol for the duration.”

“Sorry, I forgot. Here you go, Gloria.”

Cradling the warm cup in cold hands, she looked up at Jack. “Can you answer Gerry’s question?”

“Not until we find out who’s behind this.”

“And how to undo the damage,” she added.

Gerry sat down on the arm of her chair. “I don’t think it can be undone, Muffin, we’ll just have to find acceptable substitutes for what’s lost. Already there’s some experimentation with soft woods like pine, and especially willow. They can be flexible enough to do the job plastics do, but their reaction to heat is a problem. Plus wood’s organic and permeable, rather than inert, so there are situations where it can’t be used at all.”

“Surely there are synthetics that—”

“Most synthetics are made from petrochemicals,” Jack told her. “Even fabrics. That slipcover on your chair, for instance.”

Gloria looked from one man to the other. “A hundred years ago nothing was synthetic and our grandparents got along just fine.”

“That’s because they didn’t know what they were missing.”

Jack was staring out the window. “Trillions of bits and pieces. A kid’s model spaceship and the guidance system for an intercontinental ballistic missile. We’re going to lose them all.”

“Don’t forget about cars,” said Gerry. “Under the hood some now have enough electronic gadgetry to send a rocket to Mars.”

A muscle twitched in Jack’s jaw. “I’m not going to stop driving my Mustang.”

“It’s a classic car, isn’t it? Don’t they predate computerization?”

“Just barely. How much do you know about cars, Gerry? They started using computers in them before the turn of the century. If mine was a vintage automobile like one of the 1950 Mercs, it wouldn’t matter.”

Gloria spoke up. “So much medical equipment depends on computers too.”

“Except bedpans, Muffin.”

“Even bedpans. Their computers weigh output and report it to the nurses’ station.”

“Too much information,” said Jack Reece.

Edgar Tilbury visited his wife’s grave every Sunday. He did not comfort himself with the thought that Veronica was looking down on him; he did not believe in an afterlife. But he went to Sunnyslope Cemetery in every sort of weather and sat on a wrought-iron bench a few feet from her headstone. Sometimes for only ten minutes but never more than an hour. Then he would drive home again, a long, silent drive into deep country.

After leaving the cemetery that morning he saw the young woman. At least she looked young to him. She wore a poncho and carried a buckskin shoulder bag, and was standing by the bus stop.

None of my business, he told himself.

As he drove past he glanced in the rearview mirror and saw her face.

He slowed. Stopped. Backed up and lowered the window. “Want a ride?”

She didn’t look at him. “No.”

“Got it.” But he didn’t drive on. “You been to the cemetery?”

“My mother’s buried there.”

“You don’t remember me, do you?”

“Should I?” Still not looking at him.

“I remember you,” Tilbury said.

“Do you.” A statement, not a question. She was looking at him now. Warily.

“It was a morning like this one, nice and dry. But your clothes were soaked.”

“You were kind to me.”

“You were dizzy and covered with bruises.”

“So you took me home with you.”

“You were only a kid; I never laid a finger on you.”

“No, you didn’t.” She bent to look in the window without touching the car. “You look older now, Edgar.”

“I am older. So are you.”

A faint smile ghosted across her lips. “A thousand years older.”

He touched a metal button on the dashboard. The door on the passenger side clicked. “Get in if you want to, Lila.”

“You still live in the same place?”

“I do, but it’s been extended; kind of unusual if you like that sort of thing.”

She opened the door. “I’d like to see it.”

“Come to lunch now and I’ll give you some of my Blow-Your-Socks-Off Chili.”

“That I remember.”

Neither spoke for several miles until she asked, “What kind of car is this?”

“A hybrid.”

“I’ve been in a lot of hybrids and they’re nothing like this.”

“Mine’s part pickup truck and part Jeep; I put it together myself. It’ll run on gasoline or used cooking oil or rubbish I find lying by the road.”

“Are you still making reproduction carriages, Edgar?”

“It’s a profitable hobby. Nostalgia sells. I just built a little trap that’s supposed to be a surprise birthday present, and I have a brougham about half finished that really is beautiful. It would suit you, I think.”

“Is that what you put on your tax forms? Occupation, carriage maker?”

“What makes you think I file tax forms? I keep my assets in a hole in the ground.”

Tilbury’s hybrid turned off the main road, drove over a rusty iron cattle guard and jolted down a rutted laneway. The fields on either side were pastureland sparsely studded with boulders. “You called them ‘remnants of the Ice Age,’” Lila remarked.

The lane curved to the right. The view ahead was blocked by a dense stand of cedars. Beyond them was a rambling white frame farmhouse with the upper part of a storm cellar protruding from one side. The building nestled in a haphazard mix of evergreen and deciduous shrubbery that had not been pruned in years.

“Home sweet home,” Tilbury announced. “Come on in.”

The living room was papered in a muted blue-and-white stripe; the brick fireplace smelled of ashes. Bookshelves were crammed with volumes on every imaginable subject, arranged according to topic. Two full sets of encyclopedias, one American and one British, took up a whole shelf by themselves. A well-worn recliner upholstered in coppery velour waited beside a large floor lamp.

Lila recalled that Tilbury had been a widower, but in this room there was no visible hint of his personal life. No framed photographs, none of those flourishes described as “a woman’s touch.”

“You still don’t have a dog, Edgar?”

“Had two since you were here. One got run over on the road, the other got shot for a sheep killer.”

“Was it a sheep killer?”

“Nope. But the guy that shot him hasn’t shot anything since. Would you like a drink before we eat?”

“Irish whiskey, right?”

“You have a damned good memory,” he said.

“Thanks.”

“You’re economical with words, aren’t you?”

In response she quoted, “‘Listen to everything, learn a little, answer nothing.’”

He gazed at her in astonishment. “Aristotle?”

She smiled. “Euripides.”

They sat with their drinks on either side of the fireplace. After a while Tilbury cleared his throat. “Under the circumstances I’d like to hear the rest of your story, Lila. If you think I’m entitled to that much.”

She gave him a measuring look. Slowly, some of the hard knots loosened inside her. It was getting too painful to hold up the shields which had protected her since childhood.

“Did I tell you about the party?”

“Just that it got too rough and some bastard who wouldn’t take no for an answer hit you. Hurt you pretty bad.”

“Knocked me out, I think, then threw me into the river. Maybe he thought I was dead; it’s lucky I didn’t drown. By the time I crawled out of the water he’d disappeared. Instead of going back to the party I just started walking.” As she talked the words came more easily. “I was like a moth coming out of a cocoon. Dazed, you know?”

“I can imagine.”

“I realized I’d been close to dying and I wasn’t ready for that. I never knew who my father was, but I knew what my mother was and I didn’t want to turn out like her.”

“So you kept walking until I found you,” Tilbury finished for her. “Buddhists would call that karma. We’d both had some life-changers, Lila; I’d buried my wife and you needed a fresh start. You know what? Every life’s a hallway with a certain number of doors in it. When you go through one you can either leave it open or close it behind you. I tend to close ’em.”

“So do I.”

“Obviously. You stayed with me for three weeks and then left without saying good-bye. After you’d found the cash I kept hidden,” he added.

The wary look returned. “I’m sorry about that. I just… I was still running, I guess.”

“Survival instinct; that’s something I understand. Yet here you are after all these years. Why come back when you’d got away clean?”