Tomorrow’s World

Chapter 10

“It’s so beautiful, Rog. All this color! Red, and gold, and brown, and orange. I’d almost forgotten what it could be like.”

“The dirge of the city dweller, Deb. Nature’s lost cousins.”

“What made you think of it? Have you been here before?”

“This spot? No, never. I just thought you’d appreciate a ride in the country. You can get sick of concrete and steel... and people.”

“Especially people. It’s wonderful, Rog. Not a soul for miles. Just trees and shrubs and bushes and rocks... and they don’t give a good goddamn.”

“This used to be a common thing, you know. I mean, long ago. People would pack up their families, and away we go. A few sandwiches, a jug of orangeade, the salt, the mustard. All set for a picnic.”

“That sounds Ree.”

“It is, I guess. Maybe they still do it.”

“Is this a picnic?”

“Except for the lack of food, yes.”

“Then I like picnics.”

“Good.”

“Is that wrong? Liking something that I know is Ree?”

“I can’t see any harm in it.”

“Then I like it; I like it very much. And I like you for thinking of it.”

“You seemed troubled, Deb. I thought...”

“What kind of a tree is this?”

“I don’t know. Maple, maybe. Yes, I think it’s maple.”

“It looks majestic. Aren’t oaks supposed to be majestic.”

“If you like.”

“Let’s call it an oak then. Maple sounds like a small street in a small town. Trees should either be majestic or pathetic, but they should never remind you of small towns.”

“Well, small towns can be pathetic, you know.”

“But never majestic. This is an oak.”

“All right, it’s an oak.”

“Am I crazy, Rog?”

“No.”

“Do normal people call maples oaks?”

“Normal people fool themselves in a lot of ways.”

“And am I fooling myself when I pretend this maple is an oak?”

“Yes, but it’s a mild deception. You see, you know it’s really a maple. If you were convinced it was an oak, something would be wrong.”

“Were you born in the country, Rog?”

“No, I’ve lived in the city all my life.”

“How do you know so much about trees?”

“Me? I don’t know a birch from an elm.”

“I don’t, either. Are you sure we’re not both crazy?”

“I’m sure.”

“Am I neurotic?”

“We all are.”

“But am I especially neurotic?”

“Do you think you are?”

“No. Well, maybe. I don’t know.”

“Tell me.”

“Oh, you’re turning into the professional man again. Here I was beginning to respect you as a man of the soil, and bingo! You’re a psych.”

“A psych without his couch. Good Lord, I’m lost.”

“Do you really want to psych me?”

“Hell, no; I want to enjoy Autumn.”

“There’s a lot to enjoy, isn’t there? I never knew it could be so beautiful. It’s so... real, Rog. Oh, damnit, there I go Ree again.”

“Is that what’s bothering you?”

“I thought you didn’t want to psych me.”

“I don’t.”

“Then stop asking me what’s bothering me. Nothing’s bothering me. I’m a nature-lover, protector of the royal oak. Besides, you haven’t got your couch. You said so yourself.”

“We could use that patch of pine needles for a couch. It’s shady there. We could pretend I’ve drawn the blinds.”

“Pretense again.”

“Most of living is, Deb; come to the couch.”

“Oh, all right.”

“Here, this way.”

“I’m afraid I’m not dressed for a jaunt in the country. My legs are getting scratched.”

“So long as...”

“So long as what? Why’d you stop?”

“No reason.”

“You were thinking, so long as I didn’t scratch my breasts, weren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Then why didn’t you say so?”

“I... say, who’s psyching who?”

“Whom.”

“Well, you should have worn some sort of covering. Be a shame if...”

“See. You stopped again. I think you have a breast fetish.”

“In this day and age, my dear Deborah, that is a most sound diagnosis. Sit down and shut up.”

“All right. Oh, they’re soft.”

“Pine needles always are.”

“They shouldn’t call them needles then. Needles make me think of something sharp.”

“How do you feel, Deb?”

“Me? Why, fine.”

“You haven’t been looking well.”

“Are you starting to psych me? I mean, should I lie back or something?”

“Let’s forget I’m a psych; let’s talk as friends.”

“All right.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing, Deb?”

“Nothing important.”

“What?”

“I told you, it’s not important. I don’t like this game, Rog. Let’s walk some more.”

“Sit down, Deb.”

“You’re entirely too dominant, Mr. Moore. Doctor Moore. What was your real name, Rog?”

“What difference does it make?”

“I want to know. It’s like calling a maple an oak.”

“A stupid name.”

“What?”

“Americo.”

“Oh, not really.”

“Yes, really; my parents were naturalized citizens — born in Palermo, I think. They were pretty hepped up on the idea of America. They named me Americo. Americo Mancusi.”

“How’d you get Rog Moore from that?”

“I didn’t. I just chucked the whole works.”

“Americo. That sounds more majestic than Rog.”

“Majestic? God, it’s titanic; who could ever live up to a name like that?”

“Shall I call you Americo?”

“I prefer Rog.”

“My real name was Betsy. That’s sickening, isn’t it?”

“It’s a little unsophisticated, yes.”

“Dean is really my last name, though. I just changed the first part. Deborah Dean. It’s really alliterative, isn’t it?”

“Quite symphonic. What’s troubling you, Deb?”

“Are we back to that again?”

“I’m afraid we are.”

“You’re a hard man to dissuade.”

“I’m a psych.”

“You’ve already told me I’m not crazy. That’s what psychs are for.”

“What’s troubling you, Deb?”

“Rog, I... I... well...”

“That difficult, huh? Let’s see now. Mild anxiety coupled with extreme reticence. Stammering, stuttering, and stunned silence.”

“Rog, I...”

“Timidity, tonal tonsillectomy, and telltale tittering. I’d say paranoia, offhand.”

“You’re joking, but I’ve thought of that, too.”

“All right, Deb. Let’s have it.”

“The... the Inseminar.”

“What about it?”

“I’ve... I’ve been twice. Each time, I only got as far as the door. I... I couldn’t bring myself to go inside, Rog.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know. That’s just it; I simply don’t know. I just froze on the front doorstep. I was the absolute picture of the virgin on her wedding night. That’s silly, I know. I mean, it’s just a test tube, after all.”

“Why were you frightened? Or were you frightened?”

“Yes, I was. Terribly so. And not only that, Rog. Something else. Something I don’t think I can explain easily.”

“Try.”

“I... I kept thinking of the Ree stories, Rog. About... about babies conceived this way being idiots and... and not normal. You know.”

“You mean babies conceived at the Inseminar?”

“Yes. You know the Ree jokes. Spare the rod and spoil the child. That sort of thing. I kept thinking of it, and I wondered if I were doing the right thing.”

“It’s only right if you believe in it, Deb.”

“Then I suppose I don’t believe in it. Like the maple tree, I suppose. I can tell myself it’s oak, but I know it’s maple.”

“Exactly.”

“But there was something else, Rog. A... a feeling of guilt. Yes, that was it; a terrible feeling of guilt... as if I had no right to do what I was doing. Is that being silly, too?”

“No, not at all.”

“Rog...”

“Yes?”

“Isn’t something wrong? I mean...”

“Yes?”

“Nothing. Never mind.”

“You mean with us. With people? With Rees and Vikes.”

“Yes, everything, Rog. Oh, my God, I’m so confused. I don’t know what I want, and I don’t know what I should want. I know that’s awful. I’m twenty-three years old, and I feel like a thirteen-year-old with her first menst.”

“There’s nothing strange about that, Deb.”

“Isn’t there? Rog, I can’t explain the things that are going through my mind lately; and I feel as if I don’t know my own body, either. You remember, long long ago, when they burned women at the stake for being possessed of the devil? I feel as if I’ve been possessed, Rog. I feel as if some alien has entered my mind and body and taken complete control. I’m just a stranger — an outsider looking in— And I don’t understand what I see. I don’t understand it at all. Maybe I should be burned at the stake.”

“I hardly think so. I’d say your state of mind was normal... for our times.”

“But is it right to wonder so much about everything? I question everything I do now, Rog. The Inseminar was just one example. Why, when I sit and — forgive me — eat alone, I wonder why I’m doing it. Every time I pop off, even while the drug is raging inside me, I wonder why I’m putting needles into my thigh. Rog, that can’t be right; it can’t be healthy to have so many doubts about yourself. Is it? Please tell me, Rog. Please.”

“Don’t make me a god, Deb. I’m just an ordinary psych who hasn’t had much opportunity to practice lately.”

“How do you mean?”

“A psych is in business only when people seek him for help. When a man doesn’t know he’s troubled, he doesn’t look for aid.”

“Then there is something wrong? With everyone, I mean?”

“I couldn’t say, Deb.”

“Will we ever know?”

“Oh, yes; I’m quite certain we will. Perhaps sooner than we think.”

“Is everyone in such doubt? Do the Rees wonder about themselves, too?”

“There was; a man, Deb, a poet... a long time ago...”

“Yes?”

“He wrote a very lovely poem. It’s on the Ree Spit List, I believe, and most Vikes will have no part of it. There are some lines in the poem... well, no matter.”

“Say them, Rog.”

“I don’t know if I can remember...”

“Say them.”

“I think it went something like this:

“Who wrote that, Rog?”

“One of the old poets. T. S. Eliot.”

“It’s beautiful.”

“Yes.”

“Then they did doubt, even then.”

“Even then, Deb.”

“In a minute there is time...”

“That’s what he wrote, Deb.”

“There is something wrong, isn’t there, Rog?”

“Yes, Deb; there’s a great deal wrong.”

“Then why did you lie to me? Why did you say you didn’t know?”

“I don’t know, really. I know that the Vikes are wrong because life for them is a shoddy pretense, an ersatz fabrication. And I know that the Rees are wrong because they’ve bound themselves with chains that refuse to recognize progress.”

“And the others?”

“The others? You and me, Deb — the others like us — we’re wrong, too. We’re wrong because we’re sitting back and watching this world of ours go to hell with itself. And we’re doing nothing about it. We’re perhaps more wrong than all the rest.”

“But if you know all this...”

“I don’t know the answer, Deb. That’s the trouble; I don’t know the answer.”

“I see.”

“It’s not an easy one to find, either.”

“Rog...”

“Yes?”

“Will you think me brazen? Will you think I’ve gone Ree?”

“What is it, Deb?”

“I want you to kiss me, Rog; I want very much to be kissed.”

“I...”

“Please say no if you don’t want to, Rog. Please don’t feel you have to.”

“Deborah...”

“Rog... do we... do we...”

“Do we dare disturb the universe?”