The Old Reactor Page 13

  He returned to the bed and listened to Sorrel’s raspy, labored breathing. He didn’t want to think she was dying and thought of other things. There might be a radio in the apartment, one that would dial in a weather report. He searched every likely spot and eventually found an old portable in the drawer of a dresser, dusty and unused, the batteries weak. He turned it on nevertheless, and though the signal was intermittent he heard a Bunkerville news roundup reporting that near there a suspicious red cloud dumped an extra-heavy dose of radio powder on the Black Hole Motel, occupied by fifteen people. The motel has since been deserted. Then came a bulletin from Altobello: Radio poisoning warning issued for Old Reactor pond.

  The batteries faltered and Moldenke could no longer make sense of the signal. He put the radio back where he’d found it.

  The mail arrived. He could hear the postal carrier’s heavy footfalls and a tapping on the Dutch door. He waited until the carrier was gone before checking the mail. He didn’t want any further questions about why he was running the place.

  There was a letter from Ozzie:

  Dear Moldenke,

  I went up on charges yesterday for organizing the milkmen and now I’m going to be exploded next Friday, or maybe the next, depending on how they schedule it.

  I wonder what it feels like. A quick sense of expansion, then nothing. Is that it? What did I do? Organized? Looked out for the poor working stiff? You would have done the same if you were here. It’s all a political thing. I was a threat to them as an organizer. They could see the liberation coming. So I get exploded. What’s fair?

  If the liberation doesn’t come very soon, this will be my last letter to you. After they explode me, the two jellyhead artisans living in the Esplanade house will be in charge until you come home, which I hope will be very soon.

  When you get this, I could be dust.

  Yours,

  Dead Ozzie

  Near dusk, after waking from a nap beside Sorrel, Moldenke heard a rapping on the Dutch door. As concierge, it was his duty to receive would-be tenants, especially Heeney survivors. This could be one of them.

  The rapper, however, was Salmonella, with singed hair and a scorched blouse. “I want a room.” Her canvas bag, too, was scorched.

  “Did you set the fire?”

  “He was no good. He was trash. So I burned him.”

  “If you want a room, show me your pass card. I’ll give you a key. But here’s a warning, there are men up there whose friends perished in the fire. They won’t excuse what you did.”

  “I don’t care. I’m freeborn. I’m not afraid of anything. Why are you in charge here?”

  “Things happen. The concierge was called back to Bunkerville. I’m watching out for the Tunney while she’s gone. We don’t have facilities, so you’ll have to use public ones.”

  “Yeah, I know—same as the Heeney.”

  “A lot of free people died.”

  “He ran all around till he fell down the stairs and set the carpet on fire. I didn’t know he was going to do that. Please let me stay in your room. I’m tired. I won’t have trouble sleeping on the floor.”

  “You escaped from the Home, then.”

  “It’s easy. The Sisters drink bitters and get sleepy. I took a can of turpentine from the tool shed at the Home and went to look for Daddy at the Heeney. He was drunk with bitters and half asleep on a torn-up old mattress with a lit Julep in his mouth. I sloshed him with turpentine and the Julep caught him on fire.”

  “That explains it,” Moldenke said.

  “I hated him so much. Now I won’t ever know who my mother was.”

  He handed Salmonella a key. “The room hasn’t been cleaned. Things have been so busy. I’ll be sleeping down here.”

  “I don’t care. I could sleep in a rat’s nest.”

  “Keep an eye out for those men up there. They may want to hurt you.”

  “Here.” Salmonella reached into her bag for an apple, which she handed to Moldenke. “They grow on a tree at the Home.” She began her ascent of the stairs and stopped. From that vantage, she saw the apartment bathroom and the commode.

  “It’s not for tenant use,” Moldenke said.

  Passing the fingers of one hand through her singed hair, Salmonella continued to the second floor.

  Moldenke could now return to Sorrel and hope there would be no more check-ins for a while. He thought she might be a little peckish when she awoke and he went into the apartment kitchen to see what might be there to eat and drink. He had never seen the concierge at Saposcat’s and concluded she must have eaten in.

  The kitchen was small, but there was a coal-fired brazier for cooking, pots and pans, and a fresh-box that opened to the outside cold. In the box were cans of meat, meal mix, salted mud fish, a quart of green soda, and on a shelf above the fresh-box, a bottle of bitters. There wouldn’t be any real need to go to Saposcat’s for dinner. He and Sorrel could stay in, have some meat, a couple of mud fish, soda, an apple, possibly a glass or two of bitters, then get some needed rest.

  Things were falling into place for Moldenke, at least for the moment. The concierge in the basement shelter remained something to think about now and then. If the weather turned hot, there could be an urgency to take care of her in some way, either bury her or move her elsewhere.

  He sat on the edge of the bed. Sorrel was still asleep, still clinging to Big Ernie’s ashes, some of which had spilled from the badly sealed container on to the bed sheets. He leaned close to the pillow, planning to give her a little kiss on the cheek, a brotherly kiss, nothing to frighten her. But when his puckered lips neared her flesh, he felt heat. He touched her forehead. She was feverish. He shook her shoulder gently. “Sorrel? You’re hot as a stove. You should be drinking something. We have green soda.”

  She lifted her head, leaving strands of hair on the pillow, then turned to the side and vomited foamy, rosy bile over the edge of the bed.

  Moldenke handed her the corner of the quilt to wipe her mouth.

  “Sorry, Moldenke. I couldn’t help it. I’m so sick.”

  “It’s probably a bug. The weather’s been cold.”

  “It’s radio poisoning. I bathed in that pond so many times. What about you, Moldenke?”

  “Only that once and not for long.”

  “Let me sleep here. It hurts to move.”

  “Would you like anything to eat or drink? I have a kitchen. There’s meat, there’s green soda. Even bitters if you want something stiff.”

  Sorrel didn’t answer. Her head sank back into the pillow and she was asleep in moments.

  Moldenke was in a quandary. If Sorrel was suffering radio poisoning, there was nothing he could do other than let her sleep and make her as comfortable as possible. He tucked the blanket around her and put a second pillow under her head.

  As Sorrel slept, Moldenke ate a couple of mud fish along with a few gulps of bitters and settled on the idea of doing something about the concierge. It was nearly dark outside, so what little light came into the basement windows would soon be gone altogether. He had three or four Juleps left and a few matches. He searched the apartment, hoping to find a candle. There was a box of waxed-paper matches near the pellet stove, but no candles that he could find.

  Now the bitters were making him dizzy. He descended the basement stairs carefully, his ankle throbbing, holding to the rail with one hand and trying to keep a match burning with the other. The matches cast light in a small circle. Anything a few feet away lay in darkness. He almost stepped on a slug before crushing a fat, brown basement cricket underfoot. When the flame reached his finger, he would stop, blow out the stub, and light another. Once down the stairs, the footing was paved with rounded stones that were damp, uneven and with a slippery skin of mold. He had to take each step with the skill of a mountain goat. A sprained or broken ankle could lay him up for weeks or months.

  On reaching the shelter area, he had two matches left, which lighted his way to the body. He stood beside it, regretting he’d come all th
is way without a thought-through plan for disposing of it in a sanitary way. Several options occurred to him. One, to leave her where she was, do nothing, and hope she would shrivel and dry, though in such a damp environment that was unlikely. She was sure to mold, perhaps even liquefy after a while. In the meantime, there would be cadaverous odors wafting up. The roomers would complain.

  The other possibility, dragging her up the stairs and out of the building and who knew how far, would be quite strenuous. He wasn’t feeling all that well, and if he were to exhaust himself, he could easily lapse into something far more serious. He made the decision to leave her there. If he detected any odor, the plan would be reconsidered. Until then, it was best to go back to his duties as concierge, to taking care of Sorrel, and to dealing with whatever trouble Salmonella might bring.

  He sat in a chair near the bed and kept an eye on Sorrel. She shivered, moving her head from side to side in an agitated delirium. Her face, flush with radio poison, looked radiant and beautiful to Moldenke at that moment. He added pellets to the stove at about midnight, then took off his uniform and lay next to her, thinking that his warmth, however slight, would provide her some comfort.

  “Sorrel, can you hear me? Can you understand what I’m saying?” She seemed not to hear him and didn’t respond. Strands of her hair had come off and were strewn on the pillow. He saw that her eyes were open. “Can you see me?”

  There was again no response of any kind, which convinced Moldenke that if he was ever to mate with Sorrel, this would be the best opportunity. He first removed his socks and underdrawers in a careful way, hoping not to disturb her. He brushed her hair from the pillow with the side of his hand and kissed her lightly on a fevered cheek. Next he unbuttoned her blouse and felt her breasts with the tips of his fingers, encircling the nipples with a gentle sweep. She showed no signs of displeasure or annoyance, so he went further and removed the rest of her clothing. This was not without difficulty. Having to raise much of the weight of her body to slide her skirt and underdrawers off, the muscles in his arms began to twitch and spasm and pain him. He was exhausted when the task was over and lay back to recover his breath. Now the two lay naked together under the cover, dusted with Big Ernie’s ashes, she shaking with chills, he fondling himself in preparation for mounting her.

  When he felt himself fully aroused, he placed two fingers at the entrance to her vagine and pressed them inward, causing her to stir uncomfortably, yet to open her legs wider. He felt that her body, if not her mind, was willing. It wouldn’t be a beautiful act, it would be sublime. He let a finger enter the vagine and inch or two, then slid it outward and upward. He did this again and again until her hips rose and she presented herself to him. But now he was soft. He fondled himself once more to no effect and in a few minutes gave in to sleep.

  At about three, he felt chilled, threw back the cover and sat on the edge of the bed, intending to feed more pellets to the stove. Before getting up he felt Sorrel’s forehead, to see if her fever had gotten worse. At first touch, his hand drew back. Her face was as cold as a statue’s. She was dead and already a little stiff.

  The first Saposcat’s, an elegant old restaurant damaged during the liberation, had its re-opening in the Quarter spoiled by a head drop on the part of an organized band of jellyheads. Those dining there were being treated to cuisine prepared in the French style, and this included freshly baked hard-crust bread from brick ovens. The diners were urged also to try the tortoise soup, the tongue salads. Other specialties included meat divan, mud fish en papillot. And the best part was the price. With a proper pass card, and for those being released back to Bunkerville, the meal cost nothing.

  Along with the serving of soup on opening night came a commotion at the back entrance. Three male jellies walked in with dripping suitcases and cans of deformant. One of them took the lead and tried to calm the full tables. “Look, remain still. Don’t vocalize. We have some heads. We will leave them and go. Continue eating, please.”

  The suitcases were set down near the maître d’s station and the jellyheads backed out waving deformant cans. When they were gone, one of the kitchen staff came out in his apron and assured the quivering diners that all was well. “We’re very lucky no one was harmed. Keep enjoying your meal. This mess will be remedied.”

  A little troupe of kitchen help took the suitcases away and cleaned up the leakage with hand cloths and turpentine. After that, despite the bite of turpentine in the air, the diners went on and finished all the courses, including a desert of fluffy lemon soufflés with butterflies and barrel honey on toast.

  Salmonella woke up that morning hungry and with a full bladder. She went downstairs and knocked on the Dutch door. “Moldenke, are you in there? Can I use the pot? It’s raining outside.”

  Moldenke opened the top section of the door. “Go ahead, use it.” He opened the bottom and let her in.

  On the way to the commode she said, “Let’s go eat. I’m starving and I want to talk to you about a very serious thing.”

  “All right.”

  Salmonella tried to read a snippet or two of the Treatise as she emptied her bladder. Moldenke could hear her through the not-quite-closed door.

  “What is all this stupid stuff? I don’t read that good, you know. I’m freeborn.”

  “Just something to think about while you toilet,” he said, “not to be taken seriously. It’s a lot of blather about the sublime and the beautiful.”

  “What’s that?”

  “He thinks that beautiful things are things that pose no threat to us, like statues, poems, symphonies, and paintings. The sublime is like things we marvel at, but fear, like all the majestic mountains we’ve heard about, the storms at sea, the mystery of the night sky—that’s what’s sublime.”

  “Who cares?”

  Moldenke admitted he didn’t care at all. He waited at the door for Salmonella to finish her toileting.

  She flushed and stood to see if it all had gone down. The yellowed water swirled slowly around the bowl.

  “This isn’t working very good, is it?”

  “The pipes are half frozen.”

  On the way to Saposcat’s, Moldenke and Salmonella passed the smoking ruins of the Heeney. He regretted even turning his head that way and looking. Among the fallen timbers were burned corpses, some sitting in metal chairs, a sight that set off a twitching in Moldenke’s bowels. Salmonella took little notice of the horrible scene, of the stink in the air, or the weeping families waiting for the mounds of smoking debris to cool.

  At Saposcat’s, the first thing Salmonella said was, “When I was going up the steps last night, I saw somebody sleeping in that bed, in that little apartment you have. Is it your deformed friend from the bakery? What was her name?”

  “Sorrel. She’s dead, I’m sad to say, of radio poisoning. She passed on last night. Swam too much in the Reactor pond. I’ll have to do something with her. But my joints ache, my legs are getting weak, if I bend over I get dizzy. It’s hard enough to move my own body, much less another. Can you help me out?”

  “Things happen,” Salmonella said. “I’ll help you with the body if you want. I’m strong. I can do things you can’t. You want me to dig a hole? Where? In the Park?”

  “That would be very nice of you. I’m thinking, though, that there’s a cellar, or an old shelter, in the basement to put her. As long as cool weather holds, we’re fine. When it thaws, when the ground is good and soft, we’ll find an empty lot and get them under some dirt. You can dig the hole.”

  Salmonella opened her menu. “Okay, let’s eat then. Oh, look. There’s scrapple today. I want that and green soda. You?”

  Moldenke ran his finger up and down the menu, squinting to see the small print. “I can’t afford to anger my bowel any more than it is, but I love their scrapple. I’m going to have the scrapple, too, and some tea.”

  The waitress came and their orders were placed.

  “I should tell you,” Moldenke said, “as long as you’re going to help me
with Sorrel, that the concierge didn’t go back to Bunkerville. She’s in the basement, too. Died all of a sudden. I assumed it would be best if I just took over her responsibilities. Who would care?”

  Salmonella folded her arms and pouted. “I think now I’m afraid of those men up there. And that room is cold. Let me stay in your cozy little apartment with you. Your girlfriend is dead. Why not?”

  “All right. You can stay. I’ll fix you a place on the floor near the stove. There’re blankets in the closet.”

  “I like you. You’re nice.”

  “Well, I try to accommodate.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means being nice.”

  The waitress brought the breakfasts. “Here’s your order.” She looked Moldenke in the eye. “You look like you haven’t heard. Have you heard?”

  “I haven’t heard anything,” Moldenke said.

  “They liberated Bunkerville. It happened last night. They just said it on the radio. We’ll all be sent back now. That’s what the radio says. They’re thinking the freeborn might have to stay. Nobody’s sure.”

  Salmonella was perplexed. Her eyebrows arched and she stuck out her tongue and made a hissing sound.

  “She was freeborn,” Moldenke said. “Doesn’t understand what liberation is. Maybe that’s why they want them to stay.”

  The waitress tapped a pencil against the side of her head. “I don’t think I do either, tell you the truth.”

  Salmonella had a bite of scrapple. “I’m not staying.”

  “Like I said,” the waitress said, “it was only the radio. It probably isn’t true. You can probably go if you want to.”

  Moldenke had a bite of his scrapple, hot enough to burn his tongue. He spit it out to let it cool.

  “Will they send you back?” Salmonella asked.

  “I don’t know. How would I know?”

  “If they do, I’m going with you. You can’t leave me here.”

  When Moldenke’s scrapple had cooled, he ate it hungrily. “I’ll probably regret this later.”