Hadrian's Rage (17 page)

Dean opens his eyes. He has no idea when he closed them. He sits peering at Mimi’s backyard through a blurry veil of tears.
I haven’t accomplished a thing
, he realizes. The vegetable garden he is sitting in remains molested by spring’s first growth of weeds, and all he has done for the last hour and a half is to continue to dig into the same small patch of ground, digging so deep that his fingers are now clawing through clay.
What am I doing?
he asks himself as he wipes his hands over his chest and down across his thighs, not concerning himself about the old shorts and T-shirt he has donned for a day of gardening. Dean is not concerned about what the mud is doing to his clothing, nor can he feel the numbing grow in his buttocks, a numbing caused by the stillness and the damp.

Dean is numb. He has taken Zolam for the first time in nine months. He remains on the Seroxat and has accepted that he is likely to be dependent on the medication for the rest of his life. Although it has been an emotional, uphill battle, Dean has finally come to terms with needing it—his life having been one filled with anxiety and stress, resulting from hiding his sexuality, struggling to be someone he’s not, only to embrace the identity of someone he is not. It’s like his mimi always says, “Humanity lacks balance,” and all Dean has done so far is go from one polar extreme to the next.

“There is balance in there somewhere,” he mutters, but looking for that balance right now seems incomprehensible. Not now, not so soon after Tara’s death—Tara’s murder.

“Oh, Hadrian, why?” Dean cradles his face inside his hands, hands muddied with topsoil, fertilizer, and clay. Mimi’s backyard has the potential for great beauty and bounty, but it is relatively untended. Unlike the garden Dean had tended when he went by the name of Hunter, Mimi’s
garden is prairie flat. Her yard has been divided into four quadrants, each like a piece of the pie mirroring Hadrian’s layout. The center oval where each quadrant meets up is home to a very old crabapple tree. Mimi loves crabapple jelly and canned crabapples. Each quadrant of land is dedicated to growing its own unique genre of foods. This year Quadrant One is the vegetable garden; Quadrant Two is for berries; Quadrant Three is for grains while Quadrant Four is for fallow. Even as little as two years back, Mimi rivaled the best with her backyard farm, but today, the arthritis in her fingers makes the task unbearable. Dean volunteered to get her garden back in order for her. It was intended to be his summer hobby between shifts at Augustus Hospital’s emergency ward, but with Tara’s murder, Dean was granted a two-week hiatus from his first residency. He was even exempt from his last final in Human Biology: Anatomy and Physiology. This right was granted to all of Tara’s closest friends—Cantara Raboud, Prasert Niratpattanasai, and Siddhartha Seshadri. Tara’s death, the sheer brutality of the murder, coupled with their ability to feel the horror she suffered in the remaining hour of her life, rendered these four friends emotionally and psychologically catatonic.

“Dean.” Mimi’s voice startles Dean out of his shock.

“Mimi, you scared me.”

“I’m sorry, but you had me worried. You haven’t moved from this spot since you first ventured out here.”

“I just…” Dean’s voice trails off and he stares through his tears into space again.

Mimi gives Dean’s shoulder a shake. “Dean.”

“Huh? Oh, Mimi. I’m sorry.”

“Oh, baby, I wish I could help you.”

“You do. Just by…” But Dean cannot finish. His head drops and his shoulders heave from sobs.

“No,” Mimi says gently but with resolve. “You need the arms of a lover—someone who can surround your soul, hold you tight with both physical and spiritual love.” Sighing now, speaking the words Dean knows to be true but is too afraid to acknowledge, she adds, “You need—Geoffrey.”

Between shudders, Dean nods his head in agreement. Mimi sighs her relief, pats Dean’s shoulder, and then retreats back inside. Rather than avoid stalling, Dean blinks open his voc immediately. Any delay and he knows he will chicken out. Sadly, rather than reaching Geoffrey, he merely 
gets the man’s answering machine. “Hello, you have reached the voc of Geoffrey Hunter. Geoffrey is not available to take your call, but if you leave your name and voc contact after the chime, Geoffrey will reply as soon as possible.” Dean is stunned. Not having voc’d Geoffrey since their breakup, Dean had not expected to hear his own voice on the machine. When the two had been together, married for twenty-two years, Dean had taken it upon himself to record both his and Geoffrey’s voc answering messages. Geoffrey was always too busy to worry about non-essentials like this and, pre-Dean’s influence, had always used the sterile vocal voice provided with the vocal contact program.

With the sound of the chime, Dean somehow manages to stutter, “Geoffrey, please.” No one is ever away from the voc in Hadrian. Though there are the odd few who remove the voc from time to time, just to avoid the mass clatter of being constantly connected to the wave, but not Geoffrey. Geoffrey wears his voc twenty-four hours a day. A few years back when he was working out a deal with Hadrian Fisheries, he purchased the vocal mini-disc and had it implanted into his cerebral cortex. This unique feature allows the wearer to have full access to the wave and vocal contact twenty-four hours a day. Most businessmen, like Geoffrey, are digitally tagged in this manner. Thus, the only reason someone like Geoffrey doesn’t answer a voc call instantly is due to work or, as Dean knows is the case in point, because he simply doesn’t wish to speak with you.

Since it is Sunday, Geoffrey is not required to be at work. Though no laws identify Saturday and Sunday as required days off, the custom of the previous millennium is a part of Hadrian’s ritual. Everyone acknowledges the human need for rest and recreation, and these two days also meet the spiritual needs of the various religious faithful who are part of Hadrian’s population. Dean knows he is purposefully being ignored. “Please, Geoffrey, I need—”
What
, Dean wonders,
what is it I need?
“I—I need you.” And yet, still no reply. At least Geoffrey hasn’t severed their connection. Comforted by this lone thought in the void of his agony, Dean reaches out one more time. “My friend was murdered.” There is a slight pause as Dean sobs with abandon. “She is the girl who was raped and murdered.”

A connection is opened. Geoffrey’s holographic image kneels down in front of Dean. Taken out of context, an onlooker might assume the older man was about to propose marriage. Geoffrey’s right thumb wipes over the tears in Dean’s left eye. Being holographic, he fails to wipe the tears away,
but the gesture is registered. A small electric shock occurs with the touch of the holographic thumb upon the dampness of Dean’s face. Both men feel the tingle. Geoffrey leans in to cradle Dean in his arms. Dean becomes immersed inside the holographic waves of his old lover, the bodies of the two men becoming one.

“Well, Mother, what a treat to have someone as auspicious—”

“—and senile.”

“I’m sorry, Mother?”

“I’m sorry; did I say something? My apologies; please continue.”

“Yes, well, as I was saying, it is a real honor having you back on my show.”

“‘Bow wow says the dog.
27
’”

“Huh?”

“Oh, I’m sorry. Did you interview me already?”

“No, no, Mother. Not me, but you were on
Salve!
once before back when we had—”

“Oh, yes, that sweet little lady—what was her name again?”

“Melissa Eagleton, Mother. As you know, she now runs her own show. In fact, you were on it last week.”

“Oh, was I? ‘Mew.’ Silly me for forgetting.”

“That’s okay, Mother—”

“‘Quack, quack.’”

“—Yes—As I was saying, it’s expected at your age.”

“Oh, and how old am I?”

“To be honest, Mother, I’m not quite sure, but I think you’re close to ninety.”

“Ninety? Really. Oh my, that is old.”

“Yes, it is. But don’t you look beautiful? Why, you don’t look a day over seventy.”

“Oh, aren’t you a sweet kitty, kitty. But seventy’s pretty old, too, isn’t it?”

“Not so old, Mother.”

“Oh, no, not so old as me.”

“Well, let’s not worry about that, shall we? As I was saying, you look so beautiful.”

“Do you like my outfit?”

“It’s lovely. Where did you get it?”

“I’m not sure. I think in my closet at the geriatrics ward.”

“Oh, Mother, you’re so funny.”

“And you, look at you, so handsome. No wonder they cast you as

Antinous.”

“You remember, Mother.”

“Oh, if something’s important, I’ll remember it.”

“Selective memory, huh?”

“You might say that. ‘I know a hawk from a handsaw.’
28
But you must let me admire you.”

“Who am I to say no to a little admiration, especially coming from the last surviving founding family member.”

“I absolutely adore your earring. May I have a closer look at it?” Mimi’s eyes twinkle in delight, giving Danny Duggin the impression she really does love his earring.

“Of, course.”

“Lean in a little closer, son; I can’t see from here. Closer. You forget I’m old. My eyesight is fading even faster than my memory.”

“Here, Mother; why don’t I just hand it to you?”

“Oh, isn’t that just lovely.”

“An original Gale J. Greenlea.”

“Oh my, that means these beautiful emeralds and diamonds are real. Look at how they sparkle in the light. It’s so dangly and—oops.”

“Be careful, Mother!”

“Oh my, my fingers are a little shaky, too. It’s so hard getting old. And then—Oh, no! Did I just step on your original Gayle J. Greenlea earring? Oh dear, oh dear. Look at you. You’re so pale. Was that your voc—your voc thingy—what do they call it?”

“Transmitter.”

“Does that mean no one can voc you while we are on live television?
Nod for yes. Shake for no. Good! Now, start asking me some real questions. Think fast boy or I’ll start interviewing you! Perfect. What made you think I was senile? What’s wrong? ‘Cat got your tongue’?”

“Ahh, I—”

“Surely you can say more than that! How old are you anyway? Twenty?”

“T-t-twenty-five.”

“Well, you’d think our ages were reversed. I’m the one who’s almost ninety and senile, but you’re stuttering like Mel Tillis when he wasn’t singing.”

“M-M-Mel who?”

“I wouldn’t expect you to know him. I didn’t even know who he was until I asked my grandson to look up the names of famous people in history who stuttered. I figured I’d catch you u-u-unawares.”

“I—I’m confused, Mother. W—w—what’s going on?”

“It’s quite simple, sonny. You are going to interview me using your own head, or the man who likes to use you as a mouthpiece can walk right on stage and interview me himself, instead.”

“I—mouthpiece?”

“I don’t see him walking through the curtains, so you better get ready to start acting professional. Fine, I’ll take the lead on this one. Why do you think I am senile?”

“You’re ah—almost ninety.”

“So your bigotry knows no bounds. You’re also an ageist.”

“A what?”

“Ageist, son; learn it! It’s a simple word. It means you treat the elderly as second-class citizens simply because they are older. You also treat our bisexual, straight, and transgendered brothers and sisters with contempt. You and your intrepid leader seem to think you can abuse anyone who isn’t gay and treat him or her like second-class citizens. You spread fear-mongering and hatred like a con artist selling land to fools in the neutral zone. For those viewers who don’t know what the neutral zone is, it’s a fifty-mile radius between Hadrian’s Wall and the rest of the world. Much of it is wasteland due to numerous chemical explosions, or it is still glowing from radiation resulting from 6-13.

“Still unprepared to say anything? How about this? What makes you think you have the right to judge anyone?”

“I—ah—”

“You know, I owe Mel Tillis an apology. He may have stuttered, but he had a beautiful singing voice. You clearly can’t sing at all. Only lip sync. Oh, how do I know Mel Tillis had a great voice, you ask? Well, Danny, my grandson, found a few old recordings on the wave that he played for me. So lovely.

“Next question, you say? How do I feel about my country having gone from an all-inclusive, all-loving community to an exclusive, xenophobic country club for the elite of the homosexual community? Well, Danny, I’m saddened, sickened, and dismayed. Think about it. The five families who purchased this land from old Canada did so out of a need to create a safe haven, not just for homosexuals, but for all the oppressed across the globe. Our first hue and cry was that all were welcome because all were human. Then what happened? Well, Danny, maintaining a controlled population of ten million was difficult at first; needless to say we stumbled and found ourselves topping our desired number. With a little patience and persistence, I’ve no doubt we would have been successful over time. The people who joined our collective came here knowing our purpose was to reduce human population and the early education programs for planned parenthood and easy and inexpensive access to IVF clinics were starting to work, but some of the founding members and a few concerned citizens felt we weren’t moving forward fast enough. Suddenly, the rhetoric became ‘The Planet is Dying. We Must Act Now.’ I tried talking reason with these people, but, alas, I was quite young, so my opinion was viewed as foolish and radical. And, today, people like you claim my opinion is foolish and radical because I’m old. Will the world never learn?

“So, you see, Danny, the original intent of our constitution was not to exclude heterosexuals from our community or demand that all our bisexuals repress their opposite sex attractions. Rather, we had earnestly hoped to form a human collective that desired peace, not war, a healthy planet with a clean environment and an intelligent approach to population control. That does not mean, nor did it ever mean, that heterosexuals are evil. The only evil that has ever existed in this world is fear and hate—the very fear and hate that leads to bigotry—the very fear and hate that leads to war.

“Oh, you wish to thank me for being on your show. Well, it was a pleasure. Thank you. Oh, no, don’t say it, Danny. I want this episode to end as all news shows should end, with the—

“TRUTH!”

“
Ah
—ah—

“Vale!”