Motorman (10 page)

A turd washed over his shoe and receded. The corpse of a horse, some of the dray lumber still attached to the harness, floated by.

Roquette pierced the water with his stick. “Good,” he said. “It's thick enough to walk on.”

They walked the bank looking for foot boards. Moldenke found two for himself and tied them on with cloth rope from a torn shirt.

They walked across The Jelly.

63]

Mr. Moldenke

The Tropical Garden

Dear Sir,

An attendant, yesterday evening, noticed Miss Roberta approaching death in the sun room. He went to her and did what he was able to under the circumstances, although she never was a cooperative patient. Enclosed is a note we found in her pocket. (The note: My diet has included specifically ice cubes, period. A Doctor told me my skin would thicken and grow brown, comma, and it did, period. However, comma, I always refused to drink their soy soup, period. Love, Roberta.)

As you can see, Mr. Moldenke, she isn't herself as the end draws closer. We think you should have come to get her after the War.

Truly yours,

The Staff, etc.

64]

The Staff

The Grammar Wing, etc.

Dear Sirs,

The buses weren't running at the time. Please deal with her the way you will. At the present time I am unable to handle it. However, I did enjoy the note.

Yours,

Mr. Moldenke

Bloodboy

Texaco National Gauzeworks, T-City

P.S. You should understand-—I was injured in the mock War. I gave up some feelings for my country. She would be a burden to me now, as I am to myself.

65]

My Dear Cock,

I've taken the liberty of writing you a poem. Burnheart tells me I should practice my sense therapy more often. He suggested poems. I've tried my best to arouse some feeling:

Asking space
     
Roberta gave me time.

Having Time
     
I gave Roberta Space.

While the moonlights sail above the hoebade,

The noonlight’s mine until the end comes.

I touched her face
    
Taking grace.

While the sea belongs to me until the end comes.

Wanting a month
    
Roberta gave November.

When the end comes, Roberta won't remember.

Sorry about the lack of feeling, Roberta. I hope you can see improvement, though.

Love?

Moldenke

66]

Dear Dink,

A short test: You are standing under a high gum tree, or a higher jujube. Of course, tree taxonomy isn't the question here. You stand under the tree, as before. From the upper limbs a bone falls dry and hollow at your shoe side. You stoop and examine, stoop and examine. You ask yourself, “A human bone?” Not a boneman, you cannot answer. Should it have been a banana, the story would have been different, if you follow what I say. You vaguely wish that Eagleman were at your side, knowing that Eagleman would know the bone as well as anyone. What do you do?

I await your answer,

Doc

67]

Dear Doctor,

My answer: You step a few paces back and review the upper limbs, a thought which should, ideally, have arisen well before this, boneman or not. Having done that, the rest unfolds:

(1) Owing to an unfavorable congruence of seven broken tide moons on a memorable summerfall night a number of seasons ago, as I recall, the River Odorous rose over its banks and filled its floodplain.

(2) In predicting droughts, the weatherman was off.

(3) Living things were buoyed up, clinging in the treetops, including toxic varieties of local snake.

(4) On man and beast alike, snakebites took a toll.

(5) The Odorous waters in time returned to time winding main channel, bright sunslight and carrion eventually cleaned the carcasses, and now and then a bone will work loose and fall to the ground.

Your pupil,

Moldenke

68]

Dear Moldenke,

Cocky attitudes do not become you. It isn't enough to know the Way. You must also know the Means. You haven't been reading the book.

The facts of the matter are these:

(1) No such congruence ever took place.
       

(2) The weatherman was on that night.

(3) No local snakes are toxic, or, All A's are non-B's, whichever you prefer, where A is your local snake, and B is your toxic qualities.

In short, you were wrong, Moldenke. I know how we all make our mistakes. You don't have to say it. Frankly, I myself wouldn't have expected Eagleman to go to such lengths to prove a simple point. Imagine him climbing to the top of that ether tree the way he did, carrying a heavy sack of bones to boot. Apparently Eagleman has a playful streak.

Give my best to Cock Roberta.

Your friend,

Burnheart

69]

Lift seats brought them up to the lower deck, past a vertical row of gaping exhaust holes, smelling of unburned k-fuel.

They unstrapped and walked the deck. Roquette said, “It's an old boat, son. But she goes good.”

Moldenke said, “Where are the folks?” The deck seemed empty, badly lit. “I get the impression no one is here.”

“Not so quick to trust your senses, Moldenke. Let me show you around, meet a few of the folks. I'll take you to your room and you can lay down your baggage.”

Moldenke said, “That would be good.”

Roquette said, “Maybe not.”

The river ran thickly by. Three moons were up like pies in a bakery. On the far bank a dog barked. Rubbery water lapped at the side of the boat. Moldenke asked if the boat had a name. Roquette said the folks hadn't been able to agree on one. Somewhere on the boat a toilet flushed. Moldenke said, “Plumbing?” Roquette agreed.

“Slow down, Moldenke. Why don't we sit here a minute in these deck chairs and have a look at the sky. How well do you know the mock astronomy? Sit down and I'll give you a lesson.” They sat.

Moldenke said, “Three moons, two more threatening at the east horizon. Looks like a dreary night.”

Roquette said, “Dreary, he says.”

Moldenke closed his eye and imagined the old moon, large and orange in the sky. Roquette said, “Don't be cruising in the past, son. Stay with me.” Moldenke opened his eye. “How many moons are up, Moldenke?”

“Three, two rising.”

“For a total of five,” Roquette said.

Moldenke agreed. Roquette said, “Now, look west.” Moldenke looked west. “Describe.”

Moldenke described: “Double domes of moonlight, sure. Two more threatening in the west. I didn't see it before.”

Roquette said, “For a total of seven.”

Moldenke said, “Seven.”

Roquette said, “Yes, seven moons congruent. We might get a little high water tonight, son.”

Moldenke said, “Nasty weather, anyway. I agree.”

Roquette said, “You are very fortunate to be on this boat.” Moldenke said he knew it, thanked Roquette for finding him. Roquette said, “The only floating boat, the last flowing river. Here we are, son. This is it. Are you with me?” Moldenke said he was, icicles forming at the brim of his sun hat. “I didn't know that things had gotten that bad.” Roquette said he was afraid they had. “No use carrying on about it, though. Why don't we go on up to the game table mezzanine and shoot a few cues of snooker?”

Moldenke said, “Roquette, how large is this boat?”

Roquette said, “In what sense?”

Moldenke said, “Lengthwise, from bow to stern.”

Roquette said, “It's hard to say. I'd have to guess. It wouldn't be accurate. I won't even try. Don't clutter up the boat with questionmarks. Let's play snooker.”

They walked for the game mezzanine. On the elevator Moldenke lost himself in guessing at the size of the boat.

70]

Capital D, Dear, capital L, Love, comma,

Indent, capital T, The, capital T, Trop, capital G, Garden flowers were so almost colored, comma, and the poem so close to feeling, period. Capital Y, You get better, comma, capital I, I get worse, period.

Capital W, With punctuated love, comma,

Capital R, Roberta

71]

Dear Moldenke,

The Trop Garden couldn't last forever, just as Roosevelt Teaset can't. Can you see this? Can you reason it? It's a terrible loss, but nothing to get excited about. Don't rush to give it all up. Think about it. Believe me, it might be worse. Keep the eye on the sky. You only thought bananas were gone.

No, wrong. Eagleman has one on the drawing table. Remember the rubber tomato? To doubt Eagleman is to build a cistern on the desert. In both cases you'll soon find yourself wanting.

Yours,

Burnheart

P.S. I forgot: We'll find you another job. Be loose.

72]

Dr. Burnheart

Dept. of Overscience

T-City U.

T-City

Dear Doc,

About the job? I've been living on the street vehicles. If I fall asleep the vehicle becomes a giant, clattering insect on a track. If I stay awake it bores me. I've looked at the same fake crepe myrtles along the esplanade too many times. Yes, find me an honest job. I need the chits.

Your dependent,

Moldenke

73]

Moldenke,

At your next convenience, bring yourself to a Mr. Featherfighter on the Health Truck. Check a public schedule for the stops. He'll put you to work.
Bon appetit.

Your employment agents,

B & E Ltd.

74]

Roquette chalked up, dipped his fingers in the talcum box. Moldenke leaned on his cue, a junk band playing on the ballroom floor, folks dancing, balloons floating up to the ceiling beams.

“This is an impressive place, Roquette.” Roquette agreed and took his turn at the red balls. The port lookouts framed five full moons. Waiters would pass the table and Moldenke would take stonepicked olives from their trays and suck out the pimento jelly, chewing the stonepicks. He sipped a cherry bubble. He saw one waiter go into a corner and cough jelly into a handkerchief, then tighten his ear valve.

One of his minor hearts fluttered.

“Your shot, champ.”

“No wonder we didn't see anyone on deck,” Moldenke said. “They're all at the dance.”

“Take the shot, son.”

“I'm having a heart flutter. Excuse me.”

“Play the lay. Moldenke, the time hog. Play it, son. Play it.”

“The balls are moving. How can I shoot?” Moldenke shot the cue at a moving ball, missed. “The balls, Roquette.”

Roquette approached the table. “We're moving. The boat is moving. End of game.”

Moldenke asked if there was a radio around, “To get a weather report.” Roquette said he wasn't certain, but that the boat was underway and the weather made no difference.

Moldenke's sore hand began a steady tremble. He put it in his pocket. Roquette said, “Hard to keep things still with all those hearts beating in there, isn't it?” Moldenke confessed his health, that one heart was fluttering badly and that others were running roughly, the timing off. He remembered singlehearted days, a predictable beat, quiet sleeps. “Things are getting worse,” he said to Roquette. “No matter how many views I take of it.” Roquette said he would introduce him to one of the folk Doctors. “Maybe he can jam a muffler in there and quiet you down some.”

“No mufflers, Roquette. I'm restricted to the limit as it is.”

“Nonsense, son. They pay for themselves in silence alone. You'll sleep again.”

“They took a lung out to make room for the hearts. Luckily it was already collapsed. They would have taken a good one.”

“It's an old maxim, champ. A tooth for an eye. You must have heard it. We could all afford to spare a lobe or two of the liver, couldn't we? Take a muffler, Dink. No sense in rattling around like a sack of automatic frogs, is there?”