Sense of Wonder: A Century of Science Fiction (524 page)

“The kind for a big kid.” Toby’s inhalator thumped like a car riding on flat tires. “Maybe I look short to you, lying here in bed, but I’m really seven. Can he be brown?”

“So—a brown Power Pony for a seven-year-old, eh? I think we can manage that, and maybe a couple of surprises too.”

Toby’s delighted giggle reverberated inside his mask. “How long do I have to wait?”

“Christmas will be here before you know it,” I told him. “It’s just a couple of days away, right, Santa?”

“Right.”

“Will I be better by then?” Toby asked.

“There’s a good chance of it, Rainbow Boy,” said Krakower, twisting the stopcock on Toby’s meperidine drip. He was getting the stuff almost continually now, as if he had two hearts, one pumping blood, the other pumping narcotics. “It’s highly likely.”

Furtively I opened my wallet and drew out my MasterDebt card. “For Anthony Raines,” I whispered, pushing the plastic rectangle toward Sebastian. “Everything goes on this.”

Sebastian extended his palm like a Squad officer stopping traffic. “Keep your card,” he said. “The HEART’S picking up the tab, including my fee.” He stood fully erect, the pillow shifting under his wide black belt, and backed out of the room. “So long, Toby—Merry Christmas!

“Merry Christmas,” said Toby, coughing. He threw off his mask and turned to me. “Did you hear that, Dad? Santa’s coming back. I’m so excited.” His plum-colored skin was luminous. “He’s going to bring me a Power Pony, and some surprises too. I can’t wait for him to come back—I just can’t wait.”

* * * *

Martina said, “We have to talk.”

“About what?”

“I think you know.”

She escorted me into the first-floor visitation lounge, a kind of indoor jungle. Everywhere, exotic pink blossoms sat amid lush green fronds the size of elephant ears. Fake, all of it: each petal was porcelain, each leaf was glass.

“Jack, what you’re doing simply isn’t right.”

“In your opinion, Martina.” I flipped on the television—a variety show from Veritas called
The Tits and Ass Hour.
“In your private opinion.”

“It’s ugly, in fact. Wrong and ugly.”

“What is? Christmas?”

“Lying to Toby. He wants to know the truth.”

“What truth?”

“He’s going to die soon.”

“He’s not going to die soon.” I realized Martina meant well, but I still felt betrayed. “Whose side are you on, anyway?”

“Toby’s.”

I shuddered. “Indeed. Well even if he
is
really, really sick, he certainly shouldn’t hear about it.”

“He’s dying, Jack. He’s dying, and he wants someone to be honest with him.”

On the TV screen, a toothy woman removed the bikini top of her bathing suit, faced the camera, and said, “Here it is, guys! Here’s why you all tuned in!”

I shut off the set. The image imploded to a point of light and vanished. “All this negativism, Martina—you sound like my wife.”

“Don’t be a coward.”

“Coward?
Coward?
No coward would put up with the shit I’ve been through.” I chopped at the nearest plant with the edge of my hand, breaking off a glass frond. “Besides, he doesn’t even know what death is. He wouldn’t understand.”

“He would.”

“Let’s get something straight. Toby’s going to have the greatest Christmas a boy could possibly imagine. Do you understand? The absolute greatest, bar none.”

“Fine, Jack. And then…”

And then…

The truth hit me like something cold, quick, and heavy—a tidal wave or a falling sack of nails. My knees buckled. I dropped to the floor and pounded my fists into the severed frond, shattering it. “This can’t be happening,” I moaned. I shook like a child being brainburned. “It can’t be, it can’t be…”

“It is.”

“I love him so much.”

“I know.”

“Help me,” I cried as I worked the bits of glass into my palms.

“Help Toby,” said Martina, bending down and enfolding me with her deep, genuine, useless sympathy.

Seven

On the last day of August, at the height of a seething and intractable heat wave, Christmas came to the Center for Creative Wellness. Sleigh bells jangled crisply in the hallway; the triumphant strains of “Hark, the Herald Angels Sing” flowed forth from a portable CD player; the keen verdant odor of evergreen boughs filled the air. I’ll never forget the smile that beamed from Toby’s dry, cyan face when his friend Saint Nicholas waddled into the room dragging a huge sack, a canvas mass of tantalizing bulges and auspicious bumps.

“Hi, Santa.”

“Look, Toby, these are for you!” Sebastian Arboria opened the sack, and the whole glorious lot flowed out, everything I’d told Anthony Raines to bring down from the City of Truth: the plush giraffe and the android clown, the snare drum and the ice skates, the backgammon set and the Steve Carlton baseball glove.

“Wow! Oh, wow!” Bravely, wincingly, Toby tore off his oxygen mask. “For
me
—they’re all for
me
?” “All for you,” said Sebastian.

Toby held his stuffed baboon over the edge of the bed. “Look, Barnaby. Look what we got.”

An entourage of HEART members appeared, a score of pixies, fairies, elves, and gnomes festooned with holly wreaths and mistletoe sprigs, streaming toward Toby’s bed. One of Santa’s helpers arrived pushing a hospital gurney on which sat a Happy Land even more elaborate than the layout my niece received after her burn (Toby’s included a funhouse and a parachute jump, plus a steam-powered passenger train running around the perimeter). Three other helpers bore an enormous tree—a bushy Scotch pine hung with glassy ornaments, sparkling tinsel, and dormant electric lights, shedding its needles everywhere.

“Hi, everybody—I’m Toby,” he mumbled as the helpers patted his naked head. “I’ve got Xavier’s Plague, but I won’t die. Children don’t die, Dr. Krakower said.”

“Of
course
you won’t die,” said the elf behind the gurney.

A tall pixie in a feather cap, holly necklace, and lederhosen marched toward me. “Anthony Raines,” he said. I had anticipated his physiognomy in every particular but one; far from sporting a mustache, his lip was as hairless as a sentient Satirevian stone. “It’s a privilege to meet someone of your spiritual intensity, Jack.”

A gnome connected plug to socket, and the Christmas tree ignited—a joyous burst, a festive explosion, a spray of fireworks frozen against a green sky. As Toby clapped his hands—an effort that left him breathless and doubled over with pain—the HEART members began caroling.

Oh, Toby, we’re so sad

To hear you’re feeling bad,

But we can tell

You’ll soon be well,

’Cause you’re a spunky lad…

“Santa, I have a question,” said Toby. “Yes?”

“Did you remember that, er…that Power Pony?”

“Power Pony, what Power Pony?” said Sebastian with fabricated distress. He smacked his mittens together. “Oh, yes—the
Power Pony.”

Hearing her cue, a slender female elf rode into the room on a magnificent chestnut-hued Power Pony, its bridle studded with rubies, its saddle inlaid with hand-tooled cacti, a mane of genuine horsehair spilling down its neck.

‘What’s his name?” Toby asked.

Sebastian, God bless him, was prepared. “Down on Santa’s Power Pony Ranch, we called him Chocolate.”

“That’s a weird name,” said Toby as the machine loped over and nuzzled his cheek. “Look, Dad, I got a brown Power Pony called Chocolate.” He coughed and added, “I wanted a black one.”

A sharp ache zagged through my belly. “Huh? Black?”

“Black.”

“You said brown,” I rasped. These final weeks—days, hours—must be perfect. “You definitely said
brown.”

“I changed my mind.”

“Brown’s a great color, Toby. It’s a
great
color.”

Toby combed the pony’s mane with his pencil-thin ringers. “I don’t think I’ll ride him just yet.”

“Sure, buddy.”

“I think I’ll ride him later. I’m tired right now.”

“You’ll feel better in the morning.”

Toby slipped his mask back on. “Could I see how that Happy Land works?”

As Dr. Krakower operated the mattress crank, raising Toby’s head and chest and giving him an unobstructed, God’s-eye view of Happy Land, Sebastian twisted the dials on the control panel. The toy lurched to life, the whole swirling, spinning, eternally upbeat world.

“Faster,” Toby muttered as the carousel, Ferris wheel, and roller coaster sent their invisible passengers on dizzying treks. “Make them go faster!”

“Here,
you
do it.” Sebastian handed my son the control panel.

“Faster…” Toby increased the amperage. “Faster, faster…” I sensed a trace of innocuous preadolescent sadism in his voice. “Step right up, folks,” he said. “Ride the merry-go-round, ride our amazing colossal roller coaster.” In his mind, I knew, the Ferris wheel customers were now puking their guts out; the roller coaster was hurtling its patrons into space; the carousel horses had thrown off their riders and were trampling them underfoot. “Step right up.”

It was then that I observed an odd phenomenon among Santa and his helpers. Their eyes were leaking. Tears. Yes,
tears
—children’s tears.

“What’s the matter with everyone?” I asked Martina.

“What do you mean?”

“Their eyes.”

“Step right up,” said Toby.

Martina regarded me as she might a singularly mute and unintelligent dog. “They’re crying.”

“I’ve never seen it before.” I pressed my desiccated tear ducts. “Not in grown-ups.”

“Ride the parachute jump,” said Toby.

“In Satirev,” said Martina, “grown-ups cry all the time.”

Indeed. I surveyed the gathered grown-ups, their dripping eyes, their wistful smiles, their self-serving grimaces of concern. I surveyed them—and understood them. Yes, no question, they were enjoying this grotesque soap opera. They were loving every minute of it.

Toby was no longer saying, “Step right up.” He was no longer saying anything. The only sound coming from him was a low, soft moan, like wind whistling down the Jordan River.

A flurry of grim, efficient movement: Krakower cranking Toby’s mattress to a horizontal position, turning on his inhalator, opening the meperidine stopcock. Anthony Raines took my son’s knobby hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze.

“Will I see you people again?” asked Toby as the drug soaked into his brain. “Will you come
next
Christmas?”

“Of course.”

“Promise?”

“We’ll be back, Toby. You bet.”

“I don’t think there’ll be a next Christmas,” my son said.

“You mustn’t believe that,” said Anthony.

I lurched away, staring at the tree ornaments. A Styro-foam snowman held a placard saying,
get well, toby.
A ceramic angel waved a banner declaring,
we’re with you, son.
A plastic icicle skewered an index card reading,
with pain comes wisdom
.

Turning, I tracked a large, silvery tear as it rolled down Santa Claus’s cheek. “Of
course
there’ll be a next Christmas,” I said mechanically.

Toby’s blue skin, stretched tight over cheek and jawbone, crinkled when he yawned. “I love Christmas,” he said. “I really love it. Will I die today, Santa? I’m so cold.”

Sebastian said, “That’s no way to talk, Toby.”

“You’re crying, Santa. You’re…”

“I’m not crying,” said Sebastian, wiping his tears with his mittens.

“Thank you so much, Santa,” Toby mumbled, adrift in meperidine. “This was the greatest day of my whole life. I love you, Santa. I wish my Power Pony were black…”

My son slept, snoring and wheezing. I turned to Martina. Our gazes met, fused. “Tell them to get out,” I said in a quavering voice. Martina frowned. “These HEART vultures,” I elaborated. “I want them out. Now.”

“I don’t think you get it, Jack. They’re here for the long haul. They came to—”

“I
know
why they came.” They’d come to see my child suffocate; they’d come to revel in the maudlin splendor of his death. “Tell them to leave,” I said. “Tell them.”

Martina moved among Santa’s helpers, explaining that I needed some private time with Toby. They responded like wronged, indignant ten-year-olds: pouty lips, clenched teeth, tight fists. They stomped their feet on the bright yellow floor.

Slowly the HEART filed out, offering me their ersatz support, sprinkling their condolences with Satirevian remarks. “It’s a journey, Mr. Sperry, not an ending.” “He’s entering the next phase of the great cycle.” “Reincarnation, we now know, occurs at the exact moment of passing.”

As Anthony Raines reached the door, I brushed his holly necklace and said, “Thanks for hunting down those toys.”

“We think you’re being selfish,” he replied snappishly, twisting the feather in his cap. “We’ve done so much for you, and now you’re going to—”

“Cheat you out of his death? Yes, that’s perfectly true. I’m going to cheat you.”

“I thought you wanted us to synch your son’s immune system with the cosmic pulse. I thought we were supposed to—”

“I don’t believe that business any more,” I confessed. “I probably never did. I was lying to myself.”

“Let’s leave him alone.” Sebastian pressed his amplified belly against Anthony. “I don’t think he needs us right now.”