Read The Bradbury Report Online
Authors: Steven Polansky
The Bradbury Report (16 page)
He slept through the night. He needed the sleep. Do clones dream? is a question we've asked. They do, of course. I have seen him dreaming. It is, when you think about it, a foolish question. It would be comforting if we could believe they didn't dream. I can't know anything about the nature of his dreams. I can say that last night he seemed clearly to be dreaming, and, given the noises he was making in his sleep, the dream I watched him have was not a happy one. Since he has been with me, my dreams have not been happy either.
I spent much of the day with him, walking around the house, showing him things, naming them. Whenever he's awake now he wants to be on his feet. There is no way to keep him in bed. I sympathize. He's been in bed too much. No way to keep him from getting up and wandering around the house and quite possibly hurting himself. Either inadvertently or intentionally, though he's given me no reason to fear that. I can't lock him in the room.
The door locks from the inside. Even if there were a way to do it, he's not a prisoner here. The only answer is not to let him out of my sight, as if he were a toddler, except when he is asleep, and then I have the intercom. So far he's shown no desire to leave the house. I am thankful for this. He listens when I tell him what things are, but he does not repeat what I say. It is eerie being with someone who doesn't talk, but not altogether unappealing. He seems content to be silent, and probably wishes I'd say less. It's hard to tell what he's seen before, what he's familiar with. We watched a little television together at noon, a cooking show, while we had our lunch. I couldn't tell if he'd watched television before. He seemed only mildly interested in it. I sliced an apple for him, which he ate. I stir-fried some green beans and onions and celery and carrots, but he wouldn't eat the vegetables cooked. I gave him a whole peach and some raw beans and a peeled carrot and several celery stalks, and he ate these. He had several slices of bread and butter and drank a full mug of milk. For dessert I gave him a small bowl of chocolate chocolate-chip ice cream. He liked it, he really liked it, and I gave him a second helping. I had some myself. He was perfectly comfortable using a spoon. I am reluctant, still, to give him a fork or knife.
The door locks from the inside. Even if there were a way to do it, he's not a prisoner here. The only answer is not to let him out of my sight, as if he were a toddler, except when he is asleep, and then I have the intercom. So far he's shown no desire to leave the house. I am thankful for this. He listens when I tell him what things are, but he does not repeat what I say. It is eerie being with someone who doesn't talk, but not altogether unappealing. He seems content to be silent, and probably wishes I'd say less. It's hard to tell what he's seen before, what he's familiar with. We watched a little television together at noon, a cooking show, while we had our lunch. I couldn't tell if he'd watched television before. He seemed only mildly interested in it. I sliced an apple for him, which he ate. I stir-fried some green beans and onions and celery and carrots, but he wouldn't eat the vegetables cooked. I gave him a whole peach and some raw beans and a peeled carrot and several celery stalks, and he ate these. He had several slices of bread and butter and drank a full mug of milk. For dessert I gave him a small bowl of chocolate chocolate-chip ice cream. He liked it, he really liked it, and I gave him a second helping. I had some myself. He was perfectly comfortable using a spoon. I am reluctant, still, to give him a fork or knife.
We've had some awkward moments. This morning, after I'd been to the store, after they'd called about the change of plans, I thought I'd grab a shower while he was still asleep. I left the bathroom door open so I could hear him if he cried out. I was out of the tub and had just had time to wrap my hair in a towel when he wandered in. I was naked. He wasn't at all embarrassed. He stood fast and looked at me. I could tell he was especially interested in my breasts, which, at their best, were never very pretty, and are now, you'd have to say, unsightly. He also seemed taken aback by my genitals. I wonder if he'd been struck by my lack of a penis. He is of the first generation of clones, who we believe are not of women born or bred, so that he may well never have had contact with a woman before, or even seen one. Strangely, I wasn't embarrassed to have him look at me, and I made no immediate move to cover myself. I've always been modest, to a fault. My body has always been big and clumsy. Even with my husband, with whom I was otherwise uninhibited, I was shy about letting him look at me. I pray it is not that I was free with the clone because, however unconsciously, I was able to think of him as something less than human.
When he woke up from his afternoon nap, he was soaked in sweat. He is still not through withdrawing. He agreed to let me give him a sponge bath. He submitted to it really, all the negotiation done without him saying a word or giving any sure indication he understood what I was talking about. It would have been easier for him to shower, but I couldn't let him go in there alone, and I wasn't going to go in with him. Even though he'd already seen all of me that he could see. I took off his pajama top, left the bottoms on. I spread a beach towel out on the bed and got him to lie down. I filled a mixing bowl with hot soapy water. I didn't have a suitable sponge, so I used a washcloth. I washed his neck and arms and shoulders and chest and stomach. Then I washed his legs from the knees down. I washed his feet. Very biblical. I wanted him to flip over so I could do his back, but he wouldn't. I sang to him while I washed him. I felt like something between a nurse and a geisha. I bent over him, dabbed his forehead with the cloth. He reached up and touched my breast. He put his whole hand over my breast. I was wearing a crew-neck pullover. I wasn't showing any cleavage. That's a laugh. I'd been careful not to rub against him. He'd already got a good long look at my breasts, and I suspect he wanted to see how they felt. There was nothing aggressive or overtly sexual in the way he touched me. He was tentative and gentle. I took it as a purely exploratory, investigative move. He was curious. It was sweet. I named it. I was wearing a bra. I let him keep his hand there a while.
Tuesday. July 21. 11:30 a.m.I did something this morning I wish I hadn't done. I'm fairly confident I meant well, but I feel creepy now. It is not something I will do again.
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8:45 p.m.
The clone is gone. The same two men came and took him away. If they do not change the plans, I will see him again. I will not count on it. For all their preoccupation with system and protocol, they are capricious. I am furious with them. It was a terrible scene. They came at eight. The clone and I were in the kitchen waiting. I'd explained to him what was about to happen.
He listened, but I don't believe he understood. Before they arrived, he was calm, which seems to be his natural, unmedicated state. I'd packed him an assortment of toilet articles from the supply I'd laid in before he arrived, in an old leather dop kit of my husband's. I put this in a nylon duffle bag, along with some of my husband's warm-weather clothesâT-shirts, sport shirts, khakis, cotton socks. The shirts are short sleeve. I worry they will not let him wear them. All of it will be too big. I packed some food for him to take along in a brown paper shopping bag. Fruits and vegetables, as many as I could fit, and some oatmeal raisin cookies I'd baked for him that morning, which he seemed to like. They let him take the clothes. They would not let him take the food, not even the cookies. They wouldn't say why. I had him ready to go by 7:30. He was cooperative with me, tranquil. I wanted to spend some unpressured time with him before they arrived. I'd like to think he was in pretty good shape. I felt I'd done well by him. He was certainly better off than when they'd brought him to me. He was clean and rested and reasonably at peace. The last couple of days he'd eaten well. If you factored in all he'd been through, and how bewildered he must still be, how frightened, wherever they've taken him, you'd have to say he was, at least towards the end of his stay with me, surprisingly happy. I don't know if what I'm calling happiness had anything to do with his relief at being outside the Clearances. Maybe he was happy inside there, too. Maybe he didn't want to be out. Maybe what I'm calling happiness was really a sort of shock-induced semi-stupor. He didn't say a word. How can I be sure? I'd dressed him up a bit for his trip, gray seersucker slacks and a white knit polo shirt. I made sure his face and hands and fingernails were clean, and I combed his hair for him. He looked like a golfer. What was this impulse? Was I trying to impress these men with the quality of my care? When he saw the two of them come in, he became agitated. He was unconscious when they'd brought him; it's not likely he recognized them. They were brusque, unfriendly. Gratuitously so, I thought, and I told them that. They did not bother to disagree.
He listened, but I don't believe he understood. Before they arrived, he was calm, which seems to be his natural, unmedicated state. I'd packed him an assortment of toilet articles from the supply I'd laid in before he arrived, in an old leather dop kit of my husband's. I put this in a nylon duffle bag, along with some of my husband's warm-weather clothesâT-shirts, sport shirts, khakis, cotton socks. The shirts are short sleeve. I worry they will not let him wear them. All of it will be too big. I packed some food for him to take along in a brown paper shopping bag. Fruits and vegetables, as many as I could fit, and some oatmeal raisin cookies I'd baked for him that morning, which he seemed to like. They let him take the clothes. They would not let him take the food, not even the cookies. They wouldn't say why. I had him ready to go by 7:30. He was cooperative with me, tranquil. I wanted to spend some unpressured time with him before they arrived. I'd like to think he was in pretty good shape. I felt I'd done well by him. He was certainly better off than when they'd brought him to me. He was clean and rested and reasonably at peace. The last couple of days he'd eaten well. If you factored in all he'd been through, and how bewildered he must still be, how frightened, wherever they've taken him, you'd have to say he was, at least towards the end of his stay with me, surprisingly happy. I don't know if what I'm calling happiness had anything to do with his relief at being outside the Clearances. Maybe he was happy inside there, too. Maybe he didn't want to be out. Maybe what I'm calling happiness was really a sort of shock-induced semi-stupor. He didn't say a word. How can I be sure? I'd dressed him up a bit for his trip, gray seersucker slacks and a white knit polo shirt. I made sure his face and hands and fingernails were clean, and I combed his hair for him. He looked like a golfer. What was this impulse? Was I trying to impress these men with the quality of my care? When he saw the two of them come in, he became agitated. He was unconscious when they'd brought him; it's not likely he recognized them. They were brusque, unfriendly. Gratuitously so, I thought, and I told them that. They did not bother to disagree.
The clone seemed unwilling to leave me. Maybe this is just what I want to believe. They were in a hurry to take him. I asked them to slow down, to go easy. I wanted time to tell them about how he was doing, about what he liked to eat. I wanted to tell them he knew how to use the toilet,
that he was in dire need of a shower and some new clothes, that the clothes I'd packed didn't fit him, that most of all he needed some underwear. They wouldn't listen. I watched the clone getting more and more upset. I told them I was willing to keep him a little longer. I asked them, please, to give me one more day. They refused. I asked them to let me take him out to the car. They refused that, too. I was afraid he would not let himself be taken. I put myself between the men and the clone. The shorter, bearded one pushed by me. I said, Stop. Please stop. I pleaded with the other man, who seemed less of a brute. Please tell him to stop. He wouldn't. The bearded man took the clone by the arm. Don't you hurt him, I said. I could see the clone was frightened. I didn't know what he might do. He did nothing. He did not resist. As they led him out, the clone did not look at me or make a single sound.
that he was in dire need of a shower and some new clothes, that the clothes I'd packed didn't fit him, that most of all he needed some underwear. They wouldn't listen. I watched the clone getting more and more upset. I told them I was willing to keep him a little longer. I asked them, please, to give me one more day. They refused. I asked them to let me take him out to the car. They refused that, too. I was afraid he would not let himself be taken. I put myself between the men and the clone. The shorter, bearded one pushed by me. I said, Stop. Please stop. I pleaded with the other man, who seemed less of a brute. Please tell him to stop. He wouldn't. The bearded man took the clone by the arm. Don't you hurt him, I said. I could see the clone was frightened. I didn't know what he might do. He did nothing. He did not resist. As they led him out, the clone did not look at me or make a single sound.
After they'd got him in the car, the older man, the tall one with the scary hands, came back into the kitchen to tell me about the new plan. He said he could give me only the basics, that I'd be given more detail in the coming days. They want me to contact Ray. They want me to go see him. They want Ray to meet his clone, face to face. They want Ray to spend time with his clone, then write about how it feels, what it means. They don't even know Ray. Neither do I, really. They want me to persuade him to do this. When it is published, he said, Ray's account will be of tremendous importance. I am to act as liaison, as chaperone, as nurse. I am to see to the clone's needs. I am to teach him survival skills, teach him about the world, about who and what he is. I am to make him presentable. They want me to teach him to speak, if he can't already, well enough that one day he might speak all over the world about the evils of cloning. Until he is ready for that, the tall man said, and until Ray's account is written, I am, no matter what the cost, to keep the clone alive and safe. I won't do it, I told him. You will, he said. We need you to. I won't, I said. And please leave my house.
He did leave then. On the kitchen
table I
saw the photograph I'd intended to give the clone to take with him. It was a picture of my daughter's children, a fairly recent one. He'd seen it on the dresser in my bedroom when we were walking around the house looking at things, naming them. Of all that he saw, he seemed to like this picture. It's a nice picture. The kids
are cute. They are wonderful kids. I don't know why he took such a shine to it. I took it out of the frame and put it on the table in the kitchen so I'd be sure not to forget to give it to him. When I saw it on the table, I wept. I was pretty much undone. I heard the garage door open. The car started up. I knew I would do what they'd asked.
table I
saw the photograph I'd intended to give the clone to take with him. It was a picture of my daughter's children, a fairly recent one. He'd seen it on the dresser in my bedroom when we were walking around the house looking at things, naming them. Of all that he saw, he seemed to like this picture. It's a nice picture. The kids
are cute. They are wonderful kids. I don't know why he took such a shine to it. I took it out of the frame and put it on the table in the kitchen so I'd be sure not to forget to give it to him. When I saw it on the table, I wept. I was pretty much undone. I heard the garage door open. The car started up. I knew I would do what they'd asked.
Seven
Y
esterday was September 12. I spent the day as I have spent every day the last month, in the apartment, in bed, writing my report. My report. Makes me sound like a clerk, a scrivener, a petty bureaucrat. What do I
think
I am?
esterday was September 12. I spent the day as I have spent every day the last month, in the apartment, in bed, writing my report. My report. Makes me sound like a clerk, a scrivener, a petty bureaucrat. What do I
think
I am?
September 12 is a hard day for me. In New Hampshire it was almost invariably hot, and weeks before the leaves turned color. School had started, and most years I spent much of the day in the sweaty, smelly classroom, negotiating the rules of engagement with my students, the majority of whom were sweaty and smelly and also mulish. Each year I looked for small ways to distinguish the day. I never found a wayâsomething explicit I might do, some ceremonial or commemorative gestureâthat felt sufficiently dignified (with regard to Sara's dignity, not mine), that didn't feel contrived or false. Anyway, the day would distinguish itself. For the part of the day I was awake, especially when the 12th fell on the weekend and I could find no distraction in work, I was plainly sad, mournful. Without needing a conscious effort to do this, I held Sara in my mind. At school or out, I kept her face before me, and it filled me with regret. Conversely, no matter how I tried, I could no longer hear her voice, or feel the skin of her hands, the shape of her fingers and nails, and this, too, pained me. Her face by its presence, her voice, her hands, by their absence, I was boxed in
by longing and sorrow. Was this not true for other days? All other days? It was easier this year, for whatever reason. It would have been our forty-third anniversary. Perhaps it was not being in the house in New Hampshire. I lived in that house forty-two years. Sara was there with me seven years only, but the house was hers. From the start. She chose the house. It was her money that permitted us to buy it. She made of it a home, and it remained hers all the years I lived there, a guest, a pensioner, without her.
by longing and sorrow. Was this not true for other days? All other days? It was easier this year, for whatever reason. It would have been our forty-third anniversary. Perhaps it was not being in the house in New Hampshire. I lived in that house forty-two years. Sara was there with me seven years only, but the house was hers. From the start. She chose the house. It was her money that permitted us to buy it. She made of it a home, and it remained hers all the years I lived there, a guest, a pensioner, without her.
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I didn't read Anna's journal right away. I could not bring myself to pick it up. I was annoyed she'd left it for me, annoyed she'd written it. When, finally, I submittedâthe thing occupied the kitchen table, Anna-like, demanding to be readâI found it moving and very disturbing. I felt sorry for the clone, sorry for Anna. I felt intimidated, scared, about the prospect of meeting and spending time with my clone. I also felt curiousâcuriosity more than a little prurientâto know what Anna had done that she wished she hadn't. But these were largely superficial feelings. (There is no way I could have known, or even have begun to imagine, what it would be like to encounter, in the mind-bending, time-trumping flesh, my own clone.) On what I'd like to believe was a somewhat deeper level, I felt ashamed of my essentially mindless, but now quite momentous decision to participate in the government's CNR programâto have, that is, in plain English, myself cloned.
I read the first section, the preamble, straight through. Then, after a break for soup and a sandwich downtown, I read the journal entries. As, to a much greater extent, is manifestly true, too, of me, Anna is unable to forego references to her personal life. I was happy to read these passages. On the drive to Montreal, and afterwards during our brief stay in that lovely city, though I'm sure we spoke of other things, it seemed all Anna wanted to talk about was her husband. Her love for him was impressive, admirable. For me it was also chastening. Then how is it that, just three months after his death, she seemed alreadyâin these pages, on the road, in Montrealâto be easy talking about him, already to have made her peace with his loss? Perhaps she
made this peace, and kept it, precisely by talking about him as freely as she did. Hers is a mature response. It has been more than thirty-five years, and I am still not easy talking about Sara. Nor have I been able to find anything like a similar peace. Maybe because, compared to Anna and her husband, Sara and I were together so short a time. Maybe the way she diedâtragic, anachronistic, like some pioneer wifeâexplains it, and how young. Maybe I am simply pathetic and weak. More to the point, solipsistic. There is no grief loftier, more important than my own.
made this peace, and kept it, precisely by talking about him as freely as she did. Hers is a mature response. It has been more than thirty-five years, and I am still not easy talking about Sara. Nor have I been able to find anything like a similar peace. Maybe because, compared to Anna and her husband, Sara and I were together so short a time. Maybe the way she diedâtragic, anachronistic, like some pioneer wifeâexplains it, and how young. Maybe I am simply pathetic and weak. More to the point, solipsistic. There is no grief loftier, more important than my own.
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