Allen Steele: The Good Rat

Phil sweats heavily now. Complains about having to watch Sally Jesse instead of Oprah. Don’t wanna watch that white whore, he says. C’mon, gimme that black bitch instead. Doug sweating hard, too, but just keeps walking. Asks for a Smashing Pumpkins CD, please. One of the kids changes his CD for him, but doesn’t switch channels on the TV.

Couldn’t do that, Sylvie says. Body too precious to me.

Body precious to me, too, I say, but it ain’t me. Gone somewhere else when I’m dead. Just meat after that. Why not sell this and that while you’re still around?

She’s quiet for a long while. Stares at the TV instead. Sally Jesse is talking to someone who looks like a man dressed as a woman but looks like a woman trying to resemble a man, or something like that.

Maybe I shouldn’t have told her what I think about organ mortgages. Being a rat is one thing, but putting your innards on the layaway plan is another. Some people don’t get it, and some of the ones who get it don’t like it.

Sylvie must know this stuff. All rats do. Most of us sign mortgages. So what’s her problem?

Bell dings somewhere behind us. Time for lunch. Didn’t even notice that it was noon yet. Dr. Bighead comes back in, turns off treadmills. Gets us to sit on examination tables and take off shoes. No blisters on our feet yet, but he still puts us in wheelchairs. OK, he says, be back here by one o’clock.

Can t wait, Phil says.

Lunch ready for us in rec room. Chicken soup, grilled cheese sandwiches, tuna salad. Push our way down the service line, carrying trays on our laps, reaching up to get everything. Been in a wheelchair before, so has Doug and Sylvie, but Pliil not used to it. Spills hot soup all over his lap, screams bloody murder.

Share a table with Sylvie. Newspapers on table for us to read. Intern brings us mail forwarded from home. Bills and junk for me, but Sylvie gets a postcard. Picture of tropical beach on the front.

Ask who it came from. Her brother, she says. Ask where her brother lives, and she passes me the postcard.

Pretend to read it. Only big word I know is Mexico. Always wanted to visit Mexico, I say. What does he do down there?

Hesitates. Business, she say s.

Should shut up now, but don’t. What kind of business?

Looks at me funny. Didn’t you read the card?

Sure, sure, I say. Just asking.

Thinks about it a moment, then she tells me. Younger brother used to live in Minneapolis, but was busted by the feds early last} ear. Sold cartons of cigarettes smuggled from Mexico out of the back of his car. Smoking illegal in Minneapolis. Felony charge, his third for selling butts on the street. Three-strikes law means he goes to jail for life. For selling cigarettes.

Judge set bail at seven grand. Sylvie came up with the cash. Brother jumped bail, as she knew he would. Fled south, sought amnesty, went to work for Mexican tobacco company. Sends her postcard now and then, but hasn’t seen him in almost two years.

That’s tough, I say She nods. Think about it a little. Question comes to mind. How did you come up with seven grand so fast?

Doesn’t say anything for a minute, then she tells me.

Got it from mortgaging her corneas.

Five is the usual price, but she got seven on the overseas black market. When she dies, her eyes go to India. At least it kept my brother from going to prison, she says, but I can tell that isn’t the point.

Sylvie doesn’t want to be buried without her eyes.

She takes back the postcard, turns it over to look at the beach on the front. Kind of makes you want to visit Tijuana, doesn’t it?

Tijuana looks like a great place, I say. Always wanted to go there. At least he’s found a nice place to live.

Gives me long, hard look. Card wasn’t sent from Tijuana, she says. It’s from Mexico City, where he’s living now. That’s in the letter. Didn’t you read it?

Oh, I say Yeah, sure. Just forgot.

Doesn’t say anything for a moment. Pulls over the newspaper, looks at the front page. Points at a headline. Says, isn’t that a shame?

Look at picture next to it. Shows African woman with a dead baby in her arms, screaming at camera. Yeah, I say, that’s tough. Hate it when I read news like that.

Sylvie taps a finger on the headline. Says here that the unemployment rate in Massachusetts is lowest in fifteen years, she says.

Oh yeah, I say. That’s not what I meant. That’s good news, yeah.

Pushes newspaper aside. Looks around to see if anyone is listening. Drops her voice to a whisper. You can’t read, can you?

Face turns warm. No point in lying to her. She knows now.

Only a little, I say. Just enough to get by, like a menu or a plane ticket. Not enough to read her brother’s postcard or a newspaper.

Feel stupid now. Want to get up and leave. Forget that I’m supposed to stay in the wheelchair, start to rise to my feet. Sylvie puts her hand on top of mine, makes me stay put.

It’s OK, she says. Doesn’t matter. Kind of suspected, but didn’t know for sure until you asked me about what my brother said in his letter.

Still want to leave. Grab rubber wheels, start to push back from table.

C’mon, don’t go away, she says. Didn’t mean to embarrass you. Stay here.

Feel like an idiot, I say.

Sylvie shakes her head. Gives me that smile again. No, she say, you’re not an idiot. You’re just as smart as anyone else.

Look at her. She doesn’t look away. Her eyes are owned by some company in India, but for a moment they belong only to me.

You can learn how to read, she says. You’ve just never had a teacher like me.

Get blisters on my feet by end of first day. Same for the other guys. Dr. Bighead very pleased. Never seen someone get so excited about blisters. Wonder if he’s got a thing for feet.

Scientists take pictures of our feet, make notes on clipboard, then spread lotion on our soles. Pale green stuff. Feels like snot from a bad head cold, smells like a Christmas tree soaked in kerosene. Use eyedroppers to carefully measure the exact amount. Should have used paintbrushes instead.

Everyone gets theirs from different bottles. No idea if I got the test product or the placebo, but blisters feel a little better after they put it on.

Doesn’t last long. Skin begins to itch after dinner. Not bad itch, but can’t resist scratching at the bottom of my feet. Sort of like having chigger bites from walking in tall grass. Sylvie and Phil have the same thing, but Doug doesn’t. Sits in corner of rec room, reading paperback book, never once touching his feet. Rest of us watch the tube and paw at our tootsies.

Guess we know who got the placebo.

No treadmill work the next day, but we go back down to the lab after breakfast and let the scientists examine us some more. Tell them about the itching while they draw blood samples. They nod, listen, take more pictures, make more notes, then put more green stuff on our feet.

Different formula this time. Now it’s Extra Strength Green Stuff. Must be made out of fire ants. Nearly jump off the table. Sylvie hisses and screws up her eyes when they put it on her. Phil yells obscenities. Two guys have to grab him before he decks the kid who put it on his feet.

Feet still burning when we go back upstairs. Sylvie goes to her room. Doug picks up his book and reads. Phil mad as hell, pissing and moaning about Dr. Bighead. Says he only did this to get a little extra dough, didn’t know they were going to put him in jail and torture him to death. Says he wants to go put his feet in a sink.

Don’t do it, I say, it’ll screw up the test. Tell him that trying to punch out a scientist is way uncool. Calm down, dude. Let’s play some eight-ball. Get your mind off it.

Mumbles something under his breath, but says, yeah, OK, whatever.