James Halperin - The First Immortal

“I thought you were planning to live forever.”

“Well, maybe I’m more realistic now. I feel lucky to be alive at all. But my children or grandchildren might. My own immortality’ll come through them, I guess. Which is good enough for me,” Ben said, suddenly realizing it wasn’t true—but easier not to think about. This child might never die, but he certainly would. He pushed the jealousy from his mind before he could quite recognize it. Life was short, and too damn precious for negative thoughts.

Sam and Alice Smith arrived several hours later. Marge’s parents, Oscar and Mary Callahan, who had the foresight to bring a deck of cards, showed up shortly after that. The six spent the ensuing hours telling jokes, pacing the floor, and taking turns at gin rummy and hearts.

In all, Marge’s labor lasted thirteen hours. When the nurse told them it was a healthy baby boy, Toby gave Ben a great bear hug, lifting him a foot off the floor. “It’s real now,” Toby said. “I didn’t think I’d envy you one little bit. But maybe I was wrong.”

Moments later the same nurse escorted Ben inside to look at his son through a large window, and suddenly everything changed. Staring at the tiny infant, barely distinguishable among perhaps a dozen others lying in bassinets, he felt none of the love or even pride he’d expected. The smooth glass seemed too cold and resolute a barrier to penetrate with either hand or heart. His warm breath frosted the window, throwing his own air back upon him, as if the glass had become a cube, closing him in, trapping him within itself. He tried to smile but found it impossible. It should have been the happiest moment of his life, shouldn’t it? Ben looked into himself with horror, finding nothing to be quite where he thought he’d left it.

June 17, 1950

Ben wondered how they could possibly expect him to keep this up for twelve months. He’d only been an intern for a week, and already could hardly stay awake during rounds. He’d just come off two straight shifts, treating emergency cases and helping deliver babies from five last night to nine this morning. It was nine-sixteen A.M. as he walked off the subway at Brigham Circle, several stops before his own neighborhood. He headed toward Harvard Medical School, and ambled inside Benson’s Delicatessen, where Toby was seated alone at their usual booth by the window.

“Boy, am I beat.” Ben dropped onto the banquette. “This damn internship’s gonna kill me.”

“Hell, Ben. You look like it already has. Always knew you were a pansy.”

“You know, I think I’ll enjoy reminding you about this conversation. Next year.”

“Fortunately, I’m a Libra. We don’t need as much sleep as you Capricorns.”

Ben looked at his friend to see if he was joking, then strained not to groan or roll his eyes. Jesus, he actually believed it. “Toby,” he said in a rare display of frustration, “Hitler had a whole team of astrologers advising his every move. Don’t you think if that crap really worked, the Germans would’ve won the… oh, never mind.”

“Well, you don’t have to get all hot and bothered over it. It’s just for fun. I swear I’m not consulting my horoscope to decide whether I should invade Poland or anything.”

“Sorry,” Ben said. “Bad night. Listen, Marge is pregnant again.”

“Gee, that’s great!” Toby exclaimed. Then he gazed at Ben’s face. “Isn’t it?”

“Don’t know. Fact is, we tried everything not to get pregnant. Rhythm, condoms, even abstinence. Which didn’t last long. It was kind of an accident. You know what I’m saying?”

Ben recalled the weeks after his first child, Gary, was born. Baby Gary had been a colicky infant with an impressive lung capacity. There was simply no way to reason with a baby in distress, utterly frustrating Ben, who’d never been around babies before.

Marge adored Gary, and would rock him for hours while he screamed in pain. But Ben had come to regard his son as an unbearable intrusion into a life he now remembered with shortsighted fondness. He’d refused to change the baby’s diapers and couldn’t seem to help Marge in any way. In the sanctuary of his work, Ben would invariably begin to forget his anxiety; he’d decide that today would be different. Tonight, he would help Marge more. But once home, the noise, the closed quarters, the lack of sleep, even the odors, would combine to restore Ben’s claustrophobic panic.

“You’re such a gentle, even-tempered man,” Marge had told him, “except when it comes to Gary. I’d like to tell you that I understand, but I don’t.”

She was right. Everything his son did seemed to anger him, and Ben had no idea why. He’d once vowed never to spank his children, no matter what they did; there were plenty of enlightened ways to punish misbehavior without conveying a message that violence is acceptable. He’d wanted his children to resolve their conflicts peaceably, and knew that parents must teach by example. Yet once his son had reached toddler-hood, he found himself shouting whenever Gary misbehaved. Then, even spankings had come. These had never been given in outward rage; the shock of them for Gary seemed to be more that they occurred at all than any attendant pain. But for Ben, the horror at the spankings dwelt in the fact that they seemed to be delivered by a stranger who would briefly inhabit his body. He didn’t know that guy, and certainly didn’t like him.

Over these past three years, every time he’d looked at his son, or heard his voice, or smelled him, Ben would feel almost suffocated. Even now, with Gary turning three years old today, things weren’t much better. Ben felt barely able to stand having him around.

“I don’t get it,” Ben added. He felt his eyes beginning to moisten. “How can I love my wife so much, and my son so little?”

“I’m sure it just takes time,” Toby assured him. But Ben knew it was a lie.

After he and Toby finished breakfast, Ben headed home. Marge and Gary were already gone; for the boy’s birthday, she’d promised to take him to an animated film and then out to buy him more crayons and drawing paper (as if he didn’t already have enough). But Ben decided it was just as well. He undressed, climbed into bed, and fell asleep immediately.

He woke around four P.M., feeling warm, bare, familiar skin next to his. Marge lay beside him, gently stroking his erection with her left hand, cupping his testicles with her right.

“Gary just fell asleep,” she whispered, “and I’m already pregnant.”

He kissed her sweetly, wanting to go slowly, to please her; she usually liked it best when they took their time. But all at once she climbed on top and used her right hand to pull him inside of her. Their lovemaking was passionate, urgent.

When they finished, Ben held her close and she began to cry.

“What’s wrong?” She didn’t answer.

“You’re worried about our second child, aren’t you?”

“Ben, I love you so much. I know you don’t want this baby—”

“I do,” he interrupted, “if you do.” Then he reflected on her words and started to cry himself. “I love you, too,” he finally said. “Always will. I don’t know what it is between Gary and me, but I’ll figure it out. I’ll work at it day and night and become a good parent. Marge, I swear to you. I’ll be a better father from now on.”

August 30, 1960

For the rest of his life Ben Smith would remember this day in exceptional detail. He and Marge did not make love that morning; Jan had been up too early. Instead, they dragged themselves out of bed to make breakfast.

The brownstone on Boston’s Beacon Hill was bright, open, spacious—and a cluttered mess. It was built for luxury living but had been forced to adapt to the children, like a purebred show dog living at a junkyard. There were no antiques or decorator furniture, no expensive paintings or Oriental rugs. The walls were adorned mostly with family photographs, dents and scratches, and the occasional crude drawing unmistakably crafted by young fingers.