David Palmer - Emergence

However. Pragmatic as do try to be in every respect, find I cannot narrow down viewpoint; regard this question as solely practical matter — to say nothing of notion of debasing currency to point where becomes no more than casual recreation, temporary ennui remedy. True, not entitled to advance own opinion as expert — lack firsthand knowledge. Must rely upon instincts developed through exposure to Momma, Daddy, Teacher; their unvoiced opinions reflected in conduct toward selves, one another, world at large — and especially me.

No, can not put finger on precise dates, times, places; nor words, acts underlying own attitude. But do know that ingrained into very being is conviction that sex is small-but-important part of very complicated whole; blending liking-respect-tenderness-caring-need-love-coitus with implied lifelong partnership-family commitment, babies optional.

Am not ready for babies: not physically, not emotionally — not now! Nor commitment. Yet. And if can’t cope with package in toto (including deliberate election to proceed to motherhood or not), then strongly misdoubt wisdom…

Well, can work up to it, step-by-step. And undoubtedly will (if do keep him). But not beginning with that step. Period. No matter what “practical considerations” might seem to dictate!

So initially sought to counter Adam’s enthusiasm with logic: Reminded him of age: Probably not fertile yet; and even if wanted to conceive at 11 — and don’t! — well-known amongst OB-GYN trade is fact that excessively young mothers produce generally frail, sickly offspring.

“I’m sure that was true of Homo sapiens women,” Adam replied with irritatingly comfortable superiority, as usual ignoring objection’s nontechnical aspect; “but how much data has been accumulated on us ?”

(One of boy’s less appealing qualities: Instantly pounces on flawed reasoning; zooms in for kill without hesitation; gives no quarter, takes no prisoners.)

“No, I don’t know if it’s true of us,” I admitted. “How could I know? How could anybody know? Who would have had time to assemble a data base on us? Only a few hundred people knew about us at all, even before; and they didn’t have time…”

“Besides,” Adam interjected smoothly, “if you’re not fertile yet, then what does it matter? The only question we need to consider is whether it’s good for us; whether it will increase our chances of survival by improving our mental, emotional, and physical condition — which it will, you know; all the texts say so.

“But if even the possibility of conceiving, and the potential effect of your age on our child, really bothers you that much and you’d rather hold off starting a family, that’s easily dealt with. So there’s nothing to prevent us from enjoying the benefits of an active, healthy, satisfying physical relationship. See…?”

Open mouth to reply. Stopped. Noticed bottom-line issue well on way to vanishing amidst mechanics of debate. Quickly reviewed dialogue immediately preceding; concluded misdirection not accidental.

(Obviously Adam exposed to unsavory influences during impressionable years [perhaps too much time spent in company of mother’s state government cronies]; had picked up verbal shell game skills — plus who knows what other tools comprising basic political arsenal.)

Realized then: Might be well to watch step around Adam conversationwise. Always heretofore considered concept of “promise” sacrosanct, orientation which may prove liability: Would rather not find have agreed to something which, through failure to understand, follow transactional semantics to proper conclusion, binds me to something contrary to expectations, intentions.

So switched to more direct approach: “I don’t care whether it’s true or not. That isn’t the point. I’m too young — I’m not going to get involved in sex. Not now …!”

Like most H. post hominems, Adam has extremely sensitive hearing. But can be quite hard of listening: “ Don’t get your Bach up,” he soothed. “I know, I know — this all has hit you pretty suddenly, and you haven’t had time to think it through. But you know as well as I do that there’re only the two of us. We don’t have a choice — we need each other. And even though ‘need’ is an awfully broad term, the heart of it, under these circumstances, is sex — I need you …!”

“I don’t want to,” I repeated, somewhat more firmly (possibly because “need” touched nerve, eroded conviction). “At least not yet. I don’t doubt that one day I may want to — at the very least, I will cooperate to the extent necessary to rebuild the population.

“But I don’t have a need yet — and I bet you don’t either; though I’ll grant you’ve probably got a pretty urgent want, the same as any adolescent male. We’re both too young — certainly I am. But even if we weren’t, I’ve never heard of celibacy killing anyone, so I don’t think we’re in any immediate danger; at least not from that quarter. And if it’s physical tensions you’re bothered with, you know the solution to that just as well as I do.

“For Heaven’s sake,” I finished impatiently; look at me — I’m almost still a boy… !”

“I have looked at you,” he replied with a knowing grin; “in the most minute detail, for six long days while you were comatose; while changing your diaper, bathing you, and maintaining your catheter. No one would mistake you for a boy anymore. You are somewhat unfinished here and there, but you’re very pretty. And I’m beginning to regret having been such a gentleman while I had you at my mercy. Did I miss my golden opportunity?”

“I thought you weren’t into snuggling with corpses, and found catheters unromantic.”

“I’m not, they are, so I didn’t. But looking at you was very pleasant, in spite of your condition. And you aren’t unconscious now, and there’re no tubes in the way. Frankly, I don’t understand your attitude — I’d think gratitude alone would be enough to motivate you, if not compassion for a suffering fellow survivor…” This last delivered in tones of hurt puzzlement; wearing a trusting, wide-eyed, cocker-spaniel-puppy expression.

(Adam shrewd at picking apart others’ arguments, but reckless about leaving opening for riposte. Always a mistake: No one who knows me would doubt willingness to snub slack once victim has rope enough to hang himself.)

“I’m glad you feel that way. That means you do understand how I feel about it, and you’ll be happy to quit pestering me — if not from compassion, then out of gratitude.”

“Gratitude…?” Adam’s expression fell. Belatedly realized he’d violated logic matrix, blown argument; but too stubborn to admit it, change tack, quit with grace.

“Yes, ‘gratitude.’ Who pulled you out of that fire and stitched up your leg?”

“Who got in the way and made me crash in the first place?”

“Who was driving like a lunatic?”

“Oh, yeah…?”

“Yeah!”

(Have been several conversations like that since then; all revolving around oldest disputed topic; all concluding in same general vein.)

Apart from that, though, Adam seems pretty neat so far. Which is part of reason have not taken sterner line with him regarding nonstop campaign against my “virtue.” Could, certainly, and would bring results. Knows my karate ranking from reading journal; knows am well able to enforce wishes, if so choose.

But don’t choose. Yet. And truly hope never becomes necessary. Only five when Momma Foster died, but had managed by then to impart to me her appreciation for fragility of male ego; care required to preserve from unnecessary bruising. Have encountered nothing during subsequent years to suggest wisdom of altering view (indeed, quite to contrary).