David Palmer - Emergence

Well, didn’t take subconscious long to start diversionary tactics. Sorry.

Were perhaps hundred miles from St. Louis, passing through small Missouri town, when heard eerie wailing sound. Adam, alert for defective track or open switch but otherwise relaxed, abruptly sat bolt upright, peering into mirrors. “What the hell …!” he muttered. Braked heavily, bringing us to quick stop.

Equally quickly, was out door, running toward rear. I saw nothing in right-side mirror, but exited as well. Ran toward trailer’s rear, intending to meet Adam, gain insight into curious behavior.

However, as rounded trailer, all became clear: Stopped behind us, lit up like Jefferson Starship stage, was state police car, driver’s door open. Man — tall, thin, seedy-looking, longhaired/bearded, breathlessly wild-eyed, teary-but-very-happy man, age indeterminate — sliding from behind wheel. Stranger fell sobbing upon Adam’s neck like long-lost brother, alternately hugging, pounding back, pumping hand as if never intended to let go.

(Proud of Adam then: Notoriously averse to emotional displays [even more so to long-unwashed B.O.], but accepted mauling nobly — remembered his own feelings upon first discovering not alone in world after all. Hint of long-suffering forbearance betrayed by posture apparent only to me — and only because know him so well.)

Presently man’s eyes fell on me. Stared for long moments, then gasped, “You’re a girl …!” Took quick step in my direction, reaching out as if to sweep me into embrace also — and stopped short. Glanced down at self, abruptly conscious of grooming deficiencies. Released Adam; drew back. Looked embarrassed.

“I must present quite a sight,” said in apologetic tone. “And smell,” added with grimace.

Continued earnestly: “It’s been quite a while since I’ve had anyone to dress up for. I’m afraid I’m out of practice. I’ll shower, shave, and change as soon as we get home.” Earnestness intensified, hysterical edge crept into voice: “I’m really a very respectable person once I’m cleaned up and wearing decent clothes. And I’ll cut my hair. You will come home with me, won’t you? We have so much to talk about. Please? Please…?”

Unexpectedly then, suddenly as had aborted initial lunge toward me, man clamped mouth shut, cutting off accelerating verbal torrent almost midword. Closed eyes; took long, slow, deep breath. Drew himself up. Disreputable air wavered, then evaporated: Clothing notwithstanding, self-assured, dignified gentleman stood before us. Voice, when resumed, was low, well modulated; delivery cultured, articulate: “Sorry; I must sound like a complete psychotic, raving on like that. I’ve been alone a long time. I was sure I was the last man on Earth.

“I’m Rollo Jones. My house is about 20 miles back. I’ve been chasing you since I caught a glimpse of you going by the shopping center.” Flashed sudden boyish grin. “You have no idea how uncomfortable a pursuit it was. Railroad roadbed is not made for high-speed driving in cars, even in something as durable as a patrol car.

“May I ask your names, ma’am and sir?”

Transformation amazing. By now could almost forget appearance, aroma — excusable anyway, under circumstances (though Adam hadn’t let self go, nor I). Before our eyes, frenetic derelict metamorphosed into educated, refined, eminently likeable person.

Introduced ourselves; ran through briefest mutual biographies. Rollo listened attentively; displayed genuine interest. Then surprised us: Owned recordings of Adam in concert, though never saw him perform — and knew both Daddy, Teacher professionally: As small-town medical-school president, physician, prior to Doomsday, had rubbed shoulders with both during seminars, etc.

And had never been sick.

Caught Adam’s eye, crooked brow. He nodded. On behalf of both I accepted invitation with thanks; agreed had much to discuss.

Continued on rails to next level crossing; retracted guide wheels (which Rollo admired extravagantly, to Adam’s embarrassed delight). Rollo familiar with local roads’ pitfalls; led way to his home. Drive took perhaps hour total.

Lived in big, comfortable-looking house amidst sprawling grounds; once nicely landscaped, now gone to seed. Rollo apologized for condition; explained house, upkeep furnished by school. Wife’s pride, joy; without her for inspiration, maintenance crew to do work, had little interest in appearance.

Met at curb by large, gaunt, battle-scarred, notch-eared, yellow- and black-striped tomcat, who greeted me with gruff courtesy but went into ecstasies over Adam: Head-dived at ankles, twined around feet until could hardly walk. Accompanied him to door, offered to follow inside. Rollo drew back foot; cat darted into bushes, favored him with unflattering personal remark.

“Sorry,” he offered, noting my expression. “That’s Tora-hōhi, my late wife’s cat. Tora-hōhi means ‘Tiger-breath’ in Japanese.”

Caught Adam’s slight headshake, but couldn’t spare attention to find out what he wanted. Sudden crisis in progress; required full attention:

As Rollo walked past, Terry growled deep in throat, hunched shoulders, fluffed plumage, bobbed head, narrowed pupils to pinpoints; then lashed out in great roundhouse swing, obviously with every intention of carving divot from whatever portion of man’s anatomy he could reach. Was astonished at normally blithe sibling’s reaction; first time ever saw him take dislike to obviously refined, well-educated person on sight. Probably the smell, raggedy appearance. (Couldn’t blame him, really; long time since Rollo bathed, changed clothes.)

Intended victim hadn’t noticed. Still apologizing for treatment of wife’s cat: “I’m not a cat person myself, and it’s never liked me, either. It considered us rivals over Sally ever since it was a kitten. The dispute never escalated to open warfare; we just settled, over the years, into a pattern of mutually respectful antagonism, which became a family tradition. That cat would be horrified by now if I displayed unseemly solicitude or affection toward it. It would view it as a clear violation of the armistice.

“And since Sally died, I haven’t been able to allow it in the house, because it — well” — Rollo grinned ruefully — “it took to expressing its opinion of me — on my pillow…!

“Besides, I didn’t think it would be fair to ‘spoil’ it in view of circumstances. If something happened to me, it would be better off already accustomed to foraging for itself.” Rollo eyed the cat appraisingly. “So I booted it outside and tapered off feeding it. It’s doing pretty well so far; I haven’t fed it in months, and it’s still in pretty good shape.”

(Matter of opinion, I thought; but decided to keep lip buttoned for once. Also wondered at use of impersonal pronoun: “It” seemed unnecessarily rude.)

Really do like cats myself, though not rabid “cat person” per se: Terry comes first, period; and cats, birds uneasy bedmates — not that idiot twin afraid of, particularly at risk from, normal domestic housecat. Has encountered before. Generally clicks bill loudly, suggestively; settles feathers in menacing fashion; cat remembers pressing business elsewhere, departs unhurriedly. All very civilized. Has even been friends with one well-behaved neighbor cat over the years.

“I really can’t imagine why it still bothers to hang around,” Rollo continued. “Our relationship is quite limited. Whenever I leave the house it glares at me — no, amend that: Sometimes it sits on the window ledge and glares in at me, too.”

Adam surprised me. Never had pets while growing up; no experience with cats. Last person would expect to be cat person. But blurted out then, “I don’t know what ‘good shape’ means in a cat, but he looks awfully thin to me. Could we bring him in, just for the evening, and feed him? I’ll watch and make sure he doesn’t do anything he shouldn’t.”