Walter Greatshell - Apocalypse blues

"Don't say that."

"Why not? It's a new day, Lulu. A brand-new life starts today."

"No…"

"Louise, I know this is hard, but from what I know about you, you're tough enough to take it. And starting tomorrow, things are going to get a whole lot easier."

Reluctantly, I asked, "How?"

"Tomorrow you'll get a guardian. Someone to take care of you."

"Oh."

"I know that doesn't mean much to you yet, but I think you'll find it exciting."

"Uh-huh."

"You're a princess around here. A rare bird. Important men are eager to meet you."

"You mean like they've been meeting the boys?"

She looked at me shrewdly, grateful to dispense with childish fictions. "Much more so," she said. "Boys are just a substitute borne of necessity."

"Swell."

"You know, later on you'll have a chance to see some of your pals again, the ones who have been 'adopted.' You'll see that they're getting along just fine."

"Why not now?"

"They're still going through orientation."

"Why can't I go through orientation with them?"

She smiled and put her hand on my shoulder. "Honey, you don't need to."

I remained in bed all day, feeling leaden and ill. At intervals my guts would seize up, bending me double and wringing out harsh silent tears, like juice from a frost-damaged lemon. I wondered if there were any hidden cameras as I used the bed-pan. Several doctors dropped by to check my vitals, and I had the impression they had drawn straws for the privilege. They didn't speak English. Ridiculously sumptuous meals were brought on a cart-soft-boiled eggs, fresh fruit, a variety of breads and crackers with a basket of individual little spreads and cheeses, a pot of tea. At lunch there was an antipasto tray that could have fed six people, and at dinner a four-course meal with whole roast game hens. I hardly ate any of it-I could tell it was from the boat.

Sometime later, Dr. Langhorne returned, accompanied by a much older lady, a Miss Riggs, whose baggy face was plastered with makeup and whose flaming copper wig looked about as natural as a coonskin cap. I couldn't believe they had given this poor old thing an implant! She dragged a huge rolling suitcase behind her like a homeless person.

"Lulu, Miss Riggs is going to help you get ready for tomorrow. She's a professional, so give her your full cooperation, okay?"

Professional what? I thought apprehensively.

"Oh, my achin' feet," said Miss Riggs, opening the suitcase and setting up a bright light on a stand. "Come on, honey. I ain't gettin' any younger." I hesitated because of my nakedness, but she didn't give a darn. "Let's go!" she squawked.

Half her suitcase was taken up by a big makeup kit with folding trays full of every conceivable grooming tool. I nearly swooned from the smell, which evoked the spicy-sweet aroma of numberless beauty parlors. The color palette had the worn look of long, expert use, and the tools and brushes were arranged as neatly as surgical instruments. The other half of the case contained a stack of carefully packed dresses, all plastic-wrapped as if fresh from the dry cleaner. On top I could see a baroque layered gown of jade silk and antique lace.

"Excuse me," Miss Riggs said to the doctor. "I can take it from here."

"I won't get in your way," said Langhorne.

"I can't stand people lookin' over my shoulder when I'm workin'! Beat it!"

Langhorne was shocked and furious, but she held her tongue. "All right," she said. "Let me know when you're done." To me, she said, "Your escort tomorrow will be Mr. Utik. He'll be here at eleven, so be ready to go. He's conversant in Inuktitut, French, and Danish, but his English may leave something to be desired. I suggest you don't call him an Eskimo, or he'll think you uncouth." She brusquely ducked out.

"Some people can't take a hint," the old lady said. "They don't understand the artistic temperament. You can't crowd talent. I learned that from Jayne Mansfield. You gotta stick up for yourself, or these bozos will walk all over ya." Measuring me, she said, "Honey, you sure ain't no Jayne Mansfield, I'll tell you that. How old are you?"

"Seventeen."

"That's a shame. You need some meat on your bones; you look like a plucked chicken. They treatin' you all right in here?"

I couldn't begin to answer; all I could do was cry.

"Aw, honey, you're gonna be all right. You know how many fresh-faced young girls I worked with over the years? I seen 'em all go through it, even Marilyn Monroe. You ain't the first. Some became tramps, some became drunks and dope addicts, some made a career of getting knocked around by the wrong kind of men. There's always gonna be men who think having a pretty dame around will make them hate themselves less, and they take it out on the girl when it doesn't work. Ain't no different now. Hold still."

"What can I do?" I quavered. "What can I do?"

"Don't move." She was fastening the tiny hooks on a carapace-like bustier, her hands strong and nimble and utterly without hesitation or wasted movement, everything coming together with an accidental ease that suggested the opposite of entropy-order flowing from chaos. Despite her rheumy yellow eyes and cigarette-stained teeth, I sensed that nothing could shake her; she was solid. I wished she would stay with me and tell me what to do. I wanted to hide in her suitcase.

With effortless speed, she threw clothes on me from that treasure chest of couture, one dazzling outfit after another, enough to stage the Oscars, all pristine and new. Obscenely plush designer gowns straight off a Paris runway; metallic silks and jewel-fruited filigree; bloodred taffeta and peach satin; cream lace studded with pearls; Versace, Gucci, Dior-annoying names that littered my consciousness with all the other obsolete pop-culture clutter, but which I had never seen on a label, suddenly delivered into my pauper's hands like so much pirate booty. Nothing fit me, but needles sprouted from Miss Riggs's withered lips, thread from her spiderlike hands, cinching in and hemming and pleating, filling out the tops with blubbery foam inserts so that for the first time in my life I looked like a woman. Amazed at my unfamiliar spangled self, I realized I was booty, too-part of the loot.

"You wanna know what to do?" she said through a mouthful of pins. "None of the above. That's the extent of my wisdom, hon: Do none of the above."

Miss Riggs took all the costumes with her to finish working on them-a whole lavish wardrobe, custom-fitted for me. I couldn't quite comprehend it. It had been such a bizarre flurry of activity that I almost believed I had imagined the whole thing, and it was a little bit of a shock the next morning to find all the completed dresses hanging in the tent, with a row of matching shoes lined up below. One of the outfits was set apart, and next to it was something I never expected to see again: the hooded fur cape Hector had given me. I wept to touch it. It had been cleaned and brushed to a high reddish gloss, matching perfectly with the teal-and-black ensemble I was to wear.

At exactly eleven (by the Tiffany watch that had appeared on my bedstand), a pair of Air Force men came in through the tent flap and escorted me down a sausagelike inflated tunnel. I sensed them taking great pains not to stare at me in my finery.

"What happens now?" I asked them.

"We're not at liberty to say, ma'am."

"What do you think of all this?" I tapped my forehead nodule.

One of them was annoyed by my questions, but the other one said, "Everybody's just coping. That's all you can do. Forget who you were and roll with it. Those who can't…" He shrugged.

Eyes swimming with tears, I said, "I'm not sure if I can live like that."

"You wouldn't be the first."

At the end, we came to a revolving door, and they sent me through. Pushed by a gust of warm air, I emerged on an enclosed balcony in pale, subzero twilight. I was outside the dome!