Scott Mackay: Phytosphere

A worried look came to her face. “We’re going to be all right, aren’t we?”

He had to think about that. “ We’re going to be all right. People with money are going to weather this thing just fine. It’s people like…Gerry and Glenda, for instance, who might be… inconvenienced by it.

Why don’t you give Glenda a call when you get back to the house? I worry about her. Especially now that Gerry’s run off to the Moon. See if you can figure out a way to give her money without making her feel like she’s begging.”

“But is that thing… do you think it’s going to…”

“I don’t know. And I’m not going to worry about it. My guess is that I’ll beat it in a week or two. I’ve got the low-temperature superconductivity thing starting in the middle of July, and I’ve got to have this cleared up by then. It’s probably some simple compound that’s going to break easily. The Tarsalans haven’t come here with massive resources, so they can’t afford something complex, or particularly resistant. This is just a scare tactic. And the president will give me carte blanche, like he always does. In a few weeks, all this stuff will fall harmlessly to the Earth like… like… what’s that book by Dr. Seuss? The one Morgan loves so much? The one where it rains all the green muck?”

“Bartholomew and the Oobleck.”

“Oobleck. Right. That’s all this stuff is.” Neil’s brow furrowed. “I forget how that story ends. It’s been so long since I read it to Morgan.”

“The king says he’s sorry for having his magicians conjure up Oobleck, and the Oobleck melts away.”

Neil nodded. “Right. That’s how easy it’s going to be. I’m going to look up at the sky, I’m going to say I’m sorry, and it’s going to melt away.”

Glenda Thorndike’s alarm rang at seven in the morning, but through the fog of her sleep she thought it must have gone off early, because when she opened her eyes it was still dark outside. Then it all came back to her. The shroud. Her body tensed. She reached for Gerry’s side of the bed and, even though it was cold and empty, she left her hand there for a long time.

At last she pulled it away. As she pushed her covers off, she felt a distinct chill in the house. The house should have been warm on a June morning. She should have heard cardinals outside her window—oh, how she loved the song of the cardinal. But it felt like the beginning of winter.

She maneuvered her feet into her slippers—sturdy Cree moccasins Gerry had bought for her last Christmas—pulled on her housecoat, and walked to the window. She drew the sheers aside and looked upward. The sky roiled, stitching itself together in an ever-thickening patchwork of green, light in some places, dark in others, like the smoke from a genie’s bottle—magical and impossible, terrible yet wondrous. She weakened in fear.

She could make out the woods behind the house, and saw a deer nibbling the grass. The deer didn’t seem bothered by the shroud. But the birds. Where were the birds? The feeder should have been Grand Central Station at this time in the morning.

She walked to her dresser and lifted her fone. An expensive device. Gerry had one too. Rented units, because how often did they speak to each other on an interlunar basis? She pressed the automatic redial and the fone beeped through the digits of his number. As usual she got the same infuriating message: Interlunar communications were currently unavailable, they had technicians working on the problem, and they hoped to have service restored shortly. Then she heard a new addition to the message. “Due to the

length of the service interruption, AT&T Interlunar will be sending each of its valued customers a twenty-five-dollar gift certificate, redeemable at any Hutton-Lewis Beauty Spa location.” She clicked off in anger. She didn’t want a beauty spa. She wanted her husband.

Missed him.

Had to say she was sorry.

Loved him after all, and wanted him back.

She kicked off her moccasins, let her nightgown drop, peeled off her underthings, walked to the en suite wash-room, and got in the shower. She felt as if she were taking a shower in the middle of the night. She washed her hair and body, then got out, dried off, and wrapped a towel turban-style around her hair. She walked into the bedroom naked, and tried the fone again—couldn’t help it—hoping against hope that this would be the minute, the second, the precise moment when the techies at AT&T Interlunar would work their magic and restore her service. But it was nada, nyet, impossiblé —then the offer of a twenty-five-dollar gift certificate to a Hutton-Lewis Spa.

She clicked off.

She got into her nursing home uniform, blow-dried her hair, and went to wake Jake and Hanna for their third to last day of school.

Jake was out of bed in seconds, happy and excited. He ran to the front window and threw open the curtains. He looked up at the sky. He sank to his knees, as if praying to God, lifted his hands to his cheeks, and said, “Wow,” his voice suffused with a soft and quavering reverence. “It’s gotten a lot thicker overnight, hasn’t it, Mom? Isn’t it cool?”

“Jake, it’s not cool.”

“It’s cool, Mom. I don’t care what you say.”

“Go pour some cornflakes. And go easy on the milk. We have to make it last.”

“I’m going to turn on the TV and see if there’s anything new.”

“There won’t be anything new. Just eat your corn-flakes and get ready. You always have to scramble for the bus.”

She continued down the hall and went into Hanna’s room. Hanna had a poster of Beethoven on the wall.

An electronic piano rested on a stand below it, and Glenda saw that Hanna’s music was turned to the

“Moonlight Sonata.” Hanna’s clarinet sat on its bell next to the piano. Hanna slept deeply. Glenda shook her daughter, who opened her eyes and turned her head. She looked at Glenda as if she were still in a dream, and made an unverbalized noise that was meant to acknowledge her mother in a nonchalant and uninterested way, as if Glenda were the most boring and annoying spectacle in the world. Then she turned over, closed her eyes again, and slipped back into oblivion.

“Hanna, come on. The bus is going to be here soon. You need a shower. Your hair’s a mess.”

“I’ll wear a scarf around my head.”

“Hanna, you need to wash your hair. You should try and get into these habits before you go to college.”

“One more minute?” Hanna bargained.

“Your voice sounds a little rough.”

“I need my puffer.”

And as if she had just now remembered she was afflicted with chronic asthma, Hanna reached out her long, skinny arm so that it double-jointed backward, fumbled for her bronchodilator, put the mouthpiece to her mouth in a greedy gesture, and gave herself three good blasts. Glenda made a mental note. Had to get more. Hanna was running out. But where was the money? And that thing in the sky. Plus the pills.

And that thing in the sky. Hanna sat up and coughed—coughed long and hard like she did every morning.

With that thing still in the sky.

“That’s it, honey. Get it all up. Then get into the shower. You know the steam does you good.”

“One more minute?” Hanna said between coughs.

“You’ve had a minute.”

“That didn’t count. Give me five more minutes.”

“Let’s not make the bus wait this morning. Come on. Out of bed.” She gripped Hanna’s ankles, playing with her like she was a kid, even though she was sixteen. How did her little Hanna grow so tall? Just like her father. Hanna tried to pull her legs away, but it made her laugh and she finally sat up. She looked around the room, and at last out the window.