Rick Moody - The Four Fingers of Death

In the café downtown, meanwhile, Noelle and Morton spent half an hour discussing their greatest personal fears. Morton was the one to bring it up. He’d been reading an online advice column: how to have the healthiest relationship, and he’d paid for a download (charging it to Dr. Koo’s credit card), The Healthiest Relationship: Ten Preliminary Steps . Here he’d learned many things. The contemporary man needed to make himself open and vulnerable, to reveal his innards for intimacy with patience and quiet confidence. And the way to make himself vulnerable, according to The Healthiest Relationship , by Deep Singh, PhD, was to talk about his greatest personal fears and his need for caring. Noelle was well aware that Morton, sipping chai latte, was unsettling to most of the patrons of the café, but never more so than when he said, audibly, “All my biggest personal fears, if I’m being honest, have to do with vivisection.”

Noelle ventured, witlessly, “Why is that, do you think?”

An incredibly stupid thing to say, really, because, actually, she could never know what he’d lived through, the ordeal of serving as a medical experimental subject his entire life, from the first instant of his primate consciousness (as opposed to his recently awakened human consciousness). His whole life had been about having various electrodes affixed to him, or having pieces cut off, often without anesthetic, or having various things injected into him, illnesses cultured in petri dishes from places like Congo and New Guinea. Morton had survived this only through good luck. From the moment he’d been weaned, this was what Morton had known. If, in his new consciousness, he didn’t remember those early days, with their experimental regimens, he must have somewhere stored up their trauma.

“Isn’t that what most people are afraid of, when you get right down to it? I mean, there are other kinds of bodily fears, hemorrhaging, having an aneurysm, losing an eye, impotence, infertility, but these are really just varieties of vivisection, right?”

Noelle said, “I don’t really have any fear of vivisection. I mean, I guess I have a fear of tremendous physical pain , but that’s almost a reflex, not a fear. Mammals recoil from physical pain, right?”

“Actually,” Morton said, “mammals recoil from annihilation. From the foreknowledge of their deaths. Or that’s my view. There are many animals that are willing to tolerate physical pain. Dogs, you know, are willing to endure pain in order to stay near to their masters; cats, willing to endure pain, just not fear. If they have a reasonable certainty of surviving the physical pain, mammals often show remarkable fortitude. It’s only in the imminence of death that the flight mechanism overtakes. That’s my experience, at any rate.”

“Do you suppose the arm recoils from annihilation?” said Noelle, because she was frankly a little intimidated by Morton and was, in her anxiety, falling into the disagreeable habit of easy conversation, conversation that didn’t probe into her own life.

Morton called out, slurping the last of the watery chai, “Waiter! Waiter!”

“He’ll—”

Morton seemed to warm to the subject of the arm, Noelle supposed, though it was far from the healthy relationship on which he had intended to concentrate his attention, and this was something of a relief. “Look, the arm still possesses the muscle memory of its host. That’s what you have to understand, Noelle. It knows how to do certain things without fail — grasping, strangling, all the hand-to-hand combat that was part of its host’s military training.”

“Its host?”

“Among those muscle memories, I’m guessing, is the instinct to avoid flame. Or frostbite. The arm will not walk directly into fire, and it will not pitch itself into a frigid lake — which probably isn’t liable to happen out here right now.” Morton giggled. “The arm, therefore, does have certain kinds of instinctual activities, just like some kind of lower insect or single-celled organism!”

“But—”

“And now back to your greatest personal fears! And remember, Noelle, that I sympathize. I really feel the kind of personal fear we’re talking about here, I honestly do, perhaps more than any other time in my life. I want you to know just how important it is that you understand that I understand the kind of disquiet this sort of conversation brings up in a person when he or she—”

“Morton, you should really let me tell you my fears before you—”

She fell silent, concentrating for a moment on a smattering of crumbs that stippled Morton’s hirsute chin. A cranberry scone had immediately preceded the conversation. He’d been attempting to master the paper napkin. He had rumpled it.

“Then please, be my guest.”

In truth, Noelle kind of wanted to get away from him, because she found his attempts at seductive conversation laughable and foul. But it was the laughable qualities, at least for the moment, that made it hard to leave.

She mumbled, “I guess I should say that my biggest fear is being loved. And I don’t know why I’m telling you that. But there it is. Some people’s fears are the silliest ones of all.”

The hiss of a distant cappuccino machine. Change rendered in all but worthless paper currency. Morton, who really was learning phenomenally quickly, gazed upon the woman he loved, or the woman he said he loved.

“That, Noelle, is among the saddest things I’ve heard anyone say in a while. And you know I would like to help you with it, and I know that you don’t want me to help you with it. I expected you to say a fear of heights , or a fear of rats , or something more concrete, because that’s what people do, I think. What they do is let out a little bit of the story, in order to throw off a friend or acquaintance. And then they keep the big, scary part of the tale hidden away. I’ve been developing a theory, you know, during the boring stretches of my imprisonment, and the theory is that Homo sapiens sapiens is the loneliest animal on all the planet. This is a bit ironic, because excepting certain kinds of insects and some bacteria, Homo sapiens sapiens has to be one of the commonest, if not the commonest animal species there is. He’s always surrounded with cronies, coworkers, church acquaintances. And yet no matter what he does, he seems to be keeping the one admirable part of himself, his consciousness, away from all the other individuals of the species. Either he is unable to give of himself in such a way that his fellows can understand him, or else he is overburdening them so that they can only wish to avoid him. It’s all the same in either case, Homo sapiens sapiens lives in a warehouse of solitude from which, if he’s lucky, he watches the other people trudging past, and all the while he’s wondering why not me, why not me, why am I untouched by the tender fingers of civilization? ”

“Morton,” Noelle said. “You know, I am moved, and it’s not like I say that lightly or anything, but—”

“You’re thinking that I am myself an example of the person who asks too much of his fellows, and when this is juxtaposed with my comical ugliness, why then I am just another example of the man who gets nothing, who spends weekend nights drinking himself into liver failure. You’re feeling surges of pity for me that are mitigated only by your physical revulsion. But let me tell you, Noelle, things are different for me.”

The robotic franchise service module, who had swept away Morton’s empty mug earlier, with a I-have-seen-it-all-before look, brought back a fresh cup of the steaming beverage, and Morton grabbed at it ferociously.