David Ohle - The Old Reactor

He sat in a chair near the bed and kept an eye on Sorrel. She shivered, moving her head from side to side in an agitated delirium. Her face, flush with radio poison, looked radiant and beautiful to Moldenke at that moment. He added pellets to the stove at about midnight, then took off his uniform and lay next to her, thinking that his warmth, however slight, would provide her some comfort.

“Sorrel, can you hear me? Can you understand what I’m saying?” She seemed not to hear him and didn’t respond. Strands of her hair had come off and were strewn on the pillow. He saw that her eyes were open. “Can you see me?”

There was again no response of any kind, which convinced Moldenke that if he was ever to mate with Sorrel, this would be the best opportunity. He first removed his socks and underdrawers in a careful way, hoping not to disturb her. He brushed her hair from the pillow with the side of his hand and kissed her lightly on a fevered cheek. Next he unbuttoned her blouse and felt her breasts with the tips of his fingers, encircling the nipples with a gentle sweep. She showed no signs of displeasure or annoyance, so he went further and removed the rest of her clothing. This was not without difficulty. Having to raise much of the weight of her body to slide her skirt and underdrawers off, the muscles in his arms began to twitch and spasm and pain him. He was exhausted when the task was over and lay back to recover his breath. Now the two lay naked together under the cover, dusted with Big Ernie’s ashes, she shaking with chills, he fondling himself in preparation for mounting her.

When he felt himself fully aroused, he placed two fingers at the entrance to her vagine and pressed them inward, causing her to stir uncomfortably, yet to open her legs wider. He felt that her body, if not her mind, was willing. It wouldn’t be a beautiful act, it would be sublime. He let a finger enter the vagine and inch or two, then slid it outward and upward. He did this again and again until her hips rose and she presented herself to him. But now he was soft. He fondled himself once more to no effect and in a few minutes gave in to sleep.

At about three, he felt chilled, threw back the cover and sat on the edge of the bed, intending to feed more pellets to the stove. Before getting up he felt Sorrel’s forehead, to see if her fever had gotten worse. At first touch, his hand drew back. Her face was as cold as a statue’s. She was dead and already a little stiff.

The first Saposcat’s, an elegant old restaurant damaged during the liberation, had its re-opening in the Quarter spoiled by a head drop on the part of an organized band of jellyheads. Those dining there were being treated to cuisine prepared in the French style, and this included freshly baked hard-crust bread from brick ovens. The diners were urged also to try the tortoise soup, the tongue salads. Other specialties included meat divan, mud fish en papillot . And the best part was the price. With a proper pass card, and for those being released back to Bunkerville, the meal cost nothing.

Along with the serving of soup on opening night came a commotion at the back entrance. Three male jellies walked in with dripping suitcases and cans of deformant. One of them took the lead and tried to calm the full tables. “Look, remain still. Don’t vocalize. We have some heads. We will leave them and go. Continue eating, please.”

The suitcases were set down near the maître d ’s station and the jellyheads backed out waving deformant cans. When they were gone, one of the kitchen staff came out in his apron and assured the quivering diners that all was well. “We’re very lucky no one was harmed. Keep enjoying your meal. This mess will be remedied.”

A little troupe of kitchen help took the suitcases away and cleaned up the leakage with hand cloths and turpentine. After that, despite the bite of turpentine in the air, the diners went on and finished all the courses, including a desert of fluffy lemon soufflés with butterflies and barrel honey on toast.

Salmonella woke up that morning hungry and with a full bladder. She went downstairs and knocked on the Dutch door. “Moldenke, are you in there? Can I use the pot? It’s raining outside.”

Moldenke opened the top section of the door. “Go ahead, use it.” He opened the bottom and let her in.

On the way to the commode she said, “Let’s go eat. I’m starving and I want to talk to you about a very serious thing.”

“All right.”

Salmonella tried to read a snippet or two of the Treatise as she emptied her bladder. Moldenke could hear her through the not-quite-closed door.

“What is all this stupid stuff? I don’t read that good, you know. I’m freeborn.”

“Just something to think about while you toilet,” he said, “not to be taken seriously. It’s a lot of blather about the sublime and the beautiful.”

“What’s that?”

“He thinks that beautiful things are things that pose no threat to us, like statues, poems, symphonies, and paintings. The sublime is like things we marvel at, but fear, like all the majestic mountains we’ve heard about, the storms at sea, the mystery of the night sky — that’s what’s sublime.”

“Who cares?”

Moldenke admitted he didn’t care at all. He waited at the door for Salmonella to finish her toileting.

She flushed and stood to see if it all had gone down. The yellowed water swirled slowly around the bowl.

“This isn’t working very good, is it?”

“The pipes are half frozen.”

On the way to Saposcat’s, Moldenke and Salmonella passed the smoking ruins of the Heeney. He regretted even turning his head that way and looking. Among the fallen timbers were burned corpses, some sitting in metal chairs, a sight that set off a twitching in Moldenke’s bowels. Salmonella took little notice of the horrible scene, of the stink in the air, or the weeping families waiting for the mounds of smoking debris to cool.

At Saposcat’s, the first thing Salmonella said was, “When I was going up the steps last night, I saw somebody sleeping in that bed, in that little apartment you have. Is it your deformed friend from the bakery? What was her name?”

“Sorrel. She’s dead, I’m sad to say, of radio poisoning. She passed on last night. Swam too much in the Reactor pond. I’ll have to do something with her. But my joints ache, my legs are getting weak, if I bend over I get dizzy. It’s hard enough to move my own body, much less another. Can you help me out?”

“Things happen,” Salmonella said. “I’ll help you with the body if you want. I’m strong. I can do things you can’t. You want me to dig a hole? Where? In the Park?”

“That would be very nice of you. I’m thinking, though, that there’s a cellar, or an old shelter, in the basement to put her. As long as cool weather holds, we’re fine. When it thaws, when the ground is good and soft, we’ll find an empty lot and get them under some dirt. You can dig the hole.”

Salmonella opened her menu. “Okay, let’s eat then. Oh, look. There’s scrapple today. I want that and green soda. You?”

Moldenke ran his finger up and down the menu, squinting to see the small print. “I can’t afford to anger my bowel any more than it is, but I love their scrapple. I’m going to have the scrapple, too, and some tea.”

The waitress came and their orders were placed.

“I should tell you,” Moldenke said, “as long as you’re going to help me with Sorrel, that the concierge didn’t go back to Bunkerville. She’s in the basement, too. Died all of a sudden. I assumed it would be best if I just took over her responsibilities. Who would care?”

Salmonella folded her arms and pouted. “I think now I’m afraid of those men up there. And that room is cold. Let me stay in your cozy little apartment with you. Your girlfriend is dead. Why not?”