David Ohle: The Old Reactor

The attendant returned with a length of strong twine. “This will have to do.”

“I don’t think it will,” Moldenke said. Still, attempts were made. When a number of them failed, it was decided to quit the effort and think of another way.

“I could set her up on my shoulder like a pole.”

“Good idea. I have an old rug in the office I don’t want anymore. We’ll wrap her in it and off you go.”

“Wait, one thing. She had a pair of lid lifters in her eyes. They were gold. Do you have them? They may have been on the floor. They had fallen off.”

“Lid lifters?”

“She was born with no muscles in her eyelids. They wouldn’t open. She had these appliances made by a jeweler so she could see where she was going and what she was doing. Where are they?”

“There were no accessories when they brought her here, I can tell you that. If she spent any time in the waiting ward, the staff are a bunch of thieves. By the time we get them here anything worth anything is gone. They’ve been stripped. Sorry. Any effort you make to get them back will be futile.”

“All right, I’ll take your word for it.”

The business of getting Moldenke’s aunt rolled into the dirty, worn rug and tied off with twine went well enough and was over in a few minutes. The attendant hefted her to Moldenke’s shoulder, making sure the weight was balanced. “There, that’s the ticket. Should be smooth sailing. What will you do with her? You should’ve had her cremated.”

“She always said she wanted to be planted in the earth like a flower bulb. I’ll see she gets a decent burial.”

When Moldenke was satisfied he had a good grip and that his aunt wouldn’t tip too far down in front or back, the attendant opened the door to let him out. “Take care, Moldenke. The weather is changing badly. A storm’s coming.” Moldenke stepped onto the broken sidewalk and looked up at a dark sky. A rising, cold wind nipped at his face.

He thought better of taking the body to the house on Esplanade and digging a hole in the back yard. How could he dig deeply enough in frozen ground? If he buried her at all, it would be in a shallow grave and loose dogs in the neighborhood would dig her up. He was in a quandary until he thought of a place at the end of the streetcar line where the ground would be warmer.

Near Altobello, a suspicious red cloud dumped an extra-heavy dose of radio poison on the Black Hole Motel, occupied by five free people and ten jellyheads. “Had they continued to live there,” Scientist Zanzetti said, “they could have contracted radio fever.” The motel has since been deserted and Altobelloans are up in arms over the needless downwind danger. “Will the deadly clouds ever stop?” a druggist asked Zanzetti. “Not in our lifetimes,” he replied.

When the streetcar stopped, Moldenke boarded with the rug-wrapped body. Though he tried his best to be careful, when he reached into his pocket for carfare one of his aunt’s cold feet struck the driver in the face.

“For Christ’s sake, man, what are you trying to do here? This is a streetcar, not a hearse.”

Moldenke handed the driver three folded fifties. “I want to go all the way to the end of the line. I’ll pay triple fare. Look, the car is half empty. None of them care at all about

anything.”

“Four, you cheap son of a bitch.”

Moldenke gave him four. “There, I hope you’re happy — now I’m completely penniless.”

“Sit in the far back, you stupid idiot.”

Moldenke shifted his aunt from one shoulder to the other.

It was two hours or more before the streetcar reached the end of the line. By then, Moldenke was the only passenger. Not only had he soiled himself again, but the aunt had begun to thaw, dripping from both ends and wetting the rug.

The driver stood up and stretched. “This is it. City Dump. End of the line. Leave out the back with that stiff.”

“Can you wait? It won’t take long, just a small ceremony.”

“You got another four? For that I’ll wait maybe a half hour.”

“I’m busted. Show some mercy. I can’t walk all that way.”

“Is that shit I smell on you?”

“I have a condition. It can’t be helped.”

“Get off.”

Moldenke’s shoulder, already sagging under the half-frozen aunt, sagged further. Not getting back to the Tunney would mean a night spent either trying to sleep on the frozen ground above the steaming pit or climbing down the slope to one of the ridges below where it was a few degrees warmer and provided enough room to lie down and sleep.

He knelt at the edge of the pit, bowed his head and said the only rhyming thing he knew. “Roses were red, violets were blue. You were a good aunt, and I loved you . Thanks for the money and the house. Bye-bye.”

He untied the twine and unfurled the rug. There was little light other than a new moon. He could see only a hazy dark form rolling and bouncing down into the pit. The rug slipped from his grasp and followed her down, rising now and then on the pit’s heat like a magic carpet.

In news from Altobello, the famous golfing jellyhead, Brainerd Franklin, received the heart of a free woman, Edith Farr, who was killed in a fall while visiting the Old Reactor ruins. Scientist Dr. Zanzetti performed the surgery. “Studies confirm the efficacy of human-jellyhead exchanges,” he said. “Economically significant jellies like Franklin tend to reject the hearts of other jellies, but not of human females.”

At age forty, Franklin was quite old for a jellyhead and too weak to walk the links and fire off those legendary drives. A donor was sought Bunkerville-wide, though none was found. It was thought that all hope for Franklin was lost, until a compatible donor became available. Now that the Farr heart has been transplanted, golfing enthusiasts are full of glee.

Just a day before his departure, for the little offense at Eternity Meadows, an officer of the court informed Moldenke that his stay in Altobello would be indeterminate. There would be no set date for his release.

Before going he would have to either board up or rent the house on Esplanade. Boarding it would be on the strenuous side if he tried to do it himself. There were a few tools in the shed, but he had no skills at measuring, cutting, or nailing. Hiring someone to do it would be expensive, take too long, and still, persistent thieves would eventually break in and help themselves. He asked around among his pro-labor friends if anyone needed a place to stay Someone suggested Ozzie, Moldenke’s old high-strung associate. Moldenke found him in an alleyway on the poorer side of town. sleeping on the ground, quilted over with burlap sacks and newsprint.

“Ozzie?” Moldenke kicked him lightly. “Wake up. I have a place you can live.”

“I won’t pay the going rate. It’s way too high. Landlords are nothing but blood suckers. I will not pay it.”

“I’m talking about my aunt’s house on Esplanade. I’m being sent to Altobello for a while. I guess they need people there. I won’t charge you any rent at all. Just watch over the place until I get back.”

“There’s a sweet deal, brother. I can’t pass on that.”

“Do you still have that pistol?”

“I had to sell it.”

“All right. I’m leaving tomorrow. I’ll put a key under the flower pot on the gallery. She’s left a fund for fixing things when they break.”

“Where is it, this fund?”

“Don’t worry. Arrangements will be made. Send me a letter once and a while, general delivery, Altobello, and let me know what’s what. That’s all I ask. No rent will be charged.”

“How long?”

“I don’t know. It’s indeterminate. A week, a year, the rest of my life.”

Ozzie sat up and threw off the sacks. “I’ll go on over there tomorrow. We’re still picketing the Meadows today. You want to come with us?”