Jim Shepard - Lights Out in the Reptile House

His father said he’d even figured at the beginning that he could help the Party change for the better, become a little more reasonable, a little more, you know, reasonable. Kehr said something quietly, and Karel’s father answered that his group had had nothing to do with that; it’d been a Security Service deal top to bottom, and whoever said otherwise was lying through his teeth. That was the way it was, anyway, his father added: his group got the dirty jobs, the kind where you got decorated if everything fell right and strung up by your thumbs if it didn’t.

He could hear the ice when his father took a drink. The kid’s mother had left him holding the bag, his father said, and did Kehr think the kid blamed his mother for that? Here she was out working for her Republic without another thought for the kid, and he, Dad, the guy who had stuck around, was the one that was supposed to be worthless. Figure that.

“You have only the most glancing idea of what you’re talking about,” Kehr said, distinctly enough that Karel heard every word.

His father was quiet. He had a way of exchanging a quick smile with someone who’d insulted him, and Karel imagined it now. If he lived long enough, he thought, would he begin to be like that? Would people see through him as easily?

His father said something apologetic, and Karel reflected on his cowardice and the way he saved his courage and bad humor for Karel. There was a long silence and then his father started talking about knots. He told Kehr he’d learned them during his days on the seashore and he liked to trot one out every so often to see if he still had the knack. Karel remembered each of them — the bowline, the pistol grip, the monkey’s tail — and got even sadder, remembering how much being able to pull them off had pleased his father, remembering the way in which in their elaborateness they’d always seemed to him his father’s way of attempting to make his world safer, more controllable.

“Write your father off,” Kehr said. It was the next morning, Karel’s father was gone for the day, and Karel was sullenly cleaning the coffeepot with an abrasive cleanser he hoped would make the coffee taste like paint. He didn’t respond.

Karel shouldn’t allow himself to be so swayed by his father’s example, discouraging as it was, Kehr said. He was not limited by his father’s limitations. Kehr could tell that much even now. Did Karel think his father could’ve handled all this the way he had?

Karel rinsed out the slick residue and stacked the metal pieces to dry.

This was not an opinion, Kehr said. He was not wrong about human behavior.

Karel wiped his hands and left the room.

“I have another letter for you,” Kehr called after him. He followed Karel into the living room.

Karel was sitting where his father had been on the couch. “Where is it?” he asked.

“I’m not finished,” Kehr said. He sat where Karel had sat. Some notes were on the table between them. On top of one was a short sentence: Roeder proposes fire . Kehr collected everything into the folder and closed it. He said, “He has petty ambitions and no real feelings for you. He believes in his own sentimentalities the way third-rate executioners do. He’s denounced two of his colleagues to the intelligence services and he no more firmly believes in what we’re trying to accomplish than your mother did.” Karel looked at him. “He has no family feeling, no loyalties. You should learn from him and move on. He is going under even as he prefers to believe he’s not. You owe yourself a certain ruthlessness in this case.”

“Can I have the letter or not?” Karel asked.

Kehr stood, surveying him, and took it from his jacket. He held it out. “I was told this would be the last one for a while,” he said.

“Why? Has something happened? What’s happened?” Karel asked.

“That’s what I was told,” Kehr said. “This was a favor. I’m sure the girl’s as safe as you are. Try to remember what I’ve been saying.” He left the room, and then after a minute or two the house.

Karel read the letter where he was. The ringtail perched on the arm of the chair Kehr had vacated and cleaned its pinkish paws and blinked at him.

Karel,

Don’t go getting conceited if I write to you again so soon, but I’m bored stiff. Got your short note, which was strange and didn’t help much.

Short note? Who had written her? Kehr?

I’m writing in bed again. Praetor (our cat) is sitting on my stomach. She sits on my head in the middle of the night. Mother hates our name for her and won’t allow us to let her out for that reason.

What’s new around here? Almost nothing. We played so many practical jokes on our old boss that she’s being replaced, and our new one’s a real 150-percenter, so I guess we’re getting what we deserve. (It’s amazing to me how much I like bamboozling superiors.)

This will probably be a short letter. It’s getting harder and harder to keep our spirits up. There’s a lot of the usual whispering about horrible things. We’re no closer to getting enough money together to move into our own apartment. Four people downstairs were dragged off two nights ago and Mother still hasn’t recovered. She’s obsessed with the idea of our family being separated. She watches David all the time and won’t let him outside, either. All he has now is Praetor. At the market I was approached by a small smelly man from the Price Control Board who said I’d just been swindled at a fruit stand and asked if I’d act as a decoy for the police the next time around.

I’m less and less relaxed or patient enough to deal with the children. It’s like everything else: I’m getting too tired or lazy to take all the stupidities in stride. I’m still arguing with Mother, of course. We’re taught that you’re supposed to back your family regardless of the situation. Personally, I can’t raise that much family feeling. I think a person’s relationship to his parents is like the one with his country: respect and obedience, fine, but what if they’re doing wrong?

I’m always arguing with Mom about that, and I feel strongly about it. I never just argue for argument’s sake. (You’re probably rolling your eyes as you read that.) She seems to think I can just drop the issue, like we were talking about tastes in food. Do you? I can’t imagine two people living together and believing different things along those lines. Do we have the right to always be ambivalent just because everything else seems to be? How are things supposed to turn out right if nobody’s willing to work to make that happen?

I’m a fine one to talk. My thoughts are always flying off on tangents, and how often do I do something I really think is brave or right?

See. I always come back to myself.

Who’s done this? Who’s made us different?

I think about what we might do if you came. I’m too tired to make plans, but I do anyway. I had a daydream this morning that made me happy: we were going for a walk near the sea and had the whole day to ourselves.

I get so discouraged! Have I been any use to anyone?

You once told me you thought that because of me you knew a little better what you were supposed to do, supposed to try to be. I think about that a lot. If that were true I’d think it was the greatest thing in our friendship, and the one thing I was proudest of.

Here this was supposed to be a short letter. Now look at it.

Love,

Leda

Perren found him loitering around the turtle enclosures and asked him if he’d forgotten something. He said Albert wasn’t there. He didn’t answer when Karel asked if he’d be in later.

“He’s on his break,” someone Karel hadn’t seen before said. Workers in the area laughed in a muffled and discreet way.