The Curiosity (16 page)

Half a step behind, holding her upper arm for support, shuffled none other than Hizzoner himself, the man who lived twice, the face known round the world, Judge Jeremiah Rice. He was dressed in surgical scrubs, of all things, and had bare tootsies. Carthage must have overlooked that detail somehow, because the guy's feet looked bony, pale, and cold. Meanwhile Dr. Kate scanned the crowd like a Secret Service agent at the president's elbow. Anyone messed with our old Frank, I could bet she'd swoop down with both barrels blazing.

It took the crowd a moment to realize what had happened. Then the photographers leaped forward, the reporters all standing and shouting at once.

“Judge Rice?”

“Jeremiah.”

“Mr. Rice, one question?”

Jeremiah winced at the noise and Dr. Kate stepped between him and the crowd. “Easy does it,” she called. “Easy now. Come on.”

In that instant, that very second, the future came clear. I could predict exactly what they'd do, what they always do in cases like this. See, the world is hungry to learn about this guy, is what it is, starving to understand him. Afraid of him, too, I'd guess. So these reporters and worshippers? Today they'll lift him up, the higher the better, a god among men and “friend, can I buy you a beer?” Tomorrow, though, tomorrow they'll bring him down as hard and fast and brutally as they can. And when they're finished, there'll be so little left on the highway, even the crows won't be bothered to come down and pick at it.

The judge stood at that second podium and the ritual began, my mouth suddenly sour as I watched a rite as old as the letters
Q
and
A:
Where and when were you born? (Lynn, 1868.) Where did you go to school? (Lynn elementary and high school, Tufts University, Harvard Law.) Who appointed you judge? (The governor, I can't recall his name, my memory is still spotty.) Wasn't thirty-eight a young age for a judge? (Most people back then did not live past fifty, so advancement came early for promising men.) What do you think about the Lazarus Project and being reawakened? (I feel gratitude. Life is the ultimate gift.) What things are you most interested in doing? (Regaining my energy and learning about the world as it is today.) What do you miss most?

He paused at that, our old Frank. He looked at his feet, white and pathetic. We all looked, too. He nodded, then raised his glistening eyes. “My family.” He swallowed audibly. “My wife and daughter.”

I'm pretty sure Dr. Kate acted by reflex. After all, how could you not feel sorry for the guy? But when she reached over and gave his hand a squeeze, and he mooned his eyes at her in response, every camera shutter in the room made its little happy sound.

“That's enough for today,” Carthage said. “As you see, Judge Rice is very much present and alive. We will provide ample opportunity for further interviews as his recuperation progresses. Let's have one last question, then.”

I raised my hand. So did many others. So did Wilson Steele. He had a large hand. Carthage scanned the room as if trying to choose, conducting some kind of evaluation based on the length of our arms or something, then lifted his chin in my direction. “Yes?”

“My question is for Judge Rice.”

Our old Frank smiled at me. “Yes? What do you wish to ask me?”

Oh, I was ready. And no one had thought of this angle but me. My moment above all those cool and seasoned dudes too superior to say hello. It takes a guy whose parents croaked young, and right in front of him, to know what six words pack the most wallop:

“What was it like to die?”

The room made a sound like taking a belly punch. Jeremiah didn't flinch, though. Instead, he took a step forward.

“Like being squeezed, to be honest with you. Like being pressed flat.”

He came around in front of the podium. Dr. Kate watched him, still ready to pounce, but her head tilted to one side like a teenager in love. The judge dropped one hand to his side, the fingers as relaxed as a man on vacation, and placed the other on his belly like Napoleon addressing the troops. At once I knew he had prepared for this moment. He'd been thinking about it, about when he would have to tell his story. Now the time had come. In a way, it might have been a relief to him. And I had made it possible. It was like we were connected, two parts of the same machine. I had switched the motor on, and now he would drive it.

“We were approximately at the latitude of Ellesmere Island,” he began. “The voyage's goal was to replicate in northern waters, if possible, Charles Darwin's findings from a southern clime. My role was to serve as impartial witness, an auditor of the science. Five months we'd been at sea, and the research progressed splendidly. Natural selection revealed itself everywhere we looked—in nature's variety, in the brutality of the food chain, in the fecundity of species. Think of a shoreline pool that fills or empties based on tides. Sometimes it is dry land, sometimes ocean, and yet even in a region that is frozen for eight months of the year, this pool is crowded with creatures happily adapted to that inhospitable existence. Evolution is the planet's animating machinery, we came to believe. Evolution is life's striving toward God.”

An earful, is what the judge gave us. He placed one hand on the podium and I pictured him in black robes, sentencing a criminal or resolving some civil dispute, and delivering a speech a lot like this one.

“Our inexperience as sailors, however, became the more apparent as winter began to close upon us. One morning we awoke to find ourselves in a bay whose throat had all but frozen. We'd nearly imprisoned ourselves for the winter. Sure starvation. Several hard sailing hours and not a few jarring hull scrapes later, we regained open sea. That afternoon on deck we deliberated whether to return to Boston. Ironically, I was opposed. The call of home was melodious indeed, but not yet so loud that I did not hear the siren song of further exploration. However, despite our total deference to the captain on matters nautical, the vessel was a democracy on expedition issues. We voted, I was heavily outweighed, and we pointed the bow south.”

As he continued the room remained silent—wonderfully, poetically silent. The scribblers and skeptics could not have been more entranced if he'd drugged them. Here was a man from the way back of beyond, speaking to them as plain as paper. They wrote and they listened and they swallowed every word.

The judge shook his head. “I digress. Our ninth night homeward, we sailed straight into the teeth of a storm. For severity, the gale surpassed all experience. At no time was any portion of the ship level, nor reliable underfoot. The cold made it infinitely worse. Imagine your hands . . .” He held his forward like they belonged to someone else. “Imagine them soaked by Arctic brine, chilled as if to ice, trying to pull a rough rope around a winch. There was no joyous exploration any longer. The rather, it was cold bones, suffering morale, and hearts warmed only by fear. The heavens delivered one furious gust, and our mast broke. Splintered. We began to founder, even with foresails raised. The captain ordered all hands out to master the broken rigging, which swung wildly in the rage. I was among those bent to that task.”

Our Frank hesitated. “Might we pause, gentlemen and ladies, to remember my crewmates? They were decent men all, dedicated to expanding human knowledge, and I cannot imagine that they survived the night.” The judge raised his gaze toward the ceiling. “Might we offer them a moment of prayer?”

And he closed his eyes.

Well. I sat up and scanned that atrium like a periscope. It's not every day someone interrupts a press conference to pray, is it now? The reporters were obviously uncomfortable. Some reread their notes, a few studied the room's corners, I saw a cameraman pick his nose. Wilson Steele, though . . . he lowered his head. I could just imagine what that bastard was praying for. Too bad he didn't know about my book deal. Too bad my prayer was already answered.

“I thank you,” Jeremiah said. “To continue: I was woefully inexperienced in storm conditions. In my haste to secure the sheets I neglected to bind myself to the rails. A massive wave crashed over the bow, pouring its foaming tonnage across the deck and yanking my feet from under me. A salty river bore me headlong toward the stern, another bit of jetsam and wrack. I grabbed at everything, ropes and cleats, to no avail. The rush of water took possession of me, and in one indifferent gush it swept me over the side.”

Again he paused. Still the room was silent. Amazing, I thought. He was working them over with an old-fashioned sea tale, and they were falling for it with all their might.

“Oh, that water.” He wagged his head. “My final experience on this earth was of a cold so intense it inspired my awe. In roundabout answer to your question, sir”—he gestured at me—“it did not feel like pain, oddly enough, but like pressure. From all directions at once, as though I were being squeezed in some great thermal vise. I took one breath of salt water and coughed it out. It was agony, like scraping a wire bottle brush on your softest interior places. I foundered, rising and falling with the waves as the ship surged away. Then I felt my body stiffening, my fingers swelling as the water within them turned to ice. It was as though nature were racing itself to see which would finish me first, drowning or freezing. Greater than the physical pain was the terror, my mind's dread of ceasing to exist. Against the weight of sodden garments I struggled to the surface, glimpsed the stars, gasped a magnificent breath of clear air, and knew no more.”

Our old Frank sniffed. His eyes took a walk over everyone in the room. I have to say, I admired his poise. No fool, this judge of ours. He had a destination in mind with his story.
All right,
I thought,
let's hear it, mister.

“What is it like to be dead? Here is all I can say. There was a moment of thrashing, there in the Atlantic, and then a moment of calm. There was dismay that I was dying, then there was acceptance. I went either into black or into white, my mind keeps changing about that detail. Then? Nothing, neither heaven nor hell, not that I recall at any rate. If indeed I entered some divine provenance, the loss of its recollection was the price I paid to return to this world. No, what I remember is coughing, thorns of pain in my chest whilst I was coughing. Someone put a warm hand on my arm, and it was comfort enough to cause me to open my eyes. I found myself looking at your world, your time, this place you people have made.”

He held his arms wide. “Now I am among you. The newspapers call me a miracle. My conclusion is the rather. I am the mere embodiment of your collective will, a sign of our species' desire to continue, a manifestation of your determination over the span of a century. Jeremiah Rice is the accidental, unwitting, and immeasurably grateful beneficiary of all that humanity endeavors to be.”

Gawd, it was perfect. Freaking perfect. “Our species' desire to continue”? Old Frank smacked it out of the park. Carthage announced no further questions. The reporters chattered while gathering their things. Gerber held the side door open, saluting goofily as the staff trooped out. Dr. Kate sashayed along, delectable as ever. Jeremiah hesitated at the verge, glancing back at the crowd. In that moment one last reporter saw his shot.

“Are there surviving family members?”

That stopped the judge like a bullet. He turned toward a room instantly quiet. “Excuse me?”

It was Wilson Steele, standing handsome. “Are there surviving family members?”

Well. It was plain on the judge's face that in the days since being reawakened, his foggy mind had not yet traveled to that particular place. His expression changed shades from curiosity to pain, to wonder, then to pain again. “I have no idea.”

Then he sagged like a flat tire. “Forgive me,” he said, bringing a hand to his brow. “I am suddenly so tired.”

If Dr. Kate had not caught him, I believe he would have hit the floor. Instead she rushed him from the room, which began buzzing like a band saw. The reporter next to me was already on his cell phone, shouting to the newsroom I imagined on the other end. “Genealogy,” he said. “Find out pronto if this fucker has any family.”

The crowd so cool at one o'clock now clambered over itself in a rush for the door, worse than a grade school fire drill. The race to find a descendant was now under way, my question totally overwhelmed. Carthage stood aside, observing the mayhem with cold eyes. Then he swept out after them all.

Time for me to get hustling, too. First, though, I counted Steele's question back to myself. Yup. Bastard did it with just five words.

CHAPTER 16

The History of Aviation

(Kate Philo)

T
he first “blood
call” came soon after the six o'clock news. I'd just arrived for my shift, hadn't even removed my coat. The reception phone was ringing, so I hit the transfer code to grab it at my desk. The man was speaking before I'd said hello.

“Hi, my name is Henry Ray and I'm Jeremiah Rice's grandson. I live in Chatham and I can drive up tomorrow if he wants to meet and we can talk about our family and say hey. Or could I maybe talk to him right now?”

“His grandson?” I said. “Wow. Hang on one moment, okay?”

I put him on hold, then looked for help. Gerber sat at his terminal with music leaking from his headphones, under which coiled his crazy mane of hair. He was straight-backed, concentrating on the screen as if planning his next move in chess. To me it looked like a simple graph, three parallel lines, but clearly Gerber saw something more. Both hands, in the
okay
pose, floated beside his chin. He gave them a little shake, like a conductor fine-tuning the violin section. Is it possible, when a person is relentlessly odd, to be annoyed by him yet feel affection at the same time? I scanned the control room but everyone else had gone for the night.

“David?” I said. “Gerber?”

“Aaahhh.” He continued shaking his hands, but now the fingers were fanned wide. “No no no no.”

“Look, I'm sorry—”

“What?” He slumped in his chair, pulled the headphones down to his neck. His hair sprung out like a sponge after a squeeze. “What is it? What?”

“I am completely sorry to interrupt you, but there's a caller—”

“They were making the segue from ‘Not Fade Away' into ‘Going Down the Road Feelin' Bad.' And I was right,
right
on the verge of figuring out what these freakishly similar numbers mean.” He poked the screen; I saw that his fingernails badly needed clipping. “What can it possibly be? Is the building on fire? Are we under attack?”

“Sorry, it's not so dramatic.” I smiled at him. “There's a man on the phone who says he's Jeremiah Rice's grandson.”

“Oh goodie, a blood call.” Gerber swiveled his chair left and right. “That didn't take long.”

“Blood call?”

He grinned. “Just talk with him for a minute. You'll see.”

“What do I say?”

“You're smart, Kate.” Gerber leaned back. “Sound him out.”

I hung my coat on a chair, lifted the phone. “Thanks for holding. My name is—”

“Oh, you bet, no problem. Look, the thing is, I have plans to be in Boston tomorrow morning anyhow, so I could come by the lab, no problem, you know, and meet him and stuff. Jeremiah Rice, I mean.”

“I see. Well, that's certainly convenient, sir. It's exciting to hear from you. However, we're still trying to be careful with Judge Rice's time. I'm sure he'll be eager to meet you. But his energy is still so limited.”

“Oh. Okay, sure. Makes sense. Except, um, yes except that I was already going to be in town. And it's like an hour-and-a-half drive each way, you know?”

“Well, sir, we'll have to consider how best to arrange this. I'll need to consult our executive director.”

Gerber, hearing only my side of the conversation, nonetheless swirled one finger around his ear. I covered the mouthpiece. “You are not funny.”

“Blood, I tell you.” He put his running shoes up on my desk. Filthy.

“Pardon me, sir, I'm sorry I didn't get your name.”

“Henry Ray. Grandson of Jeremiah Rice. Direct descendant. Yes, direct.”

“Mr. Ray.” I grabbed a pad, jotting his name. “We haven't really prepared ourselves for visitors, to tell you the truth. Or prepared Judge Rice, for that matter. Is there a number where I could call you back?”

“Oh sure, no problem. Only like I say, I'm going to be there tomorrow and everything. So why don't I just come right on by? And meet him, you know?”

Then I understood.
I looked at Gerber, his face wearing the smug expression of a person two steps ahead of me but three ahead of the caller. “Mr. Ray, please excuse the question, but how are you related to Judge Rice?”

“How? You're asking me how?”

“Yes, sir.” Gerber was nodding emphatically at me now.

“Well, everybody around here has known it from the second his picture was in the papers. He looks just like me. I mean just, just like me. Same chin, same nose, same chin. Everyone who's seen the picture says so. Also my grandfather was a fisherman, lost out of Gloucester in 1906, in that famous fall storm.”

“How are you related, please? You said it was direct.”

“Well, that's the thing of it. Because Jeremiah's son was my father. Timothy. Has to be. His Timmy was my old man.”

“I see.” I gave Gerber a look. He pretended he was jerking an invisible penis, I turned in the other direction. “Mr. Ray, I think there's been some confusion here today.”

“What do you mean? Like I ought to come another day? Because really, an hour and a half is not so bad, no problem, if we ought to do it some other time.”

At last I realized how naive I'd been. “What I mean to say, sir . . .”

Why did I hesitate? Gerber obviously had no qualms. Why did I have the impulse to undo the caller's self-delusion gently? I suppose I'll never know. But it is worth noting, given what came later. There was an inclination, in that early time, to be kind to the people who would prey on Judge Rice. An innocence on my part. My attitude would change soon enough, but not yet.

“I mean to say, sir, that Judge Rice's ship did not sail from Gloucester. He set out from Nauset.”

“I'm not following you.”

“Also he did not have any sons. I'm sorry, but—”

“Are you calling me a fake? Are you saying that I'm a fake?”

“While I am not denying there might be a strong physical resemblance—”

“Listen, you bitch. Listen to me. Don't give me that crap. I'm the guy's grandson, you hear me? I got the chin and everything.”

“Sir, I really don't think there's any call for that sort of language.”

“Oh, fuck you. You fucking people are all alike. You just want to cash in on him, and keep away the man's own family. You people are sick, I swear to Christ. His own grandson. You are just fucking sick.”

He hung up on me. I set the phone in its cradle gently. “Wow.”

Gerber's grin could not have been wider. “Is everyone all right?”

“That was an experience. Whew. I understand you now, anyway. You mean it's a blood call because he was claiming to be Jeremiah's blood relation.”

“Nope.” Gerber took his shoes off my desk, leaned forward like he was delivering bad news. “I mean it's a blood call because the world is full of vampires.”

Across the lab, at the reception desk, the phone rang again.

B
y 2
A.M.
, 114 people had claimed to be Jeremiah's kin. I set the phones to go directly to voice mail so I could get some work done. Eventually, though, the switchboard starting pinging—which meant the general voice-mail box was full, and which came over the intercom too loudly to ignore.

Just returned from one of his contemplative midnight walks, Gerber scampered past me to his desk. “I'd say there's a phone call for you.”

He flounced into his chair, clapping the headphones into place and squinting at the screen. The imp.

I surrendered, plunking myself down at the reception desk, playing back messages, writing names and phone numbers on a legal pad while more calls came in. The voices were young and old, male and female, alike only in their needy tone. Some did not even leave contact information. Those who did, I diligently wrote down, leaving it for others to assess the callers' merit or sanity. Let Carthage sort them out. They all believed Judge Rice was their father, grandfather, long-lost uncle. Could there really be so many missing ancestors? Or that many people desperate for a connection to this reawakened man?

I began to worry that we might fall into the cesspool of celebrity, which I consider the opposite of science: haste instead of caution, surface over substance, the bright flash of a camera instead of the droning overheads of the lab. Something triggered the anger of that first caller, some desire or expectation, something he thought he deserved. It was the first piece of a puzzle I would need months to solve.

When the mailbox was finally empty, I took a break, strolling over to see Gerber's latest
Perv du Jour
. So far some had been hilarious, some too weird to believe. That night's installment was obscene.

The site Gerber had found was sexyfrozenman.com. People had taken still shots of Jeremiah from our site and doctored them entirely in a sexual fashion. One showed his head pressed between two enormous breasts. In another, someone had tattooed a red mermaid on his cheek, again with ballooning breasts. A third attached his face to a bodybuilder's torso, gave him the penis of a giant, and pasted a twig-thin man kneeling before him. Still another showed a woman's naked bottom, with Judge Rice's head tilted beneath as if he were performing oral sex on her. What a world. The one Gerber placed highest was a digital alteration of the judge's face, his sideburns lengthened to give him more of an animal look, his lips drawn back in an expression of ecstasy.

That was the moment I felt my first flutter. I'd been so busy protecting Judge Rice, I had forgotten the experience of lifting him into the wheelchair that night. I checked on Gerber, who wagged his crown along with whatever music was playing in his headset, then looked again at that top photo.

I confess it: I found myself wondering things I would never have contemplated a few weeks earlier. What had sexuality been like one hundred years ago? Was desire shown so openly? We are different now, surely. We know more, are exposed to more. I remember Dana, my track-star boyfriend for two years of college; what a sexual laboratory we were for each another. I became so adept with a diaphragm he called it my Frisbee. Did Judge Rice have a similar familiarity with his wife? Of course he did, though it must have been different, must have. Then there was the anesthesiologist I dated during grad school, who found nothing more erotic than the two of us showering together till the hot water ran out. Did the judge's house even have running water? Now there is the Internet, too, where every predilection has an address, easy access, total anonymity. How would a man from modest times fare in this modern world?

Gerber appeared at my elbow. “They're getting weirder, aren't they?”

“This is all so completely wrong.”

He laughed. “And normal.”

“Can you imagine how appalled Judge Rice would be if he saw this?”

“People were probably just as dirty-minded in the old days.”

“Now I know why you call it
Perv du Jour
.”

“This is just one form of perversity. But there will be lots of others, you'll see. The multitudes have made our judge the meat of the moment. Some buy the magazines, some watch the news. But right now lots of them are going online and perving on our handsome hero. Tonight it's plain horniness. But I promise, whatever sites I find weeks from now, whatever way people find to indulge their fantasies about this man and place their projections onto him, I guarantee the content will be perverse.”

The reception phone rang but I let it go. “Personally, I'm hoping people move on with their lives so we can prioritize research again and begin to help Judge Rice integrate into modern society.”

Gerber chuckled. “Personally, I wish that woman there had a nicer butt.”

“Excuse me, what do those lines mean?”

It was Judge Rice. He'd woken somehow, stood pointing at Gerber's terminal, where those parallel lines were displayed again. He was still wearing scrubs.

In a flash I tore down the
Perv
posting. “Judge Rice, what a surprise.” I crushed the papers into a ball. The digital counter read sixteen hours into day seventeen, but the regular clock said 3:19. “To see you up at this hour. Good morning. Everything all right?”

“I had too much energy to sleep,” he said. “Good morning, Dr. Philo.”

“They're you,” Gerber answered, strolling over to the judge. “Over the past six days. This one is your heart rate, that one's your respiration rate, and the top line is your blood pressure.”

He nodded. “They are parallel, sir.”

“And rising a little bit each day.”

“What does this tell you, sir?”

“Your body systems are still waking up, I guess.” Gerber rubbed his nose. “The weird thing is, they're all doing it at the same rate. It's a metabolic mystery. But I am not ‘sir.' ” He held out his hand. “I'm Gerber.”

They regarded each other. I hurried the balled-up papers into the farthest trash can, my relief at shielding Judge Rice from the
Perv du Jour
becoming a zip of amusement at the characters now shaking hands. Talk about spanning the century: a deliberative lawyer from the past, an oddball savant of the present, considering each other like two forest apes who have unexpectedly encountered a being of a similar species.