Time Enough for Love (76 page)

“Do sit down, Mr. Bronson.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Smith, but you were staying up until your daughter returned. She has, so I will leave.”

“Oh, there’s no hurry; Father and I are night owls.”

“Thank you very much. I enjoyed the coffee and the cake, and most especially the company. But it is time for me to say good-night. You have been most kind.”

“If you must, sir. Will we see you at church on Sunday?”

“I expect to be there, ma’am.”

Lazarus drove home in a daze, body alert but thoughts elsewhere. He reached his apartment, bolted himself in, checked windows and blinds automatically, stripped off his clothes, and started a tub. Then he looked grimly at himself in the bathroom mirror. “You stupid arsfardel,” he said with slow intensity. “You whirling son of a bitch. Can’t you do
anything
right?”

No, apparently not, not even something as simple as getting reacquainted with his mother. Gramp had been no problem; the old goat had given him no surprises—other than being shorter and smaller than Lazarus remembered. He was just as grumpy, suspicious, cynical, formally polite, belligerent—and delightful—as Lazarus had remembered.

There had been worrisome moments when he had “thrown himself on the mercy of the court.” But that gambit had paid off better than Lazarus had had any reason to hope—through an unsuspected family resemblance. Lazarus not only had never seen Gramp’s elder brother (dead before Woodie Smith was born), but he had forgotten that there ever was an Edward Johnson.

Was “Uncle Ned” listed with the Families? Ask Justin. Never mind, not important. Mother had put her finger on the correct answer: Lazarus resembled his grandfather. And his mother, as Gramp had pointed out. But that had resulted only in conjectures concerning dear old Uncle Ned and his “trifling ways,” ones that Mother did not mind listening to, once she was certain that her guest was not embarrassed.

Embarrassed
? It had changed his status from stranger to “cousin.” Lazarus wanted to kiss Uncle Ned and thank him for those “trifling ways” that made kinship plausible. Gramp believed the theory—of course; it was his own—and his daughter seemed willing to treat it as a possible hypothesis. Lazarus, it’s just the inside track you need—if you weren’t such a blithering idiot!

He tested the bath water—cold. He shut it off and pulled the plug. A promise of hot water all day long had been one inducement when Lazarus had rented this musty cave. But the janitor turned off the water heater before he went to bed, and anyone looking for hot water later than nine was foolish. Well, he qualified as foolish, and perhaps cold water would do more for his unstable condition than hot—but he had wanted a long, hot soak to soothe his nerves and help him think.

He had fallen in love with his mother.

Face it, Lazarus. This is impossible, and you don’t know how to handle it. In more than two thousand years of one silly misadventure after the other this is the most preposterous predicament you ever got into.

Oh, sure, a son loves his mother. As “Woodie Smith,” Lazarus had never doubted that. He had always kissed his mother good-night (usually), hugged her when he saw her (if he wasn’t in a hurry), remembered her birthday (almost always), thanked her for cookies or cake she left out for him whenever he was out late (except when he forgot), and sometimes had told her he loved her.

She had been a good mother. She had never screamed at him (or at any of them) and, when necessary, had used a switch at once and the matter was over with—never that Wait-till-your-father-gets-home routine. Lazarus could still feel that peach switch on his calves; it had caused him to levitate, better than Thurston the Great, at a very early age.

He recalled, too, that as he grew older, he found that he was proud of the way she looked—always neat and standing straight and invariably gracious to his friends—not like some of the mothers of other boys.

Oh, sure, a boy loves his mother—and Woodie had been blessed with one of the best.

But this was
not
what Lazarus felt toward Maureen Johnson Smith, lovely young matron, just his “own” age. That visit this night had been delicious agony—for he had never in all his lives been so unbearably attracted, so sexually obsessed, by any woman any where or when. During that short visit Lazarus had been forced to be most careful not to let his passion show—and especially cautious not to appear too gallant, not be more than impersonally polite, not by expression or tone of voice or anything else risk arousing Gramp’s always-alert suspicions, not let Gramp suspect the storm of lust that had raged up in him as soon as he touched her hand.

Lazarus looked down at proof of his passion, hard and tall, and slapped it. “What are
you
standing up for? There’s nothing doing for
you
. This is the Bible Belt.”

It was indeed! Gramp did not believe in the Bible or live by Bible-Belt standards, yet Lazarus felt sure that, were he to provoke it by breaching those standards, Gramp would shoot him quite dispassionately, on behalf of his son-in-law. Possibly the old man would let the first shot go wide and give him a chance to run. But Lazarus was not willing to bet his life on it. Gramp acting for his son-in-law might feel duty bound to shoot straight—and Lazarus knew how straight the old man could shoot.

Forget it, forget it, he was not going to give either Gramp or his father any reason to shoot, or even to be angry—and
you
forget it, too, you blind snake! Lazarus wondered when his father would be home, and tried to remember how he looked—found his memory blurred. Lazarus had always been closer to his Grandfather Johnson than to his father; not only had his father often been away on business, but also Gramp had been home in the daytime and willing to spend time with Woodie.

His other grandparents? Somewhere in Ohio—Cincinnati? No matter, his memory of them was so faint that it did not seem worthwhile to try to see them.

He had completed all that he had intended to do in Kansas City—and if he had the sense God promised a doorknob, the time to leave is
now
. Skip church on Sunday, stay away from the pool hall, go down Monday and sell his remaining holdings—and
leave
! Climb into the Ford—no, sell it and take a train to San Francisco; there catch the first ship south. Send Gramp and Maureen polite notes, mailed from Denver or San Francisco, saying that he was sorry but that business trip, etc.—but
Get Out of Town!

Because Lazarus
knew
that the attraction had not been one-sided—He thought that he had kept Gramp from guessing his emotional storm…but Maureen had been aware of it—and had not resented it. No, she had been flattered and pleased. They had been on the same frequency at once, and without a word or any meaningful glance or touch, her transponder had answered him, silently…then, as opportunity made it possible, she had answered overtly, once with a dinner invitation—which Gramp had tromped on—and she had promptly tromped back in a fashion that made it acceptable by the mores. Then a second time, just as he was leaving, with the also fully acceptable suggestion that she would expect to see him in church.

Well, why should a young matron, even in 1917,
not
be pleased—and flattered, and unresentful—to know that a man wanted most urgently to take her to bed and treat her with gentle roughness? If his nails were clean…if his breath was sweet…if his manners were polite and respectful—why not? A woman with eight children is no nervous virgin; she is used to a man in her bed, in her arms, in her body—and Lazarus would have bet his last cent that Maureen enjoyed it.

Lazarus had no reason then, or in his earlier life, to suspect that Maureen Smith had ever been anything but “faithful” by the most exacting Bible-Belt standards. He had no reason to think that she was even flirting with him. Her manner had not suggested it; he doubted if it ever would. But he held a deep certainty that she was as strongly attracted as he was, that she knew exactly where it could lead—and he suspected that she realized that nothing but chaperonage would stop them.

(But a father in residence and eight children, plus the contemporary mores concerning what can and can’t be done, constituted a lot of chaperonage! Llita’s chastity belt could hardly be more efficient.)

Let’s haul it out into the middle of the floor and let the cat sniff it. “Sin?” “Sin” like “love” was a word hard to define. It came in two bitter but vastly different flavors. The first lay in violating the taboos of your tribe. This passion he felt was certainly sinful by the taboos of the tribe he had been born into—incestuous in the first degree.

But it could not possibly be incest to Maureen.

To himself? He knew that “incest” was a religious concept, not a scientific one, and the last twenty years had washed away in his mind almost the last trace of his tribal taboo. What was left was no more than that breath of garlic in a good salad; it made Maureen more enticingly forbidden (if such were possible!); it did not scare him off. Maureen did not
seem
to be his mother—because she did not fit his recollection of her either as a young woman or as an old woman.

The other meaning of “sin” was easier to define because it was not clouded by the murky concepts of religion and taboo: Sin is behavior that ignores the welfare of others.

Suppose he stuck around and managed somehow (stipulate safe opportunity) to bed Maureen with her full cooperation? Would she regret it later? Adultery? The word meant something here.

But she was a Howard, one of the early ones when marriage between Howards was a cash contract, eyes wide open, payment from the Foundation for each child born of such union—and Maureen had carried out the contract, eight paid-for children already and would stay in production for, uh, about fifteen more years. Perhaps to her “adultery” meant “violation of contract” rather than “sin”—he did not know.

But that is not the point, Bub; the real question is the only one that has
ever
stopped you when temptation coincided with opportunity—and
this
time he could consult neither Ishtar nor any geneticist. The chance of a bad outcome was slight when there were so many hurdles in the way of
any
outcome. But it was the exact risk that he had always refused to take: the chance of placing a congenital handicap on a child.

Hey, wait a minute! No such outcome
could
result because no such
had
resulted. He knew every one of his siblings, alive now or still to be born, and there had not been a defective in the lot. Not one.

Therefore no hazard.

But—That was grounded on the assumption that his “no-paradoxes” theory was a law of nature. But you’ve long been aware that the “no-paradoxes” theory itself involves a paradox—one that you’ve kept quiet about so as not to alarm Laz and Lor and the rest of your “present” (
that
present, not this one) family; to wit, the idea that free will and predestination are two aspects of the same mathematical truth, and the difference is merely linguistic, not semantic: the notion that his own free will could not change events here-&-now because his freewill actions here-&-now were already a part of what
had
happened in any later “here-&-now.”

Which in turn depended on a solipsistic notion he had held as far back as he could remember—Cobwebs, all of it!

Lazarus, you don’t
know
what trouble you might cause.

So
don’t!
Get out of town
now
and don’t come back to Kansas City
at all!
Because, if you do, you’re certain to try to get Maureen’s bloomers off…and she’s going to breathe hard and help. From there on only Allah knows—but it could be tragic for her and tragic for others, and as for you, you stupid stud, all balls and no brain, it could get your ass shot off…just as the twins predicted.

In which case, since you are
not
going to see your family again, there is no sense in waiting in South America for this war to end. You’ve seen enough of this doomed era; ask the girls to come pick you up
now
.

Was her waist really that slender? Or did she lace it in?

Shucks, it didn’t matter how she was built. As with Tamara, it simply did not matter.

*   *   *

Dear Laz and Lor,

Darlings, I’ve changed plans. I’ve seen my first family, and there isn’t anything else I want to do in this era—nothing worth sweating out most of two years in a backwater while this war drags on to its bloody and useless finish. So I want you to pick me up now, at the impact crater. Forget about Egypt; I can’t get there now.

By “pick me up now” I mean Gregorian 3 March 1917—repeat, third day of March one thousand nine hundred and seventeen Gregorian, at that meteor impact crater in Arizona.

Much to tell you when I see you. Meanwhile—

My undying love,
Lazarus

*   *   *

Was it her voice? Or her fragrance? Or something else?

DA CAPO

Home

27 March 1917 Greg.

Beloved Family,

Repeat of Basic Message: I got here three years too early—2 August 1916—but still wish to be picked up exactly ten T-years after drop, 2 August 192
6
—repeat
six
. Rendezvous points and alternatives from basic date as before. Please impress on Dora that this results from bad data I gave her and is
not her fault.

I’m having a marvelous time. I got my business cleaned up and then got in touch with my first family by looking up my grandfather (Ira Johnson, Ira) and got acquainted with him first—and with the aid of a horrendous lie and a most fortunate family resemblance, Gramp is convinced that I am an unregistered son of his (deceased) brother. I didn’t suggest this; it’s his own idea. Consequently it’s solid—and now I’m a “long-lost cousin” in my first home. Not living there, but welcome, which is very nice.

Let me give a rundown on the family, since all of you are descended from three of them: Gramp, Mama, and Woodie.

Gramp is described in that junk Justin has been cutting down to size. No changes, Justin, save that instead of being two meters tall and carved out of granite, Gramp is almost exactly my size. I am spending every minute with him that he will let me, which usually means playing chess with him several times a week.

Mama: Take Laz and Lor and add five kilos in the best places, then add fifteen T-years and a big slug of dignity. (Quit quivering your goddamn chins!) Add hair down to her waist but always coiled up on top. I don’t actually know what Mama does look like other than her head and hands because of the curious custom here of wearing clothes all over at all times. And I do mean “
all
over.” I know that Mama has slender ankles because I once caught a glimpse. But I would never dare stare at them; Gramp would toss me out of the house.

Papa: He is away now. I had forgotten what he looks tike—I had forgotten all their faces except Gramp (who uses the same face I do!) But I’ve seen pictures of Papa and he looks a bit like President Teddy Roosevelt—that’s “Theodore,” Athene, not “Franklin”—in case you have a picture in your gizzards.

Nancy: Laz and Lor as of three standard years before I left. Not as many freckles and
very
dignified—except when it slips. She is acutely aware of (young) males, and I think Gramp is urging Mama to tell her about the Howard setup at once, so that she’ll be sure to marry in the Families.

Carol: Laz and Lor again but two years younger than Nancy. She is as interested in boys as is Nancy—but frustrated; Mama has her on a short leash. Quivers her chin, which Mama ignores.

Brian Junior: Dark hair, looks more like Papa. Rising young capitalist. Has a newspaper route which he combines with lighting gas streetlamps. Has a contract to deliver advertising handbills for the local moving-picture theater which he farms out to his younger brother and four other boys and pays them in tickets to the theater and keeps some for his own use and sells the rest at a discount (four cents instead of five) at school. Has a vending bar for soda pop (a sweet, bubbly drink) on the corner in the summers but plans to franchise this to his younger brother this coming summer; he has another enterprise lined up. (As I recall, Brian got rich quite young.)

Let me explain something about our family. They are prosperous by here-&-now standards—but do not show it except that they live in a large house in a good neighborhood. Not only is Papa a successful businessman, but also this is a time when the Howard endowment of babies is substantial in terms of buying power—and Mama has had eight already. To all of you, being a “Howard” means a genetic heritage and a tradition—but here-&-now it means cash money for babies—a stock-breeding scheme and we are the stock.

I think Papa must be investing the money Mama makes by having Howard babies; they certainly are not spending it—and this accords with my own dim memories. I don’t know what was done for my siblings, but I received getting-started money when I first married—money I had not expected and which had nothing to do with the Howard endowments my first wife earned by being fertile and willing. Since I married during an economic stalemate, this made a big difference. Back to the kids—The boys not only do work; they
have
to work—or they have nothing but clothes and food. The girls receive very small cash allowances but are required to do housework and to help with the younger children. This is because it is
very
difficult for a girl to earn money in this society—but a boy who will get out and
try
has endless opportunities. (This will change before the century is over, but in 1917 it is true.) All the Smith kids work at home (Mama hires a laundress one day a week, that’s all), but a boy (or girl) who finds outside cash-money work is relieved of housework to that extent. Nor does he have to “pay back” this time off; he keeps what he earns and spends it or saves it, the latter being encouraged by Papa matching such savings.

If you think Papa and Mama are intentionally making moneygrubbers of their offspring, you are right.

George: ten T-years old, Brian Jr.’s junior partner, shadow, and stooge. This will end in a few years with George busting Brian one in the mouth.

Marie: eight and a freckled tomboy. Mama is having a difficult time trying to make a “lady” out of her. (But Mama’s gentle stubbornness—and biology—will win. Marie grew up to be the beauty of the family, with beaux underfoot—and I hated them as there had been a period when I was her pet. Marie was the only one of my siblings I was close to. It is possible to be lonely in a large family, and I was—except for Gramp, always, and Marie, for a short time.)

Woodrow Wilson Smith—still short of five by several months and as offensive a brat as was ever allowed to grow up. I am appalled to be forced to admit that this stinking little snot is the weed which grew up to be humanity’s fairest flower, namely, Ol’ Buddy Boy himself. So far he has spat in my hat when it was presumably out of his reach on the cloak rack in the hall, referred to me with various disparagements, of which “Here’s that dude in the derby again!” is the mildest, kicked me in the stomach when I tried to pick him up (my error; I didn’t want to touch him but thought I should break myself of irrational queasiness), and accused me of cheating at chess when in fact
he
was cheating—he called my attention to something out the window, then moved my queen one square, and I caught him at it and called him on it. And so on, ad nauseam.

But I continue to play chess with him because: (a) I am determined to get along with
all
my first family for the short time I will be here; and (b) Woodie will play chess at any opportunity, and Gramp and I are the only chessplayers around who will put up with his poisonous ways. (Gramp clobbers him as necessary; I have no such privilege. But if I were not afraid to find out what would happen, I might strangle him. What
would
happen? Would half of human history disappear and the rest be changed beyond recognition? No, “paradox” is a null word; the fact that I
am
here proves that I will keep my temper long enough to get shut of the little beast.)

Richard: three and as affectionate as Woodie is difficult. Likes to sit on my lap and be told stories. His favorite is about two redheaded twins named Laz and Lor who fly a magic “airship” through the sky. I feel a tender sadness about Dickie, for he will (did) die quite young, assaulting a place called Iwo Jima.

Ethel: a heavenly smile at one end and a wet diaper at the other. Short on conversation.

That’s my (our) family in 1917. I expect to stay in K.C. until Papa returns—soon, now—then leave; some of this is a strain on me, pleasant as most of it is. I may look them up when this war is over—but probably not; I don’t want to crowd my welcome.

To make the above clear I should explain some of the customs here. Until Papa gets home, my status has to be through Gramp as a friend he plays chess with; it can’t be anything else even though he—and perhaps Mama—believe that I am Uncle Ned’s son. Why? Because I am a “young” bachelor, and by the local rules a married woman cannot have a young bachelor as a friend, particularly when her husband is out of town. The taboo is so firm I don’t dare give even the appearance of violating it…on
Mama’s
account. Nor would she encourage me to. Nor would Gramp permit it.

So I’m welcome in my own home
only
if I go there to see Gramp. If I telephone, I must ask for
him
. And so on.

Oh, it’s permissible, on a rainy day, for me to offer a ride home to members of the Smith family at church. I am permitted to do almost anything for the kids as long as I don’t “spoil” them—which Mama defines as spending much more than five cents on one of them. Last Saturday I was allowed to take six of them on a picnic in my automobile carriage. I am teaching Brian to operate it. My interest in the kids is considered understandable by Mama and by Gramp because of my “lonely” and “deprived” childhood as an “orphan.”

The one thing I must
never
do is to be alone with Mama. I don’t go inside my own home unless publicly accompanied by Gramp; the neighbors would notice. I am meticulous about it; I won’t risk causing Mama trouble with a tribal taboo.

I am writing this at my apartment, on a printing machine you would not believe, and must stop in order to take it downtown and photoreduce it twice, then etch it and laminate it and seal it for Delay Mail and deliver it to a drop—which kills a whole day, as I must use a rented lab and destroy intermediate stages as I go; this is not something I dare leave in an apartment to which a janitor has a key. When I get back from South America I’ll make my own lab setup, one I can carry in an automobile. Paved roads will be more common this coming decade and I expect to travel that way. But I want to continue sending these letters and by as many Delay Mail drops as possible, in hope that at least one will last through the centuries and reach you. As Justin put it, the real problem is to get one to last through just the coming three centuries—I’ll keep trying.

All my love to all of you,
Lazarus