Emergence Read online

  Key word, of course, is “unnecessary”; would not hesitate to warn of impending consequences, employ force as required. But ever been possible for perceptive, intelligent woman to avoid direct confrontation while still getting own way: Merely question of discerning where buttons located, cataloguing effect of each, pushing in proper sequence — without getting caught at it…

  To that end, am studying Adam: Feeling out responses to subliminal suggestions; learning what psychological knee jerks exist, where kept, how triggered; reactions to my emotions, etc.

  But proceeding carefully. Not uncomplicated lad, nor at all stupid (difficulty compounded by political psychology absorbed at mother’s knee); will spoil everything if suspects manipulation attempt in progress. At least two probable consequences foreseeable: One, will realize am trying to avoid controlling him by force; and two, thereby have nose rubbed in very fact that I can.

  Heart of problem, of course, is fact that Adam, while surely hominem, not member of AA group — I know: All names, addresses in Tarzan File. And everyone else alive today on planet, by definition, must be considered AB — must be regarded, absent substantial evidence to contrary, potential hazard to own life, limb, property. Wherefore, despite uniformly favorable data accumulated to present — including Terry’s opinion — still reserving judgment; maintaining slightly watchful attitude where Adam concerned.

  (True, beginning to feel something of an ingrate by this point; but learned through experience: Teacher not busybody; not in habit of volunteering superfluous suggestions. On rare occasions when did go to trouble of offering advice [particularly when so unambiguously phrased as to constitute, unmistakably, Considered Opinion], proceeding notwithstanding recommendation almost inevitably followed by Consequences, usually regrettable in nature.)

  Have known Adam (consciously) only two days. Most of what have learned thus far limited to hearsay (his) or adduced evidence (own conclusions, based on observations). Have not, with own eyes, seen anything concrete enough to justify abandoning caution entirely — or confirm, for that matter. But preliminary impression favorable; rather suspect will cancel alert shortly; embrace (figuratively speaking) new acquaintance as companion, friend, partner — perhaps even (conceivably, someday, should events so devolve) mate.

  Which will be distinct relief: Paranoia most wearing perspective for extended use; tiresome way to go through life. Trust more comfortable outlook — except when blows up in face, of course.

  But doubt this apt to. Have often, during brief lifetime, entertained self by “people-watching”; plus always took advantage of opportunities to meet, get to know, as many people as possible. Thereby acquired something resembling competence at picking friends (at least those whom so labeled never betrayed trust). And while do perhaps weight Terry’s judgment more heavily than should when forming own impressions of strangers, am not myself totally helpless in that regard.

  And without being able to put finger on any specific event or reason why, feel comfortable around Adam. Have from first meeting postcoma. Almost as if have known him forever…

  (Note to Significant Discovery Department: Just this moment realized — have felt this way with precisely three other people in whole life: Daddy, Momma, Teacher. Wonder what that means. Sounds like sort of question probably best not delved into too deeply just now. Or resolved in haste.)

  Well, haste unnecessary; will have ample time to debate imponderables. Expect to be here several weeks at least, resting, eating prodigiously, exercising: Rehabilitation after physiological burnout amounts to substantial project; side effects no joke — not kidding when said almost died; did really bang-up job on self. Adam weighed me as part of initial diagnostic procedure; and, based on his data, had lost nearly 20 percent of total body weight, between water, tissue.

  No, not sort of experience one bounces back from overnight. And still long way from even first bounce.

  In fact, now that I think about it, this is quite enough for first effort: I’m tired…!

  Good night, Posterity.

  Help…! Adam trying new approach: devious, insidious, unexpected — fattening!

  Also wonderful: Who would expect servant-raised-and-educated, musically gifted, apparently hedonistic, smooth-talking young stranger to be competent cook — no, cancel that — inspired master chef? Can’t imagine where he finds this incredible variety of makings — meats, fruit, vegetables, etc. All prepared with genuine magic touch…

  (Manufacture same dishes myself; results merely adequate. But let Adam walk through kitchen, stop at stove, sniff pots’ contents, somehow Something. Happens — something wonderful!)

  And in present condition, trying to regain lost tissue, cannot begin to take objective view of offerings: Anything failing to bite me first goes to stoke fires (Adam has already used expression “feeding frenzy” [smiled when said it, but doubt really kidding]). In short, am ravenous; appetite running amok; not responsible for actions in presence of food — any food. But especially this food…!

  Example, breakfast today: two homemade whole-wheat pancakes, dripping with real butter, drowned in clover honey; delicate two-egg/ham-cheese-mushroom omelet; four-ounce filet, crisp outside, medium-rare inside; hash-brown potatoes; ten-ounce orange juice, 16-ounce milk; megavitamin/mineral pills; huge bowl of fresh strawberries! (Where could he possibly have found fresh strawberries…?)

  Midmorning snack: half dozen hot, fresh blueberry muffins with thick pat of butter melted into each; big bowl of chocolate mint ice cream dripping with thick homemade hot fudge topping, sprinkled with nuts, buried under blanket of real whipped cream, capped with cherry; 16-ounce glass of homemade eggnog.

  Lunch: large green salad covered with Adam’s own bleu cheese dressing; two-inch-thick slice of rare standing-rib roast smothered in mushrooms, gravy; baked potato (skin crisped, suitable for crunching like cookie; insides removed, cream whipped, butter blended, then replaced); tender cauliflower swimming in exquisite cheese sauce; side dish of applesauce; fresh hot rolls; another 16-ounce glass of milk. Plus dessert: incredible something combining best features of angel food cake (laced with chocolate chips), vanilla pudding, covered with (so help me) miniature hot toasted marshmallows.

  Midafternoon snack: two slices of completely egg-and-milk-saturated French toast, sprinkled with cinnamon, powdered sugar, liberally paved with butter pats, and dripping with maple syrup; colossal chocolate milkshake.

  Whew…! Isn’t time for dinner yet; don’t know what’s planned. But doesn’t matter; merely reviewing day’s menu thus far imparts great sense of confidence for future (plus makes me hungry again): Know full well that whatever may be, will be work of sheerest culinary artistry. (Will taste good, too…!)

  Obviously this is tough life: Gradually wake somewhere around midmorning to aromas wafting up from kitchen as Adam prepares breakfast. Ring to let him know am back among living.

  Somehow puts preparations on Hold. Appears instantly in room to help me from bed (can walk myself, but balance not reliable yet; still awfully weak) to potty for morning dump. Thence into tub (which previously filled without waking me); turns on Jacuzzis, administers massage to get blood flowing again. Bathes me gently yet efficiently; impersonally, without “taking liberties” (either teasingly and/or in earnest), despite intimate contact necessarily involved (and notwithstanding undisguised libidinous ambitions). Assists me from tub, dries me with huge, thick, bath-sheet towels; dresses me to extent required by day’s schedule (usually robe, slippers); dries, combs hair. Then, steadied by his arm, I walk to kitchen, where he completes breakfast, somehow picking up preparations where left off without even hint of difficulty.

  After breakfast, again leaning on shoulder, I take quarter-mile hike (once around house, inside — no kidding!) for exercise; then lounge in library, reading while Adam practices piano. (In times past people world over paid money to hear poorer keyboard work than I get daily as private Muzak while enjoying fruits of most impressive book collection have ever seen.)


  Adam wakes me when time to return to kitchen for midmorning snack (invariably fall asleep on couch); then back to library for more music, reading (as long as eyes stay open).

  And then time for lunch. Afterward we repeat therapeutic hike; following which I nap until afternoon snack-time. Generally manage to remain awake thereafter, reading, until dinner.

  After dinner Adam gets serious: Plays the Good Stuff; each work straight through rather than, as in practice, taking run after run at trouble spots. Makes it count. For that I stay awake. Don’t even read.

  Evening finally winds up with modest bedtime smackrel (no more than 1,500 calories or thereabouts); and so to bed, perchance to dream (generally of food).

  Despite nursing schedule, Adam finds time to keep himself clean, groomed; kitchen spotless; do laundry; as well as housecleaning (dusting, carpets, etc.) for those areas of house I get to see; and still is as conscientious about taking care of Terry as would be myself if able.

  Finally, manages — somehow! — to find, prepare that astonishing variety of wonderful food! (Where could he have found those strawberries…?)

  And throughout remains uniformly considerate, optimistic “… cheerful, thrifty, brave, clean…” etc. Having person like that around could get habit-forming. (Probably what he’s up to — auditioning [would make some lucky woman terrific househusband]).

  Only, if continue to let him wait on me hand and foot — never mind feeding me like this — in six months will be too fat to move. (Suppose that’s what he’s up to…? Perhaps likes his women ample?)

  If so, have long way to go. Only week since coma ended. Been eating, sleeping with remarkable devotion to duty ever since; and condition improving, true — color back to normal, no longer dehydrated, metabolic balance restored — but haven’t begun to gain weight; still pretty puny example of Womanhood in Flower. If had any competition, doubt Adam would give me second glance. No, strike that; would look, but sympathetically: awfully nice person — for adolescent male, of course.

  And is adolescent male, let’s not forget. Far from perfect. (I mean — anyone who can be that cheerful in morning…!)

  Further, he… No, can’t go on. Quote from breakfast this morning (breakfast, mind you) quite damning enough:

  “… was the loneliest summer of my life,” he mused pensively. “Mother was seized by this notion that I should learn something resembling discipline involving areas beyond music. She decided that I should work mornings in her office. She reasoned, I suppose, that this would force me to get up early, which in itself would be Good For Me. Besides, discovering what it meant to work in a proper work setting, earning a minimum wage, would ‘be good for your perspective.’ That’s what she said — I thought my perspective was fine just as it was.

  “So I became an office boy. Not just an office boy: the junior office boy — the lowest of the low. I was given responsibility for sorting, storing, and checking in and out the innumerable little IBM type-balls, or elements, of the various sizes and fonts that Mother used in her official correspondence — it was a big office and there was a bunch of them.

  “The work was boring and seemed without real value. However, I determined to put the best possible face on the situation and went about my duties cheerfully, earnestly, and doing my best to be nice to everyone.”

  Adam smiled, eyes going distant. “In particular, I did my best to be nice to the secretaries; of whom there was a considerable number, and each better looking than the next. True, some were slightly older than I; but that had never stopped me before — I’ve been out with many women in their twenties. In fact, some of my most interesting and, uh, productive dates have been with older, more worldly women. It looked as though the summer was shaping up nicely, apart from the job itself, of course.

  “So you can imagine how disturbed I was when, after better than a week there, I had yet to get one of these ladies to respond to anything beyond the most businesslike inquiry: ‘Thank you for returning that Orator-10 element, Miss Peach, and here are your Elite-12 and Italic-12. Have a nice day.’ ‘Thank you, Adam.’ Beyond that — nothing…!”

  Had no idea where he was going with this; didn’t particularly care. Good company, diverting conversationalist; lived interesting life to date, related it entertainingly.

  But didn’t distract me from food.

  “It was terrible,” Adam continued plaintively. “I began to wonder if something was wrong with me: Maybe a postnasal infection had left me with an unspeakable variety of halitosis, of which only I was unaware. Or maybe I had deodorant failure. Or perhaps someone had circulated a vicious rumor that I had herpes — or worse, perhaps Mother had interdicted me…!

  “I asked her about that and she denied it. Now, to my knowledge, she never lied to me. She was a fine lawyer and a consummate politician, true; and it was often necessary to listen closely to make sure that the words one heard carried the meaning they seemed to on the surface — but she never lied…

  “Well, by the end of the first month I was completely at a loss. I didn’t know what to do; which way to turn. I had discharged my job duties flawlessly. I had kept track of all the elements without error; given them out, taken them in, ordered new ones from IBM; all in the most charming, helpful, personable manner possible — and I am my mother’s son: I know my social psychodynamics.

  “All to no avail, however: The ladies simply would not socialize with me, no matter what I did or didn’t. My self-esteem was in shambles; my reputation as a roué was crumbling.

  “Finally at wits’ end, I sought advice from one of Mother’s senior advisors. He was a wily old fox, versed in the intrigues of political life — but more importantly, he knew people.

  “I told him my problem. He smiled paternally and patted me on the shoulder. ‘Adam,’ he soothed, ‘don’t let it get to you. It’s nothing you’ve done, or can do; it’s your job.’

  “ ‘My job?’ Now I was more in the dark than ever. All I do is keep track of the—’

  “ ‘Elements,’ said he. ‘Of course they won’t associate with you. Don’t you understand? You’re taboo, the element boy…’ ”

  Silence echoed through kitchen. Froze, glaring, fork halfway to mouth. Adam’s expression a study in puzzled innocence.

  Terry picked up vibrations; emitted long, low whistle; said, “How ’bout that.”

  After counting to ten, slowly, again became aware of blended aromas rising from feast spread before me. Weighed benefits, liabilities. Carefully. Violence such a transitory satisfaction. Decided to let him live.

  But just imagine: If do decide to keep him, will spend whole rest of life never knowing when something like that due again — but positive out there, somewhere. Waiting. With my name on it…

  Good night!

  Surprise! Adam just asked to accompany us when search resumes for AAs — instead of baldly declaring intentions, per usual practice.

  (This, standing alone, offers hope: May be making progress; perhaps housebroken status achievable within foreseeable future.)

  So agreed. But with conditions…

  First: Must understand agreement embodies no implied secondary (read “sexual”) acquiescence. Will be partners; sharing resources, proceeds, risks, hardships — period.

  Second: Pooling brains, agreeing wherever possible on course to be followed — but with me ultimately setting policy. My decisions final. If time allows, prior discussions permissible; but if crisis looms, or events move quickly, orders must be carried out without hesitation.

  Pecking order necessary: Present-day environment unforgiving; indecision, inexperience, lack of teamwork — all erode chances for survival. Despite Adam’s slight age advantage, am more experienced in survival in world-as-is; been knocking about, self-sufficient, for months. Plus own education vastly broader, again despite age difference; for have devoted bulk of waking hours to emulating Rikki-Tikki-Tavi (“Run and find out!”); trying to learn something about everything, become “generalist” before settling down to specialty.<
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  Adam, by contrast, has learned lots about very little; narrowed interests too early: From own observations, is unparalleled at keyboard, in kitchen; first-rate EMT; efficient domestic (Lord! — entire ancestry, along with ghosts of most of Baltimore’s Upper Crust, must be spinning in graves at that summation!); plus shrewd student of people.

  Clever also, according to hearsay, at mechanics, electronics. Demon inventor, tinkerer: Most stereo equipment throughout home product of Adam’s handiwork; plus garage contains (says he; haven’t been out there yet) numerous highly modified automobiles, none of whose designers would recognize, all of which boast performance, mileage, handling, durability far exceeding manufacturers’ specifications.

  But since Man’s Passing, has existed (notwithstanding brash persona) as conservative stay-at-home, scavenging as need arises. Explorations limited to forays about already familiar (to him) city, suburbs. Totally unprepared to set off into wilderness.

  Therefore, final condition: Must apprentice to me as karate student. Two reasons: First, we will encounter inimical ABs en route — utter certainty, this. Would be comforting to know partner competent to guard my back (plus will feel lots better knowing Adam able to take care of himself should something happen to me — certainly not least probable outcome in post-Armageddon conditions).

  Second, instructing him good therapy for me: Am wreck; going to take weeks of rest/food/exercise to restore me to combat-readiness, and sparring only training better than kata.

  Into second week now. Stronger; can walk unaided, bathe self — though in habit of sociable morning soak by now; luxuriating to Jacuzzi-driven hot water, massage, lazy prebreakfast conversation, laughing at Terry: Silly goose decided if we can, he can — and conducts most energetic baths imaginable at poolside (tubside — tubside [size blurs distinction!]); perched carefully on rim, grabbing huge beakfuls, slinging all directions, flapping violently, squawking ecstatically, drenching everything within ten-foot radius — all without getting more than tiniest sprinkle on feathers.