coins in the sun, and the juices trickling into the soil, which was all chalky and grey, and the juices were feeding the things sleeping inside it—worms and embryos of locusts.”
“Okay then, did the farmers get any information from the sky?”
“They did.”
“What was that?”
“They were told the world is a place filled only with sorrow, and that people have no idea where it is we’re destined for. Disaster is inevitable, whether it be by our own doing or as an act of God. That’s why they shouldn’t be afraid—because the end is going to happen no matter what.”
“This made the farmers feel better?”
“Yeah, it did. They were also told that there was a gift awaiting them, and that shortly they’d be given a signal—I don’t know what the signal was to be—and that they’d receive this gift.”
The farmers’ plight chilled me. It seemed to echo my own plight in a way Jeremy didn’t realize, but I didn’t let on about this. “How do you feel about it? You, personally.”
Jeremy relaxed. “I wish I could say the things I see are crap, but I just don’t know. Why would my own life become so messed up like this with MS if there wasn’t some sort of compensation?”
“I don’t always think life hands out compensations, Jeremy.”
“What about life after death?”
“What about death after life after death?” It sounded clever, but I wasn’t completely sure what I meant by it. A bad joke.
“So you don’t believe in infinity?”
“What a funny question. No. Infinity is a mathematical parlour trick. It’s artificial. It didn’t even exist until recently.”
Jeremy smiled. “My brain hurts.”
I tapped him lightly on the knee and said, “Brains can’t hurt. They don’t have nerves. I’m not joining your pity party.”
“Aren’t you a tough nut? I bet you laughed when Bambi’s mother got shot.”
I lost it completely. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d laughed so hard.
“What’s so funny? What’s so funny?”
I picked up my Bambi video from the coffee table and told him about my visit from the lovely Donna of Landover Communication Systems, our patron saint of weak coffee and terse notes on the lunchroom fridge asking staff not to touch carrot and celery sticks belonging to other people. Jeremy saw the humour, and said, “Your mother’s going to freak when she finds out about me.”
“Well, yes.” Leslie had forgotten a pack of cigarettes on the table. I lit one, and then, on cue, the phone rang.
It was Mother. She didn’t even say hello, instead merely shouting, “Is it true?”
“Is what true, Mother?”
“I’ll be right there.”
“Thank you, Mother.” I hung up and went to the kitchen. “I’m making coffee. Do you want any? Are you allowed to drink it?”
“Yes and no. How much does your mother know about—I don’t know … me?”
“You’d be amazed how little.”
“Start.”
“It’s just not as easy as that.”
“Why not?”
“Just hang on awhile. If you waited for four years, you can wait a bit longer.”
We shortly heard four (always four) demanding knocks on my door, the downstairs buzzer somehow bypassed. Once I opened the door, I saw her eyes bulging, but I could tell by musculature alone that she’d taken her meds.
“Mother, come in.”
She hesitated.
“No, really. Come in.”
“I didn’t think this would ever happen,” she said.
“I didn’t either, Mother.”
“The adoption people told us he was beyond access.”
“Yes, they did.”
“It’s not my fault. It never was.”
“Nobody’s saying it is.”
Mother remained outside until I really insisted she step in. She suddenly seemed so old, her steps assisted by an invisible aluminum walker as she gently stumped into the living room. There she found Jeremy standing up by the coffee table. She looked at him and said, “So it really is you.”
Jeremy said, “It sure is.”
“Come over to me,” she demanded, and Jeremy did. You’d think the
“Okay then, did the farmers get any information from the sky?”
“They did.”
“What was that?”
“They were told the world is a place filled only with sorrow, and that people have no idea where it is we’re destined for. Disaster is inevitable, whether it be by our own doing or as an act of God. That’s why they shouldn’t be afraid—because the end is going to happen no matter what.”
“This made the farmers feel better?”
“Yeah, it did. They were also told that there was a gift awaiting them, and that shortly they’d be given a signal—I don’t know what the signal was to be—and that they’d receive this gift.”
The farmers’ plight chilled me. It seemed to echo my own plight in a way Jeremy didn’t realize, but I didn’t let on about this. “How do you feel about it? You, personally.”
Jeremy relaxed. “I wish I could say the things I see are crap, but I just don’t know. Why would my own life become so messed up like this with MS if there wasn’t some sort of compensation?”
“I don’t always think life hands out compensations, Jeremy.”
“What about life after death?”
“What about death after life after death?” It sounded clever, but I wasn’t completely sure what I meant by it. A bad joke.
“So you don’t believe in infinity?”
“What a funny question. No. Infinity is a mathematical parlour trick. It’s artificial. It didn’t even exist until recently.”
Jeremy smiled. “My brain hurts.”
I tapped him lightly on the knee and said, “Brains can’t hurt. They don’t have nerves. I’m not joining your pity party.”
“Aren’t you a tough nut? I bet you laughed when Bambi’s mother got shot.”
I lost it completely. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d laughed so hard.
“What’s so funny? What’s so funny?”
I picked up my Bambi video from the coffee table and told him about my visit from the lovely Donna of Landover Communication Systems, our patron saint of weak coffee and terse notes on the lunchroom fridge asking staff not to touch carrot and celery sticks belonging to other people. Jeremy saw the humour, and said, “Your mother’s going to freak when she finds out about me.”
“Well, yes.” Leslie had forgotten a pack of cigarettes on the table. I lit one, and then, on cue, the phone rang.
It was Mother. She didn’t even say hello, instead merely shouting, “Is it true?”
“Is what true, Mother?”
“I’ll be right there.”
“Thank you, Mother.” I hung up and went to the kitchen. “I’m making coffee. Do you want any? Are you allowed to drink it?”
“Yes and no. How much does your mother know about—I don’t know … me?”
“You’d be amazed how little.”
“Start.”
“It’s just not as easy as that.”
“Why not?”
“Just hang on awhile. If you waited for four years, you can wait a bit longer.”
We shortly heard four (always four) demanding knocks on my door, the downstairs buzzer somehow bypassed. Once I opened the door, I saw her eyes bulging, but I could tell by musculature alone that she’d taken her meds.
“Mother, come in.”
She hesitated.
“No, really. Come in.”
“I didn’t think this would ever happen,” she said.
“I didn’t either, Mother.”
“The adoption people told us he was beyond access.”
“Yes, they did.”
“It’s not my fault. It never was.”
“Nobody’s saying it is.”
Mother remained outside until I really insisted she step in. She suddenly seemed so old, her steps assisted by an invisible aluminum walker as she gently stumped into the living room. There she found Jeremy standing up by the coffee table. She looked at him and said, “So it really is you.”
Jeremy said, “It sure is.”
“Come over to me,” she demanded, and Jeremy did. You’d think the
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