City of Truth (3 page)

I awoke aggressively that morning, tearing the blankets away as if nothing else stood between myself and total alertness. Across the room, my wife slept peacefully, indifferent to the world's sad truths, its dead rabbits. Ours was a two-bed marriage. The symbolism was not lost on me. Often we made love on the floor — in the narrow, neutral territory between our mattresses, our conjugal Geneva. Yawning, I charged into the shower stall, where warm water poured forth the instant the sensors detected me. The TV receiver winked on — the
Enduring
Another Day
program. Grimacing under the studio lights, our Assistant Secretary of Imperialism discussed the city's growing involvement in the Hegelian Civil War.

"So far, over four thousand Veritasian combat troops have died," the interviewer noted as I lathered up with Bourgeois Body Soap. "A senseless loss," the secretary replied cheerfully. "Our policy is impossible to justify on rational grounds, which is why we've started invoking national security and other shibboleths." I left the shower and padded bare-assed into the bedroom. Clothes
per se
were deceitful, of course, but nudity carried its own measure of compromise, a continual tacit message of provocation and come-hither. I dressed. Nothing disingenuous: underwear, a collarless shirt, a gray Age-of-Lies suit with the lapels cut off. Our apartment was similarly spare, peeled to a core of rectitude. Many of our friends had curtains, wall hangings, and rugs, but not Helen and me. We were patriotic. The odor of stale urine hit me as I approached the elevator. How unfortunate that some people translated the ban on sexually segregated restrooms — PRIVACY

IS A LIE, the huge flashing billboard on Voltaire Avenue reminded us — into a general fear of toilets. Hadn't they heard of public health? Public health was guileless.

I descended, crossed the lobby, encapsulated myself in the revolving door, and exited into Veritas's thick and gritty air. Sprinkled with soot, my Adequate lay on the far side of Eighty-second Street. In the old days, I'd heard, you never knew for sure that your car would be unmolested, or even there, when you left it overnight. Dishonesty was so rampant, you started your engine with a key. I zoomed past the imperially functional cinderblocks that constituted City Hall, reaching the market district shortly before noon. Bless my luck, a parking spot lay directly in front of Molly's Rather Expensive Toy Store — such joy in emptiness, I mused, such satisfaction in a void.

"My, aren't
you
a pretty fellow?" a hawk-faced female clerk sang out as I strode through Molly's door. Pricey marionettes dangled from the ceiling like victims of a mass lynching. Eighty-dollar stuffed animals stampeded gently toward me from all directions. "Except, of course, for that chin."

"Your body's arousing enough," I replied, casting a candid eye up and down the clerk. An Isaac Newton University T-shirt molded itself around her breasts. Grimy white slacks encased her thighs. "But that nose," I added forlornly. A demanding business, citizenship.

She tapped on my wedding ring and glowered. "What brings your here?

Something for your mistress's kid sister?"

"My niece is getting burned today."

"And you're waiting till the last minute to buy her a present?"

"True."

"Roller skates are popular. We sold fifteen pairs last month. Three were returned as defective."

"Lead the way."

I followed her past racks of baseball gloves and electric trains and up to a bin filled with roller skates, the new six-wheeler style with miniature jets in the heels.

"The laces break in ten percent of cases," the clerk confessed. "Last April an engine exploded — maybe you saw the story on TV — and the poor girl, you know what happened? She got pitched into a culvert and cracked her skull and died."

"I believe Connie likes yellow," I said, taking down a pair of skates the color of Mom's Middling Margarine. "One size fits all?"

"More or less."

"Your price as good as anybody else's?"

"You can get the same thing for two dollars less at Marquand's."

"Haven't the time. Can you gift-wrap them?"

"Not skillfully."

"Sold."

* * *

I'd promised Gloria I wouldn't just come to Connie's post-treatment party — I would attend the burn as well, doing what I could to keep the kid's morale up. Normally both parents were present, but that deplorable person Peter Raymond couldn't be bothered. "I've seen better parenting at the zoo," Helen liked to say of my ex-brother-in-law. "I know wart hogs who are better fathers." You could find a burn hospital in practically every neighborhood, but Gloria had insisted on the best, Veteran's Shock Institute in Spinoza Borough, a smoke-stained pile of bricks overlooking the Giordano Bruno Bridge. Entering, I noticed a crowd of ten-year-olds jamming the central holding area; it seemed more like the platform of a train station than the waiting room of a hospital, the girls hanging together in nervous, chattering clusters, trying to comfort each other, the boys engaged in mock gunfights around the potted palms, distracting themselves with pseudo violence, pretending not to be terrified of what the day would bring.

Tucking the badly-wrapped skates under my arm, I ascended to the second floor. WARNING: THE MAINTAINANCE ON THIS ELEVATOR IS

GENERALLY PERFORMED BY PEOPLE WHO HATE THEIR JOBS. RIDE

AT YOUR OWN RISK.

My niece was already in her glass cell, dressed in a green smock and bound to the chair via leather thongs, one electrode strapped to her left arm, another to her right leg. Black wires trailed from the copper terminals like threads spun by some vile and poisonous spider Toby would have adopted. She welcomed me with a brave smile, and I pointed to her gift, hoping to raise her spirits, however briefly. Clipboard in hand, a short, cherubic doctor with MERRICK affixed to his tunic entered the cell and snugged an aluminum helmet over my niece's cranium. I gave Connie a thumbs-up signal. Soon it will be over, kid — snow is hot, grass is purple, all of it.

"Thanks for coming," said Gloria, taking my arm and guiding me into the observation booth.

"How's the family?"

"A rabbit attacked Toby."

"A rabbit?"

"And then it died."

"I'm glad somebody besides me has problems," she admitted. My sister was a rather attractive woman — large eyes, pristine skin, a better chin than mine — but today she looked lousy: the anticipation, the fear. I was actually present when her marriage collapsed. The three of us were sitting in Booze Before Breakfast, and suddenly she said to Peter, "I sometimes worry that you copuluate with Ellen Lambert — do you?"

And Peter said yes, he did. And Gloria said you fucker. And Peter said right. And Gloria asked how many others. And Peter said lots. And Gloria asked why —

did he do it to strengthen the marriage? And Peter said no, he just liked to ejaculate inside other women.

After patting Connie on her rust-colored bangs, Merrick joined us in the booth.

"Morning, folks," he said, his cheer a precarious mix of the genuine and the forced.

"How're we doing here?"

"Do you care?" my sister asked.

"Hard to say." The doctor fanned me with his clipboard. "Your husband?"

"Brother," Gloria explained.

"Jack Sperry," I said.

"Glad you could make it, Sperry," said the doctor. "When there's only one family member out here, the kid'll sometimes go catatonic on us." Merrick shoved the clipboard toward Gloria. "Informed consent, right?"

"They told me the possibilities." She studied the clipboard. "Cardiac—"

"Cardiac arrest, cerebral hemorrhage, respiratory failure, kidney damage," Merrick recited.

Gloria scrawled her signature. "When was the last time anything like that happened?"

"They killed a little boy over at Mount Sinai on Tuesday," said Merrick, edging toward the control panel. "A freak thing, but now and then we really screw up. Everybody ready?"

"Not really," said my sister.

Merrick pushed a button on the control panel, and PIGS HAVE WINGS

materialized before my niece on a lucite tachistoscope screen. "Can you hear me, lassie?" Merrick inquired into the microphone.

Connie opened her mouth, and a feeble "Yes" dribbled out of the loudspeaker.

"You see those words?" Merrick asked. The lurid red characters hovered in the air like weary butterflies.

"Y-yes."

"When I give the order, read them aloud."

"Is it going to hurt?" my niece quavered.

"It's going to hurt a lot. Will you read the words when I say so?"

"I'm scared. Do I have to?"

"You have to." Merrick rested a pudgy finger on the switch. "Now!"

"'P-pigs have wings.'"

And so it began, this brist of the human conscience, this electroconvulsive rite of passage. The volts ripped through Connie. She yelped like a despairing puppy.

"But they don't," she moaned. "Pigs don't..." My own burn flooded back. The outrage, the agony.

"You're right, lass — they don't." Merrick gave the voltage regulator a subtle twist, and Gloria flinched. "You did reasonably well, girl," the doctor continued, handing the mike to my sister.

"Oh, yes, Connie," she said. "Keep up the awfully good work."

"It's not fair." Sweat speckled Connie's forehead. "I want to go home." As Gloria surrendered the mike, the tachistoscope projected SNOW IS HOT.

"Now, lass! Read it!"

"'S-s-snow is ... h-hot.'" Lightning struck. The girl shuddered, howled. Blood rolled over her lower lip. During my own burn, I'd practically bitten my tongue off.

"I don't want this any more," she wailed.

"It's not a choice, lass."

"Snow is
cold
." Tears threaded Connie's freckles together. "Please stop hurting me."

"Cold. Right. Smart girl." Merrick cranked up the voltage. "Ready, Connie?

Here it comes."

HORSES HAVE SIX LEGS.

"Why do I have to do this?
Why?
"

"Everybody does it. All your friends."

"'H-h-horses have ... have...' They have
four
legs, Dr. Merrick."

"Read the words, Connie!"

"I hate you! I hate all of you!"

"Connie!"

She raced through it. Zap. Two hundred volts. The girl coughed and retched. A string of white mucus shot from her mouth like a lizard's tongue.

"Too much," gasped Gloria. "Isn't that too much?"

"You want the treatment to take, don't you?" said Merrick.

"Mommy! Where's my Mommy?"

Gloria tore the mike away. "Right here, dear!"

"Mommy, make them stop!"

"I can't, dear. You must try to be brave."

The fourth lie arrived. Merrick upped the voltage. "Read it, lass!"

"No!"

"Read it!"

"Uncle Jack! I want Uncle Jack!"

My throat constricted, my stomach went sour. "You're doing quite well, Connie," I said, grabbing the mike. "I think you'll like your present."

"Take me home!"

"I got you a pretty nice one."

Connie balled her face into a mass of wrinkles. "'Stones'!" she screamed, spitting blood. "'Are'!" she persisted. "'Alive'!" She jerked like a gaffed flounder, spasm after spasm. A broad urine stain bloomed on her smock, and despite the mandatory enema a brown fluid dripped from the hem.

"Excellent!" Merrick increased the punishment to three hundred volts. "The end is in sight, child!"

"No! Please! Please! Enough!" Sweat glazed Connie's face. Foam leaked from her mouth.

"You're almost halfway there!"

"Please!"

The tachistoscope kept firing, Connie kept lying: falsehood after falsehood, shock after shock — like a salvo of armed missiles flying along her nerves, detonating inside her mind. My niece asserted that rats chase cats. She lied about money, saying it grew on trees. The Pope is Jewish, Connie insisted. Grass is purple. Salt is sweet.

As the final lie appeared, she fainted. Even before Gloria could scream, Merrick was inside the cell, checking the child's heartbeat. A begrudging admiration seeped through me. The doctor had a job to do, and he did it.

A single dose of smelling salts brought Connie around. Easing her face toward the screen, Merrick turned to me. "Ready?"

"Huh? You want me—?"

"Hit it when I tell you."

Reluctantly I rested my finger on the switch. "I'd rather not." True. I wasn't inordinately fond of Connie, but I had no wish to give her pain.

"Read, Connie," muttered Merrick.

"I c-can't." Blood and spittle mingled on Connie's chin. "You all hate me!

Mommy hates me!"

"I like you almost as much as myself," said Gloria, leaning over my shoulder.

"You're going to have a highly satisfactory party."

"One more, Connie," I told her. "Just one more and you'll be a citizen." The switch pricked my finger like a tooth from the terrible hare that had attacked Toby.

"A highly satisfactory party."

A single droplet rolled down Connie's cheek, staining it like the trail left by one of Toby's beloved slugs. It was, I realized, that last time she would ever cry. Brainburns did that to you; they drained you of all those destructive and chaotic juices: sentiments, illusions, myths, tears.

"'Dogs can talk,'" she said.

* * *

And it truly was a highly satisfactory party, filling the entire visitor's lounge and overflowing into the hall. All four of Connie's older sisters came, along with her reading teacher and eight of her girlfriends, half of whom had been cured that month, one on the previous day. They danced the Upright while a compact disk of the newest Probity hit wafted through the ward:

When skies are gray, and it starts to rain,

I like to stand by the window pane,

And watch each raindrop bounce and fall,

Then smile, 'cause I'm not getting wet at all.

The hospital supplied the refreshments — a case of Olga's OK Orangeade, a tub of ice-cream from No Great Shakes, and a slab of chocolate cake the size of a welcome mat. All the girls, I noticed, ate in moderation, letting their ice-cream turn to soup. Artificially induced slenderness was, of course, disingenuous, but that was no reason to be a glutton.