Her eyes flit right and left as if trying to decide what I meant.
“I’ve just come from my tailor,” I explained, “with my last suit.”
Her expression turned to concern. “You mean…”
“Nitrocellulose,” I confirmed.
“Michael,” she said, frowning, “not that.”
“The fabric is orange… Ültra orange.” She flinched as if she knew that color was a precursor of worse things. “My plan is to eliminate Father.” The corners of her mouth darkened, and I could tell she was about to tell me that was unacceptable, but before she spoke, I added, “Unless he is destroyed, you’re never going to be safe. And I can’t kill him to be with you. Everything must end.”
The quarrelsome spark in her eyes faded, and slowly, like a turtle retreating into its shell, she sunk into her self. “I feared this,” she said quietly, as tears rolled down her face. “We are not for this world.”
With my fingertips, I gathered the drops on her cheeks, and touched them to my lips. “We aren’t,” I agreed.
She looked into my eyes as if for possibilities, options, or alternatives. Then, as if she couldn’t find any either, her gaze fell. “I’ll say goodbye to my Michael now. Later, I’ll know you’re someone else.
That was it! I could see myself as a young boy—in the very beginning when I had loved the music and the crowd’s adulation. This would be his final appearance.
“And afterward,” she said, her lips trembling, “I’ll join you.”
“No!” I sat up and grasped her hands. “Please, Nora. Hide. Go somewhere where you won’t be found… somewhere far the system. Stay there and you’ll be safe.”
As if defeated, as if our time was over, she smoothed the silky chenille on her forearms and hands.
I could have argued. I could have insisted that she go on, live her life, find someone else, but I knew I wouldn’t convince her. Knowing we would both be dead tonight, I felt wretched and hallowed at the same time.
When we were both gone, the world would know how we were meant for each other and how much we were willing to sacrifice.
Reaching toward her, I grasped her cool, smooth chenille-covered hands, after squeezing, I let go, and pulled back an inch. We looked at each other, and I could tell she was thinking the same: we were the beautiful but dead couple in the plutonium button ad with our yearning hands outstretched but unconnected.
Fourteen
Without another word, I stood, straightened my pants and jacket, opened the door, and stepped out into the putrid, hot air. I walked quickly, hoisted myself up into my car and sat. I knew if I looked back I wouldn’t have been able to leave.
As I buckled myself into my seat, I could hear the vacuum-arc engines in Nora’s car rev. A part of me couldn’t believe that we had just made love. I wished it could happen forever. And even now I could feel my memories shrink and darken like a fall leaf.
“Close the side door, please,” I said into the intercom.
Her car began to roll slowly. I fought back tears, but willed myself not to cry. After taxiing fifty feet, the engines engaged and her car shot forward. Goodbye, I thought after her. Goodbye, Nora.
Once I had wiped my face and blown my nose, I repeated, “Side door, please.” No reply came. Nora’s car soon shrank to a watery-looking dot on the horizon. Hello?” I pressed the intercom switch firmly. “Please acknowledge!”
Since we had stopped, I hadn’t heard from him. Undoing my seatbelt, I worried that something had happened. I lowered myself to the tiles again and headed to the front. The round pilot door was ajar. Wedging my fingernails under the edge, I coaxed it open. “The intercom isn’t working,” I said. “Could you close the door?”
Inside, it was pitch-black and silent. A second later, a pinkish light flickered from what I assumed was some control panel low on the dash. I hadn’t ever been inside a pilot’s cabin. They were barely four feet tall and the seat was designed for someone who weighed less than seventy-five pounds. On the silvery dashboard were two steering sticks, several switches, and knobs. In the sculpted black seat, the driver looked young—my age perhaps. All of my previous drivers had been older. He looked like a bug boy, and I wondered why someone so inexperienced was driving.
“Are you all right?” I asked. When my eyes adjusted to the dim, I saw that his helmet was off kilter and half of his face was dark. I was about to ask what was the matter, when I realized it wasn’t face-paint, but blood flowing from a gash on his forehead. His eyes were three-quarters closed. Touching his neck, I was glad to find him at least warm.
This was my fault! I had pressed the emergency button without any warning. As soon as I had thought that, I saw that his seat belts were hanging at his sides and a corresponding splat of blood was on the inside of the windshield.
Reaching in, I got one hand under his legs and the other behind his shoulders, but the space was so cramped, and he so heavy, I couldn’t budge him. Then I worried he had a neck injury, and left him in the chair.
Glancing up and down the Loop, I saw nothing either way. I could wait and hope help came or try to drive myself. I didn’t want to do either, but I decided to see if I could get in and at least move the car to the side of the road.
I barely fit through the pilot door, but I was able to squeeze my way in. The best I could do was to lay sideways, propped up on one elbow with my feet dangling out the open door. That way, at least I could operate the controls, see out the windshield, and watch the three screens below.
The leftmost was on. A woman with frizzy hair in a white plastic jacket placed an enormous blue and white capsule on a man’s tongue. After he wiped his nose, he struggled and swallowed it. Then he returned the favor with a pill the size of a baby’s fist. He shoved it into her mouth and while she gagged and her eyes watered, he continued to push it farther down her throat with his thumbs. Snapping off the screen, I felt repulsed by whatever smut or torture that was supposed to be.
Then I had a bad feeling. Pushing myself off the driver’s lap, I glanced down at his crotch; his uniform was unsnapped and there, lay a flaccid, ruby-colored organ.
“Gross!” I said.
Fetching a handkerchief from my pocket, I spread it over him and returned my attention to the controls. On bits of white tape someone had labeled the six switches. From left to right they read: Warm up, Full, Tuning, Cruise, Decay, and Off. I flipped the first to see what would happen and heard the familiar gradual rising whine of the motors. After thirty seconds, I hit the second, but the motor’s pitch continued to rise and red lights blinked on a dial. I switched off Full, but the motors kept going faster and faster. I smelled an acidic smoke. Switching off Warm up, they finally began to slow. Once they returned to what sounded like their normal speed, I flipped Full and they held. One switch at a time, I told myself.
Now, how did the car actually move? As I looked over the controls, the middle screen blinked on. I saw Xavid’s big glasses and his snow-capped hair. As he squinted into the dark, I quickly covered my face with my arm. “Turn on the lights!” he said. “Where are you? You hear me, you slubber butt? You’re late! fucking shit-ball dancing-boy back here. I need him for my show.”