And now, after all that, it was clear to him that she’d never had any intention of going through with the treatment. All she’d been doing was leading him on, making him think she’d changed her mind, just to avoid more arguments.
Then, one Sunday evening several weeks after their last appointment with the doctor, he was sitting in his old recliner in the living room reading a book. Retirement had finally given him time to catch up on things he’d had to put off when he was working, and especially when the kids were growing up. Now he actually had time to watch the holoscreen that formed most of one wall of the room, searching the Nets for the latest documentaries and news. Even, when he just needed to relax, a play or concert.
Often, though, he just liked to reread favorite, old-fashioned printed books from his personal library. That evening he was curled up with Volume 3 of The Histoty of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire. On the ’screen he’d found a performance by the Vienna String Quartet of Beethovens’s Quartet in F major, Opus 135, that was just beginning. With the music playing softly in the background, he became more and more absorbed in the book’s depressing story of decay and defeat.
Agnes walked into the room and sat on the nearby couch. Reading his book only a little now, mostly he watched her out of the comer of his eye. Then she said, “Access wedding file.”
The string quartet players shrunk into a tiny square in the right upper corner of the holoscreen, and Beethoven’s music faded away. Instead the screen was filled with sights and sounds from almost fifty years ago. From a technical standpoint, the two-dimensional “video” was jarringly primitive. Still pretending to be reading his book, he looked up just enough to watch two very young, very naïve people saying their vows in the large ornate church.
Take this ring as a sign of my love and fidelity…
Memories flooded back to him. Memories of a shy, smiling young woman with dark curly hair he’d been introduced to at a church-sponsored “singles” party. Of an incredibly awkward, socially inept boy asking her in a stuttering voice if she’d like to go out to lunch after Mass that Sunday. And maybe go to the planetarium afterwards? ( The planetarium? Damn, Schrader, you really knew how to be romantic!)
From the very beginning their courtship seemed so perfect, so—right. He didn’t need a video to remind him of their first kiss, the way she’d felt in his arms. With both of them trying to juggle their class schedules and work, there hadn’t been nearly enough time to spend with each other. But it was enough that, a year later, when he’d gotten down on one knee and asked her in that same stuttering voice if she would marry him, she’d said, “Yes.” Naturally, the ring he’d bought was too small, and it had taken the jeweler several weeks to get it right. But when it finally did slip on her finger, they’d both cried.
Agnes spoke again. “Reception.”
The scene on the ’screen changed. Now a young bride dressed all in white pulled her new husband to the dance floor while a polka band (her idea, certainly not his!) played a lively tune. The camera panned the room, revealing smiling, impossibly young versions of their closest friends and relatives. Her grandfather, his grandmother. Her brother, his two sisters. Both sets of parents. All gone now. Unless there really was some kind of life after death, he would never see them again.
As the groom on the video removed the garter from his blushing wife’s leg, Schrader tried to crowd out those memories with happier ones. They had both been virgins on their wedding night. It had taken them what seemed like an inordinately long time to figure out the exact technical details but, eventually, their persistence paid off. He’d always thought that, for Agnes, it was mainly a result of her very conservative religious background. Although his was similar, for him the main reason was different. Maybe it was from watching too many romantic early twentieth-century movies, or reading too many historical novels like Ivanhoe in his early teens. Whatever the reason, while attending his all-boys high school he’d dedicated himself to the “ideal” of loving, of sharing the most intimate experiences with only one woman in his lifetime.
Of course, during his undergraduate years in college, he found out how unrealistic that was. His loneliness and puerile romanticism had produced several intense but one-sided infatuations that, even after all these decades, still hurt to remember. Maybe, if any of those women had returned his passions only a little more, things might have been different. It sure as hell hadn’t been easy fighting those raging hormones. He hated to think how many liters of water he’d wasted taking cold showers. But, thinking back to that one night so long ago and all that came after, it had been worth it.
“First anniversary.” It was a scene in their cramped apartment. Agnes, in a thick, purely functional nightgown, laughing “That camera better not be on!” They’d worked hard those first few years—he to get his Ph.D., while she with her new Masters had found a job teaching English Literature at a local high school to support them. They still hadn’t had much time for each other. And when they did, they often wasted it arguing over money, in-laws, and so many things that seemed so important then, but so unimportant now.
“Fourth anniversary.” Their new condominium. A new job for him, teaching history at the college. More strains on their marriage. Many nights on the couch.
“Seventh anniversary.” Not a happy one either. They were both worried about their upcoming visit to the fertility specialist.
“Eighth anniversary.” Agnes, smiling brightly for the camera, her abdomen bulging out so far she seemed ready to topple over.
“Ninth anniversary.” Agnes, running after their son as he crawled rapidly across the floor like a speeding rocket.
“Twelfth anniversary.” Their first house. The picture was jittery, and the 3-D effect from the new holocamera kept blinking on and off. But, as Agnes valiantly tried to feed the new baby his strained carrots, the recording was good enough to preserve for posterity their older boy’s historic words, “Mommy, I just pooped in my pants!”
“Fifteenth anniversary.” No, Agnes, not that one! The two boys were fighting over a toy spaceship while Agnes gently rocked the new baby. The bottom of their younger son’s pants was visibly wet. They had argued bitterly about whether they should have a third child. She’d said that, at forty, she was getting too old, and the boys kept her bu£y enough. But, seeing how hurt and disappointed he’d acted, she’d finally given in.
Little Emily Marie was born with Down’s syndrome. A few months ago, he’d learned on the Net that there was now a medicine women could take to prevent it from happening. But it was discovered far too late to help their daughter.
After the first shock, and recriminations, Agnes had finally seemed to bond to her. If you didn’t look too closely, she almost looked like a “normal” baby. Any special education or needs she would have were still years away.
But they’d never had to worry about those things. Three months later, just before her first birthday, they’d found her in her crib one morning, dead. After all these years, he could still remember what it felt like to hold his precious baby girl in his arms.
As Agnes murmured softly, more scenes from their lives flashed briefly on the screen. Birthdays and Christmases. Their two boys, in grade school, high school, then college and beyond. Occasionally it was Agnes holding the camera, and him in the picture. He saw himself and Agnes changing, aging, as the years went by—less and less hair on his head, more and more padding around her middle. Growing old together.