But a world where children could play in cemeteries and nuzzle at his little tit of death. He shuddered. He who could feel nothing, less tactile than glass, his flesh and bone and blood amputated, a spirit cap-side by a loose bundle of pencils, buttons, thread, nevertheless had somewhere somehow something in reserve with which to shudder, feel qualms, willies, jitter, tremor, the mind’s shakes, all its disinterested, volitionless flinch. And at what? Sociology, nothing but sociology. Who had lived in Hell and seen God and who had, it was to be supposed, a mission. Who represented final things, ultimates, whose destiny it was to fetch bottom lines. A sentimental accomplice, an accessory gone soft. (For he’d felt nothing when the bullet sang which had dropped his pal, Ellerbee, felt nothing for the people—he’d have been a teenager then—at whose muggings he’d assisted, felt nothing presiding at the emptying of wallets, cash drawers, pockets—he had quick hands, it was his kind of work, he was good at it—and once, on a trolley commandeered by his fellows actually belly to belly with the conductor, quickly depressing the metal whosis of the terrified man’s change dispenser, lithely catching the coins in his free hand and rapidly transferring dimes to one pocket, quarters, nickels and pennies to others.)
But he had not gone soft. Remorse was not his line of country, no more than sociology. A question plagued him. Not why children played in cemeteries but where the officials were who permitted it. Where, he wondered, was the man who said “Oatcakes”? Or the fellow who’d led the boys in war games? He was outraged that, exiled in earth, appearances had not been kept up. He could imagine the disorder of his grave—candy wrappers, popsicle sticks, plugs of gum on his gravestone. He wanted it naked, the litter cleared. It was his fault for talking to them in the first place. He’d dummy up.
“You! Ladlehaus!”
“Hey, Ladlehaus. The kids won’t come near you. I told them some garbage about hallowed ground.”
“Hey you, Ladlehaus, how’s your cousin?”
“That’s better. That’s the ticket. Silence from the dead. You leave us alone, we’ll leave you alone.”
“God is not mocked. He is not fooled. He is not sorrowful. He is not disappointed. He is not expectant. He is not worried. He doesn’t hold His breath. He does not hope or wish upon a star. He is not waiting till next year or contemplating changes in the lineup. He is not on the edge of His seat. He is complete as spider or bear. As stone or bench He is complete.
“It is only we who are unfinished. And God is indifferent as history. He has not abandoned a world He had never embraced or set much stock in.
“Other preachers tell you to welcome God into your hearts as if He were some new kid in the neighborhood or a fourth for Bridge. What good is such advice? He will not come. He is complete. He has better things to do with His time. He doesn’t accept invitations. He doesn’t go out. He stays home nights. His home is Heaven. Death is His neighborhood. Life is yours.
“He asks nothing of us, beloved. Not our lives, not our hearts. He would not know what to do with such gifts. He would be embarrassed by them. He does not write Thank You notes. He is not gracious. He is not polite or conventional. He has no thought for the thought that counts.
“What would the thought count for?
“He is God and there is an Iron Curtain around Him. His saints are bodyguards, Secret Service.
“Why then be good? Because He will smash us if we aren’t. Those are the rules.
“Let us pray.
“Our Father Who art in Heaven, we, your servants, humbly beseech Thee. Bless World Team Tennis in St. Paul.
“Amen.”
“Yeah yeah, sure sure, Amen,” said a voice in the ground near Ilie Nastase’s feet.
“What’s World Team Tennis?” asked the Lord on High.
“Boys? Boys? Where am I, boys?”
Quiz smiled.
“No need to whisper, Nurse. Mr. Ladlehaus is in a coma. There’s reason to believe they coma dream, although I doubt they can actually hear us—particularly when they’re under as deep as this one is.”
Ladlehaus wondered.
“Is he any better today? Let me see the chart, please. Hmn. Wait a minute, did you see this? Never mind, it’s only a smudge. For a minute I thought—Hold it a moment. Look here. The way this line seems to go up. That’s the sort of thing we’re looking for.”
Ladlehaus wondered.
“No, it’s important, I’m glad you called. All right, let me see if that resident was right. By golly, I think he was. Those aren’t smudges. Did you change machines? Right. Excellent. Quite frankly I’m not prepared to say yet just what it means. It’s too early to tell, but this is evidence, this is definitely evidence. See this trough, this spike. Pass me one of your oatcakes. This is exciting. Extremely so. Now if he can only be made to produce more readings like these, establish a pattern rather than these virtuoso performances, I think we might have real hope of going to them and—See to the I.V., please, Nurse. A man on the mend needs nourishment!”
Ladlehaus hoped.
“I wanted you to see these, Doctor,” the woman said.
“I felt so silly,” she said.
“You did just fine, Irene.”
“It’s hopeless. They won’t accept my interpretation of the readings,” Quiz said in a voice as much like his own doctor’s as he could make it.
“Not? Why?”
“They say it’s only an aberration, that the electrical impulses could come from his body heat, that brain death has already taken place.”
“But that’s so unfair, Doctor.”
“She’s right,” Ladlehaus said. “It hasn’t taken place,” he said. “It hasn’t. Get me more I.V. I hear perfectly. The nurse asked why they won’t accept the readings and you said they think it’s an aberration. It isn’t an aberration.”
“They may be right of course,” Quiz said, “though I hate to admit it.—Damned vultures. Death with dignity indeed! Folderol. Fiddlededee. The only reason they want to pull the plugs is to get at his fortune and power.—All those millions!”
“Don’t let them,” Ladlehaus screamed. “Don’t let them get at my fortune and power. Oh I know you can’t hear me, but look, look at the machine. I’ll squeeze out my best brain waves for you. Don’t let them. Those millions are mine. I earned them.”
“It’s a shame,” the nurse said, “after all the good he’s done.”
“All the good, yes,” Ladlehaus said, “all the millions, all the good I’ve done.”
“Look at these, Doctor, would you? They’re slightly different from the others. What do you make of them?”
“Flyspecks, I should think, scratchings of coma dream. But let me have them. Perhaps the judge will grant a stay.”
Ladlehaus hoped.
“Uncle Jay, you high table, five star, Hall of Fame prick! You mashed potato! You spinach leaf! Do you recognize my voice, you bloodless fake? It’s your nephew Jack—Rita’s husband. And I’ll tell you what I’m going to do, you cabbage! I’m going to tamper your charts and splash in your brain waves. But I’ll give you a fighting chance. If you’re not dead scream ‘no,’ or forever hold your peace.”