“We have envy.”
“But it doesn’t erupt into anger.”
Each time one of us speaks, Jennie and Rachel turn their heads to watch, like rapt spectators at tennis. Which neither of them has ever seen. Jennie’s skin glows like pearl.
“Our young people aren’t violent either, and the disease hasn’t advanced very far in some of them.”
“They learn how to behave from their elders—just like kids everywhere else.”
“I don’t feel depressed.”
“Do you feel energetic?”
“I have arthritis.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
“What do you mean, Doctor?”
Again that restless, furtive reach for a non-existent cigarette. But his voice is quiet. “How long did it take you to get around to applying that insecticide I got Rachel for the termites? She told me you forbid her to do it, and I think you were right; it’s dangerous stuff. How many days went by before you or your daughter spread it around?”
The chemical is still in its can.
“How much anger are you feeling now, Mrs. Pratt?” he goes on. “Because I think we understand each other, you and I, and that you guess now why I’m here. But you aren’t shouting or ordering me out of here or even telling me what you think of me. You’re listening, and you’re doing it calmly, and you’re accepting what I tell you even though you know what I want you to—”
The door opens and he breaks off. Mamie flounces in, followed by Peter. She scowls and stamps her foot. “Where were you, Rachel? We’ve been standing outside waiting for you all for ten minutes now! The dance has already started!”
“A few more minutes, Mama. We’re talking.”
“Talking? About what? What’s going on?”
“Nothing,” McHabe says. “I was just asking your mother some questions about life Inside. I’m sorry we took so long.”
“You never ask me questions about life Inside. And besides, I want to dance!”
McHabe says, “If you and Peter want to go ahead, I’ll bring Rachel and Jennie.
Mamie chews her bottom lip. I suddenly know that she wants to walk up the street to the dance between Peter and McHabe, an arm linked with each, the girls trailing behind. McHabe meets her eyes steadily.
“Well, if that’s what you want,” she says pettishly. “Come on, Pete!” She closes the door hard.
I look at McHabe, unwilling to voice the question in front of Rachel, trusting him to know the argument I want to make. He does. “In clinical depression, there’s always been a small percentage for whom the illness is manifested not as passivity but as irritability. It may be the same. We don’t know.”
“Gram,” Rachel says, as if she can’t contain herself any longer, “he has a cure.”
“For the skin manifestation only,” McHabe says quickly, and I see that he wouldn’t have chosen to blurt it out that way. Not for the effects on the brain.”
I say, despite myself, “How can you cure one without the other?”
He runs his hand through his hair. Thick, brown hair. I watch Jennie watch his hand. “Skin tissue and brain tissue aren’t alike, Mrs. Pratt. The virus reaches both the skin and the brain at the same time, but the changes to brain tissue, which is much more complex, take much longer to detect. And they can’t be reversed-nerve tissue is non-regenerative. If you cut your fingertip, it will eventually break down and replace the damaged cells to heal itself. Shit, if you’re young enough, you can grow an entire new fingertip. Something like that is what we think our cure will stimulate the skin to do.
“But if you damage your cortex, those cells are gone forever. And unless another part of the brain can learn to compensate, whatever behaviour those cells governed is also changed forever.”
“Changed into depression, you mean.”
“Into calmness. Into restraint of action… The country desperately needs restraint, Mrs. Pratt.”
“And so you want to take some of us Outside, cure the skin ropes, and let the depression spread: the ‘restraint,’ the ‘slowness to act’…”
“We have enough action out there. And no one can control it—it’s all the wrong kind. What we need now is to slow everything down a little—before there’s nothing left to slow down.”
“You’d infect a whole population—”
“Slowly. Gently. For their own good—”
“Is that up to you to decide?”
“Considering the alternative, yes. Because it works. The colonies work, despite all your deprivations. And they work because of the disease!”
“Each new case would have skin ropes—”
“Which we’ll then cure.”
“Does your cure work, Doctor? Rachel’s father died of a cure like yours!”
“Not like ours,” he says, and I hear in his voice the utter conviction of the young. Of the energetic. Of the Outside. “This is new, and medically completely different. This is the right strain.”
“And you want me to try this new right strain as your guinea pig.”
There is a moment of electric silence. Eyes shift: gray, blue, brown. Even before Rachel rises from her stool or McHabe says, “We think the best chances to avoid scarring are with young people without heavy skin manifestations,” I know. Rachel puts her arms around me. And Jennie—Jennie with the red ribbon woven in her hair, sitting on her broken chair as on a throne, Jennie who never heard of neurotransmitters or slow viruses or risk calculations-says simply, “It has to be me,” and looks at McHabe with eyes shining with love.
I say no. I send McHabe away and say no. I reason with both girls and say no. They look unhappily at each other, and I wonder how long it will be before they realize they can act without permission, without obedience. But they never have.
We argue for nearly an hour, and then I insist they go on to the dance, and that I go with them. The night is cold. Jennie puts on her sweater, a heavy hand-knitted garment that covers her shapelessly from neck to knees. Rachel drags on her coat, a black donated synthetic frayed at cuffs and hem. As we go out the door, she stops me with a hand on my arm.
“Gram—why did you say no?”
“Why? Honey, I’ve been telling you for an hour. The risk, the danger.
“Is it that? Or—” I can feel her in the darkness of the hall, gathering herself together “—or is it—don’t be mad, Gram, please don’t be mad at me—is it because the cure is a new thing, a change? A… different thing you don’t want because it’s exciting? Like Tom said?”
“No, it isn’t that,” I say, and feel her tense beside me, and for the first time in her life I don’t know what the tensing means.
We go down the street towards Block B. There’s a moon and stars, tiny high pinpoints of cold light. Block B is further lit by kerosene lamps and by torches stuck in the ground in front of the peeling barracks walls that form the cheerless square. Or does it only seem cheerless because of what McHabe said? Could we have done better than this blank utilitarianism, this subdued bleakness-this peace? Before tonight, I wouldn’t have asked.
I stand in the darkness at the head of the street, just beyond the square, with Rachel and Jennie. The band plays across from me, a violin, guitar, and trumpet with one valve that keeps sticking. People bundled in all the clothes they own ring the square, clustering in the circles of light around the torches, talking in quiet voices. Six or seven couples dance slowly in the middle of the barren earth, holding each other loosely and shuffling to a plaintive version of “Starships and Roses.” The song was a hit the year I got the disease, and then had a revival a decade later, the year the first manned expedition left for Mars. The expedition was supposed to set up a colony.