Chapter 131

“The truth is far, far stranger.”
—M. Suddain, Theatre of the Gods

The gray haze hung over my eyes. I couldn’t see the dashboard or even the steering wheel that I held in a death grip. Yet irrelevant details blossomed in my vision. Straight ahead, across the railroad tracks, was the Etna Elevator, its flaking paint still displaying a Purina logo. In the rearview mirror, I could see the gazebo built on stilts as if some raging flood were expected. Beyond, a pastoral mural painted on the side of a building. I wondered where in Indiana the artist thought there were towering mountains like those in the painting. To my left was the post office and across a street wide enough for a four-lane highway was a deserted bank. These things were all perfectly clear in my eyes, yet I couldn’t focus on Beca’s hand that gripped my arm like I might try to escape.

“Please,” I whispered again. The sound I heard in reply was a strangled whimper as her grip on me tightened some more.

“You’ve held that in for two years?” she cried. “My poor Jacob. My darling, darling Jacob.” Her arm wrapped around my chest and she hugged herself to me. “Those things you remember ... the recovered memories of your past life ... those things really happened to you, didn’t they?”

“Yes,” I croaked. “Eighty years, ten months, and twelve days. I lost my first wife, Rebecca, to cancer. My second wife to a deteriorating heart. I left behind a son and a daughter and four grandchildren, one of them pregnant. And I can’t even call their faces up in my mind anymore.”

“But you don’t remember bidding on Desi’s virginity or learning to play the guitar,” she sighed. “Jacob, I’m so sorry. Sorry for all your losses, I mean. But I am so happy that you are here with me. I love you so much it hurts. Don’t turn away from us.”

“You don’t hate me?”

“What changed in the past ten minutes? Have you just become someone different? Are you not the boy I fell in love with? Do you no longer love me? Those were the questions you asked me when I told you I was transitioning. And then you sealed it with a kiss.” She pulled my face down to her and kissed me with both passion and compassion. And she held me and wept with me.

“I’ve been so afraid everyone would think I was a perverted old man,” I whispered. “I thought so for a long while. I still have moments when I think, ‘If they knew the truth, they would run from me.’ I’ve constantly been afraid I would slip. Have on many occasions. The history of my reality is different than this one. So many things are the same that tiny differences trip me up.”

“You need to tell Rachel. No one else needs to know but Rachel and I do.”

“I suppose. Why?”

“Because if everyone else left the pod tomorrow, Rachel and I would still be with you.”

After a few more kisses and wiping our eyes, we got back on the road to Chicago.

“Was there a version of each of us in your world?” she asked as we chatted. I’d mentioned knowing Rachel in 1952. I think it would have been easier on Beca if she thought I died in 2084 and came back in time than it was knowing I’d been born in 1937. We were exploring my past with the same care we took when I explored her sex. It was a private area that had changed but that we wanted to share with the other.

“No. For example, Rebecca was the name of my first wife but I didn’t and don’t recognize you as her. You just happen to have the same name. Or a variant. On the other hand, seeing Rachel almost sent me into shock. She was a flirtatious teen I fantasized about for sixty years. Then, suddenly she was flesh and blood, holding my hand and eventually making love to me.”

“But she wasn’t part of this world?”

“No. The variant of this world I came from had no National Service, for example, and would never get one because our politics are so divided that the mention of anything mandatory would bring attacks from every side. The liberals would consider it ultra-nationalistic. The religious right would consider it a plot of godless communists and worse yet, part of the gay agenda. The rich would want deferments. The poor would be the only ones who actually ever served.”

“Those all seem so strange. No wonder you had trouble with US History.”

“Worse are the old man opinions I carry hidden in dark places of my mind,” I said. “When you age, you tend to grow in your opinion of superiority. I was terribly critical of Millennials, for example. Spoiled brats. And the next generation after them—those who were actually born near and after the turn of the century—were worse yet. When I was given a fourteen-year-old body, I thought it would be when I was fourteen in my timeline ... to live it over, so to speak. Instead, I was in the body of one of the kids that my old man had despised. I haven’t caught up with my new generation yet.”

“You know, we’re a lot alike,” Beca mused. She still held my right arm as I drove, though lightly now as she leaned against me. “We both got new bodies. We both have to adapt to a new way of life. The only ones in our pod that I’ve told about it are you and Rachel. She’d already guessed. She’s probably already guessed about you, too.”

“If someone came up to me and told me they were an eighty-year-old in a seventeen-year-old body, I’d think they were lying at best and insane at worst. Possibly even dangerous.”

“If anyone who’s seen my cute ass and perky titties was told I used to be a boy, they’d assume the same thing. You didn’t. I don’t. Rachel doesn’t and won’t.”

“Beca, I would die if I lost you as my best friend.”

“Won’t happen, Love.”

Beca and I got to Joan’s condo shortly before she did and Debbie, Joan’s stepmom, let us in. Something smelled really good.

“I hope you don’t mind me acting all domestic for a change,” Debbie said. “I thought we could eat in tonight instead of fighting the rush of crowds in restaurants. I think this is the busiest night of the year for restaurants.”

“Thank you, Debbie. What can we do to help?” Beca asked.

“Something smells incredible,” I added.

“I thought we’d try Cornish game hens tonight,” she answered. “I hope they taste as good as they smell. I expect Ray and Joan will be home in about half an hour. Rebeca, you know where all the dishes are; would you mind setting the table? Jacob, you’ll find some white wine in the refrigerator. Let’s start with the Riesling. You can uncork it to breathe and pour me a glass if you don’t mind.”

“Your PNSAT results are fascinating, Jacob,” Ray said as we enjoyed the hens and even the three of us teens had a little wine. “Our analysis says that the government may be broadening the scope of NS Occupations and is moving even more aggressively into areas in which there is little government influence today. Olivia had a similar result in her invitation to try out for an athletic berth. And for you, an offer to audition at the National School of the Arts.”

“I was pretty surprised. I haven’t responded yet since they asked that I contact them in February, but since Cindy has been invited to audition with me, we probably will. I still don’t get what it means, though, in regard to starting at a school before National Service.”

“Our investigation so far is revealing some interesting things. First, we’ve discovered there are now nearly a third of the students at the school who are in the National Service. They are also in various orchestras and other musical groups, including the American Youth Orchestra that was mentioned in your letter. Second, we’re seeing more pressure to move up or move out. Mostly to move out. The corps is looking at too many managers in the coming months. That’s something we in business could have told them a long time ago. They were very aggressive about signing up management track candidates in the first few years and contracting them for an additional six years. That means they now have as many management candidates as they have corps personnel. If the candidate hasn’t moved up in their status by year four, they are being asked to leave the service.”

“Wow! That’s harsh.”

“It’s military management. There are always new candidates coming in, so if you aren’t on track to advance make room for someone who is,” Ray said. “Rebeca, how did you feel about the results of your test?”

“I found it hard to read. It mentioned levels of aptitude in marketing, management, administration, logistics, language, and social services. But it didn’t really point out what any of that meant,” she said.

As I listened to Ray talk about what all our testing meant and why some things were bound to be vague at this point, I got to wondering what V1 had missed. Aside from nearly ending my marriage, what had I missed by screwing Sharon Long instead of becoming friends with her husband. I found Ray to be sharp, helpful, concerned, and a real mentor as we struggled with learning what our service was going to do to us. And as we talked, I discovered our pod was not the only group he was working with. He was a good guy and I was glad I got to know him this time around.