“I got us out of there and came home. I thought you were dead.” Music soared gently, filling lengthening silence with beauty, while boy’s breathing rate mounted visibly, settled gradually. Only quarter profile visible from own vantage, but wet cheek’s glint unmistakable. Yet when resumed, voice was still almost conversational.
“You looked dead. You were grayish-white and you didn’t appear to be breathing at all. Terry wouldn’t let me touch you at first; he crouched on your body, wings half-spread, feathers fluffed to make him seem three times life-size, neck outstretched, that huge hooked bill open and threatening, and making a noise in his throat that…
Voice trailed off, but fingers never faltered.
“…that reminded me of the sound my mother made when she found my father’s body. He was the first to go in the plague.” Tendons stood out in neck, but music continued unbroken.
“I thought you were dead; so I concentrated on trying to comfort Terry, soothing him, getting him to accept me, to come to me. Only after that was I able to attend to you — and notice that you were still perspiring. I had never heard of a dead person perspiring — I’ve never seen anyone sweat like that — so I brought you inside, got you cleaned up, and put you to bed.
“You were running an astonishing temperature for a live person — the books I’ve read suggest that people don’t survive at 109 degrees, and it didn’t seem very likely that you’d manage it much longer — so I packed you in ice and started an I.V. to put back some of that water sluicing off you. I wired you to our EKG -
“Oh, yes, we have a fully equipped emergency room here in the house. This was the kind of neighborhood, back when we had lots of fussy, hypochondriac old neighbors and relatives, where one couldn’t afford to be without one; it would get you talked about, at the very least, and more likely disinherited. All the house staff were required to be fully conversant with the use of all the equipment, just in case.
“And while there was a stigma attached to people who possessed those skills — menial work, you know, performed by the ‘servant class’ — and even though I’ve never been sick in my life…”
Bingo! Heart skipped a beat — never been sick…!
“…I judged that it was the sort of thing that might well come in handy someday. So I kept my eyes open — and bribed several of our retainers, incidentally — and_ became a pretty fair EMT, if I do say so myself. But you…” Narrative faltered again; music bridged gap as breathing discipline labored to restore control.
“You were my valedictorian exercise.” Declaration followed by long breath, uninterrupted music. “Keeping you alive called for everything I learned from our staff, extensive study on my own, and more luck than anyone has a right to expect — yours or mine, I’m not sure.
“You were a mess.”
“Thank you.” Blurted reply after boy’s last four words but before content registered. Experienced momentary pang of dismay lest he take it wrong; be offended. How could he know how slowly own thoughts functioning; how far behind utterance comprehension lagged.
But mattered not. Hadn’t heard. Probably not listening at all; wrapped in own thoughts. Monologue continued without pause:
“Your heart stopped twice. The first time I managed to restart you with CPR alone; the second time it took three jolts with the defibrillator paddles and an injection of adrenaline directly into your heart. That’s something the staff didn’t teach me…”
Without bidding, hand drifted to chest; fingers sought, found tiny bandage just to left of sternum, between fourth, fifth ribs.
“Between the ice — courtesy of the industrial-grade icemaker in the bar in the ballroom — and the I.V., I got your temperature back down somewhere near normal and restored your fluid level. That took most of the rest of the day.
“But still you were fading almost as I watched. For some reason your tissues apparently were consuming themselves, as happens in extreme starvation, but faster — which made no sense to me as you were in good flesh and apparently healthy otherwise. So I intubated you gastrically and started you on the Isocal. And to save time, to start nourishing your cells immediately, without waiting for you to metabolize the Isocal, I briefly piggybacked a filtered solution of it into your I.V. and changed you from straight saline to Ringer’s.
“Fortunately, I had to answer Nature’s Call myself at about that time, and that started me thinking: All that fluid had to go somewhere. You had stopped perspiring; logic offered but a single alternative: If your sphincter held, you would rupture your bladder.
“So I catheterized you. Yes, that’s something else the servants didn’t teach me. But according to the book, I probably did it correctly — you didn’t bleed and haven’t shown signs of infection.
“And you confirmed my suspicion promptly by filling the first container in a single nonstop gush. I had to mop the floor after fumbling the container change on the fly.
“You probably don’t want to hear the details of how I coped with your bowels; but I can attest that you were marvelously regular until you emptied out what you had eaten before and were down to the Isocal residue; of which — I’m glad to say — there’s almost none. But that’s why you’re in a diaper. And I’ve been transferring you back and forth between two beds as cleanup demands necessitated changing them. And you.”
Shook head, almost shuddered, but music never wavered. “Ever since I attained puberty and learned what it implies, my primary ambition regarding girls has revolved around getting their clothes off. Et cetera. That has not been the case with you; I’m not into necrophilia, and a catheter is not conducive to romance: There was no ‘et cetera.’
“And though I have acquired an exhaustively detailed, painstakingly thorough, unflinchingly intimate familiarity with your every tangible aspect — in fact I learned more about you physically than any girl in my experience — I must admit that I would have traded gladly every success I’ve enjoyed in the past in that respect at any moment during these six days for the privilege of getting you dressed. You have not been a fun date.”
Can’t say just when lost track of soliloquy; drifted off into own blissful, music-filled reverie. Didn’t have to listen; details irrelevant — had found somebody…!
Months of accumulated desperate tension drained from soul like sand spilling from ripped sack, leaving slightly limp, giddy euphoria suffusing entire being. Wouldn’t have been surprised had started glowing from head to foot. Was supremely happy.
And not without degree of justification — not leaping to conclusions; some data in already (sketchy, obviously preliminary, but [beyond mere fact of his being] encouraging): Appears to be good prospect. Hominem beyond doubt: obviously intelligent (piano talent alone points toward genius-level intellect; and when coupled with resourcefulness displayed in keeping me alive, plus syntactic evidence apparent from first words, leaves little room to doubt quality of brains). Further, demonstrated gentlemanly instincts. Additionally, sound physical specimen, apart from wounds (apparently healing nicely); with pleasant, well-bred features.
Finally, was good to helpless birdbrain, and idiot twin likes him (Terry spends bulk of waking hours rowing with only one oar in water — but is never wrong about people).