“Socializing is fine,” said Jordan Sasscock, “but don’t we want something fun? What about a playground? What about rides? I bet we could build them.”
“We can build anything we want,” said Dr. Snood.
“Will we really turn this hospital into a theme park?” asked Dr. Tiller, shaking her head.
“Is it enough space for a bowling alley?” asked Dr. Sasscock. I should have just said no, Jemma thought. “Can’t I just say no?” she had asked, at first, of everybody. “If you want to be a fool,” Vivian said. “I wouldn’t, if I were you,” said John Grampus. “It could probably be arranged,” said Dr. Snood. “If you want to hurt the whole world’s feelings,” Rob said.
“But I don’t know where we’re going,” she’d said to Rob. “I don’t know what’s going to happen to us.” He only shrugged at her, and smiled. No one knew where they were going; that wasn’t exactly what she’d meant. She did not know where she would take them, or could take them. It would have been better for them to get Vivian, or Dr. Snood, or her brother. She watched the fish at play and tried again to envision a future for them all. She could see herself making a speech, not a very exciting one, and getting shot, or watching Ethel Puffer’s puppet show from a deluxe box, and getting shot, or just walking along and minding her own business, and getting shot. She tried harder, but it was not a task amenable to effort. “Madame Friend?” said Dr. Snood. “What say you?” They were soliciting her opinion on the final resolution, but she hadn’t heard a thing they’d said for the past few minutes.
So let it be written, she wanted to say. So let it be done. But instead she said, “All right, yes,” trying to sound committed to their decision, and hoping they hadn’t decided on the sex club.
* * *
Even though she was the leader of the whole world, Jemma still had to teach her class. But in the past weeks she’d come to define the word “teach” with increasing elasticity. At first she decided it was okay if they didn’t actually learn how to fix people, as long as they kept trying. And then she decided it was okay as long as they were learning something, and so they clogged and crafted and wrote poems, though they complained that they were already writing poems, the younger children in a class devoted strictly to writing, the older ones in a rather free-wheeling expressivity seminar taught by Father Jane. And then she decided they just really needed to all be together during time assigned to her class, because who knew when they might have a breakthrough — one child might suddenly seize, the next seize in sympathy, and a third erupt in green fire and repair them both. So they rode poles down the ramp all in a line, or chased after the fish at the windows, or filled baskets in the cafeteria and brought them to the roof for a picnic.
They had one after the Council meeting was done. Jemma plucked leaping fruit from out of the salad-bar fog while the kids filled their own baskets. The menu was never planned; individuals grabbed what was interesting to them and presented it to the group. She led them in single file up the stairs — she insisted on taking the stairs, though she always ended up carrying Kidney, and Josh Swift always ended up carrying Valium. They all liked to throw open the door from the dim, cool stairwell out to the bright warm roof, and pass through, though there was something to be said, too, for taking the elevator, and seeing it open onto a vista of green grass and blue sea.
She spread out their big blanket on a corner of the field and settled them down. “What have we got?” she asked, when they were all seated in a circle, each with a basket in their lap. She started, putting out the fruit, apples and pears and pomegranates and peaches and kiwis and starfruit and one coconut, which she rolled to Pickie Beecher. He had brought cookies, not red raw meat like the last time, which he brought not to eat himself, but for others to consume while he watched. No one would do it, though Jarvis sniffed at a piece, and Kidney touched her tongue to another. Kidney and her brothers all brought cookies, too. Cindy Flemm had an assortment of puddings. Ethel brought out a cake puzzle — it came apart into fourteen jigsaw shapes. Jarvis had soda in wax bottles: you could tear of the tops with your teeth, and chew the bottle as an after-dinner distraction. Juan Fraggle had candy vegetables, not just corn but squash and broccoli and eggplant and peppers. Magnolia brought crème brûlée: she had thirteen palm-sized dishes in front of her in the grass and was patiently scorching them with a little propane torch while the others put out their food. Marcus Guzman brought jelly beans. Josh Swift lifted a glistening pork loin out of his basket and set it down in the grass.
“Real pork or candy pork?” Jemma asked.
“What does it look like?”
“I can’t eat that,” Pickie said.
“Me neither,” said Ethel. “I think it just moved.”
“I thought we all agreed to bring real food this time,” Jemma said.
“Look! It twitched!”
“That’s ’cause it likes you,” Valium said.
“It smells like feet,” said Kidney.
“Is it done?” asked Magnolia. “Do you want me to cook it some more?” She waved her torch at him.
“I can smell the blood,” Pickie said sadly.
“Why’s everyone making fun of me?” Josh asked. “I did what we were supposed to. I did the homework, damn it. I’m the only one who brought something real.”
“It’s fine,” Jemma said. They all continued to make fun of the meat, but it proved to be the most popular item. At the end of the picnic, Josh was the only one with nothing left, though Jemma had none of the pork, and Pickie only touched a piece of candy corn against it, and savored that. “Whose turn is it?” Jemma asked, after everyone had heaped their plates. She had discovered the lame trick of obliging her students to make presentations. It was a good way to pass the time, and provided many opportunities for her to nod at them. They were supposed to research a disease of the old world. They rarely picked the entities that had afflicted them, but sought out illnesses with more gruesome manifestations.
“Pickie,” said Ethel.
“I spoke yesterday,” he said.
“Liar,” said Jarvis. “You were supposed to go yesterday.”
“Every week seems the same to me. Every picnic and every sunny day. They happen over and over. Sometimes I speak and sometimes I don’t. How am I supposed to remember?”
“Just do your job, little dude,” said Josh.
“It is your turn,” Jemma said. “It wasn’t because I didn’t know that I was asking.”
Pickie sighed. “Very well. You have probably all heard about Dreadful Hoof Dismay.”
“It’s supposed to be a real disease, Pickie,” Jemma said. Pickie just stared at her. “One that people get. That sounds like a veterinary condition.”
“Yes, veterinarians are particularly vulnerable. But they don’t get it from the animals.”
“People don’t have hoofs,” said States’-Rights.
“Not until. First you get the hooves, then you get the dismay. You are compelled to pull out all of your own hair, and then you lose all your friends. Then your own poop begins to follow you around, and to call you the most terrible names. Then you get very, very lonely. Then comes the rash.”
“The worst part, huh?” asked Cindy Flemm.
“Oh no. That would be the dismay.”
“Is it fatal?” asked Juan Fraggle.
“Of course. Though digging out the eyeballs with a spoon was considered palliative treatment.”