Nonentity Read online

  “Marvelous. You have responded to my muddled material with a wisdom beyond your years. The scrambled mind is often superior to the mind that is clear. The clear mind becomes fixed and stops entertaining alternate options. It’s too perfect for improvement. Conversely, the scrambled mind must put things back together, inadvertently strengthening itself in the process.”

  “I’m not sure I’ll ever put things together.”

  “Even if you do, forget what you’ve done and try to do it again.”

  We later moved into the dining room. Beneath an exquisite chandelier was a long oak table that suited its space. In a corner of the room was a small bookcase on top of which sat a framed photograph of a woman. I estimated the woman’s age as mid-forties. She had flowing dark hair and pouty lips. The familiar green eyes made her identity obvious.

  “Lorna’s mother,” I said. “Incredible.”

  Lorna’s father flashed a broad smile. “More than incredible. You know, had she started out as a hag covered in warts and boils, something deep inside her would have transformed her into a beauty queen. That’s just another kooky idea of mine.”

  I shot Lorna a quick glance and looked away. “Maybe it isn’t that kooky. I know someone who invokes similar sentiments.”

  “Don’t take that too seriously, Dad. Sebastian probably doesn’t know any such person.”

  “Well, I could be misreading her,” I said, “but I don’t think so.”

  She said, “It’s not about misreading anything. You see what you want to see.”

  “What the hell are you two talking about?” said her father.

  She smiled and winked at me. “Nothing, Dad. Inside joke.”

  We soon ate a delicious steak dinner that Lorna’s father cooked for us. Included were mashed potatoes and broccoli with an exotic white cheese melted over it. Throughout the meal my two companions discussed the many wonders of her mother/his wife. The conversation reminded me of a sore spot: my own mother. I tuned out.

  Following dinner, the three of us returned to the den for more wine.

  “Oh Dad,” said Lorna, “I forgot to tell you: I introduced Sebastian to Lukas Lambert a few months ago.”

  Her father cackled. “Ah yes. The never-quite-famous but oh-so-brilliant Lukas Lambert, my partner in so many slipshod capers.”

  I said, “Really? I guess the two of you go back aways, huh?”

  “You should never guess unless you fully understand the question. Except I didn’t ask a question. But I bet Lukas said that to you.”

  “How did you know?”

  “I know that man almost as well as he knows himself. Actually, if I knew him that well, my head would explode. He’s amazing. Sometimes I’d write something that bewildered me. Then I’d show it to Lukas and he’d explain it like it was basic arithmetic. He became one of my finest friends. It was a camaraderie between two oddballs dead set on keeping themselves and each other off the straight and narrow. What did you make of him, Sebastian?”

  “Well, safe to say he isn’t on the straight and narrow. I didn’t get all that stuff about parallel universalism.”

  Lorna’s father said, “Nor do I. It may be that no one understands it. Does Lukas Lambert understand it? Not necessarily.”

  “That just makes me more reluctant to see him again.”

  “That’s okay. Something yet to occur will have to put you in the appropriate mind frame; then you will be ready for him.”

  Lorna and I left a little later. I admired her father and thought him a tremendous host. I never saw him again in flesh-and-blood form. Still, he would prove crucial in my larger quests.

  ****

  Allen Jonah’s gravelly voice boomed over my radio:

  “… which is why I’m calling this outlandish Grand Premier race for Cynthiana Davinsky. She’s the heir apparent, folks, queen of the puppet show. What can we expect during Davinsky’s reign as chief cipher? Further dismantling of the free market. Call it corporatism, economic fascism, crony capitalism, crapitalism, whatever. Just get ready for a lot more of it.

  “Also expect the injustice system to get plenty more unjust. Protections for the accused will keep vanishing. Pretty soon so-called domestic enemies of the Regime won’t even have access to State-employed attorneys. Our masters have already eviscerated rights against unreasonable searches and seizures in their crusades against malevolent substances and terrorism. Habeas corpus is dead. These things will only get much worse.”

  Jonah obsessed over “a police state rapidly consuming our entire society.” According to him, an ever-expanding web of regulations rendered everyone a criminal. Those who produced for the Regime and kept their mouths shut were safe. The slightest sign of rebellion, however, could draw the legal leviathan’s wrath. The Regime owned all the courts and all the attorneys; a lowly defendant was hopeless.

  I listened to Jonah skeptically. Many of his claims were dubious. His closer-to-Earth allegations were plausible, to one extent or another. My paranoia increased.

  Criminal defense issues reminded me of my father. The unsolved murder of Sebastian R. Flemming the Second loomed large. Had my brother Hagen unearthed something about it? I could hardly trust the second-hand information of an apparent dead man (Lawrence Alister). Plus, Lawrence knew nothing definitive. He merely suggested what Hagen might have known. Much more certain was the guilt I felt from neglecting my mother. It drove me to seek the truth about her husband’s demise.

  Through underground sources I contacted Rev Coomer, over thirty years an employee of the Office of Misinformation. Rumor had it that no one equaled Rev’s ability to dig up confidential dirty laundry. He was apolitical, a pure mercenary, surpassing double his government salary from sales of classified data. I agreed to pay him a quarter of my annual income for anything illuminating about my father.

  We met in a vacant parking lot. Condemned buildings surrounded us, affording satisfactory cover. The sun was unusually bright. But the air was crisp.

  “Okay Flemming,” he said with gruffness, “the deal is you give me half up front. I get you what you want, you give me the other half. Fair enough?”

  “Sure.”

  Rev was bulbous, early fifties, distinctive scars on his face. His brown hair was thinning. He rarely cracked a smile.

  Taking my money in hand, he said, “Flemming, what’s a guy like you doing getting mixed up in all this radical horseshit? Aren’t you smarter than that?”

  “I could easily turn that around, Rev: Why aren’t you involved in all this horseshit? You’re already endangering yourself peddling radioactive material to any scumbag agitator who tosses cash at you. Hell, you’re practically an honorary member of the opposition.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong, pal. I got no use for the nutty gobbledygook that gets you bleeding hearts so riled up. Not a damn bit of it’ll change anything. You can’t beat the Regime. They call it ‘permanent’ for a reason – it ain’t ever going away.”

  “We don’t aim to beat the Regime. It’s about freedom of association. Are you aware …”

  Sneering, Rev said, “Save it for somebody who gives a shit. I’m just trying to make a dishonest buck.” He peered over my shoulder distractedly. “Ah hell, what’s that broad doing now? Is there a goddamn one of you radicals she ain’t stalking?”

  I turned and spotted Victoria Mason peeking at Rev and me from the side of a nearby building. She ran away.

  I said, “Just ignore her. That’s what I do.”

  “That’s no easy task. She pops up everywhere. I don’t exactly mind looking at her. You can’t imagine the things I’d like to do to that woman.”

  “I prefer not to imagine such things. I’ll probably spend the next hour trying to forget you said that. Never mind. Just get me what I want and collect a few more dishonest bucks.”

  “I’ll find something.”

  ****

  I stared at an empty fish tank on a dresser by a window in Lorna’s living room. Aside from the aquarium and two obscure
paintings, the other notable item was a faded pink couch. That sofa must have been forty years old. I sank deep into its cushions.

  “You know,” I called out to Lorna, who was in the kitchen fetching us tea, “a couple of fish in that tank by the window might really spruce this place up.”

  “What?” she said, out of sight.

  “Fish. They go well with an aquarium. They’re low-maintenance too.”

  “Aren’t they better off in their natural environments? Besides, an empty tank leaves possibilities open. It’s like a pre-developed world.”

  I shook my head.

  She entered and sat next to me, handing me my tea. “Emptiness is underrated.”

  “I suppose it allows freer rein for the imagination.”

  “Something to that effect,” she said. “I could put water in that tank and maybe add some of your precious fish. Then the water would get dirty and require cleaning. Unnecessary labor. And why? Because I tampered with things that didn’t need tampering. The fish didn’t need tampering. Neither did the tank. Neither did I.”

  “You see, that’s why I appreciate you. So practical. You keep things simple.”

  “Things are never as simple as I wish.”

  I melted in her eyes. I wanted to grab her, kiss her, press flesh upon flesh, deflower her. My desires shamed me. She was removed from such pedestrian cravings. What if I had known then that her evaporation was a month away? Would I have been more or less likely to pursue my lust for her? Probably less.

  Glancing down, I spotted a large stack of papers by my feet, sticking out from under the couch. I picked up the sheets. On the top page was a title: Otherworldly Love.

  Lorna snatched the papers from my hands. “Don’t look at those.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I threw them under the couch for a reason. They’re not for anyone to read.”

  “What are they, something you wrote?”

  She looked away.

  “Hold on,” I said, pausing. “You’re writing a book, aren’t you?”

  She gritted her teeth. “Maybe.”

  “That’s no answer. You either are or you aren’t. I believe that you are. Like father like daughter. Just admit it.”

  “Fine. I’m writing a book. So what?”

  “That’s great. You have a good title. It makes me want to know more.”

  “Well, you’re not going to know more,” she said.

  “Oh, come on. What am I going to do, trash your idea and mock your ambitions? I wouldn’t do that. Even if I did, how could that discourage you? A person like you should be immune to negativity from the peanut gallery.”

  Lorna considered my comment. “You’re not the peanut gallery.”

  “That’s true. Unlike those vultures, I’m already prejudiced in your favor. I wouldn’t shoot down what you’re writing. Tell me about it.”

  She sighed. “Alright. Damn you. Since you won’t mind your own business, it’s just a little fantasy piece I put together. It’s nothing.”

  “It’s not nothing. You’ve got a decent number of pages there.”

  “The story’s incomplete. And the part that is complete, well, it’s a mess. I’m not as good at arranging my thoughts as my father.”

  “You’re kidding, right? Have you seen Extracurricular Explorations? That thing hardly has any discernible arrangement.”

  “That’s only its surface appearance,” she said. “His books make sense on a separate plane of existence. I’m trying to write on that plane as well. I don’t catch as many glimpses of it as he does. That’s why my book’s such a mess.”

  “Separate plane of existence? You lost me. What’s your book about?”

  “It’s a story of a man and a woman who have powerful feelings for each other. Due to their imperfect world, they never fully explore those feelings. They have to travel to a different realm to do that; that’s the separate plane of existence. My father writes about it. It’s the territory that Lukas Lambert investigates. That’s why I go to him.”

  I said, “You lost me again. It’s about a man and a woman who explore their feelings for one another in a different realm. What realm?”

  “I’m not sure. The whole book is probably crazy. You said, ‘Like father like daughter.’ I get premonitions similar to his. He spills them onto the page. He accepts his confusion, aware that there’s a place where it all makes sense. I should do the same. It’s hard, you know. The desire to comprehend the incomprehensible gets in my way.”

  “So much for keeping things as simple as you wish.”

  “Right. I get ideas and feelings impossible to explain. There’s a lot of static in them. My father claims that the static is where the truest revelations reside.”

  I laughed. “Maybe I shouldn’t have gone down this line of questioning. Give me a copy of what you’ve written and let me make my own heads and tails of it.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because if you read any of it, the story might not unfold as written.”

  “Come on,” I said. “Let me read the damn thing.”

  “No. You’ll have to wait to see how things turn out.”

  “How things turn out? Does this book contain predictions about me?”

  “I can’t say anything more about it. Sorry. Let it drop.”

  I shrugged in frustration. I thought about secretly taking the book without her permission. Too sneaky.

  A couple weeks later, I ran into an acquaintance of hers, Cranston Gage. I had only spoken with Cranston twice before. We were not yet friends. Still, he realized that I was close to Lorna and cared deeply for her.

  “You don’t know that woman as well as you think,” said Cranston. “She’s mixed up in some shit that would appall you.”

  “What are you talking about? I know she has some off-beat philosophies.”

  “That’s an understatement. Her off-beat philosophies have turned reckless.”

  I was irked. “What the hell is this about? She’s fine.”

  “That’s what she wants you to believe. Lorna’s deceptive. She’s not a radical. She has no ties to the underground. I doubt she’s ever had a code name. She comes off as more bohemian than subversive. But she is a subversive. She’s the ultimate subversive.”

  “Get to the point.”

  “Are you familiar with The Abandoned Youths Reeducation Program?” he said.

  “Not especially.”

  “It’s one of the Regime’s most aggressive operations. Of course, ‘abandoned youths’ is a misnomer. The parents didn’t abandon these poor children; the parents were evaporated. They weren’t good citizens. They didn’t raise their kids to be good citizens either. The Abandoned Youths Reeducation Program attempts to remedy that. The offspring of the evaporated are assigned to special camps of ramped-up brainwashing. It’s far harsher conditioning than what typical children endure.”

  “Par for the course,” I said. “What does it have to do with Lorna?”

  “Such a program was bound to provoke countermeasures. Certain people – either supremely courageous or insanely suicidal, depending on your outlook – well, they hatched a scheme to get the targeted children out of harm’s way. They started illegally relocating the children before the Regime could get its filthy hands on them. To one degree or another, it’s worked. I mean, it’s ridiculously dangerous and arguably jeopardizes the children even more than they would otherwise be, but hey, it hasn’t been unsuccessful.”

  “What are you saying? Is Lorna involved in these illegal activities?”

  “Not just involved. She’s the main organizer. I know someone on the inside who claims the Regime has been tracking her for over a year now. The jackals hoped she would slip up and lead them to fellow conspirators. She hasn’t given them what they wanted and she’s been too effective for them to continue tolerating. She’s as good as gone. It’ll happen soon. I tell you this so that you won’t be taken by surprise.”

  I did not want to b
elieve Cranston. I tried to persuade myself that he was mistaken, or even bullshitting me. I went to Lorna’s home a day later to confront her.

  “What’s up with you? It doesn’t look like you’re doing so well,” she said, the two of us standing on the tiny porch outside her flat.

  It was pleasant outside, ideal brightness and temperature. I stared off into a little garden in front of Lorna’s complex. Rodents had burrowed into the parcel and eaten through several of the plants. That spoilage matched my feelings more accurately than the weather.

  I said, “Forget about me. I’m concerned that you may be in serious danger.”

  She laughed. “Really? How exciting. What mishap do you expect?”

  “It doesn’t matter. I have reason to think that you may be in serious danger. You …”

  “You already said that. I don’t get this. What …”

  “Do you know anything about The Abandoned Youths Reeducation Program?”

  “What?”

  “The Abandoned Youths Reeducation Program. What can you tell me about that?”

  Lorna looked away, tipping me off. She said, “That’s, uh, that’s not something I care to discuss. Please stay out of it.”

  “Hell no I won’t stay out of it! Are you engaged in criminal activities?”

  “Whether certain activities are criminal is not always black-and-white. I do not consider my activities criminal. A system that produces brute cruelty necessitates disobedience. One must act with compassion toward the innocent victims of that cruelty. I believe …”

  “Hey, save the rally-the-troops speech for someone who sympathizes with it. We live in a society of laws. A person who violates any of those laws is a criminal. Are you a criminal?”

  She paused and smiled. “Yes.”

  “Oh no. Lorna – what are you doing? Think of the consequences. Have you no regard for your own wellbeing?”

  “My wellbeing demands that I look out for the wellbeing of others, particularly those incapable of defending themselves. Under the rule of tyranny, all virtues become crimes. That’s the only consequence that interests me.”

  “Horseshit. If you end up evaporated, all your virtues will amount to nothing.”