THE TEST-TUBE CREATURE, AFTERWARD

Joan Bernott

At about nine-thirty Tommy, walking barefoot over the paisley carpet that cushioned his studio apartment, finished disposing of the dishes left from the day's meals and turned out most of the light in the room. Then, by hand, he lit a blue candle chandelier that revolved lazily from the high ceiling, and settled into the velvet armchair by the window. In his lap, he opened a heavy, old volume of Wyeth paintings; the prints served to steady him after an over-populated, over-regimented day. He found his favorite, "Distant Thunder," about midway through the book. It pictured Wyeth's slender wife lying alone in a field under an overcast, Maine sky, and was a most eloquent representation of gentleness waiting for a storm.

At eleven, he still sat there, the book open to the same place; the butts of three cigarettes were mashed into a coffee cup on the chair's broad arm, and his thumbnail rested absently at his lips. Instead of on the picture, or out the window into the neon glare of Fifth Avenue, his attention lay fixed on the tawny, sleeping creature huddled in the far corner of the room. The size of a grown dog, the animal had the bearing and tear-drop head of a weasel, but was more catlike, with the feline's slivered eyes and cautious temperament. Tom called her Hillary. She had been lying very still for almost two hours and now was beginning to quiver with wakefulness.

Strangely impatient, Tom rose abruptly out of the deep chair, coffee cup in hand, and emptied it noisily into the disposal unit near the sink. Hillary shuddered and jerked awake, cluttering softly and swabbing her face with one kitten paw. He felt sudden regret at having awakened her and enmeshed himself in the ordeal prematurely. With conscious nonchalance, he turned to face her.

"Nice sleep, Hillary?"

She nodded with graceful enthusiasm and approached him with a long, loping stride. Standing lightly on her hind legs next to him, she stretched, her paws almost reaching his chest. He lifted her up into his arms and ran a friendly but tense hand up and down over her spine. Hillary shivered pleasurably.

At midnight, Tom and Hillary were sitting on the carpet, facing each other through the blue glow over a half-finished chess game. Tom hadn't taken his move for several minutes; her attention hung on the game, her round, moist eyes blinking impassively. He was waiting for her to look up at him.

"Hillary, listen . . ." She blinked once more, offering attention. "Kitten, I—I don't really know how to get started on this. I don't want you to misunderstand, or be hurt, you know?" She seemed to have shrunk a bit into the corner, her forelegs drawn up against her narrow chest, paws knitting themselves into a curiously apprehensive knot. How can she understand? Then the phone rang.

"Hello?"

"Hello, Hillary. May I speak to Tom?"

Hillary bowed her head shyly and ambled back to the game table, not looking up as Tom moved across the room and stared into the face on the screen. "Tommy," the face said, "aren't you coming by tonight?"

It was Mary, who lived just down the corridor and up eleven storeys in complex S. She and Tom had been seeing one another with some regularity since they'd met at work several months before.

Tom's eyebrows lifted slightly; is it Tuesday? "Mary," he began, "I think I'd better not. Got a lot of work to do yet tonight." His voice trailed off. "I'm really sorry. Jees. I should have phoned you earlier . . ."

A pause. Mary's tone seemed a bit softer. "Oh. Well, maybe later on in the week?" She liked Tom—an arty, thoughtful type, different from the usual lab tech whose emotional range was flanked by tight parentheses.

Tom waited a while for the silence to assert itself. Very gently, but without feeling, he said, "I don't think so, Mary."

The face looked surprised. "So. OK, I guess. Take care of yourself, and your crazy pet." Her giggle cracked over the receiver like static; he nodded, and the screen went blank.

"Tom?"

"Yes, Hill."

"Would you rather not finish the game?"

He turned and smiled at her. "We can finish it, Hillary."

At one-thirty, after she'd won, Tom fondled one of the plastic chessmen, his thumb gliding back and forth over the slender figure, and looked at her in the soft light. Her long silver whiskers and few eyebrow hairs sent shadow lines falling across her face. Warm, pretty eyes.

He considered walking over to the sink and taking the butcher knife out of the drawer. He probably couldn't bring himself to cut her though. The image of her gaping, bloodied throat sickened him. He covered his face with his hands.

He might poison her; maybe she'd realize what was happening. She'd back away from him; perhaps, trying to catch her, he'd fall and hit his head hard against the leg of the heavy chair. And die. He saw himself lying there inert on the floor of a silent room. Hillary would be silent as well, for a while, then would start to whimper. And cry. Would she touch his face? Or wonder about the ethics of murder? Could she forgive herself, or him? Would she want to die, then, too?

"Tom?"

"Yes, little one."

"Something is wrong?"

He shook his head numbly and stretched over the chess table to scoop her up into his arms. Cradling her lithe body in his lap, he felt her foreleg fall tenderly across his chest, and she rested her head on his shoulder. Tom breathed very deeply and looked out the window. The cloudy sky seemed almost bright. Somehow, this, the easier way, was also better. Feeling far less discomfort in his resignation than he'd imagined would be possible-considering their rather grotesque situation—Tom finally closed his eyes, and Hillary closed hers.

At dawn, they still were there, the two of them in the red velvet chair. It was, really, the first time they'd ever slept together.

Afterword

My most precise recollection of grade-school catechism classes is the lesson that God created the human race in order that there might exist another, particular receptacle or receiver of his love. The memory lingers because, at the time, I took that concept of causality very much to heart.

Through genetic manipulation, man participates in an especially ordered creative activity. It occurred to me that his motives, in the long run, might parallel that speculated divine motivation. As it is, domesticated animals are the objects of an often inordinate amount of human love and energy. This is logically even more true for mutated intelligent animals. Pets, after all, are easier to love than people.

But "Test-Tube Creature" is a dangerous vision, and wasn't written to flatter animal lovers. The story is gently, even tenderly, told, but is tragic nevertheless, because the Everymen in it—the Toms and Marys—have failed to satisfy one another's human needs. Hillary succeeds, but only in an anthropomorphic sense. She is a substitute, a copy, for someone Tom can sincerely and happily love and, more importantly, who can return his love.

The story, too, is an indirect sequel to Kate Wilhelm's "The Planners." I appreciate both her fine story and her quality of being a genuine lover of people.