IGMS Issue 9 Page 5

  "Well, well," Junko said mildly, almost to himself. "Well, well." He smiled then, for the first time at the puzzled priest, and it was a smile of such piercing amusement as even Yukiyasa had never seen in all his long life. "I am pleased for him, and wish him all success. Let him know of it."

  "This after you sent an ushi-oni to destroy him?" It was not Yukiyasa's custom ever to raise his voice, but perplexity was bringing him close to it. "You said yourself that you wished Minister Morioka dead and out of your way. Sayuri died of that envy." Startled and frightened by the anger in his words, he repeated them nevertheless, realizing that he had loved the woman who was no woman. "She died because you were insanely, cruelly jealous of that man you praise now."

  Junko's smile vanished, replaced, not by anger of his own, but by the same weary knowledge that had aged his face. "Not so, though I wish it were. You have no idea how I wish that were true." He was silent for a time, looking away as he began to gather the seven salmon into a rush-lined basket. Then he said, still not meeting the priest's eyes, "No. My wife died because she understood me."

  "What nonsense is this?" Yukiyasa cried out. He was deeply ashamed of his loss of control, yet for once refused to restrain himself. "I warned you, I warned you, in so many words, never again to coax her to change form -- never to let her do it, for your sake and her own -- and see what came of your disregard! She yielded once more to your desire, set forth to murder Minister Morioka, as she had slain others, and thereby rediscovered the terrible truth she had forgotten for love of you. For love of you!" The old priest was on his feet now, trembling and sweating, jabbing his finger at Junko's expressionless face. "Understand you? How could she understand such a man? She only loved, and she died of it, and it need not have happened so. It need not have happened!"

  The sky was going around in great, slow circles, and Yukiyasa thought that it would be sensible to sit down, but he could not find his feet. Someone was saying somewhere, a long way off, "She loved me when she was an otter." Then Junko had him by the shoulders, and was guiding him carefully through the long journey back to the grass and the ground. In time the sky stopped spinning, and Yukiyasa drank cold brook water from Junko's cupped hands and said, "Thank you. I am sorry."

  "No need," Junko replied. "You have the right of it as much as anyone ever will. But Sayuri knew something that no one else knew, not even I myself." He paused, waiting until the priest's color had returned and his heartbeat had ceased to shake his body so violently. Then he said, "Sayuri knew that in my soul, in the darkest corner of my soul, I wished her to go exactly where she did go. And it was not to Minister Morioka's quarters."

  It took the priest Yuriyasa no time at all, dazed as he still was, to comprehend what he had been told, but a very long while indeed to find a response. At last he said, almost whispering, "The Lord Kuroda loved you. Like a son."

  Junko nodded without answering. Yukiyasa asked him hesitantly, "Did you imagine that if Sayuri . . . if Lord Kuroda were gone, you might somehow become daimyo yourself?"

  "'Like a son' is not like being a son," Junko replied. "No, I had no such expectations. My master, in his generosity, had raised me higher than I could possibly have conceived or deserved, being who I am -- what I am. In a hundred lifetimes, how should I ever hold any grievance against the Lord Kuroda?"

  Twilight had arrived as they spoke together, and fires were being lighted in the nearest huts. Junko stood up, slinging the fish basket over his shoulder. Looking down at Yukiyasa, his face appearing younger with the eyes in shadow, he said, "But Sayuri knew the ushi-oni in me, the thing that hated having been shown all that I could not have or be, and that wished, in the midst of luxury, to have been left where I belonged -- in a place just like this one, where not one person knows how to write the words daimyo or shogun, and samurai is a word that comes raiding and killing, trampling our crops, burning our homes. Do you hear what I am telling you, priest of the kami? Do you hear?"

  He pulled Yukiyasa to his feet, briefly holding the old man close as a lover, though he did not seem to notice it. He said, very quietly, "I loved Lord Kuroda for the man he was. But from the day I entered his castle -- a ragged, ignorant boy from a ragged village of which he was ignorant -- I hated him for what he was. I spent days and years forgetting that I hated him and all his kind, every moment denying it in my heart, in my mind, in my bones." For a moment he put his hand hard over his mouth, as though to stop the words from coming out, but they came anyway. "Sayuri . . . Sayuri knew my soul."

  A child's voice called from the village, the sound sweetly shrill on the evening air. Junko smiled. "I promised her family fish tonight. We must go."

  He took Yukiyasa's elbow respectfully, and they walked slowly away from the river in the fading light. Junko asked, "You will rest here for a few days? It is a long road home. I know."

  The priest nodded agreement. "You will not return with me." It was not a question, but he added, "Lord Kuroda has not long, and he has missed you."

  "And I him. Tell him I will forget my own name before I forget his kindness." A sudden whisper of a laugh. "Though I am Toru now, and no one will ever call me Junko again, I think."

  "Junko-san," Yukiyasa corrected him. "Even now, he always asks after Junko-san."

  Neither spoke again until they had entered the village, and muddy children were clinging to Junko's legs, dragging him toward a hut further on. Then the priest said quietly, "She really believed she was human. She might never have known." Junko bowed his head. "Did you believe it yourself, truly? I have wondered."

  The answer was almost drowned out by the children's yelps of happiness and hunger. "As much as I ever believed I was Junko-san."

  The Frankenstein Diaries

  by Matthew S. Rotundo

  Artwork by Kevin Wasden

  * * *

  Part Two

  (Part one is in issue 8.)

  The guidance counselor introduced himself as "just Mike" -- a young man, barely older than the students, clean shaven, short hair, small gold triple-hoop earring for the lightest touch of cool. He stood a head taller than John. His handshake was firm, his welcoming smile easy and natural. He invited John to sit.

  Across his walls ran inspirational holos of mountain climbers scaling impossibly steep pitches, runners dashing for finish lines, and the like. Interspersed among these were college and financial aid fliers, and a single army recruiting poster, tucked away in a corner.

  Instead of taking a seat behind the desk, Mike sat in the chair next to John's. "I don't like putting obstacles between me and my visitors," he said.

  John nodded, tapping one foot.

  "Nervous?"

  "A little. I've never had a meeting like this before. Paul's mother used to take care of these things."

  "I understand." Mike pulled a PDA from his breast pocket and tapped a few keys. He scanned the readout for a few seconds. "How's Paul adjusting to his mother's death?"

  "Yesterday he got a snake tattooed to his face."

  Mike raised an eyebrow, tapped a few more keys, then stowed his PDA. "I see. Well, he has a lot to work through. The grief, the anger, the transition from living with his mother to living with you -- it'll take a while. The best thing you can do is stay alert for warning signs, and let him know you're available if he wants to talk."

  "Is the tattoo a warning sign?"

  Mike shrugged. "Hard to tell. He's not the first student I've seen with one. What did you say to him about it?"

  "Nothing."

  "He may have been trying to provoke you."

  "The thought occurred to me."

  "It's natural, given his situation, for him to test his limits. He needs to know how far he can go. But once you show him where the line is, he'll respect it."

  "You know, I doubt that."

  "Hmm. Well. Mr. Griffin, the reason I called you here today is to give you an overview of what we've been trying to do to help Paul. I worked with him all last year, and I thought that by spring he had come to tru
st me a little. Since his mother's death, however, he's regressed. His teachers tell me that he never participates in class, even when called upon. And he skipped his last appointment with me."

  "That sounds like Paul."

  A frown creased Mike the guidance counselor's forehead. "Behavioral problems are not uncommon for kids with his disorder. I'm used to that. But --"

  "Is that what they call cloning these days? A disorder?"

  Mike's frown deepened. "Of course not. I was referring to his dyslexia."

  "His --" John shook his head. "His what?"

  Mike produced his PDA again and brought up more data. "According to my files, Paul was diagnosed with developmental reading disorder when he was seven years old. Isn't that correct?"

  "Seven . . ." John thought back. That would have been about a year after the divorce.

  "You didn't know?"

  He could only sit there dumbly, feeling the weight of Mike the guidance counselor's stare. John glanced at him, and he looked away.

  "I'm sorry," Mike said. "I guess I assumed you knew. But then, as the non-custodial parent --" He waved it off. "I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable. I was only trying to say that Paul's behavioral problems are nothing I haven't seen before. With a great deal of patience and persistence, I was able to get him to open up a little. His mother's death has changed that. Time for grief notwithstanding, it's cause for --"

  He was talking rapidly. His words faded into babble. Instead, John heard Marie's voice, weak but still accusatory, even on the brink of death: You never had time for him. In that moment, he realized just how contemptuous she must have been of him, how serious she had been about Jackie taking Paul.

  And then he remembered the long-ago letter from the clinic. He stood. "I'm sorry. I have to go. Please excuse me."

  "Mr. Griffin --"

  That was as much as John heard. He was already out the door.

  He made it to the visitors' parking lot before anger overtook him. Hands shaking, he pulled his phone from his pocket. He could not remember the number; he hadn't dialed it in years. He accessed an online directory, found a listing for the clinic, and selected it.

  A receptionist answered.

  John said, "I need to speak with Dr. Aiken."

  "He's in a consultation, sir. May I have him --"

  "Tell him it's John Griffin. Tell him it's an emergency."

  "Sir, if this is an emergency, perhaps another doctor at the clinic can --"

  "No." He worked to keep from becoming strident. It would not do to be disconnected. "No, it has to be Dr. Aiken. Tell him it's me. He'll understand. Please hurry."

  "I'll try, sir."

  A moment's silence, then strains of classical music came on the line. While he waited, he tempered his anger, working on what he would say.

  The music cut off. "Mr. Griffin?" said a familiar voice.

  "Hello, Dr. Aiken."

  "What's wrong? Is something the matter with Paul?"

  "Yes. He's dyslexic."

  "He's -- I'm sorry; I don't think I heard --"

  "Yes, you heard me correctly. He's dyslexic. Diagnosed seven years ago. I just found out."

  Aiken was silent for a beat. "I was told this was an emergency."

  "You never told me. You said Paul's DNA matched Steven's exactly. You said there was no difference. I still have your letter, you know. Were you hoping I'd forget?"

  "Mr. Griffin, you're obviously upset about something. Perhaps you should calm down and --"

  "Dyslexia is genetic, isn't it?"

  "I beg your --"

  "Isn't it?"

  Another beat. "There's evidence to suggest that, yes. Dyslexia tends to run in families. But the specific gene has never been identified."

  "And you told me that Steven and Paul were genetic duplicates."

  "They are. Paul was cloned from Steven's --"

  "Steven was not dyslexic! But Paul is. Do you hear me, you son of a bitch? Do you understand what I'm saying?" The more he thought about it, the more enraged he became. "You botched the cloning. And then you tried to cover it up. But it wasn't just your ass on the line, you know. Three lives have been ruined by your negligence. If you had owned up to it --"

  "Mr. Griffin." His voice became stern, authoritative. "You've just gotten some distressing news. You're not thinking clearly. Perhaps that's understandable. But you need to listen to me very carefully, before you say or do anything else."

  John smiled, though he knew Aiken couldn't see it. "Go ahead. This ought to be good."

  Dr. Aiken cleared his throat. "Even if it were proved that dyslexia is caused by a genetic defect -- and I stress the if -- even so, that's not proof Paul's DNA was somehow damaged or altered during the cloning process. For all we know, Steven was dyslexic, too."

  "That's ridiculous."

  "Not at all. What you need to understand is that the signs of developmental reading disability aren't always immediately apparent. Some dyslexic patients can learn early reading and spelling skills. And the clever ones can conceal the symptoms even longer."

  "Conceal them? Steven was just a child."

  "Did you never help him with his reading? Did you never complete a word for him when he hesitated on it?"

  John opened his mouth to retort, then hesitated, frowning. Of course he had done that; every parent did.

  "Children can sometimes manipulate teachers and parents into doing the work for them. There are other tricks, too. And don't underestimate the power of brute-force memorization, when all else fails. If my guess is right, Steven likely wouldn't have been able to conceal it much longer. But children can do amazing things when they're strongly motivated. Given that Steven had a writer for a father --"

  "That's enough."

  "Mr. Griffin, I should never have allowed you to talk me into doing that DNA comparison. I had hoped it would put your mind at rest. Clearly, the opposite has happened. I'll say this to you one last time: the results of the comparison will stand up to the highest scrutiny. Steven and Paul are genetically identical. You'll be much better off if you accept that fact, rather than making unsupported accusations of negligence."

  "I may do more than make accusations. I may do a great deal more than that. You can expect a call from my attorney."

  "You --"

  John disconnected. He resisted the urge to hurl the phone across the parking lot.

  September 30, 2039

  Too agitated to think straight, so I've pulled out my handheld and tried to make some sense of all this. I've passed the last several hours looking through old entries in this diary. God, the signs of Paul's disorder were apparent long ago. His screaming fit in the car when he was four years old stands out in my memory, as clearly as the day it happened.

  All this time, all these years. Finally, the façade begins to crack. Finally, some glimmer of hope that I will be vindicated.

  I've set up a meeting next week with my attorney. Between now and then, I'll have to assemble as much supporting documentation as I can. I'm sure all those DNA comparisons I've had done will work against me. But Paul's dyslexia can't be refuted, and neither can his history of antisocial behavior. And Dr. Aiken's preposterous allegation that Steven may also have been dyslexic -- clearly, he panicked. I take that as a sign he may be scared enough to offer a settlement.

  Steven dyslexic? Can that possibly be true?

  Nonsense. And the notion that Steven had been so desperate to please his novelist father that he would conceal a reading disability -- nothing more than a cheap shot.

  I had pushed Steven to read, though -- as I had with Paul.

  Damn Aiken. Damn him to hell for sowing this doubt.

  As I write this, it occurs to me that getting Paul to agree to testify would greatly bolster our chances. Somehow, I've got to get him to trust me.

  Yes, it all makes sense to me now. The silence between us has gone on too long. We need to talk.

  I just don't know what I'll say.

  Five days later, he final
ly worked up the courage.

  He asked Paul if he'd like dinner. To John's surprise, Paul said yes. John made spaghetti, with both marinara and alfredo sauces -- the former for Paul, the latter for him. Paul was uncharacteristically helpful, tossing salads, toasting garlic bread, setting the table. Twice, John noticed him looking in his direction. Each time, Paul quickly shifted his gaze elsewhere.

  Half an hour later, they sat to eat at opposite ends of the little dining room table.

  John took a deep breath. "I saw your guidance counselor the other day."

  Paul paused with a forkful of spaghetti. "Yeah?"

  "He tells me you skipped your last appointment."

  "I guess I did." He resumed eating.

  "You want to tell me why you did that?"

  "He would have wanted to talk about Mom. I didn't feel like it."

  The snake tattoo across Paul's face kept distracting John. "I know you miss her," he said. "You might have a hard time believing this, but I miss her, too. I wish she were here."

  On another day, Paul might have made a sarcastic rejoinder. Today, he only sipped from his glass of cola.

  "She knew you so much better than I do. But she's gone, and it's just the two of us now. We hardly know each other."

  Paul wiped his mouth with his napkin. "Yeah. I've been thinking about that a lot lately."

  John smiled, slightly amazed. "I'm glad to hear you say that. Do you have any ideas?"

  "Keith says I could come live with him."

  John set his fork on his plate with a clank. "Pardon me?"

  "He says he's going to talk to his parents. He's sure they won't mind. And I can get a job to pay for --"

  "You want to move out?"

  "Well . . . yeah."

  "Paul --"

  "Like you said, we don't know each other. Neither one of us wanted this. You spend all day in your office. And I'm always over at Keith's."