Mind Webs - That Only A Mother

Mind-web.

Welcome to a half hour of Mind-web's short stories from the worlds of speculative fiction.

Carol Cowan joins us on Mind-web's tonight to lead Judith Meryl's story, but only a mother,

a tale that first appeared in the Stounding Magazine in 1948, and is reprinted by Pamela Sargent

and her collection, Women of Wonder, science fiction stories by women about women.

The story is about a mother, a child, and nuclear weaponry.

Judith Meryl's, but only a mother.

Now you're at the world's largest airfield on Tinian in the Marianas.

The voice you hear is out of Chapman William Downey, who stood amongst the target charts,

the escape kits and the stale coffee, and set a prayer for the Anola Gay and the Civilization.

We pray that the end of the war may come soon, and then once more we may know peace or honor.

May the men who fly this night be kept safe in thy care, and may they be returned safely to us.

We shall go forward trusting in thee, knowing that we are in thy care now and forever,

in the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

The bomb run lasted four minutes. The bomb went away at 9.15.

My God was the only entry in the coal-privileged diary.

78,150 people died at Hiroshima.

Margaret reached over to the other side of the bed, where Hank should have been.

Her hand padded the empty pillow, and then she came all together awake,

wondering that the old habit should remain after so many months.

She tried to curl up, cat-style, to hoard her own warmth, found she couldn't do it anymore,

and climbed out of bed with a pleased awareness of her increasingly clumsy bulkiness.

Morning motions were automatic. On the way through the kitchenette she pressed the button

that would start breakfast cooking. The doctor had said to eat as much breakfast as she could,

and tore the paper out of the faxin of the machine.

She folded the long sheet carefully to the national news section,

and prompted on the bathroom shelf to scan while she brushed her teeth.

No accidents, no direct hits,

at least none that had been officially released for publication.

Our Maggie, don't get started on that, no accidents, no hits, take a nice newspaper's word for it.

The three clear chimes from the kitchen announced that breakfast was ready.

She set a bright napkin and cheerful colored dishes on the table,

and a futile attempt to appeal to a faulty morning appetite.

Then, when there was nothing more to prepare, she went for the mail,

allowing yourself the full pleasure of prolonged anticipation

because today there would surely be a letter.

There was. There were two bills,

and a worried note from her mother, which read,

darling, why didn't you write and tell me sooner? I'm thrilled, of course,

but, well, one hates to mention these things,

but are you certain the doctor was right?

I've spent around all that uranium and thorium or whatever it is all these years,

and I know you say he's a designer, not a technician,

and doesn't get near anything that might be dangerous,

but, well, you know, he used to, back at Oak Ridge.

Don't you think, oh, well, of course, I'm just being a foolish old woman,

and I don't want to get you upset.

You know much more about it than I do, and I'm sure your doctor was right.

He should know. Margaret made a face over the excellent coffee

and caught herself refolding the paper to the medical news.

Stop it, Maggie. Stop it.

The radiologist said Hank's job couldn't have exposed him,

and a bombed area that we drove past.

No, no, no, stop it now.

We the social notes are the recipes, Maggie, girl.

A well-known geneticist in the medical news

said that it was possible to tell with absolute certainty

at five months whether the child would be normal

or at least whether the mutation was likely to produce anything freaky.

The worst cases at any rate could be prevented.

Minor mutations, of course, displacements in social features

of changes in brain structure could not be detected.

And there had been some cases recently of normal embryos

with atrophied limbs that did not develop

beyond the seventh or eighth month.

But the doctor concluded, cheerfully,

the worst cases could now be predicted and prevented.

Predicted and prevented.

We predicted, didn't we?

Hank and the others, they predicted it.

But we didn't prevent it.

We could have stopped it, but we didn't.

And now...

Margaret decided against breakfast.

Coffee had been enough for her in the morning for ten years.

It would have to do for today.

She buttoned herself into the interminable folds of material

that the sales girl had assured her

was the only comfortable thing to wear during the last few months.

And with a surge of pure pleasure,

the letter the newspaper forgotten,

she realized that she was on the next to the last button.

It wouldn't be long now.

The city in the early morning

had always been a special kind of excitement for her.

Last night it had rained,

and the sidewalks were still damp gray instead of dusty.

The air smelled the fresher to a city-bred woman

for the occasional pungency of aqued factory smoke.

She walked the six blocks to work,

watching the lights go out

to the all-night hamburger joints

where the plate-blast walls were already catching the sun.

And the lights go on in the dim interiors

of cigar stores and dry cleaning establishments.

The office was in a new government building.

In the role of eater on the way up,

she felt as always like a frankfitter roll

in the ascending half of an old-style rotary-tasting machine.

She abandoned the earphone cushioning gratefully

at the 14th floor and settled down behind her desk

at the rear of a long row of identical disks.

Each morning, a pile of papers that greeted her

was a little higher.

These were as everyone knew the decisive months.

The war might be won or lost on these calculations

as well as many others.

The man-power office had switched her here

when her old expediter's job had got to be too strenuous.

The computer was easy to operate

and the work was absorbing

if not as exciting as the old job.

But she didn't just stop working these days.

Everyone who could do anything at all was needed.

They'd knew she remembered the interview with a psychologist.

I'm probably the unstable type.

I wonder what sort of neurosis I'd get

sitting home reading that sensational paper.

And she plunged into work

without pursuing the thought.

February 18th.

Thank, darling.

Just a note.

From the hospital, no less.

I had a dizzy spell at the work

and the doctor took it to heart.

Blessed if I know what I'll do with myself lying in bed

for weeks, just waiting.

But Dr. Boyer seemed to think it may not be too long.

There are too many newspapers around here.

More infanticides all the time.

And they can't seem to get a jury to convict any of them.

It's the father to do it.

Lucky thing you're not around, just in case.

Oh, darling, that wasn't a very funny joke, wasn't it?

Write as often as you can with you.

I have too much time to think.

But there really isn't anything wrong

and nothing to worry about.

Write often.

And remember, I love you.

Maggie.

Special service telegram February 21st, 1992.

From Tech Lieutenant H. Marvel.

Two Mrs. H. Marvel Women's Hospital, New York City.

Had Dr. Graham stop.

Will arrive 410 stop.

Shortly you've stopped.

You did it Maggie.

Stop.

Love Hank.

February 26th.

Hank dear.

Oh, so you didn't see her either.

You would think a place this size would at least have

visit plates on the incubators so that fathers could get a look,

even if the poor benided mama can't.

They tell me I won't see her for another week or maybe more.

But of course, mother always warned me that if I didn't slow my pace,

I'd probably even have my babies too fast.

Is she always right?

Did you meet that battle ax of a nurse they put on here?

I imagine they save her for people who've already had theirs

and don't let her get too near the perspectives.

But a woman like that simply shouldn't be allowed in a maternity ward.

She's obsessed with mutations.

Can't seem to talk about anything else.

Oh, well, ours is all right.

Even if it wasn't an unholy hurry.

I'm tired.

They warned me not to sit up too soon, but I had to write to you.

All my love, darling.

Maggie.

February 29th, darling.

I finally got to see her.

It's all true what they say about new babies in the face

that only a mother could love.

But it's all there, darling.

Is here the noses?

No, no, only one.

All in the right places always so lucky, Hank.

I'm afraid I've been a rambunctious patient.

I kept telling that hatchet-faced female

with the mutation meaning that I wanted to see the baby.

Finally, the doctor came into explain everything to me

and talked a lot of nonsense, most of which I'm sure no one could have understood

any more than I did.

The only thing I got out of it was that she didn't actually have to stay in the incubator.

They just thought it was a little wiser.

I think I got a little hysterical at that point.

I guess I was more worried than I was willing to admit.

But I threw a small fit about it.

The whole business wound up with one of those hushed medical conferences

outside the door.

And finally, the woman and wife said, well, we might as well.

Maybe it'll work out better that way.

I'd heard about the way doctors and nurses in these places

develop a god complex.

And believe me, it is as true figuratively as it is literally

that a mother has not a leg to stand on around here.

Mmm.

I am awfully weak still.

All right, again, soon.

Love, Maggie.

Mark eight.

Dearest Hank.

Well, the nurse was wrong if she told you that.

She's an idiot anyhow.

It's a girl.

It's easier to tell with babies than with cats.

And I know.

How about Henrietta?

I'm home again, and busier than a beta-tron.

They got everything mixed up at the hospital.

And I had to teach myself how to bathe her and do just about everything else.

She's getting prettier, too.

When can you get a leave?

A real leave?

Love, Maggie.

May 26th.

Hank dear, you should see her now and you shall.

I'm sending along a reel of color movie.

My mother sent her those nighties with drawstrings all over.

I put one on and right now she looks like a snow white potato sack

with that beautiful, beautiful flower face blooming on top.

Is that me talking?

Am I a doting mother?

Oh, but wait till you see her.

July 10th.

Believe it or not, as you like.

But your daughter can talk, and I don't mean baby talk.

I'll us discover it.

She's a dental assistant in the wax, you know.

And when she heard the baby giving out what I thought was a string of gibberish,

she said that the kid knew words and sentences,

but couldn't say them clearly because she has no teeth yet.

I'm taking her to a speech specialist.

September 13th.

We have a prodigy for real.

Now that all our front teeth are in her speeches perfectly clear and a new talent now,

she can sing.

I mean, she can really carry a tune at seven months.

Darling, my world would be perfect if you could only get home.

November 19th.

At last, the little goon was so busy being clever.

It took her all this time to learn to crawl.

The doctor says development in these cases is always erratic.

Special service telegram, December 1st, 1992,

from Tech Lieutenant H. Marvell to Mrs. H. Marvell, apartment K-17,

504 East 19th Street, New York, New York.

Weeksleeve starts tomorrow.

Stop.

We'll arrive there for 105.

Stop.

Don't meet me.

Stop.

Love, love, love.

Hank.

Margaret let the water run out of the bath and add until only a few inches were left,

and then she loosed her hold on the riggling baby.

I think it was better when you were a tired young woman.

She informed her daughter happily.

You can't crawl in a bath and etch, you know.

Then why should I go in the bathtub?

Margaret was used to her child's volubility by now,

but every now and then it caught her on her way.

She swooped the resistant mass of pink flesh into a towel and began to rub,

because your two little and your head is very soft and bathtubs are very hard.

Oh, then when can I go in the bathtub?

When the outside of your head is as hard as the inside brainchild,

she reached toward a pile of fresh clothing.

I cannot understand, she added,

pinning a square of cloth through the night gown.

Why a child of your intelligence can't learn to keep a diaper on the way the babies do?

They've been used for centuries, you know, with perfectly satisfactory results.

A child is deemed to reply as she'd heard it too often.

She waited patiently until she'd been tucked clean and sweet smelling

into a white-painted crib.

Then she savored her mother with a smile that inevitably made Margaret think

of the first golden edge of the sun bursting into a rosy, free dawn.

She remembered Hank's reaction to the color pictures of his beautiful daughter

and with a thought realized how late it was.

Go to sleep, poor please.

When you wake up, you know your daddy will be here.

Why?

Ask the four-year-old mind,

waging a losing battle to keep a ten-month-old body awake.

Margaret went into the kitchenette and set the timer for the roast.

She examined the table and got her new clothes out of the closet, new dress, new shoes,

used it, new everything bought weeks before and saved for the day Hank's telegram came.

She stopped to pull a paper from the facsimile and with clothes and news

went into the bathroom and lowered herself gingerly into a steaming luxury of a scented tub.

She glanced through the paper with indifferent interest.

Today at least there was no need to read the national news.

There was an article by a geneticist, the same geneticist.

Mutations he said were increasing disproportionately.

It was too soon for recessives, even the first mutants were not old enough yet to breed.

But my babies are right.

Apparently there was some degree of free radiation from atomic explosions causing the trouble.

My baby's fine, precocious but normal.

If more attention had been paid to the first Japanese mutations, he said.

There was that little notice in the paper in the spring of 85.

That was when Hank quit at Oak Ridge.

Only two or three of those guilty of insanity are being caught and punished in Japan today.

But my baby's all right.

She was dressed, combed, and ready to the last light blush on of this paste from the door chime sounded.

She dashed for the door and heard for the first time in 18 months.

The almost forgotten sound of the key turning in the lock before the chime had quite died away.

Hank.

And then there was nothing to say.

So many days, so many months, the small news piling up so many things to tell him.

Now he just stood there.

She traced the features with the finger of memory.

The same high-bridge news, wide-set eyes, fine feathery brows, the same long jaw,

the hair a little further back now on the high forehead, the same tilted curve of his mouth.

Pale, of course, he'd been underground all this time, and strange.

Stranger because of lost familiarity than any newcomer's face could be.

She had time to think all that before his hand reached out to touch her and spanned the gap of 18 months.

Now again there was nothing to say because there was nothing left.

They were together, and for the moment that was enough.

Where's the baby?

Sleeping should be up any minute.

No urgency.

Their voices were casual as though it were a daily exchange as the war and separation did not exist.

Margaret picked up the coat he'd thrown on the chair of the door and hung it carefully in the closet.

She much checked the roast, leaving him to wander through the rooms by himself, remembering and coming back.

She found him fine by standing over the baby's crib.

She couldn't see his face, but she had no need to.

And I think we can wake her just this once.

Margaret pulled the covers down and lifted the white bundle from the bed.

Sleepy lids pulled back heavily from smoky brown eyes.

Hello.

Hank's voice was tentative.

Hello!

The baby's assurance was more pronounced.

He'd heard it, of course, but that wasn't the same as hearing it.

He turned eagerly to Margaret.

Maybe she really can?

Of course she can, darling.

But what's more important, she can even do nice normal things like other babies do even stupid ones.

Come on, watch her crawl.

And Margaret set the baby on the big bed.

And for a moment, young Henrietta lay and eyed her parents dubiously.

Croc?

Well, that's the idea, honey.

Your daddy's new around here, you know?

Who wants to see you show off?

Then put me in my tummy.

Oh, of course.

And Margaret obligingly rolled the baby over.

Maggie, what's the matter?

I thought they, you know, turned over first.

This baby, Hank, darling, this baby does things when she wants to.

This baby's father watched with softening eyes while the head advanced in the body hunched up,

propelling itself across the bed.

Why?

Why the little rascal?

She looks like one of those potato sac racers that used to have unpicknics, Maggie.

And got her arms pulled out of the sleeves already.

Oh, yeah, I'll do it, darling.

Well, don't be silly, Maggie.

This may be your first baby, but I had five kid brothers.

And he reached with his hand for the string that closed one sleeve.

He opened the sleeve bow and grouped for an arm.

The way you reveal anyone might think you're a worm using your tummy to crawl out

instead of your hands and feet.

And his hand touched a moving knob of flesh at the shoulder.

Margaret stood and watched smiling.

Hank, darling, wiggly to hear his sing.

His right hand traveled down from the shoulder

to where he thought an arm would be traveled down and straight down,

over firm small muscles that rise in an attempt to move against the pressure of his hand.

He let his fingers drift up again to the shoulders.

With infinite care, he opened the knot at the bottom of the night gown.

His wife was standing by the bed saying,

Hank, she could do jingle bells and several other things.

His left hand fell along the soft knitted fabric of the gown

up toward the diaper that folded flat and smooth

across the bottom end of his child.

No wrinkles, no kicking, no...

Maggie.

He tried to pull his hands from the neat fold in the diaper from the wriggling body.

Maggie.

His voice went dry, words came hard, low, and grating.

He spoke very, very slowly, thinking the sound of each word to make himself say it.

His head was spinning, but he had to know before he let it go.

Maggie.

Maggie, why didn't you tell me?

Tell you what, darling.

Margaret's poison was the immemorial patience of woman confronted with man's childish impetuousity.

Her sudden laugh sounded fantastically easy and natural in that room.

It was all clear to her now.

Hank, I'm sorry, is she wet?

I didn't know.

She didn't know.

My hands beyond control ran up and down the soft skinned baby body,

the sinuous, limeless body.

Oh God, dear God, my head shook.

Muscles contracted in a bitter spasm of hysteria.

My fingers tightened on the child.

Oh God, she didn't know.

I don't know.

Your...

may this...

may...

may...

may...

probably...

may...

probably...

may...

may...

We pray for the end of the war may come to soon soon, and in the warmest war we may go

to the end of the war may the men of the blind night have faced face by fear may they be

determined to lead to us. We shall go for a war for the end of the war.

Carol Cowan joined us tonight for a reading of Judith Meryl's, but only a mother, a story that appeared in Pamela Sargent's collection, Women of Wonder, science fiction stories by women about women.

This is Michael Hansen speaking, technical production by Steve Gordon.

Mindwebs is produced at WHA in Madison, a service of University of Wisconsin Extension.