Blameless in Abaddon by James Morrow Page A

. . .”
    â€œAuto accident.” Martin slipped the Roxanol bottle from his pocket, rubbing the pliant amber plastic with his thumb. “She went off the Henry Avenue Bridge. Excuse me while I take a pill.”
    â€œAntidepressant?”
    â€œPainkiller,” he replied with a sardonic grin. “I have a touch of—what’s it called?—prostate cancer.”
    â€œOh, dear . . .”
    â€œIt’s probably in my pelvis now—my right hip hurts all the time.” Tossing a tablet into his mouth, he ground it between his molars and washed down the grains with Diet Pepsi. “This drug is my best friend. Roxanol.”
    â€œBrandon was on that for a while. Kids aren’t supposed to take it, but it was the only thing that worked.”
    â€œI’ve had lymph-node surgery, radiation—now they want me to try estrogen. Last month Corinne and I went to Celestial City USA.”
    Patricia offered a knowing nod. “We tried that too. Disney World did him more good, I think. He became great friends with two guys dressed up like Chip and Dale.”
    â€œNext time I get cancer, I’ll go to Disney World instead.”
    â€œI can’t believe we’re just sitting here, talking about these things. We should be . . .”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œYou know. Screaming.”
    â€œScreaming,” he echoed. Like a firehouse siren, he thought.
    â€œAre you religious, Martin?”
    The Roxanol—God bless it—kicked in. “My dad taught Sunday school when he was alive. Somewhere in the basement I’ve got all these little medals I collected for perfect attendance. They hung from my lapel. I looked like a brigadier general.”
    â€œLet me guess. Lutheran?”
    â€œI’m named for Martin Luther, but I was raised Presbyterian.”
    â€œMy ex is a Methodist.”
    â€œAnd what are you?”
    â€œMe? I knew God was dead even before the corpse showed up.” Patricia pried a mushroom from her pizza slice and set it on her tongue. “It must be terrific, having faith.”
    â€œIt’s wonderful,” he said tonelessly.
    After they consumed pizza number two, she guided him down the hall and into a spacious room she called her “studio,” though it had evidently been one of Brandon’s favorite places as well. The drawing board held various Berenstain Bears books and children’s crayons intermingled with pen nibs, charcoal sticks, artist’s brushes, straight edges, and elaborate, skillful sketches depicting assorted frog-eyed space aliens bent on conquering the Earth. Additional sketches—same lurid subject—papered the walls. The freestanding shelves displayed collections of stuffed dinosaurs, hand puppets, wooden building blocks, and Saga of Sargassia action figures.
    â€œSome of your bubble-gum cards?” he asked, gesturing toward a raygun-wielding alien vaporizing a distraught child’s poodle.
    â€œTrading cards, remember? I just got a big commission,
Invaders from Vesta
, ‘the thrilling sci-fi saga of Earth’s war against the bloodthirsty inhabitants of our system’s brightest asteroid,’ in fifty-four action-packed scenes.”
    â€œYou actually make a living from this?”
    â€œApex Novelty Company pays me three hundred dollars per finished painting. Sure, today’s kids have their video games, their virtual reality, their Internet chat rooms, but they always come back to trading cards. There’s nothing quite so satisfying as walking around with a complete set of
Mars Attacks
or
Invaders from Vesta
in your pocket.”
    Approaching the shelves, Martin picked up a Sargassia action figure, Stanhope the Steam-Powered Man. As he fingered the miniature robot, he realized how little he understood about children; he found them as cryptic as cats. In the far corner lay a community manufactured by a company called Fisher-Price, complete with a school,