CivilWarLand in Bad Decline: Stories and a Novella by George Saunders Page B

mourns Mr. Ken Schwartz.
    I pull out all the stops. I set Color on high contrast. I tape sensors to her lips and earlobes. I activate the Royalty Subroutine. Soon the prince is lavishing her with praise. Soon they’re sneaking off from the ball for some tender words and a kiss or two on a stone bench beside the Danube. Soon I’m daubing her eyes with tissue while she weeps at the beauty of the fishermen bowing from their little boats as they realize it’s the prince himself trying to retrieve her corsage from the river.
    I make tea. I read my magazine. Finally I stroke her forehead while humming Strauss and slowly fading the volume.
    “You,” she says, smiling sweetly when she’s all the way back. “You’re too good to me.”
    “No one could be too good to you,” I say.
    “Oh you,” she says. “You’re a saint.”
    No, I think, I’m a man without a life, due to you. Then I feel ashamed and purposely bash my shin against the bedframewhile tucking her in. I get her some juice. I check her backdoor lock. All around the room are dirty plates I’ve failed to get to the sink and old photos of Mr. Ken Schwartz assessing the condition of massive steamboilers while laughing confidently.
    Out on the street it’s cold and a wino’s standing in a Dumpster calling a stray cat Uncle Chuck. I hustle directly to my Omni, fearing for my gear. I drive through frightening quarters of the city, nervously toggling my defrost lever, thinking of Mrs. Schwartz. The last few months she’s gone downhill. She’s unable to feed herself or autonomously use the bathroom. Talk about losing yourself in service to a greater extent than planned. She needs a live-in, but they don’t come cheap, and my shop hasn’t turned a profit in months. What to do? I think and think. I think so much I lose track of where I am and blunder by The Spot. You fool, I think, you ass, how much additional pain would you like? Here a drunk named Tom Clifton brought his Coupe De Ville onto the sidewalk as Elizabeth shopped for fruit on the evening of a day when we’d fought like hell. On the evening of a day when I’d called her an awful name. What name? I can’t say the word. I even think it and my gut burns.
    I’m a saint.
    The fight started when I accused her of flirting with our neighbor Len Kobb by bending low on purpose. I was angry and implied that she couldn’t keep her boobs in her top to save her life. If I could see her one last time I’d say: Thanks very much for dying at the worst possible moment and leaving me holding the bag of guilt. I’d say: If you had to die, couldn’t you have done it when we were getting along?
    I madly flee The Spot. There are boat lights in the harborand a man in a tux inexplicably jogging through the park. There’s a moon bobbing up between condemned buildings. There’s the fact that tomorrow I’m Lay Authority Guest at the Lyndon Baines Johnson School for Precocious Youth. I’m slated to allow interested kids to experience the module entitled Hop-Hop the Bunny Masters Fractions. Frankly I fear I’ll be sneered at. How interested could a mob of gifted kids be in a rabbit and a lisping caterpillar grouping acorns ad nauseam? But I’ve promised the principal, Mrs. Briff. And I’m not in a position to decline any revenue source. So at an hour of the night when other men my age are rising from their beds to comfort screaming newborns I return to the mall for my Hop-Hop module.
    I use my passkey. Something’s strange. Modules are strewn everywhere. The cashbox sits on the fax machine. One of my treadmills lies on its side.
    “How is all of this fancy equipment used?” someone asks from behind me, pressing a sharp knife to my throat. “More specifically, which of it is worth the most? And remember, sir, you’re answering for your life.”
    He sounds old but feels strong. I tell him it’s hard to explain. I offer to demonstrate. He says do so, but slowly. I fit him with a headset. I gently guide him to a