Unwelcome News
"Happy birthday, dear Wally. Happy birthday to you."
Wally Lindquist leaned forward and blew out the candles on the cake. He could not believe he was celebrating his fiftieth birthday. In Pinewood, it was a rare event, so rare that he could not remember the last person to reach that age.
"I don't know why we're celebrating," he mumbled as his wife, Flora, cut into the elaborate white and gold creation.
"Why shouldn't we?" his son-in-law, Louis Elgar, asked. "If anyone deserves to enjoy his birthday, it's you!"
Why not, indeed! Wally thought with a scowl. Because I'm the oldest man in Pinewood. That's why. Because, in all likelihood, I won't live to see my fifty-first birthday.
"Cheer up," Flora whispered. "You've got plenty of time left."
"That's easy for you to say. You're only forty-two, and I know of sixteen people who are older than you. There are probably more."
"Stop worrying! It's not as though Pinewood is about to have a baby boom!"
His wife's well-meant joke did little to mollify his bad mood.
"Why don't we have some music?" Patsy, the couple's daughter, suggested and sat in front of an old upright piano.
"Just as long as it's not 'Happy Birthday' again!" her father grumbled.
Rather than an "oldie but goodie" that would probably make Wally more depressed than he already was, she played a cheerful ditty that was sure to bring a smile to everyone's faces. Of the close to thirty people at the party, only the birthday boy refused to sing along.
"Let's dance," Flora urged, gently tugging on her husband's arm.
"I don't feel like it."
"Oh, come on! Everyone else is."
Grudgingly, Wally let her lead him to the center of the room. He rested one hand on her waist and held her other hand limply in his own. His feet shuffled from side to side, but these awkward, stiff movements could in no way be considered dancing.
Fifty years old, he ruminated morosely. Five decades. Half a goddamned century!
An hour and a half later, Patsy had run out of sheet music, and instead of replaying songs, she got up from the piano and joined her parents and husband in the dining room. It was just as well since the guests were tired of dancing. Wally, who seemed to have gotten rid of the chip on his shoulder at last, quickly grabbed the remaining slice of cake before any of his friends could get to it.
"Anyone want more cider?" Flora inquired.
Louis and Patsy were the only takers. Most people declined because they feared too much to drink would keep them awake at night, running to the bathroom.
"Oh, what the hell!" Wally laughed as his wife headed back to the kitchen with the cider jug. "Pour me another cup, sweetheart. I need something to wash the cake down. Besides, I don't have to be asleep at any special time. It's not like the old days when I used to get up bright and early to go to work. Now that I'm fifty, I can be a man of leisure. I suppose that's one good thing about reaching the five-zero milestone."
In Pinewood, fifty was the mandatory retirement age. Of course, in the year 2154, the Social Security Administration was a thing of the past since few people reached that age. Also gone were retirement accounts, pensions, Medicare and all other old-age-related benefits. That said, financial status and medical care were of no concern to Wally Lindquist. In that sense, Pinewood was a Utopian state. Everyone over the age of sixteen and under the age of fifty had a job. All inhabitants had housing, food and clothing issued by the governing body, named simply the Commission. Doctors' services, should they be required, were free of charge. However, environmental and sanitary conditions inside the enclosed community were such that few people ever got sick.
To people living in the twenty-first century—especially those who had survived the global warming catastrophe, World War III, international economic collapse and the various pandemics—Pinewood might seem a paradise on earth. But as the old saying about the grass being greener on the other side does not always apply. You see, to keep the community running smoothly, balance must be maintained. As in algebraic equations, one side must equal the other with no exceptions. Atmospheric balance in particular was essential. The volume of breathable air manufactured had to equal the number of people living in Pinewood. It was for this reason that a zero-population growth was mandated. This necessitated two important laws. One, a young couple would not receive permission from the Commission to have a child unless a person died. Two, if a woman became pregnant without permission, the Commissioners would decide if she could give birth or be required to undergo a medical termination of her pregnancy.
This decision was not an arbitrary one. Many factors were taken into consideration, the most important being the age of the current population. For instance, should a woman become pregnant at a time when there was a large percentage of children living in Pinewood, permission would be denied. On the other hand, if the majority of the people were over the age of twenty, she would likely be allowed to give birth. That being the case, to maintain balance, the oldest person in the community would be euthanized.
* * *
Since he no longer had a job, Wally Lindquist was at a loss for what to do with all the free time on his hands. Sadly, he was the only person in all of Pinewood who did not work. Thus, he had no one with whom he could play cards or checkers. No one to join him on his front porch, drink cider and chew the fat. No one to accompany him on a walk around town. As for the small collection of books that had been passed down from his great-great-grandfather, he had read each of them several times over already. Desperate to fill up the empty hours, he picked up a pen and a pad of recycled paper and began to write. His attempt at a novel was a dismal failure. Five times, he rewrote the first chapter, and he made it only halfway through the second.
"Why don't you start with something less taxing?" Flora advised. "It's got to be easier to write a short story than an entire book."
His wife's logic seemed sound. Yet he sat for several hours, pencil in hand, unable to come up with any fresh ideas. When he did write, rather than complete sentences and paragraphs, simple descriptive phrases came to mind. Bored, Wally idly jotted them down. By the time Flora came home from her job at the gristmill, he had filled two pages with these expressions.
"Busy writing, I see. Have you completed a story yet? Can I see it?"
She walked into the room, looked over his shoulder and read what he had written.
"Poetry?" she asked with surprise. "I never would have imagined you were a poet!"
"I'm not. These are all just random lines."
"You could have fooled me. It sure seems like poetry."
Wally picked up the paper and reread what he had written.
"I'd best start cooking," Flora declared. "Soup and sandwich all right with you?"
"Yeah," he replied, his mind on the words in front of him. "That's fine."
In Pinewood, there was no need for grocery stores since a cook could not buy packaged, canned, frozen or premade food. Meals consisted of an assortment of fresh vegetables, fruits, nuts, grains and dairy products. No one ate meat. With few available options, Flora often made cheese sandwiches on freshly baked bread and soup from scratch using potatoes, carrots, tomatoes and beans from her garden.
Meanwhile, her husband scratched out certain words and replaced them with others. He also rearranged the lines by drawing arrows to indicate the proper placement on the page.
It's not as bad as I thought. A few transitional words here and there, and it might just pass for poetry.
Since Wally and Flora were both born in Pinewood, they had no personal knowledge of what life was like in the days before people lived in an enclosed world. They had never enjoyed a steak dinner in a fancy restaurant, ordered a hamburger and fries at a drive-thru window, stuffed themselves at an all-you-can-eat Chinese buffet or ordered pizza delivered to their home. To them, their simple soup and sandwich was a delicious repast.
"Another glass of milk?" Flora asked when she noticed her husband's tumbler was empty.
"No, thanks. I'd like to get back to my writing if you don't mind."
"Not at all. You go ahead, and I'll clean up the kitchen."
Wally kissed his wife on the cheek and thanked her.
I'm a lucky man, he mused. Maybe my next poem will be an ode to the wonderful woman I married.
* * *
Entertainment in Pinewood was nowhere near what it had been like in the time before people found it necessary to seek protection in an environmentally controlled world with an artificial atmosphere in order to survive. Movies, television, the internet and recorded music were a thing of the past. What few books remained were tattered and their pages faded and brittle with age. The use of electricity was carefully rationed, the majority of it reserved for maintaining a breathable air supply and a moderate temperature.
Some of man's simpler pastimes survived, though. Many people owned decks of cards, Scrabble games, chess sets and checkerboards that they'd inherited from their parents or crafted from materials at hand. Occasionally, someone uncovered a piece of sports equipment among the relics of the past. Wally once found a baseball while planting a row of corn in the communal garden where he worked. Although he did not know what to do with it, he displayed it in a place of honor on his living room table. Thankfully, for his sake, there was no immediate shortage of paper or pencils, due mainly to the filing cabinets full of forms, reports and correspondence that were stored in the former government's archives.
For the three months that followed his fiftieth birthday, Wally found solace for his tedium in writing poetry. He had completed more than forty of them when Flora, heretofore the only person he had shared them with, invited a group of friends to their house for a reading.
"You did what?" her husband bellowed when she told him about the planned event.
"I asked some people over to hear your poems."
"Well, go and tell them not to come."
"I'll do no such thing. It's high time we had a little culture in our lives. I'm so proud of you. I want everyone to know what a talented poet I married. Anyway, it's too late to cancel. Everyone ought to be here soon."
Twelve people, including Louis and Patsy Elgar, showed up at the house within the hour. Most brought food with them, and one old friend doled out small servings of his prize-winning fruit punch. Once the guests' appetites were sated, Patsy took her father's arm and led him to the center of the room.
"Come on, Dad," she urged. "Let's hear what you've written."
"They're really not very good," he humbly apologized. "They're just meant as a way to pass the time."
"Let us be the judge of how good they are," Louis chuckled and encouraged his father-in-law to read.
Flora handed her husband a stack of papers.
"Not all these!" he objected.
"Read some of them at least," she insisted.
"His hand trembled as he looked down at his writing. The first words he spoke were so low in volume as to be barely audible.
"We can't hear you," Nestor, his next-door neighbor, called from the kitchen doorway.
Wally raised his voice but kept his head lowered, his eyes never making contact with people in his audience. When he came to the end of the first poem, he paused.
"That's all," he announced. "That's the end of that one."
He turned the page, about to begin reading a second poem, when applause erupted.
"That was amazing, Dad!" Patsy cried and jumped up to kiss her father on the cheek.
"I told you so, didn't I?" her mother said, beaming with pride.
Blushing, Wally finally dared to lift his head and look at the faces of the people gathered in his living room.
"Thank you."
"Read another one," Louis prompted.
Wally cleared his throat, glanced down at the paper in his hand and, in a loud and clear voice, recited the second poem. By the end of the evening, he had read nearly every one he had written. Although his friends wanted to hear more, he declined.
"My throat is scratchy," he complained. "I think I'll give it a rest now."
* * *
In a society without movie stars, bestselling authors, recording artists and sports heroes, there are no such things as celebrities. No one asked their idols for an autograph or wanted to take photos of them (there were no cameras or cell phones anymore if they had wanted to). It was a surprise to Wally and his family, therefore, when his fame as a poet spread throughout Pinewood.
"Where are you off to?" Flora wondered when she came home from work and ran into her husband on his way out of the house.
"A poetry reading," he answered. "What else?"
"Another one? This is the fourth one this week."
"I know, but Commissioner Benton requested it."
"I don't suppose you can refuse then," Flora sighed. "I guess I'll just have to eat by myself tonight."
"I'm sorry. I'll try to get home before you go to bed."
"It's all right. I have no one but myself to blame. After all, it was my idea for you to read your poetry to our friends."
As he walked to Commissioner Benton's home, Wally was greeted by people on their way home from work. It made him proud that everyone knew him.
When I turned fifty, I thought my life would be over, yet I'm happier than I've ever been. Hell! I never felt so alive!
Fame proved to be addictive. The more acclaim he received, the more he craved. By the time his fifty-first birthday arrived, he no longer saw himself as a retired worker but as a true poet, an artist. Flora, who, after thirty years of marriage, loved her husband as much as she did on the day they were wed, seemed not to mind being neglected. That's because she bore her pain and loneliness in silence.
"I can't believe how often Dad goes out at night and leaves you at home," Patsy complained when she visited her mother one evening.
"He can't help it. His poetry is in demand."
"Why doesn't he take you with him then?"
"I don't mind staying here. And you come and visit me from time to time, so I'm not completely alone."
"Maybe I should sit down and have a heart-to-heart talk with him."
"Please don't. Your father is the oldest man in Pinewood. And you know what that means."
"Since no woman has asked permission to give birth, he doesn't have to worry yet. Unless he comes down with some deadly illness, I imagine he'll live for at least another year."
"Yes," Flora agreed. "But a year passes quickly, so let him enjoy what time he has left."
Wally's birthday came and went. There was another party to celebrate the occasion. Friends and neighbors came not only for the food and cake but also to hear the fifty-one-year-old's latest poems. At the end of the evening, once the cake was devoured and the jugs of apple cider emptied, the poet bid his guests farewell with a silly little rhyme inspired by an old greeting card he found tucked in his grandmother's trunk in his attic.
"Roses are red, violets are blue, I'll see you again when I turn fifty-two."
"Honestly! I don't know how you come up with these things," Louis laughed. "I hope my mind is as quick as yours when I'm fifty-one."
"You hope you live that long," his wife teased.
"I guess I'll just have to find a way to charm the commissioners like your father has."
"What do you mean?"
"They like his poetry. If they didn't, I'm sure they would have given some woman permission to have a baby by now. I know three couples who have asked, and they've all been turned down."
Patsy, who hoped to be a mother one day, was dismayed by her husband's supposition.
* * *
Despite there being no religion in Pinewood, Sunday was considered a day of rest. It was traditionally a time when families gathered together to break bread and enjoy each other's company. When Patsy entered her parents' home, she was not surprised to learn of her father's absence. It had been months since he had stayed home for a family dinner.
"Don't tell me," she said to her mother. "He's at another poetry reading."
Flora smiled wistfully and nodded her head.
"Too bad for him," Louis joked. "He's going to miss out on a delicious meal. Which means there's more for the rest of us."
While Flora was ladling the vegetable stew into three bowls, her daughter cut the rye bread into thick slices.
"Strawberries, anyone?" Louis offered.
"Where did you get strawberries this time of year?" his mother-in-law wondered.
"The farm where I work has found a way to preserve them. The jar that I have ought to last us for weeks to come."
"That's progress for you!" Flora declared. "Preserved fruit. What marvels will be next?"
"Speaking of marvels," Patsy began, blushing.
"Not so much a marvel as a miracle," her husband corrected her word choice.
"Miracle?" her mother echoed. "What miracle?"
"I've got some good news, Mom. You're going to be a grandmother."
Flora's eyes widened, and a wide grin stretched across her face.
"A grandmother! That's wonderful! I'm forty-three; I've all but given up hope. Have you notified the commissioners?"
"Yes, and they've given us permission."
Overjoyed at the news, she embraced first her daughter and then her son-in-law.
"What until your father hears ...."
The implications of her daughter's condition suddenly struck her. The smile instantly vanished from her face, and tears filled her eyes.
"Don't cry, Mom," Patsy consoled her. "I'm only two months. That means I won't deliver for another seven. Who knows? By that time, perhaps someone will die of natural causes."
Understandably, Wally was not as happy hearing the news as his wife had been. But then, why would he be? In all likelihood, it represented a death sentence. When his daughter gave birth, the baby's physical condition would be evaluated. If the infant was deemed healthy, Wally would be euthanized within twenty-four hours.
I don't want to die! I have far too much to live for!
* * *
In the months that followed, Wally wrote feverishly, turning out page after page of poems. He poured out his heart in his writing. His verses spoke of fear, regret, anger and depression. While his wife was weaving baby clothes and blankets, he was decrying a system of government that condemned its elderly to death.
"I don't see why I have to die simply because I'm the oldest!" he cried.
"I know you don't want to be the one to die, but it is a fair system," Flora pointed out. "How else are we to maintain a balance?"
"And what if you were the next one slated to die?" he argued. "Would you sit there and calmly talk about maintaining a balance?"
As the unborn fetus developed and Patsy's waistline expanded, the doomed grandfather-to-be grew angrier. His poems screamed of perceived injustice and warned others of a day of reckoning. With each day that passed, he fervently hoped someone else would die and, in so doing, spare his life.
"I am the only person in all of Pinewood who writes poetry," he griped as his daughter entered her third trimester. "For that very reason, I should be spared. Let some farm worker die in my place. There are so many of them. Let the commissioners euthanize a fruit picker, a baker or a weaver."
"They all serve a purpose," Flora said softly.
"Are you saying that I don't?" her husband shouted.
"People enjoy your poems, but they can't live without food or clothing."
Wally was so enraged by his wife's implied criticism that he struck her across the face. In Pinewood, violence of any kind was frowned upon. For a man to strike his wife was unheard of! To make matters worse, the poet felt neither shame nor regret at his action.
"Maybe you should be the one to die in my place."
* * *
Murder. It was a word that was never heard in Pinewood. Perhaps it was because life was so short, it was held in such high regard. No one would dream of forcibly causing someone's death, much less ending the life of a loved one. Consequently, when Wally Lindquist pushed Flora down the stairs and she broke her neck, it was assumed by everyone that the death was an accident.
Patsy's grief over her mother's passing was mitigated by the knowledge that her father's life would be spared until another baby was born.
"Poor Mother," the pregnant woman sobbed, rubbing her hand over her extended abdomen. "She'll never get to see her grandchildren."
"But your father will," Louis reminded her.
"I think I'll write another sonnet in her memory," Wally announced as they placed his wife's body in her grave. "Not only one. I'll write two or three."
The commissioners were relieved that the life of Pinewood's favorite citizen would be spared. And since Patsy would give birth soon, they agreed among themselves to deny any further requests for at least another year.
"Who knows?" Commissioner Benton told a fellow leader. "By that time, someone else may be inspired to write verses."
"Have you met Ceely, the candlemaker?" Commissioner Groton sked.
"She's the one who celebrated her fiftieth birthday recently, isn't she?"
"Yes."
"Imagine that! Two people over the age of fifty. Has that ever happened before?"
"I don't believe so," Commissioner Groton answered. "But that's beside the point. This woman not only writes rhymes, but she puts them to music as well."
"I've never heard of such a thing!"
"It's called songwriting, I believe. I read about it once."
"I'd like to hear this candlemaker. Maybe her songs are more entertaining than poems."
When news of Ceely's talent spread through Pinewood, fewer people attended Wally's poetry readings. Now it was his turn to be home alone. No longer the center of attention, he began to miss his wife.
"Thankfully, I won't be alone for long. Any day now, Patsy will give birth, and I'll be a grandfather. I can be the babysitter while she and Louis are at work."
Two weeks later, his daughter went into labor.
I suppose I shouldn't be so happy, he thought as he waited for the welcome news of the birth. Once the baby is born, the population will reach its limit again. That means I'll be euthanized should another woman give birth. But no need for me to worry now. Since there are currently no expectant mothers in Pinewood, I'll be allowed to live for at least another nine months.
Louis, who had been sitting at his wife's bedside all morning, stepped out of the couple's bedroom to get a drink of fruit juice.
"Want one?" he asked his father-in-law.
"No, thank you. How's it going?"
"The midwife claims it won't be long now."
The father-to-be drank half his juice before he heard a baby's cry in the next room.
"This is it!" he joyfully exclaimed and ran back to the bedroom.
Ten minutes later, the midwife opened the door and approached Wally. The frown on her face took him by surprise.
"Is my daughter all right?" he inquired. "Is there something wrong with the baby?"
The midwife shook her head.
"No. All three of them are in excellent health."
"Three?"
"Yes. Your daughter gave birth to twins. Do you want to see them now?"
"Why not?" he sighed with resignation. "I've got only twenty-four hours left. I might as well make the most of them."
Salem claims to read Yeats, Byron, Dickinson, Frost, Longfellow and Browning, but his favorite poet, by far, is Theodor Geisel a.k.a. Dr. Seuss, who wrote The Cat in the Hat.
