Short Fiction

The Beautiful People

Mary sat quietly and watched the handsome man’s legs blown off; watched further as the great ship began to crumple and break into small pieces in the middle of the blazing night. She fidgeted slightly as the men and the parts of the men came floating dreamily through the wreckage out into the awful silence. And when the meteorite shower came upon the men, gouging holes through everything, tearing flesh and ripping bones, Mary closed her eyes.

“Mother.”

Mrs. Cuberle glanced up from her magazine.

“Hmm?”

“Do we have to wait much longer?”

“I don’t think so. Why?”

Mary said nothing but looked at the moving wall.

“Oh, that.” Mrs. Cuberle laughed and shook her head. “That tired old thing. Read a magazine, Mary, like I’m doing. We’ve all seen that a million times.”

“Does it have to be on, Mother?”

“Well, nobody seems to be watching. I don’t think the doctor would mind if I switched it off.”

Mrs. Cuberle rose from the couch and walked to the wall. She depressed a little button and the life went from the wall, flickering and glowing.

Mary opened her eyes.

“Honestly,” Mrs. Cuberle said to a woman sitting beside her, “you’d think they’d try to get something else. We might as well go to the museum and watch the first landing on Mars. The Mayoraka Disaster—really!”

The woman replied without distracting her eyes from the magazine page. “It’s the doctor’s idea. Psychological.”

Mrs. Cuberle opened her mouth and moved her head up and down knowingly.

“Ohhh. I should have known there was some reason. Still, who watches it?”

“The children do. Makes them think, makes them grateful or something.”

“Ohhh.”

“Psychological.”

Mary picked up a magazine and leafed through the pages. All photographs, of women and men. Women like Mother and like the others in the room; slender, tanned, shapely, beautiful women; and men with large muscles and shiny hair. Women and men, all looking alike, all perfect and beautiful. She folded the magazine and wondered how to answer the questions that would be asked.

“Mother—”

“Gracious, what is it now! Can’t you sit still for a minute?”

“But we’ve been here three hours.”

Mrs. Cuberle sniffed.

“Do—do I really have to?”

“Now don’t be silly, Mary. After those terrible things you told me, of course you do.”

An olive-skinned woman in a transparent white uniform came into the reception room.

“Cuberle. Mrs. Zena Cuberle?”

“Yes.”

“Doctor will see you now.”

Mrs. Cuberle took Mary’s hand and they walked behind the nurse down a long corridor.

A man who seemed in his middle twenties looked up from a desk. He smiled and gestured toward two adjoining chairs.