His fifteenth-floor cubicle was much like a hundred others in the Department of Public Affairs, the twenty-first century's glistening stone and glass monument to Big Government efficiency. One hundred and ten stories high, it towered above Chicago's poisonous brown skyline like a clean, shining finger poking out of a dirty glove.
The phone on his desk suddenly rang with a vicious, nerve-jangling screech. Josh quickly put down the coffee cup, snuffed his smoke, and snatched up the receiver. "Maxwell speaking."
"Maxwell, get your ass up here." It was Rawlings Pennington, Josh's boss.
"Right away, sir." Josh put down the receiver and got up quickly. He slipped into his threadbare sweater, lifted his pants above his sagging belly, and rushed out of the office to the elevator. Moments later he was in Pennington's plush oak-paneled office. The man's secretary gave Josh a nasty little smirk, then waved him into the top-floor inner sanctum.
Pennington, all jowls and florid face, was sitting stiffly behind his immense wooden desk like a feudal king. "Sit," he commanded.
Josh sat.
Pennington was entirely bald. His suit, an immaculate blue wool herringbone, was tailored to perfection. Tiny reading glasses perched precariously on his prominent red nose like a translucent butterfly on an overripe plum. "I'm afraid I've got some disturbing news for you," murmured Pennington, not unkindly.
"Yes?"
"It's your kid. Piedmont school called. He's in deep shit."
Josh turned crimson. "What? He's only eight years old, Mr. Pennington. How can he--"
"Be in deep shit? Easy. Apparently he called another kid a--a--well, he used the N word."
Uh oh. Josh shivered and felt the weight of the world slide onto his shoulders. This was a calamity. Over the years supporters of political correctness had successfully promulgated a series of Supreme Court decisions making the utterance of "hate" words a federal crime. And when, in 2054, the individual states were dissolved and replaced by the Great Progressive Society, hate-mongering became a serious felony. This was the first of many rents that later shredded the first Amendment. Thus, "keeping a civil tongue" became more than just desirable, it became a matter of personal survival. The punishment for not doing so was often severe.
"I, uh, will have go home," muttered Josh, whose skin had now taken on the color of paste. "The police will be looking for me."
"I know. I hope--" Pennington shrugged in sympathy.
Josh nodded and rushed out the door.
A half-hour later the public hover bus (private air autos were for state employees only) dropped him off near his apartment, one of six hundred look-alikes in Chicago's Park Ridge Cooperative.
He took the elevator seven flights to his bleak three-room flat, finding it crawling with cops. He was immediately searched, cuffed, and placed on the sofa. Told to shut his mouth, he waited anxiously for an Inspector Koster to arrive. He sat there for an hour sweating while drab-looking men searched every scrap of paper and pried into every drawer and cupboard in the place. They were coolly turning it upside down.
Finally, Josh spoke. "Please, my son, where is he? What's happening?"
He was again told to be quiet.
Eventually a little emaciated man with bone-white complexion, thin lips, and hooded eyes came through the door and sat down next to Josh. He wore the bright silver and red jumpsuit of state security. Putting a skeletal hand on Josh's arm, he murmured, "I'm Koster. I'm going to ask you some questions and I want straight answers. Understand?"
"Yes, but--"
"Please, try not to speak."
Josh's paralyzing fear deepened. He'd heard rumors of savage on-the-spot punishments doled out to persons who'd been grossly impolitic, especially when they'd used hate words. But even state security wouldn't hurt a small boy, would they?
"First, Maxwell, we're not exactly sure where your son learned that, uh, word. Perhaps you can you enlighten us?"
Josh violently shook his head. "Not from me. And Mark's a good boy. Couldn't the other kid have been mistaken?"
"'Fraid not. There are a dozen witnesses."
Josh tried to imagine Mark saying such a word. He couldn't. Where on earth had the boy learned that anachronistic abomination?
"You can see that we need to know who infected the boy's mind with such filth. It's our duty to eradicate all such words from public discussion. "
"Of course."
"Um, you live here alone with the kid? You have no wife?"
"She died of lung cancer last year."
"Pity. You know, we see a lot of this with single parents. We've got some interesting, perhaps radical notions about ending single parenthood. But I digress. Now, Maxwell, tell me, you're not hiding any ugly little secrets, are you? Contraband books, maybe?" Koster's hot little eyes narrowed, and his face took on the look of a Dark Ages inquisitor. His claw-like hand squeezed Josh's arm, giving him the sensation of being in the grip of a large bird of prey.
Josh shivered violently.
"Well?" pressed Koster amiably.
"N...no sir. If my son actually uttered that word, he didn't get if from me. I'm not crazy, for Christ sakes."
Koster frowned and was about to reply, when one of his acolytes approached triumphantly and whispered something in his ear. Just then, from down the hall, there came the most bloodcurdling scream Josh had ever heard--a shriek of agony, followed by a long drawn out cry of terror and desolation. Koster cried an oath, leaped to his feet, and marched out the door, leaving Josh to cast surreptitious glances into the kitchen where the cupboards were being carefully emptied, one at a time. Ten minutes later Koster reappeared. He walked to the sofa and bent over Josh. "Here, let me take off those cuffs."
"What?" Is this a trick?
Koster keyed the cuffs, removed them, slipped them into his pocket, and sat down in a nearby chair. "Looks like you're in the clear. We've got our man."
Just then there came another wild shriek from the hallway, a cry of indescribable agony. Moments later one could hear the sound of heavy blows landing on flesh. Koster expressed irritation by letting a scowl lightly crease his brow.
"Uh, who?--"
"Man down the hall named Simpson. Admitted he filled your kid's mind with trash. You really should be more careful about who your son associates with. The world is filled with social deviates. After all, we are an enlightened society. We can't suffer such people."
Josh shook his head. Simpson was a harmless fool. Poor devil.
Koster sighed and looked around the ruined apartment. "Sorry about this mess. I'll have a couple of men come over tomorrow and help you clean up."
"No, no that's not necessary."
Koster offered a ghastly smile. "I insist. After all, we're not monsters."
Josh nodded. "What about Mark?"
"Sorry, that's up to school security and the principal; it's their call."
"When do you think I can see him?"
"Don't know. Tell you what, I check it out, then give you a call this afternoon. Okay?"
"Thanks."
Koster got up. "Ugly business."
"What about Simpson? What will happen to him?"
Koster shrugged. "Up to the court. Don't think it will be pretty, though. We found a hole under the floor where he'd hidden a bunch of outlawed books, the worst kind--Steinbeck, Vidal, Twain, Hemingway--you know the really vile stuff, full of hate-mongering and sexism."
Josh trembled and stared at his shoes. He was worried sick about Mark--and that other thing.
Koster grinned--a lenient beast. "Buck up, Maxwell. This wasn't your doing. You're clean. I'll call you when I know something."
Later that afternoon Josh received a phone call from Koster. The man's voice was noncommittal, giving away nothing. "Maxwell? Listen, your son will be dropped off around 7:00 p.m. He'll be with the school nurse. She'll give you instructions."
Josh shivered. "Nurse? Instructions? For what?"
The phone clicked off, leaving a silence as cold as a wintry sea.
Breaking into a sweat, Josh quickly shut the blinds, locked the door, and feverishly scrambled into the kitchen. Jeez, I been so worried about Mark, I forget the bastards are coming back tomorrow!
Pulling down the ironing board, he tripped a hidden electrical circuit, exposing a narrow opening. Inside were a dozen well-thumbed books, beautiful books, books that helped numb the pain of this highly-regimented, socialistic society.
Thank God! they missed these. No one, not even Mark, knows about this place. Can't take any chances, though. I was lucky today. They may want to look around some more. Can't risk it. He reverently carried the books to the fireplace and proceeded to burn them one-by-one, his eyes filling with tears as he put to the flame the accumulated wisdom, knowledge, humor, and beauty of a far different yesteryear. It broke his heart.
At 7:30 Mark came home. His face was pale as milk as he stumbled through the door on the arm of the school nurse. He ran to his father, burying his face in Josh's sweater, moaning and sobbing.
The nurse, middle-aged, severe, and silent, dropped a thin brochure and a bloody towel on the kitchen table. "Read the brochure. He'll need to see the doctor once or twice before he goes to 'special school.' He should lie down now."
"What?"
"Just read the goddamn brochure," she snapped angrily. Whirling around, she stalked out the door, closing it with a sharp bang. But Josh thought he heard her sob just as the door slammed shut.
He held Mark at arm's length. The boy's gray pallor was in sharp contrast to the dried blood encrusting his lips. "My God, son, what have they done to you?" Mark began to cry, his harsh sobs filling the room. Josh looked closer, then stepped back and let out a howl of horror.
The punishment for a "hate crime" at Piedmont middle-school was severe indeed--the loss of one's tongue!
The End
The story Slip of the Tongue is Copyright 1998 by Carter Swart.
The collection of works called Fish Eggs For The Soul is Copyright 1998 by Brian Rickman.
Copy edited by Sara Fawbush, editor of The Young Writer's Collection.