by Nancy Kress
“Johnny, this is Diane. Look, I’m not supposed to do this, but I am because . . . well, just because. Listen to me, Johnny. I wrote to Sarah. I explained things. Things about you, I mean, and how you were when we were kids together. Maybe it’ll help. She didn’t know you then. And now I want you to remember something. It’s this: Not everybody has to live the same. You can be a grown-up and still be a good person. Just remember that, okay?” The machine beeped.
Diane had written to Sarah. To Sarah. Fingers trembling, Yoder dialed Sarah’s sister in Chicago. “Gee, no, I’m sorry, John, Sarah’s not in just now,” Jane said.
“She never will be in when I call, will she, Jane?” Yoder said, and maybe something in his tone moved her because she didn’t hang up.
“Listen, John—sell the beach house. You know Sarah never wanted it in the first place—you did. Sell the beach house and trade in the Mercedes and—oh, I don’t know—cut down on the Louis XIV reproductions.”
“Financial advice? I call to talk to my adulterous wife who’s abandoned me and our son and you offer me financial advice?” Yoder cried.
“She didn’t abandon Dale. He’s out here with us,” Jane said crisply, and hung up.
Yoder ripped the phone from the wall. Later, he had to go to an all-night discount store clear across the city to buy cable to rewire it. On his hands and knees before the phone jack, Yoder thought about how there hadn’t been a phone in the Vermont commune the Summer of John and Diane. When Terry Jorgensen had overdosed, he’d nearly died because nobody could call for an ambulance.
When the phone was rewired, Yoder called his brother in Alaska. Sam still couldn’t hear him. He called the Bureau of Contemporary Statistics, which he found quite easily in the phone book. There was no answer, not even from a machine. He called every Harding in the phone book, nineteen of them, waking up several irate people but not finding Diane. He called Tom Navik, but Tom’s mother said he’d gone to Texas with a legal advocacy program for migrant workers. The mother sounded querulous and irritated as she gave this information. But then, Yoder remembered, she was, after all, dead.
Towards dawn he got back in his car and drove to Lake Erie. The air was cold; the light was thin and skimpy. But birds sang along the shore, and the untrimmed weeds smelled like Vermont had: of wild thyme, and mint, and the rough uncivilized smell of pine needles shaken in the wind.
The morning of Monday the twenty-ninth, Yoder was at the office by 6:45. The sunrise edition of the Tribune & Chronicle said in the “News Bites” section: PRESIDENT TO SIGN CLEAR AIR BILL TODAY. Yoder’s more immediate president, James McConaghie of the Zircon Business Division, was not present; if the legal shit hit the press fan, McConaghie could claim he hadn’t been kept informed of events in Vehicular Assets. Already hovering in the lobby was Bill Castle, beaming heartily, with his lawyers and assistants. He had brought with him the bank notary. Yoder saw that it was Diane Harding.
It really was Diane. She wore a tailored skirt and sweater with a string of fake pearls and low heels, just the sort of outfit a bank notary might wear. Her hair was in a not-very-neat French twist. She gave no sign of recognizing Yoder.
“John!” Castle cried. “Good to see you! Where’s the entourage?” It occurred to Yoder that Castle would refer to a set of lawyers, hardworking and underpaid assistants, and corporate climbers as an “entourage,” as if attached to royalty.
“Coming right along, Bill!” John cried. “A bit nippy this morning. Is this the notary?”
“Yes,” Castle beamed. “John Yoder, Diane Harding. Now let’s see, you know Todd Delancey—”
Before Castle could continue the introductions, Yoder interrupted. “Bill, I just have to check one little thing with Building Security. You know how careful we’ve gotten! Ms. Harding, would you come with me, please?”
He strode purposefully around the corner of the lobby, ignoring Castle’s tiny frown. Diane followed. When they had rounded the corner, Yoder grabbed her hand and yanked open the door to a stairwell. “Come with me! Quick!”
For a terrible moment he thought she wasn’t going with him. He suddenly remembered her threat at the commuter station: III scream . . . But then she slipped behind him through the doorway.
They ran down the stairwell two flights to the parking garage, to Yoder’s car. He drove up the back ramp out the far side of the building. Neither of them spoke until they were on Main Street, heading east.
“Drop me at the McMillan Building, please,” Diane said. “You’re coming up on it fast. Right here . . .”
“No! We have to talk!”
“No, we don’t,” Diane said. Yoder turned his head at a red light and saw that she was smiling at him warmly, her eyes full of grace, her slim body bent curiously towards him, as if giving benediction. “We really don’t. And I’m late, John.”
“For what?” Yoder cried, but she was already out of the car. The light changed. Traffic behind him honked and he had to move forward. Diane waved gaily.
He drove to the lake. Wet grass clung to his wingtips, climbed the pants of his suit. He sat on a rock, not caring if it were damp, and tried not to feel afraid.
Just before nine o’clock he drove to a lakeside bar that had just opened, ordered a beer, and asked the sleepy bartender to turn on CNN. The President sat at his desk in the Oval Office, signing the Clean Air Act into law. Yoder finished his beer and called for a telephone.
“Tiffany? John Yoder here. Has my wife—”
“Oh, Mr. Yoder, it’s terrible! Mr. McConaghie’s been on the phone since I came in at eight, trying to reach you, and he’s saying the most terrible things! There was nobody with authority to sign Mr. Castle’s papers and by the time they found somebody it was too late and—oh, Mr. Yoder—”
“It’s all right, Tiffany. Listen to me. Tell Mr. McConaghie I’ll send a fax to the. California office in a few hours. He can get it there, or have it refaxed to his hotel. Meanwhile, there’s a picture of my wife on my desk, and a file in the lower right-hand drawer labeled ‘Resumes.’ Would you take them out and send them by messenger to my house? Right away?”
“Sure, Mr. Yoder. But I—”
“Thank you, Tiffany. I appreciate it. ’Bye.”
The bartender eyed him grumpily. Yoder ordered another beer. He dialed the credit-counseling agency and left a message with his counselor. He called a real estate agent and told her he had a beach house for sale. He called the Tribune & Chronicle and put in an ad about the Mercedes. Then he dialed Chicago.
Sarah answered. “Hello, John.”
“Sarah . . .”
“I saw it in the newspaper. You had it put in the Chicago papers, too, didn’t you, so I’d see it? Lucky Jane’s sister-in-law is pregnant.” Yoder had no idea what she was talking about. “Sarah—come home. You and Dale. You belong here.”
“You know, I think we do,” Sarah said sadly. “Although not because I want to belong with you. But we just do.”
Yoder’s throat felt too tight to say anything. But he managed, “I lost my job.”
Sarah was silent a minute. Then she said, “How?”
“I didn’t exactly lose it. I made it lose me. And I put up the Mercedes and the beach house for sale.”
“Those are probably both good,” Sarah said. Yoder thought she might be crying. “I suppose it’ll be hell in the short run, though. And damnation in the long run.”
“Yeah. Sarah—”
“Dale saw it in the paper, too,” Sarah said. “I’m not sure he’ll ever forgive either of us, but at least he smiled. As long as you can make us smile, I guess there might be hope. Maybe.”
“There is,” Yoder agreed fervently, not knowing what he meant, or what she did, hearing only that she would come home. “Honey—Carol Sanderson didn’t mean anything to me!”
“Well, that’s part of your problem, isn’t it?” Sarah said, her tone acid again, the old Sarah. “You meant something to her, and so it was pretty scummy of you to encourage hopes. You better call
her and get things straight, John!”
“I will,” Yoder said, his hopes rising. The old Sarah: acerbic, raucous, unpredictable, fair. His whole body yearned towards the phone.
“I’m hanging up now,” Sarah said. “God, you’re a pig. I love you, John Yoder.”
“I love you, too.”
Yoder finished his beer. It tasted salty. After a while he remembered Sarah’s remarks about the newspaper. Something about Jane’s sister-in-law pregnant? There was a copy of the Tribune & Chronicle farther down the bar. He turned to the “Births” section, but even before he had the flimsy pages folded back, it hit him what he would find. It had been in Tiffany’s voice on the phone, in Diane’s smile as she hopped out of his car into the horns and stinks of morning-rush traffic:
BORN: Ashley Brittany Carter, g, to Mr. and Mrs. Robert Carter, 463 Elm St.
Michael Nicholas DaCosta, b, to Mr. and Mrs. Francisco DaCosta, 618 State St., Rockport.
John Patrick Yoder, b, 14 Fairview Lane, Mapledale.
DANCING ON AIR
“Dancing on Air” is another enthralling novella by the author of “Beggars in Spain” (April 1991) and “And Wild for to Hold” (July 1991). Nancy Kress’ sharp-edged short story “The Mountain to Mohammed” (April 1992) is a finalist for this year’s Nebula award.
“When a man has been guilty of a mistake, either in ordering his own affairs, or in directing those of State, or in commanding an army, do we not always say, So-and-so has made a false step in this affair? And can making a false step derive from anything but lack of skill in dancing?”
—Molière
Sometimes I understand the words. Sometimes I do not understand the words.
Eric brings me to the exercise yard. A man and a woman stand there. The man is tall. The woman is short. She has long black fur on her head. She smells angry.
Eric says, “This is Angel. Angel, this is John Cole and Caroline Olson.”
“Hello,” I say.
“I’m supposed to understand that growl?” the woman says. “Might as well be Russian!”
“Caroline,” the man says, “you promised . . .”
“I know what I promised.” She walks away. She smells very angry. I don’t understand. My word was hello. Hello is one of the easy words.
The man says, “Hello, Angel.” He smiles. I sniff his shoes and bark. He smells friendly. I smell two cats and a hot dog and street tar and a car. I feel happy. I like cars.
The woman comes back. “If we have to do this, then let’s just do it, for Chrissake. Let’s sign the papers and get out of this hole.”
John Cole says, “The lawyers are all waiting in Eric’s office.”
Eric’s office smells of many people. I go to my place beside the door. I lie down. Maybe later somebody takes me in the car.
A woman looks at many papers and talks. “A contract between Bio-mod Canine Protection Agency, herein referred to as the party of the first part, and the New York City Ballet, herein referred to as the party of the second part, in fulfillment of the requirements of Columbia Insurance Company, herein referred to as the party of the third part, as those requirements are set forth in Policy 438-69, Section 17, respecting prima ballerina Caroline Olson. The party of the first part shall furnish genetically-modified canine protection to Caroline Olson under, and not limited to, the following conditions . . .”
The words are hard.
I think words I can understand.
My name is Angel. I am a dog. I protect. Eric tells me to protect. No people can touch the one I protect except safe people. I love people I protect. I sleep now.
“Angel,” Eric says from his chair. “Wake up now. You must protect.”
I wake up. Eric walks to me. He sits next to me. He puts his voice in my ear.
“This is Caroline. You must protect Caroline. No one must hurt Caroline. No one must touch Caroline except safe people. Angel—protect Caroline.”
I smell Caroline. I am very happy. I protect Caroline.
“Jesus H. Christ,” Caroline says. She walks away.
I love Caroline.
We go in the car. We go very far. Many people. Many smells. John drives the car. John is safe. He may touch Caroline. John stops the car. We get out. There are many tall buildings and many cars.
“You sure you’re going to be okay?” John Cole says.
“You’ve protected your investment, haven’t you?” Caroline snarls. John drives away.
A man stands by the door. The man says, “Evening, Miss Olson.”
“Evening, Sam. This is my new guard dog. The company insists I have one, after . . . what’s been happening. They say the insurance company is paranoid. Yeah, sure. I need a dog like I need a knee injury.”
“Yes, ma’am. Doberman, isn’t he? He looks like a goooood ol’ dog. Hey, big fella, what’s your name?”
“Angel,” I say.
The man jumps and makes a noise. Caroline laughs.
“Bioenhanced. Great for my privacy, right? Rover, Sam is safe. Do you hear me? Sam is safe.”
I say, “My name is Angel.”
Caroline says, “Sam, you can relax. Really. He only attacks on command, or if I scream, or if he hasn’t been told a person is safe and that person touches me.”
“Yes, Ma’am.” Sam smells afraid. He looks at me hard. I bark and my tail moves.
Caroline says, “Come on, Fido. Your spy career is about to begin.” I say, “My name is Angel.”
“Right,” Caroline says.
We go in the building. We go in the elevator. I say, “Sam has a cat. I smell Sam’s cat.”
“Who the fuck cares,” Caroline says.
I am a dog.
I must love Caroline.
2.
Two days after the second ballerina was murdered, Michael Chow, senior editor of New York Now and my boss, called me into his office. I already knew what he wanted, and I already knew I didn’t want to do it. He knew that, too. We both knew it wouldn’t make any difference.
“You’re the logical reporter, Susan,” Michael said. He sat behind his desk, always a bad sign. When he thought I’d want an assignment, he leaned casually against the front of the desk. Its top was cluttered with printouts; with disposable research cartridges, some with their screens alight; with pictures of Michael’s six children. Six. They all looked like Michael: straight black hair and a smooth face like a peeled egg. At the apex of the mess sat a hardcopy of the Times 3:00 P.M. on-line lead: autopsy DISCOVERS BIOENHANCERS IN CITY BALLET DANCER. “You have an in. Even Anton Privitera will talk to you.”
“Not about this. He already gave his press conference. Such as it was.”
“So? You can get to him as a parent and leverage from there.”
My daughter Deborah was a student in the School of American Ballet, the juvenile province of Anton Privitera’s kingdom. For thirty years he had ruled the New York City Ballet like an annointed tyrant. Sometimes it seemed he could even levy taxes and raise armies, so exalted was his reputation in the dance world, and so good was his business manager John Cole at raising funds and enlisting corporate patrons.
Dancers had flocked to the City Ballet from Europe, from Asia, from South America, from the serious ballet schools in the patrolled zones of America’s dying cities. Until biohancers, the New York City Ballet had been the undisputed grail of the international dance world.
Now, of course, that was changing.
Privitera was dynamic with the press as long as we were content with what he wished us to know. He wasn’t going to want to discuss the murder of two dancers, one of them his own.
A month ago Nicole Heyer, a principal dancer with the American Ballet Theater, had been found strangled in Central Park. Three days ago the body of Jennifer Lang had been found in her modest apartment. Heyer had been a bioenhanced dancer who had come to the ABT from the Stuttgart Ballet. Lang, a minor soloist with the City Ballet, had of course been natural. Or so everybody thought until the autopsy. The entire company had
been bioscanned only three weeks ago, Artistic Director Privitera had told the press, but apparently these particular viro-enhancers were so new and so different that they hadn’t even shown up on the scan.
I wondered how to make Michael understand the depth of my dislike for all this.
“Don’t cover the usual police stuff,” Michael said, “nor the scientific stuff on bioenhancement. Concentrate on the human angle you do so well. What’s the effect of these murders on the other dancers? Has it affected their dancing? Does Privitera seemed more confirmed in his company policy now, or has this shaken him enough to consider a change? What’s he doing to protect his dancers? How do the parents feel about the youngsters in the ballet school? Are they withdrawing them until the killer is caught?”
I said, “You don’t have any sensitivity at all, do you, Michael?”
He said quietly, “Your girl’s seventeen, Susan. If you couldn’t get her to leave dancing before, you’re not going to get her to leave now. Will you do the story?”
I looked again at the scattered pictures of Michael’s children. His oldest was at Harvard Law. His second son was a happily married househusband, raising three kids. His third child, a daughter, was doing six-to-ten in Rock Mountain Maximum Security State Prison for armed robbery. There was no figuring it out. I said, “I’ll do the story.”
“Good,” he said, not looking at me. “Just hold down the metaphors, Susan. You’re still too given to metaphors.”
“New York Now could use a few metaphors. A feature magazine isn’t supposed to be a TV holo bite.”
“A feature magazine isn’t art, either,” Michael retorted. “Let’s all keep that in mind.”
“You’re in luck,” I said. “As it happens, I’m not a great lover of art.” I couldn’t decide whether to tell Deborah I had agreed to write about ballet. She would hate my writing about her world under threat. Which was a reason both for and against.
