Fictions

by Nancy Kress

  “There’s always hope.”

  I seized her hand. “Do you really believe that?”

  “Of course I do. Things can always change.”

  “But I . . . maybe it would just be better to give up and not fight it.”

  “No, you can’t do that. I mean . . . jail No. You can’t just give up!”

  “But, Maia, darling . . . you have.”

  She stared at me. I didn’t push it. Not yet. “Will you come with me to see my lawyer?”

  She dropped my hand. “I can’t.”

  “Please? I need you.”

  “I can’t just leave Ro—”

  “I need you, Maia!”

  She chewed on her bottom lip. “All right. If you need me . . . all right.”

  “Go get dressed,” I said. “I’ll wait here.”

  She glanced at the dark monitor screen, at the closed study door, behind which Helmutt whimpered softly. “Okay. I won’t be long.”

  But long enough. My fingers itched to get at the computer.

  She just opened the door, slipped through, then stuck her head back into the room. Her face floated, disembodied, in her long black hair. “There’s scotch and water and some nice brandy. Oh, and Cal—”

  The computer came on.

  “Cal,” Robert’s image said coldly. “How nice to see you.”

  Maia came slowly back into the room.

  “But even better, little brother, if you leave. I’m afraid I know what you’ve been up to.”

  I tried to remember if Maia had spoken my name aloud before. I couldn’t remember. She stared at Robert’s image, her eyes huge and yet somehow dead, like piles of soft gold ash.

  “I know you think you’re only trying to help Maia,” Robert’s image said, “but not by lying to her. Lies never help anything. You should know that, Cal.”

  Maia’s hand had gone to her own throat. Between the slim fingers, a pulse beat hard.

  “Maia,” I said, “he doesn’t know. He can’t know what I’ve been doing. Don’t you see, he set this all up before he died in order to go on controlling you, because the bastard can’t bear to give up controlling you even when he’s dead—”

  But that was a misstep. Maia said, “Control is an illusion. Cal, you should read—listen: ‘Only when we give up—completely, with the deepest possible surrender—all delusions that we can control our sexual response, do we really begin to feel its actuality, its power to transform us by connection to a universe deeper and more real than we can imagine. Eroticism means surrender, and surrender means we gain ourselves.’ It’s true, Cal—I’ve felt it. Why, all the great thinkers from Jesus to Buddha to—”

  “I recognize chapter six of Robert’s book,” I said harshly. “But, Maia—surrender to what? Just a few minutes ago you told me to not surrender to the SEC without a fight!”

  “That’s not the same as—”

  “It is! It is! Oh, Maia, don’t you see? Even before Robert’s death, you were so completely captured by him that you lost yourself! And sex was the way he did it, that awful power that— no, forget that. But Maia, dear, don’t you remember what you were when you first met Robert? I remember! When was the last time you painted a picture, or visited your sister, or went skiing, or any of the other things you used to love to do? When was the last time you were Maia?”

  I reached out my hand for her. Robert’s image had been silent, watching us. I guessed that somehow I’d avoided all the key words that would trigger its next programmed sequence. What were they? How long could I continue avoiding them? I had to get Maia out of the room.

  She resisted my pulling her toward me. “Cal, I don’t think—”

  “But you do! God, Maia, you can! Even the day of his funeral, you sat here on that sofa and said, ‘Love? You thought I loved Robert?’ In just that tone. Remember that?”

  “‘Love,’ Robert’s computer image said. “Ah, yes. That’s the heart of this, isn’t it, Cal? You’ve been in love with Maia yourself for years. I knew it, even if she didn’t. A pale, washed-out, antiseptic love. Hardly worth the name. Without any elemental force behind it, any appreciation of the Dionysian surge to self-power, the erotic force someone like Maia is capable of . . . but love nonetheless, right? You’re in love with my wife, and you can’t stand either of us because of your pathetic jealousy.”

  Maia gazed at the computer screen, then at me. Her red mouth quirked. She leaned toward me and quite deliberately unfastened the next button of her shirt. Her full breasts above the lacy red bra rose and fell. She reached out one slim, dirty-nailed hand and lightly stroked my crotch.

  And laughed delightedly.

  I stepped backward. Robert’s image said, “Am I right, Cal?” And Maia shook her head at me, the beautiful greasy hair dancing around her shoulders.

  “Cal, Cal . . . That was unworthy of you. Why, you’re not in trouble with the SEC at all, are you?”

  “I am, yes. I—”

  “It was just lies. Robert was right.” She shook her head at me, smiling. “You see, then? He’s always right. And I’m lucky to have this much of him even after death.”

  “Maia—”

  “Oh, you don’t know, Cal! You just don’t know. But maybe you can learn. Read Robert’s book, find yourself a woman in touch with her own elemental power—there are still some around—and practice surrender. To yourself. Maybe it’s not too late for you.” She was still smiling at me, as at a child, or a slow college student who just doesn’t get it.

  I stood completely still for maybe half a minute. The Robert-image was saying something, but I didn’t hear it. I looked slowly around the filthy study, at the filthy smiling woman in front of me. I picked up the poker from the fireplace and brought it down hard on the monitor.

  Maia screamed and lunged at me. I held her off easily with my left hand—she was so tiny. With my right, I smashed at the keyboard, CPU, even the speakers, over and over. Sparks flew. Briefly. I dropped the poker.

  “I’ll kill you!” Maia screamed, in her elemental power. “You son of a bitch, you murdered him!”

  “He’s already dead, Maia,” I said coldly, and with great clarity. I suddenly felt better than I ever had in my life. “He’s been dead for three weeks. And now you’re free of him.”

  “I’ll sue you! I’ll call the police! I’ll—”

  “Go ahead,” I said, still coldly. God, I felt good. “I’ll wait till they get here.”

  “Get out! Get out, I never want to see you again, I hate you!”

  “You won’t,” I said, and I could feel the power flowing into me, thrilling along my nerves and spine. “And do you know why? Because underneath your sick obsession with Robert and his even sicker one with controlling you through sex—underneath that, you’re a basically sensible person. And a sound one. And a good one. With him gone, you’ll come to realize that—”

  She pounded on me with her small fists and sobbed. I didn’t mind. I had done it.

  We were both free of him.

  I had won.

  The erotic power, the fundamental Dionysian energy, is only fully available to us through the fundamental acts: love and war. An opponent as much as an orgasm makes the energy flow. . . . Chapter Eight.

  “Get out! Get out!” Maia sobbed.

  “For now,” I said tenderly, and opened the study door. No use to make her take any more this afternoon. There was time. The smell of dog shit hit my nose, and Helmutt tried to stagger toward me. I picked my way across the living room and down the hall. I’d reached the apartment door and opened it when Maia came racing after me.

  “Bastard! Prick! Asshole! Get out!”

  “Aren’t those supposed to be terms of endearment in Robert’s sexually open philosophy?” I jeered tenderly—God, I felt good— and she shoved me out the door and theatrically fastened the chain. I kept my foot in the door.

  “Good-bye, darling. I’m right about this, you’ll see. I’ll call you later. And I’m sending over cleaning and dog-walking services.”
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  “Don’t you ever—”

  “Hello, Maia,” Robert’s voice said.

  We both froze. I peered over her, over the chain, into the living room. The big wall-screen TV had turned itself on. Robert’s face, looking stern, towered five feet high. “Maia, you didn’t mean for that to happen, did you? I can’t believe you did.”

  “No! No, I didn’t!” Maia cried, and shoved me the rest of the way out the door. I heard the bolts slide into place, a New York triple-locked steel door. It shut out all sound, and I stood on the other side and heard nothing more.

  I couldn’t have her committed.

  My lawyer said so, gazing at me across his desk and choosing his words carefully. I wasn’t sure why he used the tone he did when he told me that. I hadn’t described any of my own behavior, nor let him see what I really felt for Maia. I was in control.

  But on thinking it over, I didn’t want to have her committed anyway. That wasn’t the way to do it. I’d underestimated how deeply Robert had warped her, how strong his perverse hold on her was. I’d have to approach the problem from another direction.

  I couldn’t believe how angry I’d been after the funeral, how despairing. Drinking to forget Maia—what a stupid idea! There was no forgetting Maia, and no need to. Anger and despair were ineffectual, soul-blunting. What was needed was decisive action. I was going to win.

  The key was Helmutt. Lying listlessly on the sofa, staggering when he walked toward me, his nose warm in the palm of my hand.

  I made an anonymous call to the humane society, and then sat in my car across the street from her apartment. The next day the ASPCA van pulled up.

  I followed the two uniformed men inside and loitered at the end of the hall.

  Maia never answered the bell.

  One of the men took out a small electronic device of some sort and applied it to the steel door. The other rang the bell again. The first man studied the device’s screen.

  “Okay,” he said. “It’s a large dog, and the barking is in the pain range, or at least almost. Definitely in the nonnormal range. Get the warrant.”

  I was there in the hallway when they returned with a cop who looked like she had better things to do.

  “This better be good,” she snarled. The two uniformed humane men didn’t bother to answer. Neither did Maia. The cop went through her routines and finally blasted the lock with her laser torch. Mayor Jenson is famous for his love of animals.

  The smell made her retch.

  It didn’t affect the animal lovers. They moved purposely through the apartment, and I followed them. “I’m her brother-in-law,” I said to the cop. “I made the initial call. She’s mentally ill.”

  The cop muttered something I didn’t catch.

  Robert’s study was empty. I picked my way over the dog shit to the bedroom.

  Maia sat up on the bed, blinking and clutching the blanket around her. She was dressed in a white nightgown that made her look about fifteen. Her long black hair still hadn’t been washed. The bedroom TV turned on as soon as the cop said, “Ma’am, are you Maia Carson-Jones? I have a warrant here for your arrest on two counts of suspected animal abuse and—”

  “‘Abuse’ is a term that means different things to unenlightened people than to the enlightened,” Robert’s image said.

  The cop stared. In the other room I could hear the ASPCA men crooning at Helmutt.

  “For instance, is it ‘abuse’ to force a child into the pain of a vaccination? Of course not, if it will protect him from disease. Is it ‘abuse’ to force a student to reach past what he thinks he can do, staying up all night to complete reading and writing assignments, if it teaches him that he can extend his range to master more than he ever thought he could? Is it abuse to force you, my sweet child and student, to do things you initially resist, if it helps you to discover and extend your capacity for pleasure and joyful surrender?”

  The cop said, “Turn off the TV.”

  Maia said, in a strangled voice, “I can’t. Cal . . .”

  Robert said, “Cal? What are you doing in my wife’s bedroom?”

  The cop, mouth open, looked from me to the TV. She looked back at me, at Maia, at the TV. She put her hand on her gun.

  I said gently, “What is it, Maia?”

  “Helmutt . . . Helmutt’s sick . . .”

  “I know. I knew it. The animal people will take him to the vet.”

  She said, “How did you know?” The cop said, “What do you mean you can’t turn it off?” Robert said in his tone of absolute command, “Maia. Get these people out of my bedroom.”

  I put a hand on Maia’s shoulder. The strap of her nightgown was lacy and thin. A thrill ran through me, a whiplash of pure hot adrenaline.

  Robert thrust out of the TV, a full-length hologram standing beside the bed. In a different tone he said, “Maia, darling . . .”

  She put her hands over her ears, her eyes wild. “Turn him off! Helmutt’s dying! He won’t eat, he just lies there—He doesn’t let me talk to him about it, he doesn’t let me talk about anything but sex, he doesn’t . . . oh, God, Robert, I’m sorry!”

  “Sorry only means something if it’s followed by action,” Robert said. “Genuine contrition is empowering, my darling, it aids surrender. . . .”

  The cop said evenly, “Unplug that thing. Now.”

  “You can’t unplug it,” Maia said hopelessly. “The plug is inside the wall or something, with all the rest of the electronics. Cal, destroy this one, too, please . . . poor Helmutt . . . and do you know the worst of it? I don’t really care if the poor dog is dying. That’s what makes me as bad as he is, doesn’t it, Cal? . . . Destroy us both . . .”

  “No,” I said. “Only him. To set you free, Maia. Listen to me. You’re not yourself, or you wouldn’t have let that happen to poor Helmutt. Just listen to me, my poor darling . . .”

  I had her now. I had her.

  She looked at the screen. From the other room, a man called, “All right. We’re taking the dog.” The cop shook her head in disgust, handed Maia the warrant, and left the room. The apartment door closed behind the three of them.

  Robert was talking, leaning forward, a compelling light in his eyes. I gave Maia the gun in my jacket. I put it in her hand, folded my fingers around hers, and aimed.

  Maia gave a last sob, as if the sound were torn out of her thin bones. Then she squeezed the trigger.

  The wall screen exploded in a shower of plastic and sparks. I laughed. It was like a thunderstorm breaking, a flash flood roaring along an unsuspecting canyon in all its elemental power. Maia dropped the gun, buried her face in her hands, and cried.

  I climbed into the bed beside her and held her while she sobbed. Her body was damp and soft beneath the thin silk. She cried and cried.

  “There sweetheart, there there, it’s over now . . .” Her breasts pushed against my chest.

  I held her, lying full-length on the bed, until she stopped crying.

  “There, Maia, there . . . oh, you’ve been through so much . . .”

  “Cal, don’t,” she said, and I had the sense to stop. It was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. But the power was on me still, and there was time. There was all kinds of time.

  When I left her, she lay exhausted and drained of tears. Softly I closed the bedroom door, hoping she’d sleep.

  I made phone calls from Robert’s study. There wasn’t anything I couldn’t do, couldn’t arrange. The cleaning service said they’d be over within an hour, if it really was a triple-fee emergency. My lawyer said there probably wouldn’t be any problem defending Maia on the animal-abuse charges: new widow, temporarily under great stress. Lutece gave me a reservation for eight o’clock. Without erotic power at the unseen, unhidden, sometimes dark core of all action, there is no action. Our sterilized, cheerful, emasculated society does not want to admit this, and so we remain ineffective and miserable. But not all of us. Chapter Three.

  I hung up the phone and stretched deeply, luxuriously, feeling my musc
les pull and relax, pull and relax.

  “Very good, Cal,” said Robert’s voice behind me.

  A section of the wall had rolled back, revealing a small wall screen covered by what looked like bulletproof glass. Robert’s face smiled out at me. A blue silk scarf was knotted at his throat.

  “Is Maia standing there with you? Maia? . . . No. Just as well. We’ll get to her in a minute.”

  He smiled at something off-screen to his left. Involuntarily, I glanced to my right.

  “You think, Cal, that you’re free of me, don’t you? Both of you. Cal, Cal. Don’t you think I know you better than that, after a lifetime of observing you? I know you better than you know yourself. You are what you are—and that’s not what I am.’”

  I took a step toward the screen.

  “No, don’t come any closer,” Robert said, smiling. He folded his arms across his chest. “Just listen to me. You can’t escape. You aren’t smart enough, strong enough, confident enough. Most of all, you’re not me. You don’t understand people, not even Maia. Especially not Maia. How could I not know my influence would wear off when I’m not actually here in the flesh? Of course I knew. I knew she’d become a little restless, and I’d hold her for a while through sex, and you’d make your eventual move. Are you listening, Cal? I knew you’d destroy the initial hardware. I knew she’d help you. I planned it. I’m still in control.”

  “No, you son of a bitch, you’re not!”

  He smiled. “False defiance. Give up, Cal. You can’t win. Not against me.”

  I said, “In a right triangle, the square of the hypotenuse is equal to the sum of the squares of the other two sides.”

  He said, “Erotic triangles are as old as history. But the intelligence and electronics to manipulate them—that’s new.”

  I said, “I lost my . . . uh . . . umbrella.”

  He said, “Maia is mine. And always will be.”

  I flipped his image the finger and turned to go.

  And he said, “Just because you can miscue the Eliza program doesn’t mean you’re free.”

  Slowly I turned back to his smiling image—and realized I had nothing to say. Nothing that the motion sensors, ghost programming, voice activators, and all the rest of it wouldn’t interpret. But—I didn’t need to say anything. I had Maia.