Fictions

by Nancy Kress

  “But—”

  “I have lunch with Jastinder. Or Kittery. Or somebody. Care to come? No? Well, suit yourself, love.” He waved to her and sauntered out.

  She couldn’t budge him. He didn’t resist her; he just wasn’t interested. Careless. Indifferent.

  Opening day came. Suzanne stood in the bedroom, biting her bottom lip. What to do? Everything was ready. She’d programmed the room for pale pink walls with white wood molding, filmy curtains fluttering in the breeze, a view of gardens filled with lavender and June roses and wisteria and anything else the computer said was old-fashioned. The scent simulator was running overtime. Around Suzanne were the half-unpacked boxes of flouncy silks and sweet girlish slip-dresses and little kid slippers. Plus, of course, the white jackets and copper-toed boots for Cade. Who had glanced at the entire thing with amused negligence, and then gone out somewhere for a stroll.

  “But you can’t!” Suzanne had cried. “It’s opening day! And you’re still dressed in . . . that.”

  “Oh, love, what does it matter?” Cade had said. “I’m comfortable. And isn’t all this stuff just a bit . . . twee? Isn’t it, now?”

  “But Cade—”

  “I rather like what I’m used to.”

  “You’re not used to it!” Suzanne had cried in anguish. “You can’t be! You’ve only had it for a season!”

  “Really? I guess so. Seems longer,” Cade said. “See you later, love. Or not.”

  Now Suzanne scowled at the pills in her hand. There was a real problem here. If she took them, she would be garbed in the gentle sweet tremulousness of youth. Gentle, sweet, tremulous—and ineffective. That was the whole point. Ingenues were acted upon, not actors. But without the whole force of her will, could she persuade Cade to stop being such an ass?

  On the other hand, if she didn’t take the pills, she would be dressed wrong for the occasion. She pictured showing up at the Donnison lunch in the Alliani Towers, at the afternoon reception in the Artificial Islands, at Kittery’s party tonight, dressed badly, shabbily, in last season’s worn-out feelings . . . no, no. She couldn’t. She had a reputation to maintain. And everyone would think that she couldn’t afford new feelings, that she had lost all her money in data-atoll speculation or some other ghastly nouveau thing . . . damn Cade!

  He came back from his stroll a few hours later, whistling carelessly. The vid was already crammed with “Where are you?” messages from their friends at the Donnison lunch. Breathless, ingénue messages, from people having a wonderful youthful time. And there was Cade, cool and off-hand in those detestable boring tweeds, daring to whistle . . . “Where have you been?” Suzanne said. “Don’t you know how late we are? Come on, get dressed!”

  “Don’t whine, Suzanne, it’s terribly unattractive.”

  “I never whine!” she cried, stung. “Well, then, don’t do whatever you’re doing. Come lie down beside me instead.”

  It was the most assertive thing he’d said in months. Encouraged, Suzanne lay with him on the bed, trying to control her panic. Maybe if she were sweet enough to him . . . “You haven’t dressed yet, either, have you, love?” Cade said. He was smiling. “That isn’t the tentative embrace of an ingénue.”

  “Would you like that?” Suzanne said hopefully. “I can just change . . .”

  “Actually, no. I’ve been thinking, Suzanne. I don’t want to get all tricked out as some sort of ersatz boy-child, and you don’t want to go on wearing these casual emotions. So what about what I suggested at the end of last summer? Let’s just go naked for a while. See what it’s like.”

  “No!” Suzanne shrieked.

  She hadn’t known she was going to do it. She never shrieked like that—not she, Suzanne! Except, of course, when fashion decreed it, and that didn’t really count . . . What was she thinking? Of course it counted, it was the only thing that kept them all safe. To go naked in front of each other! Good God, what was Cade thinking? Civilized people didn’t parade around naked, everything personal on display for any passing observer to pick over and chortle at, nude and helplessly exposed in their deepest feelings! Or lack of them.

  She struggled to sound casual. And she succeeded—or last season’s pills did. “Cade . . . I don’t want to go naked. Really, I don’t think you’re being very fair. We had it your way for a season. Now it should be my turn.”

  A long silence. For a moment Suzanne thought he’d actually fallen asleep. If he had dared . . .

  “Suzanne,” he said finally, “it’s my detached impression that you always have it your way.”

  It hurt so much that Suzanne’s legs trembled as she climbed off the bed. How could he say that? She always thought in terms of the two of them! Always! She went into the bathroom and closed the door. Shaky, she leaned against the wall, and caught sight of herself in the mirror. She looked lovely. Blue eyes wide with surprised hurt, pale lip trembling, like a young girl suddenly cut to her vulnerable heart . . . And she hadn’t even yet taken the season’s pills! Cade would have to come around. He would simply have to.

  He didn’t. Suzanne argued. She stormed. She begged. Finally, after missing three days of wonderful parties—irreplaceable parties, a season only opened once, after all—she dressed herself in the pills and a white cotton frock, and pleaded with him tremulously, weeping delicate sweet tears. Cade only laughed affectionately, and hugged her casually, and went off to do something else off-hand and detestable. She dissolved the pills in his burgundy.

  It bothered her, a little. They had always been honest with each other. And besides, it was such a scary thing for a young girl to do, her fingers shook the whole time as she broke open the capsules and a single shining crystalline tear dropped into the glass (how much salt would one tear add? Cade had a keen palate). But she did it. And, wide-eyed, she handed him the glass, her girlish bosom heaving with silent emotion. Then she excused herself and went to take a scented bath in pink bubbles and to do her hair in long drooping ringlets.

  By the time she came out, Cade was waiting for her. He held a single pink rose, and his eyes met hers shyly, for just a moment, as he handed it to her. They went for a walk before dinner along a beach, and the stars came out one by one, and when he took her hand, Suzanne thought, her heart would burst. At the thought that he might kiss her, the V-R waves blurred a little, and her breath came faster. It was going to be a wonderful winter. “Suzanne,” Cade said, very low. “Sweet Suzanne . . .”

  “Yes, Cade?”

  “I have something to tell you.”

  “Yes?” Emotion thrilled through her. “I don’t like burgundy.”

  “What . . . but you . . .”

  “At least not that burgundy. I didn’t drink it. But I did run it through the molecular analyzer.” She pulled away from his hand. Suddenly, she was very afraid. “I’m so disappointed in you, Suzanne. I rather hoped that whatever fashion said, we at least trusted each other.”

  “What . . .” she had trouble getting the words out, damn this tremulous high-pitched voice—“What are you going to do?”

  “Do?” He laughed carelessly. “Why do anything? It’s not really worth making a fuss over, is it?” Relief washed over her. It was last season’s fashion. He was still wearing it, and it was keeping him casual about her betrayal. Nonchalant, off-hand. Oh, thank heavens . . .

  “But I think maybe we should live apart for a bit. Till things sort themselves out. Don’t you think that would be best?”

  “Oh no! No!” Girlish protest, in a high sweet girlish voice. When what she wanted was to grab him and force her body against his and convince him to change his mind by sheer brute sexuality . . . but she couldn’t. Not dressed like this. It would be ludicrous. “Cade . . .”

  “Oh, don’t take it so hard, love. I mean, it’s not the end of the world, is it? You’re still you, and I’m still me. Be good, now.” And he loped off down the beach and out the apartment door. Suzanne turned off the V-R. She sat in the bare-walled apartment and cried. She loved Cade, she really did. Mayb
e if she agreed to go naked for a season . . . but, no. That wasn’t how she loved Cade, or how he loved her, either. They loved each other for their multiplicity of selves, their basic and true complexity, expressed outwardly and so well through the art of change. That was what kept love fresh and romantic, wasn’t it? Change. Growth. Variety.

  Suzanne cried until she had no tears left, until she was completely drained. (It felt rather good, actually. Ingenues were allowed so much wild sorrow.) Then she called Sendil, at home, on a shielded frequency.

  “Sendil? Suzanne.”

  “Suzanne? What is it? I can’t see you, my dear.”

  “The vid’s malfunctioning, I have audio only. Sendil, I’ve got some rather awful news.”

  “What? Oh, are you all right?”

  “I’m . . . oh, please understand! I’m so alone! I need you!” Her voice trembled. She had his complete attention.

  “Anything, love. Anything at all!”

  “I’m . . .” Her girlish voice dropped to a whisper drenched in shame. “I’m . . . enceinte. And Cade . . . Cade won’t marry me!”

  “Suzanne!” Sendil cried. “Oh my God! What a master stroke! Are you going to keep it going all season?”

  “I’m . . . I’m going away. I can’t . . . face anyone.”

  “No, of course not. Oh my God, darling, this will just make your reputation!”

  Suzanne said acidly, “I was under the impression it was already made,” realized her mistake, and dropped back into ingénue. It wasn’t hard, really; all she had to do was take a deep breath and give herself up to the drugs. She said gaspingly, “But I can’t . . . I can’t face it completely by myself. I’m just not strong enough. So you’re the only person I’m telling. Will you come see me in my shame?”

  “Oh, Suzanne, of course I’ll stand by you.” Sendil said, boyish emotion making his voice husky. Sendil always took a dose and a half of fashion.

  “I leave tomorrow,” Suzanne gasped. “I’ll write you, dear faithful Sendil, to tell you where to visit me . . .” She’d get a holo of her body looking pregnant custom-made. “Oh, he just threw me away! I feel so wretched!”

  “Of course you do,” Sendil breathed. “Poor innocent! Seduced and abandoned! What can I do to cheer you up?”

  “Nothing. Oh, wait . . . maybe if I know my shame won’t go on forever . . . but, oh, Sendil, I couldn’t ask you what follows this season! I know you’d never let out a peep in advance!”

  “Well, not ordinarily, of course, but in this case, for you . . .”

  “You’re the only one I’m going to let visit me, to hear about everything that happens. Everyone else will simply have to play along with you.”

  “Ahh.” Sendil’s voice thickened with emotion. “I’d do anything to cheer you up, darling. And believe me, you’ll love the next season. After a whole season away, everyone will be panting to see how you look, every eye will be trained on you . . . and the look is going to be a return to military! You’re just made for it, darling, and it for you!”

  “Military,” Suzanne breathed. Sendil was right. It was perfect. Uniforms’ and swords and guns and stern, disciplined command breaking into bawdy barracks-room physicality at night . . . Officers pulling rank in the bedroom . . . That’s an order, soldier—Yes, sir! . . . The sexual and social possibilities were tremendous. And Cade would never skip two seasons of fashion. She would come back from the winter’s exile with everyone buzzing about her, and then Cade in the uniform of, say, the old Royal Guards . . . and herself outranking him (she’d find out somehow what rank he’d chosen, bribery or something), able to command his allegiance, keeping a military bearing and so having to give away nothing of herself . . .

  It was going to be a wonderful spring.

  JOHNNY’S SO LONG AT THE FAIR

  Every young man someday faces the problem of cutting his mother’s apron strings, but as the compelling study of obsession and Unearthly Love that follows demonstrates, some of them may have a harder time doing this than others . . .

  Born in Buffalo, New York, Nancy Kress now lives in Brockport, New York. She began selling her elegant and incisive stories in the mid-seventies, and has since become a frequent contributor to Asimov’s Science Fiction, The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction, Omni, and elsewhere. Her books include the novels The Prince of Morning Bells, The Golden Grove, The White Pipes, An Alien Light, and Brain Rose; the collection Trinity and Other Stories; the novel version of her Hugo and Nebula-winning story, Beggars in Spain; and a sequel, Beggars and Choosers. Her most recent books include a new collection, The Aliens of Earth, and a new novel, Oaths and Miracles. She has also won a Nebula Award for her story “Out of All Them Bright Stars.

  Most people cannot bear very much truth.

  My son disappears into the crowd beyond the fairground gates. He thinks I don’t know where he goes, pushing his way through the giggling teenagers and stout farm wives, the slightly drunken overweight suburbanites and their sticky-fingered children cranky with the long day. It is dusk. The fair lights come on, one attraction at a time, the roller coaster first. Then the midway, with its French-fry stands and beer tent and cheap games. And finally the Ferris wheel, a large revolving circle of blue bulbs, although not as large as it might be. This is not a very big fair. The one my son visited last week was much larger.

  No lights come on in the exhibition halls. They have closed for the day.

  My son heads for the Tunnel of Love. He has never had much imagination. But oh, how beautiful he is! Far more beautiful than his father, the lying son of a bitch. My son and I never speak of his father. There is no need. I have my son in the father’s stead, and the gain is all mine. Tall, wide-shouldered, with the bluest eyes in all the world.

  I have made sure of that.

  He steps around a dropped ice cream cone, gives right of way to a smiling, weary family. Young women turn to look as he passes, the seats of their tight jeans shifting with their motion. My son never returns the looks. He makes for the Tunnel of Love with the singlemindedness of a tomcat in heat.

  I follow more slowly. There’s no hurry.

  I always know where he goes.

  She’s behind me, someplace. I can feel it. It doesn’t matter. Once I’m inside the fairground, there’s never anything she can do.

  It’s the only place she doesn’t control us.

  I decide to try the Tunnel of Love. Last time Cathy was there. But the fair before that, I found her in a dark grove of trees behind the beer tent. I don’t ever know where she’ll be, or how strongly she’ll be there. But I take what I can get, and I’ll look for her all night if I have to.

  Today at work, in the warehouse where my mother got me my job, I dreamed all day about Cathy. I didn’t get much work done. But I’ll catch up tomorrow and anyhow there’s nobody to notice. I’m the only one in the warehouse, not counting the computerized forklifts and conveyor belts. I control them. I sit at my computer high above the warehouse floor where I can see everything. I don’t ever see any other human beings.

  My mother likes it that way.

  Then quit the job, Cathy said to me, last fair. She doesn’t understand. I can’t quit. If I try to walk out of that building, the heaviness comes on me. If I try to write a letter quitting the company, the heaviness comes on me. If I try to stay in bed in the morning, and not go to work, I can’t do it. My legs lift me from the bed. My arms dress me. The only time I can get free is just after sunset, and only if I go to a fairground. Any fairground. I take trains, buses, hitch rides. My mother follows me in her car. There isn’t anything I can do about that.

  Cathy doesn’t understand. But she doesn’t have to. She only has to be there.

  I walk faster toward the Tunnel of Love.

  My son stands in line to buy a ticket. Six people stand in front of him, and he fidgets with impatience. Another part of him is impatient, too. I can see it, even from this distance, the sweet masculine bulge.

  His father was the same way. He could never get
enough of me. And it was all natural, in the first years—that was the best part. I laid no compulsion on him. He wanted me, of himself, and when those blue, blue eyes darkened with sexual excitement, I was the happiest woman alive. I was. It was not my fault that it ended. Men are like that. They are insatiable for you for a while, and then they want someone else. For variety. He did what his nature led him to do, and so did I.

  Children are different. Children cannot decide to unmake your motherhood. My son is mine forever.

  I don’t count this business of the fairgrounds. It’s not important. A young man’s fancy, a delusion. The girl is not real. My son is young. He needs his physical delusions, at least for now.

  The man and woman in front of him in line step into their mechanical boat. It glides into the gaudily painted tunnel. My son steps alone into the next boat. The carnie running the ride gives him a funny look—alone in the Tunnel of Love?—but my son doesn’t notice. He’s too intent. The silly unseaworthy craft lurches forward in its four inches of dirty water and disappears into the tunnel.

  I walk around to where the passengers will eventually exit the ride.

  Cathy?

  I think it. There’s no need for spoken speech between us. We always understand each other.

  For a few minutes, nothing happens, and my gut tightens up. But then I feel her, on the wood boat seat beside me, in the dark. At first just her right hand, real light on my shoulder. Then her body, sweet and warm against my side.

  Cathy!

  Hello, Johnny.

  She moves closer. I can smell her, that spicy Cathy-smell. She laughs a little, and I know she’s as happy and excited as me. I put my arms around her and pull her close. Her hair, long and curly, brushes my cheek, exciting me more. I cup my hand around her breast.

  We get so little time! The Tunnel of Love lasts only seven minutes, at most fairs. It’s better when Cathy comes to me behind a beer tent, or by the dark fence where the midway trucks park. But I’ll take her wherever, and whenever, she can come.