Bliss

by Lisa Henry

  “Of course, sir. I’d be happy to. I was top of my class in persuasive speaking.”

  “I know you were.” Lowell winked. “You were also one of the few applicants I got from outside of Beulah, and the only applicant from Tophet. That’s what this place needs, you know. Some fresh blood.”

  “I didn’t think I had a chance,” Rory admitted.

  “Whyever not?”

  “Well, it’s not like I have any real experience.”

  Lowell snorted. “Experience? How does anyone get experience if nobody will give him the chance? No, it’s enthusiasm I look for. Why do you think I found your application so irresistible?”

  “Irresistible, sir?” Rory said with a raise of his eyebrows. “You make me sound like a big slab of cake or something.”

  “Well, then I suppose I’ll have to gobble you up!”

  Rory’s face flushed. Was that . . . flirting? No, of course not, just teasing between men.

  Which was commonplace here, according to the online research on Beulah he’d done before he left Tophet. Rory had hardly dared to believe it before now, but in Beulah, there was no prejudice, not based on sexuality or gender or race or any of it. All the worst of the old world, stripped away. As briefly as they’d interacted so far, Lowell did seem to be proving the research right.

  It certainly would be refreshing to work with an employer who saw nothing wrong with two men teasing one another. A workplace where Rory didn’t feel the need to hide who he was just because it was easier than having to defend himself. Where he didn’t have to worry about labels. Not only would no one here mind that Rory thought of himself as gay, but they wouldn’t even understand what “gay” was, why anyone had ever bothered to claim such a title—or have it thrust upon them—in the first place. In Beulah, people were people. Straight and gay weren’t even concepts here—that was what the rumors said.

  And, if Rory was honest, that had called to him a hell of a lot more than any solar panels and fresh air ever could.

  Lowell laughed at his blush. “We may be a little more relaxed around the workplace here than you’re used to, Rory. I like to think of my team as a family. And I don’t mind if we all joke around a bit, as long as the work gets done.”

  “Of course, sir. I don’t mind at all. Honestly, I’m just not used to seeing open affection between men.” Or used to talking about it. He stammered a little. “I’m sure you understand?”

  “What a shameful world you come from,” Lowell said with a disappointed cluck. “I’m honored to have rescued you from that backward mess.”

  Rescued. An odd turn of phrase, and one that sat a little oddly with Rory. He nodded, ignoring his unease. “Well, it was a relief to get out.”

  “Have you any family there?”

  “Not anymore.” None close enough to miss him, anyway. His mother had died when he was young, and his father had dumped him on his grandmother to raise before taking off. Then his grandmother had passed away twelve months ago. He had a few uncles and aunts and cousins, but he’d lost contact with them over the past few years. Some of them hadn’t even come to his grandmother’s funeral, so Rory felt no obligation to try to reestablish contact.

  Lowell’s face softened. “That’s a shame, Rory, but I hope your time here in Beulah helps you discover that there are bonds stronger than blood.”

  It all looked so perfect on paper. Sounded so perfect spilling out of Lowell’s mouth. The man was charming, charismatic, and enthusiastic, and Rory wanted to believe what he was saying. He didn’t want to sabotage his fresh start with his own cynicism. Sure, the attack proved it wasn’t all sunshine and unicorns and angelic fucking choirs. So Beulah wasn’t perfect. So what? Nowhere was, and it was still better than Tophet. He needed to stop fixating on that punch to the face like nothing else mattered.

  “We make our own bonds,” Lowell continued. “We make our own families from the people we choose to share our lives with.”

  Rory shifted uneasily. “Like sharing my house with . . . with that man?”

  “Ah.” Lowell sighed. “It’s difficult to comprehend, I know that. But believe me, the system does work. The rezzy wouldn’t be placed with you if he didn’t want this chance to be rehabilitated. Can you trust in that, Rory? Or at least wait a short while before you set yourself against it?”

  Rory sighed. “It was. . . It was just one punch. And now I have to live with the guy?”

  “Just one punch,” Lowell said. He frowned slightly and crossed his arms over his chest. “And if you’d cracked your skull when you fell and died, would the fact that it was ‘just one punch’ be any excuse?”

  “I guess not, sir.”

  Lowell nodded. “Give the system a chance, that’s all I’m asking you to do. That’s all I would ever ask any citizen to do.”

  Citizen. Not immigrant. Not outsider. Citizen. Yes, Rory wanted to live up to that name. And he would. He’d more than just give the program a chance; he’d throw himself into it wholeheartedly. He’d do his best to believe in it. A common dream—yes, that was what Beulah was built on. Miracles. The evidence was all around him, in this place that somehow thrived while the rest of the world, still caught up in centuries’ old ideas about economic systems, about crime and punishment, and about societal structures, sank into decay.

  Miracles like a victim and an assailant working together for a better future for them both. Making amends. Learning from each other. Maybe even becoming friends?

  Rory almost snorted at that idea. Okay, so maybe not friends exactly. It’s not like Rory could imagine them kicking back and drinking beers together, but maybe they could at least be respectful of one another. If the man was as serious about rehabilitation as he claimed to be, if it wasn’t just some line he’d spun. And, in this place, who wouldn’t be serious about it? Only the most stubborn, stupid, or delusional person would fail to see that Beulah was better than the outside. Would fail to take the chance to live well for a change. The pilgrim on the mountain again: Please, I’ve come so far from such abject beginnings. Let me walk among you and learn your ways. Because if the man was approaching his rehabilitation with even a fraction of that earnest honesty, then of course it could work. And if Rory could do the same, then it would work.

  Miracles.

  They would make a miracle together. Become one of the foundational blocks of Beulah’s success, its very existence.

  All Rory had to do was give himself over to the dream and hope the other man would do the same. Of course, telling himself that and actually making it happen were two very different things. He just hoped he could let go of his past long enough to trust.

  Tate didn’t see the doctor again, but he thought of him. Thought of how good it had felt to be praised by him. How it had filled his entire body with warmth. When the guard came and fetched him for his exit interview, Tate was nervous, but he hoped he could do well again. He needed to do well.

  “Hello again, rezzy,” the guard said with a smile. It was one of the men from the police station.

  Tate was filled with sickening shame. The things he’d said to this man last time, the way he’d fought . . . He didn’t deserve that smile.

  “Hello, sir.” Anxiety knotted in his gut.

  “Anything to say to me?” the man asked as he escorted Tate down the hallway.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” Tate said. “I’m so sorry.”

  The guard’s smile grew. “That’s okay, rezzy. I know you are.”

  Tate sagged with relief.

  “Now, your lawyer has come to see you.” The guard stopped outside a door and paused with his hand on the knob. “Be good, Tate.”

  “I will, sir.”

  The guard opened the door.

  “Ah, Mr. Patterson,” Cal Mitchell said. “Sit down. How are they treating you?”

  “Good, sir,” Tate said. Better than he deserved. He sat at the table.

  Mr. Mitchell spread his paperwork out. “Okay. Now, as soon as we’re finished here, you can start your reha
bilitation with your sponsor.” He looked at Tate.

  Tell him, the faint voice in his head urged. Tell him.

  Tate nodded. “Yes, sir. I’m looking forward to it.”

  Not that!

  But Mr. Mitchell seemed so pleased with Tate’s answer, that he couldn’t disappoint him.

  “Now, tell me why you hit that man,” Mr. Mitchell said.

  “I’m sorry I did that,” he said. “God, I’m so sorry. I thought . . .” What had he thought? He couldn’t really remember now. “I wanted to get away.”

  To get out of Beulah. To get the debt collectors off his back. To get home to Emmy, and those fucking cops were right behind him, and . . .

  Emmy.

  He didn’t want to serve. He wanted to get home to Emmy.

  “T-to . . .” Tate stammered. Something weird happened in his head then. A sharp spike, like his brain suddenly jumped the tracks. “I never meant to hurt anyone. I just wanted to run, and he was in my way. I’m really sorry.”

  “Acknowledging your guilt is an important step, Mr. Patterson.” The lawyer wrote something down. “And I must say, it’s encouraging to hear you talk like this after last time, when you were so adamant about wanting to go to trial.”

  “I was wrong to want to go to trial. I want to do better,” Tate said. “I want to be a better person.”

  Something snagged in his memory. A better person . . .

  “You fucking kidding me, Tate? You can’t look after yourself, let alone . . .”

  “Fuck you, Paula. I can. I can do better, I know I can.”

  Then it was gone, and peace settled over him.

  “Restitution can help you with both those things,” Mr. Mitchell said, smiling softly, as if touched by Tate’s earnest words. He patted the back of Tate’s hand. “Seven years from now, you won’t even recognize yourself.”

  I already don’t recognize myself!

  The violent, desperate thought came out of nowhere. He could hardly register it before it was gone again, smothered by that strange sensation gnawing at his stomach. The need to please.

  “I want that, Mr. Mitchell,” he said earnestly. He wanted to make the doctors happy, and the guards happy, and Mr. Mitchell happy, and he especially wanted to make the man from the railway station happy. Because if he could do that, then he would be happy as well. “I’m going to try my best in the program.”

  Mr. Mitchell nodded. “Well, I’m glad to hear that, Mr. Patterson. A positive attitude is the best thing you can take into the program.”

  Tate hadn’t realized he’d been holding his breath until it escaped him in a relieved sigh. Yes. He’d made Mr. Mitchell glad. Mr. Mitchell was happy with him. And Mr. Mitchell had faith he would do well. Even the thought of being judged unworthy of that faith was terrifying, dizzying. A knot of fear clenched in his gut.

  “I’ll work hard,” he said, and the knot loosened a fraction. “I will, Mr. Mitchell.”

  Mr. Mitchell beamed at him. “I’m certain of it.”

  Tell him, the voice in his head urged desperately.

  Tell him what?

  There was nothing to tell.

  he van that pulled up was nondescript. There was no signage on it, but Rory knew exactly who it was. Shit. In that second, all his bravado from earlier in the day deserted him. Because how could this not be an absolute fucking disaster?

  The man who climbed out of the van was spry, cheerful, and definitely not the guy who had punched him at the station. He strode up the front path, a sheaf of paperwork in his hand, and Rory ducked back behind the blinds so he didn’t look like he was just standing there waiting, anxious or eager. He didn’t think either impression would look good on a man about to take charge of another man’s life. He waited until the third knock before he opened the front door.

  And couldn’t help staring over the man’s shoulder at the van.

  “If you’ll just sign here,” the man said and followed his gaze. “Ah, he’s in the back. Just a few things to go through before I hand him over.”

  “Of course,” Rory said, as though he’d done this a hundred times. Like ordering takeout, except instead of a couple of greasy styrofoam containers, the delivery was for a human life.

  “Now.” The man gave his clipboard a once-over. “You’ll be compensated by the government of Beulah for the rezzy’s living expenses. A stipend to cover electricity and water and such. He comes with his own clothes and toiletries, but if there’s anything you need to buy him, you’ll be reimbursed in full, just make sure to save your receipts. Do you live here alone, sir?”

  Rory nodded.

  “Well, in that case, it’s up to you if you want to feed him yourself—again, those costs are reimbursed—or if you want his meals delivered each week. A lot of families prefer their rezzies to eat separate, that way they can help out at mealtimes, take care of the kids, that sort of thing.”

  Rory tried not to let his surprise show. People let criminals care for their children?

  “But if it’s just you . . .”

  “Um,” Rory said. “No, well, I don’t think I need meals delivered for him. Not . . . not if he’ll be cooking mine anyway.”

  The man smiled. “That’s what I thought, sir, but I had to ask. Now, the tracker’s already on, so he shouldn’t give you any trouble.”

  “The tracker?”

  The man touched a blunt finger to the back of his neck. “Rezzies get chipped as a part of the program. It’s a basic GPS tracker to make sure he doesn’t flee—not that we’ve ever had one go anywhere but the grocery store—and it also suppresses any violent urges.”

  “V-violent urges?”

  “Oh, don’t worry. You’re perfectly safe, despite his history.” The man shuffled his paperwork. “Which is . . . here. Interesting reading, but don’t pay it too much mind. Once you meet him, you’ll see you have nothing to worry about. He’s apologetic to the point of blubbering.”

  That was a relief, but to be honest, for a minute there, Rory was more concerned with the fact that the man had been subjected to any form of behavior modification. He’d seen what kind of evil and abuse those chips could be used for on the outside—luckily they were crude enough there that it was easy to spot someone under their influence. But not here in Beulah, he reminded himself. Things were better here. Humane. The chip was just a precaution, no more a violation of the rezzy’s life than being behind bars would be on the outside. And you gave up certain rights when you committed a crime; that was the social contract.

  Yes, his conscience was clear.

  “Shall I fetch him, then?” the man asked. “If you’ll just sign here, and here, I’ll go get him.”

  Rory applied what must have been his shakiest signature ever to the documents and watched nervously from the front door as the man walked back to the van and opened the rear doors.

  His rezzy—Rory scanned the paperwork quickly—Tate Patterson, 21, citizen of Tophet, wasn’t what he’d been expecting. He’d been imagining someone brutish, he supposed, though he hadn’t gotten a decent look at the guy at the station. The man walking up the front path now was slight but tall, with softly rounded shoulders and terrible posture. His head was bowed, his face hidden by a mop of wavy black hair, and his arms were a light golden brown, without tattoos or jewelry. Just a set of wristbands that seemed huge around his small wrists. He was carrying a bag.

  He looked so skittish, so utterly unthreatening, that Rory felt a moment of outrage: This guy? This guy had flattened him?

  Had they caught the wrong guy?

  No, of course not. He’d confessed.

  “Tate,” the delivery man said, “this is your sponsor, Mr. James.” And then in a stage whisper to Rory, “It’s up to you how formal you want to keep it, sir.”

  He didn’t know if he should shake the guy’s hand or introduce himself by his first name or what, so he just stood there blankly.

  Tate lifted his head, and his brown eyes were huge and liquid, like a man starstruck by a celebrity.
He had long black eyelashes and lots of them. “Mr. James!” he gushed.

  Rory was taken aback. Okay, so he’d had a few seconds to come to terms with the fact that Tate Patterson wasn’t brutish, didn’t look like a criminal at all, but no time at all to prepare for the fact that he was . . . stunning. He had fine, almost delicate features, yet full lips. He looked like one of the boys in the magazines that Rory hadn’t dared pack from home in case his bags were opened at customs.

  “I’m very sorry for hurting you,” Tate said, and then he fell to his knees. He grasped at Rory’s pant leg desperately. “I’m so, so sorry. I want to make it up to you.”

  Rory took a startled step back.

  “Told you,” the delivery man said. “Tate, get up! He’s just a little overwhelmed, sir. He’ll settle in a day or two.”

  Tate, wide-eyed, climbed to his feet. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

  “Any problems, give us a call,” the delivery man said and, with a quick wave, headed back to the van.

  Shit.

  Rory stared at Tate, who was standing on the front step, shoulders hunched as though he were trying to disappear into the narrow space between them.

  “Um, come in,” he said. He reached down for Tate’s bag—habit, he supposed. You had a guest, and you carried their bag—but Tate lurched forward, grabbing it first. He shuffled inside behind Rory.

  And suddenly that house that had seemed so welcoming the day before felt . . . empty. A big, empty shell with nothing to fill it but awkward silence.

  “Your room is through here,” Rory said at last and led him to the closet-room.

  Tate followed him and set his bag down between the bed and the wall. He stood there, arms by his sides, not looking Rory in the face but obviously waiting for something.

  “Um,” Rory said, and Tate’s gaze flicked up before it dropped again. “I’ll let you settle in, then.”

  And count down the hours until I can go to bed and not have to make awkward conversation.