Eastern Standard Tribe

by Cory Doctorow

and looked me up in the nuthatch.

  They found me sitting on the sofa in the ward, post-Group, arms and anklescrossed, dozing in a shaft of sunlight. It was my habitual napping spot, and Ifound that a nap between Group and dinner was a good way to sharpen my appetiteand anasthetize my taste buds, which made the mealtime slop bearable.

  Audie shook my shoulder gently. I assumed at first that she was one of theinmates trying to get me involved in a game of Martian narco-checkers, so Ibrushed her hand away.

  "They've probably got him all doped up," Audie said. The voice was familiar andunplaceable and so I cracked my eyelid, squinting up at her silhouette in theafternoon sun. "There he is," she said. "Come on, up and at 'em, tiger."

  I sat up abruptly and scrubbed at my eyes. "Audie?" I asked.

  "Yup. And Alphie." Alphie's pink face hove into view.

  "Hi, Art," he mumbled.

  "Jesus," I said, getting to my feet. Audie put out a superfluous steadying hand."Wow."

  "Surprised?" Audie said.

  "Yeah!" I said. Audie thrust a bouquet of flowers into my arms. "What are youdoing here?"

  "Oh, your grandmother told me you were here. I was coming down to Boston forwork anyway, so I flew in a day early so I could drop in. Alphie came down withme -- he's my assistant now."

  I almost said something about convicted felons working for governmentcontractors, but I held onto my tongue. Consequently, an awkward silenceblossomed.

  "Well," Audie said, at last. "Well! Let's have a look at you, then." Sheactually took a lap around me, looking me up and down, making little noises."You look all right, Art. Maybe a little skinny, even. Alphie's got a box ofcookies for you." Alphie stepped forward and produced the box, a family pack ofPresident's Choice Ridiculous Chocoholic Extra Chewies, a Canadian store brandI'd been raised on. Within seconds of seeing them, my mouth was sloshing withsaliva.

  "It's good to see you, Audie, Alphie." I managed to say it without spitting, animpressive feat, given the amount of saliva I was contending with. "Thanks forthe care package."

  We stared at each other blankly.

  "So, Art," Alphie said, "So! How do you like it here?"

  "Well, Alphie," I said. "I can't say as I do, really. As far as I can tell, I'msane as I've ever been. It's just a bunch of unfortunate coincidences and badjudgment that got me here." I refrain from mentioning Alphie's propensity forlapses in judgment.

  "Wow," Alphie said. "That's a bummer. We should do something, you know, Audie?"

  "Not really my area of expertise," Audie said in clipped tones. "I would if Icould, you know that, right Art? We're family, after all."

  "Oh, sure," I say magnanimously. But now that I'm looking at them, my cousinswho got into a thousand times more trouble than I ever did, driving drunk,pirating software, growing naughty smokables in the backyard, and got away fromit unscathed, I feel a stirring of desperate hope. "Only..."

  "Only what?" Alphie said.

  "Only, maybe, Audie, do you think you could, that is, if you've got the time, doyou think you could have a little look around and see if any of your contactscould maybe set me up with a decent lawyer who might be able to get my casereheard? Or a shrink, for that matter? Something? 'Cause frankly it doesn'treally seem like they're going to let me go, ever. Ever."

  Audie squirmed and glared at her brother. "I don't really know anyone that fitsthe bill," she said at last.

  "Well, not *firsthand,* sure, why would you? You wouldn't." I thought that I wasstarting to babble, but I couldn't help myself. "You wouldn't. But maybe there'ssomeone that someone you know knows who can do something about it? I mean, itcan't hurt to ask around, can it?"

  "I suppose it can't," she said.

  "Wow," I said, "that would just be fantastic, you know. Thanks in advance,Audie, really, I mean it, just for trying, I can't thank you enough. This place,well, it really sucks."

  There it was, hanging out, my desperate and pathetic plea for help. Really,there was nowhere to go but down from there. Still, the silence stretched andsnapped and I said, "Hey, speaking of, can I offer you guys a tour of the ward?I mean, it's not much, but it's home."

  So I showed them: the droolers and the fondlers and the pukers and my horriblelittle room and the scarred ping-pong table and the sticky decks of cards andthe meshed-in TV. Alphie actually seemed to dig it, in a kind of horrified way.He started comparing it to the new Kingston Pen, where he'd done his six-monthbit. After seeing the first puker, Audie went quiet and thin-lipped, leavingnothing but Alphie's enthusiastic gurgling as counterpoint to my tour.

  "Art," Audie said finally, desperately, "do you think they'd let us take you outfor a cup of coffee or a walk around the grounds?"

  I asked. The nurse looked at a comm for a while, then shook her head.

  "Nope," I reported. "They need a day's notice of off-ward supervisedexcursions."

  "Well, too bad," Audie said. I understood her strategy immediately. "Too bad.Nothing for it, then. Guess we should get back to our hotel." I planted a drykiss on her cheek, shook Alphie's sweaty hand, and they were gone. I skippedsupper that night and ate cookies until I couldn't eat another bite of richchocolate.

  #

  "Got a comm?" I ask Doc Szandor, casually.

  "What for?"

  "Wanna get some of this down. The ideas for the hospital. Before I go back outon the ward." And it *is* what I want to do, mostly. But the temptation to justlog on and do my thing -- oh!

  "Sure," he says, checking his watch. "I can probably stall them for a couplehours more. Feel free to make a call or whatever, too."

  Doc Szandor's a good egg.

  24.

  Father Ferlenghetti showed up at Art's Gran's at 7PM, just as the sun began toset over the lake, and Art and he shared lemonade on Gran's sunporch and watchedas the waves on Lake Ontario turned harshly golden.

  "So, Arthur, tell me, what are you doing with your life?" the Father said. Hehad grown exquisitely aged, almost translucent, since Art had seen him last. Inhis dog collar and old-fashioned aviator's shades, he looked like a waxworksfigure.

  Art had forgotten all about the Father's visit until Gran stepped out of hersuperheated kitchen to remind him. He'd hastily showered and changed into freshslacks and a mostly clean tee shirt, and had agreed to entertain the priestwhile his Gran finished cooking supper. Now, he wished he'd signed up to do thecooking.

  "I'm working in London," he said. "The same work as ever, but for an Englishfirm."

  "That's what your grandmother tells me. But is it making you happy? Is it whatyou plan to do with the rest of your life?"

  "I guess so," Art said. "Sure."

  "You don't sound so sure," Father Ferlenghetti said.

  "Well, the *work* part's excellent. The politics are pretty ugly, though, totell the truth."

  "Ah. Well, we can't avoid politics, can we?"

  "No, I guess we can't."

  "Art, I've always known that you were a very smart young man, but being smartisn't the same as being happy. If you're very lucky, you'll get to be my age andyou'll look back on your life and be glad you lived it."

  Gran called him in for dinner before he could think of a reply. He settled downat the table and Gran handed him a pen.

  "What's this for?" he asked.

  "Sign the tablecloth," she said. "Write a little something and sign it and dateit, nice and clear, please."

  "Sign the tablecloth?"

  "Yes. I've just started a fresh one. I have everyone sign my tablecloth and thenI embroider the signatures in, so I have a record of everyone who's been herefor supper. They'll make a nice heirloom for your children -- I'll show you theold ones after we eat."

  "What should I write?"

  "It's up to you."

  While Gran and the Father looked on, Art uncapped the felt-tip pen and thoughtand thought, his mind blank. Finally, he wrote, "For my Gran. No matter where Iam, I know you're thinking of me." He signed it with a flourish.

  "Lovely. Let's eat now."

  A
rt meant to log in and see if Colonelonic had dredged up any intel on Linda'sex, but he found himself trapped on the sunporch with Gran and the Father and asmall stack of linen tablecloths hairy with embroidered wishes. He traced theirbraille with his fingertips, recognizing the names of his childhood. Gran andthe Father talked late into the night, and the