Isaac Asimov's SF-Lite

by Gardner R. Dozois

  “No, sir, I sure don’t.”

  “Let’s cut the sir stuff, Maggie. I’m older than you in years but there’s a spirit of youth pervades the stage. You’re a very pretty girl. How you fixed for cash?”

  “Not real good right now.”

  “My point exactly. Here’s what I suggest. It’s just an idea I’m throwing out. I take in a few writers on this scholarship thing which is hey, my way of paying Lady Broadway back in a small way. You stay at my place, we work together. I got a friend can give you good photo work. He’s affiliated with a national modeling chain. All semi-tasteful stuff. You’d know his name the minute I said it.”

  “You want to take my picture?”

  “Just an idea. Let’s get you settled in.”

  “This sounds a lot like girls and scientists, Mr. Wilde. I don’t see what it has to do with my play.”

  Marty came off the desk. “I want you to be comfortable with this.”

  “I’m not very comfortable right now.”

  “So let’s talk. Tell me what you’re feeling.”

  “You just talk from over there.”

  “You remind me a lot of Debra Winger. In a very classical sense.”

  “You remind me of someone, too.”

  “Jesus, what a sweet kid you are. We won’t try to push it. Just let it happen.” He took a step closer. A strange invisible force picked him up and hurled him against the wall. Pictures of near-greats shattered. Some crucial fault gave way in the stacks of plays. Acts and scenes spilled over Marty on the floor.

  “I think you broke something,” said Marty. “Where *d you learn that hold? You're awful quick."

  The girl with carrot hair came in.

  “Call somebody,” said Marty. “Get me on the couch."

  “I don't think we can work together,” said Maggie. “I'm real displeased with your behavior.”

  “I can see you don't know shit about the theatre,” said Marty. “You can't just waltz in here and expect to see your name in lights.”

  “You ought to be in jail. If you try to get in touch with me, I'll press charges.”

  Carla said she could stay as long as she wanted. There wasn't any reason to go look for another place.

  “I've got to try it on my own.” said Maggie. “I believe in my play. I don’t believe everyone on Broadway’s like Marty Wilde.”

  Carla could see that she was determined. “It’s not easy to get work. Tony thinks a lot of you. Maggie. We all do. You're family.”

  “Oh. Carla.” Maggie threw her arms around her. “You're the very best family I ever had.”

  Carla persuaded her to wait for the Sunday Times. Mama Velotta filled her up with food. “Eat now. You won’t get a chance to later.”

  The room was on East 21st over an all-night Chinese restaurant. Maggie shared it with three girls named Jeannie, Eva, and Sherry. They all three worked for an insurance company. Maggie got a waitress job nights at the restaurant downstairs. There was just enough money to eat and pay the rent. She slept a few hours after work and took the play around days. No one wanted to see her. They asked her to mail copies and get an agent. Maggie cut down her meals to one a day, which allowed her to make a new copy of “Blue Sun Rising” every week. She even started a new play, using Sherry’s portable Smith Corona and the backs of paper placemats from the job. The play was “Diesel and Roses,” a psychological drama set in a truckstop cafe. Billy Mace was in it, and so was Henry Black Bear and Quincy Pride and Tony Velotta. Carla called. There was a postal money order from Marble Creek for $175 and a note.

  “It’s not good news,” said Carla.

  “Read it,” said Maggie.

  “ ‘Dying. Come home. Uncle Ned.’ ”

  “Oh, Lord.”

  “I’m real sorry, honey.”

  “It’s okay. We weren’t close.”

  The thing to do was take the money and eat and make some copies of “Blue Sun Rising.” And forget about Uncle Ned. Maggie couldn’t do it. Even Uncle Ned deserved to have family put him in the ground. “I’ll be back,” she told New York, and made arrangements to meet Carla and get the money.

  The first thing she noticed was things had changed in the year she’d been away. Instead of the ’72 Ford, there was a late model Buick with a boat hitch on the back. Poking out of the garage was a Ranger fishing boat, an 18-footer with a big Merc outboard on the stem.

  “You better be dead or dying,” said Maggie.

  The living room looked like Sears and Western Auto had exploded. There was a brand new Sony, and a VCR, and hit tapes like Gymnasts in Chains. The kitchen was a wildlife preserve. Maggie stood at the door but wouldn’t go in. Things moved around under plates. There were cartons of Hershey bars and chips. Canned Danish hams and foreign mustards. All over the house there were things still in boxes. Uncle Ned had dug tunnels through empty bottles and dirty books. There were new Hawaiian shirts. Hush Puppies in several different styles. A man appeared in one of the tunnels.

  “I’m Dr. Kraftt, I guess you’re Maggie.”

  “Is he really dying? What’s wrong with him?”

  “Take your pick. The man’s got everything. A person can’t live like that and expect their organs to behave.”

  Maggie went upstairs. Uncle Ned looked dead already. There were green oxygen tanks and plastic tubes.

  “I’m real glad you came. This is nice.”

  “Uncle Ned, where’d you get all this stuff?”

  “That all you got to say? You don’t want to hear how I am?”

  “I can see how you are.”

  “You’re entitled to bad feelings. I deserve whatever you want to dish out. I want to settle things up before I go to damnation and meet your aunt. Your father had an employee stock plan at Montgomery Wards. Left your mother well off and that woman was too cheap to spend it. We got the money when she died and you came to us. We sort of took these little vacations. Nothing big.”

  “Oh Lord.”

  “I guess we wronged you some.”

  “I guess I grew up on peanut butter and Campbell’s soup is what happened.”

  “I’ve got a lot to answer for. There are certain character flaws.”

  “That’s no big news to me.”

  “I can see a lot clearer from the unique position I got at the moment. Poised between one plane of being and the next. When your aunt died weakness began to thrive. I didn’t mean to buy so much stuff.”

  “I don’t suppose there’s anything left.”

  “Not to speak of I wouldn’t think. All that junk out there’s on credit. It’ll have to go back. The bank’s got the house. There’s forty-nine dollars in a Maxwell House can in the closet. I want you to have it.”

  “I’ll take it.”

  “I wish you and me’d been closer. I hope you’ll give me a kiss.”

  “I’d rather eat a toad,” said Maggie.

  Maggie saw Jimmie Gerder at the funeral. He still had a limp and kept his distance. She walked along the river to see Oral. It was fall, or as close as fall gets in that end of Texas. Dry leaves rattled and the Colorado was low. The log where she used to watch turtles was aground, trailing tangles of fishing line. The water was the color of chocolate milk and the turtles were gone. Oral was gone too. Brush had sprung up under the big native pecan. The place looked empty without the multi-blue pickup and the extraterrestrial trailer. Maggie wondered if he’d gotten things to work or just left. She asked around town, and no one seemed to remember seeing him go. After a Coke and a bacon and tomato at the cafe she figured she had enough to get back to New York if she sold a couple of things before Sears learned Uncle Ned was dead. Put that with her forty-nine-dollar inheritance and she could do it. There was fifteen dollars left from the ticket. Even dying, Uncle Ned had remembered to pay for only one way.

  Winter in New York was bad. The Chinese restaurant became an outlet for video tapes. Sherry and Jeannie and Eva helped all they could. They carried Maggie on the rent and ran copies of “Blue Sun Rising” do
wn at the insurance company. The Velottas tried to help, but Maggie wouldn’t have it. She got part-time work at a pizza place on East 52nd. After work she walked bone-tired to the theatre district and looked at the lights. She read the names on the posters and watched people get out of cabs. There was a cold wet drizzle every night, but Maggie didn’t mind. The streets reflected the magic and made it better. When the first snow fell she sewed a blanket in her coat. The coat smelled like anchovies and Sherry said she looked like a Chinese pilot. “For God’s sake, baby, let me loan you a coat.”

  “I can manage,” said Maggie, “you’ve done enough.”

  She could no longer afford subways or buses so she walked every day from her room. She lost weight and coughed most of the time. The owner asked her to leave. He said customers didn’t like people coughing on their pizza. She didn’t tell the girls she’d lost her job. They’d want to give her money. She looked, but there weren’t any jobs to be had. Especially for girls who looked like bag ladies and sounded like Camille. She kept going out every day and coming back at night. Hunger wasn’t a problem. She felt too sick to eat. One night she simply didn’t go home. “What’s the point? What’s the use pretending? No one wants to look at ‘Blue Sun Rising.’ I can’t get a job. I can’t do anything at all.”

  The snow began to fall in slow motion, flakes the size of lemons. Broadway looked like a big Christmas tree someone had tossed out and forgot to take the lights.

  “Look at the blues,” said Maggie. “Oral liked the blues so much.”

  A man selling food gave her a pretzel and some mustard. The pretzel came up at once. A coughing fit hit her. She couldn’t stop. First nighters hurried quickly by. Maggie pulled her coat up close and looked in the steamy windows of Times Square. Radios and German bayonets were half-off. There was a pre-Christmas sale on marital aids. She could still taste the mustard and the pretzel. A black man in sunglasses approached.

  “You hurtin’ bad, mama. You need something, I can maybe get it.”

  “No thank you,” said Maggie.

  I can’t just stand here, she thought. I’ve got to do something. She couldn’t feel her feet. Lights were jumping about. There was a paper box in the alley. The thing to do was to sit down and try to figure things out. She thought of a good line for “Diesel and Roses” and then forgot it. A cat looked in and sniffed; there were anchovies somewhere about. Maggie dreamed of daddy when he took her to the zoo. She dreamed of Oral under a tree and riding high with Billy Mace. The cab was toasty warm and Billy had burgers from McDonald’s. She dreamed she heard applause. The cat started chewing on her coat. Oh Lord, I love New York, thought Maggie. If I can make it here, I can make it anywhere . . .

  Carla looked ethereal, computer-enhanced.

  “I guess I’m dying,” said Maggie. “I’m sorry to get you out in this weather.”

  “Oh baby,” said Carla, “hang on. Just hang on, Maggie.”

  Everything was fuzzy. The tubes hurt her nose. The walls were dark and needed painting. Sherry and Eva and Jeannie were there and all the Velottas. They bobbed about like balloons. Everyone had rings around their eyes.

  “I want you to have ‘Blue Sun Rising,’ ” said Maggie. “All of you. Equal shares. I’ve been thinking about off-Broadway lately. That might not be so hard. Don’t see a man named Marty Wilde.”

  “All right, Maggie.”

  “She’s going,” someone said.

  “Goodbye, Daddy. Goodbye, Oral,” said Maggie.

  The room looked nice. There was a big window with sun coming in. The doctor leaned down close. He smelled like good cologne. He smiled at Maggie and wrote something and left. A nice-looking man got up from a chair and stood by the bed.

  “Hello.'You feeling like something to drink? You want anything just ask.”

  “I’d like a Dr Pepper if you have one.”

  “You got it.”

  The man left and Maggie tried to stay awake. When she opened her eyes again it was late afternoon. The man was still there. A nurse came in and propped her up. The man brought her a fresh Dr Pepper.

  “You look a lot like Tony,” said Maggie. He did. The same crispy hair and dark eyes. A nice black suit and a gray tie. Maybe a couple of years older. “You know Tony and Carla?”

  “They ask about you every day. You can see them real soon. Everybody’s been pretty worried about you.”

  “I guess I ’bout died.”

  “Yeah, I guess you did.”

  “This place looks awful expensive. I don’t want the Velottas or anyone spending a bundle on me.”

  “They won’t. No problem.”

  “Hey, I know a swell place like this isn’t free.”

  “We’ll talk about it. Don’t worry.” The man smiled at Maggie and went away.

  Maggie slept and got her appetite back and wondered where she was. The next afternoon the man was back. He helped her in a wheelchair and rolled her down the hall to a glassed-in room full of plants. There were cars outside in a circular drive. A fountain turned off for the winter. A snow-covered lawn and a dark line of trees. Far in the distance, pale blue hills against a cold and leaden sky. Men in sunglasses and overcoats walked around in the snow.

  “I guess you’re going to tell me where I am sometime,” said Maggie. “I guess you’re going to tell me who you are and what I’m doing in this place I can’t afford.”

  “I’m Johnny Lucata,” the man said. “Call me Johnny, Maggie. And this house belongs to a friend.”

  “He must be a friend of yours, then. I don't remember any friends with a house like this.”

  “You don’t know him. But he’s a friend of yours too.” He seemed to hesitate. He straightened his tie. “Look, I got things to tell you. Things you need to know. You want we can talk when you feel a little better.”

  “I feel okay right now.”

  “Maybe. Only this is kinda nutsy stuff, you know? I don’t want to put you back in bed or nothing.”

  “Mr. Lucata, whatever it is, I think I’ll feel a lot better when I know what’s going on.”

  “Right. Why not? So what do you know about olives?”

  “What?”

  “Olives. They got olives over in Italy. There’s a place where the toe’s kicking Sicily in the face. Calabria. Something like a state, only different. The man lives here, he’s got a lot of the olive oil business in Calabria. Been in his family maybe four, five hundred years. You sure you want to do this now?”

  “I’m sure, Mr. Lucata.”

  “Okay. There’s this city called Reggio di Calabria right on the water. You can look and see Sicily real good. A couple of miles out of town is this castle. Been there forever, only now it’s a place for monks. So what happens is a couple of months back this monk’s digging around and finds this parchment in a box. It’s real old and the monk reads it. What he sees shakes him up real bad. He’s not going to go to the head monk because Catholics got this thing about stuff that even starts to get weird. But he’s a monk, right? He can’t just toss this thing away. He’s got a sister knows a guy who’s family to the man who lives here. So the box gets to Reggio and then it gets to him.” Johnny Lucata looked at Maggie. “Here’s the part I said gets spooky. What this parchment says, Maggie, is that the old duke who started up the family left all the olive business to yaw.”

  Maggie looked blank. “Now that doesn’t make sense at all, Mr. Lucata.”

  “Yeah, tell me. It’s the straight stuff. The experts been over it. I got a copy I can show you. It’s all in Latin, but you can read the part that says Maggie McKenna of Marble Creek, Texas. We got the word out and we been looking all over trying to find you. But your uncle died and you came back to New York. We didn’t know where to take it after that. Then someone in Tony’s family mentions your name and it gets to us. The thing is now, the man lives here, he doesn’t know what to make of all this, and he don’t want to think about it a lot. He sure don’t want to ask some cardinal or the Pope. What he wants to do is make it right for you, Ma
ggie. This duke is his ancestor and he figures it’s a matter of honor. I mean, he doesn’t see you ought to get it all, but you ought to be in for a couple of points. He wants me to tell you he’d like to work it where you get maybe three, four mill a year out of this. He thinks that’s fair and he knows you’re pressed for cash.”

  Maggie sat up straight. “Are you by any chance talking about dollars? Three or four million dollars?”

  “Five. I think we ought to say five. He kind of left that up to me. Don’t worry about the taxes. We’ll work a little off-tackle Panama reverse through a Liechtenstein bank. You’ll get the bread through a Daffy Duck Christmas Club account.”

  “I just can’t hardly believe this, Mr. Lucata. It’s like a dream or something. No one even knew I was going to be back then. Why, there wasn’t even a Texas!”

  “You got it.”

  “This castle. There’s just these monks living there now?”

  “Palazzo Azzuro. Means blue palace. I been there, it’s nice. Painted blue all over. Inside and out. Every kind of blue you ever saw.”

  “Blue? Oh my goodness!”

  “You okay?”

  “Oral,” said Maggie, “Oh Oral, you’re the finest and dearest friend I ever had!”

  When she was feeling like getting up and around. Johnny Lucata helped her find a relatively modest apartment off Fifth Avenue. Five mill or not, Maggie had been poor too long to start tossing money around. She did make sure there were always Dr Peppers and Baby Ruths in the fridge. And steaks and fresh fruit and nearly everything but Chinese food and pizza. Carla helped her find Bloomingdale’s and Saks. Maggie picked out a new cloth coat. She sent nice perfume to Jeannie and Sherry and Eva, and paid them back triple what they’d spent to help her out. She gave presents to the Velottas and had everyone over for dinner. Johnny Lucata dropped by a lot. Just to see how she was doing. Sometimes he came in a cab. Sometimes he came in a black car with tinted windows and men wearing black suits and shades. He took her out to dinner and walks in the park. Sometimes Maggie made coffee, and they talked into the night. She read him “Blue Sun Rising” and he liked it.

  “You don’t have to say that, just because it’s me.”