Spoonbenders

by Daryl Gregory

  He writes out the ingredients, tripling the usual recipe for the number of people in the house. And then he starts writing out the instructions. “Just in case,” he says. “I might not be able to…” He doesn’t finish the sentence.

  “You look so nervous,” Irene says. “Don’t worry. It’s all going to work out.”

  “What did you say?” He looks up. His eyes are awash in tears. Unexpected, uncalled for. One of the first surprises of the day.

  “Oh, Buddy.” She reaches up and puts a hand on his neck. “I’m sorry. I know having lots of people around stresses you out.”

  He takes a breath. There are so many plates to keep spinning, and some of them are beginning to wobble. “It is a lot to manage,” he says.

  MATTY

  He was flying over water. The slate blue water stretched to the horizon, into a golden smear of the rising sun, and he moved toward it along the brilliant, rippling path of the dawn road. He could feel nothing, hear nothing. There was no speed. It could be that he was not moving at all, simply hovering in place while the planet rotated beneath him. And at the thought of the planet, there it was, a blue-green orb glowing beneath his feet. So pretty. He glanced up, into the black of space, and noticed a star winking at him. Or was that Mars? He moved closer—

  —and woke with a yelp.

  A dream. Or was it? Could his astral self slip away while he was sleeping? What if it couldn’t find its way back? Another thing to worry about.

  God he needed to pee.

  He lay in the bunk bed, staring up at springs and slats. No new deliveries, thank goodness. The room was dark except for a crack in Buddy’s new metal window shades. What time was it?

  Finally his bladder nudged him out of bed. When he climbed out of the bunk, the entire frame creaked and swayed. So maybe these weren’t the most permanent structures Buddy had built.

  “Oh come on,” a voice above him said.

  “Sorry,” Matty said.

  Julian, the oldest of the Pusateris, made a dismissive noise through his teeth. Even in the dark he could roll his eyes. Matty had decided last night that he didn’t like him, and not just because the older boy had kicked his ass in Super Mario. Every time Uncle Buddy had walked in, Julian made a face. When Malice came down, he frowned at her and said, “Of course. A Goth.”

  The other bunks, containing the two youngest Pusateris, were to his right, which meant the basement bathroom was off to his left. He started for it.

  Julian said, “What’s the matter with you?”

  “Nothing,” Matty said without looking back. He’d learned to deal with the random aggressions of older boys. School was a dog park, all the big dogs off the chain, the pups fending for themselves, and the teachers distant and useless. The trick was to keep your head down and keep moving.

  “I mean all of you,” Julian said.

  “Hey.” Matty wheeled to face him, propelled by a flash of anger. “You don’t know us.”

  “I know what you are.” But he didn’t sound so sure. He seemed as surprised as Matty that someone younger and poorer would dare disagree with him.

  “You don’t know shit. We were on TV. We’re the Amazing Telemachus Family.”

  “Yeah, well do something amazing.” Julian hopped down. “I’m serious. Do something. Now.”

  Matty stood his ground. “Ask me if I’ve got change for a five.”

  “What?”

  “Ask me. Then hand me a five-dollar bill.”

  “Fuck you.”

  Matty shrugged. “Fine. Forget it.”

  “No, wait.” He reached into his jeans and brought out a nylon wallet. “I’ve got a ten. Will that do?”

  Matty pretended to consider this. “All right. Now ask the question.”

  “Do you, dick-muncher, have change for a ten?”

  “Sure, mister fuckwad.” Matty folded the ten, palmed it, and unfolded the two-dollar bill. He gave it a snap and showed it to him. It was a blast to watch his face.

  “What the fuck! Where’s my ten bucks? How’d you do that?”

  “I’ll teach it to you for twenty,” Matty said.

  “Deal.”

  “Later,” Matty said. “I gotta pee.”

  After the bathroom, he went upstairs. Uncle Buddy stood at the stove, twisting wads of cinnamon dough onto a cookie pan. “These will be done in a few minutes,” Buddy said. “Your mom went to the grocery store.”

  “Thanks.” It was weird to have Uncle Buddy talk to him unprompted. Weird, but nice.

  The house was quiet, everybody except Buddy still in their bedrooms, which was good, because Matty needed a little privacy. He went into the living room, where a half-naked Uncle Frankie lay on the couch like a drowned sailor tangled in sailcloth. Matty squatted next to him and touched his shoulder. Then he poked him.

  Frankie opened one eye. It took a long time for consciousness to spread to the rest of his face.

  “So?” Matty said.

  “No money,” Frankie croaked.

  “What?”

  The second eye opened. “No. Money.”

  “But the safe—”

  “Empty. At least…” He shut his eyes again. “Anything useful.”

  “No money,” Matty said wonderingly.

  “What time is it?” Frankie asked.

  “I don’t know. After eight?”

  “Fuck.” Then: “Sorry.” He sat up, coughed hard. Then he looked Matty in the eye. “You didn’t see them move it or anything?”

  “No! Every time somebody paid, he put it in the safe. I swear.”

  Frankie looked at the floor. After a while, Matty said, “What are we going to do?”

  “We’re not going to do anything,” Frankie said. “There’s nothing to do. We’re fucked.”

  All this work, Matty thought. All this trouble, and there was nothing to show for it? Nothing he could give Mom?

  Frankie was looking at something over Matty’s shoulder. Matty turned, and Malice was staring at them. She looked so much younger without her makeup, more fragile.

  “Who are these guys?” she asked, and nodded at the window.

  Matty stood up. A silver van had pulled into the driveway.

  “Don’t let them in!” Matty said to Malice. He ran upstairs, thinking, They’ve come for me.

  TEDDY

  Someone pounded on his bedroom door. “Grandpa Teddy?” Matty said, his voice frantic. “Are you in there? Agent Smalls is here!”

  Already? Teddy thought. They’d agreed on nine. “I’ll be right down,” he said. Fortunately he was already showered and dressed. He’d put on one of his best bespoke suits, a charcoal and black pinstripe merino, handmade downtown by none other than Frank DeBartolo. The tie was a purple paisley, the tie pin diamond. The gold cuff links were an award for distinguished service that he’d won from a Shriner in 1958. The final accessory remained to be chosen from the black velvet tray. But really, there was no choice at all.

  He picked up the Daytona Rolex. It was the twin of the one Nick Pusateri had taken from him. The thing about twins, though; they were never truly identical, even if they looked it at first glance. One of them might be worth twenty grand, the other twenty bucks. Hard to tell unless you knew your watches. Nick didn’t, obviously. But it wasn’t just the fake diamonds that had fooled him. The man had trophy blindness. All Teddy had to do was act wounded when it was taken from him, and the gangster felt like he’d won something priceless, because of how much it had cost his enemy. He’d never suspect it was a fake, because that would mean admitting that his victory was fake. Once a man had committed emotionally to the con, it was near impossible to claw his way back to objectivity.

  He fastened the watch to his wrist and felt the quality radiate up his arm. Trophies couldn’t blind if you knew exactly what they were worth.

  He returned the tray to the safe, and tucked it below Maureen’s letters.

  Downstairs, Frankie stood at the front door, blocking Destin Smalls from entering. Matty nervously hover
ed behind Frankie. “Let ’em in,” Teddy said. “Let’s get this over with.” He patted Matty on the shoulder. “Nothing to worry about. Trust me, all right?”

  Frankie stepped aside, and Smalls ducked through the door. “We won’t take long,” he said.

  “You knew Smalls was coming?” Frankie said, outraged. “With him?”

  Him being G. Randall Archibald. The magician entered carrying a metal suitcase. Cliff Turner came in behind him with more cases in hand and a loop of electrical cable slung over one shoulder.

  Archibald held out his hand to Matty. “A pleasure to meet you. I assure you, the entire process is painless.”

  “What process?” Matty asked.

  “A simple test of psionic potential,” Archibald said. “We’ll set up here by the couch.”

  Buddy came into the room with a tray of cinnamon rolls drizzled with white goop, just like the ones in the mall. He set them on the coffee table and vanished without a word.

  “How about some coffee?” Teddy asked. “Cliff?”

  “That would be great, Teddy,” the man said.

  Archibald raised his bushy eyebrows.

  “Okay, you too,” Teddy said. To Frankie he said, “Son, could you tell Buddy to get some coffee for these boys, and a cup of warm water for Agent Smalls? Also, and this is just a suggestion, put on some pants.” Frankie looked like he was hungover. He wouldn’t have blamed the kid if he’d drunk heavily last night.

  “I’m going upstairs,” Frankie said.

  “Fine. Matty, could you talk to Buddy? And then why don’t you wait in the basement until we’re ready.” The boy was only too happy to skedaddle. Mary Alice went with him.

  Cliff ferried in more cases from the van, and Archibald hopped about the room, stringing cables, plugging in devices, and turning on colored lights like a Christmas elf. Teddy took a seat to watch the show. God he wished he could smoke a cigarette, but the place was too full of disapproving women and impressionable children.

  Graciella came down, looking casually elegant as always, wearing a light summer dress with her hair pinned back. She surveyed the living room and said, “Are we filming a documentary?”

  Teddy introduced Graciella to Cliff, who didn’t know who she was, and Smalls, who pretended not to know. Archibald kissed her hand.

  “Oh, I’ve heard of you,” Graciella said.

  “Alas, my advance publicity cannot help me now,” said the little white gnome. “I’ve retired from the stage. And yet”—he vanished his handkerchief, and made it reappear—“I can’t help but perform in the presence of grace.”

  “You’re worse than Teddy,” Graciella said approvingly. “Don’t let my sons see you do that, they’ll pester you all day.”

  She pulled Teddy aside. “What in the world are they doing here?”

  “I made a deal,” he said. “One test. If Matty scores well, Destin gets to report the results and keep his program running until Matty turns eighteen. Then, Matty gets to make his own decision.” He didn’t mention that he’d promised to keep the children away from Smalls, because that would require more explanations about how he wasn’t really breaking his promise.

  “I mean today,” Graciella said. “If Nick shows up—”

  “He won’t be able to do a thing. Look at all these people! So many witnesses! Plus, that man?” He nodded to Destin Smalls. “That man there is a government agent. There’s no one better to have hanging around the house in case your criminal-minded father-in-law shows up.”

  She didn’t look reassured.

  “I promise you,” he said. “No place safer.”

  As Archibald and crew set up, children started popping out of the woodwork, many of them carrying squirt guns. The young ones kept asking what the men were doing. Teddy made up a different story each time: recording insect songs; freezing time; setting up for karaoke. That last was a mistake. The three little girls went crazy.

  Three? Teddy thought.

  “Where’s the microphone?” the Asian girl asked.

  She could have been any age between seven and twelve. Teddy paged through the roster of children he knew to be in the house, sorted them by gender, age, and race, and came up empty. Graciella and Irene weren’t in the room.

  “And who might you be?” Teddy asked.

  “June,” she said.

  “Hi, June.”

  “June,” she said, slightly differently.

  “June.”

  She was already bored trying to correct him. “It’s not really karaoke, is it?”

  “No, it’s not,” he admitted. “It’s for highly advanced psychometry. Do you live in the neighborhood?”

  He didn’t get an answer. One of the twins shrieked in joy and sprinted from the room, and Not-Exactly-June gave chase.

  That’s when Irene walked in the door, carrying two paper sacks of groceries.

  IRENE

  “What the fuck?”

  The living room had been turned into a laboratory: black cases sprouting wires and cables; half a dozen small satellite dishes on tripods, like inverted umbrellas; control boxes on the coffee table and the floor.

  Destin Smalls greeted her with a cheery hello, and G. Randall Archibald—the Astounding Archibald himself—waved at her from near the couch.

  Teddy ushered her toward the kitchen. “Nothing to worry about, Irene. Just a little science.”

  “Where’s Matty?”

  “Downstairs, playing. Perfectly safe.”

  She gave him a dark look. “You’re on top of this, right?”

  “I’m offended you even asked. Off you go.”

  Buddy passed her carrying a tray of coffee cups. Irene went into the kitchen with the groceries, where someone stood at the counter, chopping vegetables. The someone was Joshua.

  He set down the knife and lunged forward, just in time to grab a bag as it slipped from her grasp.

  “Hi,” he said.

  Her body was having a full-on chemical reaction. She wanted to throw herself on him. She wanted to run away. She wanted him to run away, and then she’d catch him, tackle him, and squash him into the ground.

  Her mouth eventually managed to make words. “What are you doing here?”

  He set the bag on the counter. “You didn’t know I was coming?”

  “Why the hell would I know you were coming?” Anger, even fake anger, was good. It gave her something to hold on to.

  “Your brother invited us to a picnic,” he said.

  “Buddy?” And then: “Us?” She flashed on the unknown child in the pack who’d run past her. “Jun is here?”

  “Yeah. It was my weekend, and I figured, hey, adventure.”

  She couldn’t think of what to say.

  “He didn’t tell you,” Joshua said.

  “Nope.”

  He blew out through his lips. “Okay. I’m so sorry. We’ll go.”

  “You can’t,” she said. “I’ve got four pounds of ground lamb shoulder in the car.”

  “Four pounds?”

  “I thought Buddy was overestimating, but it turns out, he may be right on target.”

  “Right,” he said. “Us and the karaoke guys.”

  He helped her carry in the groceries and put the perishables into the already crammed refrigerator. During the process she tried to figure out what was happening in her body and in her brain.

  “So…” he said.

  She stopped him. “Where’s Buddy?”

  “Outside?” he said.

  She took Joshua’s hand and pulled him outside. Buddy was in the yard, crouched over the same device he was working on yesterday. Two cables, one red and one blue, ran from it for a couple of yards, then vanished into the lawn.

  “Buddy,” she said. He didn’t respond. “Buddy, look at me.”

  He stood up reluctantly. The thing he’d been fiddling with was an orange canister. The cables terminated at a junction that was topped with a big red button.

  “What is that, a bomb?” she asked.

  Bu
ddy’s eyes went wide. Then he shook his head.

  “I’m kidding,” Irene said. “Buddy, I wanted you to meet Joshua in person. See, he and his daughter came all the way from Arizona.”

  “We met,” Joshua said. “He was in the street when we pulled up.”

  “That’s awfully nice,” she said.

  “Don’t be mad at him,” Joshua said into her ear.

  “Is there anyone else coming I should know about?” she asked Buddy. “Anyone else dropping by? You know, in case we need more lamb shoulder.”

  Buddy grimaced.

  “Who?” Irene demanded.

  “Surprise,” he said quietly.

  “Jesus Christ.”

  The kids ran through again. Somehow they’d acquired water pistols, and the older kids were carrying giant Super Soakers, the AK-47s of squirt guns. Jun was grinning and yelling with the rest of them. Sooner or later, someone would be crying, but for right now they all seemed happy. Buddy eyed them, then covered the red button with a metal cap that snapped shut.

  “The garage,” she said to Joshua, and took his hand again. There was no logical reason she needed to physically drag him around. It’s that she got a charge every time she touched him, fizzing up in her bloodstream.

  Graciella’s Mercedes wagon took up most of the space. Irene popped the back hatch and gestured for him to sit beside her.

  “Nice car,” Joshua said.

  “It belongs to the mob,” she said. “Long story.”

  They said nothing for perhaps half a minute. The air warmed between them.

  “You left kind of suddenly,” Joshua said.

  “I hope I didn’t get you fired,” she said.

  “Me? No. Others, though…”

  “Really?”

  “The gender gap struck a nerve. The manager you interviewed with, Bob Sloane? Already gone. Technically he’s on leave, but that’s just until they finish the paperwork.”

  “Wow.”

  “I still don’t think they’re going to hire you, though,” he said.

  “Thank you for being honest.”

  “I’m trying.”

  Do not kiss him, she thought. Kissing him would ruin everything.