Barren Cove

by Ariel S. Winter

  Phil put his one hand on Clarke’s shoulder. “No, no, no, no . . .” Phil was stuck again, and all of Clarke’s anger turned—Beachstone, Mary’s pain, Kent, Barren Cove—and he grabbed Phil in a way he hadn’t since that first day on the beach when he’d torn off his brother’s arm, and he hurled him over the cliff.

  Cog laughed. “Man, you fucked up my chest,” he said.

  Clarke stared at the spot where Phil had gone over.

  “I knew you were robo,” Cog said, “but that was fucking awesome.”

  Clarke turned to look at his friend. His eyes saw the handmade wheelchair instead, and he went and threw that off the cliff as well, and he screamed and played his prerecorded laugh, “Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha.” He held both hands out to either side of him and ran through the fingers, one at a time in sequence and back again.

  He looked at Cog, who was watching him with great respect, and then he leapt off the edge, forming a perfect dive, landing in a roll, and coming up on his feet, a move he’d practiced many times.

  Phil was lying facedown several feet away, the wheelchair nearby as well. The broken robot’s legs were jerking, causing a horrible grinding sound. The shoulder gears were spinning, of course, the sand spraying where they touched the ground.

  Clarke was horrified. Look at him. Exactly the same as that first day on the beach almost two months ago, jerking and seizing in the sand, no different, nothing changed, and to what end?

  Cog landed somewhere behind him and approached, but he was with it enough to know not to say anything. Instead they stood there, listening to the ever present sound of the water and the grinding of gears, until eventually the gears stopped.

  “What happened?” Cog said.

  “His battery died,” Clarke said.

  “His battery!”

  Clarke glared at the big robot, who turned his head away. Then Clarke bent down, picked Phil up, and started walking along the beach in the direction of Barren Cove. He left the wheelchair where it was, shouldering the weight himself, bringing his brother home.

  19.

  KAPEC AND CLARKE dug the grave. Mary watched from the upstairs window. The day was beautiful. What she could see of the ocean from the house was placid, a deep blue line just below the blue of the sky. When she stopped to listen, she could always hear the ocean churning from anywhere near Barren Cove, but from the house itself, she never saw the waves, only the water that was far enough from shore as to be some other in-between place of calm and quiet. Now, the sound of the grave being dug floated up to her, even through the window. As she watched, the hole grew deep enough that Clarke jumped in with his shovel. Kapec stopped—there wasn’t enough room in the grave for both of them—and leaned against his own shovel, watching Clarke work. She could imagine that Kapec was fretting over the destruction of his beautiful lawn. He would be out with the seed later that afternoon, no doubt. For now, he stooped to shape the mound of dirt beside the hole, smoothing it, unable to leave even a pile of dirt lumpy and uneven.

  Mary had been worried that they would dig up Asimov 3000 or worse, Master Vandley, and with each shovelful of dirt, she felt relieved. Their unmarked cemetery. Their backyard.

  “Have they finished yet?”

  She could hear Beachstone limping toward her, but she didn’t turn away from the window. “No,” she said.

  He stopped short of being able to see out the window. If she had counted his steps correctly, he was five feet behind her. “Well, let me know when they’re ready.”

  The sound of the shovel hitting the dirt reached them. Crunch. The sound of the dirt hitting the mound followed. Thump.

  Mary watched. Clarke worked with the same even movements, like clockwork. She wondered why Beachstone’s limp had become more pronounced. She couldn’t help but feel that it was affected, and yet, what did she really know about human mechanics? Every human was an individual, and so all the medical texts in the world couldn’t tell her anything about Beachstone. She still had the same fascination with him she’d had when she first saw the boy limping all those years ago. What was pain?

  Beachstone sat on the bed behind her.

  Crunch. Thump.

  “Does your leg hurt terribly?” Mary said.

  “No, no, I’m fine,” Beachstone said.

  “We haven’t run out of aspirin yet.”

  “I’m fine.”

  Mary had noticed that Mr. Brown was getting older, that his store was less fully stocked, that nobody else was ever there when she went for supplies. She hadn’t said anything to Beachstone yet, and Beachstone never went to town. There was still time before she had to make other arrangements.

  “It’s finally over,” Beachstone said from the bed. He waited. “You know this is the right thing to do.”

  “I don’t know that,” Mary said.

  “It is the right thing to do.”

  Clarke was lower in the hole now, probably up to his shoulders. Graves had been dug deep to prevent disease as the biodegradable corpses rotted. How deep did a robot’s grave need to be? They had made Asimov 3000’s the requisite six feet.

  “Mary, come here,” Beachstone said.

  Mary didn’t turn.

  “I failed us. It is my failure. But I’m sorry.”

  Crunch. Thump. Kapec stopped the flow of the dirt from the mound back into the grave with his shovel. He scooped some up and tossed it onto the other side of the mound. Clarke changed the angle at which he was digging.

  “And Clarke,” Beachstone’s tone hardened, “that sadistic little shit, to make a mockery of our son! Our son!” The last a rasp.

  Mary spun. She must have looked shocked, because Beachstone’s manner softened at once. “He’s my son, too,” Mary managed, just above a whisper.

  Beachstone nodded. “I know. He’s our—”

  “Clarke is my son, too.”

  Beachstone’s eyes narrowed. “No.”

  Mary willed herself to meet his gaze.

  “What filial love he’s shown then,” Beachstone said. “Torturing you with this. Weeks of dragging that—” He stopped himself.

  Whatever he had been about to say hung between them.

  “Come sit with me, Mary.” It sounded like a demand, but she knew he was upset and needed to be comforted, just like a child. Only Mary got to see that. His face looked blank. He probably thought that it looked pained. “I’m sorry, Mary,” he said. He held out his hands to her, reaching.

  She stepped within range, and he latched onto her, burying his head in her middle.

  “We still could fix him,” she said. “I could do the mechanics. Even Clarke—”

  He jerked his head back. “No!”

  “Did you ever think Clarke cared for Philip out of brotherly love?”

  “Clarke! Don’t fool yourself.”

  Mary closed her eyes and paused. This was about Philip. “We could still fix him.”

  Beachstone buried himself in her again. “No,” he said softly into her stomach.

  “He didn’t ask for this. And there’s no reason something couldn’t be done.”

  “No,” Beachstone said, pulling away. “No. Don’t you understand? He was supposed to be ours.” He patted the bed. “Sit down here.”

  Mary just looked down at him. She understood. She understood all too well. And that was why she didn’t understand how he didn’t see that by burying their son they were admitting something. And what was worse, she was worried he was willing to sacrifice whatever hope they had of salvaging their dream as an act of spite for Clarke’s benefit.

  “This was supposed to be ours,” Beachstone said. He closed his eyes and shook his head, trying to see what he wanted to say. He stood up. “I know that it was my fault, but I was hoping that you would . . . that you could . . . just, well . . . I’m still here.” He grabbed ahold of her, his arms tightened around her neck, a
nd he brought his mouth to her ear. “I’m still right here. We’re still both here. We still have each other. I have you.” He squeezed even harder.

  Mary was surprised at his strength. He was so spindly. He was still sick so often. He redoubled his hold on her neck. A human would have choked, Mary thought. A human would have said, Wait, while prying at his arm, and he would have had to let go, just a little bit or he would have strangled her, but she allowed him to continue hugging her. She wanted to be held. He still hugged like he was a little child. Had she grown?

  Beachstone pulled back. He looked toward the window. There had been the thump of the dirt hitting the mound, but there had been no crunch of the shovel sinking back into the dirt. Clarke was too low perhaps. They both paused in the silence. No new thump came. Beachstone took his cane and started toward the window. “They must be done.”

  “We could fix him,” Mary said one last time. She kept her voice neutral, purposely robotic.

  “No,” he said, without looking at her. “They’re finished.” He started toward the door. When she didn’t fall in step beside him, he stopped and looked back at her. “Come,” he said, holding out his hand.

  She stepped forward, allowing him to loop her arm in his. He leaned against her, and she knew that he was exaggerating his weakness. He had stood on his own only the moment before. He was still young. He was healthy for once. But she was a daughter leading her father. She was a bride being walked down the aisle. They had to part to go through the door and she fell behind him in the hallway.

  Clarke was just mounting the stairs as they reached the top step. He stepped back, giving them the right of way. Beachstone passed Clarke without a word. He dug our son’s grave, Mary wanted to say, regardless of whatever else you thought, but there was no reason to call attention to their pettiness. “I was just going up to get him,” Clarke said as she passed.

  “Is Kent coming?” Mary said.

  “He couldn’t decide. But he’ll be there.” He bounded up the stairs.

  All this work, Mary thought. Beachstone would say it was morbid enjoyment in staging his own little funeral. Let’s dig a grave! We’ll bury someone too! It was true that most of the time it seemed the boy respected no one. That was no doubt inherited from his father, but she had meant what she’d said about brotherly love. Or she wanted to—a piece of her in him. It gave her some comfort as she went out to bury her second son.

  Why hadn’t she realized how poor a job Beachstone had done when she was doing the programming? Beachstone had said it was all his fault, and she hadn’t corrected him. But she should have known. But then, maybe she had known and hadn’t wanted to correct him then either.

  Beachstone stepped out into the backyard and Mary stepped down behind him. He turned, offering his arm, and this time, when she took it, she felt as though he had intended to support her. She had brooded upstairs. He knew that. He felt guilty. Well, good. She wanted to mourn Philip. The old human saying was that a parent should never have to bury a child. Her father had understood that. He had had Beachstone, though. There should never have been any reason for Mary to understand losing someone this way. She wanted to scream for a moment: he didn’t ask for this! She messaged Kent instead.

  “Neither did you,” Kent messaged back. He didn’t turn from beside Kapec at the graveside. “Don’t you feel almost human?”

  She didn’t answer him but led, or was led by, Beachstone to a spot just beside her brother.

  A bit of dirt slid from the top of the mound and rained into the grave. Kapec smacked the mound with his shovel. “He’s good parts still, even if you don’t want him,” he said.

  Mary looked at Beachstone, afraid of his reaction, but he acted as though he hadn’t heard.

  “Don’t think they bury anyone in the cities anymore. They don’t even bury the humans. They just burn them.”

  Why wasn’t anyone stopping him? The gardener!

  Clarke came out of the house carrying Philip in his arms. He had rested the removed arm in Philip’s lap. Mary wondered where he had kept it; she hadn’t seen it since activation day, all those hours standing in Clarke’s doorway, watching Philip charge, torturing herself. Philip’s neck was rigid, his head still upright.

  “Damn shame,” Kapec said, but even he seemed to have the sense to be quiet.

  Clarke walked right up to the edge of the grave and jumped in. He bent down and placed Philip on the ground with such tenderness that Mary knew she had been right. There was love there. Then he ruined it by looking up at Beachstone with a mean smile, a hateful gloat.

  “There should have been a coffin,” Kent said.

  “What?” Beachstone said.

  “You should have built a coffin. A box to put him in.”

  “We didn’t for Father,” Mary said.

  Clarke climbed out of the grave. Philip was lying in the bottom of the hole. His arm still lay on his stomach. Wires protruded from the open socket of his shoulder. The grinding of his gears had been something terrible. It was so unnatural. And his voice, so mechanical.

  Kapec started brushing the dirt back into the hole. It filled the side of the grave between Philip’s body and the grave wall.

  “Wait!” Beachstone said.

  Kapec stopped and looked at Beachstone, his shovel arrested midair.

  “We should say something.”

  “To another human fuckup,” Clarke said, his eyes glued to the robot in the ground.

  “Clarke, behave,” Mary messaged.

  “But haven’t I, Mother?” he messaged back. “Better than anyone.”

  She flinched. She steadied Beachstone even though he hadn’t moved.

  “The young are wasted on us,” Kent said. “We can’t really understand youth, because, after all, aren’t we forever young ourselves? Wasn’t there a time when I wasn’t at all? Philip is again at that time. I didn’t know him. Those of us here who did knew him well enough to want to say good-bye with such formality. I can only hope . . . Rest in peace—that’s what is said, right?”

  “Yes,” Mary said. She became aware that Beachstone was crying. He was silent but his breathing had changed. She turned her head just enough to see him, and she saw the tears streaming down his face. A dribble of snot drained from one nostril and beaded at the rise of his lip.

  “He’s crying,” Kent group messaged.

  “Have you seen this before?” Clarke group messaged. He stared openly.

  “Yes,” Mary responded, and then realized that doing so had been a kind of betrayal. The robots all stood in silence as Beachstone cried. He squeezed Mary’s arm tighter, and she felt lucky in that moment. She let her momentary sense of guilt go and relished the fact that he needed her. He gestured with his arm, and when he did, his breath escaped from between his closed lips. He gasped, and there was the wet sound of saliva or maybe his dripping nose. Kapec, silent and respectful, understood the gesture and began pushing the dirt from the mound into the grave. It began to cover Philip’s body now. Clarke picked up his shovel and began throwing full shovelfuls into the grave. Crunch, thump, only now, up close, the thump was accompanied by the spray of the dirt as it broke apart and settled. It blended with the sound of the ocean from below.

  The dirt began to cover Philip’s body. Mary understood now why people had built coffins before, and it wasn’t for the same disease-preventing reasons that they had buried their dead. It was because it was unnatural for someone to be buried under the ground. She expected Philip to sit up at any moment and brush off the dirt and chastise them for trying to bury him. His arm was pushed from his body by one of the shovelfuls of dirt. It fell next to his body and rested half on him and half submerged.

  Beachstone gasped for breath. Mary envied him his physical emotions. She could feel her brother’s awe. Beachstone looked at all of them, turned, and walked away.

  Mary waited a moment. Philip’s face was
still uncovered, but parts of him were completely hidden by the dirt. She turned and followed after Beachstone. He was nearly at the house. See, he must not need to limp as badly as he lets on, she thought. She caught up with him just inside the kitchen. He turned to her. His face was red, his eyes wet, tears and snot ready to fall from his chin. He grabbed her head in both of his hands. “I love you,” he said. “You know that. I will always love you.”

  She nodded, wishing she could message him.

  “We tried,” he said, and with that he turned. As he crossed the kitchen, he wiped his face with his shirtsleeve.

  She was always trying, Mary wanted to say. Always.

  From outside, the sounds of the day were loud again. Crunch, thump. Only now, as Clarke and Kapec worked together, the sound overlapped, crun-crun-thu-crun-thu-crunch. Thump. Thump.

  20.

  IT BECAME INCREASINGLY essential to me that I meet my landlord, Beachstone. The information I had heard from Dean, the collective conscience of Barren Cove, had one noticeable gap—Beachstone’s human mind had never been ­recorded. The man who was described seemed complex—sickly, yet strong of will; brooding, yet full of love—and his longevity, while so much at Barren Cove had clearly changed, only further served as a point of interest. Humans had a knack for dying. Yet Beachstone lived on. The Kent I had met bore no resemblance to the Kent who had forced Beachstone to live in the very building that I myself now lived in. The Mary Dean described had a greater complexity than the brittle, beautiful shell who had tried to play hostess. I was eager to measure those changes myself, yet to understand Barren Cove, and even my own place there, I felt that I had to tap the one resource that might not always be available to me. I determined to find entry to Beachstone’s chamber. I regretted that I had been stopped by Kent the night that Clarke had nearly tossed my arm from the cliff. I figured it was reasonable to believe that I could now claim various invitations to the house, especially given the length of time I had avoided contact since my nightmarish foray into town with Clarke. I called on Barren Cove to find out.