HELPER12

by Jack Blaine

  “Helper12.” Thomas places his napkin on his lap. They are real cloth napkins. I didn’t know what to do the first night here, when I sat at this table with the Sloanes. Mr. Sloane saw me looking at all the utensils and glasses and he caught my eye. He held up his own napkin and put it in his lap. When I’d done that with mine, he smiled, and pointed at one of the several forks next to his plate. I looked at my own place setting and took the same one—the third one out from the left. After that, I just watched what he did, and followed his example.

  “Sir.” I still don’t look at Thomas. I focus on Jobee, wiping some cereal off his chin, spooning up a bit more to tempt him with, moving his bowl out of reach when he threatens to knock it off the table.

  Helper comes out of the kitchen with covered dishes on a tray. She sets them on the table, giving Thomas a simpering smile.

  “Your favorites, Sir. Just like when you were little.” She hovers next to his chair.

  “Thank you Helper.”

  “May I bring you anything else, Mr. Thomas?”

  “This is fine, Helper.”

  When she leaves, I glance at him. He’s staring at me.

  “What?” I say the word before I can stop myself.

  “I want you to call me Thomas.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “No.” He keeps staring. “Not sir. Not Mr. Thomas. Just Thomas. Do you understand?”

  I stare back. I’m not sure where he’s going with this, but I need to do whatever I can to appease him. I hate him for the power he holds over my head.

  “Yes, Thomas.”

  He doesn’t like the way I say it; I can tell by the sour look on his face. But he doesn’t say anything to me about it. He just dishes himself some of the food from the covered dishes. Then, as though he’s done something he finds unforgivable, he apologizes to me.

  “I’m so sorry. My manners . . .” He stands, and carries one of the covered dishes over to my place. “This is what Helper thinks is still my favorite dish, even though it hasn’t been since I was twelve.” He shows me—it’s some sort of pasta dish.

  “It’s really not bad,” he says, with a grin. He puts a scoop on my plate. “More?”

  I shake my head. He picks up the other dish, which is a leafy salad, and serves me some of that, too. Then he sits back down.

  “Thank you.” I’ve never been served my food, not by anyone. It feels . . . it feels like I am important, for a second. I don’t like that he can make me feel that.

  We eat in silence for a while, each picking at our plate. Jobee is so full of cereal that he is dozing in his high chair.

  “What do you know about where he came from?” Thomas gestures toward Jobee with his fork.

  “What do you mean,” I ask, though I know pretty well what he means.

  “Don’t they generally provide the Breeder’s data?”

  I chew my pasta and wait.

  “I mean, don’t they list what the specs were, for that particular Breeder? I thought they did.”

  He’s right; they do. And his mother doesn’t strike me as the sort of person who would buy a sub-standard baby. So he probably already knows more about Jobee’s Breeder than I do. All I know is what is always included in the chart—the general stats regarding health and genetic predispositions.

  “I imagine you have already seen the data,” I say, dryly. “So why are you asking me?”

  He nods. “I have seen it. Mother was very thorough in her research once she decided to . . . adopt. She wanted to be certain she got what she paid for, and that she didn’t get certain . . . things. But I asked,” he tilts his head at me, “what you know.”

  I watch him for a minute. I don’t know what game this is he’s playing.

  “I know he’s healthy, with a 90th percentile chance of developing no serious health issues during his first 60 years of life. I know he’s smart, though not genius-range. I know he’s heterosexual. I don’t know what his tendencies are in terms of tracking—it was too early for any of that to have happened yet.”

  “Ah, yes.” Thomas smiles, a smile that conveys nothing at all to do with happiness. “Mother would be certain not to buy a homosexual child. She’s already had her fill of trouble from that sort.” He looks away.

  Chapter Twelve

  I rock Jobee softly in my arms. Dinner had been so tense; I need the comfort more than Jobee does.

  Thomas hadn’t said much more to me, after his comment about Ms. Sloane and how she would be careful what sort of baby she bought. He’d stood without finishing his food, and after he asked—more like told—me to join him again the next night, he’d left. I ate a little more and retreated to my room with Jobee.

  I wonder what’s going on.

  Is Thomas a homosexual? It’s true that homosexuals—they’re called kinks in the complexes—get persecuted; so do pasties or twitchers. People just tend to pick on what isn’t in the majority. But I assumed things might be different in Society—I wonder if the inability to control your hands from trembling gets you in trouble here, too? If wanting to touch someone the same sex as you will get you jeered at, or worse. It’s all the way people are born, but it’s not the norm. And the norm is what you want to be, in this world. The norm, or rich, I always thought. Until tonight.

  The rich must not like anything out of the ordinary, either. I wonder if Ms. Sloane bought Jobee to make up for Thomas, somehow. If she thought she could get over the disappointment of having a kink son, by getting one who wasn’t.

  I’ve never cared about those kinds of differences. Kris, my only friend, is both a pasty and a twitcher; she was born with albino-white skin, and her hands twitch of their own accord, no matter how hard she tries to stop them. It’s a legacy of faulty genetics that some babies have, from being born to Breeders who were inseminated with defective sperm. The worst of the twitchers are tagged and cut in Pre Ward; they have to be because they can’t take care of themselves, or provide any service. But twitchers like Kris do fine—they get tracked and trained and get through okay, save for the jeers that get shouted, or the occasional beating they endure at the hands of some stupid street punks. And white skin? Well, that doesn’t affect your ability to work.

  Kris never said anything to me about being a twitcher. She did say something about being a pasty once. It was right after we got back from the shops one night; we’d gone for skinner trims and some supplies. On the way out of the station, some punks had surrounded us; they had shouted at her, jeering. Pasty girl, pasty girl, they kept yelling. We screamed back at them, told them to shut their mouths, and they ran away when they saw a police cruiser coming up the street.

  “I thought that might get nasty,” she said, when we were safe inside her cube.

  “Nah,” I answered. “Just kids. Stupid kids.”

  “Hmmm.” Kris looked down at her hands, watching them quiver. She put one of them next to my hand. It practically glowed in comparison to my own. “Stupid kids,” she said, quietly, “just like the ones who killed that pasty last week in the Eastern Quad.”

  I looked down at her hand. Then I looked at her face.

  “Kris, you know that I don’t care about that kind of thing, right?”

  “You’re lucky,” she said. “Steady and flush, that’s you Benna. So you don’t have to care.”

  “Don’t forget straight,” I said, grinning at her.

  She laughed, like I’d hoped she would, and said something about how that was a good thing, since I was too ugly to touch anyway.

  I don’t remember us talking about it again. But I thought about it sometimes. I thought about how Kris did have to care, and how that must be for her. I’ve been afraid walking down the street in the complex plenty of times, but not because of the color of my skin, or the way my hands move, or who I want to touch. In the complex, if I wanted to grab a touch I’d go find a likely boy—there are plenty who are willing. I tried to imagine what it would be like if grabbing a touch—something I gave little to no thought to—was so dangerous i
t could cost me my life.

  I wonder if that’s how it is for Thomas. Even if he’s rich, he must still have problems because he’s a kink. I wonder if that’s why he was expelled from his fancy school.

  Jobee usually lets me sleep all the way through the night now. But I wake on this night, out of a sound sleep. I check on Jobee, but he’s sleeping happily, breath snuffling through his sweet little lips. I wonder what woke me.

  Then I hear it.

  It’s coming from downstairs—I think it must be on the second floor. The only person on that floor right now is Thomas. His parents’ bedroom is there too, but they are still on their anniversary trip. Helper and the Driver have bedrooms on the first floor, in the back.

  I walk to the landing of the stairs, outside my bedroom door and lean over, a hand behind my ear. I hear the noise again—it’s a low moan, so soft I wonder if I’m really hearing it.

  I creep down the stairs, moving slowly and carefully, so I make as little noise as possible. At the second floor landing, I can see the door to Thomas’s room is open just a crack, light from it streaking the dark hallway floor. I tiptoe nearer, and the noise comes again—it’s the sound of someone weeping. I go to the door and peek.

  It’s Thomas, doubled over in a sort of grief that I’ve never seen in real life. He’s covering his face with his hands, and his back is heaving up and down with each sob that wrenches its way free. I can tell he’s struggling to be quiet, and that, for some reason, makes me feel almost worse than the fact that he is so upset. For just a moment, I consider going in, trying to comfort him somehow. But it’s not safe. I don’t know him; I don’t know anything about him except that he feels entitled to order me around. That’s natural, of course, since he is Society and I am a Helper, but that means he isn’t someone I can ever trust.

  I creep back up the stairs and check on Jobee. As soon as I’m satisfied that he is still sleeping peacefully, I get back into my own bed, and hold the pillow over my ears.

  Chapter Thirteen

  I don’t see Thomas the next day. At lunch, I risk asking Helper where he is; she eyes me as though I’ve asked if I can wear Ms. Sloane’s negligees while she’s gone.

  “What do you care about where Mr. Thomas goes?” Helper glares.

  I shrug. “I just wondered if he was expected back for dinner, or if I should eat here.”

  “Ah, he’ll be back well before dinner. The Driver takes a bite of his biscuit—Helper does make excellent biscuits. “I drove him to the Public Information Center. He probably had to do some sort of work for a school project. But he told me to pick him up in two hours.”

  “What do you mean, school project?” Helper’s nose crinkles up like she smells something rotten.

  The Driver shrugs. “What do you mean?”

  “He was expelled, you said. From school.”

  The Driver takes another bite. He chews some. He shrugs again.

  “I don’t know why he went there. I don’t care. And neither should you.” He waves a finger at her.

  “Humph!’ Helper springs up and starts clearing the table.

  “I’m not done!” The Driver tries to grab a biscuit from the plate Helper is taking away.

  “You are now,” Helper snaps.

  And just like that, lunch is over.

  I spend the rest of the day showing Jobee the letters of the alphabet carved onto the set of real wooden blocks Ms. Sloan bought. I don’t even know if this is the right time for that sort of thing. Jobee seems to prefer the bright pictures in the books that the Sloanes have stocked on his bookshelf. I wonder if I could ask the Driver to take me to the Public Information Center, so I could find out what I should be teaching Jobee right now. He’s already weeks older than my training covered. I worry that if I show my ignorance, the Sloanes will get rid of me. That could be a very bad thing, given the fact that I have no legal status now.

  When the Director sold me to the Sloanes, he made me disappear in the world. He reported me missing, as though I simply didn’t show up for my shift. The police looked for me for a while. I’m sure they interviewed Kris, and searched my cubicle. But as long as they didn’t find any evidence that I had willingly neglected my assignment, they’ll assume I was killed or kidnapped for some sort of slave trade. They don’t look too hard for nobodies. What that means is that the Sloanes can do whatever they want with me. If I don’t meet their needs, I imagine they’ll want to recoup some of their costs; I’m sure the Director didn’t sell me cheap. So they might sell me, too, to someone worse than a family of Society members.

  I don’t think my duties would include anything I want to think about. So I really need to know what it takes to make sure Jobee grows happy and healthy, with no problems the Sloanes can complain about.

  At dinner, Thomas is already seated at the table when I get there with Jobee.

  “I’m sorry I’m late,” I say, rushing to get Jobee settled in his chair. He was fussy after his bath, and getting him dressed took more time than it usually does.

  “That’s fine,” says Thomas. “Is everything all right?”

  I nod.

  Helper bustles in with the covered dishes, and announces that we are having trout. She starts to serve, like she does when the Sloanes are here, but Thomas thanks her in that way that means leave. When she’s gone, he rises, and serves me my food again, like he had the first night.

  “Should I be doing that for you?” I really wonder, and the question is tumbling out before I can stop it.

  “Why should you?”

  “Because I’m the . . . Helper, here. You’re a Society member.”

  He rolls his eyes. “You’re a guest in my home. Polite behavior dictates that I serve you.”

  I don’t say anything.

  “How’s William today?”

  At first I don’t know who he means; with the Sloanes gone I haven’t been constantly hearing that name come out of Ms. Sloane’s mouth, and I think of Jobee as, well, as Jobee.

  “He’s well. He was a little fussy after his bath so we were late.”

  “What was wrong?”

  I chance it.

  “I think it was nothing really, but I would love to know more than I do, about Jo—about William’s developmental stages.”

  “You’re a Baby Helper.” Thomas looks surprised. “How much more could you possibly want to know?’

  “I’m a Pre Ward Baby Helper. My knowledge of development after six months if age is . . . more generalized.” I hurry, before he can interrupt me. “I’d like permission to go to the Public Information Center. I think I could find out a lot there, that would help me properly raise William.”

  Thomas shrugs. “We can go tomorrow. I’ll make sure Driver is available.”

  “Oh!” I hadn’t thought he would be coming too. “I know you just went there today. I wouldn’t want to trouble you. If the Driver—”

  “You can’t research and hold a baby, and Driver certainly isn’t going to.” Thomas grinned. “He’s pretty fussy himself, about exactly what his duties entail. I don’t think he would accept baby-sitter as one of them. I’ll go. That way you can focus on getting the information you need, and I can get to know William a bit better.”

  He seems to be sure the matter is settled, and there’s not much I can say to change his mind. We eat in silence for the rest of the first course.

  It’s too good to last.

  After Helper brings the second course, which is a three-layer salad, Thomas clears his throat.

  “Helper12,” he says.

  “Yes?”

  “Who,” he lowers his voice, and glances toward the door to the kitchen, “is the Artist?

  I freeze, a spoonful of cereal halfway to Jobee’s mouth. He watches the spoon for a minute, wondering why it isn’t coming any closer. He frowns. Just in time I realize the next step is crying, and I get the spoon into his mouth. All smiles again, he gums the cereal happily. I sneak a look at Thomas.

  He’s waiting, looking at me. I fidget
, not sure how I’m getting out of this.

  “It’s just . . . it’s someone I—”

  “It’s you.” He nods, still looking at me. “I thought so.”

  I wait. I wonder what price there will be for this.

  “You’re really very good.” He takes a bite of his salad. I can’t even look at my food. My stomach is churning, and sour bile threatens my throat.

  “Of course, better tools might be in order. Better paper.” He gives me a funny look, when he says that. “And maybe some real charcoal instead of whatever that was you were using. We could get those tomorrow.”

  “Sir.”

  He looks up sharply at that word.

  “I can’t use any paper, or any charcoals. I am designated and trained as a Baby Helper.”

  “Well, I know that.” He shrugs. “I mean, surely they aren’t that strict about those things.”

  I interrupt him before he can say more.

  “They are, sir. They are that strict. If you choose to report me for drawing the pictures you took from me, I can be charged with acting out of designation, along with creation without license, and I don’t know what else. I will be put in a labor camp and I will never get out. I will . . .” My voice had risen to the point where Helper might be able to hear it in the kitchen.

  He’d come around to my side of the table without me realizing it.

  “It’s okay,” he whispers. He looks at my hand holding Jobee’s cereal spoon. It’s shaking like I was a twitcher. I see that Jobee staring at me too, and I take some deep breaths to try to calm myself.

  “It’s okay,” he says again. “I’m not going to tell anyone. Your secret is safe with me.” He waits until my hand stops shaking, and then he goes back to his seat.

  I finished the meal without throwing up. But when I get back to our room, as soon as I have Jobee in his crib, I run to the bathroom and empty my stomach.

  Later, when I’m lying in the dark, I hear a dry, scraping noise at the door. I jump up and go to it, placing my ear against it, but I hear no more sounds. I flick on the light.