Then I really felt foolish. Imagine, thinking that she would have me, the lawn boy, in the delivery room while she gave birth. I could feel my cheeks flush with embarrassment.
Mrs. Horton noticed I was blushing and smiled. I looked away, and she put her arm around me and pulled me close in a hug. I could feel the swell of her breasts against my neck, and smell her faint perfume up close.
“That is so sweet that you'd offer to do that,” she said. “You really are a true friend, Davy.”
And then she kissed me. A friendly buss on my cheek, but a kiss nonetheless. It only lasted seconds, but it was the first time I'd ever been kissed by someone who wasn't a relative. My first kiss from an astronaut's wife.
Later that night, I started looking at MIT's course catalog.
* * * *
Three months later, the Romulus had made its way back and taken up orbit around Earth. The crew was transferred to an orbital ferry for the final short leg home. Mrs. Horton asked me to keep an eye on the house for a few days, saying she had some business to attend to, still keeping her secret until the last possible moment. I knew she was really going to the cape to welcome her husband home on landing.
The reentry was late on an afternoon in May, and I decided to watch it on Mrs. Horton's big holovision set. I let myself in, after school, and sat in her family room in front of the huge screen.
You couldn't see the hunk of space debris on the live feed from the orbital ferry. One minute everything was fine, and the craft was starting the burn that would bring it down, then the next moment there was an explosion and the whole ship seemed ablaze, with sirens going off and lights flashing. The picture broke up a few seconds later.
The news anchor who took over seemed not to know anything more than what everyone had just seen on the live shipboard camera: something had gone terribly wrong. It was several minutes before they would confirm that the ferry had broken up and all of the crewmembers had perished in the accident.
I turned the holovision off, locked up the house, and trudged home. I didn't cry until I got back to my bedroom and shut the door.
Do astronauts ever cry? What difference did it make if astronauts cried or not? I cried, but I was just a stupid kid.
Over the next few weeks, the whole world went into mourning. It took the death of those four astronauts to make the space program big news again. The mission was, overall, a success. The Romulus and all its samples were still in orbit. All the data collected was safely stored in computers on the ground. Only the crew didn't make it home.
I watched the memorial service on holovision. Mrs. Horton was easy to spot—her strawberry blonde hair and pregnant figure easily recognizable in the crowd. The press briefly picked up on the story that one of the astronaut's wives was eight months pregnant, but she refused all interviews. The press identified her as Rosemary Horton Keyes.
I never saw her again.
A few weeks later, an army of house movers came and packed everything up, and then a huge van took it all away. A “For Sale” sign went up in front of the house the next day.
A professional lawn care company took over, mowing the lawn once a week, regular as clockwork. I checked the mailbox, but the mail was already being forwarded somewhere else. I let myself into the house one last time with the key. The movers had done a thorough job. There was nothing left—no sign that anyone had ever lived there. In the bedroom, only a few dim marks in the freshly vacuumed carpet showed where the furniture had been. There was nothing I could take, no memento, no souvenir of my friendship with the astronaut's wife.
I left the key in a kitchen drawer and pulled the back door locked behind me on the way out.
Much to my parents’ relief, I asked if I could repaint the ceiling in my bedroom white again. It took me four coats to cover the black background. I didn't care much about planets and stars anymore.
Three more months went by, my most boring summer ever. Instead of the Mars Channel, I had started watching baseball. I hate baseball. Some days I didn't get out of bed until noon. I was seventeen, and about to start senior year at Seguin High, although I had no idea what I wanted to be when I grew up.
And then I received her letter. It was postmarked from Minneapolis.
* * * *
DEAR DAVY,
I'M BACK IN MINNESOTA WITH FAMILY NOW, AND LOOKING FORWARD TO A REAL WINTER AGAIN. SORRY I DIDN'T GET A CHANCE TO SAY GOODBYE, BUT I GUESS YOU KNOW WHY. WHEN DID YOU FIRST KNOW MY RICHARD WAS ON THE Romulus? YOU'RE SUCH A SMART BOY, I'M SURE YOU FIGURED IT OUT LONG AGO. AFTER THE ACCIDENT, I JUST COULDN'T GO BACK TO THAT HOUSE. THAT WAS OUR HOUSE, AND BESIDES, I ALWAYS HATED TEXAS.
HERE'S A CHECK FOR THOSE LAST FEW WEEKS YOU WERE TAKING CARE OF THE HOUSE. I DIDN'T MEAN TO RUN OFF OWING YOU MONEY. I'VE ALSO ENCLOSED A LITTLE SOMETHING FROM RICHARD'S THINGS I THOUGHT YOU MIGHT LIKE TO HAVE. AND A PICTURE OF THE BABY. THE BABY IS BEAUTIFUL, AND HEALTHY. HIS NAME IS RICHARD DAVID KEYES.
LOVE,
ROSEMARY
* * * *
I never cashed that check. It wasn't for a very large amount, but I figured Mrs. Horton needed the money more than I did, what with little Richard David to support. It would feel like taking advantage if I cashed it.
The photograph showed mother and baby. The baby was small and pink, but perfect. Mrs. Horton smiled, but sadness spoke through her eyes.
The final item in the envelope was a round embroidered mission patch from the Romulus. It showed the ship in silhouette against the red Martian globe.
I looked in the mirror, and held the patch up to my shoulder. It looked right. A week later, I received my letter of acceptance from MIT. It would be another ten years before I would again be kissed by an astronaut's wife.
Copyright © 2007 Brian Plante
[Back to Table of Contents]
* * *
BAMBI STEAKS
by RICHARD A. LOVETT
Illustration by William Warren
* * * *
The trouble with the real world is that too often it refuses to fit our neat pictures of it....
I hate Mondays. But this one wasn't too bad until I got the interrupt-mail telling me it was my turn to be Red. Not just for a week, like my cousin James, but for the whole friggin’ month. How unlucky can you get? I mean, that might not be much of a hardship for some people, but I'm about as Blue as they come. Born and bred on the Upper Left Coast, except for a stint at Redwood Coast University, which, if anything, is Bluer yet. When I was there, I majored in English lit and got Cs for a couple of years before dropping out, which pretty well prepped me for my present career, pouring lattes at minimum wage. Plus, of course, the great benefits you get in Blue states. Gramps says my true major was “campusology"—his term for sandwiching “useless” courses between all-night bull sessions on how-we'd-fix-the-world-if-only-someone-would-listen. But Gramps is a Red and lives in Texas, so of course he wouldn't understand anything that doesn't go “moo.”
Dad claims Gramps and I aren't as different as we think. But that's just wishful thinking. Or maybe an existential leap. See, some of that lit stuff stuck. An existential leap is making your own meaning out of something that's inherently meaningless, so you can pretend it isn't. My last semester, I did a paper on Hemingway, and he did a lot of that. Or I thought he did. The prof said I'd oversimplified and gave me a C minus, but he was awfully wishy-washy for a Blue. Gramps says all Blues are wishy-washy—though he usually adds a couple of politically in-C epithets to underscore his point. Hemingway did that, too, but at least he lived back when nobody knew better.
It must have been wishy-washy folks like Dad and my lit prof who glommed onto the Exchange when some genius came up with it. Stupid idea, if you ask me, but I was too young to vote, so nobody did. I mean, if you mix Red and Blue rather than letting them segregate like they want to, what do you get? Purple, that's what. Who ever heard of saving the Union with purple? What difference does it make if half the states between California and Connecticut secede? That's why God inve
nted airplanes, so you can get to the East Coast by flying over the top of them. Sorry, but when you mix Red and Blue you don't get the color of kings and compromise. All you get is sludge.
That's what I'd have said, but nobody asked because I was about thirteen at the time. Which was unfair because by the time they finally got the bugs out of the technology, my generation was old enough, so they should have waited. Though of course we'd have said “no way,” and then what would have been the use of all that fancy equipment?
It's unfair that only young, single people are eligible. A wonderful term, by the way. It implies the whole thing's a prize, rather than an albatross. (See, Gramps, another lit ref!) Me, I figure that if you've got to go, you might as well spice it up with a little sex. Though I guess the Reds might not want their spouses to get a taste of Blue liberation. And I'm sure the religious Reds would go nuts. Though, is it really adultery if it's the same body?
But maybe the singles-only thing isn't such a bad idea. I doubt that most Red women are as hot as those country music chicks that seem to be their number-one export. Not to mention what would happen if a straight Red got swapped into a Blue's gay marriage.
As far as I can tell, getting tagged by the lottery's kind of like getting hit by lightning. But there must be at least one bug left, because it seems that the Bluer you are, the more likely it is to happen. What's the point in that? Let the wishy-washies go wishy-wash the opposite direction for a while, if that's what they want so badly. Why inflict it on the rest of us?
There's no way out, though. The Feds know exactly when those interrupts hit you, and even as I stared at it, I got a new message telling me my counterpart had read his and I had ninety minutes to proceed to the nearest Exchange station (click here for directions), which was generous, because before waking up the computer, I'd already showered, touched up the orange-and-green dye job in my goatee, and eaten breakfast.
Briefly, I wished I'd had something more memorable than a bowl of cereal and half a grapefruit. I had no idea what I'd be eating for the next month, but it would probably be something Neanderthal, like fried eggs and sausage, dipped in cholesterol. Or Bambi steaks, fresh from your local poacher. I stared at the computer screen and tried to prepare. “Y'all, Bubba,” I mouthed. “Ah'm just a good ol’ country boy.”
Yeah, right. I'm an urban Blue. Always have been, always will be. Which was probably why I'd gotten sentenced to a month of this, rather than just a week. It was enough to make you purple with anger. Which I guess was the goal, right? Meanwhile, some damn Red was going to have my life. I wasn't sure which was scarier: that, or wherever it might be that I was going.
* * * *
It turned out to be Iowa.
Let me tell you what I know about Iowa.
It's colder than hell in the winter.
They grow corn.
They feed it to hogs.
Hogs are pigs.
Pigs stink.
That pretty much covers it. Except, of course, it was late July, so forget the cold bit. And I think some of the corn winds up as biofuel.
My counterpart's Exchange was in Cantril, wherever the hell that was. “Almost in Missouri,” the agent said when I asked. Gee, thanks. If there's anything worse than Iowa, it's got to be Missouri.
My host body was what Hemingway might have called a “strapping young farmboy,” if he'd been into phrases like that. More likely, he'd have said tall, muscular, and red. Red of hair, red of sunburn, and red of complexion. Red of heatstroke, I'd have added when I stepped outside. I'd used the term “redneck” all my life, but it was only when I hit that heat that I realized where it came from. Cripes. How can anyone live in a place like this? It's like breathing soup. My host himself, of course, was off learning how to pour lattes in a climate where “muggy” was eighty degrees and thirty percent humidity. I hoped he was enjoying it. No, I hoped the first thing he did was scald himself with the espresso machine. If you're not careful, the steam'll get you good. And by the time I get back, any burns he gets in his first week will be healed. Hurrah for small favors. I just hope my friends don't think I suddenly went nuts. It's got to be a lot harder for a Red to blend in with Blues than for me to pass as a Neanderthal, back here.
At least the other guy can't get me fired from my real job. I don't know much about the Exchange, but I do know there's a law against that. If he goofs off, spouts a bunch of politically in-C junk, or otherwise screws up, they'll deal with him when he gets back here. Just as, unfortunately, they'll deal with me back home if I don't toe the line here, like a good little Red.
Luckily, I've got a kind of ghost memory from my host's subconscious to tell me what that entails. Proper behavior in a Red state isn't one of the things they teach in Left Coast colleges. Though I suppose luck has nothing to do with it. The Exchange wouldn't work if you didn't have something to tell you the basics. In days to come, I'd be relying a lot on the shadow of Bubba's subconscious.
* * * *
Actually, his name was Anthony. Not Tony, the subconscious firmly informed me. All three syllables were equally important. Probably the only form of equality the guy practiced. My own name, by the way, is Aidan. Accent on the second syllable. What a weird coincidence that the Exchange matched me up with someone else who's also nutty about his name. You wouldn't think this doofus and I would have even that much in common.
While it was at it, the subconscious also informed me that today's weather was nothing extreme. Hello, liquid atmosphere. I'd be breathing it for most of the month. Oh joy.
Anthony's job proved to be construction. Not the fun stuff, like driving giant, crawly machines with air-conditioned cabs: he worked for a small-time contractor who made homes. And barns. If the folks back home found out, I'd never live this down. The subconscious was also serving up memories of hammers and nails, rather than the nifty blitz-build equipment you see in cities, where they come in with derricks and cranes, and the next day there's an eighty-plex condo just waiting for tenants. Even by Red standards, this Cantril place must be strictly small time.
* * * *
If anything, that proved to be an overstatement. The Exchange was in a two-story brick building that also housed a dentist, an attorney, and a lot of unused space on a main street that couldn't have been more than a couple blocks long, even if you counted the boarded-up buildings at the far end. Definitely a place that had seen better days.
Anthony's boss was waiting for me in a pickup truck that looked like it guzzled enough biodiesel for a whole fleet of EcoMizers.
“That's because it's a working truck,” he said, when I mentioned the waste. “We use it to haul things. Big things. A lot more important than your sorry ass.”
His name was Kurt, and he was fully briefed on who I was. “Nobody else knows,” he said. “The Exchange asked for that, and I said it was okay. But if you can't keep a lid on that mouth of yours, people are gonna figure out, real quick. That's also okay by me, but you might find it makes for an interesting month. Not in the good sense, if you know what I mean.”
The truck had no air conditioning, and the work site was about a million miles away, in a location Kurt referred to as northeastern Van Buren County. Okay, I'm exaggerating: it only took thirty-five minutes, but we spent the last dozen on chuggy gravel that Kurt seemed to believe he could drive at forty miles an hour. What was wrong with these people? Couldn't they afford real roads? I couldn't believe I was stuck here, in some no-account county named for a no-account president who I bet even the historians can't remember.
Gradually, it dawned on me that we weren't seeing many other vehicles, and that for being so empty, this place had an unbelievable number of roads, ruled out like the devil's own chessboard. So, okay, maybe it didn't make sense to pave them all.
On the rare occasions when we did encounter other cars, Kurt slowed, rolled up his window, and, with his hand back on the wheel, laconically flapped a couple of fingers at the other driver. That was one more finger than I was in the mood to give anyone,
but obviously it was a farmer hello. That much I could figure out. But the slowing down bit had me baffled.
Anthony's subconscious wasn't giving me much help, merely the information that he viewed this as normal. About the fifth time, my curiosity overwhelmed my better judgment. “What the hell's that about?” I asked. “Are you folks in some kind of competition to prove whose time is least valuable?”
Kurt looked at me a long moment, and I was sure he was going to tell me again about the perils of an overly interesting month. But hell, I was supposedly here to learn about these people. How can you learn if you don't ask?
Eventually, he shook his head with something that seemed weirdly like pity. “Dust,” he said.
Reds obviously have their own way of thinking. “Okay,” I said, taking care to enunciate carefully. “So that's why you roll up the window. But why the big show of slowing down?”
Kurt sighed. “Because we're making dust, too. That way it can settle a bit before the other guy has to drive through it. We call it being neighborly. It's only folks down from Des Moines who are in too much hurry to do it.”
He seemed to think Des Moines was a big city, but I figured I'd better let that one pass.
“When you drive around these parts,” he continued, “you might try it. People'll like you a lot better.”
It hadn't crossed my mind that I might have access to a car, though now that I thought about it, the bus service out here must really suck. I patted my pocket for a key, and sure enough, I had a whole ring of them, one of which looked suspiciously automotive. “Wow. So do I have a truck, too?”
This time Kurt's look was amused. “What, you think I pay you enough for that? Even I don't drive this thing except on business.”
That raised another question. Further self-inventory revealed a wallet containing eighty-three dollars, plus two credit cards.
“Can I spend Anthony's money?” And, was Anthony busily bottoming out my own account, back home?
Kurt shrugged. “Beats me. Didn't they tell you?”
Analog SFF, May 2007 Page 11
