The Mammoth Book of Best Short SF Novels

by Gardner R. Dozois

  I took the pipe when Tree offered it. Even before I brought the stem to my mouth, the world tilted and I watched myself slide into what seemed very much like an hallucination. Here I was sitting around naked, in the mall, with a bunch of stiffs, smoking antique drugs. And I was enjoying myself. Incredible. I inhaled and immediately the flash hit me; it was as if my brain were an enormous bud, blooming inside my head.

  “Good stuff.” I laughed smoke and then began coughing.

  Fidel refilled my glass with ice water. “Have a sip, cashman.”

  “Customer.” Tree pointed at the window.

  “Leave!” Mr. Joplin waved impatiently at him. “Go away.” The man on the screen knelt and turned over the price tag on a fern. “Damn.” He jerked his uniform from the hook by the door, pulled on the khaki pants, and was slithering into the shirt as he disappeared down the tunnel.

  “So is Green Dream trying to break into the flash market too?” I handed the pipe to Mrs. Joplin. There was a fleck of ash on her left breast.

  “What we do back here is our business,” she said. “We work hard so we can live the way we want.” Tree was studying her fingerprints. I realized I had said the wrong thing, so I shut up. Obviously, the Joplins were drifting from the lifestyle taught at Green Dream Family Camp.

  Fidel announced he was going to school tomorrow, and Mrs. Joplin told him no, he could link to E-class as usual, and Fidel claimed he could not concentrate at home, and Mrs. Joplin said he was trying to get out of his chores. While they were arguing, Tree nudged my leg and shot me a let’s leave look. I nodded.

  “Excuse us.” She pushed back her chair. “Mr. Boy has got to go home soon.”

  Mrs. Joplin pointed for her to stay. “You wait until your father gets back,” she said. “Tell me, Mr. Boy, have you lived in New Canaan long?”

  “All my life,” I said.

  “How old did you say you were?”

  “Mama, he’s twenty-five,” said Tree. “I told you.”

  “And what do you do for a living?”

  “Mama, you promised.”

  “Nothing,” I said. “I’m lucky, I guess. I don’t need to worry about money. If you didn’t need to work, would you?”

  “Everybody needs work to do,” Mrs. Joplin said. “Work makes us real. Unless you have work to do and people who love you, you don’t exist.”

  Talk about twentieth-century humanist goop! At another time in another place, I probably would have snapped, but now the words would not come. My brain had turned into a flower; all I could think were daisy thoughts. The Joplins were such a strange combination of fast-forward and rewind. I could not tell what they wanted from me.

  “Seventeen dollars and ninety-nine cents,” said Mr. Joplin, returning from the storefront. “What’s going on in here?” He glanced at his wife, and some signal that I did not catch passed between them. He circled the table, came up behind me, and laid his heavy hands on my shoulders. I shuddered; I thought for a moment he meant to strangle me.

  “I’m not going to hurt you, Peter,” he said. “Before you go, I have something to say.”

  “Daddy.” Tree squirmed in her chair. Fidel looked uncomfortable too, as if he guessed what was coming.

  “Sure.” I did not have much choice.

  The weight on my shoulders eased but did not entirely go away. “You should feel the ache in this boy, Ladonna.”

  “I know,” said Mrs. Joplin.

  “Hard as plastic.” Mr. Joplin touched the muscles corded along my neck. “You get too hard, you snap.” He set his thumbs at the base of my skull and kneaded with an easy circular motion. “Your body isn’t some machine that you’ve downloaded into. It’s alive. Real. You have to learn to listen to it. That’s why we smoke. Hear these muscles? They’re screaming.” He let his hand slide down my shoulders. “Now listen.” His fingertips probed along my upper spine. “Hear that? Your muscles stay tense because you don’t trust anyone. You always have to be ready to take a hit, and you can’t tell where it’s coming from. You’re rigid and angry and scared. Reality . . . your body is speaking to you.”

  His voice was as big and warm as his hands. Tree was giving him a look that could boil water, but the way he touched me made too much sense to resist.

  “We don’t mind helping you ease the strain. That’s the way Mrs. Joplin and I are. That’s the way we brought the kids up. But first you have to admit you’re hurting. And then you have to respect us enough to take what we have to give. I don’t feel that in you, Peter. You’re not ready to give up your pain. You just want us poor stiffs to admire how hard it’s made you. We haven’t got time for that kind of shit, okay? You learn to listen to yourself and you’ll be welcome around here. We’ll even call you Mr. Boy, even though it’s a damn stupid name.”

  No one spoke for a moment.

  “Sorry, Tree,” he said. “We’ve embarrassed you again. But we love you, so you’re stuck with us.” I could feel it in his hands when he chuckled. “I suppose I do get carried away sometimes.”

  “Sometimes?” said Fidel. Tree just smoldered.

  “It’s late,” said Mrs. Joplin. “Let him go now, Jamaal. His mama’s sending a car over.”

  Mr. Joplin stepped back, and I almost fell off my chair from leaning against him. I stood, shakily. “Thanks for dinner.”

  Tree stalked through the greenhouse to the rear exit, her hair-works glittering against her bare back. I had to trot to keep up with her. There was no car in sight, so we waited at the doorway and I put on my clothes.

  “I can’t take much more of this.” She stared through the little wire-glass window in the door, like a prisoner plotting her escape. “I mean, he’s not a psychologist or a great philosopher or whatever the hell he thinks he is. He’s just a pompous mall drone.”

  “He’s not that bad.” Actually, I understood what her father had said to me; it was scary. “I like your family.”

  “You don’t have to live with them!” She kept watching at the door. “They promised they’d behave with you; I should have known better. This happens every time I bring someone home.” She puffed an imaginary pipe, imitating her father. “Think what you’re doing to yourself, you poor fool, and say, isn’t it just too bad about modern life? Love, love, love – fuck!” She turned to me. “I’m sick of it. People are going to think I’m as sappy and thickheaded as my parents.”

  “I don’t.”

  “You’re lucky. You’re rich and your mom leaves you alone. You’re New Canaan. My folks are Elkhart, Indiana.”

  “Being New Canaan is nothing to brag about. So what are you?”

  “Not a Joplin. “She shook her head. “Not much longer, anyway; I’m eighteen in February. I think your car’s here.” She held out her arms and hugged me good-bye. “Sorry you had to sit through that. Don’t drop me, okay? I like you, Mr. Boy.” She did not let go for a while.

  Dropping her had never occurred to me; I was not thinking of anything at all except the silkiness of her skin, the warmth of her body. Her breath whispered through my hair and her nipples brushed my ribs and then she kissed me. Just on the cheek, but the damage was done. I was stunted. I was not supposed to feel this way about anyone.

  Comrade was waiting in the backseat. We rode home in silence; I had nothing to say to him. He would not understand – none of my friends would. They would warn me that all she wanted was to spend some of my money. Or they would make bad jokes about the nudity or the Joplin’ mushy realism. No way I could explain the innocence of the way they touched one another. The old man did what to you? Yeah, and if I wanted a hug at home who was I supposed to ask? Comrade? Lovey? The greeter? Was I supposed to climb up to the head and fall asleep against Mom’s doorbone, waiting for it to open, like I used to do when I was really a kid?

  The greeter was her usual nonstick self when I got home. She was so glad to see me and she wanted to know where I had been and if I had a good time and if I wanted Cook to make me a snack? Around. Yes. No.

  She said th
e bank had called about some problem with one of the cash cards she had given me, a security glitch that they had taken care of and were very sorry about. Did I know about it and did I need a new card and would twenty thousand be enough? Yes. Please. Thanks.

  And that was it. I found myself resenting Mom because she did not have to care about losing sixteen or twenty or fifty thousand dollars. And she had reminded me of my problems when all I wanted to think of was Tree. She was no help to me, never had been. I had things so twisted around that I almost told her about Montross myself, just to get a reaction. Here some guy had tapped our files and threatened my life, and she asked if I wanted a snack. Why keep me around if she was going to pay so little attention? I wanted to shock her, to make her take me seriously.

  But I did not know how.

  The roombrain woke me. “Stennie’s calling.”

  “Mmm.”

  “Talk to me, Mr. Party Boy.” A window opened; he was in his car. “You dead or alive?”

  “Asleep.” I rolled over. “Time is it?”

  “Ten-thirty and I’m bored. Want me to come get you now, or should I meet you there?”

  “Wha . . . ?”

  “Happy’s. Don’t tell me you forgot. They’re doing a piano.”

  “Who cares?” I crawled out of bed and slouched into the bathroom.

  “She says she’s asking Tree Joplin,” Stennie called after me.

  “Asking her what?” I came out.

  “To the party.”

  “Is she going?”

  “She’s your cush.” He gave me a toothy smile. “Call back when you’re ready. Later.” He faded.

  “She left a message,” said the roombrain. “Half hour ago.”

  “Tree? You got me up for Stennie and not for her?”

  “He’s on the list, she’s not. Happy called, too.”

  “Comrade should’ve told you. Where is he?” Now I was grouchy. “She’s on the list, okay? Give me playback.”

  Tree seemed pleased with herself. “Hi, this is me. I got myself invited to a smash party this afternoon. You want to go?” She faded.

  “That’s all? Call her!”

  “Both her numbers are busy; I’ll set redial. I found Comrade; he’s on another line. You want Happy’s message?”

  “No. Yes.”

  “You promised, Mr. Boy.” Happy giggled. “Look, you really, really don’t want to miss this. Stennie’s coming, and he said I should ask Joplin if I wanted you here. So you’ve got no excuse.”

  Someone tugged at her. “Stop that! Sorry, I’m being molested by a thick . . .” She batted at her assailant. “Mr. Boy, did I tell you that this Japanese reporter is coming to shoot a vid? What?” She turned off camera. “Sure, just like on the nature channel. Wildlife of America. We’re all going to be famous. In Japan! This is history, Mr. Boy. And you’re . . .”

  Her face froze as the redial program finally linked to the Green Dream. The roombrain brought Tree up in a new window. “Oh, hi,” she said. “You rich boys sleep late.”

  “What’s this about Happy’s?”

  “She invited me.” Tree was recharging her hairworks with a red brush. “I said yes. Something wrong?”

  Comrade slipped into the room; I shushed him. “You sure you want to go to a smash party? Sometimes they get a little crazy.”

  She aimed the brush at me. “You’ve been to smash parties before. You survived.”

  “Sure, but . . .”

  “Well, I haven’t. All I know is that everybody at school is talking about this one, and I want to see what’s it’s about.”

  “You tell your parents you’re going?”

  “Are you kidding? They’d just say it was too dangerous. What’s the matter, Mr. Boy, are you scared? Come on, it’ll be extreme.”

  “She’s right. You should go,” said Comrade.

  “Is that Comrade?” Tree said. “You tell him, Comrade!”

  I glared at him. “Okay, okay, I guess I’m outnumbered. Stennie said he’d drive. You want us to pick you up?”

  She did.

  I flew at Comrade as soon as Tree faded. “Don’t you ever do that again!” I shoved him, and he bumped up against the wall. “I ought to throw you to Montross.”

  “You know, I just finished chatting with him.” Comrade stayed calm and made no move to defend himself. “He wants to meet – the three of us, face to face. He suggested Happy’s.”

  “He suggested . . . I told you not to talk to him.”

  “I know.” He shrugged. “Anyway, I think we should do it.”

  “Who gave you permission to think?”

  “You did. What if we give him the picture back and open our files and then I grovel, say I’m sorry, it’ll never happen again, blah, blah, blah. Maybe we can even buy him off. What have we got to lose?”

  “You can’t bribe software. And what if he decides to snatch us?” I told Comrade about the gypsy with the penlight. “You want Tree mixed up in this?”

  All the expression drained from his face. He did not say anything at first, but I had watched his subroutines long enough to know that when he looked this blank, he was shaken. “So we take a risk, maybe we can get it over with,” he said. “He’s not interested in Tree, and I won’t let anything happen to you. Why do you think your mom bought me?”

  Happy Lurdane lived on the former estate of Philip Johnson, a notorious twentieth-century architect. In his will Johnson had arranged to turn his compound into the Philip Johnson Memorial Museum, but after he died his work went out of fashion. The glass skyscrapers in the cities did not age well; they started to fall apart or were torn down because they wasted energy. Nobody visited the museum, and it went bankrupt. The Lurdanes had bought the property and made some changes.

  Johnson had designed all the odd little buildings on the estate himself. The main house was a shoebox of glass with no inside walls; near it stood a windowless brick guest house. On a pond below was a dock that looked like a Greek temple. Past the circular swimming pool near the houses were two galleries that had once held Johnson’s art collection, long since sold off. In Johnson’s day, the scattered buildings had been connected only by paths, which made the compound impossible in the frosty Connecticut winters. The Lurdanes had enclosed the paths in clear tubes and commuted in a golf cart.

  Stennie told his Alpha not to wait, since the lot was already full and cars were parked well down the driveway. Five of us squeezed out of the car: me, Tree, Comrade, Stennie, and Janet Hoyt. Janet wore a Yankees jersey over pin-striped shorts, Tree was a little overdressed in her silver jaunts, I had on baggies padded to make me seem bigger, and Comrade wore his usual window coat. Stennie lugged a box with his swag for the party.

  Freddy the Teddy let us in. “Stennie and Mr. Boy!” He reared back on his hindquarters and roared. “Glad I’m not going to be the only beastie here. Hi, Janet. Hi, I’m Freddy,” he said to Tree. His pink tongue lolled. “Come in, this way. Fun starts right here. Some kids are swimming, and there’s sex in the guest house. Everybody else is with Happy having lunch in the sculpture gallery.”

  The interior of the Glass House was bright and hard. Dark woodblock floor, some unfriendly furniture, huge panes of glass framed in black-painted steel. The few kids in the kitchen were passing an inhaler around and watching a microwave fill up with popcorn.

  “I’m hot.” Janet stuck the inhaler into her face and pressed. “Anybody want to swim? Tree?”

  “Okay.” Tree breathed in a polite dose and breathed out a giggle. “You?” she asked me.

  “I don’t think so.” I was too nervous: I kept expecting someone to jump out and throw a net over me. “I’ll watch.”

  “I’d swim with you,” said Stennie, “but I promised Happy I’d bring her these party favors as soon as I arrived.” He nudged the box with his foot. “Can you wait a few minutes?”

  “Comrade and I will take them over.” I grabbed the box and headed for the door, glad for the excuse to leave Tree behind while I went to find
Montross. “Meet you at the pool.”

  The golf cart was gone, so we walked through the tube toward the sculpture gallery. “You have the picture?” I said.

  Comrade patted the pocket of his window coat.

  The tube was not air-conditioned, and the afternoon sun pounded us through the optical plastic. There was no sound inside; even our footsteps were swallowed by the astroturf. The box got heavier. We passed the entrance to the old painting gallery, which looked like a bomb shelter. Finally I had to break the silence. “I feel strange, being here,” I said. “Not just because of the thing with Montross. I really think I lost myself last time I got stunted. Not sure who I am anymore, but I don’t think I belong with these kids.”

  “People change, tovarisch,” said Comrade. “Even you.”

  “Have I changed?”

  He smiled. “Now that you’ve got a cush, your own mother wouldn’t recognize you.”

  “You know what your problem is?” I grinned and bumped up against him on purpose. “You’re jealous of Tree.”

  “Shouldn’t I be?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. I can’t tell if Tree likes who I was or who I might be. She’s changing, too. She’s so hot to break away from her parents, become part of this town. Except that what she’s headed for probably isn’t worth the trip. I feel like I should protect her, but that means guarding her from people like me, except I don’t think I’m Mom’s Mr. Boy anymore. Does that make sense?”

  “Sure.” He gazed straight ahead, but all the heads on his window coat were scoping me. “Maybe when you’re finished changing, you won’t need me.”

  The thought had occurred to me. For years he had been the only one I could talk to, but as we closed on the gallery, I did not know what to say. I shook my head. “I just feel strange.”

  And then we arrived. The sculpture gallery was designed for show-offs: short flights of steps and a series of stagy balconies descended around the white-brick exterior walls to the central exhibition area. The space was open so you could chat with your little knot of friends and, at the same time, spy on everyone else. About thirty kids were eating pizza and Crispix off paper plates. At the bottom of the stairs, as advertised, was a black upright piano. Piled beside it was the rest of the swag. A Boston rocker, a case of green Coke bottles, a Virgin Mary in half a blue bathtub, a huge conch shell, china and crystal and assorted smaller treasures, including a four-thousand-year-old ceramic hippo. There were real animals too, in cages near the gun rack: a turkey, some stray dogs and cats, turtles, frogs, assorted rodents.