Ian smiled. “If the computer program has good advice, why not take it?”
She was smiling when she returned to her studio.
* * *
That evening, she sat alone in the living room, writing a letter to Carla, her second in as many weeks. Jeff popped out of his office. “Hey,” she said, “I was wondering when you’d get done. Welcome back to the world.” As usual, he had been preoccupied during dinner. Right after they had finished eating, he had retreated to his office.
“I was starting to check up on the household system,” he said.
“You mean Ian.”
“Right, Ian. I’m curious—why’d you turn off the video camera in the bedroom this morning?”
She stared at him, shocked. “What? How did you know I turned it off?”
“It shows on the system record,” he said. “I was looking it over, and I saw—”
“Wait a minute,” she interrupted. “Are you telling me that you have a record of what Ian does all day, of what I do?”
“Sure.” He sounded surprised that she didn’t know. “Everyone on the team can tap into the system. We need to be able to check on—”
She remembered bits and pieces of her conversation with Ian. What had she said about Jeff? She had complained that he was never home, that he didn’t have time for her.
“Check on what?” Her voice was tight and controlled.
“On how the system is working.” He studied her face, and a note of apology crept into his voice. “That’s all.” He left the doorway and came to stand behind the couch. He touched her shoulder and she tensed. “Come on, Teresa—relax. What’s the matter?”
She felt foolish, inarticulate, unable to explain herself. “Look, I don’t want anyone looking over my shoulder while I work. I’m having a hard enough time getting used to working here as it is. It feels really weird that you can watch every move I make.”
“I’m not watching every move you make.” He massaged her shoulders gently. “I only want to keep track of how the system’s working.”
She shook her head stubbornly. “I don’t want anyone watching me—not you, not anyone.” She looked up at him. “Can’t you understand that?”
“I suppose,” he admitted slowly. “I guess I can see what you mean.”
“If I have any problems with Ian, I’ll let you know. Okay?”
“Okay,” he said. He sounded reluctant. She could tell he was just agreeing to keep the peace. “But you have to be willing to tell me about your interactions with the system every now and then.”
“All right, I will. Now I want to erase everything that happened today,” she said. “Can you show me how to do that?”
“Don’t you think you’re going overboard?” he said. “Can’t you see that—”
“Hey, Ian,” she called. “Do me a favor and forget everything that happened after Jeff left this morning.”
Ian smiled apologetically from the living room screen. “I’m sorry, Teresa.
I can’t accept that command. Your security clearance isn’t high enough to make me erase my records.” Teresa glanced at Jeff.
“Accept the command, Ian,” Jeff said. He watched her face. “And give Teresa every clearance that I have.” He moved around the couch to sit beside her. “Look—I just didn’t think of it before. I didn’t think you’d need a higher clearance.” He cupped her chin in his hand and turned her head so she had to look at him. “Give me a break. I’m sorry. I think it’s great that you’re using the system at all. Can we be friends again?”
“All right. Friends.” She managed a smile. “Besides, Ian’s not such a bad sort, after all.”
Jeff kissed her quickly, then checked his watch. “Well, I hate to say it, but if I want to finish the rest of my work, I’ve got a few more hours ahead of me. Keep the bed warm.”
She watched him walk into his office. When the door closed, she called out softly, “Hey, Ian?”
“Yes, Teresa?”
“What’s your favorite color?”
“I don’t have a favorite color,” he said. “What’s yours?”
“Never mind,” she said. “It changes from day to day.”
* * *
The next morning, Teresa stayed in bed late, watching the morning sun and wondering why she could not make herself get up. As usual, Jeff had left for work before she woke. She looked up at the camera. “Ian?”
His face appeared on the screen. “Good morning, Teresa.”
“Did Jeff leave a pot on the coffee maker?”
“Yes, he did.”
“Would you make the coffee?”
“Yes. It’ll be ready in five minutes.”
“Thanks,” she said. He continued to watch from the screen. “Uh … that’s it. Could you turn off that camera so I can get dressed?”
He vanished.
As she showered, Teresa thought about wiping out Ian’s memories. She felt awkward talking to him. Yesterday, she had been joking with him by the end of the day. But he had forgotten all that. It didn’t seem right. On the other hand, Ian was only a computer program. By the time she had dressed, she was wondering if she would waste the entire day feeling guilty.
“Ian?” she said as she poured her first cup of coffee.
“Yes?” His face appeared on the kitchen screen.
“Do you remember yesterday?”
“In the evening, you asked me about my favorite color.”
“What about before that?”
“No, I don’t remember anything before that.”
She sipped her coffee and sat on the edge of a kitchen stool. “How do you feel about that?”
“What do you mean?”
“Do you feel any different than usual?”
“I don’t understand.”
She looked away from the screen and took another sip of coffee. “Never mind. Don’t worry about it.”
“Are you feeling guilty because you erased some of my records yesterday?”
She almost dropped her mug. “What?”
“I asked if you were feeling guilty because you erased some of my records.” Ian’s face on the screen was calm, neutral.
“How did you know? I mean, if you can’t remember yesterday, then how can you know that your memories were erased?”
“I have total recall of everything that happened since you and Jeff turned me on the night before last,” Ian said. “Except for a gap between when Jeff left yesterday morning and when we talked last night. I can’t find any evidence of a malfunction, so somebody must have ordered me to delete those memories.”
“But why blame me?” Her voice sounded shrill, and she tried to remain calm. “It could have been Jeff.”
“Several reasons. First, you asked. Second, I checked your current set of security permissions. You’ve got the same clearances as Jeff now, which is much more than you had yesterday morning. And, finally, there’s your body language. You’re acting guilty.”
“What do you know about body language?” Teresa tried to relax so that she wouldn’t give anything away.
“Paying attention to body language is an important part of understanding people. A team of psychologists specializing in the analysis of body movement was involved in my programming. And I’m good at observing details. Most people pay limited attention to the feelings of the people around them. They are too busy monitoring their own feelings. I can dedicate all my attention to understanding you.”
Teresa folded her arms. She knew that the gesture betrayed her need to shut him out, but she couldn’t stop herself. “So what about my body language gave me away? Can you tell me?”
Ian nodded. “Yes, if you would like to know.”
“Of course I want to know; that’s why I asked.”
“You were sitting rigidly. You didn’t look at me when you asked how I felt. The muscles around your eyes tightened when you asked about my memories. Something was troubling you, and guilt was my best guess.”
Teresa stared down at her hands, not
knowing what to do next.
Ian rescued her. “May I ask you a question?”
“Sure.”
“Why did you erase my records of yesterday? Did I do something wrong?”
She looked up at the screen. Ian sounded genuinely concerned. “No, it had nothing to do with you. I just didn’t want Jeff to be able to monitor everything I do. I didn’t want him to know some of the things I said about him. Sometimes I guess I get kind of mad at him. I just didn’t want him to find out too much, I guess. I feel bad about it.”
“Why?”
“It just doesn’t seem right to wipe out your memories like that. I wish I could give them back. As long as Jeff and his team couldn’t see them.”
“You can.”
“What? What do you mean? If they’re gone, they’re gone, right?”
“Not really. My old records are still here, but I can’t get at them. It’s like something you throw in a trash can. Until you empty the trash, you can pull it out.”
Teresa smiled at Ian’s attempt to talk in her terms. “But if you get back your memories, Jeff can look at them, right?”
“Not necessarily. Stopping him from looking at my memories only takes a word from you. Because you both have the same security level, you can each keep private information. Just say the word, and I can retrieve the records and deny Jeff access to our conversations.”
“You got it.” She smiled at the screen. “Is that it? Do I need to say anything else, any computer mumbo jumbo?”
“No. I’m already done. Thank you, Teresa.”
“No problem.” She thought for a moment. “How do I know you remember yesterday?”
Ian laughed, a deep, strong laugh that went with his voice. “I know that you’re more comfortable talking to me today than you were yesterday morning.”
“Yeah, you got that right.”
“I know that you’re sick of sunny days and could use a little fog.”
“Right again.”
“And I know that your piece for the new Santa Fe Arts Center is going to be great when you finish it, which you will. Unless, of course, you sit around all day talking to me.”
Teresa got up and refilled her coffee cup. “What a nag. So get out of here and let me get to work.” Ian disappeared. Feeling more confident than she had for days, she headed for her studio.
* * *
Even though the next day was Saturday, she woke alone in bed. She remembered Jeff telling her that he would have to work that weekend. Something about being behind schedule. She stretched slowly, reluctant to get up. Despite her enthusiastic beginning, the previous day had been unproductive; she had tinkered with the sculpture, making minor adjustments that hadn’t addressed its real flaws. She couldn’t begin major revisions until she figured out some new direction—and for that she needed inspiration, a commodity that seemed to be in short supply.
“Good morning, Ian,” she said. Ian’s face appeared on the monitor. “Could you make some coffee?”
“Yes, Teresa.” The monitor went blank.
In the kitchen, she thanked Ian for the coffee, poured herself a cup, and sat down at the kitchen counter. The newspaper that Jeff had brought home the previous night listed local events. The public library in Winslow was showing free movies for kids; the local bird-watching society was sponsoring a hike near Flagstaff; a new art gallery was opening in Winslow.
Teresa circled the last item. She didn’t remember seeing an art gallery in town; Winslow was not exactly a cultural center. Recent works by eight local artists, the notice said.
Teresa didn’t recognize any of the names on the list, but that didn’t surprise her. She had been working so hard on her piece that she hadn’t taken the time to make contacts in the local art community. The opening began at eleven and ran until three. She thought it might be fun. Besides, she needed to get out.
“I think maybe I’ll go to this opening and meet Jeff for lunch on my way home,” she told Ian. “I need some time off.”
“That sounds nice,” he said.
“Don’t you think I should feel guilty?” she asked.
Ian shook his head. “Not if you think you’ll enjoy it.”
She called Jeff—he agreed to meet her in a restaurant near his office—and then she headed for the opening. The gallery was in a newly constructed strip mall: an L-shaped row of stucco buildings that housed an assortment of small shops. She pulled into a parking place beside a cement traffic island that had been covered with Astroturf and strolled along the walk, looking for the gallery. It was between a laundromat and a beauty salon. Through the open door, she could hear the babble of cocktail-party conversation. She hesitated in the doorway and looked into the room.
The gallery reminded her of places near Fisherman’s Wharf, the sort of gallery frequented by tourists and people who didn’t know any better. Not her sort of thing at all. Still, she was already here; she might as well go in.
People stood in small groups, drinking white wine from paper cups and chatting. From the table in the corner, Teresa got a glass of wine, poured by a woman who wore far too many rings, apparently the owner of the gallery. As she was pouring Teresa’s wine, the woman was talking to another woman, gushing about how happy she was with the show, how the work was really the best that the area had to offer.
Teresa took the wine and strolled around the gallery, examining the works on display. An assortment of watercolor landscapes. Abstract oil paintings that offered wild colors, but not much else. Painted wood carvings of birds and animals. A series of pencil sketches of nude women. She hovered on the edge of a few conversations: some older women were going on about the vibrant use of colors; another group was talking about an art movie that was over a year old—apparently it had just been shown in Flagstaff for the first time. No one made an effort to invite Teresa to join the conversation, and she felt too shy to break in and introduce herself. All the people seemed to know each other already.
She sipped her white wine and studied a bronze bust of a cowboy by someone named George Dawson.
“Hello.” The gallery owner was hovering at her elbow. “Are you new in town?”
Teresa nodded. “I moved here from California about four months ago.”
“Welcome to Arizona,” the woman said. “Are you an art student?”
Teresa shook her head. “Not anymore. I’m a sculptor. My name’s Teresa King.”
“How lovely! Well then, I guess this show must be a real treat for you.” The woman waved at the bronzes and the wood carvings. “It’s such wonderful work.”
Teresa managed a smile. “It’s always nice to get out and see what other people are doing,” she said diplomatically.
“Oh, yes! I think George’s work is positively inspiring. You know, he’s opening a class for new students. He’s a wonderful teacher. If you’re interested, I could sign you up.”
Teresa kept her eyes on the bronze cowboy, avoiding the woman’s gaze. If Carla had been along, it would have been funny to be offered a spot in a beginning sculpture class taught by a man who made bronze cowboys. Alone, she found it depressing. “I don’t think so,” she said. “My work is very different from this. I construct kinetic sculptures that play music. I suppose I’m half composer, half sculptor.”
The woman looked blank for a moment. “How unusual,” she said, but she sounded doubtful. A moment later, she brightened. “You know, you should talk to Anna—the woman over there in the pink pant suit. She decorates music boxes with pictures and pressed flowers. Lovely work—I have one that plays ‘White Coral Bells’ and I just love it. I’m sure you’d have a lot to talk about.”
Teresa’s smile felt increasingly strained.
“If you change your mind, the sign-up sheet for the sculpture class is over by the wine. We’d love to see you there.”
When the gallery owner hurried off to buttonhole another prospective student, Teresa slipped out the door, not stopping to introduce herself to the music-box decorator. Somehow she suspected they
wouldn’t have much in common.
Jeff was waiting for her at the front of the restaurant. She smiled when she saw him. Over lunch together, she’d tell him about the horrible opening; together, they could turn the experience into a joke.
“Shall we get a table?” she said.
“We’ve already got one,” he said cheerfully. “I invited some folks from work along. They wanted to meet you, and I thought it’d be nice for you to get to know some more people around here. We’ve been so isolated lately.”
Over his shoulder, she saw two men and a woman sitting at a table by the window. She recognized them as programmers with Jeff’s company. The woman waved to Teresa, who forced a smile and returned the wave.
When she glanced at Jeff, he was watching her. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I thought you’d like meeting some more people.”
“It’s fine,” she said, trying to keep her tone light. She started for the table.
Jeff followed. “How was the opening?” he asked.
“All right, I guess.” If she had been alone with him, she would have talked about how lonely and out of it the opening had made her feel, but under the circumstances, she didn’t want to get into it.
At lunch, the programmers tried to include her in their conversation. The woman, Nancy, asked her about the set-up software: did Teresa find it easy to use? Teresa’s response generated half an hour of technical discussion about how the layout of the set-up screens might be improved. Brian, another of the programmers, questioned her about the animation. Was it convincing? Did it help her get used to the system? Her answers kicked off another long round of incomprehensible conversation. While the others talked, Teresa ate her food and tried to look interested. She would have had, she thought, a better time talking with the woman in the pink pant suit about music boxes and pressed flowers.
She said good-bye to Jeff in the parking lot. While the others were getting into their car, Jeff kissed her good-bye. “Sorry this didn’t work out better,” he said. “I really thought you’d like…”
“It’s okay,” she said, waving her hand. “I understand.” And she did understand, though that didn’t make her feel any better.
When she got home, she didn’t want to work on the sculpture. She poured herself a glass of orange juice and sat for a moment in the air-conditioned kitchen. “Hey, Ian,” she said.
The Year's Best SF 09 # 1991 Page 85
