Girl Parts
Page 8
Rose tugged at her shoulder strap. “Um, OK. I think I can do that. There’s no music, though.”
David turned on the clock radio. He scrambled the dial until he found a jazz station. “This is fine.”
A low, mournful saxophone dripped from the speakers. Rose turned out her heel and began to move to the melody.
“Is this good?”
“That’s perfect.”
She leaned against the bedpost, sliding down slowly like Jamie Lee Curtis. “Like this?”
David was going out of his head. His swallowed away the dryness in his throat. “Uh-huh.”
She moved close to him, daring their bodies to touch, leaving a whisper of breath between them. The silk of her dress rustled and fell like a black curtain.
“You’re perfect.”
“You are.”
She smiled, loving the effect she was having on him. She unclasped her bra and tossed it onto the bed. David looked ready to explode.
“Why didn’t you think of this sooner?” She giggled.
“Don’t stop there!”
She laughed again. “OK, OK.”
She wriggled out of her thong. She felt fragile, feeling the cool air all over. Shameful, her brain told her, but she ignored it. Naked in front of anyone else was shameful. But not him.
“What do you think?”
David stared, slack-jawed. He squinted, then shook his head.
Rose blinked. “What is it?”
He leaned over and turned on the bed lamp. Rose covered herself in the sudden light.
“Let me see,” he said, his voice urgent.
She moved her hands. David stared, clouds gathering in his eyes.
“Are you serious?”
“W-what?”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” He stood and paced across the room. “All this time!” He was furious, his eyes wild. “I mean, damn it, Rose!”
She slunk back onto the bed. “I don’t understand.”
“What was all this for? All this cutesy stuff! All this you and me stuff! Is this some kind of crazy joke?”
“I really don’t understand.” She was close to tears. “Please just tell me.”
“Talk about not getting what you want.” He stormed to the door.
Rose snatched her dress and held it across her front.
“What’s wrong with me?”
He whirled on her. “Like you don’t know.”
She shook her head.
“You’re incomplete, Rose. You’re a Barbie doll.”
“I . . .”
He wrenched open the door and tossed one last furious look over his shoulder.
“What a waste of time,” he said, and left.
The next few days were a blur.
“It’s not about sex, David. It’s about achieving something real,” Dr. Roger said.
“Sex is real.”
“You’re too young,” said his father. “We weren’t going to buy you a blow-up doll.”
“Didn’t you find yourself forming an emotional bond?”
“No.”
His friends were more sympathetic.
“I can believe the bitch cheated on you,” Artie said.
“Let her go back to New Hampshire or wherever,” said Clay.
“I’m going back to blondes,” David said, finishing the last Miller and tossing the can into the woods.
“There’s our old Sun God.” Clay smacked him on the shoulder. “Glad to have you back.”
He was glad to be back. He’d be gladder when they finally came and hauled her stuff away.
“You have no idea where she might have gone?” said the Sakora representative.
“No clue,” said David. The rep stood there in his suit, staring at David with small gray eyes, waiting for more. When David didn’t look up, he finally turned and left.
The only time he felt bad was at night. He woke up, thinking of her, and turned on all the lights. He turned on the computer, the stereo, everything. He wondered where she was and lay there wondering until the sun rose and the sky turned crimson.
He shut the shades. He never wanted to see that color again.
Drizzle pattered on the generator’s steel casing. Thaddeus lay on his back in the mud, flashlight in his teeth, looking up at the fried transistors. Somewhere in the woods a crow cawed.
“Is it hopeless?” Charlie asked.
“She’s busted real good.” Thaddeus was putting on his hillbilly mechanic routine. “Lightning cooked her insides like a backyard pig roast.”
The thought of roasted pig made Charlie’s stomach twist. With no power all night and all morning, they’d had nothing to eat but cold cereal. He’d kill for some microwaved chicken wings.
“Can you fix it?”
Thaddeus slipped his flashlight into his breast pocket. “We’ll need to go downtown this afternoon and pick up new transistors.”
They went back into the darkened house. Half-finished board games and incomplete jigsaw puzzles littered the carpet and the scuffed coffee table. Several dog-eared books with busted spines splayed on the threadbare sofa. Thaddeus dropped into his armchair, then leaped up, rubbing his backside. He extracted an ancient Rubik’s Cube from under the cushion — this one much easier to complete since half the colored stickers had peeled off.
The weather had stranded them indoors. Charlie’s Saturday bike rides and tromps through the woods would be replaced by hours of numbing silence in the living room with his father, who was just as happy nose-deep in a botany textbook as crouched in a bush. Charlie sat on the floor by the coffee table and arranged a few pieces of the Mona Lisa, snapping a section of her hair into place. The famous smile was missing, and Charlie suspected the pieces had been lost since he was in diapers.
“So, what are you doing today?” Thaddeus asked.
“I was thinking of hanging out with some of my friends this afternoon.”
This was a lie, of course, but Charlie wanted Thaddeus to think he was being more social.
“Oh, really? Like who?”
“Guys from school.”
“Well, that’s new. I’m glad to hear it.”
Thaddeus selected an old copy of Botanica from a pile.
“Does that mean I can stop going to counseling?”
Thaddeus peered over his magazine. “Hey, buddy, I know you don’t want to go. But the school thinks it’s best, and frankly, I’m inclined to agree. Even if the doctor did prescribe that ridiculous toy.”
He meant the Sakora doll. Like a good patient, Charlie had shown his father the catalog. But at first Thaddeus hadn’t found it as silly as Charlie expected. Instead he flipped through the shiny pages, pulling at his beard. He even did some research (deigning to use the computers at the town library) and found a few things they didn’t put in the catalog — about how these Companions were a limited release, currently being tested on the market in Japan and New England (over the past year in Shrewsbury and Worcester, Massachusetts), how the FDA had been on the fence until Sakora agreed to remove the “girl parts.” Holding hands and kissing were fine, but the US government balked at underage boys having intercourse with machines.
In the end Thaddeus said the whole thing was crazy, much to Charlie’s relief. Girls were hard enough to fathom, let alone ones built to order. As a trade-off he had to have a “check-in” with Dr. Roger every two weeks, a compromise Charlie could live with.
“You know you can always talk to me,” Thaddeus said. “But I know there are some things that aren’t easy to talk to your dad about, you know?”
Charlie fiddled with an errant puzzle piece. “Like what?”
“Well. Like girls, maybe? You know, real ones?”
“Thanks.” But no thanks, Charlie thought. It would be a long time before he could hear the word date and not smell soy sauce.
“Listen, I know you don’t want to be cooped up all day. Why don’t you ride into town and get the parts we need?”
“The shop won’t open till ten.”
“I’ll try. Thanks, Dad.”
Thaddeus parented the way he studied: with careful, loving, detached observation. Food and water, plenty of good sunlight, and the occasional support to help the stalks climb.
Charlie rode the mile and a half south toward the end of the lake where their little street met Horizon Road, the spokes of his new wheel flashing. The roads were slick and black, littered with fallen pine needles. He passed the occasional car, mostly cleaning ladies and landscapers driving to work at the lake houses. Occasionally a housewife in an expensive minivan zipped past in the other direction, onboard televisions blinking away to entertain her kids.
Westtown boasted a historic district preserved to look like the set of Leave It to Beaver. The modern coffee shops, Internet cafés, and Apple store all had regulation wooden storefronts, hanging signs, and whitewashed benches out front.
Inside Land’s Lunch Counter it was warm, the air filled with the smell of comfort food and the soothing metallic clink of silverware. Charlie sat beneath the black-and-white picture of the Hollywood sign, taken in 1932, when it read HOLLYWOODLAND. The waitress (Peg, according to her name tag) wore skull-shaped earrings. She brought Charlie a floppy fried-egg sandwich and a coffee.
He was halfway through his second cup when a gust of wind coursed through and a trio of girls breezed in. (Breeze, Charlie thought. Wasn’t that how beautiful girls got everywhere? On tinkling little zephyrs.) They sat across the aisle — Saint Mary’s girls, by the look of them. They had long, straight hair and pastel tops, like paper dolls from the same set. Two wore red robin brooches. He’d seen those before but couldn’t remember where. Maybe in a play, he thought, scratching a phantom itch on his shoulder. They laughed and chatted, hands flitting, completely ignoring him, even when he dropped his change, as if a soundproof barrier separated one half of the diner from the other. He finished his coffee. It was suddenly too warm, and he couldn’t stand that grumbling radio.
He jogged across the street to the tech shop. The skinny clerk found a pair of transistors in the back, so old the price sticker had worn off. He estimated their worth —“Like, two bucks?”— and Charlie tucked the little box with its crumpled corners into his jacket.
On the ride home, it began to sprinkle. Icy drops stung his face and hands. At the fork, Charlie bore left, deciding to circle the lake. He thought about the girls in the diner. He thought about his dad. He thought about the leaves floating on the surface of the puddles, too insubstantial even to sink.
Charlie pedaled past the big houses, up to Cliff Road, which followed the ledge that rose around the northern tip of the lake. His legs burned as he made his way slowly up the incline. One foot down, then the other. The old gears strained and squealed. The black water shimmered in the rain.
He was about thirty yards from the tip of the lake when he saw it — a flash of crimson amid the gray. At first he thought it must be someone stopping to enjoy the view, but as Charlie drew close he could see she was on the wrong side of the guardrail, standing on the lip of rock. A jumper.
Charlie stopped pedaling. She was young, his age maybe, some overdramatic rich girl who didn’t get a pony for her sweet sixteenth. The wind caught her hair and tossed it like a candle flame. Her dress fluttered.
“Hey,” he called. His voice came back to him, made flat by the rocks and water. Hey!
The girl looked up, her eyes dead and distant. Charlie climbed off his bike, letting it fall.
“Wait a second!” The echo came back. Wait a second!
His sneakers slapped the wet pavement. He could feel his heart in his throat, and behind his eyes. His breath came thin and hard, like steel. Oh, God, don’t let her jump. Please don’t let her jump.
“Wait!” Wait!
She looked down at the water. He was fifty paces away. Twenty. He reached for her as she tipped forward, arms at her sides. His fingers clutched the black silk of her dress. For a beat her weight pulled against the silk and she was suspended above the drop. And then Charlie’s feet slipped, and she tumbled forward. He held tight to her. His thighs bumped the guardrail, and then he was following her over, his feet leaving the ground. The ledge came away and the water rose up, sparkling like smashed glass.
And they fell.
Initiating emergency shutdown.
Please wait. . . .
David!
Connection to home server lost.
LikeSoComeUpToMyRoomLikeLightDavidRightyellow
Files corrupted.
Please wait. . . .
YellowBlackgrassnighttreeDavidYellowRedBlue
AI reinitiating.
blueJacketredlightisShecAgedawnbirdpapercrimson . . .
Rose.
Booting up senses, diagnostic.
Reboot complete.
Rose felt the icy water all over. She swallowed it, breathed it in. It worked its way into her nose and eyes. Her eyes were open, but all she saw was blackness.
For the first time, she heard nothing.
Darkness and silence.
A hand grabbed her wrist and began to pull.
Charlie pushed up toward the light. It was amazing — the force of life, to the urge to stay living. He burst through the surface, holding her wrist tightly with both hands, and pulled her up, up. She was awkward and so heavy, and he felt himself sinking. But somehow he would make it to shore with her on his back, her arms wrapped around his neck.
The room was empty. Rose was alone in the room. Rose was alone.
David had just gone. She was naked, mouth open, breath coming in shallow quivers. The arrow in her mind, unbending, pointed to where David had stood, where now a yellow wedge shone beneath the door. She didn’t know how long she stared before her hands began to move. They gathered her dress and sheathed her in its dark silk. She burst into the hallway, bumping a kissing couple, and ran to the hall window, throwing herself against the glass. David’s Nightbird was pulling away, onto the driveway and into the night.
“She’s drunk,” the boy said.
“Dean, be nice.”
Rose rushed past them and down into the throng. Her vision was blurring, turning red. Wrong, her mind told her. She pushed through the crowd. People stared. Forbidden. She was outside, tripping into the mud.
“Whoa, you OK?” someone asked.
Go back. The voice pursued her down the driveway, hammering her temples, turning the world — the world without David — into a smoldering inferno. No more tiny halos. The sky was red, the night burned.
A car’s headlights blinded her. A horn blared. She stumbled into the woods, wiping at her eyes. She was lost. Her arrow spun, searching for her boy, but couldn’t find him. And every moment away from him was wrong.
She felt as if her head would explode. Her mind wrestled with the impossible tangle. She was made for David; she was not made for David. She must return to him. She must please him. To be with him displeased him. She was impossible; life impossible.
She didn’t know how long she wandered. Dawn came with horrible glaring sunlight. How had she ever thought it pretty? She wished for dark clouds. And it was then she came through the brush and saw the still black water and made a choice, her first real choice: to jump.
“Dad! Dad!”
Charlie guided her back into Thaddeus’s lab. His father was nowhere in sight. He laid her gently on the couch. There were blankets in the closet. He wrapped her up, letting the water soak into the musty fabric. Charlie checked the thermostat. Dead. The power was still out.
What she needed was heat, hot water. The Bunsen burners ran on gas, but with the power out, he needed a spark.
“Stay there.”
Her gaze was empty, her skin the color of fresh newspaper. Please, God, please don’t let her die.
There was a box of matches in a kitchen drawer. The burner lit on the first try, the flame prancing a
bove the metal tubing. He grabbed a tumbler from the shelf and filled it with tap water. Not big enough to put her feet in, but he could tuck it under the blankets to warm her up. Her breathing was raspy, which could mean pneumonia. But at least she was breathing.
Charlie sat on the floor, his face inches from hers.
“What’s your name?”
No response.
“Why were you up there?”
Nothing.
“Can you hear me?”
Bubbles rose in the bell-shaped tumbler. Charlie wrapped the hot glass in a towel to keep it from burning her and tucked it by her feet.
“Let me know if that’s too hot. But we’ve got to keep you warm. I don’t want you to freeze to death.” Words worked their way out of him, like the bubbles in the boiling water. “This is what they used to do in the 1800s, you know, except then they’d use coals in a hot pan. Did you ever go to Old Sturbridge Village? It’s one of those historic re-creation places. I learned that there.”
One hand fell loose from the blankets. The wrinkled, icy fingertips had flecks of polish clinging to the nails. Charlie stopped babbling. His throat felt full of thick bile. He coughed. At least her trembling had stopped.
A tangle of maroon hair clung to her neck. She was beautiful. And somehow familiar.
“Have . . . have we met before?”
“Blue,” she said, her voice almost too quiet to hear.
“What did you just say?”
“Blue,” she said again, still staring at the ceiling. “Blue jacket.”
Charlie looked down. He was wearing his old blue parka.
“Yes.”
“In the road.”
“. . . yes,” Charlie said.
“And I saw you . . . lying.”
“Lying where?”
Her words were dreamy and slow, like a sleepwalker’s. Maybe she was asleep. Or in a trance.
“Lying in the road,” she said. “My second day.” Her eyes met his, flashing emerald. “Charlie.”
And then he remembered. The car running him off the road. The girl coming to see if he was all right. Her red hair.
“Rose.”
A smile, just barely visible, tickled the corner of her mouth.