by Jim Stark
"Well fucking excuuuuuse me,” said Michael as he headed for the door. “Come on, Becky, let's go."
"I'm not going, Michael,” she said firmly. “I'm very interested to learn about Victor's ideas, and I think you owe him an apology."
"Oh, no apology necessary,” said Victor. “Come on, Michael, let's eat. We'll turn the TV on right after dinner. They'll be at this situation nonstop until midnight—that's if the government lets them continue broadcasting. Winnie and I have to go help Noel in the kitchen. He'll be joining us for dinner. We'll meet you in the dining room in a minute."
"You and Noel can manage,” said Winnie confidently. “I'll stay in the dining room with our guests, and I shall await to be served," she added, in snooty, British tone.
Victor chuckled. “Sure, hon,” he said as he walked out of the den.
Michael apologized to Becky and Winnie. He didn't want to, but he was very badly outnumbered, and he wasn't inclined to jeopardize his relationship with his girlfriend. “Doesn't Victor feel sort of ... a bit responsible ... for all the insanity that's going on?” he asked.
"Should he?” Winnie asked back. Her guarded green eyes seemed unprepared to accept anything but the word “no."
"Well,” said Michael, “yeah, I mean—"
"Beep,” went Winnie's LieDeck after the word “yeah.” The kids hadn't noticed her turn it on, but clearly she had sensed a need to do so.
"You see!” said Becky. “You don't even believe what you said."
"Well, I ... I thought I did,” insisted Michael.
"Beep,” went Winnie's LieDeck again.
"Give it up, Michael,” said Becky. “You're just mad at Victor for turning off the TV."
"I am not mad at Victor,” he said indignantly.
"Beep."
"Let's take a good look at this,” suggested Winnifred as they walked towards the dining room. “If we hold Victor responsible for all the awful things that are happening, we would basically be saying that he shouldn't have invented the LieDeck in the first place, or that he shouldn't have told anybody about it, or he should have just gone to the military and let them have it exclusively. Am I right?"
"I ... suppose,” said Michael, and there was no beep.
"If we hold Victor responsible for the deaths in Halifax, would we then have to hold Albert Einstein responsible for Hiroshima? Wouldn't we also have to hold Henry Ford responsible for every life that has ever been lost in a car accident, or the Wright brothers for every plane crash?"
"I guess that figures,” said Michael, without contradiction from the LieDeck.
"As I see it,” continued Winnie, “the problem in Halifax isn't the LieDeck. It's the racism ... that and the apparent willingness of some blacks and some Natives to vent their frustration through violence. But mostly it's the racism."
"I ... I suppose so,” said Michael, recalling what Victor had said earlier about how the LieDeck would debunk all the nasty “isms” that plagued the world. He and Winnie sat down at the dining-room table. Becky stopped to close the vertical blinds a little, and as she passed behind Michael, she threw Winnie a clearly decipherable glance that meant “wow.” She really liked Winnie, now that she was getting to know her, and it struck her that although she'd met her often, she had never really tried to get into her mind before, to understand her, to see if they might become friends. A similar thought occurred to Michael ... similar, but more limited. How could a housekeeper acquire such insights? he wondered.
"I've had to face being wrong many times in the last day or so,” said Winnie, “ever since Victor told me the details about Human Three Consciousness. I don't want to spoil his fun. He'll tell you what that means in a few minutes. What I will say is that it's quite easy to use the LieDeck on a personal level. All you have to do is speak your thoughts out loud, and of course you have to want to know what is real and what isn't. The more you fight the LieDeck, the harder you fall. The more you let yourself go with it, and let it ... teach you, the easier it gets. I ... I shouldn't say too much.
"Do you need any help, sweetheart?” she called. She was on her way to the kitchen before Victor had time to respond.
"Jeeze,” said Michael, “I'm not sure I'm ready for all this ... this therapy baloney they're into. Talk about psychobabble!"
"Oh, come off it,” said Becky. “That's not therapy. It's ... reality, and I would have thought you'd find it exciting."
"And you do?" he asked.
"Yes, I do,” she said frankly. “I mean ... well, the script for the last few minutes could have gone a dozen different ways. You could have had a fistfight with Victor, or you could have stomped out, or we both could have stomped out, or you and I could have had a fight, even broken up. But none of these bad things happened, mostly thanks to the LieDeck ... and the fact that Victor and Winnie seem to know how to use it in ways that lead to solutions. I find it remarkable, and I can't wait to learn more."
"But what about my feelings?” sulked Michael. “You don't seem to care about—"
"What about them?” asked Becky, pointedly. “You were wrong to get mad at Victor for turning off the TV in his own home, you were wrong to suggest that this wasn't his home, you were wrong to deny that you were mad at him, you were wrong to say he was responsible for the damn riot in Halifax, and you were wrong to swear! And if we had a LieDeck here now, you'd find out that you're also completely wrong to say that I don't care about your feelings. I really think you need to calm down and get your act together before—"
"Spaghetteee an’ dem meatballs,” announced Noel as a procession emerged from the kitchen, “an’ I am making dat special sauce jus’ for you, from da scratch."
"Beep,” went Winnie's LieDeck, to the amusement of all, including Noel, who claimed that he'd lied on purpose to make it beep ... only to be beeped once again.
"What a riot that thing is, eh?” said Winnie. Her green eyes seemed to smile now ... their normal state.
Everyone sat and got through the ceremonial first bite, and Noel was delighted to see that everyone liked his sauce.
"Chili pepper and dat little bit of brown sugar,” beamed Noel. “Is fantastique, non?"
"Victor,” said Becky as soon as circumstances allowed, “would you tell us more about this Human Three concept of yours?"
"I've been thinking about that, and it seems I've changed my mind again ... third time, actually. I ... have to go public with that, Becky,” he said with a sigh. “And I should tell everybody at once. I hope you don't mind waiting a few more days."
"Oh, honey! I'm really glad to hear that, but ... are you sure?” asked a concerned Winnifred Jopps.
"I ... think so,” said Victor.
Chapter 53
ARSE-OVER-TEAKETTLE IN LOVE
"Hey hey,” said Helen as she poked her head around the curtain. “Sleeping on the job again?"
"Helen,” answered Annette groggily. “Give us a hug, mate."
Helen wasn't in good shape. She had been deeply troubled by the suicides of Bishop Doyle and the former prime minister, especially coming as they did on the heels of the bombed car outside Whiteside headquarters yesterday. She'd slept only five hours, for the third day in a row, and they were the wrong hours, daytime hours. When she woke up at 6:00 p.m., she had called Patriot for an update on the Bill Doyle situation, only to be told that there had been race riots in Halifax, Toronto, Winnipeg, and even in Vancouver, and that the United States had fallen into a virtual state of siege from its black, Native and Hispanic populations. That news banged her comfort zone down to rock bottom. Cam O'Connor also informed her that Prime Minister Godfrey had finally yielded to the crush of events and had declared a “temporary state of emergency” in Canada—martial law, in other words. And all his psychic weight had fallen upon her before she'd ever had time to grieve properly for her dead ex-boyfriend, even if he was an unfaithful cad.
She had to go back on shift at 10:00 p.m., in three hours, and she was on the brink of depression over the latest news ...
as well as being physically exhausted. Thank goodness Annette never watches TV, Helen thought.
"It's great to see you improving every day,” she said. “Your voice is strong, and they finally took that turban off your head. There's no more tubes and wiring. I can't get over how fantastic you look. When is the patch coming off your eye?"
"I feel terrific,” said Annette, “almost normal. The patch will be off in a few days. The hole in the back of my neck will be almost completely healed pretty soon. I won't let anybody see my scars when the patch comes off, by the way. Dr. Kreuzer said it'll be a month or two before they can do any plastic surgery. I asked him for a pair of those wrap-around black glasses. Vanity has its place, and I don't want people to remember me like I am now ... except for Steve, of course, but he's...” Words failed her, and a look of bliss crossed her bandaged face.
"Spare me,” squeaked Helen. “The woman is smitten. You need an exorcism more than you need plastic surgery."
"Oh, Helen,” said Annette. “I am so in love with that beautiful man. He's ... well, he's unlike any man I've ever met. To tell you the truth, it likely wouldn't matter to him if my whole body was covered in icky scabs and gaping eyeballs. He's in love with me, the real me, the me that I never felt I could even express completely to anyone. I think I'm the luckiest person on Earth, not because I survived a bullet, but because I met Steve Sutherland.” She used every available facial muscle to let her love shine through, and Helen almost collapsed with laughter.
"Yeah, I'm bloody smitten, all right,” smiled Annette, “but the last thing I need is a rescue mission. You know what I did this morning? Oh, Christ, I still don't believe I did it..."
"Spill it, woman,” begged Helen.
"I ... proposed to him,” laughed Annette.
"Get out of town,” cackled Helen. “You didn't!"
"I did. I really did ... and I meant it."
"You've lost it,” cried Helen. “There was brain damage after all."
"I can't believe I did that,” said Annette as she tried to settle herself. “But I can't see my life having any meaning without him. There is nothing I have ever wanted more than to marry Mr. Steve Sutherland. I have to marry him. He's my husband. I feel like I'm his wife. So I ... just ... asked him ... if he'd marry me,” she said, shaking her head and still hardly able to believe what she'd done.
Helen was in stitches. This was splendid. “If ever there was an affirmation of life,” she hooted, “it's my pal Annette, in a hospital bed, arse-over-teakettle in love with a frigging bishop.” The two buddies cracked up over that description. “I really am happy for you, Annette,” said Helen as she grabbed a Kleenex and wiped tears from her cheeks. “This is terrific. What did he say when you asked him?"
"He wants a big ring,” squealed Annette, “like a pope gets when he gets crowned pope."
Helen almost fell off her chair. This was even zanier than it was lovely.
"I'm kidding, of course,” said Annette after she collected herself. “Actually, he was perfectly ... well, I should keep some parts of our relationship private, Helen. All I can say is I really hope he says ‘yes.’ Do you think I should buy him a humongous big-assed cubic zirconium, to keep the pressure on?"
"God,” said Helen, “you're bad, Annette, as in B-A-D, baaaaad!"
"I wish he'd said ‘yes’ on the spot,” said Annette. “I know he wanted to, but he also wanted me to have an ‘out’ ... in case the drugs might have affected my judgment, or the trauma that I went through, or the post-traumatic stress that they all say I'll go through at some point. But I really am—how did you delicately phrase it?—'arse-over-teakettle’ in love with the man. He knows it, and he feels the same towards me, I just know it. And ... and we're going to live happily ever after, Helen, no matter what. We've got the fairytale in our grasp, and I'm going to hold on so tight it'll never get away."
This is so ... joyful, thought Helen. It's a shame I have to give her bad news. But then ... why should I spoil this moment? Fuck it. She'll find out later anyway, and it isn't like Buck's going to die in the next hour.
Chapter 54
WE'RE ALL HIS FRIENDS
Tirone Lucas crept into Buck's hospital room without knocking and saw that his old pal was resting, or sleeping ... or worse. I wish he'd'a given his okay to the morphine, Tirone said to himself. No point in him suffering so freaking much, but then that wouldn't be the Buck, he supposed. Always gotta be a damned hero.
"You awake?” he said quietly. There was no response, and Tirone was suddenly terrified that perhaps he was too late. Maybe he's dreaming that dream again, the one he told me about last time I came. He put his plastic bag of magazines on the bottom of the bed, beside Buck's feet, and lifted a chair quietly to the bedside. He could see that Buck was breathing. A man shouldn't hafta die alone, he thought as he slapped his calloused trucker's hands onto his forehead and drew them down to the chin stubble.
Buck opened his eyes a crack and saw the familiar mug of his long-time drinking buddy. “How ... you hanging?” he whispered.
"Jeeze, Buck, you're scaring me,” said Tirone. “You're ... not looking so good, man."
"What ... the hell ... did you ... expect?” wheezed the Buck. “I'm dying, for ... for fucksakes."
"Aw Jesus,” moaned Tirone as he gave his face another two-handed once-over maul. “Don't say that, Buck."
"Okay,” he gasped, “I'm just ... faking it."
Tirone wanted to laugh, but mostly he wanted his friend to not die. It wasn't often that he found himself in the position where he couldn't just smack somebody and make things instantly better.
"There's something I—” Buck coughed painfully before he could finish his thought. He reached over, got a Kleenex, and spit blood and phlegm into it. The effort tired him, and he let his eyes close and his lungs relax before he tried again. “There's something ... I'd like you to do for me,” he said in a raspy, halting voice. He threw his eyes sideways and attempted to reach over to the drawer of the bedside table.
"I'll get it,” said Tirone as he pulled open the drawer. “What are you looking for?"
"My LieDeck,” Buck whispered, “and the pamphlet ... that goes with it."
Tirone took them out of the drawer and held them out towards his old bud.
"They're yours,” waved Buck, “on one ... condition."
"Jeeze, thanks,” said Tirone. “But ... what do you mean by one condition?"
"Take it ... to Ray's,” said Buck, “and give everybody a hard time. Tell them ... tell them it was my dying wish. But ... don't tell them that today, okay? Tell them after ... after I'm gone."
Tirone smiled nervously. “Sure Buck,” he said, “I can do that for you."
"Hurry up,” said Buck. “I want you to come back here ... and tell me what everybody said ... what they did."
"Well, okay,” said Tirone, studying the small black case. “I was gonna stay and visit you for a while, if you want. I even bought some magazines for ya ... ones you like."
"Give them ... to your Tammy,” said Buck.
"Yeah right,” chuckled Tirone.
"One other thing,” said Buck.
"Of course, Buck ... anything."
"When I'm gone, touch my face ... make sure I'm cold ... really dead. All my life ... I been scared of being ... buried alive by some jackass that ... that can't tell it's a coma ... and I'm still alive."
Tirone felt the clutch in his throat shear a gear. “Sure, anything you say, good buddy,” he managed. “You sure you want to be alone?"
"Yeah,” said Buck. “I'm used to it. Bishop Sutherland came to see me twice ... or Steve, I guess I should say. I asked him ... about the LieDeck. He gave me ... that one you got there ... Whiteside told him to, he said. Ginette came ... Claire's daughter ... nice girl. I never laid her ... I tried to once. I hardly knew her then ... didn't know she was gay. She came to see me ... and see how I was doing ... brought her roommate ... her name's Judy. Nice chick. And you came ... three times. Helen came ...
said she'd come by again ... but she never did. Mr. O'Connor, my boss, he came for about ... two minutes. But now I'm too tired ... to visit ... too far gone."
Tirone Lucas was the only Quyon resident who knew how Buck had been making his living for the last couple of decades, that he had been on the payroll of Patriot Security. It bothered him that the Whiteside people could spend so much time with Annette and still not find a few minutes to visit with Buck. “Jeeze, Buck,” he said, “I could say something if you want me to, I mean, I could mention it to Annette and she could—"
"Nah,” said Buck. “They're another class ... of people. Just get over to Ray's ... and then come back ... tell me who got caught, okay?"
"Well, okay,” said Tirone. “You take care of yourself, eh?"
"Yeah, right,” said the Buck with a lopsided smile.
Tirone put Buck's LieDeck in the plastic grocery bag with the three girlie magazines he'd bought and walked quickly to the elevator. He thought of pressing “8,” of going up two floors to tell Annette that those inconsiderate bastards from Whiteside's and Patriot Security should have visited Buck, but the sorry truth was that Buck's own friends from Quyon had yet to make it in to the city for a visit, what with life getting in the way all the time. He pressed “L” for lobby. Buck never took a sympathy fuck his whole life, he said to himself. Never needed to, and he wouldn't want to start now. If those fancy people gave a shit, they'd'a come to see him.
He ran to the parking lot, fired up his truck, paid the attendant and tore out. He then proceeded to curse every car that blocked his progress from the hospital through the city of Ottawa, across the Champlain Bridge and through a corner of the city of Gatineau. When he finally hit the open road, he took out his grief and frustration on the gas pedal.
