by Jim Stark
Claire brought Bobby's Coke and cigarettes. “That's thirteen eighty-two—with the tax,” she said to Bobby, and Geoff surprised even himself by just paying.
Bobby was shaking, not wanting to believe what he'd been told. He had forgotten his new LieDeck on the chopper, but he knew Geoff better than anyone, and Geoff ... well, he was scared shitless. He just had to be telling the truth, and Bobby suddenly realized why the lodge had become such a popular gathering place that morning for everybody and his damn uncle, and why they wouldn't let him watch the damn TV. “You got any grass?” he asked furtively.
"Yeah man, I got two lids,” said Geoff, “one in each boot. You can have one, free, but you gotta take me to the lodge. I gotta get in that shelter before they—"
"Keep your fucking voice down, Geoff, or—"
"What?” whispered Geoff. “You're worried about getting busted for pot on the day the fuckin’ world blows up?"
"I'm more worried about you telling people I can get in the shelter, you dumb shit,” scowled Bobby.
"You gotta get me in there, Bobby. You owe me."
"I owe you nothing, and besides, I ... I can't."
Geoff sensed that Bobby's armor was cracking, or at least that it was crackable. His mind rammed into overdrive as he searched for leverage. He took a sip of pop and felt terror building as file after file rolled through his onboard computer without delivering up any useful ammunition. Then his eyes refocused intensely and his hands curled into fists. “Gotcha!” he said.
"What ... gotcha?” said Bobby defiantly. “You ain't got shit."
"You get me fucking in there,” said Geoff through clenched teeth, “or I swear, the minute you leave here, I'm gonna phone up Whiteside's and tell them that you and Jean were in on that break-in back in twenny-twelve—the fucking ‘incident,’ man, when Mr. Whiteside got his shot in the leg with a pellet gun. You think they'll let you in the shelter if I tell them that?"
Bobby knew a good threat when he heard one, and this one was a peach. The problem now was how to get Geoff in the shelter. “What about your grandma?” he asked.
"What about her?” snapped Geoff. “She's old anyways, and it's me you're talking to here. It's me you gotta deal with, man."
"Jeeze, I don't know,” said Bobby. “I don't think—"
"You can just say I came back with you for a visit, Bobby. I'll just sort of, you know, hang out, until we see if this war stuff is bullshit or not."
Bobby didn't have a choice, really. And besides, he just couldn't imagine being stuck in a frigging bomb shelter for maybe two months with no dope. “Okay,” he said. “We'll give it a try, but if they don't let you in, you don't tell about the incident, okay? Christ, I don't even know for sure if they'll let me in the fuckin’ shelter."
"That a new jacket?” asked Jesse McCain from his table over by the chip stand.
"What's it to you?” asked Bobby, as he turned his head to throw a glare at the old man.
"Take it off,” demanded Tirone Lucas as he stood up from his stool at the counter. “Lemme see it."
Bobby wasn't inclined to scrap with the likes of Tirone, so he took off the jacket and gave it to him.
"Looks to be about the right size for Ray, wouldn't you say?” asked Tirone.
"Just about perfect, I'd say,” said Jesse.
"Hey, come on, man,” said Bobby. “That's mine."
"Did you ever pay Ray back the nine hundred bucks that you and this other little prick stole from here?” asked Tirone, without looking at the boys.
"Not yet,” said Bobby, “but we're gonna. The lawyer said we're gonna get six months to pay it back, man, and we're gonna. Plus interest, too. Come on, eh? Gimme my—"
"This jacket looks a lot like interest to me,” said Tirone. “Does it look like interest to you, Jesse?"
"Certainly does,” said Jesse. “Why, that's the most interesting-looking jacket I ever seen."
Tirone planted his hand in Bobby's hair, the way Buck used to do back when he was alive, and began walking towards the door with the boy in tow, hunched over in pain and complaining about some injustice or other. “It's my jacket now,” explained Tirone. “You see, I'm gonna steal it, like you stole from Ray. And don't you come in here no more, understand?"
He released Bobby at the door, and the lad didn't even turn back to curse. His friend Geoff followed closely behind, slipping sideways past the big truck driver.
Tirone hollered at Geoff that he was banned from Ray's too—forever. “This sucker's brand new,” he said as he examined the jacket on his way back to the stool at the counter. “What say we wrap it up and give it to Ray for his birthday?"
"Is it radiation proof?” asked Jesse.
Chapter 64
WINNIE GOES TO TOWN
Ever since her husband left her, which was ... she had to think about it now ... six and a half years ago ... Winnie had kept a small apartment in Quyon. But she basically lived at the Whitesides’ lodge, where she worked. In the last few years there had been periods of weeks when she'd just stayed put and let the world roll by. Now that she had renewed the relationship with Victor, she rarely thought about her own place. They were a bona fide couple, and they lived luxuriantly in a gorgeous log building on their very own lake—sort of.
Winnie had realized since meeting Victor that she was almost as much a hermit as he was. Maybe that was one of the reasons they got along, fell in love, hooked up with each other. But today was not a day for hiding out. Today was a day for going to town—not just to Shawville or Quyon to pick up a few things and check the mail, but to Ottawa! For the first time in ... goodness ... several months, she calculated.
Her first meeting wasn't until 1:00 p.m., but she left at 10:30, to do some serious shopping. Victor's birthday was coming up in a week, and she had quite a list of things he needed, or might like. The Patriot agent who drove her to the Carlingwood Shopping Centre hadn't ever volunteered his name, and hadn't spoken more than a few words during the one-hour drive. He silently followed her around in nearly empty stores, the ones that weren't closed, carrying her plastic bags and enduring her apologies for the embarrassment. “All in a day's work,” he said at one point, not very persuasively.
Winnie was glad to be in town this particular day. Victor had been up and about at breakfast time, but he had gone back to bed, mostly to get away from the infuriating teenager that Randall had dumped on them last night. Then, fifteen minutes later, he'd come down again—to play chess with Steve. He didn't seem to have time for her, even after some rather memorable lovemaking in the wee hours. Becky and her parents had stayed the night at the manor, but at Mrs. Donovan's insistence, they had decided to pass the day at the lodge ... in order to be closer to the shelter. Noel, the cook, was grumping non-stop about having to work hard for a change, what with all these people around. And to top it all off, there were several security agents getting underfoot, in addition to dozens of others who were in the bush, or on the dirt road, guarding the lodge. All in all, it was a good day not to be at home, even considering the state of the world.
Winnie had left a note for Victor in the bathroom off the master bedroom. “See you for supper, honey,” it read. “Think about what I said about those tapes, okay?” She knew he'd feel that she was nagging him when he read it, but that was because she was. It had become a sore point, a bone of contention between them, this question of what to do—if anything—about those reel-to-reel tapes. They would finish that argument tomorrow. She wanted him to reconsider that situation so he wouldn't explode when she ... well, when she put her foot down.
After her shopping spree, the taciturn Patriot agent drove her to Kanata. By 12:45 p.m., she was at the first of her three rendezvous.
Earlier that same morning, Steve had asked her to meet him for lunch in the employee cafeteria on the second floor of the office tower. She didn't know what he had in mind, but she was glad to oblige. She liked him, admired him, and she was very happy that he and Annette had fallen in love.
> A Patriot hostess met Winnie right at the car, at the end of the wide walkway, shook her hand, introduced herself as Debbie Collier, and did her level best to be ultra-pleasant ... without prying. Winnie knew that this agent would have been thoroughly briefed, and she found herself feeling resentful that the young woman could turn on the charm without getting even remotely personal. That's bullshit, Winnie thought as they walked up the front steps to the twelve-story tower. But ... she's just doing her job.
So she gabbed at Debbie Collier about the fun she'd had buying jockey shorts for the “Pillsbury Doughboy,” her new nickname for the famous inventor. She told her how three different salespersons had mistaken the Patriot chauffeur for her husband, and laughed at how the man could never work up the courage to correct that misperception. Ms. Collier seemed to enjoy the chatting, but didn't cough up one fact about her own life. A shame, thought Winnie. The shift from Human Two to Human Three will fix that soon enough. Next time she'll be more open.
Debbie pointed as they arrived at the double doors of the cafeteria. “Your friend is over there. I'll walk you up to meet Dr. Secord as soon as you're done here. Two o'clock, right?"
"Yes,” said Winnie. “Thanks."
"Hi,” said Steve nervously as Winnie joined him at the small table he'd chosen in a far corner. “Thanks for coming,” he added as he stood and shook her hand.
"I'm glad to get away, actually,” said Winnie as she slung her purse over the back of the chair and sat. “The mood at the lodge really stinks, as I'm sure you noticed. Bobby Thompson has probably managed to alienate everyone by now, even Noel. Oh ... and Noel told me that Bobby hit you in the face? What was that about?"
"Oh, he didn't really land the blow,” said Steve. “It sort of glanced off my forehead,” he tried. “Minor disagreement."
"I ... got some shopping done for Victor,” Winnie said, tacitly accepting that the subject of pugilistics had been officially closed. “His birthday is the third of May. The Patriot guy that was driving me around tagged along at the Carlingwood mall. He was a real sweetheart, but I think he was glad to finally get rid of me."
"Oh, I'm sure he enjoyed your company,” said Steve, who suddenly found himself hoping she wouldn't read too much into that.
"It surprised me to see so many soldiers standing around all over the place,” said Winnie, “on the streets, in the mall. I knew we were under martial law, but..."
"Yeah,” said Steve, as a worried mask fell across his middle-aged face.
"So ... what's up?” she asked brightly.
Here it is, thought Steve. No getting away from it now. He had asked for this meeting; now he had to follow through. He considered the option of ducking the main issue, but he would just have to face it later, without any advice, if he did that.
"Well,” he began cautiously, “Annette's going to be ... let out of the hospital at—uh—well ... soon, I've been told ... and I—uh..."
It turned out that Steve wanted to talk about feelings, about his feelings towards Annette, and about her feelings towards him, and about their age difference, and about his inexperience when it came to matters of the heart, and about his big problem with irrational guilt, his unshakable suspicion that the Holy Troika was still looking over his shoulder from the clouds above, tut-tutting his every sexy thought in perfect three part harmony.
He had been at the lodge that morning and could have taken Winnie aside there, but he resolutely did not want Victor involved. Victor was in need of counseling himself, as far as Steve was concerned, and was in no shape to be dispensing advice. And besides, one of the things he wanted to discuss, to understand, was the bothersome fact that he'd been experiencing strong sexual feelings towards women other than Annette, including, as it happened, Winnifred.
It took him ten minutes, with extended pauses, much sighing, and no humor at all, to spit out what he had to say, and that was just to define the problem. Poor Winnie had to remind herself repeatedly of her decision to wait until he ran utterly out of words before she responded, and by the time it was her turn to talk, she was almost as off-put as she was sympathetic.
"Listen, Steve,” she said in a controlled tone, “do you love her?"
"Uh—yes,” he managed. “I'm sure I do,” he added, remembering the several dozen times he'd LieDeck-verified himself about that. “Why?"
"Well, for starters, neither of us believes that God exists, so you can bench the guilt trip, okay? And if you do love her, then sex is not just okay, it's definitely okay, and it's also ... glorious, as close as you're ever going to get to heaven. So what can I say? Just ... go for it."
Steve caught the mild reprimand in her voice ... and blushed. “What did you mean by definitely okay?” he asked.
Winnie checked the cafeteria to make sure there was no one in a position to overhear their conversation, and decided that she might as well give Steve the same answers she'd give anyone else. “Well, it's probably okay, or arguably okay, to have sex without love,” she said with a shrug, “but that's totally up to the individual. ‘As long as nobody gets hurt’ is the rule that most people follow, or should follow. But when there is real love, then sex is not only arguably okay, it's definitely okay. That's all I meant. And as far as you feeling sexual towards other women, or towards me, well, women can always tell anyway, and it's a—"
"You ... you knew!” sputtered Steve. His face flushed visibly.
"Men aren't very good at hiding that stuff,” she smiled. “Anyway, when a man feels that way about me, I take it as a compliment, in a way, and sometimes I'm even happy for the man, that he's enjoying a nice feeling because of me ... unless he's gross about it, or pushy. The important thing is that you know where I'm coming from and you respect that. I'm into a monogamous relationship with Victor, and I expect to stay right where I am."
"Well, of course. I ... didn't mean ... what I meant was..."
"Relax,” Winnie said as she reached across the calico cloth and lightly touched one of his newly spastic hands. “We feel what we feel, Steve. We can say that our feelings are instinctive or Human One or whatever, but in the final analysis, we're just not responsible for everything we feel. We don't decide to feel this way or that. It's what we do about what we feel that makes us who we are. You are a gentleman, and I am a lady, and a gentleman and a lady can talk about these things without ... being all nervous.” Having a heart attack, she almost said.
Steve regrouped emotionally and checked his watch. “Do you want to go get some lunch?” he asked, tilting his head towards the stainless-steel-fendered open kitchen.
"In a few minutes,” Winnie said. “Let's finish this first."
It bothered Steve to know that she realized he hadn't gotten to the point yet, the real point. He took a deep breath and let fly. “How can I be sure that I can—uh—that I'll be able to make Annette happy?” he asked, trying to avoid the distraction of Winnie's green eyes. “You know ... in ... in that way?"
"You can't,” she said simply ... and it suddenly dawned on her that a housekeeper was counseling a bishop, and doing it rather well. “That risk is part of the allure, Steve. All I can say is that if your intention when you make love with Annette is to love her, then you'll probably be a wonderful lover, and please her very well ... and she will want to please you too. If your goal is to satisfy yourself—to ‘get your rocks off’ is the vulgar way of saying it—you'll have an orgasm all right, but you likely won't really please her or yourself. It's taken men thousands of years to figure this out, but there it is, the key to great sex. The most wonderful of all sexual feelings is not your own climax, but the sense of having pleased your partner."
Steve pondered that one for a minute, and wondered if he had the guts to ask the other key question, the one that was really driving him nuts. “Are there ... best ways of—uh—making sure? I mean how do I ... do it so that she—uh..."
"Well, not with your penis,” said Winnie.
Now Steve was really coming unglued. He found this difficult to accep
t and felt the need to turn on his LieDeck. “Not ... with my penis?” he said, smarting at the sound of a word he had rarely pronounced in half a century.
"Well, eventually, yes,” said Winnie gently, “but you do maybe—oh—seventy-five percent of it with your hands, your fingers, then ... you know ... then you do the old in-out."
Winnie was smiling, and Steve couldn't help but crack a small one at her whimsical description of the secret, forbidden act that both terrified and consumed him. “With ... my hands,” he repeated quizzically.
"Yeah. She'll help you, Steve. And like I said, it's mostly in your head. If you're trying to give pleasure, if that's your aim, you'll see what works, sense it. And don't be afraid to experiment, or to ask."
"Experiment?” said Steve, with a voice that betrayed a crazy fear that he was being auditioned for a triple-X-rated movie.
"Well, for instance, Victor ... teases me a lot,” smiled Winnie. “He uses his hands to get me right on the edge of an orgasm, right on the brink, and then he backs off, eases off. It makes me crazy, furious and frustrated, but before the sexual feelings go away, he'll ... start up again, still using his hands, his fingers, and after a few times of that part, when I finally do have an orgasm, I nearly ... explode, you know?"
Steve didn't know ... well, he knew now, in his mind, anyway. “And all this comes before the actual ... in-out?” he asked.
Winnie had to laugh at his hesitant use of a term that he had probably never heard in his previous incarnation, and certainly would never have used himself if he had heard it. “Yes,” she said joyfully, “and depending on how Annette feels about it, you can ... once in a while you might even want to try using your—uh—mouth."
