A Rage for Revenge watc-3

by David Gerrold

  "Alec caught it from Tommy. Holly was okay. Whatever kind of freako they were with, he didn't touch her."

  I sat down on an icy hassock. "I-I don't know what to do. Or say. Maybe we'd better call this whole thing off."

  "Over your dead, still warm and quivering body, you will. I told you there was no backing out."

  "I don't want to back out-but damn it, I can't handle this!"

  "Yes, you can. I've read your chart. Your sexual identity is skewed all over the map. Your latency threshold is so low-well, never mind. At least you have a sexual identity; that's better than nwst people these days."

  "Betty-John," I lowered my voice. I was pleading. "You don't know what I've been through-"

  "You're right. I don't know-and I don't care. I only care about the children. Jim, quit wasting my time. I know what's going on with you. You want to do the right thing. Everybody does. Your problem is that you're always worried about what other people will think. Jeezis! You can't possibly realize how annoying that is. Of all your terrible bad habits, that's got to be the worst."

  "I'm sorry- "

  "And that's the other one. Listen to me, I know you can handle this or I would never have signed your papers. The important thing is that Tommy gets enough loving and nurturing and caring so that he has the raw material out of which to build a real human being. And I don't really care what flavor that nurturing comes in any more, as long as Tommy learns how to be a person in his own right. At least that way he'll still be a whole lot better off than all those walking wounded who are going to have to be taken care of all their lives. You know what to do, so get off your goddamn ass, go in there and parent."

  "B-Jay, I hear what you're saying, but I don't know where to begin. I don't know how . . ."

  "Yes, you do. I've watched you with the kids, Jim. You treat them like little human beings. Why do you think they love you so much? You're already doing the one thing they need the most. So, forget all this grown-up versus child bullshit; that's one of the ways we alienate ourselves from our own species. Stop thinking of them as property, or even as a great responsibility. Just treat them with the same respect that you would any other person-like you do anyway-and you'll do fine, because that's the only thing they really need from you.

  "Go in there and talk to him," she said. "Just talk to him-or better yet, let him talk to you. Let him tell you what he wants and needs. You'll see for yourself what's appropriate. It'll be obvious. Start by admitting that you need someone to hug too and it'll be a lot easier."

  She hung up. I know it's impossible to click off an electronic phone angrily, but her closing chime still sounded harsh.

  I went back into the bedroom. Tommy was gone.

  He wasn't in his bed either, nor in Alec and Holly's. They were curled up together around a freshly stuffed and cleaned (but still amputated) bear.

  He wasn't anywhere in the apartment.

  I thought of running back to the phone, calling B-Jay again-no, there wasn't time. Besides, I might still be able to catch him. I grabbed a robe and went barefoot out into the night.

  I didn't have to look very far. The moon was almost full and he was sitting on the patio, his arms around his knees, his thin nightshirt almost transparent in the glow. He was crying quietly. I sat down next to him.

  "Tommy," I said. "What are you doing?"

  "Nothin'." Then, "I'm trying to decide where to go."

  "Go?"

  "Can't stay here any more."

  "What about Alec and Holly?"

  "They're yours now."

  "They belong to you too."

  "Not any more. You 'dopted them."

  "Don't you think they care about you too?"

  "It doesn't matter. I guess I'm too old now. Like Mikey."

  "Who's Mikey?"

  "My brother. My real brother. He was . . ." He frowned, trying to remember. "He was older than me, but I don't remember by how much. But when he got too old, Foster didn't love him any more, so he had to go away."

  "Who was Foster?"

  "Our last Daddy."

  "Did he love you?" Tommy nodded.

  My throat was dry. "How did he love you?"

  "He let us sleep with him, and things . . ." Tommy looked up. "He was really okay, even if sometimes we didn't like what he did. He made us wash regular. And he never let us go hungry."

  "What happened to him?"

  "He died. I guess. One day he didn't come back. A few days later, the other people found us and sent us here."

  "Why didn't you tell me this before?"

  "I did. I mean, I thought you knew. We told the ladies at-at wherever it was, and they said they'd tell you."

  "Do you want to come back inside?"

  "No."

  "Why not?"

  " 'Cause."

  I sat down next to him and put my arm around his thin shoulders. He stiffened.

  I said, "Tommy, I'm sorry. I didn't know you needed me to love you that way. Where I grew up, I was taught that was wrong-that men don't do things like that with other men."

  "Foster said they do." His voice was high and innocent. "He said it was noble and-and platonic, and a lot of other things." Without ever having met him, I could have cheerfully killed the man. Consenting adults is one thing; impressionable children. . . .

  "Well," I answered slowly. "I guess some places they do and some places they don't."

  "What kind of place is this?"

  I opened my mouth to answer, but something stopped me. A distant sound perhaps. A feeling. I said, instead, "What kind of a place do you want it to be?"

  He thought about it for a moment. I found myself listening for that sound again, something very faint and far away. Finally, he said, "Sometimes, it was nice. Foster said he loved me. He said he loved me better than anybody. I liked that. He said I was his pretty little boy, and he always brought me toys and things and lotsa times, pretty clothes to wear. Those were nice times. He liked me to be pretty for him, and I wanted to make him happy, 'cause that's when he made me happy."

  I didn't say anything to that. I didn't know what to say. I wasn't even sure what I felt any more. Revulsion-not at Tommy, but at the man who'd used him-sorrow, pity, anger, empathy; yes, a lot of empathy. All Tommy wanted to do was please the people around him. I could certainly understand that.

  "You don't love me any more, do you?" Tommy asked.

  I put my arm around his shoulder and pulled him close to me. "Actually," I said, "I love you a whole lot more now, because you've been so honest with me. Now, I understand a lot that I didn't understand before. I'm glad you told me."

  "Really?"

  "Really."

  "Mm."

  We sat in silence for a moment.

  After a bit, Tommy said, "I want this to be a place where I can be loved."

  So. That was the answer.

  "All right," I said. "I guess we both have to do some growing up. You're going to have to help me too." I pulled him closer, he didn't resist. "Do you want to sleep next to me tonight?"

  "If you want me to." He said it indifferently.

  "No," I said. "Only if that's what you want. Let me tell you the rules about sex. They're very simple. Sex is about having fun with someone you like. You don't do it with people you don't like. You don't ever do it with anyone unless you both want to. That's the most important thing. If you don't want to do it, you can say no."

  "Really?"

  "Really."

  "Oh, okay," he said.

  He had accepted the information; but whether or not he'd really gotten it-well, it was a start anyway.

  "Yes," he said, suddenly.

  "Yes, what?" I wasn't sure what he was talking about.

  "I want to sleep with you tonight."

  Maybe he just needed the reassurance, I told myself, because it was the only reassurance that he could understand; and maybe he did understand and maybe he really wanted to sleep with me. And maybe . . . I could make up reasons all night long. It was time to stop listening
to all the little conversations about what I should w shouldn't do.

  "All right." I picked him up-he wasn't too big for that yet. And I hugged him and I said, "I love you, very, very much, Tommy. And it's all right for you to love me any way you want. Just remember that you don't have to do anything that you don't want to, except wash regular. Understand?"

  He looked me straight in the eye; his cheeks were wet with tears. "I want to. I want to make you happy. Okay?"

  "I'm happy already."

  "I want to make you happier."

  This was an argument I couldn't win. "Okay," I said, and let the subject drop.

  "Can we go back to bed now?"

  "Sure." I thought about everything I'd said and wondered if I'd Ieft anything out. I said, "Tonight I just want to hug you a lot, and we don't have to do the other thing, is that all right?"

  Goddamn that Foster. Tommy looked disappointed. But he nodded.

  I started to get up, still carrying him, but that was awkward, so I let him walk. He put his ann around my waist and I put mine around his shoulders, feeling very strange and uneasy, and a lot less sure of myself. I felt as if I'd stepped into some strange new territory, and all my maps were wrong.

  At the door, I stopped. There was that sound again. And this time, I recognized it.

  Chtorrans. Hunting.

  I fingered my worm charm in response. I stopped long enough to check all the doors and windows-as if that would make a difference-and then we went to bed.

  I held him close because that was what he wanted and after a while it was what I wanted too. And everything I'd said to Tommy was just as true for me too. I didn't have to do anything I didn't want to.

  The hell with everybody else. They weren't in this bed.

  I was lonely and scared and I wanted to be loved too. I wanted to.

  And so did Tommy. But I couldn't let myself, not because it was wrong, I didn't know what was right or wrong any more, but because I didn't want to be like Foster. So we didn't.

  In the morning, I found Tommy in bed with Alec again, and Holly had moved to the other room. Over breakfast, she said it was because she wanted to sleep. I didn't pursue the matter. The ice was thin enough already.

  A lady's iambic pentameter is

  thirty-two inches diameter.

  The breadth of her scansion

  is due to expansion

  in the pants of a critical amateur.

  36

  Birdie

  "The universe has its own cure for stupidity. Unfortunately, it doesn't always apply it."

  -SOLOMON SHORT

  I told Birdie about the Chtorran calls I'd heard in the night and she went gray. "Okay," she said. "We'll talk about it at Council on Sunday."

  "We ought to do something now," I insisted.

  Birdie lowered the specimen slide she was peering at. "Like what, for instance." She picked up another one and squinted at it. "We already have the worm charms. By the way, where's yours?"

  "Oh, I took it off when I showered this morning."

  "Don't bother. The artificial leather is waterproof."

  "I really doubt that a Chtorran is going to catch me in the bathtub."

  Birdie went on to the next slide. "Oh'?" she asked. "When did they start making appointments?"

  "Anyway," I said. "The worm charms aren't going to be enough, and frankly, I'd rather have an earlier line of defense."

  "You're right, of course. Worm charms don't do the wearer much good. Do you have something in mind?"

  "A worm fence."

  She grunted. "The subject was discussed nine months ago and tabled."

  "Nine months ago there weren't Chtorrans foraging in the hills."

  "Hand me that frame, will you?" She slid the last slide under the microscope. I waited for her to return to the subject, but she concentrated on adjusting the contrast on her screen instead. She switched to ultraviolet, then back to pseudo-white laser source. "Normal, dammit. Thought I had something."

  "Well, what about a fence?"

  "Fences are expensive. And we don't have the manpower."

  "Three lines of razor-ribbon and punji-barriers would buy a lot of security, Birdie. You've been lucky here. This is a regular Chtorran smorgasbord, without a cover charge."

  "Winter's coming on soon, Jim."

  "All the more reason why we have to do something."

  "I thought worms hibernated. "

  "Sorry, it's summer when they're torpid. And not so's you'd notice. They lay low in the heat and come out at night. But they still eat the same amount."

  Birdie was placing another slide under the lens, adjusting the focus. She dialed a greater magnification and nodded to herself. "That's not what I read in the papers."

  "The papers are wrong. I was in Special Forces for nearly two years. We burned worms in their igloos. January was the most dangerous month. I don't know why the government continues to listen to that international collection of bunglers who're living so high in Denver, but their analysis of the habits and life styles of the Chtorr is ninety degrees off axis."

  Birdie tapped at her keyboard, storing the image on the screen in memory, and switched off the microscope. As the room lights came up, she looked at me, wiping her hands on a towel. "Jim, I understand your . . . ah, concern about the worms, but-"

  "You mean psychosis, don't you?"

  "If you wish. The point is, Betty-John and I think it's more important that you concern yourself with your kids." She eyed me carefully. "By the way, how are you getting along with them?" It was not a casual question.

  "We're still making adjustments," I said guardedly.

  "What does that mean?"

  "Nothing."

  She searched my face. "I doubt that. You're so transparent, Jim, I can read fine print through you. Tell me the truth."

  "Tommy's got a . . . problem."

  "Obviously. And you're not content to let him have it by himself, are you?"

  "Huh?"

  "You have to have a problem about it too." She asked, "What's the problem?"

  I took a breath. What was the best way to say it? "Spit it out, Jim."

  "I love that kid. But he's-I don't want him to be a queer."

  "So? What's the problem."

  "Birdie!"

  "What?"

  "He climbs into bed with me, and I hate pushing him away."

  "So don't."

  "I'm not a faggot!"

  She flinched. "Please, Jim-nobody around here has ever called you 'nigger,' have they?"

  "I'm only one-fourth black, and it doesn't show," I said.

  "No, it doesn't," she agreed.

  "You can't even tell from my gene charts," I added.

  "Or from your mentality," she finished. "That's probably what saved your life during the plagues. Statistically, Caucasians have the least resistance to the Chtorran bacteriology. Negroes have the highest. You ought to be grateful your grandfather wasn't a racist."

  "Thanks for the sermon. But we were talking about Tommy."

  "We still are. The point is, around here, we don't use negative indices."

  "Huh?"

  "Epithets. Bad names. For one thing, some of our local faggots have short tempers. " She indicated a chair and I sat. "For another, language determines thought. You channelize your thinking with the words you use. Negative indices are a barrier. They keep you from experiencing the complete picture."

  I made an impatient waving gesture with one hand. "I know all that, Birdie. Let's just cut to the chase, all right?"

  She turned her chair to face me, pulled it close and leaned in close. She said, "What I'm getting at is this: for someone who has seen as much and done as much in the past two years as you have, you are one of the most pompous, arrogant, and unlikable bigots it has ever been my misfortune to deal with. I like you, but it doesn't change the fact that you have the very bad habit of not really listening to people. You're not really listening now. You're more concerned with boogey-men up in the hills than in dealing
with the children you've supposedly accepted responsibility for. At the first sign of trouble, you're ready to disown the kid. So what if he's homo? That's when he needs your love twice as much because he'll have to deal with all the other uncured bigots running loose."

  "All right, all right-I don't need the sermon."

  "No, you don't," she admitted. "You need the same kind of hugging Tommy does. You need to know that it's all right to love."

  "Not that way!" I realized how loud I was and lowered my voice.

  She cocked an eyebrow at me. "Who hurt you?"

  "Huh?"

  "You heard me. Who hurt you? Sometime in the past, you made a decision about something. What was it? Didn't your father ever hug you?"

  "What does that have to do with it?"

  "Nothing at all-except he's the only one you might have learned fathering from. Did your father ever hug you?"

  I thought about it. I tried to remember. I wanted to say yes, but I couldn't find any memories of him hugging me. Not ever.

  I remembered one time . . . I had been leaving on a trip. It was my first real time away from home on my own. I felt proud that my parents trusted me. I hugged my Mom and she hugged me back, but when I hugged my Dad, he had just stiffened.

  He hadn't hugged me back.

  Birdie was looking at me. "What's that about'?" she asked.

  "What?"

  "That expression on your face. What were you remembering?"

  "Nothing. "

  "Uh-huh. He didn't hug you very much, did he?"

  I said, "Not ever. Not that I can remember." I added, "He loved me. I know that. It's just that he wasn't a hugger."

  "Uh-huh." She nodded. "So, don't you think that has something to do with how you're handling Tommy?"

  I felt angry. "Are you telling me I can't raise my own kid?"

  She grinned. "Yeah. I am. And you know something? I could say the same thing to ninety-nine percent of the people I meet. Anyone can make a baby, it doesn't take a hell of a lot of skill. Little Ivy made two of them. Does that qualify her as a skilled parent? You tell me."

  I shook my head.

  "Very perceptive. But she thinks she's doing okay, because she doesn't know any better. The truth is, she's doing the absolute very best she can. So are all the other parents in the world. That's the joke. The commitment of a parent is so total, so absolute that they give one hundred percent of themselves, one hundred percent of the time. I've seen whole families mortgage themselves into bankruptcy to buy an extra year of time for a child with an incurable disease. This is it, Jim: you do everything you know how to do, because you can't do anything more. My job is to let you know that there's more to know. There's always more. When you know what it is, you do it."