Rocket Boy and the Geek Girls

by Phyllis Irene Radford

  “Wanna see something?“ Beatrice would whisper. And every time, every damned time, Susannah fell for it.

  Even now, twenty five years later. The most Susannah had learned to do was look indifferent so that the others at the party — friends of Renata’s, who was a sammie too — wouldn’t notice her fascination.

  Later, when the party broke up, Beatrice offered Sue a ride back to Manhattan by way of Tamerlane. “I have to stop home anyway. Come in, I’ll give you some real coffee.“

  Susannah opened her mouth to say no, and was unsurprised to hear herself say Yes. Old habit, old captivations. She followed Beatrice up to the copter on Renata’s roof.

  “I’ve named the lover Abelard,“ Beatrice said as she fastened her seatbelt.

  “Why not Dante?“ Susannah asked, trying to play the game.

  “Too obvious.“ Beatrice smiled, a whiteness glittering in the dusk. She flicked a row of switches and the copter hummed to life. In the fading daylight and the green glow of the instrument panel, Beatrice looked unearthly, vivid and perfect, her long fingers manipulating the toggles and dials expertly.

  “Besides,“ she added, once they were up in the air. “Abelard sounds sexier.“ It certainly did the way Beatrice said it, a sigh rolled along the tongue.

  For ten minutes Susannah fought the temptation to ask “where did it come from?“ Finally, unasked, Beatrice said, “I had him made for me. One of the bioengineering places squeezed my order in between batches of interferon or something. I understand it isn’t that hard to do. Just expensive.“ Beatrice lingered on the word. “A parent tissue, a little fuddling with DNA, program in some instincts —“ Her voice was an elegant drawl, only her smile in the near-darkness was lewd. “There’s only one in the world, and it’s mine.“

  “Beattie —“ Susannah murmured.

  “I know you’ll keep this a secret, love. It’s not breaking the law, but... bending it a little.“

  Susannah stared into the deepening gloom. Below them scavenger boats fished scrap metal from the Long Island Sound; to the right in the distance the squat buildings of the South Bronx Hospice glittered silently. After their hungry, grubby childhood, Susannah had continued on to college, gone to work, built up a small independence for herself. Grubbed for money, Beatrice said, and shook her head. Her path had been very different. Beatrice had worked only as long as it took to find, and marry, Felix Ferrar-Giroux, one of the mysteriously wealthy men who had emerged after the Everything. He took her home to Tamerlane, a huge house on the Sound that unfolded like a tesseract, disclosing rooms where none could logically be, and there Beatrice learned to spend his money. He encouraged her extravagance as if he were feeding a rare bird. No impulse too wild, no whim too expensive. Including, it appeared, this new extravagance.

  I will keep my mouth shut, Susannah thought grimly. I will look at her new toy — despite herself, a flush of warmth spread through her at the thought — and then I will go home.

  At Tamerlane a superior looking manservant met at the door. He took Susannah’s three-year-old cloth coat with as much ceremony as he did Beatrice’s fur. Beatrice led Sue to a small den and poured wine for them both.

  “You must relax, Susah! You take everything so seriously. There, drink that. Why are you so edgy?“

  “I’m not edgy, but I have work at home I need to get through tonight.“

  “Susah, you can’t let work rule your life,“ Beatrice said irritably.

  “I don’t let it rule my life, Beatrice —“

  “What else rules your life, then? You haven’t had a lover since whatsisname walked ou —“

  “Greg,“ Susannah whispered.

  Beatrice made no sign of hearing. “You won’t enjoy yourself, you act like you haven’t earned the right. That’s the difference between us: you think you haven’t earned anything. I know I’ve earned everything I can lay my hands on. We survived, Susah. We’re alive. We don’t owe anyone anything. I don’t, anyway.“ Beatrice raked her hair back from her broad forehead with one hand and looked up at the ceiling. “Why do I bother. Come on, love. Let’s go meet Abelard.“

  They went down a string of corridors, stopping just as Susannah began to get seriously lost. Beatrice led Sue into an almost empty room, uncarpeted, dimly lit, painted a shining white. The floor was a parquet pattern, doubtless of real wood. There was a clean, soft smell to the air, like talc or running water; two lush throw rugs and a futon in the corner, a fern hanging in a ceramic pot. Nothing stirred.

  Beatrice crossed the room. “Shut the door behind you, Susah.“ Then she went through a door at the far side of the room. Susannah had a moment to look around curiously, breathe the sweet air, wait for revelation.

  “Come on, precious. Come on, sweetie-pie.“ Beatrice stood in the doorway a moment to assure herself of Susannah’s attention before she reentered the room. Something moist and gibbous squirmed uneasily into the room behind her, moving by throwing its weight forward, falling and rolling over until it “stood“ again. It was ovoid, dull red, strangely plastic, with a faint sheen that gave no impression of sliminess. Ugh, Susannah thought, but was unable to take her eyes away as the thing rolled after Beatrice like a puppy following its master, struggling with that sidling somersault to keep up with Beatrice’s elegant long stride.

  “Abelard.“ Beatrice stopped in the center of the room, one palm extended to present the thing to Susannah. With the other hand she reached caressingly down. It responded, stretching upward in an effort to reach her circling finger. At last they touched, and the thing grew round her finger, nursed it. For the first time in all the years she had known Beatrice, Susannah saw her entirely captivated, not thinking of the next moment or the next, caught entirely in the present, all attention focused on that one finger.

  The mood was contagious. Susannah’s faint revulsion at her first sight of the thing dissipated. She felt a warm, sweet laziness born of the fragrant humidity of the room and the unsettlingly erotic sight of the creature suckling Beatrice’s manicured finger. She sighed quietly in the stillness.

  “Do you want to touch him?“ Beatrice’s voice sounded abnormally loud.

  Susannah tried to make her murmured “Yes“ seem casual. She stepped near, reached out a finger and touched, tentatively, at the side of the lover. “Abelard?“ she murmured. The thing did not move toward her, but it did not move away, either. Sue pushed her finger a little harder. The surface of the lover was warm, firmer than she had expected. Like lip. It gave slightly, then closed around her fingertip and nursed at it, tasted it. Susannah felt a string of electric pulses ripple up her spine; the flesh surrounding hers was damp and warm and faintly pulsing.

  “I thought you’d like him,“ Beatrice said smugly. At the sound of her voice Abelard released its grip on Susannah’s finger, dropped away and shrank back, its rolling weight carrying it toward Beatrice. “Hello, Pet,“ Beatrice crooned. “Is devoted to Beattie, in’t it? Is got Beattie under its skin, hasn’t it?“ She ran a caressing palm flat along one side of Abelard’s top while Susannah, shivering in the warm air, tried to regain her composure. Then, abruptly, Beatrice pulled away from the lover and turned to the door. “Come on, Susah.“

  Susannah followed, trying to ignore the tremor that lingered in her arms and breasts and knees, making walking a shaky, uncertain chore. From the doorway she took one backward look and saw Abelard, shrunken and forlorn, abandoned in the center of the room.

  “Potter will move it back to the tank later.“ Beatrice waved a vague hand in the direction of the room as they moved up the hall.

  “Tank?“

  “It spends most of its time in nutrient bath. Or something. I told the Bioform people I didn’t want to know particulars, they’re so unromantic. Potter takes care of him. It. Now, I promised you real coffee, didn’t I?“

  Susannah had forgotten about the work she had waiting in Manhattan. She followed Beatrice mutely back to the sitting room where a lavish meal, with the promised coffee, had been laid out. Thro
ugh the meal and the copter ride to the city, where Beatrice landed on the roof of Susannah’s building in violation of any number of ordinances, through the rest of the evening and the next day, Susannah was haunted by the memory, the teasing sensation of that warm flesh suckling at her finger. Which was just what Beatrice wanted, she told herself scornfully. An audience. Someone to want what she has.

  Which is just what Susannah wanted.

  oOo

  Sue saw Beatrice irregularly, now and then at Renata’s house in Connecticut, sometimes at a restaurant in the city for lunch. With her usual perversity Beatrice did not mention Abelard, but sometimes in the midst of talking she would break off in mid-sentence and smile deliciously into space for a moment, then start theatrically, “What was I saying?“

  Sue believed these lapses were contrived for her benefit, but that didn’t diminish their power. She was grimly certain that Beatrice understood that all too well, and was grimly determined to show herself unmoved.

  Other than lunches with Beatrice, parties or weekends at Renata’s, or her occasional work-related social duties, Susannah didn’t seek out contacts, friends, lovers. Her last man had decamped more than a year before, in a shower of mutual accusation and disappointment, and Susannah couldn’t nerve herself to try again. Too messy, certain to fail, just not worth it, she said to Renata when she asked about Susannah’s love life. To Beatrice she said she was too busy to think about sex, let alone love. She was not quite busy enough to forget the unsettling image of Beatrice’s lover, nor the ghost sensation of the thing suckling on her own finger, even after months had gone by.

  One day, several months after the visit to Tamerlane, Beatrice called her at work, arranged to meet for lunch. She bubbled and enthused, every word was an event, and by the time she put the phone down Susannah knew that Beatrice had some new extravagance and needed an audience. Needed her. She made arrangements to take an extra hour for lunch, her superiors looked kindly on her lunches with Beatrice Ferrar-Giroux.

  They met at a small restaurant in the rehabilitated section of the east Fifties. The place had not yet been discovered by anyone but Beatrice, who would relentlessly drag it into fashion and then tire of it. Today she was dressed like a wealthy gypsy, scarves and beads and skirts layered around her so that she looked half-buried in bright fabric. Her hair was in dark ringlets this time. She looked beautiful, elegant, radiantly pleased with herself and the world, and Susannah immediately loathed her own blue suit, which that morning had seemed fashionable and attractive, and her simply dressed dark hair.

  “Susannah!“ Beatrice rose and enveloped Susannah in a spicy over-whelming embrace full of foreign enthusiasms and endearments. Susannah returned it carefully, fearful of disturbing Beatrice’s artful disarray.

  Before the first drink had arrived Beatrice launched on an epic, a saga of her life since they had last met. By the time the second drink and the faux salmon appeared Beatrice had arrived at the crux of her story. A new lover, a man. He was beautiful, he was bright and shining, incredibly sensual, a gypsy, a madman. He had been, until Beatrice discovered him, a gardener at Tamerlane.

  “Who’s doing the garden now?“ Sue asked dryly. Beatrice blinked, laughed, and went on. By the time the consommé arrived Beatrice had descended from flowery abstracts to coarse particulars. Susannah listened in silence.

  Over the veal and more wine Susannah finally got a word in edgewise. “What’s going to happen to Abelard?“

  Beatrice looked at her blankly for a moment. Then, “Oh, God, that’s right. I hadn’t even thought. Well, after all, Susah, it’s only a blob, isn’t it? I’ll have to tell Potter to take it back to Bioform?“

  Beatrice was paying for the meal; it was not often that Susannah could afford real meat, let alone cheese and fruit and wine this good. She ate every bite. It tasted like dust. Over coffee she asked, “What will Bioform do with him?“

  “Put it back in the vat or something, I suppose. Recycle the ingredients. Really, Susannah,“ Beatrice drawled. “It was only a toy.“

  She wasn’t supposed to care, Susannah knew. She was supposed to change fascinations as Beatrice did, just one step behind. She shook her head and changed the subject back to Beatrice’s new lover.

  When they were putting on their coats, Beatrice regarded Susannah with the same old look: satisfaction wanting to flaunt itself. “Susah, you must come meet him. When can you come out to Tamerlane?“

  She faltered, thinking of the work on her desk, the reports in her briefcase waiting to be taken home. Then Susannah surprised herself. “Tonight. I can come tonight, after work.“ And do what? Fight free of the place with Abelard tucked under one arm? Ridiculous. Still, “Tonight,“ she said.

  “I won’t say goodbye, then,“ Beatrice said. “I’ll pick you up at six!“ She smiled again, suddenly irresistible and childlike. “Ooo, Susah, wait ’til you see!“ And then was gone.

  oOo

  Flying out to Tamerlane, Susannah let Beatrice’s chatter wash over her like warm, scented water. Potter waited at the door to receive their coats and lead them to a different small den. Susannah wondered briefly if Beatrice had a suite of rooms for each lover she took; row on row of white rooms with the smell of running water and one green vine in a white ceramic pot. She settled herself in a deep soft chair and sipped wine, thinking. A young man, very tall and muscular, with a face of masculine prettiness and a slow, assured walk, joined them. Susannah noted that he was as besotted with Beatrice as she was with him.

  “Susannah, this is John.“ Beatrice pulled the young man down to sit beside her on the sofa, their fingers found occasions to touch, and the air between them rippled as if superheated. Susannah looked away uncomfortably, embarrassed. When Potter announced a call for Beatrice the lovers rose together and left the room. Potter looked at Susannah as if she were part of some vulgar conspiracy, then he too left. Susannah could hear Beatrice’s soft murmuring from the antechamber, the click of the phoneset replaced in its cradle, but neither Beatrice nor John returned. She thought she heard more murmurings, the soft sighing of silk against skin and skin against skin. Her face warmed as she realized that Beatrice meant her to hear, wanted her to hear. Probably thought it was a great gift to her poor friend Susah, she thought in disgust.

  She rose and left the room. If anyone stopped her, she would say she was looking for the lavatory. No one stopped her. It took her three tries to find the right corridor, the right door. When she entered the room she found it empty; the futon and white rugs had been rolled up and piled on one side, the fern drooped unwatered from its dusty pot. The air was still and musty. She walked across the bare floor and opened the door to the inner room carefully, afraid she might startle the creature.

  It was flattened, submerged in a shallow plastiglass tank that brimmed with viscous pink fluid. It looked like photographs Susannah had seen of human hearts prepared for transplant; there was something lonely and pathetic about it. Ugh, she thought. How could anyone — but Susannah thought she knew how. She stood very still, just inside the room, listening to her own pulse and breathing, watching the faint pulse of the lover in its tank. She was only aware that Potter had entered the room behind her when he cleared his throat.

  “I was only looking,“ she began.

  Potter regarded her steadily and said nothing.

  “I mean, it’s horrible, just putting the poor thing back in some sort of vat, as if it were clay or something. I mean —“ she faltered. “When does he — it — go?“

  Potter smiled thinly. “When Madame remembers to instruct me.“

  Susannah nodded, still staring at Abelard in the tank. “I just mean, well, it was made deliberately. It seems so awful to just destroy it. It must feel something... .“

  “You want it,“ Potter stated baldly.

  “It should be saved,“ Susannah corrected. She kept her gaze fixed on the lover. “We can’t just let Beatrice throw it out. It’s alive. It just seems...“ she faded off. The only sound in the room was
a faint hiss and bubble from the tank.

  “We might arrange something,“ Potter said. He closed the door behind them, shutting them into the humid, medicinal-smelling room with the creature. “Something could be arranged,“ he repeated. Susannah looked at him as he told her what.

  They negotiated. As Potter made his offer and Susannah her counter offer, she thought of the warm sucking at her finger, the firm plastic surface of the lover. Her breath came faster as she calculated her slender resources, the money she had saved for years, hoping to buy an apartment larger than her cramped two-room. She thought of little economies she could make, freelance work, extra income.