The fact was, she was tired of the whole dating scene—the bars, the banal small talk, the clichéd pick-up lines, the loud insipid music, the leering faces. Anyway, all you ever seemed to meet were nerds, or narcissistic romeos in mirror sunglasses, or prowling husbands in clever plastic disguises . . .
So this is better? she thought. Oh yeah. Right. Sighing again, she sat down to go through the mail while she ate. Simple Pleasures . . . but at least there was no cover charge.
It seemed like a fairly typical assortment. The first three envelopes were bills from the electric company, the phone company, and the credit-card company. One was awful, the others not as bad as she had feared. There was an unordered catalogue from one of those “naughty underwear” places; a solicitation from a local animal-rescue shelter; a “Vote for So-and-So” political flyer; an offer of twenty-percent off on a diamond engagement ring with a genuine imitation diamond—guaranteed absolutely undetectable from the real thing at fifty feet or more—addressed to Mr. J. B. Pender; an offer of “personalized” ballpoint pens that promised an enormous money-saving discount on orders of 100 or more; and, finally, a little green postcard.
Green? She could have sworn that it had been orange. Or had there been two postcards, and she’d somehow dropped the orange one somewhere on the way in? She ate a forkful of spaghetti, and prodded the postcard idly with her finger. Strange . . . No company name, no return address. It was one of those “personalized” come-ons, and the front of the card shouted MS. JUDY PENDER!! in enormous glittery letters. She turned it over.
The card said: MS. JUDY PENDER, WHY ARE YOU SITTING THERE EATING COLD SPAGHETTI WHEN YOU COULD BE OUT HAVING THE TIME OF YOUR LIFE?
Whoo. She was startled enough to drop the card and sit back suddenly in her chair. Pretty strange. What were the odds against her reading that particular come-on pitch just at the exact moment that she actually did happen to be eating some cold spaghetti? Pretty astronomical. She tittered nervously, then began to laugh, perhaps a shade too loudly. Mindboggling coincidences did happen, she knew that. But this one was weird. Ripley’s Believe It or Not would love it. They’d publish it right next to “Man Who Grew A Potato in the Shape of Anita Ekberg” and “Replica of the Titanic Made Entirely Out of Old Fingernail Parings.”
Still chuckling, she quickly finished her spaghetti. Almost time for her nightly fix of “Dark Shadows” reruns. She reached out and picked up the postcard again.
This time it said: IS A NIGHT SPENT WATCHING “DARK SHADOWS” RERUNS REALLY ALL YOU WANT OUT OF LIFE?
She dropped the card again.
She found that, without realizing it, she had pushed herself away from the table and was standing bolt upright, quivering, like a garden rake that’s been stepped on.
Her mind was blank for several heartbeats, and then she began casting frantically about for explanations. She’d just missed that part of the text the first time she’d read the card, skipped right over it. Sure, that was it. And as for the card mentioning “Dark Shadows” . . . Well, coincidences did happen. Remember that. A man drops his watch in the ocean and twenty years later finds it inside the belly of a fish he’s just caught; another one jumps off the Empire State Building, and survives because he happens to land on top of the long-lost twin brother he hasn’t seen since they both were five . . . It Happens All The Time. Or—and she grabbed for this one eagerly, although the ultimate implications of it were somewhat unflattering—she was just statistically predictable, normal, average, humdrum, easy meat for the trend-spotters and social analysts. Doubtless her habits were far from unique. Probably there were millions of bored young women just like her who spent their evenings eating cold spaghetti and watching “Dark Shadows.” Hence the card, addressed to her statistical type, a profile she just happened to fit embarrassingly well.
Nevertheless, she didn’t touch the card again.
Leaving it where it lay, she bustled nervously around, putting the spaghetti bowl into the sink to soak, picking up last Sunday’s paper (which was still strewn over the end of the couch), emptying the ashtrays, annoyedly pushing the term “displacement activity” out of her head every time it forced its way into it.
After a while, she began to get tired. She glanced at the television, but whoever the Machiavellian social researcher responsible for the postcard was, she’d be damned if she’d prove him right. Besides, “Dark Shadows” was almost over anyway. The only things on now were “M*A*S*H” reruns, and she’d always thought that Hawkeye was a wimp, like one of those oh-so-sincere- and-sensitive types from the singles bars who suddenly turned into married men when the full moon came out. She could survive a night without television just fine, thank you. Decisively, Judy went into the bedroom to get the book she’d been reading and to pick up her double-acrostic magazine, and then headed back toward her favorite armchair.
On her way past the table, she glanced suspiciously at the card again—and it was red. Bright fire-engine red! It had been green before, hadn’t it? She stood swaying in shock, trying to remember. Had it? Yes, dammit, it had been green, bright apple green. There was no doubt about that.
Unfortunately, there was also no doubt that the card was now red.
Shakily, Judy sat down. One part of her mind was keeping up a stream of desperate speculation about dyes that faded from one color to another, perhaps depending on the length of time they’d been exposed to light, but that was so obviously a last-ditch—and rather ineffectual—defensive effort on behalf of Rationality that she didn’t pay much attention to it. Slowly, with immense trepidation, as if it were a venomous insect, she picked up the card again, this time with only two fingers, holding it as far away from herself as she could and still make out the words.
This time, in spangly gold letters, it said: SURE THE GULAG ARCHIPELAGO IS A GOOD BOOK, BUT WOULDN’T YOU RATHER PUT ON YOUR BLUE CHANEL DRESS—THE SLINKY ONE WITH THE GOLD GLITTER SASH—AND THE GOLD HOOP EARRINGS YOU BOUGHT AT THE CRAFTS FAIR, AND GO OUT ON THE TOWN FOR A ROMANTIC EVENING AT DELANEY’S OR KARISMA? INSTEAD OF STARTING ANOTHER ONE OF THOSE STUPID CROSSWORD PUZZLE MAGAZINES, WOULDN’T YOU RATHER BE OUT STARTING UP A “MEANINGFUL RELATIONSHIP”?
Her hand began to tremble, vibrating the card into unreadability. By the time she steadied it down again, it read: WE CAN FIND THE PERFECT MATE FOR YOU!
Moving with exaggerated caution, as if it might explode, she lowered the card to the tabletop. She wiped her hands on her thighs. Her mouth was dry.
The card changed to a soft chocolate brown, this time before her eyes. In urgent red letters, it now said: WE CAN HELP YOU FIND THE MAN OF YOUR DREAMS! SATISFACTION GUARANTEED! MANY, MANY YEARS OF EXPERIENCE! STAFF OF EXPERTS!
That faded, and was replaced by: SEND NO MONEY!
Followed, after a pause, in a somewhat more subdued script, by: Magic Mates... a division of Elf Hill Corp.
To her own surprise, much of Judy’s fear was draining rapidly away, to be replaced by a drifting, dreamlike bemusement. Could this really be happening? Had someone sifted LSD into the grated parmesan cheese she’d used on the spaghetti? Her rational mind kept throwing up feverish high-tech speculations about wireless telegraphy and time-release invisible inks, but she no more believed them than she really believed that she was dreaming, or hallucinating, or crazy. Instead, she was beginning to feel a curious tranced calm, a bemused nonchalance. Oh, magic. Of course.
Can you guys read my mind? she thought, trying to project her thoughts at the card, the way they do in sci-fi movies, keeping her lips firmly shut.
Do you know what I’m thinking? Hello? Hello in there . . . ?
The card didn’t answer.
No mind-reading, then. Still, there was no way that the postcard could know all that stuff about her unless they had her under some sort of magical observation. Maybe they really could do what they said they could do
“Well,” she said, aloud. “I don’t know. I don’t really need—“
COME NOW, MS. PENDER, the card said, brown letters o
n gold this time. WE KNOW YOU DREAM ABOUT YOUR PERFECT MAN ALL THE TIME. YOU CERTAINLY TALK TO YOUR GIRLFRIENDS ABOUT HIM OFTEN ENOUGH. DON’T WORRY, WE KNOW WHAT YOU WANT. TALL AND SLENDER, WITH GREY EYES. WAVY BROWN HAIR, RIGHT? GLASSES. NO MUSTACHE. WITTY. ARTICULATE. SENSITIVE YET MASCULINE. DECISIVE YET UNDERSTANDING. NOT MARRIED. RIGHT? WELL, WE CAN FIND HIM FOR YOU! SATISFACTION GUARANTEED! THIRTY-DAY TRIAL PERIOD! SEND NO MONEY! DEAL’S OFF IF YOU DON’T LIKE HIM! GIVE IT A TRY!
“Well . . . ” Judy said, feeling only a distant twinge of wonder that she was sitting here talking to a postcard.
OH, GO AHEAD, the postcard said. YOU KNOW YOU’RE AS HORNY AS A GOAT . . .
“Well,” Judy said weakly. “I really shouldn’t . . .”
The postcard went blank. Then, in large block letters, formal and somewhat severe, as though it were growing impatient with her, there appeared:
DO YOU WANT THIS SERVICE?
yes no
□ □
CHECK ONE.
Hesitantly, feeling an odd little chill run up her spine, she checked the square for “yes.”
The doorbell rang.
Early one Saturday morning, a month later, Judy awoke to the soft liquid trilling of birdsong. The sun had not reached the bedroom window yet, and the room was still in shadow, but hot bright sunlight was already touching the roof of the house across the street, turning tile and mortar and brick to gold. The wedge of sky she could see was a clear bright blue. It was going to be another beautiful day, more like May than March.
Mark snored softly beside her, and she raised herself up on one elbow to look down at him for a moment, smiling fondly. Even his snores were melodic! Moving carefully, so as not to wake him, she got up and threw on a bathrobe, and quietly let herself out of the bedroom. She would make breakfast, a big weekend breakfast, and serve it to him in bed, along with maybe one or two other items.
The thought made her smile as she padded into the kitchen to start the coffee perking, but when she popped into the front room to pick up a sheet of newspaper to drain the bacon on, her smile died at once.
There was a little green postcard lying on the throw rug next to the front door, as though someone had ignored the box outside and pushed it through the mail slot instead.
She knew at once what it was, of course.
Judy and Mark had been dating for a month now, ever since his car had broken down outside, and he’d rung her doorbell to ask if he could use the phone. They’d been fascinated with each other at once. Mark was perfect. It was almost scary how perfect he was. Never had she jibed better with a man. They liked the same books, the same movies, the same music, the same foods, enjoyed the same kind of quirky humor, shared the same kinds of dreams and aspirations, disagreeing just enough to add a touch of spice to the relationship, but never enough to make them seriously squabble or fight. Physically, they couldn’t possibly have been more compatible.
The month had gone by for Judy in a blur of excitement and happiness. She had done her best to forget about the magic postcard, thrust it out of her mind, and deny its reality. That had been made easier by the fact that the postcard itself had disappeared right after that first evening, although at one point she tore the house apart looking for it. She sighed. Out of sight, out of mind. People were always willing to be lulled into forgetting about unpleasant or inconvenient facts, and she was no exception. For long stretches of time, she had almost managed to convince herself that it had never happened at all—or that, at most, it had been some strange sort of waking dream . . . But always, sooner or later, she would seem to hear a dry little voice in her head whispering THIRTY-DAY TRIAL PERIOD!, and then she would know better, and she would feel a chill of apprehension.
And now here was the postcard—or another just like it—turning up again, right on schedule. She had had her month’s free trial, and now, having hooked her on the product, they were about to reel her in and scoop her up in a net and clean and gut her. Here came the price tag. Here came the catch. She knew it. In every sales pitch, behind every “free offer,” there was always a catch. There was always a price tag. Why hadn’t she remembered that? The sweeter and more generous the deal seemed, the higher the price tag was likely to be. They—whoever They were—weren’t in business for their health, after all.
Unsteadily, she sat down in one of her beat-up old armchairs, keeping her eyes riveted on that innocent-looking little postcard; as if it might slither sinisterly away under the highboy if she looked away for a second. She even knew who They were, had always known, really, although she’d tried to suppress that knowledge, too. Elves. Leprechauns. The Little People. The Good Folk . . .
Faeries, of course. Of course faeries. Who else?
The knowledge did not reassure her. Now that it was too late, she found herself remembering all the folktales and fairy stories she’d read as a child: the Brothers Grimm, Hans Christian Andersen, Charles Perrault, Yeats’s collection of Irish folklore, The Blue Fairy Book . . . All of them agreed on one thing: faeries were worse than used-car salesmen.
No matter how wonderful the service they performed, there was always a price, and it was usually far more than you were willing to pay.
With a sudden flurry of the heart, she even thought that she knew what the price would be.
Compressing her lips into a thin hard line, Judy got up and walked determinedly over to the front door. Hesitating only for the smallest fraction of a second, she picked up the postcard and held it up to the light.
In fine copperplate letters, it said: MS. JUDY PENDER, YOUR THIRTY-DAY TRIAL PERIOD IS OVER! DID THE SERVICE MEET YOUR EXPECTATIONS? ARE YOU SATISFIED WITH THE PRODUCT?
“No,” Judy said weakly, her voice lacking conviction even to her own ears. “No, I’m not at all satisfied . . .”
OH, COME NOW, MS. PENDER, the postcard chided in somehow tired-looking letters. She could almost hear it sigh. DON’T DISSEMBLE. WE KNOW BETTER THAN THAT!
Judy—who with Mark had found herself easily and naturally acting out several sexual fantasies she had never even thought of mentioning to any other man—began to blush.
THAT’S BETTER, the card said, in florid purple ink this time. IN FACT, WE KNOW PERFECTLY WELL THAT THE PRODUCT MORE THAN FULFILLS YOUR EVERY EXPECTATION. YOUR EVERY DREAM, FOR THAT MATTER. WE’RE EXPERTS. WE KNOW WHAT WE’RE DOING—IT’S OUR BUSINESS, AFTER ALL. SO LET’S HAVE NO MORE EVASIVENESS, MS. PENDER. MARK PROPOSED LAST NIGHT, CORRECT? AND YOU ACCEPTED. SO IT’S TIME, AND PAST TIME, TO ENTER INTO A BINDING AGREEMENT CONCERNING PAYMENT FOR THIS SERVICE . . .
“All right,” she said through tight lips. “Tell me. Just what is it you want?”
FOR SERVICES RENDERED . . . said the card, and seemed to pause portentously . . . YOUR FIRSTBORN CHILD.
“I knew it!” Judy cried. “I knew that’s what it was going to be! You’re crazy!”
IT’S THE TRADITIONAL PRICE, the card said. NOT AT ALL EXCESSIVE, REALLY, CONSIDERING ALL WE’VE DONE TO CHANGE YOUR LIFE FOR THE BETTER.
“I won’t do it!” Judy said.
YOU DON’T HAVE MUCH CHOICE, the card said. YOU HAVE TO PAY YOUR DEBT TO US AT ONCE IF YOU DON’T WANT THE PRODUCT . . . SHIPPED BACK, AS IT WERE.
“Mark loves me,” Judy said fiercely. “It’s too late for you to change that now.”
DON’T KID YOURSELF, MS. PENDER, the card said. IF WE CAN’T FINALIZE A BINDING AGREEMENT RIGHT NOW, YOU’LL HAVE AN EXTREMELY BITTER FIGHT WITH HIM THIS VERY MORNING. NO MATTER HOW HARD YOU TRY TO AVOID IT, IT WILL HAPPEN. HE’LL WALK OUT OF HERE, AND YOU’LL NEVER SEE HIM AGAIN. WE GUARANTEE THAT.
“But, my firstborn child . . .” Judy whispered
A HIGH PRICE INDEED, the card gloated. AH, YES. A VERY HIGH PRICE. BUT THINK . . . REMEMBER . . . BE HONEST WITH YOURSELF. DO YOU REALLY WANT TO GO BACK TO “DARK SHADOWS” AND COLD SPAGHETTI? NOW THAT YOU’VE MET MARK, COULD YOU REALLY LIVE WITHOUT HIM?
“No,” Judy said, in the smallest of voices.
WE THOUGHT NOT, the card said smugly.
&nbs
p; Judy groped behind her for a chair, and sank into it. She dropped the card on the coffee table, and buried her face in her hands. After a moment or two, she raised her head wearily and looked over at the card again. It said: COME, COME, MS. PENDER. IT’S NOT REALLY SUCH A TRAGEDY. BABIES ARE NUISANCES, ANYWAY. THEY SQUALL AND STINK, THEY CRAYON ON YOUR WALLS AND VOMIT ON YOUR CARPET . . . THEY WEIGH YOU DOWN, MS. PENDER. YOU’LL BE BETTER OFF WITHOUT IT, REALLY. YOU OUGHT TO BE GLAD WE’LL BE TAKING IT OFF YOUR HANDS. ALL THE MORE TIME YOU’LL BE ABLE TO SPEND WITH MARK . . .
There was a long pause, and then, in tacit surrender, Judy said, “Why in the world did you guys ever get into this mail-order scam?” Her voice was flat and weary, bitter and dull. “It doesn’t seem your style, somehow . . .”
MODERNIZATION IS A MUST, MS. PENDER, the card said. THE OLD WAYS JUST AREN’T VERY EFFECTIVE ANYMORE. WE HAVE TO KEEP UP WITH THE TIMES TOO, YOU KNOW. It paused. NOW . . . ENOUGH SHILLY-SHALLYING, MS. PENDER. YOU MUST DECIDE NOW. IF YOU AGREE TO PAY THE PRICE FOR OUR SERVICE—TO SPECIFY: YOUR FIRSTBORN CHILD—THEN SIGN HERE . . .
A dotted signature line appeared on the postcard.
Judy stared at it, her face haggard, and then slowly, hesitantly, reluctantly, with many a stop and start, she picked up a pen and leaned forward.
She signed her name.
Strange Days: Fabulous Journeys With Gardner Dozois Page 33
