Alice was looking at the ground. “You might have something,” she allowed, “but maybe he's just exploiting an opportunity that's never been there before."
Andrew frowned. “How's that?"
"Well, before now, you could only play a child for so long before nature made it impossible. Now, an actor can hone his talent in that niche for years, decades, become better at portraying a child than a Temple, an Osment, or a Chen ever could. And remember, he's got a young, plastic brain. If he ever wants to shift into other roles, it'll be easier for him than most."
"I have my doubts,” Andrew said. “Would you consider playing one composer's music sufficient practice to keep you proficient in playing all the others?"
"Well, music is ... it's not acting. Oh, I did tell you about the concert, right?"
"What concert?” Andrew said, forgetting the change of subject.
"My orchestra's performing at Wilson Hall this week. Thursday, seven-thirty. Interested?"
"Of course!” He didn't have to suppress or fake anything here. This was one of Alice's interests he was ready to share. “Will I have to go rent a tuxedo?"
Alice laughed. “You can get away with a little less."
"Good. They never have my size anyway."
* * * *
He had to cancel his weekly dinner with Kazuo to make time for the recital. Kaz was more amused than put out. “I guess that's one of my suggestions taken,” he said over the function-all, smiling wryly. “Well, enjoy yourself, or is this music gonna be too serious to enjoy?"
"I'll let you know. And I'll make it up to you for canceling."
"How about Friday dinner instead? Or will you be busy with Alice again?"
"I don't know yet, actually. And don't look at me that way. There are so many reasons why the dirty old man routine doesn't work for you.” They laughed.
The workweek skimmed by fast, leading up to Thursday. Andrew dreaded work far less, now that Jason McCarthy was reduced to a distant presence, doing his jobs without extraneous comments. Co-workers still in the office had skirted Andrew for a couple weeks after that final incident, but things had since swung, not back to normal, but to an even more relaxed and comfortable level. He'd have to put the fear of firing into people more often—except that no one was getting in his hair and making him wish that on them.
Tiffany Albano came to his desk on Wednesday with an extra task: adjusting the webpages to reflect the final version of Alice's customer assistance AI. Andrew accepted the work gladly, which made Tiffany look at him oddly. “You seem pretty happy about it."
"Sure. It's good to get this finally nailed down, and it'll only take a few hours."
"I see.” She inched in. “Will you miss your time working with Alice?"
"Huh? I'll see her plenty, even without work. We've ... become friends."
"Good. I'd rather hoped you would,” Tiffany said, and walked away.
Andrew watched her go, wondering what he should make of that. Had she thought he needed a friend, and that only a frozen one would do? Had she been aiming at something more? Part of him thought he should resent her presumption. More of him thought he should thank her. Silence was his compromise, and he got working.
Thursday evening, it was a shower and a quick bite at home, then on with his best coat and tie and out to Wilson Hall. It was half-full when he arrived, and he got to his middle-row seat with no problem. He glanced over the single-sheet program, glad to recognize all the composers. The performers were listed on the reverse, and his eyes lingered over one name. Tuning sounds rose and fell behind the stage curtain, and he strained to hear the flute.
He noticed Alice's parents in the aisle just as they passed, and caught their attention with a wave. He still didn't approve of the hold they had on their daughter, but at that moment it seemed no excuse not to be civil, even friendly. They exchanged pleasant words before the McGirts headed down to their second-row seats. Could've been your row, Andrew told himself, if you'd found out about this earlier.
The curtain parted to applause. Andrew craned his head until he spotted her, almost dead center. She was in a long dress of dark purple, easily the smallest figure on stage. He tried to catch her eye, but she was intent on her instrument and the screen on her music stand.
The conductor gave his introduction, and led the orchestra into some Brahms. Andrew liked the piece, but there wasn't that much for the flute to do. The next piece was Vivaldi, and Alice didn't even take part. Andrew didn't fret: her turn was coming.
Next, as the flyer promised, was Mozart's Concerto for Flute and Orchestra Number Two. The conductor singled out “our rising star” as the featured performer, and Andrew couldn't help a grin. That grin began to waver as the first movement began to unfold, without a hint of the flute. What was going on?
Then Alice began to play, and carried Andrew aloft with her.
It reminded him of a birdsong, or a bird in flight: sometimes the wings fluttering too fast to see, sometimes soaring effortlessly. Was that Mozart's doing, or Alice's? A few minutes more of it, and he forgot about Mozart. It was all Alice, and as beautiful as anything he'd ever heard.
He needed the more sedate second movement to catch his breath and start digesting the performance. By the return to allegro in the third movement, he was watching as well as listening. Her music swooped and fluttered again, but just as impressive was how fast and precisely her fingers moved across a flute made for hands twice the size of hers. A few more decades—no, a century of practice, with reflexes undiminished, and how accomplished would she be? A good question, but one he couldn't care about long, when the now was so good.
Andrew let himself fly with her until the rest of the players carried the concerto to its end. He could barely join the applause, still feeling like he was floating in midair. It took the rest of the recital, through the von Weber and Mendelssohn, for him to settle back to earth.
He had told Kazuo he wasn't using the “L” word. Now, he wondered.
He was up with the rest of the audience, applauding at the end—and couldn't see Alice over the bodies in front of him. He stretched, stood tiptoe, but caught only a flash of purple before the curtain rang down. He would have muttered curses at them, but didn't have it in him right then.
Andrew made his way backstage to find Alice. He found her with her parents, and hung back, giving polite compliments to other musicians who came by. Alice spied him after a moment, and excused herself.
Andrew would have kissed her, had not her parents been so nearby. Instead, he took both her hands in his. “Alice, I—” He laughed at himself for being so tongue-tied. “That was the best music I've ever heard."
Alice looked down. “You must not listen to much classical,” she said.
"Maybe not,” he allowed, giving her hands a squeeze, “but I know what I like."
Alice looked back up at him, and he saw the blush. It should have looked childish on her, but didn't. He felt the urge to kiss her again.
No, he thought. More.
He leaned close to her ear. “Can you come home with me for a while?” he whispered.
A giggle caught in her throat, and she reddened more. “A little while,” she answered. “Give me a moment.” She disengaged and walked back to her parents. Andrew turned away, granting a bit of privacy.
What was he planning? To deepen their relationship, or take a step in turning Alice the child into Alice the woman? He tried to ignore that question. He could serve both ends at once, couldn't he?
Alice came back, her father's disapproving gaze following her. “Let's go,” she said, linking an arm with his. “I told them to expect me home in an hour."
"Okay.” Well, maybe a little longer...
* * * *
The lights in Andrew's living room were down to their faintest glow. He could barely see Alice's face in front of him, in the brief moments when he opened his eyes. Much of her was lost in darkness, but that was no problem. He knew where everything was.
"Andrew,
stop that."
Her hand pulled his back, settling it on her knee again. Andrew was amused. Okay, he could play this game. He concentrated on their more standard caresses for a few minutes. Then, with his lips working at her throat, he made his move again.
This time she jerked his hand back. “No, Andrew,” she said firmly.
"Come on, Alice.” He shifted legs, and resumed the advance. “What's the harm?"
"Stop it!” She slapped his arm away.
The tone stung as much as the blow. “Alice, what's your problem?"
"What's yours?” She pushed herself away and stood up. He got up to follow, but heard her move away, then bang against something. “Ow! Lights up!” The lights brightened, showing Alice barefoot and trying to straighten her rumpled dress. She gave him a hurt look. “Why would you do that, Andrew?"
Andrew let himself fall back onto the couch. “I thought it was the right time between us,” he said. “Time to do what adults do when—"
"We're not that kind of adult,” Alice said. “We're not going to consummate things that way."
"C'mon, even if I wasn't fully responsive, some good heavy petting—"
"No, stop it! Stop ... trying to be something you aren't!"
Andrew felt like something had scooped out his insides. When the shock faded, anger rushed into the void. “Look who's talking! You've got no place accusing me, you and your ilk."
Alice didn't look as wounded as he'd hoped. “Leave ‘my ilk’ out of it. What am I trying to be that I'm not?"
"A little girl!” Andrew sprang up. “The perfect little Goody Two-Shoes, who doesn't drink, doesn't swear, doesn't have an impure thought, doesn't go out after dark without letting Mommy and Daddy know, and doesn't ever, ever have to grow up!"
Alice gaped. “Is that how you really think of me? Of everyone who's frozen? That if they don't follow your example in all the details, they're really just children?” She shook her head hard. “Being an adult is about being responsible for yourself, your decisions. I'm satisfied with the decisions I've made for my life—and I'm comfortable within my skin, Andrew, even if you aren't."
Now it was Andrew's turn to goggle. “What's that supposed to mean? I'm great with who I am!"
"You're great with half of who you are. You go to exaggerated lengths to prove you're a regular grown-up, including loathing the part of yourself that isn't.” She sniffed, and wiped at an eye. “Would it really so unbearably humiliate you to let go of your resentments for a while, and let yourself experience the simple pleasures of being eight years old?"
"I don't want infantile pleasures, Alice. I want to take you to bed the way a regular man would, to want you the way a man does.” His hand reached for her, but she flinched back. “But since our parents were so much wiser than us, we get a shadow of the real thing, or less. But even that frustration beats—” He threw up his hands. “—teeter-totters and puppet shows!"
"Fine. Being frozen denied you some things, but you respond by scorning the things it offers in return. Extended life: doesn't that mean anything to you?"
"Being half a man for twice as long is no bargain to me. I guess you're different."
"I guess I am. A longer life, a youthful body, an agile brain: I think those things compensate, but you turn your back on them for nothing."
"Because I never had a choice. Because this was imposed on me before I was born, and for all time, no matter what I might want. If I resent that, that's my right."
"But it's so pointless,” she lamented. “I've tried to show you what you've been rejecting, to unbend your—"
"Hold it!” Andrew looked long and hard at her, silently stoking his indignation. Alice began to draw back. “Showing me what I'm missing, huh? Is that what this relationship has been to you? Is that what you were doing all along?"
"No.” She began stammering. “I mean, sometimes, partly, because—"
"Because you believed you could reform me,” he said, ominously softly. “Because you thought I needed reforming, whether I thought so or not.” He snorted a laugh. “Not like you're the first person to make me some kind of reclamation project. But I didn't need it then, and I don't need it now. Damn it, I'm—I'm sick of people pretending to do things for my own good, when it's really for their own purposes!"
"Andrew, that's unfair. Or, or maybe it is fair, but it's not—"
Andrew's voice turned back to quiet ice. “I think you should leave now, Alice. Go home to Mommy and Daddy.” She choked off a sob, and a tear trickled from her eye. “And don't cry,” he added in a cruel hiss.
His last words roused something within Alice. She straightened, and fought down the tears. “No,” she rasped. “No, I wouldn't dream of discomforting you that way.” She walked back to the couch, picking up her shoes tumbled to one side. “You've got your worldview, and you're welcome to it.” She looked around, growing frustrated. “Stockings. Where'd they go?"
"Hang on. They've gotta be around. I'll find—"
"No, forget it,” she said, jamming on her shoes. “Doesn't matter.” She got halfway to the door, and turned, her face burning red. “I'm sorry I was such a disappointment to you, Andrew. Good-bye."
Andrew stared dumbly after her for a second. “Wait, let me drive—” The slamming door cut him off like a slap in the face. “Fine!” he shouted.
He stormed into the kitchen, hoisted a half-full bottle of vodka out of its cabinet, and grabbed a nearby glass. To think he'd been taken in by that—that girl so easily. All this time he thought Alice genuinely cared for him, she was really treating him like some hapless, deluded soul, needing her care and instruction to make a better person of him. What arrogance! What—
With the glass halfway to his lips, Andrew finally acknowledged a certain parallel.
He slapped the glass down on the countertop, splashing his fingers. It wasn't the same thing, of course, not by a long stretch. He wanted Alice to be a better person. All Alice wanted was, what? Another playmate? No, he didn't really believe that. What, then? To make him happy? He was happy—and if he wasn't, it was because he saw how society treated him and his kind. The frozen had to hang together, watch out for each other, care about each other.
And how had he just cared about Alice?
He found himself staring into the glass, and the distorted self-image in the vodka. He pushed the glass down the counter and left the kitchen. Once he got his clothes in order and found his keys, he dashed out of the apartment, heading to the garage.
Andrew had no idea what to say to Alice once he caught up with her. Whatever it took to make her get inside, let him drive her home safe. He'd probably even tell her he was sorry: he was going to have to admit that eventually.
He drove his velomobile toward her condo, looking as far down the roads as he could without plowing into the light traffic. The few people he saw walking were all full-sizes. He turned onto a side street, and a hundred meters down the sidewalk he saw someone else.
Running. And being chased down. And tackled.
Andrew floored it as the plainly bigger assailant threw a hard punch. Fending off blows, he dragged his victim—and now there was no doubt who—toward a nearby alleyway.
But Andrew would get there first. Turning and braking, he brought his velo to a hard stop at the alley's entrance, a second before the attacker would have gotten inside. Andrew groped under his seat for the tire iron he kept there, then swung the door open with a yell, flourishing his weapon.
It worked. The attacker didn't see another kid: he saw his easy prey turning into a fight, and bolted. Alice managed to cuff him as he turned to run. Then she looked at Andrew, panted twice, and slumped to the sidewalk.
Andrew dropped the tire iron and knelt by her. Her dress was torn at the shoulder, one leg was scraped up, and a bruise was darkening on her cheek. Her eyes were staring at nothing.
"Alice, are you all right? Alice? He's gone, Alice. Where did he hurt you?"
She blinked, and her head turned a little his way. “Take me
home,” she droned.
"You sure? Maybe a hospital should look—"
Her voice rose toward a shriek. “Home!"
Andrew bundled her into the back seat, and drove as fast as he dared. He scanned the streets once or twice for a fleeing figure, hoping for the chance to run him over. He babbled to Alice, saying it'd just be a couple minutes. He hadn't the nerve to say more.
He walked her into the lobby, supporting her on one arm. At the elevator bank, she fished her ID card out of a pocket and swiped it. “He didn't search my pockets,” she said, still toneless. “He wasn't robbing me. He wasn't going to rob me."
"He didn't get to do anything else,” Andrew said. The doors opened, and he got her inside the car. She gave the voice interface her floor, and hung onto him hard on the way up.
Four steps from her door, her feet slowed. “You—you came after me."
Andrew said nothing. Only when Alice had her door open could he reply. “I'm sorry I had to."
Alice's look held all the trauma of that night. She slipped through the door, not opening it wide. Inside, she gave a trembling “Mom."
"Alice! What ha—"
The door shut in Andrew's face. He made as to knock and follow her in, but he heard the rising adult voices inside. His nerve failed, and he was back in the elevator almost before he could think. The miseries of the last half hour crowded upon him, and his only consolation was that he had a big drink poured and ready when he got home.
* * * *
Andrew awoke with a hangover, or what felt like one. He had slept, in fits and starts, but felt as bad as he had last night. He called in sick to work, then threw himself back down on the bed, hoping to drift off. Ten minutes later he gave up, put on a robe, and went to the kitchen for coffee and something resembling breakfast.
The doorbell gave him a start. He went to the door, standing on his toes to look through the peephole, and saw Timothy McGirt there. Andrew opened right up, forgetting any enmity. “Mr. McGirt, how's Alice?"
Timothy stalked in, backing Andrew up. “She's got nothing worse than bruises and scrapes, physically. Emotionally, it's too soon to judge the damage you did."
Analog SFF, September 2009 Page 5
