No Chains Shall Bind Me (The Good Doctor's Tales Folio Seven)

by Randall Farmer

  Watchmaker

  I’m Gail Rickenbach, and I’m a Focus. Why are you here? Are you a Crow? I don’t mind you taking whatever it is I think you are taking, as I think it’s what makes a place go bad. There’s no need to be afraid of me. I’m about as harmless as it’s possible to be. I’d like to meet and talk.

  Gail

  That Thursday morning, the ghost left another note for Gail.

  Focus Rickenbach

  Yes, I’m a Crow. Focuses are scary, and have done bad things to Crows before, so, no, I won’t be meeting you in person. The reason I keep coming back is that you are about the nicest unenslaved Focus I’ve ever run into. I’m here to help, not that there is much someone like me can do to help. Us Crows, well, we’re basically afraid of everything. Yes, we can consume some forms of what you Focuses term bad juice. Please don’t keep scaring me off. I can’t work when I’m scared.

  Watchmaker

  Gail showed the letter to Van the next morning. “Thanks,” she said.

  “Why are you thanking me?” Even when he looked at her, he wasn’t seeing her. He hadn’t gotten sexed up the night they found the note, and he had stayed distant and icy ever since.

  “We’re making progress,” she said. “Real progress. All thanks to you and your research. With Sylvie, Kurt and Melanie’s help, of course.”

  “I’ve run into a problem,” Van said, sighing one of his ‘I hate to deal with the real world’ sighs. “I’ve used up our petty change supply. Any more copies I make have to come out of real cash.”

  Gail licked her lips. “Then we have a problem.” Neither of them had jobs. Gail sat down on her cot and stared at the mud-caked water-warped plywood below her feet. Nothing ever went the way it should. “Let me give this some thought,” she said, eventually. She looked up, but Van was gone, likely to seek out some breakfast. Gail shook her head, the Van-sized ache in her heart growing stronger. She realized she would have to talk to Sylvie, Kurt and Melanie about this. Van wasn’t going to be any help.

  (17)

  Gail asked more questions at the next weekly meeting. The septic system was a problem again and the power mower had broken down. Gail did her best to contribute, but Bart and his crew was far ahead of her on these issues. Coming in cold, she found little to add.

  Bart was about to move on after the septic system issue, but John Bracken raised his hand and nudged his wife.

  “Another issue?” Bart said, from his position on top of the low hearth.

  Vera sat squished on the couch between her husband on one side and the Narbanors on the other, and she wasn’t happy with the attention. Vera eyed Gail nervously before saying “Well, I do have something I need to bring up.”

  She didn’t speak loudly enough. “If there aren’t any other issues, the next order of business is…” Bart said, continuing the meeting.

  “We have another issue,” John said, loud enough to attract Bart’s attention.

  “What?”

  “Tell them, Vera,” John said, and nudged his wife again.

  “Is this important, John?” Bart said, before Vera could get a word out. They had already spent almost an hour on the septic system and the mower, and truthfully, Vera’s problem didn’t interest Bart much at all.

  Typical Bart. Vera was a woman Transform. She was to be cared for, but otherwise not important.

  “Yes, it is,” John said.

  Bart sighed, and then called out, “All right, everybody quiet! One more issue before we can move on.”

  The restless room settled slowly, after several minutes, and during the time Vera whispered furiously to John. Gail caught little of it over the noise, except a few snippets like ‘later’, and ‘this can wait’. Whatever she was saying, John ignored Vera’s grasp at politeness.

  “All right, what is it, Vera?” Bart said, when the room mostly quieted.

  Vera looked around at the room, all waiting for her, and gave up.

  “I have a little problem,” she said.

  “What’s the problem, Vera?” Bart said, patiently.

  Vera fidgeted restlessly with the lapel of her elegantly tailored suit and met Gail’s eyes. She hesitated, glanced at her feet, and looked up again.

  “A week ago, my boss told me he wants me to come with him on his business trip next month. It’s off on the West Coast, for an entire week. He wants me to travel for an entire week.” She turned to Gail, but didn’t say anything more.

  “That’s ridiculous,” Bart said. “You’re a Transform. You can’t be away from home for a week.”

  Vera watched Gail, waiting. Gail shook her head. “How can your boss ask something like that? Doesn’t he know you’re a Transform?”

  “No,” Vera said. “No, he doesn’t.”

  Gail breathed an obscenity as she sat back in her folding chair and tried to comprehend the implications. Around her, the room went into an uproar again.

  “Vera, you’ve kept your condition secret for a long time, but this wasn’t going to hold up forever,” Bart said, barely heard over the noise.

  Ed Zarzemski shouted something about “Dammit, we can’t afford to lose another job,” and Tricia Bluen went on about how “We all knew she wasn’t going to be able to keep it secret.”

  Beside Vera, Ruth Narbanor tried to offer comfort. Virgil Conte worked numbers furiously on a piece of paper, repeatedly questioning John Bracken about Vera’s exact salary. Everyone in the room sounded off their opinions.

  Gail leaned forward and tried to attract Vera’s attention to ask a question of her own. The room quieted, every Transform falling silent to listen what Gail had to say. The others took longer to drift into silence.

  Gail didn’t have to attract Vera’s attention. She had never lost it.

  “You’re an Executive Secretary, right?” Gail said, hoping she remembered correctly.

  Vera nodded.

  “You’ve gone all this time without letting your company know that you’re a Transform?” Gail couldn’t imagine how Vera had managed the ruse, but Vera nodded again.

  “So if they do find out, there’s a good chance you’ll lose your job.”

  Vera shrugged. “I have contact with a lot of important clients. They might be offended that I’m a Transform, and my company wouldn’t want to offend our clients.”

  Gail sat back in her chair again and muttered more obscenities under her breath. After a second, she noticed her anger and checked the juice, but she hadn’t done significant damage to her people’s juice counts yet.

  “So what did you tell him?” Gail said, after hurriedly fixing a few minor juice glitches.

  Vera turned away. “I said yes.”

  “Dammit!” Bart said. “You know you can’t make a commitment like that.”

  “What else could I tell him?” Vera said. No longer whispering.

  “Vera, you’re no longer a normal! You can’t act like you are!”

  Vera didn’t say anything. She just sat pressed between her husband and Ruth Narbanor with her arms wrapped around her body, ready to sob.

  John Bracken looked at his wife, his brows came down and he stood up right in front of Bart. “You leave my wife alone!” Then he climbed up on the hearth to stand nose to nose and shouted some more. Bart shouted back, and then several other people in the room started shouting as the whole room descended into chaos.

  Gail took the chance to move into John’s vacated seat, right next to Vera. Vera’s eyes went wide, and she pushed as far away from Gail as she could.

  “What?” Ruth said, startled, as Vera pushed into her. Even so, there was too little space, and Vera couldn’t move out of contact with Gail.

  Gail sat, sandwiched between Vera and the end of the couch, and she reached over to take Vera’s hand, despite Vera’s so-evident terror.

  “I’m sorry!” Vera said. She looked so perfect, with her elegant hair and suit, and her make-up so beautifully applied, but her eyes now held tears.

  “It’s all right,” Gail said, holding Vera�
��s hand. Juice levels were always easier to control when she touched the Transforms. Vera’s hand trembled like those of a brand new Transform. Around them, the room started to fall silent again, as people strained to hear.

  “Exactly how long is this trip?” Gail said. Something about this argument annoyed her. Bart, mostly.

  “It hasn’t been scheduled yet,” Vera said. “We’ll probably leave late Sunday, and return late on Friday night.”

  Gail nodded. “It might be possible to work something out.”

  “What?” Vera’s eyes lit up, shocked and hopeful at once.

  “What?” another voice said. Gail thought it was Ed Zarzemski.

  “If I stripped you down a bunch before you left, you should be okay,” Gail said. You’ll feel a little icky to start with, and a little icky at the end, but you’ll be okay.”

  “What?” Bart said, craning around the still arguing John Bracken. “You can’t. It’s not safe.”

  Gail turned to face the room. “It takes four weeks for a woman to go from stripped to Monster. She’ll only be gone a week. She’ll be just fine.”

  Bart shook his head. “What if something happens? She could die. She could kill other people.”

  Helen Grimm cut in, much to Gail’s complete shock. “Nonsense,” she said to Bart, in a cutting tone Gail recognized so well. “She goes to work every day. You sound like one of those fools who want to keep Transforms in quarantine.”

  “You have some prejudices about Transforms, Bart?” Sylvie said, her voice cold. The other Transforms muttered and murmured, the room’s tone turning ugly.

  Bart backed down instantly. Gail gave the room a big smile.

  “No, no, no problem at all. If Gail’s sure it’s safe, I’m sure it is. And we do need the money Vera’s bringing in. So that’s settled. Let’s go on to the Treasurer’s Report. Virgil?”

  Gail gave Vera’s hand a squeeze and went back to her own seat, while John gave up on his defense of his wife and moved back to his. Vera smiled past the thin line of tears running down her cheek.

  Gail did some heavy thinking as Virgil went through his report. Vera was happy. Delighted, actually. She hadn’t expected a solution to appear at all, and now that it had, she had everything she imagined possible and more.

  This shouldn’t have been a big deal, though. Gail had been surprised at Bart’s objections. Transforms didn’t become helpless with their transformations, and except for reliable management of their juice supply, didn’t need any special considerations.

  ‘Reliable management of their juice supply’, though. He would be comfortable about Vera if he trusted Gail better. Gail was sure he didn’t trust her.

  Hell, he probably didn’t trust women in general in responsible positions. Men of his age grew up thinking they had to protect women, and most of the Transforms in the household were women. Gail wondered what other kinds of patriarchal responses he and the other normals were building up, and didn’t like her suppositions at all. All the helpless Transforms, and their protective spouses who ran things for them and took care of them.

  Since all the Transforms were having juice problems they fit the damned stereotype perfectly. Gail wanted to kick herself. She had to manage the juice better.

  However, it did feel good to have the majority of the household on her side for once.

  After the meeting, she kept up with her questions. She caught Virgil Conte afterwards and tried to ask him about the household finances, but he snapped at her, and got away before she had a chance to corner him.

  Bart was hostile also, but she trapped him on the porch as he and Isabella were leaving the house.

  “Tell me about how you’ve divvied up responsibilities,” Gail said.

  “What are you trying to do, Gail?” Bart said, standing carefully between Gail and his wife. Gail noted Isabella’s wide eyes and drawn breath, and carefully held her juice count steady.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’ve been nosing into things all over the household. Are you trying to take over?” He had always been able to rout her before with that argument. Gail still wasn’t sure he wasn’t right, but at least what she did was different. She pushed ahead despite her worries, took a deep breath and resisted her nagging feeling of guilt. Besides, her household Transforms appeared to her to be getting the short end of the stick anyway, with no say in the running of the household. Her non-involvement hadn’t helped them at all.

  “I’m the Focus,” she said. “I can’t avoid being the Focus. I’ve got power I don’t want, but, no, that doesn’t mean I’m going to be taking over.” She thought back to her Poli Sci classes. “Think of me as your ceremonial Queen. You’re my Prime Minister, the person really running things.” She paused as Bart shook his head, not comprehending her point. “I still want to understand what’s going on.”

  Bart’s lips tightened. “Are you asking me or telling me? Do I have a right to refuse you, or are you going to take it out on my wife if I try?”

  Gail almost did clip Isabella when she heard Bart say his piece, but she caught herself and held Isabella’s juice count steady. Isabella went white anyway. Gail took a deep breath and didn’t allow herself to get angry.

  “I’m not going to hurt Isabella and I’m not threatening anyone. I merely want to ask you some questions. Is that so unreasonable?”

  “Bart, please!” Isabella said, as Bart readied to argue further.

  Bart looked down at his wife, filled with pain and concern. Gail sensed him muffling his anger and resentment, all in the name of protecting his wife. His pause stretched long, and Gail didn’t interrupt his thoughts.

  Isabella smiled up at him as he relaxed and let the anger go.

  “Will you let Isabella leave?” he said. “She doesn’t need to suffer if I happen to say something that makes you mad.”

  So maybe that anger wasn’t gone, but Gail smiled and nodded anyway.

  Isabella fled, but not before pausing for a hostile glance at Gail. Gail spent the next hour sitting on the Ebener porch swing with Bart asking questions.

  Bart didn’t like her. He didn’t like her age, her sex and her personal style, and mostly he didn’t like what Gail did to his wife. But he answered.

  ---

  Call after eleven, the note said. Well, it was after eleven. Gail and her new research crew had been attempting to find a Focus to contact, which turned out to be more difficult than any of them imagined. First, finding phone numbers for Focuses was nearly impossible; most Focus households spent the extra money to keep their phone numbers unlisted. Second, when they were able to find a phone number, they could never get through to the Focus. “Sorry, you’re not on the list” was the most common response. Third, Van hadn’t been any use, refusing to help this bit of research, staying icily absent from her life.

  Sylvie had found, of all things, a reference to a Focus Cottsfield associated with a traveling group of performers, now attending the Jackson County Fair and doing whatever performances they did. Well, Jackson was a little over a half hour drive away, and sounded perfect for Gail. She wanted to visit. Given their earlier problems with phone calls, Gail decided that showing up unannounced might be a problem. Sylvie and Melanie had worked the phones, leaving a message at the County Fair, and finally made real contact with a member of the Cottsfield household.

  Thus, the ‘call after eleven’ note.

  Gail bit her lip in nervousness as she sat at the kitchen table and watched the hands on the ceramic sun clock above the cabinets next to the kitchen sink. Melanie sat across from her, her nose buried in the coffee-stained remains of the day’s Free Press. Kurt paced. Sylvie curled up on the floor and snored. Gail hadn’t ever talked to another Focus besides Wini Adkins, and she needed this conversation to go better than that one had. The odds didn’t look good. According to one quote the Witch Bitch found, “…talking to another hollow-eyed wastrel of the self-proclaimed ‘hedonist household’ of Focus Cottsfield…”, the household was not well adjusted.
They argued endlessly and were constantly petty with each other.

  Neither Gail nor her small research team had any idea what a ‘hedonist household’ was, as this was the only reference to this household model they had found. Back in the tent, they had dedicated page three of their three by four foot scribble pad of collated Transform notes to household models. They had identified five by name, the juice mover, charismatic, military, hedonist and weak Focus models. They knew more about the others, and had speculated and wrote wry notes to each other on the scribble pad about each. Gail thought of the models, in order, as chattel slavery, va-va-voom, seig heil, drug pusher and mine. She had the least confidence in their hedonist model speculations, because of lack of data.

  Gail placed the call, and a woman picked up.

  “My name is Focus Gail Rickenbach, and I’m looking for Focus Cottsfield.”

  “Well, my Focus doesn’t want to talk with you,” the woman said. As the call was to the County Fair offices, Gail had expected a representative from the County Fair to pick up the phone. “My Focus has no interested in dealing with some pathetic new Focus outside of the normal Focus mentoring channels. We have our own problems, and if you have any problems, that’s what the mentoring program is for. If you think differently, take up your issues with Focus Adkins.” Click.

  Gail sucked air, once, twice, and again. Tears gathered in the corners of her eyes, and Melanie moaned in pain. Gail put everyone’s juice back and turned to her crew. “I’m supposed to talk to Focus Adkins if I ever want to talk to another Focus,” Gail said. Her hands shook, and a dark depression settled on her. Melanie groaned at the news, while Kurt cursed mightily.

  She and her household were utterly alone.

  ---

  “So, how did you get talked into this?” Sylvie said. Gail, a bandanna around her head, was on her hands and knees, scrubbing around the edges of the kitchen. Her torn jeans were already soaked. She couldn’t believe how quickly the edges of the kitchen floor accumulated caked muck; the cleaning crew washed the floor three times a day, but they scrubbed harder in the middle of the floor than around the edges.