Duplex

by Orson Scott Card

  “From him?” asked Defense. “I was counting on you to protect me.”

  Ryan went to the door. “I’m going to see how Bizzy made it through Halloween.”

  “He’s already putting his hands all over me!” Dianne called out to Ryan.

  “Bite them off,” said Ryan. “Or better still, sand them off.” Ryan momentarily wondered if Dianne wasn’t speaking some deeper truth; Defense had told him last summer that Dianne was growing up to be really hot. Was it possible that he really had designs on her, that this wasn’t all stupid banter, and Dianne was realizing that Defense had intentions, and they weren’t particularly honorable?

  But Defense knew that Ryan would protect Dianne. He wouldn’t put his hands anywhere near her.

  On the front porch, a man was ringing the Horvats’ doorbell.

  The door opened, and Bizzy stood there with a bowl of candy, about to serve some into the trick-or-treater’s bag. Only there wasn’t a trick-or-treater.

  “No treat,” said the man to Bizzy.

  “No trick, either,” Bizzy said to him coldly.

  “Invite me in,” the man said.

  Ryan wasn’t going to continue being ignored. “Bugger off,” he said.

  The man’s hand flew out toward Ryan’s face. Depending on where he meant it to land, it would have blacked Ryan’s eye or given him a bloody nose.

  Instead, though, the man’s hand hit the edge of the Burkes’ storm door, which Ryan had partly closed to bring it right to the place where the man’s fist was going.

  Ryan had done it with the same unplanned, preternatural speed he had used in combing out the bee and jabbing Errol’s throat. So his micropower could also show up for use in self-defense. That was very useful knowledge.

  Meanwhile, the man was crying out in agony. The storm door was good-quality metal—Dad would never put up anything less—and as Ryan tried to glimpse the injured hand, he thought he saw blood and broken bones.

  “Since you were so rude about demanding to go into the Horvats’ house,” said Ryan, “and even ruder in attempting to hit me in that clumsy, ill-thought-out manner, I think that instead of waiting for us to call an ambulance to deal with that hand, you should find your own way to a doctor or emergency care facility.”

  The man did not seem to be hearing anything except his own agony, but he got the idea and stumbled away from the porch, still holding the damaged hand in the other and wailing softly in a foreign language.

  “Is he speaking Slovenian?” asked Ryan.

  “Probably,” said Bizzy, “but I’m not understanding any of his words.”

  “So not Slovenian, then.”

  “Probably Slovenian,” said Bizzy, “but not words that my parents would have allowed me to learn.”

  “Maybe the next guy they send will be polite to the neighbor boy and ask you nicely to let him in,” said Ryan.

  “Maybe the next guy will have a submachine gun, which he starts firing at the house before he gets anywhere near the porch.”

  “So we live in two separate fantasy universes,” said Ryan.

  “That move with the door was very clever. How did you know that his jab would reach that far?”

  “I didn’t,” said Ryan. “I just knew I needed to move the door to that exact position.”

  “Your micropower?” Bizzy asked.

  “Could have been,” said Ryan. “But did I do it to protect myself, or you?”

  “You were the one about to be poked,” said Bizzy.

  “But yours was the door he was trying to get through, and he didn’t get through it.”

  “Want some candy?” asked Bizzy, holding out the bowl. She had asked him a few days before what treats kids around here would like. He told her that Twix bars were always the first to go. So all that was in the bowl were lots of little baby Twixes.

  “No thanks,” said Ryan. “Got Twix of my own.”

  “By now,” said Bizzy, “I bet you don’t have any.”

  Ryan thought of Dianne and Defense together in the kitchen. “Probably not,” said Ryan. But he still held up a hand to stop her from pushing the candy bowl any farther his way.

  “On a diet?” Bizzy asked.

  “I just shattered a man’s hand,” said Ryan. “That sort of thing kills my appetite.”

  “He shattered his own hand,” said Bizzy. “Don’t get all pacifist on me.”

  “I knowingly put a metal door edge where his hand was going to be,” said Ryan. “The fact that my face was supposed to be there doesn’t make me any prouder that I did that to his hand.”

  “It makes me very happy,” said Mrs. Horvat, who had come up to the door without stepping into the light.

  “Did you know him?” Bizzy asked her mother.

  “He was from the university library,” said Mrs. Horvat. “I’m afraid he was bringing me something from your father.”

  “Isn’t Dad coming home tonight himself?” asked Bizzy.

  “I asked him not to,” said Mrs. Horvat, “because there’s such a good chance of awful things happening here.”

  “Why does your dad have a library friend who lashes out at boys from next door like that?” Ryan asked Bizzy.

  It was Mrs. Horvat who replied. “Because he’s a lovek that befriended my husband to try to get to me. I suspect he was going to tell me that they’re holding the dear man and will send me body parts until I give them what they want.”

  “And what is that?” Bizzy demanded.

  “Me,” said Mrs. Horvat. “Or, failing that, you.”

  “And he was going to give you what, a ransom note?” asked Ryan.

  “I don’t know,” said Mrs. Horvat. “But my husband and I already had this conversation. He told me to give them nothing. If they ever had possession of him, I should presume that he is already dead or will certainly be killed trying to escape. So even if I capitulate, all they could return to me would be a corpse.”

  Ryan believed that Bizzy’s father might have said that. But maybe he was tied up somewhere wishing he had left his wife a more conciliatory path. Maybe he was saying, go ahead and bail me out of this, if you can.

  Or maybe he was getting grim satisfaction out of knowing that his wife was tough enough not to budge an inch.

  “I’m sure you know that the police have telephones,” said Ryan.

  “I still have hope that we’ll get Ciril back undamaged,” said Mrs. Horvat. “Since he didn’t actually deliver his message, it’s possible he was just here to tell us that Ciril was going to be late.”

  Ryan ran his finger down the bloodied and very slightly dented edge of the door. “That was quite a blow for a guy with a message of love and peace.”

  “I said ‘possible,’ not ‘likely.’”

  Ryan nodded. “Otherwise, how has your Halloween been?”

  “Candy’s two-thirds gone, and the trick-or-treaters seem to have gone in out of the cold,” said Bizzy.

  “Wanna come out on the porch and kiss standing up?” asked Ryan.

  “Very funny,” said Mrs. Horvat. “I know I can’t stop you, but at least I don’t have to watch.”

  “He’s kidding, Mom,” said Bizzy.

  “He’s pretending to be kidding,” said Mrs. Horvat, “but he’s really hoping you’ll do it.”

  Bizzy looked inquiringly at Ryan.

  Ryan shrugged. He could deny it. But he didn’t want to actually say it.

  Bizzy stepped toward him, still holding the bowl of tiny Twix bars. She leaned in to kiss him. As his lips met hers, he felt the Twix bars land on his head, followed by the plunk of the metal bowl.

  He did not break the kiss. Not for a good long while. Then, as they parted, he said, very mildly, “Owie.”

  “You were supposed to jump away and laugh,” said Bizzy.

  “The choice was kissing you
or jumping away and laughing. Didn’t I make the right choice?”

  She grinned at him, and suddenly her face went beautiful. Ryan could hardly breathe.

  “Not on the porch, you boneheaded girl,” said Mrs. Horvat from the shadows inside the house. “You know they’re still watching.”

  “So is Ryan.”

  “I know you’re trying to be nice,” said Ryan, “but that face just terrifies me. I mean, I love you, I love how beautiful you always are. But when you really pour it on, I feel completely unworthy.”

  Bizzy’s face relaxed back to normal. “I love you, fant.”

  “Keep feeling unworthy,” said Mrs. Horvat.

  “I thought you didn’t want to watch, Mother,” said Bizzy.

  “I thought you knew better than to show that face outdoors,” said Mrs. Horvat.

  “Says the woman who cursed me to a couple of days of compulsory beauty,” said Bizzy.

  “You should have stayed home.”

  “With the woman who cursed me? Have you heard of ‘sanity’?” asked Bizzy.

  “Whoever sent him,” said Mrs. Horvat, “his actions show that violence is already in their hearts. Will you please come inside so I can lock the door?”

  “Come in with us,” said Bizzy to Ryan.

  “So you two can kiss on the sofa for hours, passing Twix bars from mouth to mouth?” asked Mrs. Horvat.

  “I hadn’t thought of that, Mother, but it’s a good idea.”

  “I need to call Dr. Withunga,” said Ryan. “We need her to get her list done and bring some people over.”

  “I have not given my consent to anyone coming over,” said Mrs. Horvat.

  “But you will,” said Ryan, “because that guy was scary strong.”

  “And a big baby when he got hurt,” said Mrs. Horvat.

  “Everybody’s a big baby when they’ve got a few broken bones,” said Ryan.

  “They aren’t coming tonight,” said Mrs. Horvat.

  “And you know this how?” asked Bizzy.

  “Because they sent only him,” said Mrs. Horvat. “And they saw that Ryan was able to stop him by shifting a door about twenty centimeters in a split second. So when they come back, it will be in numbers, and with strategies and tactics.”

  “Or ‘shock and awe,’” said Ryan. Father had made that a family slogan in memory of whatever war that had been a catchphrase in.

  “They will try to be clever,” said Mrs. Horvat. “They will try to get somebody into the house before I know who it really is.”

  “I assume your plan is to let nobody into the house,” said Ryan.

  “That seems the safest course to me,” said Mrs. Horvat. “But they’ll try to find a way around that.”

  “But not tonight,” said Bizzy.

  “No,” said Mrs. Horvat. “Ryan, go back into your family’s home and sleep well. There is still school tomorrow. I’m going to turn off the porch light so trick-or-treaters don’t come anymore.”

  Ryan kissed Bizzy again quickly and started to head inside.

  “Aren’t you going to help me clean up this scattering of Twix?” asked Bizzy.

  “I will if your mother says I may,” said Ryan. “Mother, may I?”

  “I know that you are mocking me with the name of a children’s game in America,” said Mrs. Horvat. “And the answer is yes, you may.”

  She let the door close behind her. Ryan got down on hands and knees and helped Bizzy gather up the fallen Twix bars. He got about twice as many into the bowl as she did, because she kept stopping to kiss some unexpected part of his head—ear, nape of the neck, eyelid, cheek, chin. He never thought that having Bizzy kiss him could possibly be annoying, but now he knew that it could. And that she wanted to annoy him.

  So he annoyed her by not letting her kisses distract him from his task or goad him into showing annoyance.

  They were soon done with the task. The bowl was full.

  “If we didn’t get them all,” said Bizzy, “eat whatever you find.”

  She got up and went inside without a final kiss or a backward glance. Was she pouting about something? Why would she be pouting?

  He found four more Twixes on the front walk and in a bush. He placed them in a little row just beside the outer bottom corner of her door. Opening the storm door would not move the bars, and nobody taking a step through the door would step on them. But they would be easily noticed. Ryan wanted the candy to convey a very clear message: I will give anything good that I find to you. And I will not be ordered about.

  He went inside and got into his pajamas for bed. Mom and Dianne had apparently gone up to bed, so Ryan padded around in a quiet kitchen, went to the bathroom, and then came back out and flopped down on the sofa that he slept on.

  The sofa gave a muffled cry.

  Ryan got up and removed cushions until Defense was revealed, curled up and moaning. “You’re so fat and heavy,” he said.

  “I’m not fat and I’m very light for my height,” said Ryan. “You’re an idiot to sneak into my bed.”

  “It wasn’t actually a prank,” said Defense.

  “Obviously,” said Ryan. “It was an act of self-destructive stupidity.”

  “It didn’t cause anyone to get angry with me and try to attack me,” said Defense. “So you didn’t have to defend me.”

  “True,” said Ryan. “Which means you lied to me about not having a prank, but at least you kept your word about not manipulating me into killing somebody.”

  “I’m trying,” said Defense.

  Ryan reached down and hauled him up out of the base of the sofa. When he put the cushions back down, it was obvious that there was way less support from the springs and such. Defense had probably broken the sofa and it would be even more uncomfortable to sleep on.

  Not Ryan’s fault. Mom or Dianne had let Defense in, so they were responsible.

  It didn’t make the couch any more comfortable that night, however, knowing it was their fault.

  20

  The day after Halloween, morning came too early. Ryan saw two big bowls of candy on the table, which meant that Defense had taken his candy home. Ryan knew which bowl was his, because it was the one with only crap candy in it, the stuff people bought in bulk and without the slightest concern for what children actually liked. Which was perfectly fair, because Ryan was not a child and should not have been trick-or-treating.

  Ryan took the bowl of crap candy and poured it into the kitchen garbage. Then he pulled the bag out of the container, tied it off, replaced it with a new one, and then carried the one with all his candy in it out to the bin.

  I could have donated it to children somewhere, he thought. But by throwing it away, I’m helping preserve the health of their teeth. Altruism, thy name is Ryan.

  He greeted Dianne cheerfully for breakfast. She looked at the candy bowls. “Did I guess correctly?” he said.

  “No,” she said. “I left all the good ones for you.”

  “Well, now they’re yours.”

  “What happened to the crap bowl?” asked Dianne.

  “I ate it all.”

  “And you’re still eating breakfast?”

  “There’s always room in my tummy for good food.”

  Mom spoke up from the kitchen, where she was finishing up with Dianne’s lunch. Dianne preferred Mom’s sandwiches to anything at the middle school cafeteria. “I’m glad to hear that,” said Mom. “But it would reassure me more if I knew you did not really eat that entire bowl of candy.”

  “It’s in the outside garbage,” Ryan said, deciding that the joke had gone on long enough.

  “Ha-ha,” said Mom.

  “Honest truth,” said Ryan. “Happy All Saints’ Day.”

  “You never cease to astonish me, Ryan Burke.”

  “And vice versa, Mother,” said Ryan.

/>   “Are you going to be safe today, Ryan?” asked Mother.

  “Why would you ask?” Ryan replied.

  “Because you seem to be leading a watchful, dangerous life these days,” said Mom.

  “I will be safe today, Mother,” said Ryan.

  “When I get to high school,” asked Dianne, “will you walk me to school the way you walk Bizzy?”

  “No,” said Ryan. “Because you wouldn’t want me to stop every twenty steps and kiss you.”

  “Excuse me, Mom, but is it all right if I vomit up every bit of breakfast right now?”

  “Not at the table, dear,” said Mother.

  “If I puke, Ryan made me do it.”

  “Thanks for breakfast, Mom,” said Ryan, getting up from the table and carrying his plate to the counter by the sink.

  “I love you, Ryan. Have a nice day.”

  “It’s already nice because you were in it,” said Ryan.

  “What a suck-up,” said Dianne.

  “And I’m glad you’re in my life, too, Diagonal,” said Ryan.

  “Now I really will throw up.”

  Ryan was smiling as he went out the front door. Bizzy was sitting on the top step. “Took you long enough.”

  “Mom cooked breakfast.”

  “Hard to chew?”

  “So delicious I couldn’t leave any of it behind.”

  “Oh, so we’re being officiously cheerful today, is that it?”

  “I’m worried that something ugly is going to happen today.”

  She stopped on the sidewalk and turned to face him. He expected ugly-face, but instead it was pure glamor.

  Then she let her face glide back to normal.

  “Wow,” he said.

  “Every now and then,” she said, “I like to give my fant the best I’ve got.”

  “Was that so I could die happy, knowing I was loved by the most beautiful girl in all of history? Was that why you showed me that kilo-Helen face?”

  “Only a thousand Helens?”

  “A tera-Helen. Peta-Helen. Zetta-Helen.”

  “Zetta?” she asked.

  “Not an exaggeration. It’s only a thousandth of a yotta-Helen, anyway.”

  “And you’re way smarter than a yocto-Plato,” she said.