Some weeks later, he and Grace went for a drive. Things simply could not go on the way they were. It was early autumn, sunshiny and cool, and they left the city in the afternoon for a nearby woods, what remained of a much larger forest. Conversation was limited to small talk, wedged like a struggling alpine plant between blocks of silence. Robert was so full of things to say, so full of feelings, he didn't know where or how to begin. Excitement at the museum's imminent completion, anticipation as to how it would be received, nervousness, confidence, uncertainty, pride ... these and more occupied his mind, and along with them, shading, infiltrating, underscoring everything, were his feelings for Grace. And what, at this troubled point, he could only hope were hers for him. More intricate and complex than any piece of architecture, any building.
As for Grace, she was determined to enjoy herself, which at the moment meant thinking as little as possible. The small and great things she had on her mind, the trivial and the consequential, could wait. She had a desire, if not a need, for more immediate and tangible pleasures.
She rolled the window down and let the wind fill her face. It was a joy to be on the road. She loved the city, but it had begun to oppress her, particularly her small corner of it, bounded by the walls of her home and the men within those walls. She had been designed to love, and love she did, but this didn't stop her from having other feelings, and at present, flawed creature that she was, she was feeling over-Roberted.
So what, she had to ask, was she doing in the car? It was a question that even the most obdurately thought-averse of women might profitably consider. Was there something she was trying to prove? To prevent? To save? As a matter of habit, she did not put a great deal of store in the hidden mind, but lately she'd been having dreams—scary, exhilarating dreams—of flight.
They drove north then west, past the suburbs and the cow and horse farms, up and over one ridge then another, into a valley at the base of a small mountain, thick with pines, madrones and oaks and cut by a lazy stream. The air was dry but pungent. A gentle breeze stirred the tops of the trees.
They left the car at the head of a dirt path and started off on foot. The silence they had commandeered while driving still possessed them, although now, in the bosom of Nature and Her lively arboreal choir, it was less fraught. They walked abreast, at times brushing shoulders, until at length Robert took Grace's hand. The trail steepened, and they came to a downed tree, where they stopped to catch their breaths.
The section of the tree that had blocked the trail had been sawed out and removed, while the remainder had been left where it had fallen. On the downhill side the long, hefty trunk lay on the slope as straight as a pipe, looking much the same as it must have when it stood, save for the gentlest of undulations at its fracture points. Its bark looked like the bark on living trees, as bark resisted change, unlike the wood beneath it, which was slowly melting into the ground. On the uphill side, looming above them, sat the root ball, a tangled mass of feeder and anchor roots bridged by clods of dirt, now covered with a blush of moss and overrun with vines and creepers. It had been a year or two since the tree had fallen. One home—to jays, squirrels, hawks and other high-dwelling creatures—had been lost, but a new one—to towhees, sparrows and mice—had been created. This was the world of the forest.
In the world of construction, there was also loss. Of the old, or, in the case of building from scratch, on undisturbed land, the loss of nature. How one responded to that loss could define a career. One could no longer despise and bully nature and seek to bury her, at least not overtly. Having been tamed, she could now be duly praised, promoted, and loved. But love came in different flavors and styles, and sometimes it came in a form that seemed distorted, the very opposite of what it purported to be. There were architects who spoke of warmth and harmony and built abominations. Others were more honest. For the museum Robert had sought to do justice to a great many things: the city, the materials, the environment, the times, and above all, his belief that human beings were put on Earth to delight and inspire one another. The dance of light through glass, the upswooping cathedral-like enclosure, the exterior reflection of other buildings, and of the water and the sky ... all were meant to convey, if not deliver, this message. Life, however carefully planned, was full of surprises. This was another of his beliefs, a corollary of the first, and throughout the design process he had strived to give it voice, guided by intuition and love of his craft and of his city and of nature, and also love of human beings, and of one in particular, and he longed to know what she thought.
"Have you seen it?” he asked, breaking their long silence.
Grace had no need to ask what he meant. “Yes. Of course. I can see it from the bedroom window."
"But lately. Have you seen it lately?"
"Yes. I look at it every day."
"Up close? Have you seen it up close?"
"That too,” she said, smiling. “I also use binoculars."
He'd seen the binoculars and had wondered what they were for. Now, like a supplicant, he waited, not only for her opinion but also, and perhaps more importantly, her praise.
"It's beautiful. It's the finest thing you've ever done."
"Yes?"
"Yes. I love it."
He could scarcely contain his happiness. “That's good. That's very good.” He looked away from her, fighting back emotion, then back. “Thank you."
"Why? You're the one who designed it. Thank yourself."
"You inspired it. I couldn't have done it without you."
She was surprised, particularly considering how things had been of late. “Have you decided who's going to live in it?"
"No. Not yet."
She had some thoughts on the matter, but for the moment kept them to herself. Instead, she returned to the museum, which was vivid in her mind. The way it seemed to explode from the ground, like a vent of steam, thrusting itself upward ... it seemed so male to her, so attention-grabbing, so Robertesque, and while it thrilled her to look at it, she wondered what role she could possibly have played in its conception.
"How did I inspire it? What about me?"
"Everything."
"For example."
"All of you. Every bit. Top to bottom, inside out.” He paused, conscious of how lame he sounded. “It's hard to put into words."
But words were what she wanted, specific and concrete, as though the deed itself were not enough. She waited, while Robert struggled to untie his tongue.
Eventually he said, “I built it for you."
"For me?” This seemed unlikely.
"For both of us. But you were always there, at the back of my mind. I wanted you to like it. I always want you to like what I do."
She had a curious reaction to this. At first she thought him rather pathetic, child-like without the virtue of being a child. But then she remembered who she was.
"I miss you, Robert."
"I miss you, too."
"Come home. Come be with me again."
"I can't. I'm not strong enough. Or uninhibited enough. Or something."
"I've stopped sleeping with him."
He stiffened. It wasn't the sex, not in and of itself. It was the sex plus everything else.
"He must be lonely.” The thought gave him a certain amount of pleasure, though less than he would have guessed. Less, it seemed, than it should.
Grace considered how to proceed. In point of fact, she hadn't really stopped, not in the strict sense of the word, the absolute, unequivocal, lock the door and throw away the key sense, not in that sense, but she had stopped for now. Róbert (or R Prime, his current nom de guerre) didn't like it, but that was Róbert: like all the Roberts, he preferred things his way. And who knew the future? It was prudent, she felt, to keep an open mind.
"I wouldn't worry about it,” she replied.
"Do you love him, Grace?"
The question shocked her. “I love you."
He wanted to believe her. She could read it all over his face. And the uncertainty,
and the wariness, she could read that too.
"Tell me something, Robert. When you made me, you made me so I wouldn't be hurt by you. So I couldn't be. But it hurts to see you suffer. It hurts to see you sad. Why didn't you make me immune to that, too?"
He had no answer, except that he had done his best. Perhaps some hurts were inherent to being human.
Grace considered this. It seemed plausible. On the other hand, wasn't it equally inherent to being human that humans—including the makers of humans—would aspire to more?
"Maybe next time,” she said.
He glanced at her sharply.
She was teasing.
He was not amused. “There won't be a next time. I promise you."
"Which means what, Robert? You're happy with what you've got? You're giving up? Slinking away?"
"I'm happy."
"You don't look happy."
"Give me a minute."
It took less. And she didn't really see his face because she was in his arms. But she felt it, the happiness. And she had a revelation: some hurts just had to be fixed after the fact. They brought out the best in people, and that's why they existed. As reminders, as opportunities, to do good. To come together. To mend differences. To love.
* * * *
—4—
The opening of the museum, scheduled for late October, was delayed by more than a month. It was rare that any building was ever completed on time—it seemed against some natural law—although in this case the structure itself (and everything connected to it: exhibits and displays, security, landscaping, parking) was finished well in advance. Staff had been hired, uniforms created (using a fully tested, nonreactive Pakki-flex congener spun into a “skin on skin” fabric, producing a wonderful, shimmering, moiré effect), but at the last minute, at the architect's insistence, who himself was following the sage, if not brilliant, advice of his most beloved, there was a change. The couple who had been selected to inhabit the Domome was asked to step down in favor of another couple, who, nepotism aside, was really the perfect choice. It was several weeks before the house responded, and the new occupants were deemed acceptable. This was not wholly unexpected, but, all things considered, it was a huge relief.
October in the city was a time of cloud-studded skies, mild temperatures and gorgeous, golden light. By contrast, December was the season of rain, and the day of the opening dawned drizzly and gray. As he stood at his bedroom window, dressing and rehearsing the few words he would say, unable to see through the heavy curtain of sprinkle and mist, Robert worried that the museum would not show itself to advantage on such a dreary day. He worried about the Domome too, which after all was just a house. What made it different, elevated it (if that was the word), was the Pakki-flex, and Pakki-flex was fickle: perhaps this would be the day that it did nothing, that it chose to take a rest. And if it did, could the house alone justify itself as the centerpiece of such a hullabaloo? Nothing like this had ever been done before, not on this scale. And for good reason, he thought.
He was no stranger to ribbon-cuttings, nor to the pressures and anxieties attending them, which typically he shouldered alone. Today, however, he had an ally, and at a sound he turned from the window, and there she was. Her hair was up; she wore a new dress. His worries and apprehensions didn't stand a chance, scattering like autumn leaves at the sight of her.
"God, you're beautiful."
She smiled, lifting her chin.
"You make me weak."
"Weak?"
"In the knees."
"It's a big day,” she said.
They stood there, drinking each other in, all else—the bigness of the day, the weather, the time—forgotten. He crossed the room and laid his hand on her shoulder, which was bare, and gently traced the contour of her neck as it curved ever so gracefully upward toward her face. To Grace the touch was like an electric current. She felt it to the tip of her toes.
They exchanged a glance.
"No?” he asked.
She was half a second slow in responding.
"I can deal with no."
"Yes,” she said.
"Yes meaning what? No?"
"No,” she said, draping her arms around his neck and pulling him close. “Yes meaning yes."
Fifteen minutes later, after dressing again and straightening up, they hurried out the door. They were just in time for the festivities, arriving as the mayor was stepping to the microphone. Flanking him were the directors of the city's departments of planning, preservation and the arts, various underlings, several leading architects, and Julian with two of his partners. The media, along with a moderate crowd, were also there. Considering everyone who wanted a share of the credit, the ceremony was mercifully brief. Near the end of the speeches the rain slowed, then stopped altogether, and the sky began to lift. At the moment the ribbon was cut, the sun put in an appearance, and as the crowd surged forward, it struck the museum with a broad swath of light. The glass seemed to catch fire, which spread from panel to panel and then shot upward, until the museum was wreathed in pale, shimmering, amber light. A gasp went up from the crowd. A few of them glanced at Robert.
And the Domome ... what more could he have asked or hoped for? As the galleries and balconies filled, and the sun played peek-a-boo, creating one felicity after another with the museum's walls, the dome, as if on cue, began to pucker, as though the air beneath it were liquefying and being brought to a boil. As the pucker grew, a hush came over the crowd, every eye fixed on the steadily enlarging bubble. When it covered most of the dome and seemed on the very brink of bursting, a rent appeared in it, narrow at first, slit-sized, like a long paper cut. Wrinkles appeared on the surface of the bubble, which, remarkably, retained its shape and did not deflate. There was a collective intake of air, oohs and aahs, followed by sustained applause.
As if in response, the rent widened, revealing first one man, then another, beneath the dome in the room below. Both, in formal wear, were looking up, taking in the sea of faces trained on them, and if one seemed more pleased with the attention, more in love with it, it didn't show. They had their arms around each other, and high above them, Robert slipped his around Grace. He was as happy as he'd ever been. He had his masterpiece. He had Grace. In the world there was nothing he wanted more.
For Grace it was hardly different. She had everything she wanted: her man, her man's happiness, his love. She also had the museum's key. Robert had left a copy of it in plain view on a table at home, and after several days, assuming it was there for a reason, she took it. Nothing was ever said.
The applause grew louder, and it was joined by whistles and cheers. And now the two men were smiling, and now they were waving. And Grace, having threaded her arm around Robert, gave him a loving squeeze, and with her other hand, her free one, she waved back.
[Back to Table of Contents]
Plumage From Pegasus: Galley Knaves by Paul Di Filippo
"How do you get your author's ARC to stand out in a stack? Make it look like something other than a book, for starters. This is the tack St. Martin's Minotaur imprint has taken with Chelsea Cain's forthcoming serial killer mystery, Heartsick. Four thousand galleys, stuffed in clear ‘evidence’ packets, were mailed to booksellers and the press last week, making the September novel look as if it was culled from the scene of a crime. (Adding to that aesthetic is the title's plain white cover splashed with red blotches made to look like bloodstained fingerprints.)"
—"Minotaur Gets Inventive with New ARC,” Rachel Deahl, PW Daily, 4/11/2007.
* * * *
The doorbell rang just as I was finishing a review for The Washington Post Book World: Soho Crane's new serial killer mystery, Liverfluke. (The novel had been holding my interest right up until the climax, when the killer was revealed to be an extraterrestrial intelligent parasitic worm. I really can't stand science fiction, even when hybridized with the mystery genre.)
I suspected that the bell signaled the arrival of the postal delivery person. The hour was just abou
t right. Most days, the postal person just quietly filled the giant lidded plastic tub on my porch with that day's shipment of packages, then left. But if a signature was needed, or the bin overflowed with book-stuffed padded envelopes and boxes exposed to inclement weather, I'd get buzzed.
I left my study and headed to the front of the house.
I unlocked the door and looked out.
A bloody corpse sprawled akimbo across my door mat!
Despite being a hardened reader of thrillers, I'm not ashamed to confess that I let out a guttural cry of horror!
Perhaps if I lived in a rough neighborhood, I would have been inured to such sights. But steady employment as a full-time mystery book reviewer had allowed me to buy a large splendid house in an exclusive district of my town. (And if you believe that, then I've got a plagiarized undergraduate novel to sell you!) Actually, although the street where I rented my apartment ran along the border of a questionable precinct, it was generally respectable and crime-free.
That's why I was so surprised at this ghoulish intrusion.
I was frantically digging my cell out of my pants pocket to call 911, when I looked up and spotted the U.S. Mail truck, parked a few feet away. Next to it stood my regular delivery person, grinning broadly.
"I had to ride around all morning with that damn stiff in my truck. Thought you should get some of the same excitement."
Then he climbed behind the wheel and motored off.
With calmer eyes and slowing heartrate, I regarded the “corpse."
It proved to be a cheap-looking, flexible, life-sized mannequin, with painted-on clothing. A postage-meter strip was pasted to its forehead, and the address label was attached in the form of a hello my name is label on its chest.
I lugged the lightweight mannequin inside.
I noted then a dotted line across its stomach that proclaimed slice open here.
A kitchen knife secured access to the dummy's cavity.
Inside was an ARC, and publicity materials.
"Kentucky Canebrake's new crime opus, The Corpse Always Rings Twice, hits with all the impact of a drive-by shooting on your doorstep...."
FSF, July 2008 Page 11
