The Year's Best SF 08 # 1990

by Gardner Dozois (ed)

  * * *

  I came into the mall through the Main Street entrance and hopped the westbound slidewalk headed up Elm Street toward the train station. If I caught the 3:36 to Grand Central, I could eat dinner in Manhattan, far from my problems with Montross and Comrade. Running away had always worked for me before. Let someone else clean up the mess while I was gone.

  The slidewalk carried me past a real estate agency, a flash bar, a jewelry store and a Baskin-Robbins. I thought about where I wanted to go after New York. San Francisco? Montreal? Maybe I should try Elkhart, Indiana—no one would think to look for me there. Just ahead, between a drugstore and a take-out Russian restaurant, was the wiseguy dealership where Mom had bought Comrade.

  I did not want to think about Comrade waiting for me to come home, so I stepped into the drugstore and bought a dose of Carefree for $4.29. Normally I did not bother with drugs. I had been stunted; no over-the-counter flash could compare to that. But the propyl dicarbamates were all right. I fished the cash card out of my pocket and handed it to the stiff behind the counter. He did a doubletake when he saw the denomination, then carefully inserted the card into the reader to deduct the cost of the Carefree. It had my mom’s name on it; he must have expected it would trip some alarm for counterfeit plastic or stolen credit. He stared at me for a moment, as if trying to remember my face so he could describe me to a cop, and then gave the cash card back. The denomination readout said it was still good for $16,381.18.

  I picked out a bench in front of a specialty shop called The Happy Hippo, hiked up my shorts and poked Carefree into the widest part of my thigh. I took a short dreamy swim in the sea of tranquility and when I came back to myself, my guilt had been washed away. But so had my energy. I sat for a while and scoped the display of glass hippos and plastic hippos and fuzzy stuffed hippos, hippo vids and sheets and candles. Down the bench from me a homeless woman dozed. It was still pretty early in the season for a weather gypsy to have come this far north. She wore red shorts and droopy red socks with plastic sandals and four long-sleeved shirts, all unbuttoned, over a Funny Honey halter top. Her hair needed vacuuming and she smelled old. All grownups smelled that way to me; it was something I had never gotten used to. No perfume or deodorant could cover up the leathery stink of adulthood. Kids could smell bad, too, but usually from something they got on them. It did not come from a rotting body. I rubbed a finger in the dampness under my arm, slicked it and sniffed. There was a sweetness to kid sweat. I touched the drying finger to my tongue. You could even taste it. If I gave up getting stunted, stopped being Mr. Boy, I would smell like the woman at the end of the bench. I would start to die. I had never understood how grownups could live with that.

  The gypsy woke up, stretched and smiled at me with gummy teeth. “You left Comrade behind?” she said.

  I was startled. “What did you say?”

  “You know what this is?” She twitched her sleeve and a penlight appeared in her hand.

  My throat tightened. “I know what it looks like.”

  She gave me a wicked smile, aimed the penlight and burned a pinhole through the bench a few centimeters from my leg. “Maybe I could interest you in some free laser surgery?”

  I could smell scorched plastic. “You’re going to needle me here, in the middle of the Elm Street Mall?” I thought she was bluffing. Probably. I hoped.

  “If that’s the way you want it. Mr. Montross wants to know when you’re delivering the wiseguy to us.”

  “Get away from me.”

  “Not until you do what needs to be done.”

  When I saw Happy Lurdane come out of The Happy Hippo, I waved. A desperation move, but then it was easy to be brave with a head full of Carefree.

  “Mr. Boy.” She veered over to us. “Hi!”

  I scooted farther down the bench to make room for her between me and the gypsy. I knew she would stay to chat. Happy Lurdane was one of those chirpy lightweights who seemed to want lots of friends but did not really try to be one. We tolerated her because she did not mind being snubbed and she threw great parties.

  “Where have you been?” She settled beside me. “Haven’t seen you in ages.” The penlight disappeared and the gypsy fell back into drowsy character.

  “Around.”

  “Want to see what I just bought?”

  I nodded. My heart was hammering.

  She opened the bag and took out a fist-sized bundle covered with shipping plastic. She unwrapped a statue of a blue hippopotamus. “Be careful.” She handed it to me.

  “Cute.” The hippo had crude flower designs drawn on its body; it was chipped and cracked.

  “Ancient Egyptian. That means it’s even before antique.” She pulled a slip from the bag and read. “Twelfth Dynasty, 1991–1786 BC. Can you believe you can just buy something like that here in the mall? I mean it must be like a thousand years old or something.”

  “Try four thousand.”

  “No wonder it cost so much. He wasn’t going to sell it to me, so I had to spend some of next month’s allowance.” She took it from me and rewrapped it. “It’s for the smash party tomorrow. You’re coming, aren’t you?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Is something wrong?”

  I ignored that.

  “Hey, where’s Comrade? I don’t think I’ve ever seen you two apart before.”

  I decided to take a chance. “Want to get some doboys?”

  “Sure.” She glanced at me with delighted astonishment. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

  I took her arm, maneuvering to keep her between me and the gypsy. If Happy got needled it would be no great loss to western civilization. She babbled on about her party as we stepped onto the westbound slidewalk. I turned to look back. The gypsy waved as she hopped the eastbound.

  “Look Happy,” I said, “I’m sorry, but I changed my mind. Later, okay?”

  “But…”

  I did not stop for an argument. I darted off the slidewalk and sprinted through the mall to the station. I went straight to a ticket window, shoved the cash card under the grille and asked the agent for a one way to Grand Central. Forty thousand people lived in New Canaan; most of them had heard of me because of my mom. Nine million strangers jammed New York City; it was a good place to disappear. The agent had my ticket in her hand when the reader beeped and spat the card out.

  “No!” I slammed my fist on the counter. “Try it again.” The cash card was guaranteed by AmEx to be secure. And it had just worked at the drugstore.

  She glanced at the card, then slid it back under the grille. “No use.” The denomination readout flashed alternating messages: Voided and Bank recall. “You’ve got trouble, son.”

  She was right. As I left the station, I felt the Carefree struggle one last time with my dread—and lose. I did not even have the money to call home. I wandered around for a while, dazed, and then I was standing in front of the flower shop in the Elm Street Mall.

  Green Dream

  Contemporary and Conventional Plants

  I had telelinked with Tree every day since our drive and every day she had asked me over. But I was not ready to meet her family; I suppose I was still trying to pretend she was not a stiff. I wavered at the door now, breathing the cool scent of damp soil in clay pots. The gypsy could come after me again; I might be putting these people in danger. Using Happy as a shield was one thing, but I liked Tree. A lot. I backed away and peered through a window fringed with sweat and teeming with bizarre plants with flame-colored tongues. Someone wearing khaki moved. I could not tell if it was Tree or not. I thought of what she had said about no one having adventures in the mall.

  The front of the showroom was a green cave, darker than I had expected. Baskets dripping with bright flowers hung like stalactites; leathery-leaved understory plants formed stalagmites. As I threaded my way toward the back I came upon the kid I had seen wearing the Green Dream uniform, a khaki nightmare of pleats and flaps and brass buttons and about six too many pockets. He was misting leaves with
a pump bottle filled with blue liquid. I decided he must be the brother.

  “Hi,” I said. “I’m looking for Treemonisha.”

  Fidel was shorter than me and darker than his sister. He had a wiry plush of beautiful black hair that I was immediately tempted to touch.

  “Are you?” He eyed me as if deciding how hard I would be to beat up, then he smiled. He had crooked teeth. “You don’t look like yourself.”

  “No?”

  “What are you, scared? You’re whiter than rice, cashman. Don’t worry, the stiffs won’t hurt you.” Laughing, he feinted a punch at my arm; I was not reassured.

  “You’re Fidel.”

  “I’ve seen your DI files,” he said. “I asked around, I know about you. So don’t be telling my sister any more lies, understand?” He snapped his fingers in my face. “Behave yourself, cashman, and we’ll be fine.” He still had the boyish excitability I had lost after the first stunting. “She’s out back, so first you have to get by the old man.”

  The rear of the store was brighter; sunlight streamed through the clear krylac roof. There was a counter and behind it a glass-doored refrigerator filled with cut flowers. A side entrance opened to the greenhouse. Mrs. Schlieman, one of Mom’s lawyers who had an office in the mall, was deciding what to buy. She was shopping with her wiseguy secretary, who looked like he had just stepped out of a vodka ad.

  “Wait.” Fidel rested a hand on my shoulder. “I’ll tell her you’re here.”

  “But how long will they last?” Mrs. Schlieman sniffed a frilly yellow flower. “I should probably get the duraroses.”

  “Whatever you want, Mrs. Schlieman. Duraroses are a good product, I sell them by the truckload,” said Mr. Joplin with a chuckle. “But these carnations are real flowers, raised here in my greenhouse. So maybe you can’t stick them in your dishwasher, but put some where people can touch and smell them and I guarantee you’ll get compliments.”

  “Why Peter Cage,” said Mrs. Schlieman. “Is that you? I haven’t seen you since the picnic. How’s your mother?” She did not introduce her wiseguy.

  “Extreme,” I said.

  She nodded absently. “That’s nice. All right then, Mr. Joplin, give me a dozen of your carnations—and two dozen yellow duraroses.”

  Mrs. Schlieman chatted politely at me while Tree’s father wrapped the order. He was a short, rumpled, balding man who smiled too much. He seemed to like wearing the corporate uniform. Anyone else would have fixed the hair and the wrinkles. Not Mr. Joplin; he was a museum-quality throwback. As he took Mrs. Schlieman’s cash card from the wiseguy, he beamed at me over his glasses. Glasses!

  When Mrs. Schlieman left, so did the smile. “Peter Cage?” he said. “Is that your name?”

  “Mr. Boy is my name, sir.”

  “You’re Tree’s new friend.” He nodded. “She’s told us about you. She’s doing chores just now. You know, we have to work for a living here.”

  Sure, and I knew what he left unsaid: unlike you, you spoiled little freak. It was always the same with these stiffs. I walked in the door and already they hated me. At least he was not pretending, like Mrs. Schlieman. I gave him two points for honesty and kept my mouth shut.

  “What is it you want here, Peter?”

  “Nothing, sir.” If he was going to “Peter” me, I was going to “sir” him right back. “I just stopped by to say hello. Treemonisha did invite me, sir, but if you’d rather I left…”

  “No, no. Tree warned us you might come.”

  She and Fidel raced into the room as if they were afraid their father and I would already be at each other’s throats. “Oh hi, Mr. Boy,” she said.

  Her father snorted at the sound of my name.

  “Hi.” I grinned at her. It was the easiest thing I had done that day.

  She was wearing her uniform. When she saw that I had noticed, she blushed. “Well, you asked for it.” She tugged self-consciously at the waist of her fatigues. “You want to come in?”

  “Just a minute.” Mr. Joplin stepped in front of the door, blocking our escape. “You finished E-class?”

  “Yes.”

  “Checked the flats?”

  “I’m almost done.”

  “After that you’d better pick some dinner and get it started. Your mama called and said she wouldn’t be home until six-fifteen.”

  “Sure.”

  “And you’ll take orders for me on line two?”

  She leaned against the counter and sighed. “Do I have a choice?”

  He backed away and waved us through. “Sorry, sweetheart. I don’t know how we would get along without you.” He caught her brother by the shirt. “Not you, Fidel. You’re misting, remember?”

  A short tunnel ran from their mall storefront to the rehabbed furniture warehouse built over the Amtrak rails. Green Dream had installed a krylac roof and fans and a grolighting system; the Joplins squeezed themselves into the leftover spaces not filled with inventory. The air in the greenhouse was heavy and warm and it smelled like rain. No walls, no privacy other than that provided by the plants.

  “Here’s where I sleep.” Tree sat on her unmade bed. Her space was formed by a cinder block wall painted yellow and a screen of palms. “Chinese fan, bamboo, lady, date, kentia,” she said, naming them for me like they were her pets. “I grow them myself for spending money.” Her schoolcomm was on top of her dresser. Several drawers hung open; pink skintights trailed from one. Clothes were scattered like piles of leaves across the floor. “I guess I’m kind of a slob,” she said as she stripped off the uniform, wadded it and then banked it off the dresser into the top drawer. I could see her bare back in the mirror plastic taped to the wall. “Take your things off if you want.”

  I hesitated.

  “Or not. But it’s kind of muggy to stay dressed. You’ll sweat.”

  I unvelcroed my shirt. I did not mind at all seeing Tree without clothes. But I did not undress for anyone except the stiffs at the clinic. I stepped out of my pants. Being naked somehow had got connected with being helpless. I had this puckery feeling in my dick, like it was going to curl up and die. I could imagine the gypsy popping out from behind a palm and laughing at me. No, I was not going to think about that. Not here.

  “Comfortable?” said Tree.

  “Sure.” My voice was turning to dust in my throat. “Do all Green Dream employees run around the back room in the nude?”

  “I doubt it.” She smiled as if the thought tickled her. “We’re not exactly your average mall drones. Come help me finish the chores.”

  I was glad to let her lead so that she was not looking at me, although I could still watch her. I was fascinated by the sweep of her buttocks, the curve of her spine. She strolled, flatfooted and at ease, through her private jungle. At first I scuttled along on the balls of my feet, ready to dart behind a plant if anyone came. But after a while I decided to stop being so skittish. I realized I would probably survive being naked.

  Tree stopped in front of a workbench covered with potted seedlings in plastic trays and picked up a hose from the floor.

  “What’s this stuff?” I kept to the opposite side of the bench, using it to cover myself.

  “Greens.” She lifted a seedling to check the water level in the tray beneath.

  “What are greens?”

  “It’s too boring.” She squirted some water in and replaced the seedling.

  “Tell me, I’m interested.”

  “In greens? You liar.” She glanced at me and shook her head. “Okay.” She pointed as she said the names. “Lettuce, spinach, pak choi, chard, kale, rocket—got that? And a few tomatoes over there. Peppers, too. GD is trying to break into the food business. They think people will grow more of their own if they find out how easy it is.”

  “Is it?”

  “Greens are.” She inspected the next tray. “Just add water.”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  “It’s because they’ve been photosynthetically enhanced. Bigger leaves arranged better, low respirati
on rates. They teach us this stuff at GD Family Camp. It’s what we do instead of vacation.” She squashed something between her thumb and forefinger. “They mix all these bacteria that make their own fertilizer into the soil—fix nitrogen right out of the air. And then there’s this other stuff that sticks to the roots, rhizobacteria and mycorrhizae.” She finished the last tray and coiled the hose. “These flats will produce under candlelight in a closet. Bored yet?”

  “How do they taste?”

  “Pretty bland, most of them. Some stink, like kale and rocket. But we have to eat them for the good of the corporation.” She stuck her tongue out. “You want to stay for dinner?”

  * * *

  Mrs. Joplin made me call home before she would feed me; she refused to understand that my mom did not care. So I linked, asked Mom to send a car to the back door at eight-thirty, and faded. No time to discuss the missing sixteen thousand.

  Dinner was from the cookbook Tree had been issued at camp: a bowl of cold bean soup, fresh corn bread, and chard and cheese loaf. She let me help her make it, even though I had never cooked before. I was amazed at how simple corn bread was. Six ingredients: flour, corn meal, baking powder, milk, oil, and ovobinder. Mix and pour into a greased pan. Bake 20 minutes at 220 Celsius and serve! There is nothing magic or even very mysterious about homemade corn bread, except for the way its smell held me spellbound.

  Supper was the Joplins’ daily meal together. They ate in front of security windows near the tunnel to the store; when a customer came, someone ran out front. According to contract, they had to stay open twenty-four hours a day. Many of the suburban malls had gone to all-night operation; the competition from New York City was deadly. Mr. Joplin stood duty most of the time, but since they were a franchise family everybody took turns. Even Mrs. Joplin, who also worked part-time as a factfinder at the mall’s DataStop.