Tree’s mother was plump and graying and she had a smile that was almost bright enough to distract me from her naked body. She seemed harmless, except that she knew how to ask questions. After all, her job was finding out stuff for DataStop customers. She had this way of locking onto you as you talked; the longer the conversation, the greater her intensity. It was hard to lie to her. Normally that kind of aggressiveness in grownups made me jumpy.
No doubt she had run a search on me; I wondered just what she had turned up. Factfinders had to obey the law, so they only accessed public domain information—unlike Comrade, who would cheerfully operate on whatever I set him to. The Joplins’ bank records, for instance. I knew that Mrs. Joplin had made about $11,000 last year at the Infomat in the Elkhart Mall, that the family borrowed $135,000 at 9.78 percent interest to move to their new franchise and that they lost $213 in their first two months in New Canaan.
I kept my research a secret, of course, and they acted innocent, too. I let them pump me about Mom as we ate. I was used to being asked; after all, Mom was famous. Fidel wanted to know how much it had cost her to get twanked, how big she was, what she looked like on the inside and what she ate, if she got cold in the winter. Stuff like that. The others asked more personal questions. Tree wondered if Mom ever got lonely and whether she was going to be the Statue of Liberty for the rest of her life. Mrs. Joplin was interested in Mom’s remotes, of all things. Which ones I got along with, which ones I could not stand, whether I thought any of them was really her. Mr. Joplin asked if she liked being what she was. How was I supposed to know?
After dinner, I helped Fidel clear the table. While we were alone in the kitchen, he complained. “You think they eat this shit at GD headquarters?” He scraped his untouched chard loaf into the composter.
“I kind of liked the corn bread.”
“If only he’d buy meat once in a while, but he’s too cheap. Or doboys. Tree says you bought her doboys.”
I told him to skip school some time and we would go out for lunch; he thought that was a great idea.
When we came back out, Mr. Joplin actually smiled at me. He had been losing his edge all during dinner. Maybe chard agreed with him. He pulled a pipe from his pocket, began stuffing something into it and asked me if I followed baseball. I told him no. Paintball? No. Basketball? I said I watched dino fights sometimes.
“His pal is the dinosaur that goes to our school,” said Fidel.
“He may look like a dinosaur, but he’s really a boy,” said Mr. Joplin, as if making an important distinction. “The dinosaurs died out millions of years ago.”
“Humans aren’t allowed in dino fights,” I said, just to keep the conversation going. “Only twanked dogs and horses and elephants.”
Silence. Mr. Joplin puffed on his pipe and then passed it to his wife. She watched the glow in the bowl through half-lidded eyes as she inhaled. Fidel caught me staring.
“What’s the matter? Don’t you get twisted?” He took the pipe in his turn.
I was so croggled I did not know what to say. Even the Marleys had switched to THC inhalers. “But smoking is bad for you.” It smelled like a dirty sock had caught fire.
“Hemp is ancient. Natural.” Mr. Joplin spoke in a clipped voice as if swallowing his words. “Opens the mind to what’s real.” When he sighed, smoke poured out of his nose. “We grow it ourselves, you know.”
I took the pipe when Tree offered it. Even before I brought the stem to my mouth, the world tilted and I watched myself slide into what seemed very much like an hallucination. Here I was sitting around naked, in the mall, with a bunch of stiffs, smoking antique drugs. And I was enjoying myself. Incredible. I inhaled and immediately the flash hit me; it was as if my brain were an enormous bud, blooming inside my head.
“Good stuff.” I laughed smoke and then began coughing.
Fidel refilled my glass with ice water. “Have a sip, cashman.”
“Customer.” Tree pointed at the window.
“Leave!” Mr. Joplin waved impatiently at him. “Go away.” The man on the screen knelt and turned over the price tag on a fern. “Damn.” He jerked his uniform from the hook by the door, pulled on the khaki pants and was slithering into the shirt as he disappeared down the tunnel.
“So is Green Dream trying to break into the flash market, too?” I handed the pipe to Mrs. Joplin. There was a fleck of ash on her left breast.
“What we do back here is our business,” she said. “We work hard so we can live the way we want.” Tree was studying her fingerprints. I realized I had said the wrong thing so I shut up. Obviously, the Joplins were drifting from the lifestyle taught at Green Dream Family Camp.
Fidel announced he was going to school tomorrow and Mrs. Joplin told him no, he could link to E-class as usual, and Fidel claimed he could not concentrate at home, and Mrs. Joplin said he was trying to get out of his chores. While they were arguing, Tree nudged my leg and shot me a let’s leave look. I nodded.
“Excuse us.” She pushed back her chair. “Mr. Boy has got to go home soon.”
Mrs. Joplin pointed for her to stay. “You wait until your father gets back,” she said. “Tell me, Mr. Boy, have you lived in New Canaan long?”
“All my life,” I said.
“How old did you say you were?”
“Mama, he’s twenty-five,” said Tree. “I told you.”
“And what do you do for a living?”
“Mama, you promised.”
“Nothing,” I said. “I’m lucky, I guess. I don’t need to worry about money. If you didn’t need to work, would you?”
“Everybody needs work to do,” Mrs. Joplin said. “Work makes us real. Unless you have work to do and people who love you, you don’t exist.”
Talk about twentieth century humanist goop! At another time in another place, I probably would have snapped, but now the words would not come. My brain had turned into a flower; all I could think were daisy thoughts. The Joplins were such a strange combination of fast-forward and rewind. I could not tell what they wanted from me.
“Seventeen dollars and ninety-nine cents,” said Mr. Joplin, returning from the storefront. “What’s going on in here?” He glanced at his wife and some signal which I did not catch passed between them. He circled the table, came up behind me and laid his heavy hands on my shoulders. I shuddered; I thought for a moment he meant to strangle me.
“I’m not going to hurt you, Peter,” he said. “Before you go I have something to say.”
“Daddy.” Tree squirmed in her chair. Fidel looked uncomfortable, too, as if he guessed what was coming.
“Sure.” I did not have much choice.
The weight on my shoulders eased but did not entirely go away. “You should feel the ache in this boy, Ladonna.”
“I know,” said Mrs. Joplin.
“Hard as plastic.” Mr. Joplin touched the muscles corded along my neck. “You get too hard, you snap.” He set his thumbs at the base of my skull and kneaded with an easy circular motion. “Your body isn’t some machine that you’ve downloaded into. It’s alive. Real. You have to learn to listen to it. That’s why we smoke. Hear these muscles? They’re screaming.” He let his hand slide down my shoulders. “Now listen.” His fingertips probed along my upper spine. “Hear that? Your muscles stay tense because you don’t trust anyone. You always have to be ready to take a hit and you can’t tell where it’s coming from. You’re rigid and angry and scared. Reality … your body is speaking to you.”
His voice was as big and warm as his hands. Tree was giving him a look that could boil water but the way he touched me made too much sense to resist.
“We don’t mind helping you ease the strain. That’s the way Mrs. Joplin and I are. That’s the way we brought the kids up. But first you have to admit you’re hurting. And then you have to respect us enough to take what we have to give. I don’t feel that in you, Peter. You’re not ready to give up your pain. You just want us poor stiffs to admire how hard it’s made you. We haven’t got
time for that kind of shit, okay? You learn to listen to yourself and you’ll be welcome around here. We’ll even call you Mr. Boy, even though it’s a damn stupid name.”
No one spoke for a moment.
“Sorry, Tree,” he said. “We’ve embarrassed you again. But we love you, so you’re stuck with us.” I could feel it in his hands when he chuckled. “I suppose I do get carried away sometimes.”
“Sometimes?” said Fidel. Tree just smouldered.
“It’s late,” said Mrs. Joplin. “Let him go now, Jamaal. His mama’s sending a car over.”
Mr. Joplin stepped back and I almost fell off my chair from leaning back against him. I stood, shakily. “Thanks for dinner.”
Tree stalked through the greenhouse to the rear exit, her hairworks glittering against her bare back. I had to trot to keep up with her. There was no car in sight so we waited at the doorway and I put on my clothes.
“I can’t take much more of this.” She stared through the little wire glass window in the door, like a prisoner plotting her escape. “I mean, he’s not a psychologist or a great philosopher or whatever the hell he thinks he is. He’s just a pompous mall drone.”
“He’s not that bad.” Actually, I understood what her father had said to me; it was scary. “I like your family.”
“You don’t have to live with them!” She kept watching at the door. “They promised they’d behave with you; I should have known better. This happens every time I bring someone home.” She puffed an imaginary pipe, imitating her father. “Think what you’re doing to yourself, you poor fool, and say, isn’t it just too bad about modern life? Love, love, love—fuck!” She turned to me. “I’m sick of it. People are going to think I’m as sappy and thickheaded as my parents.”
“I don’t.”
“You’re lucky. You’re rich and your mom leaves you alone. You’re New Canaan. My folks are Elkhart, Indiana.”
“Being New Canaan is nothing to brag about. So what are you?”
“Not a Joplin.” She shook her head. “Not much longer, anyway; I’m eighteen in February. I think your car’s here.” She held out her arms and hugged me goodbye. “Sorry you had to sit through that. Don’t drop me, okay? I like you, Mr. Boy.” She did not let go for a while.
Dropping her had never occurred to me; I was not thinking of anything at all except the silkiness of her skin, the warmth of her body. Her breath whispered through my hair and her nipples brushed my ribs and then she kissed me. Just on the cheek but the damage was done. I was stunted. I was not supposed to feel this way about anyone.
Comrade was waiting in the back seat. We rode home in silence; I had nothing to say to him. He would not understand—none of my friends would. They would warn me that all she wanted was to spend some of my money. Or they would make bad jokes about the nudity or the Joplins’ mushy realism. No way I could explain the innocence of the way they touched one another. The old man did what to you? Yeah, and if I wanted a hug at home who was I supposed to ask? Comrade? Lovey? The greeter? Was I supposed to climb up to the head and fall asleep against Mom’s doorbone, waiting for it to open, like I used to do when I was really a kid?
The greeter was her usual nonstick self when I got home. She was so glad to see me and she wanted to know where I had been and if I had a good time and if I wanted Cook to make me a snack? Around. Yes. No.
She said the bank had called about some problem with one of the cash cards she had given me, a security glitch which they had taken care of and were very sorry about. Did I know about it and did I need a new card and would twenty thousand be enough? Yes. Please. Thanks.
And that was it. I found myself resenting Mom because she did not have to care about losing sixteen or twenty or fifty thousand dollars. And she had reminded me of my problems when all I wanted to think of was Tree. She was no help to me, never had been. I had things so twisted around that I almost told her about Montross myself, just to get a reaction. Here some guy had tapped our files and threatened my life and she asked if I wanted a snack. Why keep me around if she was going to pay so little attention? I wanted to shock her, to make her take me seriously.
But I did not know how.
* * *
The roombrain woke me. “Stennie’s calling.”
“Mmm.”
“Talk to me, Mr. Party Boy.” A window opened; he was in his car. “You dead or alive?”
“Asleep.” I rolled over. “Time is it?”
“Ten-thirty and I’m bored. Want me to come get you now or should I meet you there?”
“Wha…?”
“Happy’s. Don’t tell me you forgot. They’re doing a piano.”
“Who cares?” I crawled out of bed and drooped into the bathroom.
“She says she’s asking Tree Joplin,” Stennie called after me.
“Asking her what?” I came out.
“To the party.”
“Is she going?”
“She’s your cush.” He gave me a toothy smile. “Call back when you’re ready. Later.” He faded.
“She left a message,” said the roombrain. “Half hour ago.”
“Tree? You got me up for Stennie and not for her?”
“He’s on the list, she’s not. Happy called, too.”
“Comrade should’ve told you. Where is he?” Now I was grouchy. “She’s on the list, okay? Give me playback.”
Tree seemed pleased with herself. “Hi, this is me. I got myself invited to a smash party this afternoon. You want to go?” She faded.
“That’s all? Call her!”
“Both her numbers are busy; I’ll set redial. I found Comrade; he’s on another line. You want Happy’s message?”
“No. Yes.”
“You promised, Mr. Boy.” Happy giggled. “Look, you really, really don’t want to miss this. Stennie’s coming and he said I should ask Joplin if I wanted you here. So you’ve got no excuse.”
Someone tugged at her. “Stop that! Sorry, I’m being molested by a thick.…” She batted at her assailant. “Mr. Boy, did I tell you that this Japanese reporter is coming to shoot a vid? What?” She turned off camera. “Sure, just like on the nature channel. Wildlife of America. We’re all going to be famous. In Japan! This is history, Mr. Boy. And you’re…”
Her face froze as the redial program finally linked to the Green Dream. The roombrain brought Tree up in a new window. “Oh hi,” she said. “You rich boys sleep late.”
“What’s this about Happy’s?”
“She invited me.” Tree was recharging her hairworks with a red brush. “I said yes. Something wrong?”
Comrade slipped into the room; I shushed him. “You sure you want to go to a smash party? Sometimes they get a little crazy.”
She aimed the brush at me. “You’ve been to smash parties before. You survived.”
“Sure, but…”
“Well, I haven’t. All I know is that everybody at school is talking about this one and I want to see what it’s about.”
“You tell your parents you’re going?”
“Are you kidding? They’d just say it was too dangerous. What’s the matter, Mr. Boy, are you scared? Come on, it’ll be extreme.”
“She’s right. You should go,” said Comrade.
“Is that Comrade?” Tree said. “You tell him, Comrade!”
I glared at him. “Okay, okay, I guess I’m outnumbered. Stennie said he’d drive. You want us to pick you up?”
She did.
I flew at Comrade as soon as Tree faded. “Don’t you ever do that again!” I shoved him and he bumped up against the wall. “I ought to throw you to Montross.”
“You know, I just finished chatting with him.” Comrade stayed calm and made no move to defend himself. “He wants to meet—the three of us, face to face. He suggested Happy’s.”
“He suggested … I told you not to talk to him.”
“I know.” He shrugged. “Anyway, I think we should do it.”
“Who gave you permission to think?”
�
��You did. What if we give him the picture back and open our files and then I grovel, say I’m sorry, it’ll never happen again, blah, blah, blah. Maybe we can even buy him off. What have we got to lose?”
“You can’t bribe software. And what if he decides to snatch us?” I told Comrade about the gypsy with the penlight. “You want Tree mixed up in this?”
All the expression drained from his face. He did not say anything at first but I had watched his subroutines long enough to know that when he looked this blank, he was shaken. “So we take a risk, maybe we can get it over with,” he said. “He’s not interested in Tree and I won’t let anything happen to you. Why do you think your mom bought me?”
* * *
Happy Lurdane lived on the former estate of Philip Johnson, a notorious twentieth century architect. In his will Johnson had arranged to turn his compound into the Philip Johnson Memorial Museum, but after he died his work went out of fashion. The glass skyscrapers in the cities did not age well; they started to fall apart or were torn down because they wasted energy. Nobody visited the museum and it went bankrupt. The Lurdanes had bought the property and made some changes.
Johnson had designed all the odd little buildings on the estate himself. The main house was a shoebox of glass with no inside walls; near it stood a windowless brick guest house. On a pond below was a dock that looked like a Greek temple. Past the circular swimming pool near the houses were two galleries which had once held Johnson’s art collection, long since sold off. In Johnson’s day, the scattered buildings had been connected only by paths, which made the compound impossible in the frosty Connecticut winters. The Lurdanes had enclosed the paths in clear tubes and commuted in a golf cart.
Stennie told his Alpha not to wait, since the lot was already full and cars were parked well down the driveway. Five of us squeezed out of the car: me, Tree, Comrade, Stennie, and Janet Hoyt. Janet wore a Yankees jersey over pinstriped shorts, Tree was a little overdressed in her silver jaunts, I had on baggies padded to make me seem bigger and Comrade wore his usual window coat. Stennie lugged a box with his swag for the party.
Freddy the Teddy let us in. “Stennie and Mr. Boy!” He reared back on his hindquarters and roared. “Glad I’m not going to be the only beastie here. Hi, Janet. Hi, I’m Freddy,” he said to Tree. His pink tongue lolled. “Come in, this way. Fun starts right here. Some kids are swimming and there’s sex in the guest house. Everybody else is with Happy having lunch in the sculpture gallery.”
The Year's Best SF 08 # 1990 Page 9
