Spare and Found Parts

by Sarah Maria Griffin

  Nell was trembling, tiny and human beside her creation. Julian didn’t even look at her. They just stood there, all three, quiet. Nell shifted from one foot to the other, ticking softly. She wasn’t quite able to feel her feet or fingertips. Trust her body to let her down at a moment like this; trust her humanness to need attending. Her father couldn’t even see her from the thrall of the giant being above him.

  “I’m a little cold,” Nell managed. “I think I need to sit down, or . . . tea. I think I need tea.”

  The creation immediately turned to her. “What can I do to help you?”

  Julian leaped backward so quickly that he almost tripped himself. It would have been comical if Nell could feel anything other than the rising cold, the ticking fear. She sneezed and turned toward the stairway.

  “Thank you, but I’m all right. Please go to the kitchen. Da, will you put on tea? I’m going to get a shawl or a blanket. Something.”

  What else was there to do? How else could she carry this moment but like any other introduction: boil some water, steep some tea, stand around, talk.

  Each stair was a thousand miles high. Her calves ached. Kodak waited for her at the top of the stairs. Nell coughed out a laugh at him, his big eager eyes, his utter cluelessness. She leaned forward to pick him up—he was so warm—and carried him into her room.

  She looked around for a cardigan or something woolen to wrap herself in. Her brown skin was gray somehow, with exhaustion, with cold. Her scar was purpled with chill.

  She riffled through the wardrobe quickly—so many things of her mother’s, sickening now rather than fond—and quickly assembled a black wool vest and a too loose jumper the color of smoke. Two great woolen socks the color of jam, an old gift from Ruby. A thick red scarf.

  The clothes did not make her body less cold or less alien. She felt far outside herself, like a worried sick specter in the corner of the room. Her brain whirred with images of her mother’s body in the lake, the sound of the creation’s new voice, her father’s cold plea: “You understand why I did this, don’t you?” Her ears were ringing over her ticking.

  Nell inhaled and exhaled and combed out her curls. This is what it is to gather the sticks of yourself, to build a nest where there was only broken wood. She straightened her back. The comb fell through her hair with a whisper. Warmth slowly returned to her hands. Time pulled into focus.

  Kodak scampered up her leg and into her arms when she was done with her hair. The rise and fall of the tiny old stoat’s breath soothed her. The warmth of his small body was a heart all her own. She walked out of the room with him in her arms a little braver, a little more ready, her stomach calling for a cup of hot strong tea.

  At the bottom of the staircase her father and the creation still stood where they had when she left. Julian was inspecting him now, a tiny notebook in his hand, scribbling down details, model numbers. As Nell walked down, she felt a flash of something like pride; she’d taken things he made and found them a different purpose. As she got closer, she couldn’t tell if he was impressed or worried or afraid; he was fascinated, though, that was for sure.

  “Tea?” she asked brightly.

  Julian turned to her. “You’ll have to make it in a saucepan. The kettle seems to be busy.”

  The creation cocked his head to the side, and Nell cringed; he really did still look like a kettle.

  “None for me, though. I’m going to need to recover the lab after all this. Years of work, gone . . .” Julian murmured, closing his notebook and walking past the new creature back into the laboratory. Before he closed the door, he stopped and looked at the creation one more time, then at his daughter.

  “This is incredible. Really incredible stuff. Knew you’d manage something great eventually. Now, go and get to know him.”

  And just like that, the door closed again, heavy locks sliding into place, and it was Nell and the creation and the stoat, alone together. Nell was baffled; the conversation through the door had been so hopeful. He’d guided her through the whole thing.

  Or distracted her from what she’d found.

  Nell focused on the texture of the stoat’s fur. She looked up at her creation, his uncanny slight movements, his patience.

  “What are you thinking about?” she asked. Oh, what a stupid question. He hadn’t even been awake twenty minutes. Did he even know how to answer?

  His eyes moved a little in his head.

  “I am thinking that you must be uneasy, and I am glad that you are not so cold anymore. That it is still raining but there will not be any more lightning tonight. That your socks are red. That a cup of tea would probably make you feel better because your eyes are tired and tea is caffeinated and it may help stop you getting cold again.”

  Nell laughed, surprising even her. “Well. Aren’t you perceptive?”

  The creation nodded. “Yes, I am.”

  “All right. Tea it is.”

  She walked the creation into the kitchen and set about filling a pot of water and placing it on the stove. What should she say to him? How should she say it? How do you talk to something, someone who’s just been born? Should she tell him about her mother? Herself? She should probably ask him his name.

  “Do you have a name?” she asked. He was looking around, picking things up and putting them back down. He stopped with a cup in his hand.

  “My system number is iO2971848326171.”

  Nell blinked. “Can I call you Io? My name is Penelope Crane, but I’m called Nell. Your name can be short, like mine.”

  “Io. Io,” the creation said. “Yes.”

  Nell said his name again and again. Found the music of the vowels, looked over his patchwork form. “Io.” That fit.

  “Oh, this is Kodak.” She took the stoat from her shoulder and handed him to Io. The creation held the small creature gently. Kodak did not become unnerved or try to bite, just stared with his black little eyes. Io gently thumbed Kodak’s head and rubbed his belly.

  “I like him,” Io noted. “Can I hold him a little longer?”

  Nell felt something warm and lovely and surprising rise beneath her rib cage, for a moment. “Yes.” She glowed. “Of course.”

  “The man was your father?” asked Io, placing Kodak up on his shoulder, a mirror image of where the stoat had sat on Nell only moments before.

  “Yes. His name is Julian Crane; he’s a doctor. He fixes people who are missing limbs with”—Nell gestured—“bits. Like what you’re made of.”

  Io nodded. “Bits.”

  The pot started to bubble, and Nell poured two fat mugs from it before she realized that Io absolutely was not going to be having any tea. She decided to put a cup in front of him at the table anyway, to be polite. She wanted him to feel welcome.

  They sat at the table together in the quiet for a moment or two, listening to the rain outside. Nell focused on the warmth of the tea, a kind heat, a pleasant bitterness. Her mother’s body was in the lake. She’d just brought a creature to life. Her mother’s body was in the lake.

  How would she tell Ruby about her mother? Would she tell her at all? Ruby, somewhere warm against the rain, at home, in the Bayou, somewhere, not knowing any of this. And Oliver, Oliver Kelly, who called her a monster. How would he feel now, looking up at this great metal man? When would she show them? Her head started to spin a little, and she inhaled the steam from the mug and let it keep her in her body.

  What was she going to do with Io until then? He was staring into the mug, moderately puzzled. She imagined him on a podium, the astonished faces of her peers filling the theater, gazing up at him. Incredible. Marvelous. Alive.

  All these things, certainly, and yet here Nell was, awkward and quiet in his presence. She looked around the kitchen to find something to do. Her eyelids were heavy. Her brain pleaded with her for sleep as she scanned the room: something to do, something easy to keep this from becoming stranger than it already was.

  Cards. There was a deck of cards on one of the shelves, wedged between a salt pig
and a sugar bowl. Nell hopped up and swiped it, trying to remember the last time these cards had seen any action and if it was a full deck. This would keep them busy. She stifled a yawn and cracked the deck open.

  “Do you know what these are?” She shuffled them and reached out to pass them over to Io.

  He nodded, took them from her, and ran his fingertip along their edge. “Missing three. A two of diamonds, jack of spades, and the ace of hearts. We could play Snap? Or build a house?”

  Nell gaped. Playing cards with a computer was probably not going to be a fair game anyway. “A house,” she managed. “Sure. Let’s.”

  In twos, they laid the flimsy pieces out, tip to tip, little triangles. Red and black, red and black. They fell mostly, but some stayed. Io was more delicate with it than Nell: a couple of times even her breath was enough to knock down a whole row. He was patient, she got frustrated, but slowly the triangular structure rose for them, every tier more precarious than the last.

  Nell gave up helping toward the top; she didn’t want to be the one to tip down the whole structure. She rested her chin in her hands and watched the grace and silence with which Io put the pyramid together. The hand that she had built moved just as neatly as his other, their mismatch strange, their fluency startling. Her eyelids were so heavy. Her mother in the lake.

  She fell asleep before he crowned the tower of the house. She slept through the night at the table, and Io sat as the army of frogs marched in through a crack in the door. By morning the kitchen was alive with them, and Nell awoke in a sea of green.

  One by one she and Io set them free, she, with a dinner plate and an empty cup and he with his cold new hands.

  CHAPTER 3

  The girl standing on your porch looks as though she is about to faint. I am prepared if she does and immediately ask if she would like to sit down. If she falls, she may hit her head. She lets go of her umbrella, and it blusters away. She doesn’t seem to notice. She is staring very hard.

  You say, “Ruby, this is Io. Io, this is Ruby Underwood.”

  Ruby Underwood nods, her mouth open.

  We escort her to the kitchen and sit her at the table, and I go to the tap to fill a cup of water for her; this will help if her head is feeling light.

  “You did it,” she whispers, taking the mug from me very carefully. “You really did it.”

  You sit across from her, and you are smiling. You say, “Isn’t he amazing?” This word sets off pistons in my code. I am glad I amaze you.

  Ruby Underwood sips the water. “You really did it,” she says again. It is clear to me then that my arrival was unlikely, unexpected. There are no other sentient machines in this house. It is 101 years, 2 months, and 3 days since my system was last updated. I understand that something has gone wrong. I am the only one of me left perhaps. I would like to ask you this, but I understand that it is not a polite question to spring on you now. Politeness is very important when meeting new people. Also, I do not want you to be less amazed by me; I would like you to be continually amazed. What a privilege to amaze anyone. What a joy to amaze my maker.

  You lean across the table. “You didn’t get your eye.”

  Ruby Underwood’s expression falls. I am witnessing a conversation that is not necessarily meant for me. I pick up the deck of forty-nine cards and run them through my hands in order to appear occupied. This is a polite thing to do.

  “It was never . . . my eye. I mean, aside from Oliver’s being too high from the Medi-Patch to do anything except sit on the floor and talk about you.” Ruby Underwood laughs a little. Then you laugh; you are easy with each other. “Nellie, it just—it was never going to be for me. I know how my face is. I know how it looks. I can see just fine for what I need. Someone else can have the eye.”

  You reach across the table and take her hand in yours for a moment, neither of you saying anything at all, communicating in that contact. I like listening to you and Ruby Underwood talk. It is like a chain of light. When the letter t emerges at the end of a word, it is soft and sometimes inaudible, but at the beginning it is clipped, like a spark. Your vowels are sometimes flat, and sometimes they are tuneful. Your ticking is quiet.

  Ruby Underwood looks up at me again and blinks, looks to you, and asks, “Can—can he think?” She lowers her voice to almost nothing. “Does he have a computer?”

  She says computer as if it were something bad. As if it were something dangerous. I am not dangerous! I am amazing!

  You nod; you say, “It’s one of Da’s.”

  Ruby Underwood gasps. “That’s unreal. You never know what he has stashed away in that big old lab, do you?”

  You don’t say anything for a second, and your ticking ever so slightly rises in speed and volume. I am not the only thing that has happened lately in the laboratory. That much is clear. Ruby Underwood looks directly at me then, her face a matrix of concern, puzzle, and unease. Human faces do many tiny things very quickly. I have not yet seen what I look like, but even my processing power could not generate anything as complex as what Ruby Underwood appears to be feeling at present.

  “You have nothing to be afraid of, Ruby Underwood.”

  I am bold to say this, but I want her to know. She almost smiles then. “No Underwood. Only Underwood when I’m in trouble. It’s Ruby, Ruby to friends.” The unease is beginning to leave her face. She places her cloth bag on the table; she’s not about to leave, “I—I didn’t expect this all to happen so quickly. I thought it was over for us, Nell.”

  You say, “I’m so sorry I hurt you.”

  Ruby says, “I thought your father, Oliver, someone would stop you.”

  You shake your head. “I wasn’t going to be stopped. That I’m not sorry for. Not even a little bit.”

  Ruby laughs a little, then lets the air run silent. Her eyes flick over me again, her hands clasped together tightly. She is trying to be brave. She is uncomfortable.

  “I should have brought a gift.” She is really trying.

  “Would you like to see how I made him?” you offer. “I’d love to show you. I have some adjustments to make; you could watch.”

  The air stays quiet a moment. You lean forward, whisper, “Please.”

  Ruby nods.

  We three go up the stairs, and you show me into the room where you sleep and work. Ruby is still cautious of me, but she takes the magnifying glass you hand her and kneels by my side.

  You say, “I’ll build him a real face someday. Maybe you could help paint it?”

  Ruby says, “Maybe.”

  I lie on the floor then, too big for any work desk. You tell me this won’t take too long, or shouldn’t. You ask if I mind this; you tell me it won’t hurt. I can’t hurt, but I don’t tell you that. You stand over me, armed then with a tiny blowtorch, a tiny wrench, a drill. You ask Ruby to hand you some screws, and she does, says, “It’s all so complicated.”

  You answer, “No, look, this is how his battery works,” and your voice is thick with joy.

  We are there for maybe an hour. There is blue flame and metallic noise. You swear; Ruby laughs. You tune me up; you explain me in basic terms. You get some things wrong, but I do not tell you. I hope I will explain myself to you more clearly someday. As I wait for your demonstration to finish, I run words from the kitchen over in my mind like the cards in my hands, I scroll them through my fresh memory in context. I am grateful.

  Amazing. The queen of spades.

  Gift. The king of diamonds.

  Friends. The ace of hearts.

  Nell,

  The nectarines on the windowsill have changed. One has stayed the same and is warm under my touch, the second is gone but for the pit, the last is black with rot and foam; but the third, Nell, the third is growing. It is the size of my fist, and I fear it will only continue to swell. Please write me and tell me what you are doing. I am starting to become afraid.

  Nan

  CHAPTER 4

  Io chirruped a gentle tune in beeps and bloops as he cleaned the kitchen. Nell sa
t on the great slab of a table, her knees raised to her chin, watching him and listening, peeling potatoes into a bucket. Ruby’d said she’d come back for dinner. They’d all cook together. The deck of cards, worn from the morning’s play, sat in a neat stack beside her. He moved as though he’d been cleaning dishes his whole life; he bobbed his head softly to his own, almost inaudible tune, neatly scrubbed, then stacked the dishes.

  Nell hadn’t even had to explain how the sink and taps and soap and sponge worked. Io knew. Knew to ask for gloves—just in case. Knew to let the water run hot, then rinse with cold, to soak the cutlery and baking dishes for longer. It was uncanny.

  Nell couldn’t take her eyes off him.

  The chirps and low metallic melody he was entertaining himself with were sweet. He seemed to be enjoying himself, dancing ever so slightly as he progressed to scrubbing out the teacups.

  “What is that song?” she ventured, hesitant to interrupt. Io turned to her, a mottled scrubber in his left hand and a rough brown mug in his right, dripping soapsuds, tiny bubbles, iridescent in the light streaming into the kitchen.

  He cocked his head a little and replied, “‘Life on Mars,’ David Bowie, track four, side A, Hunky Dory, 1974.”

  Nell was dumbstruck for a moment, then couldn’t help laughing. “I have no idea what you just said. That is the longest song name I have ever heard!”

  “Almost as long as Penelope?” Io suggested.

  A joke? “Almost!”

  “I am being playful,” he said apologetically. “A man named David Bowie sang it, in 1974, and it was part of an album named Hunky Dory. The song’s title is ‘Life on Mars.’”

  “‘Life on Mars,’” Nell repeated. “Like the planet?”

  Io nodded. “Yes.”

  “It’s a nice song. Do you—do you know any others?”