Marked Cards

by George R. R. Martin

  And Clara will run screaming, his baser, bigoted self said. You're such a boob.

  Was it naive to think that seeing a joker/nat couple would make a big difference with Clara? And what was he after? To get laid? A permanent relationship with a joker-phobic nat?

  He had asked her to meet him at P.S. 101 - "Freak U," as it was known to the greater New York school district. He didn't want Clara to have to sit through his "use condoms, avoid dope and booze, and be proud" lecture. In the years when jokers made good human interest stories and the people of the United States hadn't decided to pretend they didn't exist, People magazine had done a feature on him. They had called him the joker Jesse Jackson, a happy, successful and well adjusted joker, busy telling joker youth that they, too, could make it. To some degree Finn agreed with this sentiment, but he didn't for a moment discount his father's money, his white, upper-middle class background. They had played their part in his success. But, liberal cynicism aside, Finn did feel that he could and should offer a positive role model to young jokers.

  So each year he went to Freak U, and made a speech, and this year when he looked up into the bleachers, he had seen Clara sitting there, and he realized that she had come early to hear him speak, and his heart had squeezed down tight, and he realized this was going to have to be one hell of a speech.

  He risked a quick glance at her long profile as they went walking down the street. "You didn't have to sit through all that."

  "It was interesting."

  Hardly ringing praise, and the tense tone of voice made him decide not to pursue it further.

  "Hungry?" he asked.

  "I could eat."

  He grinned at her. "I'm gonna take you to my favorite Jokertown restaurant.

  They turned down Hester, but Arnie's cart wasn't in view. Jube was, however, sitting in his paperstand reading Premiere and eating peanuts in the shell. A couple of large, mangy and vocal crows were pacing up and down on the pavement in front of the stand calling in raucous voices. Periodically the black, rubbery-skinned joker would toss a couple of peanuts to his peanut gallery.

  "Hey, Jube, how's it going?" Finn called out.

  "Fucked."

  The bitterness incorporated in that single word rocked Finn back onto his hindquarters. "Hey," he demurred. "At least we're not headed off to joker concentration camps any longer."

  "No," Jube agreed. "These Sharks probably have something worse in store for us."

  Clara changed colors, ending up a dull shade of red. In a slightly brittle tone she said, "You don't really believe in all ... that."

  Jube turned his close-set, piggy eyes on Clara and smiled, revealing another two inches of tusk. "Dr. van Renssaeler, I've never lost money overestimating the cruelty and paranoia of the human animal."

  Clara looked to Finn. Her turmoil was evident. Quietly Finn said "I didn't believe, didn't want to believe initially. Now I have to." It was hard to force out the words. "I knew Peggy Durand ... in Kenya. Along with Faneuil. He made me an unwitting murderer. I believe everything now."

  Clara turned and took a few hesitant steps away. The crows hopped away from her, crying raucously. Jube picked up the magazine, and flapped it at Finn. The crows reacted with sharp cries, and a half-hearted attempt at flight. "We're depressing the lady. Scoot."

  "Coming to the block party?" Finn asked as he dug out money for an evening edition.

  "I'll be along later. I gotta find my smile again. It's hard to watch everyone trying to have such a good time."

  "Jube, they may be working at it, but the result is the same in the end. People have a good time." Finn touched a forefinger to his forehead in a little salute, and he and Clara moved on.

  "Sorry about that, he's not usually so morose. Jube's been the jokester of Jokertown for all the years I've been here."

  Clara gave an ill defined gesture. "It's all right, you don't have to ... The ... Sharks - "

  Finn laid a finger across her lips. "Shhhh. No sad, bad thoughts today."

  Clara nodded, determinedly changed the subject. "Shouldn't you be at that party before now? You're one of the organizers."

  "Ah, let Dutton hog the limelight. It's his dough that bought the beer. All I did was harass people until they agreed to donate food, and stereo sets, and their classic Beatles collections. Besides, if I arrive before they're partying hearty I'll have to act dignified."

  Clara choked on a little laugh, and without thinking Finn tucked her arm beneath his. He tensed for the flinch. It didn't come. He risked a glance at her. Her eyes were focused strictly to the front.

  ♥ ♦ ♣ ♠

  An hour later he was replete with three of Arnie's kraut dogs. The music of the Lizard King was throbbing down Hester Street, and colliding with Uncle Albert's Genuine Polka Band, and the entire musical smorgasbord was topped off with the fine sounds of Los Blues Guys. The shrieks of children, laughter, the grumble of conversation formed a counterpoint to the music, and overhead a few stars struggled to peep through the light haze of Manhattan.

  "You ever been in the Dime Museum?" Finn asked, trying to find a safe topic.

  "No." Clara underlined the word with a head shake.

  "Want to?"

  She pointed to a sign that said SEE HIDEOUS JOKER BABIES. "I don't really have to, do I?" she asked in a small voice.

  "Naw, that's just hype. It's mostly wax figures and dioramas, and a couple of Turtle's old shells."

  Clara nodded, stood up from her perch on the curb, and brushed off the seat of her jeans. It was very cute - the gesture and the ass. Finn sent stern orders to his dick. It stayed in the sheath. With a lurch and a heave he was on his feet. The sharp motion sent mustard, kraut and dog washing forward, and he belched. Apologized quickly.

  "Can you vomit?" Clara asked suddenly as Finn held the door for her.

  "Gee, that's an attractive after dinner conversation."

  A little defensively she said, "Well, I know horses can't, and that's one of the reasons colic is so fatal. I just ... hoped that wasn't the case for you."

  "No, I can promise you I won't die from a belly ache."

  "So you can vomit."

  "I love researchers, they never let up until they have an answer. Yes, I can vomit, but it's very unpleasant because I have two stomachs. One here." He touched the front of his Hawaiian shirt, and for the first time really acknowledged the small paunch which was beginning to develop. He sucked it in, and reminded himself that forty was approaching, and jogging was a positive thing. "And one here." He reached back, and patted his horse gut with the flat of a hand.

  "How interesting. I'd love to study it."

  "Yeah, I'm planning on donating my body to science. Assuming the family doesn't get a better offer from a dog food company."

  Clara laughed, and swept into the museum. Finn shelled out the five bucks for tickets, and caught up with Clara. She was standing transfixed in front of the diorama of the Four Aces. Finn looked from the cool wax features of the grandmother to the face of the granddaughter, with its tiny sheen of perspiration on her upper lip and across the high forehead. There wasn't a lot of resemblance.

  "She looks like Aunt Fleur," Clara said softly.

  "No, Aunt Fleur looks like her. Blythe was Fleur's mother."

  Clara walked a little farther into the museum. Stopped in front of the wax figure of Tachyon. Glanced back at Blythe. Back to Tachyon in his finery.

  "Why did she do it?"

  "I think because she loved him," Finn answered.

  "And him?" The tendons in Clara's neck were etched cords beneath the skin. So much tension.

  "I think she was the only woman he really ever loved."

  "Easy for him to say. She's dead and gone forty years." The anger etched the words like acid.

  "I knew Tachyon," Finn said gently. "Admired him, liked him, respected him, sometimes wanted to kill him, but that's another story. I watched him woo women, make love to women, use women. What always struck me about it was the desperation with which he
pursued. I think he was looking for another Blythe, but was smart enough to know that couldn't happen."

  "With the result being?" Clara asked.

  "That every relationship was doomed from the outset."

  "That doesn't make him very attractive."

  "It wasn't meant to. It was meant to make him understandable." Finn felt anger prickling along his nerve endings. He fought the emotion. This was supposed to be a good day. Their day. He didn't need fucking Tachyon turning up like Jeramiah, and fucking everything up. He found something which he hoped would put the argument to rest. "And hey, Cody loved him. Loves him. Maybe you ought to talk to her about what made him ... him."

  Clara walked away a few feet, and stood staring into the black glass eyes of her ancestor.

  Finn took a tentative step forward, and laid fingertips against her sleeve. "Clara, she's ancient history. He's ancient history. Wild cards spend too much time agonizing about the past. It's not our past. It sure as hell isn't our future. Let's forget about it."

  "Future." She turned the word over in her mouth. Caressing it with her tongue, biting at it with her teeth. "Do any of us really have an unburdened future? You wild cards are right - the future is ordained by the past. We're programmed by the hates and needs and attitudes of our parents and grandparents - "

  "It doesn't have to be that way. We're not totally reflexive beings. We can learn, change."

  "And what have you learned, Bradley Finn, independent of your joker nature?"

  "That this," he slapped at his flank. "Doesn't define me. That this," he touched his head, "And this," as he touched his heart, "Are more powerful than a fluke of genetics."

  "And I believe that genetics are everything."

  "What about souls?"

  "I've never seen one." Clara's expression was as bleak as ash.

  "I'm sorry for you," was all Finn could think to say.

  ♥ ♦ ♣ ♠

  "I just want to stop and say hello. We won't stay long. Joan used to volunteer at the clinic, but her health...." Finn had hoped he was keeping it casual. Clara's expression was telling him he hadn't. Before she could demur he reached up and rang the bell. "Joan's like this incredible East Coast blue blood. Makes this surfer kid feel real inferior. The Finn's got money, but no couth. Guess I shouldn't tell you that. You're one of those blue bloods. You'll think you're slumming."

  "Why are you so nervous?" Clara asked.

  "Nervous?" Finn echoed. Fortunately Perry opened the door before Finn's mouth could shovel out an even deeper hole. "Who's nervous? Hi, Perry."

  Perry was slim, gray haired, and old-fashioned. The chain and fob of a watch hung from one pocket, and he was wearing a jacket even on a Sunday in May. He smiled in welcome. Clara visibly relaxed, and Finn began to breathe again. Maybe this was all going to turn out okay. "Bradley! How good to see you. Come in. Come in."

  "Missed you at the block party, figured I'd see you and Joan boogalooing on the sidewalk," Finn said as he and Clara entered the vestibule of the apartment.

  Perry lost some of his ebullience, and glanced toward the door to his right. "Joan's been a little stay-at-home lately." He offered his hand to Clara. "Perry Simon."

  "Clara van Renssaeler." Perry's eyes widened. Clara (damn her perspicacious little self) didn't miss it.

  "I'll fetch Joan." The fact that he left them standing in the hall was proof he was rattled.

  Finn gave Clara an encouraging smile. And felt it curdle as raised voices came wafting into the hall. Perry had closed the door to the study, so no words could be distinguished, but the soprano member of the duet was clearly distressed, and from the hissing noises, Joan's snake nature was also getting into the act. Finn wondered bleakly what he had done to so antagonize this former friend.

  Perry returned. His face was flushed, whether from anger or embarrassment or a combination of both Finn couldn't tell, but he was the urbane host, and invited them into the living room. Clara settled onto the sofa like a nervous cat, and Finn dropped awkwardly to the floor, folding his legs beneath him. Perry darted into the kitchen, and started filling the tea tray.

  "I'm sorry you're stuck with just me. Joan's a little ... er, indisposed, but she wanted me to make you both welcome."

  He returned with the tray. Poured, offered Clara a cup. She stared down at the intricate Wedgewood pattern, and went white to the lips. Finn reared up, bracing himself on his front legs, alarmed because she looked so faint. Clara gave a tiny head shake, smiled, and took a sip of tea.

  "You're at the clinic now, aren't you?" Perry asked.

  "Yes."

  "Like it?"

  Clara drew in a sharp breath. "Normal adjectives don't really apply at the clinic...."

  "How so?" Perry asked.

  "I feel like a traveler, a visitor in your world." She stopped herself. "But you're an outsider, too."

  "To a degree. I can't fully understand the joker experience. But I love a woman who happens to be a joker, and after awhile you don't see the strangeness, you just see the person." He laughed. "And you know something? They say the same thing about me."

  Clara laughed, and the knot of tension which had settled into Finn's chest dissolved. It wasn't as good as fantasy had imagined it. It would have been better if Joan had been coiled on the couch, forming a nest for her lover, but it was pretty damn good.

  Clara's gaze roamed about the living room. Evaluating the paintings, knickknacks, furnishings. All of it subdued. All of it tasteful. All of it very much Joan. Her eyes slid across the mantle, across the antique French clock, froze on a silver framed photo of Perry and Joan. Her teeth chattered on the gilt edge of the cup, and she sloshed tea into the saucer as she struggled to place the cup and saucer back on the coffee table.

  "Bradley, I'm ..." She couldn't seem to think of the word. Her gaze was once again fixed on the photo.

  Finn heaved to his feet. He got a hand under her elbow, and helped Clara to her feet. "Thanks for the hospitality, Perry, but I think I've run the stuffin's out of this girl. Give Joan my love."

  The frenzied words had carried them back into the vestibule. Clara suddenly let out a mewling little gasp. Finn whirled, saw Joan whip back from the study door in a frenzy of glitter and scales.

  Clara clutched at her head and doubled over at the waist. Finn grabbed her wrist. The skin was icy, clammy to his touch. Finn had diagnosed enough migraines over the years to recognize this one.

  "Bradley, take me home. I want to go home."

  Perry had the panicked look of a civilian faced with a medical crisis. "How did you get here?"

  "Walked," Finn said tersely.

  "Want me to get the car? I don't think she can make it - "

  "No!" Clara's refusal was loud and emphatic. She then whimpered in pain, and clutched at her temples.

  "Sweetheart," Finn said, and really didn't realize until much later he had used the endearment. "Put your arms around my waist. Now, just slide up on my back. Hang on tight now. I'll take you home."

  ♥ ♦ ♣ ♠

  The apartment was gorgeous. Upper East Side. Awnings. Doormen. Poodles. They had taken the subway. She was in too much pain for him to get his van out of the garage. During the ride uptown Finn had understood how Lady Godiva's horse must have felt. He had also understood what a happy horse he must have been. The flesh of Clara's thighs was warm and moist against his coat. Then Finn got embarrassed, and shut down that particular line of thought.

  They trod in stately dignity up Park Avenue. Up the broad steps to the door. Clara's hair was falling down her back, there were patches of sweat on Finn's flanks, and beneath his armpits. The security guard at his horsehoe-shaped desk was giving them the eye. He was going to refuse to let them on the elevator. Finn could sense it. He grinned at the guy, leaned in close. The guard reared back in his chair.

  "She always loved horses as a kid," Finn confided.

  The guard gulped, put the filthy spin on it that Finn had hoped and assumed he would. Waved them into the mirror-l
ined elevator. Up to the top floor. Fishing the key out of Clara's handbag. Into the apartment. And a sterile environment. Elegant, expensive furniture, but not much of it. A couple of fine watercolors on the walls. There was a big computer on the dining room table. Some heavy medical tomes lying on the coffee table and sofa. Empty diet Coke cans. And virtually nothing of Clara.

  He was not a stupid guy. Seeing this cold box explained a lot about Clara van Renssaeler. She denied warmth, emotion, herself. And he wondered, why? Since he didn't have an answer, Finn decided not to waste time looking for one. He carried Clara into her bedroom, tilted so he could slide her onto the bed, and with perfect, clinical, doctorly, saintly, reserve, undressed her.

  She wore pretty underwear. He didn't touch the lace briefs, but he did unsnap the lace and wire bra. She had lush breasts. Freed, they tumbled off to either side. Ivory white with dark rose nipples. Sainthood was vanishing. Finn prayed for forbearance. God heard. Clara groaned, rolled to the side of the bed, and vomited the contents of her stomach onto the pale lemon-colored carpet.

  After this reminder that lustful thoughts carry then-own penalty, Finn got serious. He snagged a steel mixing bowl from the kitchen, ice and Evian from the fridge, a wash cloth from the bathroom, and settled down for the long haul. The nausea lasted for hours. Finn bathed Clara's face after every bout of the heaves, slipped ice slivers between her lips, kept cool cloths across her aching eyes, wrapped her in blankets when she became chilled, and wiped away the sweat when she became feverish.

  After a few hours she took to sleeping with his hand clasped in hers. He folded his horse body down next to the bed, and rested his head on the pillow next to hers. It wasn't comfortable, but it sure was sweet, and finally, around four A.M. the spasms stopped, and Finn and Clara drifted off to sleep.

  The annoying beep of his wristwatch alarm awakened him at five-thirty. Groaning, Finn got all four feet beneath him, and heaved to his feet. Clara didn't stir. Finn rubbed a hand over his face, trying to wipe away tiredness, and felt the harsh rasp of stubble against his palm. He canvassed the bathroom, and found a used razor on the side of the tub. Remembering the last time he'd tried using a lady's razor on his face made him wince, and he decided he'd just go to the clinic looking like a bum. He washed his face, propped his front feet onto the back of the toilet, dropped and aimed, and relieved himself without mishap. Squeezing some toothpaste onto his index finger he tried to rub the fuzz off his teeth. His mouth tasted like the bottom of a parrot's cage.