How to Say Goodbye in Robot

by Natalie Standiford

  Herb:

  A what?

  Kreplax:

  Think about it, Herb. Let’s say you’re a young guy in the future, say a hundred years from now. You’re hanging out next to the time-travel machine, bored, and one of your friends says, “Let’s go back in time.” You got nothing better to do, so you say, “What time should we go back to?” You scroll through history, looking for a fun time to check out. You see that a hundred years ago, in Baltimore, Maryland, some people had a Party for People from the Future. A party specifically for you! Wouldn’t you want to go?

  Herb:

  I guess I would.

  Kreplax:

  I figure if I advertise it well enough, kids from the future will find out about this party and get in their time-travel machines and come back—just for the party. It’s going to be hot, Herb. Super smokin’.

  Herb:

  I’ll do my darnedest to get there.

  Kreplax:

  And listen, people, this is important. There’s a big conspiracy at NASA. It’s all going to come out in a few years, but the sooner you know what’s going on, the better off you’ll be.

  Herb:

  Is this the cover-up of the lost UFO files?

  Kreplax:

  Bigger. When our astronauts landed on the moon in 1969, they found ruins.

  Herb:

  Ruins?

  Kreplax:

  Ruins, Herb. Ruins of an ancient civilization. We colonized the moon centuries ago! And there’s proof. The government forced the astronauts to keep quiet. But I’ve got a copy of the tape. You can hear the astronauts describing the ruins!

  Herb:

  Ruins on the moon? How—?

  Kreplax:

  It was the Egyptians, Herb! How many times do I have to say it? The Egyptians were way more sophisticated than we give them credit for. They had a lot of help from the Martians—the same Martians who built the pyramids. [Fairy music plays.]

  Herb:

  Interesting notion, Kreplax. Next caller, what do you think?

  Burt:

  Herb, I’ve been on hold for thirty-five minutes! I’ve been trying to get through!

  Herb:

  I’m sorry about that, but everybody has to wait their turn.

  Burt:

  You wanna know what I think about this Kreplax guy? I think it’s all bull—[bleep].

  Herb:

  Burt, you’ve been warned about language before. You’re banned from the show for the rest of the night. Next caller?

  Myrna:

  Myrna here. I think that Kreplax guy is on to something. Some nights when I look up at the moon, I swear I see the shadows of abandoned malls and such. Things sure have gone downhill since I was a little girl. For all I know they’ve been going downhill for centuries. Maybe everything was better in the olden days, when the spacemen built them pyramids and Elvis’s ancestors ruled the earth. Who knows?

  Herb:

  Who knows, indeed.

  Myrna:

  And I wanted to say something to Dottie. Dottie honey, we love you. We all get the blues sometimes, but you got to fight it. When I get the blues, I fight like crazy, and every once in a while I have a hot fudge sundae. That really does help.

  Herb:

  Good advice, Myrna.

  Myrna:

  I wrote a little poem I hope will cheer Dottie up. Can I read it, Herb?

  Herb:

  Be my guest.

  Myrna:

  Okay. Here goes:

  Late one lonely night I heard

  Miss Dottie has the blues.

  Think how lonesome YOU would feel

  If you were in her shoes.

  So all the Night Lights gather round

  To bring our Dottie cheer.

  Think of what would perk you up,

  Your grandchild, or a beer.

  Just reach out through your radio,

  Let Dottie know we’re here.

  Herb:

  Very nice, Myrna. Lovely.

  Myrna:

  If that doesn’t do it, I don’t know what will. [fairy music] Okay then. Nighty-night! Love ya, Herb! Love ya, Dottie!

  Herb:

  Nighty-night.

  Poor Dottie. All night long people called in to help her get rid of her blues. I wondered if it worked. Who knows, maybe the next morning she woke up feeling bright and happy as a three-year-old child.

  I didn’t call in. I didn’t know how to help Dottie. Jonah didn’t call in, either. I wondered what he was doing, what he was thinking, lying alone in his room in the dark. Maybe his father was lying in the dark too, in his room down the hall, blinking at the ceiling. Just like Jonah, and just like me.

  CHAPTER 7

  It was a stupid plan. I don’t know why we thought it would work; we certainly didn’t think it all the way through. But we had to try something.

  I made an appointment with Mr. Tate. I didn’t bother using a fake name; he’d never heard of me. I asked Mr. Tate’s secretary for his first appointment after lunch: one-thirty.

  Jonah and I cut out of school at lunchtime and drove downtown to the tall, old building where his father worked. Jonah waited in the hall while I walked into Mr. Tate’s office, forty-five minutes early, when I knew Mr. Tate would be out to lunch. His secretary sat at her desk, eating a salad out of a deli container.

  I was dressed for the occasion in a skirt and flats so it would look as if I really had business to discuss with a lawyer. Jonah and I had argued over which story to tell his father. Jonah preferred Option 1: I was terminally ill—or, even better, planning my own suicide—and wanted to make out my will; but I liked Option 2: I hated my parents and wanted to apply for emancipated minor status. We’d read about teen movie stars who became emancipated to keep their parents from controlling their careers and stealing their earnings. It sounded lovely and glamorous to me. If only I’d had any earnings, I would have tried the same thing.

  Jonah waited just outside the office door. Mr. Tate’s secretary had met him before, of course, and would recognize him. So we’d planned a signal: I’d knock twice on the outer office door to let him know when the coast was clear.

  The secretary put down her plastic fork and looked up at me. “May I help you?”

  “Hi, I have an appointment with Mr. Tate at one-thirty,” I said. “My name is Beatrice Szabo.”

  “You’re early,” the secretary said. “He’s not back from lunch yet. But you can sit over there and wait if you like.”

  “Thank you.” I sat on a couch in the little waiting area and picked up a Baltimore magazine. I pretended to flip through it for a few minutes. The secretary munched on her salad. Framed certificates and photos hung behind her on the wall: Thank You from the Boys and Girls Clubs of Baltimore, Big Brothers of America Contributor of the Year, Honorary Chairman of the Council of Independent Schools Scholarship Committee.

  I stood up and approached the secretary again. “I’m sorry to bother you, but may I use the ladies’ room?” I could be very polite when I needed to be.

  “Sure,” she said. “It’s just around the corner. Here’s the key.” She reached under her desk and handed me a wooden block with a W painted on it and a key attached.

  “Thank you,” I said. I took the key to the bathroom and opened the door. Inside were three stalls and three sinks. I took all the toilet paper out of each stall and dumped it in the garbage can. I covered the rolls with a few crumpled paper towels, in case anyone looked in the trash can and saw all the toilet paper and wondered what kind of lunatic had sabotaged the women’s bathroom. I felt bad about wasting so much paper, but it was necessary for the plan.

  I went back to the secretary’s desk and said, “I’m sorry to bother you again, but there’s no toilet paper in the bathroom.”

  “Really?” The secretary looked bewildered. “That’s funny—there was plenty this morning.”

  I shrugged and shook my head. “I don’t know, but there isn’t any now.”

  “Huh.” She stood
up and started toward the bathroom. I followed, giving the outer office door a couple of quick knocks on my way.

  The secretary took the key from me, and together we went into the bathroom. She checked all the stalls. “You’re right. I’ll get some toilet paper for you. Sorry about that.”

  “It’s okay,” I said. I stepped into the hall and watched her go to a supply closet next to the bathroom. I glanced toward the reception area, but couldn’t see anything. The plan was for Jonah to sneak into his father’s office while I kept the secretary busy. Once inside, he’d have half an hour or so to snoop around before his father came back from lunch. We hadn’t really figured out how we’d get him out of there yet. The rest of the plan involved a lot of finger crossing.

  The secretary loaded six rolls of toilet paper into her arms. I offered to help, and she handed two of them to me. We went back into the bathroom and put two rolls in each stall.

  “Thanks again,” I said.

  “You’re welcome,” the secretary said. She went back to her post.

  I peed and washed my hands. I felt nervous. Would I really have to face Jonah’s father and pretend I wanted to hire him to make me an emancipated minor? I was beginning to wonder if I could pull it off. Maybe I should just tell the secretary that I had to leave and would reschedule my appointment for another day.

  I walked back out to the reception area and smiled at the secretary. I sat down, picked up the Baltimore magazine, and glanced at Mr. Tate’s closed office door. Had Jonah made it inside?

  I checked my watch. Five to one. I really, really wanted to leave. But I couldn’t abandon Jonah. He might need me to distract the secretary again, so he could get out of the office before Mr. Tate came back.

  The outer office door opened and a tall, thin man walked in. His fine white hair circled a shiny bald spot. He wore a dark suit. His eyes were large and pale and looked just like Jonah’s, only waterier.

  My stomach knotted. This, I felt sure, was Mr. Tate, back from lunch, early.

  “Hello, Melanie,” he said to the secretary, who quickly stashed her salad container under her desk and wiped her mouth. Mr. Tate put a large plastic-wrapped brownie on her desk. “I thought you might like a treat.”

  “Thanks, Mr. Tate,” Melanie said. “I’m dieting.”

  “Don’t be silly,” he said. “A brownie every now and then can’t hurt.”

  “Yes, but you bring me one every day,” Melanie said.

  “Because I know you like them,” Mr. Tate said. “And you won’t buy one for yourself.”

  “That’s because I’m dieting,” Melanie said.

  “And I told you dieting is silly.” He started for his office.

  I stared at the smooth wooden door. Jonah was in that office doing God knows what, probably rifling through a secret file. Mr. Tate was about to catch him in the act of snooping. I had to stop him somehow.

  “Oh—Mr. Tate, your one-thirty is here,” Melanie said, gesturing toward me. I stood up.

  “Hello, Mr. Tate,” I said. “I’m Beatrice Szabo. I’m really looking forward to talking to you, but I was wondering if we could go downstairs and get a cup of coffee or something?”

  Mr. Tate eyed me suspiciously. As an estate lawyer, he probably didn’t have many (or any) seventeen-year-old clients. But he was polite. “Pleasure to meet you, Beatrice,” he said. “I’ve just had lunch, so I’d rather talk in my office if you don’t mind. I’m sure Melanie would be glad to get you a cup of coffee, if that’s what you want.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I’ll call for you when I’m ready.”

  “All right,” I said.

  He turned and started for the door. My pulse thrummed in my forehead. I had to stop him, I had to stop him, but I couldn’t stop him, I didn’t know how. I had no idea what to do. My brain emptied, useless as a rusty tin box.

  I watched helplessly as Mr. Tate opened the office door, stepped inside, and closed the door behind him.

  I stared at the door and waited for something to happen. Nothing happened.

  Melanie retrieved her salad container and stuffed a few last bites into her mouth before throwing it in the trash under her desk. She swallowed some diet soda and put that away too. “Want this brownie?” She held it out to me.

  “No, thanks,” I said.

  She sighed and unwrapped it. She picked at it with her fingers. “He gets me one every day, and every day I eat it. What else am I supposed to do?”

  I shrugged, gripping the magazine in my hands. I could not take my eyes from the door. Not a sound came from inside. I sat frozen, squeezing that magazine until it accordioned, for fifteen minutes.

  Jonah must not be in there, I thought. His father would have shouted or kicked him out or something by now. But if Jonah wasn’t on the other side of that door, where was he?

  At last Melanie’s intercom buzzed. “Please tell Miss Szabo that I can’t see her today,” Mr. Tate said. “Ask her to reschedule her appointment—if she sincerely wants to.”

  “Yes, sir.” Melanie looked at me across the reception area. “Sorry,” she said. “Would you like to reschedule?”

  “No, that’s okay.” I hopped up off the couch, dropped the crumpled magazine on the coffee table, and hurried toward the outer door. “Thanks, though.”

  I half expected to see Jonah crouched in the hallway, but he wasn’t there.

  He had to be in the office. Maybe he’d told his father about our trick. I was lucky to get off so easily.

  But now what? I took the elevator downstairs and stood outside the office building. I watched the business people hurry up and down the street—the khaki suits, the sensible pumps, the sweaty messengers. I waited for Jonah. I almost wished I smoked so I’d have something to do. It felt like a Barbara Stanwyck moment, a tense black-and-white scene from a film noir. She always had a cigarette ready for times like these.

  After another fifteen minutes, Jonah appeared beside me, looking shaken. “What happened?” I asked.

  “Nothing,” he said.

  “Did he catch you?”

  “Yes, he caught me,” Jonah said. “He found me digging through a file drawer.”

  “And—?”

  “And nothing.”

  “Something must have happened.”

  “Come on, let’s go back to school.” We walked to where we’d parked Gertie. The parking meter had run out, but luckily we didn’t have a ticket.

  “What happened?” I said. “I can’t believe you won’t tell me after I sat there and waited, all ready to pretend I wanted to be an emancipated minor—”

  “Get in the car.” He opened the door and sat in the driver’s seat. I got in and closed the door.

  “Did you find out anything about Matthew?” I asked.

  “No. And my father says I never will.”

  “He said that? What else did he say?”

  He started the car, and we drove up Charles Street back toward school. Jonah said he’d refused to leave the office until Mr. Tate told him where Matthew was. Mr. Tate said Jonah was wasting his time. Mr. Tate would never tell. For Jonah’s sake. He kept saying that: He was doing it for Jonah.

  Then the two of them sat and stared at each other for fifteen minutes without uttering a word.

  Finally, Mr. Tate stood up and opened the office door. “I have work to do,” he said. “Leave, or I’ll drag you out. I’ll ask Melanie to help if I need to.”

  “He wouldn’t really do that,” I told Jonah.

  “Of course he would,” Jonah said. “Haven’t you figured it out yet—he’ll do anything!”

  “So you left?”

  “I don’t want to be responsible for poor Melanie breaking a nail while dragging me out of my father’s office,” Jonah said. “Plus I knew you were probably wondering what the hell was going on.”

  “I was.”

  “Well, that’s what was going on. Nothing.”

  Jonah leaned on the gas, and we zoomed through the city. I was late for English, but
I didn’t care. Nothing seemed less important than being on time for English.

  “What are you going to do now?” I asked. “You’re not giving up, are you?”

  “No,” Jonah said. “I don’t know what to do next. But I’m not giving up.”

  OCTOBER

  CHAPTER 8

  Now that Jonah and I were officially friends, Anne Sweeney gave up trying to weave me into the social fabric. When I was with Jonah, everyone else in school seemed to drift away. He wasn’t very friendly to anyone but me, which didn’t help. Anne and AWAE and Tiza and Carter stopped asking me to sit with them at lunch. I preferred to sit with Jonah, anyway.

  I asked him for his cell phone number and email address so we could IM in the middle of the night and text during class like everybody else.

  “I don’t have a cell phone,” he said. “In my room I have a rotary phone from the sixties. It takes forever to dial, which keeps me from making impulsive calls.” We were sitting in the senior hall, leaning against our lockers with our legs sticking out. People walked by, stepping over our feet.