Dead Lines, A Novel of Life... After Death

by Greg Bear

  Only when you need to be, Peter said, still standing there, waiting. He would not send her away. She had been a lover, she was still a friend, and he did not know what she needed, much less what she wanted.

  You are the only man who was ever decent to me, Carla said, her lip quivering. I treated you so badly.

  Thats not how I remember it, Peter said.

  She faced him. It doesnt matter. It just doesnt matter anymore, but am I, like, a complete hag?

  You're gorgeous. You know it, Peter said.

  I feel like a bag of trash left out by the curb, she said. I try not to be a down chick, she added after a swallowed sob, and the world just hammers and hammers. Spoken softly and reasonably. Hands by her sides. Color gone from her face.

  That made him jump. He did not like colorless faces.

  Tea, Peter announced.

  What?

  You need some hot tea.

  Her sad, stern look melted and she wiped her cheeks with her finger. No mascara streaks, thank you, Lord. Oh, yes, she said. And chocolate. Do you have chocolate?

  Godivas good enough?

  She looked up, delighted, more like a little girl than ever. Really? You have Godivas?

  Tea, the best chocolate, and sympathy.

  Oh, Peter. She tried to grin wickedly. I am a chocolate vampire, and you are my victim. You are the one. Then the tears started all over again. Peter put his arm around her shoulders and led her into the kitchen.

  I keep them locked up, he said. The maid sneaks them.

  IT WAS OBVIOUS Carla did not want sex, and Peter quickly discovered that despite initial yearnings, he was far too tired to care. He was just glad for company. She took a BlackBerry from her purseessential equipment for actors hoping for agent calls or e-mailsand turned off the phone part, removed her clothes in the bathroom, put on one of his old shirtssomething that he usually found extremely stimulating in a womanand lay down beside him with an expression that drew the last of the blood from his erection. She looked utterly and fatally lost.

  Peter snuggled against her.

  No sex, she reminded him.

  Of course.

  But hug me, she said. He did.

  I never learn, she said a few minutes later, just as he was starting to nod off. The red letters of the clock said it was four in the morning. He could tell even with her back to him that she had her eyes wide open.

  Can we talk later? Peter asked. Ive had a very long day.

  Uh-huh, she said.

  HE CAME WIDE-AWAKE at nine and lay beside Carlas dark, snoring form. She had rolled herself up like a sheet sausage, stealing most of the covers. In boxers and T-shirt, Peter slipped out of bed and strolled into the kitchen, bending and straining one arm to scratch between his shoulder blades. He put a kettle on the stove and inspected the refrigerator. There were five eggs. He smelled the open package of bacon, plastic streaked white with cold grease; still good. Milk not fresh but drinkable. The cream in it's smaller carton had become a cheesy mass. Two apples, jam, some bread that would toast up nicely once he scraped off a little mold. Good enough for a surprise breakfast, he thought.

  He stared at the stove, bits of carbon sintered into the stainless steel but otherwise clean. A clean bachelor stove. Something chimed lightly and far away, not the Soleri bell. He puzzled over what it could be, then remembered the Trans in his coat pocket.

  What with finding the coatdraped over the purple chairand fumbling out the unit, he flipped the case open by the seventh ring. Peter here. He was half-expecting Michelle or perhaps Weinstein.

  Hey, Peter, it's Hank! Thought Id give you a call, or whatever. This Trans thing sounds great. You're as clear as a bell.

  Yeah, you, too, Peter said, glad to hear another male voice. Hows Prague?

  Wet. Whole city is up to it's ass in filthy water. Six productions have been flooded out, including ours. But were back to work tomorrow. I strung big lights in the hotel dining room and hooked them to the company generator. We sang songs and drank coffee and beer all night. It was like the Sahara in there, the lights were so hot. Hotel porters came in to dry out. Everyone cheered right up.

  Sounds great, Peter said. He added some gray to his tone. Phils wake went okay. Lydia was there.

  Ah, Hank said.

  I spread Phils ashes on the beach at Point Reyes.

  He would have liked that.

  Yeah. Still might have some under my fingernails. Want me to save you a speck?

  Hank laughed nervously. Id prefer Phil as a diamond, you know, all squeezed down. They do that.

  Yeah, well, he was a gem, all right.

  When I was a kid, Hank said, I heard the word cremation and thought it meant they turned you into cream.

  Peter groaned. Thats awful, he said. Carla is here now. She ran into another one of her agents.

  Did you give her Godivas?

  And tea. She's asleep. I'm fixing her breakfast. It's good to hear your voice. Good to know someones working.

  When the water level drops, I'llbe working. Right now, I'm sitting in a hotel room reading a stack of Asterix I borrowed from an Italian stand-in.

  Phil had once owned every single issue of Asterix, in French and in English. They might still be in boxes in the house, Peter thought. I might have a job myself, he said. Doing commercials and promos for Trans.

  Thats great! Money or credit?

  Money, they say. I'm so out, I'm back in.

  Hey, when you're not hot, you're cool. Everyone here has a Trans, Hank said. They must have saturated LA, because I swear, the entire crew is carrying them around. I fit right in. Even Bishop has one. He calls his wife every day, tells her to send him dry socks.

  Sounds like an adventure. I envy you.

  Yeah, well, envy me after I run my cables through a puddle and fry the DP. He's a right bastard, a real chiaroscuro type. He's running all of us hard around corners. I won't have any tread left in a week.

  Peter could pick up the expressions a crew invented during a shoot. Films were little wars and every crew had it's catch-phrases and scars and campaign medals.

  But hey, Pragues great. No ghosts, though. Were all very disappointed.

  Give it time, Peter said, not so lightly.

  Right

  Then, abruptly, a burst of harsh cricket chirps ended the call.

  Hank?

  No answer. The connection was gone.

  Peter heard the deeper silence and pulled the unit back from his head. Nothings perfect, he muttered, and listened to Carla moving around in the bedroom. He folded the unit and placed it on the dining table.

  Breakfast for sleeping beauty, he shouted to her. Coffee with no cream, bacon, and scrambled eggs.

  Carla came out still wearing his old Pendleton. Man, did I dream, she said.

  Sit, eat, Peter invited. She surveyed the table with sad, wise eyes.

  You are the best, she said.

  Tell me something I don't know, Peter said.

  SHE MOVED AND sat slowly, as if walking through mud. Peter recognized the symptoms well enough.

  Why so low? he asked, sitting across the table to give her room to make her own decisions, in her own time.

  I am such a fuckup, she said, placing both hands on the table. She was still astonishingly beautiful, though not in a credit-card commercial way.

  Shh, Peter said. You're taking the sacred name of sex in vain.

  She shook her head like a toy whose action was winding down. I am forty-two years old. Never married. No career. I sleep around sometimes and from what Ive learned, there isnt a man in town who won't fuck me, and not one willing to stick around for more than a week.

  I did.

  I was younger then, and I was working for you, Carla said, facing him with a soft frown. Her eyebrows swept gently but with determination over dark blue eyes to a high but not too assertive forehead. Those brows still feathered at their ends like a girls, untouched by makeup. Peter watched her face with professional appreciation, automatically checking
how he would light it, where he would set up diffusers and umbrella, where he would place the baby spots to accent. Beneath the Pendleton, she wore no underwear; that was good. No red lines and dimples from bra hooks to smooth. And it was morning; her tummy would still be flat from lying vertically for so many hours. By mid-afternoon, one had to change the lighting and adjust angles carefully to minimize the sagging effects of gravity.

  It's so awful, Peter, Carla said, and abruptly lifted her hands to cover her face, not to cry, but to hide. I don't want to have ever been in this business.

  It was good for a time, Peter said.

  It's a dead end.

  Not for some.

  For you and for me, it is.

  Oh, Peter said. Well.

  I wasnt good enough, long enough, Carla said.

  You just need to find a better class of fellow. Play hard to get. You're a knockout.

  This brought her hands down. I'm honest, she said. I trust men and I like them. Is there something wrong with that? I had a wonderful father, and that spoiled me.

  Peter had not heard this angle before. He smiled.

  I just never know what to expect from men, Carla finished.

  I never treated you badly, Peter said. Before she could disagree, he added, Eggs are getting cold.

  Carla took a bite. Some of the sadness and anger went away with the taste of food. She sipped from her cup and made a face. Mr. Coffee, she said. Maxwell House.

  Folgers. I'm not a rich guy, Carla.

  I prefer Kona coffee or espresso.

  So do I.

  They sat in silence for a moment while she finished her eggs and started on the bacon strips. The thing about Carla, Peter knew, was that her sadness, even when it was deep, never lasted for more than a few hours. She was naturally sunny.

  I had some weird dreams last night, Carla said, raising her eyes to the kitchen window, mouth full.

  Oh?

  She finished chewing. I dreamed somebody like you was horny and had been dreaming about girls and sex and when you woke up, they just hung off of you, like old, naked balloons.

  Peter made a disgusted face. That is truly . . . He could not find the word.

  That isnt all. The books in your shelves were shedding limp white sacks. I looked around and there were like these sacks hanging off them, like condoms, or you know, like when a spoon pulls up the skin on hot milk.

  Gaah, Peter said, and got up to put the dishes in the sink. Carla had never shown a creative or surreal talent before. He found the images disturbing; he could imagine them very clearly.

  He scrubbed a pan for a while, feeling her eyes on his back.

  It was so real, Carla said. Her thoughtful look returned. You were getting up to go to the bathroom. I rolled over in bed and watched. You dragged these deflating women after you, and something dark swooped down and ate them, just like that. Picked them off of you. You didnt even notice. God, I remember it so clearly now. Wasnt that a weird dream?

  Peter had gotten up twice to go to the bathroom. Lying next to Carla without moving had not been easy, but he could not remember dreaming about sex.

  It's why you don't remember most dreams. They get eaten, like Lydias cast-off emotions.

  Peter jumped as if stung by a wasp.

  Carla jerked in sympathy. Whats wrong? she asked.

  Nothing, Peter said and turned to look down at the scrapings in the sink, trimmed edges of crisp egg white. He poked it all down the drain and reached to switch on the disposal.

  Damn, Ive turned you off, Carla said when the grinding ended. Isnt that just my luck.

  Peter rinsed his hands. He was not turned off. Of all things, behind the numb expectancy of more weirdness to come, he was even hornier than he had been before.

  Carla sidled up behind him.

  May I? she said, and took his shoulders and turned him around. I need a good guy, just to balance things. Lets get sacred, Peter.

  As they made love, Peter could not help thinking that what he had, whatever he had, was contagious. It didnt matter. Everything was so frantic and sharp through his entire body, he felt as if he were sixteen again and could go all day long. He had been without a woman for six months. Peter Russell, without a woman. For six months. He had not gone without sex for that long since he had lost his virginity.

  That was it, really; that explained it all.

  CHAPTER 19

  THE WIND CHIMES sang below the bedroom window, waking him from a doze. He looked at the red letters on the bedside clock. It was two in the afternoon. He felt totally refreshed.

  Everything began from this point. Sex had always made him feel that way. Looking down on a naked woman had always filled him with a sense of wonder; privilege and lust and something that stood a little further aside, telling him of his value. Peter measured himself by the joy of his women.

  He rolled over.

  Carla sat up in bed. She sighed and smiled. Her smile revealed a little more tooth and gum on the right side, and that made her extraordinarily beautiful. Is it true, a woman once asked you to come over to her house and teach some teenage boys about oral sex? she asked.

  Yeah.

  Amazing.

  That was in the sixties, Peter said.

  Still, it's pretty gutsy. Did she have, like, permission slips from the parents?

  Peter pushed his pillow up beside hers. I don't know, he said. She thought it was her civic duty. Teaching young men to keep their women happy would help them stay married.

  Carla watched him. I need someone to keep me happy, and it will never be you. Though you do cheer me up.

  Thank you. I think. You cheer me, too.

  I was afraid, from the look in your face, when I told you

  Peter twisted and pressed a finger lightly against her lips. Carla did tend to spoil good moments with chatter. A minor flaw, but he was enjoying this new beginning too much.

  She nibbled the tip of his finger. I bet you taught them well. But, how did you, I meanshow them?

  Flash cards, Peter said, making a broad sweeping gesture. Anatomical charts. I wore a cap and gown. He swung a stiff arm, pulled down an imaginary map, and pointed out the highlights. Labia, vulva, clitoris, fetching water by the high road, swinging donkey by his ears, bringing honey home for tea. He pantomimed with nimble fingers, then reached to demonstrate. Carla looked shocked and squirmed out of reach with a giggle.

  Peter raised his head. It was years before every porno film in Christendom showed young people how to give head.

  Did the boys get married and stay married?

  I don't know, he said.

  I feel so much better, Carla said. Thank you so much. And now I have to go. She got out of bed and picked her clothes from the top of the hamper, where she had left them the morning before. She regarded him intently as she slipped on her black fishnet hose. Hush, she said.

  What?

  You're thinking too loud.

  Your legs are too long.

  She put on her blouse, then her skirt, zipping it up the front, rotating it, and finishing the zip. Arching one knee, she pushed her feet into the black high-heel pumps, then angled her elbow, giving him a coy three-quarters glance and running fingers through her long black hair.

  Peter smiled.

  Well? she said.

  Come back to bed, he said.

  You couldn't, and I shouldn't, Carla said, smiling sweetly. She blew him a kiss. Say good-bye in here, she instructed primly as she walked through the bedroom door.

  In the living room, sun poured through the big window onto the back of the couch and made a yellow wedge across the floor. Carla stood by the front door. He went to her in his robe and leaned forward to kiss her with equal primness.

  I would still like my glossy, she told him, all business now. I'm out of copies.

  Boyfriends? Peter asked.

  She made a face. Agents and filchers. Some were boyfriends. Isnt that perverse, taking souvenirs?

  I guess, Peter said.

  Carl
a unlocked the door and opened it. Peter heard another womans footsteps. Sorry, Carla said, stepping back.

  Helen came through the door and swept the room with her eyes, swept up Peter in his robe, swept Carla up and down the whole length of her. She smiled and did not look in the least upset.

  It's been a long time, hasnt it, Peter? Helen said as Carla murmured something and backed through the door. Don't run away mad in the heat of the day! Helen called out after her. Then, closing the door, she took a breath and added, Just run away.

  HELEN SEEMED TO be enjoying his discomfort. She sat on the couch with her arms slung back and contemplated Peter, with his hands stuck deep in the pockets of his robe, standing in the middle of the living room.

  Still no beer? she asked.

  Still, Peter said. Wheres Lindsey?

  In school, dope, she said. But tonights the night. I very much need your services. I'llbe bringing Lindsey over about nine. This could be the one, Peter.

  New guy?

  Ive been seeing him off and on for a year. Weve cleared away some blockages, he's needy . . . Tonight, he might even carry a little velvet box.

  Congratulations. Good luck, Peter said.

  You'll be here?

  Helen, I havent seen my daughter in months. Id love to have her stay over.

  Because sometimes I never know.

  I'llbe here.

  You won't be off at Salammbo running errands for Michelle and Joseph?

  Helen was convinced there was something between Peter and Michelle, that he was betraying his aging boss. She had met Michelle once, three years ago, and had been instantly suspicious. But then, Helen had been suspicious of every woman in Peters sightlines.

  Yet she had been the one to cheat and walk out in the darkest hour of their lives. Not without excuses, of course. Madness and grief had taken their toll.

  Not tonight. I have work to do here. Will she need dinner?

  I'llfeed her first.

  I'llbe here, Peter said, gritting his teeth.

  A little old for you, don't you think? Helen asked, pointing her nose at the door. Pretty, though. Whats her name? Is she a model?