The Year’s Best Science Fiction: Fifth Annual Collection

by Gardner Dozois

  “It was me poured kerosene on your magazines,” she said. “I thawed all the meat out too.”

  “I know it,” said Uncle Ned. He didn’t turn around. A girl named Nicole blocked a goal.

  * * *

  Hitchhiking was a frightening experience. She felt alone and vulnerable on the interstate. Oral’s protective device was fastened securely about her waist. But what if it didn’t work? What if she’d used it up with Jimmy Gerder? A man who sold prosthetic devices picked her up almost at once. His name was Sebert Lewis and he offered to send her to modeling school in Lubbock. He had helped several girls begin promising careers. Many were now in national magazines.

  When Sebert stopped for gas, Maggie got out and ran. There were trucks everywhere. A chrome-black eighteen-wheeler city. They towered over Maggie on every side. In a moment she was lost. Some of the trucks were silent. Others rumbled deep and blinked red and yellow lights. There was no one about. She spotted a cafe through the dark. The drivers were likely all inside. It seemed like the middle of the night. French fries reached her on a light diesel breeze.

  “I don’t know what to do next!” she said aloud, determined not to cry. A big red truck stood by itself. A nice chrome bulldog on the front. It wouldn’t hurt to rest and maybe hide from Sebert Lewis. She wrapped her coat around her and used her suitcase for a pillow. In a moment she was asleep. Only a short time later, a face looked directly into hers.

  “Oh, Lord,” said Maggie, “don’t you dare do whatever it is you’re thinking.”

  “Little lady, I’m not thinking on anything at all,” the man said.

  “Well all right then. If you mean it.”

  He was big, about as big a man as Maggie had ever seen. Dark brown eyes nearly lost in a face like a kindly pie. “You better be glad I’m a bug on maintenance,” he said. “If I’d of took off you lyin’ there under the tire I’d a squashed you flatter’n a dog on the road to Amarillo. You got a name, have you?”

  “I’m Maggie McKenna from Marble Creek.”

  “You running away?”

  “I’m going to New York City to write plays.”

  “You got folks back home?”

  “My mother’s dead and my father disappeared under strange circumstances. I’m a high-school graduate and a member of the Sidewinderettes. They don’t take just everybody wants to get in. If you’re thinking about calling Uncle Ned you just forget it.”

  “Not my place to say what you ought to do. I’m Billy C. Mace. How’d you get to here?”

  “A man named Sebert Lewis picked me up. Said he’d put me through modeling school in Lubbock.”

  “Lord Jesus!” said Billy Mace. “Come on, get in. Nothing’s going to happen to you now.”

  * * *

  Riding in the cab of an eighteen-wheeler wasn’t anything at all like a ’72 Ford. You towered over the road and could see everything for miles. Cars got out of the way. Billy talked to other truckers on the road. His CB handle was Boomer Billy. He let Maggie talk to Black Buddy and Queen Louise and Stoker Fish. The truck seemed invulnerable. Nothing could possibly reach her. The road hummed miles below. There was even a place to sleep behind the driver. Billy guessed she was hungry, and before they left the stop he got cheeseburgers and onion rings to go. Billy kept plenty of Fritos and Hershey bars with almonds in the truck, and had Dr Peppers iced in a cooler. Maggie went to sleep listening to Waylon Jennings tapes. When she woke it was morning. Billy said they’d be in Tulsa in a minute.

  “I’ve never even been out of the state,” said Maggie. “And here I am already in Oklahoma.”

  Billy pulled into a truck stop for breakfast. And then to another for lunch. He measured the distance in meals. “Two-hundred miles to lunch,” he’d tell Maggie, or “a hundred-seventy to supper.”

  Maggie read him “Blue Sun Rising” while he drove.

  “I don’t know a lot about plays,” said Billy when she was through, “but I don’t see how that sucker can miss. That third act’s a doozie.”

  “It needs a little work.”

  “Not as I see it it don’t. You might want to rein in the Earth Mother symbolism a little, but that’s just a layman’s suggestion.”

  “You may be right,” said Maggie.

  She already knew Billy was well read. There was a shelf of books over the bunk. All the writers’ names were John. John Gunther. John Milton. John D. McDonald.

  “John’s my daddy’s name, God rest him,” said Billy. “A man named John tells you something you can take it for a fact.”

  She told him about Uncle Ned and Aunt Grace. She didn’t mention Oral Blue as they had not discussed the possibilities of extraterrestrial life. Billy was livid about her experience with Sebert Lewis.

  “Lord Jesus himself was looking after you,” he said. “No offense meant, but a girl pretty as you is just road bait, Maggie. That modeling studio thing is likely a front. I expect this Sebert’s a Red agent and into hard astrology on the side. Probably under deep cover for some time. I imagine there’s a network of such places spread right across the country. Sebert and his cohorts cruise the roads for candidates like yourself. Couple of days in a little room and you’re hopeless on drugs, ready to do unspeakable acts of every kind. There’s a possibility of dogs. You wake up in bed with some greaser with a beard gets military aid from this godless administration. That’s where your tax dollar goes. I don’t want to scare you but you come real close to a bad end.”

  “I guess I don’t know much do I?” said Maggie. “I feel awful dumb.”

  “You learn quick enough when you drive the big rigs. There’s things go on you wouldn’t believe. The Russians got the news media eatin’ out of their hands. I could give you names you’d recognize at once if I was to say ’em. There are biological agents in everything you eat. Those lines and numbers they got on the back of everything you buy? What that is is a code. If you’re not in the KGB or the Catholic Church you can’t read it. Don’t eat anything that’s got three sixes. That’s the sign of the beast. I wish to God I had control of my appetite. I can feel things jabbing away inside. White bread and tomatoes are pretty safe. And food isn’t the only way they got you. TV’s likely the worst. I can’t tell you the danger of watching the tube.”

  “I already know about that,” said Maggie.

  * * *

  Billy Mace had it all arranged. As good as any travel agent could do. He left her with a Choctaw driver named Henry Black Bear in St. Louis. Henry took her to Muncie, Indiana. Gave her over to a skeletal black man named Quincy Pride. Quincy’s CB handle was Ghost. He taught her the names of every Blues singer who had lived in New Orleans at any time. He played their tapes in order of appearance. At Pittsburgh she transferred to Tony D. Velotta, a handsome Italian with curly hair. Maggie thought he was the image of John Travolta.

  And then very early in the morning, she woke to the bright sun in her eyes and crawled down from the bunk and Tony pointed and said, “Hey, there it is, kid. We’re here.”

  Maggie could scarcely believe her eyes. The skyline exploded like needles in the sun. A lonely saxophone wailed offstage. She could see the trees blossom in Central Park. Smell the hotdogs cooking at the zoo. They were still in New Jersey, but they were close.

  “Lordy,” said Maggie, “it looks near as real as a movie.”

  As they sliced through upper Manhattan, Tony pointed out the sights. Not that there was an awful lot to see. He tried to explain the Bronx and Brooklyn and Queens, drawing a map with his finger on the dash. Maggie was thoroughly confused, and too excited to really care.

  “So what are you going to do now? Where you going to stay?”

  “I don’t know,” said Maggie. “I guess I’ll find a hotel or something.”

  “How much money you got, you don’t mind me asking?”

  “Eight dollars and thirty cents. Now I know that’s not a lot. I may have to look for work. It could take some time before I get my play produced.”

  “Holy Mother,” said Tony.
“You’d better stay with us.”

  “Now I couldn’t do that. I’ll be just fine.”

  “Right. For six, maybe eight minutes, tops.”

  * * *

  The Velottas lived in Brooklyn. It might as well have been Mars as far as Maggie was concerned. There were eight people in the family. Tony and his wife Carla and little Tony who was two. Tony’s father and mother, two younger brothers and a sister. They took in Maggie at once. They said she talked funny. They loved her. Carla gave her dresses. There was always plenty to eat. The Velottas had never heard of peanut butter. Maggie ate things called manicotti and veal piccata. Carla made spaghetti that didn’t come out of a can. Nothing was like it was at Aunt Grace’s and Uncle Ned’s. The family was constantly in motion. Talking and running from one end of the house to the other. Everyone yelled at each other and laughed. Maggie tasted wine for the first time. She’d never seen a wine bottle out of a paper sack. Everyone worked in the Velotta family bakery. Maggie helped out, carrying trays of pastry to the oven.

  Tony stayed a week and went back on the road. Maggie talked to Carla one evening after little Tony was in bed.

  “I’ve got to go see my producer,” she said. “You all have been wonderful to me but I can’t live off you forever. The sooner I get ‘Blue Sun Rising’ on Broadway the better.”

  “Yeah, right,” said Carla. She looked patient and resigned. The whole family conferred on directions. An intricate map was drawn. Likely locations of muggers and addicts were marked with an ‘x.’

  “Don’t talk to anyone,” said Tony’s mother. She crossed herself and gave Maggie a medal. “Especially don’t talk to blacks and Puerto Ricans. Or Jews or people with slanty eyes or turbans. No turbans! Avoid men with Nazi haircuts and blue eyes. Anyone with blue eyes.”

  “Watch out for men in business suits and ties,” said Papa Velotta. “They carry little black cases. Like women’s purses only flat. There’s supposed to be business inside but there’s not. It’s dope is what it is. Everybody knows what’s going on.”

  “Don’t talk to anyone on skates with orange hair,” said Carla.

  “A Baptist with funny eyes will give you a pamphlet,” said Papa. “Don’t take it. Watch out for white socks.”

  “I’ll try to remember everything,” said Maggie.

  “I’ll light a candle,” said Mama Velotta.

  Maggie called Marty Wilde, the Broadway producer. Wilde said she had a nice voice and he liked to encourage regional talent. He would see her at three that afternoon.

  “What’s the name of this play?” he wanted to know.

  “‘Blue Sun Rising,’” said Maggie.

  “Jesus, I like it. You don’t have an agent or anything do you?”

  “I just got in town,” said Maggie.

  “Good. I like to work with people direct.”

  * * *

  Her first impression was right. Manhattan was as real as any cop show she’d ever seen. It was all there. The sounds, the smells, the people of many lands. There was a picture show on nearly every block. Everything was the same, everything was different. The city changed before her eyes. A man lying in the street. A kid tying celery to a cat. A woman dressed like a magazine cover, getting out of a cab. She watched the woman a long time. Maybe she’ll come to see my play. Maggie thought. She looks like a woman who’d see a play.

  Marty Wilde had a small office in a tall building. The building was nice outside. Inside, the halls were narrow. There was bathroom tile on the floors. A girl with carrot hair said Mr. Wilde would see her, and knocked on the wall. Marty came out at once.

  “Maggie McKenna from Marble Creek, Texas,” he said. “That’s who you are. Maggie McKenna who wrote ‘Blue Sun Rising.’ Hey, get in here right now.”

  Marty ushered her in and offered a chair. The office was bigger than a closet and had faded brown pictures on the wall. Maggie realized these were Broadway greats, people she would likely meet later. There was very little light. The window looked out on a window. Black men in Kung Fu suits kicked at the air. There were piles of plays in the room. Plays spilling over tables and chairs and onto the floor. This sight left Maggie depressed. If there were that many plays in New York, they might never get around to “Blue Sun Rising.”

  Marty Wilde took her play and set it aside. He perched on the edge of his desk. “So tell me about Maggie McKenna. I can read an author like a page. I can see your play right on your face. A character sits down stage right. The phone rings. I can see that.”

  “That’s amazing,” said Maggie. Marty Wilde seemed worn to a nub. A turkey neck stuck out of his shirt. His eyes slept in little hammocks. “There’s not much to tell about me. I think my play’s good, Mr. Wilde. If it needs any changes I’m willing to do the work.”

  “Every play needs work. You take your Neil Simon or your Chekhov. A hit doesn’t jump out of the typewriter and hop up on the stage.”

  “No, I guess not.”

  “You better believe it. Who’s this guy give you my name?”

  “Harcourt Playce, he works on the San Angelo paper.”

  “Short little man with a club foot. Wears a Mexican peso on a chain. Sure I remember.”

  This didn’t sound like Mr. Playce but Maggie didn’t want to interrupt.

  “You say you haven’t got an agent.”

  “No, sir, I sure don’t.”

  “Let’s cut the sir stuff, Maggie. I’m older than you in years but there’s a spirit of youth pervades the stage. You’re a very pretty girl. How you fixed for cash?”

  “Not real good right now.”

  “My point exactly. Here’s what I suggest. It’s just an idea I’m throwing out. I take in a few writers on this scholarship thing which is hey, my way of paying Lady Broadway back in a small way. You stay at my place, we work together. I got a friend can give you good photo work. He’s affiliated with a national modeling chain. All semi-tasteful stuff. You’d know his name the minute I said it.”

  “You want to take my picture?”

  “Just an idea. Let’s get you settled in.”

  “This sounds a lot like girls and scientists, Mr. Wilde. I don’t see what it has to do with my play.”

  Marty came off the desk. “I want you to be comfortable with this.”

  “I’m not very comfortable right now.”

  “So let’s talk. Tell me what you’re feeling.”

  “You just talk from over there.”

  “You remind me a lot of Debra Winger. In a very classical sense.”

  “You remind me of someone, too.”

  “Jesus, what a sweet kid you are. We won’t try to push it. Just let it happen.” He took a step closer. A strange invisible force picked him up and hurled him against the wall. Pictures of near-greats shattered. Some crucial fault gave way in the stacks of plays. Acts and scenes spilled over Marty on the floor.

  “I think you broke something,” said Marty. “Where’d you learn that hold? You’re awful quick.”

  The girl with carrot hair came in.

  “Call somebody,” said Marty. “Get me on the couch.”

  “I don’t think we can work together,” said Maggie. “I’m real displeased with your behavior.”

  “I can see you don’t know shit about the theatre,” said Marty. “You can’t just waltz in here and expect to see your name in lights.”

  “You ought to be in jail. If you try to get in touch with me, I’ll press charges.”

  * * *

  Carla said she could stay as long as she wanted. There wasn’t any reason to go look for another place.

  “I’ve got to try it on my own,” said Maggie. “I believe in my play. I don’t believe everyone on Broadway’s like Marty Wilde.”

  Carla could see that she was determined. “It’s not easy to get work. Tony thinks a lot of you, Maggie. We all do. You’re family.”

  “Oh, Carla,” Maggie threw her arms around her. “You’re the very best family I ever had.”

  Carla persuaded her to
wait for the Sunday Times. Mama Velotta filled her up with food. “Eat now. You won’t get a chance to later.”

  * * *

  The room was on East 21st over an all-night Chinese restaurant. Maggie shared it with three girls named Jeannie, Eva, and Sherry. They all three worked for an insurance company. Maggie got a waitress job nights at the restaurant downstairs. There was just enough money to eat and pay the rent. She slept a few hours after work and took the play around days. No one wanted to see her. They asked her to mail copies and get an agent. Maggie cut down her meals to one a day, which allowed her to make a new copy of “Blue Sun Rising” every week. She even started a new play, using Sherry’s portable Smith Corona and the backs of paper placemats from the job. The play was “Diesel and Roses,” a psychological drama set in a truckstop cafe. Billy Mace was in it, and so was Henry Black Bear and Quincy Pride and Tony Velotta. Carla called. There was a postal money order from Marble Creek for $175 and a note.

  “It’s not good news,” said Carla.

  “Read it,” said Maggie.

  “‘Dying. Come home. Uncle Ned.’”

  “Oh, Lord.”

  “I’m real sorry, honey.”

  “It’s okay. We weren’t close.”

  The thing to do was take the money and eat and make some copies of “Blue Sun Rising.” And forget about Uncle Ned. Maggie couldn’t do it. Even Uncle Ned deserved to have family put him in the ground. “I’ll be back,” she told New York, and made arrangements to meet Carla and get the money.

  * * *

  The first thing she noticed was things had changed in the year she’d been away. Instead of the ’72 Ford, there was a late model Buick with a boat hitch on the back. Poking out of the garage was a Ranger fishing boat, an 18-footer with a big Merc outboard on the stern.

  “You better be dead or dying,” said Maggie.

  The living room looked like Sears and Western Auto had exploded. There was a brand new Sony and a VCR, and hit tapes like Gymnasts in Chains. The kitchen was a wildlife preserve. Maggie stood at the door but wouldn’t go in. Things moved around under plates. There were cartons of Hershey bars and chips. Canned Danish hams and foreign mustards. All over the house there were things still in boxes. Uncle Ned had dug tunnels through empty bottles and dirty books. There were new Hawaiian shirts. Hush Puppies in several different styles. A man appeared in one of the tunnels.