by Jim Stark
"Please do,” invited Michael.
"Well,” said Lilly, briefly casting her eyes sideways, as if to emphasize her awareness of potential complications, “her mental ... limitations don't seem to be a problem for her in that environment, which ... may say more about the others than it does about Julia."
Michael couldn't hide the microscopic signs of a smile. Lilly's trained eye caught the signal. “She's sort of a—uh—I suppose where I come from, we'd call her a tease ... like ... sexually,” she said. “But it's not my place to—"
"I know,” said Michael reassuringly. “It's ... okay."
Lilly instantly threw him her own version of a virtually suppressed smile, to express her appreciation, among other things. “I'm not sure there's much more I can add. I think she likes Big Wus more than me, so—"
"Big Wus?” repeated Michael.
"The dog,” said Lilly, this time allowing herself a less-controlled smile and an eye twinkle. “Their ... well, he seems to be sort of a clan mascot. I'll probably get to know Julia better as time goes by. Perhaps you and I can talk again ... some time,” she offered, carefully not mentioning where or when.
"I'd appreciate that,” said Michael. “In the meantime, I mentioned to my daughter Venice that you'd be dropping by on your way back from the lodge, and she asked if she could meet you. I know you're—uh—aware of the situation from when you met my son Randy on the plane, and I know you're not supposed to ... you know ... get too involved, but I'd take it as a personal kindness if you'd help me out on this."
"So she—uh—didn't respond favorably when Randy tried to talk her out of it?"
"She told Randy where he could stick his favorite putter,” said Michael, more with sadness than humor, “and she won't heed her mother ... or me ... at least on this item."
Lilly pretended to struggle with her decision. She sat pensively in the padded chair, chewing too deliberately on a cookie and looking off into the distance. She'd worn a navy blue blazer and a matching knee-length skirt for her meeting with Victor, and with her line of sight locked onto the top of the far wall—to assure Michael that she would miss noticing his glance—she crossed her legs a fraction too slowly, a fraction too expansively ... all due to my distraction, she said to herself. Being six feet tall intimidated men, as she knew all too well, but with that overall disadvantage came a rare asset—wraparound legs. “Sure ... I'll talk to her,” she said, leaving just enough time between the first two words to drop her gaze without catching him peeking.
"She's ... right outside,” said Michael. “Should I—?"
"I'll go myself,” said Lilly. She brushed a few granules of sugar from her blazer as she uncrossed her legs—elegantly and properly—and rose to go to the door. I wonder if he peeked again.
Jesus Christ she's tall, he felt.
I wish I'd spent more time figuring out how to play this game with Michael, she said to herself.
Don't even think it! Michael scolded himself as he forcibly peeled his eyes off her astonishingly thin ankles.
Think it, she wished as she pulled the door. “Hello, Venice,” she said at the open face that stared up at her. “I'm ... Lilly,” she said with as much of a friendly inflection as she figured a teenager would buy.
"Jeeze, how's the weather up there?” said Venice.
Lilly laughed. “Hey, being tall isn't all bad, you know. Come on in. We'll talk."
Venice came in, sat cross-legged on the floor between her dad and the tallest woman in the world, and snapped up a cookie. Lilly returned to her seat, crossing her legs exactly according to protocol and waiting for Venice to open things up.
"So ... talk,” said Michael to the twelve-year-old that was both the joy and the bane of his life. “I won't ... interfere."
"I met your brother Randy on the plane,” said Lilly. “He told me about ... that you wanted to live in Victor-E with your Aunt Julia. He told me he was going to talk to you about that."
Venice wiped her lips with the back of a hand and swallowed. “Jeeze, so my life gets discussed with strangers in the sky. You'd think I was still a baby, for Christ's—"
"He loves you,” said Lilly before Venice could finish. “He's just concerned that you might be making a big mistake, that's all. Maybe he's wrong about that, but—"
"He thinks life is about hitting little white balls into little cups,” snorted Venice as she went for another cookie. “I mean, jeeze!"
"Do you know why Evolution got started?” asked Lilly.
"Yeah,” said Venice, in a tone that implied that she was worried about perhaps having answered a trick question.
"You studied about the world recession ... of twenty fifteen to twenty nineteen ... a few years before you were born?"
"Yeah...?"
"And about how a lot of people just couldn't get by, financially?"
"Yeah...?"
"And how people started co-gardening and co-housing cooperatives to cope, and the Autocom plan to share cars and all that?"
"Yeah...?"
"And how a group of people—Steve Sutherland and Annette Blais and a few others—said in twenty fifteen that if they got together in a sort of a clan and shared everything, or I should say almost everything, they could live on about a third as much money as most of us Normals spend, and make ends meet, and actually save a lot of their money so they could retire earlier than other people and all that?"
"Yeah...?"
"Well, do you think they'd have done that if they didn't have to?"
"I dunno,” said Venice. “Maybe."
Lilly was getting eyes-down responses, cautious communication, words saturated with wary undertones. She uncrossed her legs—too carelessly again this time—and bent far forward, lowering her head to a level closer to the girl. “You know,” she said, earning full eye contact at last, “maybe you'll end up living in Evolution, and maybe you'll love it. Maybe it's just right for you. But these people live that way because they have to, not because they want to. If one of them wins a lottery or inherits a large amount of money, they move out, usually. You come from a wealthy family, Venice. You don't have to—"
"My Aunt Julia has tons of money, and she lives there."
"She's ... special,” said Lilly carefully. “She's—"
"I heard there's other kids from rich families that go into Evolution and stay there,” said Venice, in a shrill, rising voice. “I read there's some university professors and some doctors and even this one guy that won a Nobel Prize that lives there. What about them?"
"Well, that's quite true,” said Lilly, returning her torso to the full, upright position, “but there's also some poor people that wouldn't be caught dead living in a clan ... lots of them, actually. So—"
"But I just want to try it for a while,” whined Venice. “I'm twelve, and according to the law I can—"
"I'm going to tell you something really personal,” said Lilly intently, almost forcing Venice to wait this one out, bending forward again, for intimacy. “I decided not to have children a long time ago, when I was just a bit older than you are now. And do you know why?"
"No,” said Venice. “How would I—"
"I came from a really close family,” said Lilly, getting back on track. “I loved my dad a lot, and when he died, I realized that I wished I'd done a lot of things differently when he was alive. When I was just a baby, whenever I wanted something, I just cried, like all babies do. And when I was a kid ... you know, four or five ... I would just take stuff, and demand stuff, and usually get what I wanted, and I expected my parents to do everything for me, and I didn't see why I had to do anything for them. It's ... it's just ... normal. It's part of growing up. But before I got old enough to think about really giving back instead of always focusing on what I wanted, my father ... died.
"And I looked around at my friends ... and they were all the same as me. They were changing from little people who only thought about themselves into adults, who ... well, most of them, not all ... would think about what other peo
ple needed and wanted too. I know that living at Victor-E is what you really want now, but if you do that, the Netnews will all be talking about it because your family is so important, and it'll make life difficult for your mom and dad and ... and also for the company and—"
"How could it hurt the company?” Venice cut in.
"I'm sure you know that the WDA isn't exactly crazy about Evolution, and Whiteside Tech manufactures all the LieDecks in the world, or at least it has for the last nineteen years, and of course the WDA is the only customer for LieDecks, so ... I mean there's a connection there, eh? I'm not saying the WDA would—"
"Okay,” said Venice, “so go ahead about all that stuff you were saying about when you were a kid and your dad died and all that."
Lilly began to wonder if this pattern of changing the subject might be genetic, or was perhaps learned from her Aunt Julia ... or is just a real good example of the selfishness of youth.
"I don't know why schools don't teach kids this stuff, and get us to grow up a little faster, but eventually everybody has to learn to think about other people too, before they make the big decisions. It doesn't feel like it's fair, because we're all used to feeling ... well, whatever we feel, and that's that. But ... well, sometimes life isn't easy, or fair, and sometimes we have to at least agree to wait a while for the stuff we want. Nobody wants it to be that way, in their feelings, but ... well, that's the way it is. And I know you could legally go there without asking your parents for permission, at least to visit, but I don't think what the law says is the important thing here. What's important for you to realize is that what you want ... simply isn't the whole picture. There's ... lots of things that I want and can't have, even though I could have some of them if I ignored how that would affect other people. But I have to—"
"Like what?” demanded Venice.
"Like ... maybe I meet a man that I'm really attracted to, and I want to maybe go out to dinner with him and go dancing, but he's happily married and I'd probably mess up his life and hurt his wife and kids if I got what I wanted. That's happened to me before, but I—"
"And you never did it?” asked Venice in a way that presaged disbelief of any denial.
Lilly sat up again, almost too quickly, as if stunned, or perhaps hurt, and stared back at her young accuser. “I'm ... not perfect,” she said, “but I do try to think things through rather carefully, and I've found that when I'm not sure, it's always smart to wait a while ... let things evolve, let a little time pass, and then, when I am sure, I take a decision. I've avoided a lot of bad mistakes that way."
Venice grabbed another cookie and ate it, looking at the floor. Michael sat quietly, raising his eyebrows and pursing his lips for Lilly to see ... and understand. Lilly took a sip of her coffee and shrugged, hoping she'd hit a homer, or at least a single.
"Okay,” said Venice, as she stood up. “I'll wait a bit. Can we talk some more when I come out to visit Aunt Julia?"
"We certainly can,” said Lilly. “And you can face me on the Net any time at all. And ... Venice?"
"Yeah?” said the child, wondering what apocalyptic pronouncement required her actual name for an intro.
"I hardly know you yet,” said Lilly, “but I feel really proud of you for what you just did, what you just decided. I look forward to talking to you again."
"Yeah ... see ya,” said Venice as she twirled and headed for the door. Then she did a full-tilt about-face at the door, marched back and kissed her father on the cheek. Nary a word, just the kiss, and she was gone, the door closed.
"Well!” said Michael, his eyes filled with amazement. “Thanks!"
"You're entirely welcome,” said Lilly. “I'm real glad I could help,” she added, sliding an adjective in where an adverb belonged. “She's a good kid, Michael. You and Rebecca done good.” This time, the grammatical error was obviously intentional.
"Yeah,” he said, his eyes drifting off into the territory of private words and thoughts. “She's a good kid."
Chapter 24
SORRY
Monday, February 14, 2033—8:30 p.m.
"Enough, enough,” gasped Annette as she pushed on his wet shoulders.
Lars pulled out slowly, and gently, a startling counterpoint to the last twenty minutes or so. He was exhausted, in every sense of the word. As he tumbled onto his back, on the vacant side of the bed, he tried to will his young heart to decelerate. There was a box of Kleenex on the bedside table, and he used it to good effect, three or four wads, tossing the spent bundles in the general direction of the wastebasket.
"Thank you,” he said sincerely. “I've been wanting to have sex with you for ... jeeze, I can't remember like when I didn't want to.” He drew both his hands down his wet face, spreading perspiration around more than drying anything off, and tried to remember how many times she had begged for mercy ... or for more.
Annette was “enduring” her denouement, and she had no inclination to get into a “was-it-good-for-you” chat with this very temporary bed-buddy. “Want the fan on?” she asked, getting up to do it before he could answer ... not that he'd have the nerve to say “no” even if he felt that way.
As she stood up, Lars stared at her full body in the dim candlelight. She had changed a lot since the first time he saw her naked fifteen years ago, but that was okay. Big is beautiful too, and gray hair is pretty. He flexed his shoulder and arm muscles, and felt much like a man—a grown man. “So how come your—uh—breasts hurt like that?” he asked, carefully avoiding the “H” word, and all other unkosher acronyms for “hooters."
"Cysts,” she said, without explanation. “No big deal,” she added, in case he found himself wanting to explore that wrinkle like he'd just explored everything else. Annette moved the candle to the far end of the dresser and pushed the “hi” button. The fan wound up to cruising speed and began its slow, sensual sweep back and forth, fairly showering her chest with artificial wind. She leaned her hands on the dresser top and bent forward, letting the rush of relief penetrate the damp hairs on the top of her head. The candle was flickering from the margins of the disturbance, and Annette watched the light dance on her aching, shining breasts.
"If only the memories would bugger off,” she said quietly, not realizing right away that Lars wouldn't have any notion what she was referring to. “Of my—uh—upbringing,” she said. “I'm way past all that ‘sex-is-wrong’ bullshit in my mind, but I went through childhood and puberty with this unspoken warning hanging there, somewhere near my brain stem: ‘make whoopee, and you will roast in hell.’ It's like imprinting, with baby ducks. Do you know about imprinting and ducks, Lars?"
"Like—uh—they glom onto the first thing to come along, like a dog or a person, like it's their mom or something,” he said, seemingly as proud of his broad knowledge as he was oblivious to his juvenile syntax. He had got the answer right—something that didn't happen all that often in plumbing class—but as for the relevance of the question ... well, it was her fuss, not his. “So ... why?” he asked.
Why indeed? considered Annette as she moved sideways and blew out the flame that shone far too brightly on her inner self. “I just always feel so ... you know ... awkward,” she admitted as she felt around on the bed for the covers.
"Jeeze, not—uh—during!” said Lars, meaning it as a compliment.
Annette smiled into the darkness and sat back on the bed. She suddenly realized it was only a long-ago self, a much slimmer model with no stretch marks or love handles, that wanted to hide under a blanket even when there was no light on. She scratched the bottom of her left foot—her hand was in the neighborhood anyway—and flicked the sheet and the comforter to the bottom of the bed. “You're welcome,” she said as the fan passed across her again. “And ... thank you, too."
"So it bothers you that you and me are like from different generations?” asked the apprentice plumber and sometimes waiter. “I mean ... to me, you're my friend, eh? I always laugh when you yank my chain and joke around and all that. And I always looked up to
you, you know, for like running the show around here so good, eh? When I was, like, fourteen or so, I used to watch you in the pool, eh? I mean everybody was naked, but I couldn't take my eyes off of you. My buddies told me I was some kind of a pervert, eh, because you were ... you know ... like an adult, and I was like maybe ninety pounds or something, a small fry. But I couldn't help myself. I just stared you all up and down and then I'd run to the can all bent over, with a towel around me so's like nobody could see me with a hard-on and know where I was going and what I was gonna do, eh? I mean I was all hopped up, but like ... after, when I was ... you know ... done ... I'd think about how some day I was gonna be your real friend, even if you never let me ... you know ... make love with you. And I figured that if we did get to be real friends, then ... well, lots of real friends get to know each other, eh, I mean like we just did ... physically. Unless like there's a reason not to, I should say. I'm ... like I really am your friend, you know, and I'm gonna keep being your—"
"I know!” said Annette, much more emphatically than was necessary. “I know you don't carry the baggage that I've got about sex. I'm your friend too, Lars, I mean ... as much as two people can be real friends when one's twenty-two and the other one is ... a lot older. I guess I just ... kind of hope you won't..."
Lars wished she had left the candle burning, but it was her bedroom, and he liked the dark too, just not as much. “Won't what?” he asked.
Annette fell back from her sitting position and sighed, partly out of anger at herself. She wasn't judgmental ... not really ... not in her mind, anyway, and she knew the good people of Victor-E wouldn't even think of faulting her for having a fun romp with the best-built apprentice plumber in west Québec. But ... banished demons never lost their voices. They echoed across the mountain gorges of her psyche, like the lunatic Swiss with those ridiculously long alpenhorns, reminding her of their existence, even if she was forever out of range of their puny arsenal of weapons. Only yesterday, she had caught little Barry Lochlear out in the garage, masturbating Big Wus. “Stop that this instant!” she had screamed in horror. “Why should I?” he'd answered, without missing a stroke. “He likes it ... a lot.” She could not respond, and settled for a red-faced U-turn and an insincere “sorry.” Life without God is the only sensible way, but...