Vessna, in her high chair, had already been sensing the discomfort around the table, and the sudden sound made by George’s fork startled her into expressing it. She began to cry.
“All right, that’s it,” George announced. “This has become preposterous.” He folded his arms and leaned back in his chair, patriarch surveying his domain, as Susan got up, lifted Vessna into her arms, and tried to soothe the baby. When the baby’s cries at last turned to whimpers, soft enough to speak over, George spoke.
“You know, I put both my hearts into this meal. Tonight I felt the need of a reminder that we were proud of who we were, of each other. A traditional Tenctonese affirmation of life. If my timing is so off that it doesn’t warrant some appreciation, even a simple thank-you, I suppose I can live with that—but to behave as if it’s a job to be here . . . that’s a bit much to take.
“Now, how was everybody’s day . . . really? We may not be the ideal family, but I thought at least we knew how to talk.”
The sentiment was too compelling, too true, not to be dealt with.
“Some things aren’t that easy to talk about, Dad,” Emily said, at length.
“Susan?”
“I’m not even sure how to talk about it.”
More gently, George suggested, “You ramble until you find your way.”
And then Susan blurted, “They stepped all over my work, George. Distorted it to the point where it’s not even mine—worse still, to where it makes fun of us.” As she tended to Vessna—quieting her, continuing her feeding, wiping her little mouth—Susan told the story of her meeting at the ad agency. She finished by saying, “And I feel as if I’ve sold my soul against my will. I agreed before I knew what was happening. And now I feel as if the train’s already left the station.”
In the silence after, Emily blurted in turn, “They hated my work, too.” Her story about the gym club and how her friends had reacted to her came out haltingly, in contradistinction to Susan’s heated frustration. Emily knew the truth of her tale—that her ego and expectations had been unrealistic, unfair—but she had difficulty confronting those issues head-on; so her narrative was clumsy, prone to backtracking over itself, emerging in uncomfortable pieces. But emerge it eventually did. “And I don’t know what to do about it,” Emily concluded.
George got up from his chair, walked to the sink, stood over it a while. He started speaking while looking out the window over the sink into the backyard.
“On the one hand,” he said softly at first, “we should never forget who we are. On the other . . . they will never let us. Maybe . . . maybe there are some situations—some—in which no clear answer is at hand.”
He turned, his voice rising. “But you two, you should know better. When it’s their choice—that is when you have to defend yourself. When it’s your choice—that is when you have to understand the other side.
“Susan, your job is important to you, to all of us, but it shouldn’t be kept at the expense of your self-worth. Do you think I, or anyone else here, would think less of you for losing it if it meant you could live with yourself? You’ll have to decide how far you’re willing to compromise, but you have more power than you think. At any point, you can stop that train!
“And Emily, you should cherish and display your Tenctonese heritage and abilities, but not at the expense of your friends’ self-worth. That kind of pride is only racism in reverse. I know it doesn’t look like it, sound like it or feel like it to you, because I know you don’t think in those terms, but every now and again you have to think in terms of how other people are perceiving you. Until our people are truly assimilated, until there is a formula for balance, everything you do sends a message. You must take the responsibility for it!”
He was reflexively free-associating, of course, to his outrage at that woman, because the issues were intertwined. Which, naturally, made him angry again; and just as he hadn’t been able to tell quite when the anger had left him earlier, he wasn’t quite sure how it had crept back in now. He only knew that it must have been fierce, fiercer than he’d imagined, for the aftermath of his speech was met with a deathly silence. Even from Vessna. Emily and Susan were regarding him with something like fear.
Buck’s expression registered a rather milder surprise—if he hadn’t known better, George might have labeled it a bemused detachment—that made him bolder, unafraid to speak. Buck, however, spoke cautiously, like one unwilling to shout at a snow-capped mountain, lest one bring down an avalanche upon one’s smooth, spotted pate.
“And what kind of day have you had?”
“Fruitful!” George snapped. Then he exhaled heavily through his nose. Seeing at last that he had been no better than Emily and Susan, conflicted about his feelings and hiding them from the family. The girls had hidden behind silence. He had hidden behind food and a pretext of family ritual. The real family ritual, though, was the one that had just occurred, that he himself had set in motion: the open sharing of problems and feelings, the willingness to submit them for discussion.
“Fruitful,” George said again, in a more reasonable tone. “But not good.”
He told the story of Fran Delaney, a.k.a. Fancy Delancey, noting the different expressions on the faces of his listeners. Emily became increasingly rapt, as if being told a whoppingly interesting, brilliantly plotted intrigue. Susan had her mouth open; every now and again, throughout the narrative, her hand went to her chest, above one or the other of her hearts. The story, George thought as he told it, must have been doubly shocking for her—after all, she’d been at the theatre the night before, she had seen Fran Delaney’s performance, had admired it greatly along with everyone else in that audience. Had been fooled right along with everyone else in that audience.
Buck’s expression, no longer bemused, was harder to fathom. It kept changing in subtle ways George was unable to interpret.
No matter. Buck, ironically, had been the most even-minded member of the family tonight. He’d express his thoughts soon enough. Probably very soon indeed, for George was winding up.
“. . . and so I came home hoping to lose myself in an activity that might reinforce my own grip on who I am—who we are—and how we’re supposed to function on this planet. I am sorry to have shouted at you all, it was really not directed at you. I am frustrated by Matthew, for I do not think he is capable of understanding. I am bewildered at Cathy, for I am not capable of understanding the enormous sacrifice she is willing to make for one so eager to turn her back on her heritage.”
“Saving a life, isn’t she?” Buck offered.
“A life barely worth saving,” George snorted heatedly. “A life that deserves whatever befalls it.”
“Emily, your father doesn’t mean that!” Susan said quickly.
“Susan, don’t tell the child what I—”
“—Yo, Dad,” Buck interrupted. “We’re being a little . . . fascist here, aren’t we?”
“Fascist? How dare you accuse me of that, Buck, you know—”
And now Buck rose, his composure cracked and his temper flaring.
“—What I know is that you’re very smart about giving good advice to everybody else, but you have no perspective on your own problems. Gods, Dad, you’re the biggest advertisement for Getting Along with the Man I know! You dress in their suits, you protect their laws, you live like they live, and you never make waves! And all of a sudden you’re hot under the collar about some babe who’s taken all that to the next logical extreme? How the hell can you deem her life worthless, whether she’s right or not?”
“Buck, it was only an opinion, not—”
“Those are the kinds of opinions that breed fascism, Dad.” George was fleetingly reminded of having hurled a similar accusation at Matthew not two hours before, but only fleetingly, because Buck was not finished.
“You know what I think, Dad? I think that actress punched your button, I think she reminds you of you, and you can’t take it!”
“That is not true!”
“Isn
’t it? You don’t have the ability to detach, Dad. You can’t abstract yourself from your own cycles of behavior long enough, just long enough to see what’s going on!” Then he expanded his attack to include his entire family. “None of you can! And that’s why—”
Buck stopped. Cut himself short. Whap.
Maybe, George thought, I’m not as objective as I like to think. But I can certainly tell this much. There is something lots bigger going on in my boy’s head than the purview of this discussion.
“Why what, son?” he asked softly.
Buck shifted his stance uneasily. At length he said, “Why I have to be alone for a while.”
Buck turned to leave, and as he hit the kitchen doorway, George said, “Buck.”
Buck stopped. Didn’t turn, but stopped.
“You’re free to discuss what troubles you, too, you know. I won’t tell you wisdom is always at my command—but between all of us there should be something of value. And it’s here whenever you want it.”
Not looking back, Buck said, “I know that, Dad. Thanks.”
And then he left the kitchen for the sanctuary of his RV.
There didn’t seem to be useful words left after that. Looking at the rest of his family, George spread his hands slightly, dropped them to his sides, where they slapped audibly against his thighs, and returned to his seat at the table.
The rest of the meal was silent, save for basic amenities, but at least now there was some genuine eating going on. As if releasing dilemmas into the air had released hunger. Susan polished off a large portion, pausing every now and then to spoon-feed puree to Vessna, who stayed on her lap. And Emily went for seconds.
George ate methodically, thoughtfully.
Thinking about what Buck had said.
Thinking about what Matthew had said.
Unable to reach any satisfying conclusion.
Chewing over his own thoughts as he chewed his food.
Both having become quite filling—and rather tasteless.
D A Y T H R E E
C H A P T E R 1 2
MORNING. DAY SHIFT.
Albert Einstein belched his way through the police station’s equipment room to get them what they wanted, the electronic gear they’d need to pull off their sting on the bogus Stabilite dealer. As he collected the individual pieces, he placed them in a special, padded carrying case.
“Here you go, Detective Sikes—uurrrrrrppp!—George.”
They signed for the radio-controlled devices and he handed the case over to Matt, who slung its strap over his shoulder.
Being in charge of nonweapon material was a new responsibility for Albert, one that he shared with several khaki officers, and he took the job seriously, very much a stickler for procedure. He filed away the release forms with the corresponding authorization signed by Grazer. Next, he reached for a seltzer bottle he carried on his utility belt, and swigged a little, throwing his head back, putting into relief the very pregnant shape of his midriff. After which he winced, as if in pain.
“You okay, Albert?” Matt asked.
“Oh, yes, thanks to George’s remedy. Sort of.”
“Sort of?” George said.
Albert sighed. “May won’t let me stop drinking carbonated water for the next week. The doctor said that three days would be sufficient to recreate a chemical balance in my system . . . but May’s a—uuuuuurrp!—worrier. She doesn’t want a repeat of yesterday.”
“Look at it this way,” Matt offered. “There’s guys’d think it’s pretty cool to be able to belch continuously and not worry about what anyone thought of ’em. It’s purely medicinal, it’s amusingly gross. Everyone here is in on the gag. What’s not to like? Enjoy!”
“Oh, I do not worry about my manners appearing uncouth,” Albert said. “It’s just that . . . between the weight of the pod and all this water . . . forgive me for being indelicate, but—”
“You always have to pee,” Matt guessed.
Albert nodded morosely.
“I can’t perform any activity for more than six or seven minutes. I can’t concentrate on a book or a TV show. I can’t even sit still for a meal. All I can do is feel—uuurrrppp-pup-pup—pretty much the way I feel now. Excuse me.”
He started to waddle off in extreme discomfort.
“Albert,” George called after him. “Tell May from me that she needn’t be so excessive. A little release of carbon dioxide will go a long way. There’s no reason to go overboard.”
Albert’s hands went reflexively to his crotch.
“ ‘Overboard’ is a very bad word to use right now, George. But I’ll tell her. Urrrrrrpppp! Oh, I’ll be only too happy to tell her. Urp.” And he continued on his quest for porcelain.
Matt turned to George.
“And how are you feeling?”
They had, in the normal course of things, greeted each other upon meeting at their adjoining desks nearly a half hour before—hellos and nods and amenities of on-duty procedure—but it wasn’t until right now that conversation, real conversation, found its way back into their relationship.
“What do you mean?” asked George, knowing full well.
Matt shrugged. “Seems to me we both went a little overboard yesterday before we parted company.”
There was affection for his partner in the half smile that came to George’s face. “Oh, I don’t know, Matthew. A little stimulating debate is good for one.”
“It is, huh?”
“I believe so, yes.”
“So?”
“So. How do I feel,” George repeated. And thought about it because he did not immediately have the answer. “Not as smart as I thought,” he concluded finally.
Matt, hearing the answer, became aware of the weight of the paperback he had fitted neatly into the inside breast pocket of his jacket.
“Funny you should say that, partner,” he said.
More than just Sikes and Francisco were in on this now. Given the introduction of hard evidence into the case, stopping the spread of bad Stabilite had become an official Operation, whose active personnel would increase as—and if—the investigation progressed.
The first extra hand to be involved would be Bob Sled, the little druggist, himself. Some quick negotiating and plea bargaining between his public defender and the district attorney’s office yesterday had created a “mutually satisfactory climate” in which he would work with the police to identify the Stabilite dealer in the act of making a transaction.
He was receiving his official briefing from George Francisco in the back room of See Gurd Nurras on what was very likely its last official day of doing business—under the current management, at any rate.
George handed him a palm-size black box, upon which was a little red switch.
“When your contact comes in,” George said, “reach into your pocket and slide the red switch up, Then conduct business as usual.”
“And that’s it?” asked Bob Sled.
“And that’s it.”
“Hey-hoo, pretty easy.”
George thought it best not to comment that they’d kept it easy because they didn’t trust him. Not that there was any more illegal activity he could get away with, but Matt had had the suspicion—and George had to agree—that Bob Sled was a panicker. He was too sweaty under pressure. Probably exhibit so many involuntary tics when the sting was on that he’d give away the game. So to minimize the pressure, he was given only one simple thing to do: Flip a switch to send the alert that the dealer had arrived. Matt and George had decided to let him think that was the depth and breadth of it.
And they didn’t tell him the rest.
They didn’t tell him about the microcamera and its built-in microphone in the scalp conditioner box, with a wide-angle view of the counter.
They didn’t tell him that it was battery powered and remote controlled and would be activated by his flipping the red switch.
They didn’t tell him that his most docile customer that day—a lazily browsing young man in a tank
top, grooving mindlessly to the private sounds of his Walkman—would really be Paul Bearer, a Newcomer rookie; nor that the Walkman was really a two-way radio, whose left earphone received information and whose right earphone (which was really a camouflaged microphone, sensitive enough to pick up his voice through his auditory canal) sent information out.
And they didn’t tell him about the very special thing that Paul could do.
They didn’t want Bob Sled looking involuntarily toward the camera, or Paul. They didn’t want him trying to guide the conversation between himself and the dealer unnaturally.
They wanted him to be as natural (or as unnatural) as he normally was.
Because that’s how a sting got stung.
“Now, you say he usually arrives around ten-thirty?” George asked.
“Geez, Ossifer, I only tol’ you that around forty-seven times.”
Actually, it had been more like five. But that was okay. Careful reiteration of information was part of this business.
“Just clarifying,” George said.
“Like clockwork. Ten-thirty.”
It was nine o’clock when this conversation took place. But the cops would begin their surveillance now in any event.
Leaving nothing to chance.
Or so they thought . . .
Matt, in the front passenger seat, tried to hide the book when he heard George open the driver’s side door of their unmarked cruiser. He didn’t quite make it. And George didn’t just slide into the car, talking and oblivious, as others might’ve done; that wasn’t George’s way. No, old George stuck his head in first, got a real good look at Matt’s sudden furtiveness—
—and smiled. A smile that would have been infuriating if it weren’t so warming; the proud smile of a teacher who discovers a student has been doing extracurricular work in secret.
“Matthew,” he said, “you’re reading.”
Matt made a tired flapping gesture with his hand. “Don’t spread it around.”
Alien Nation #6 - Passing Fancy Page 14