Asimov's SF, April/May 2011

by Dell Magazine Authors

  He stared at our hands, then at me. “You know who Gregor Mendel was?"

  "Yes,” I replied dryly. “In my tribe, you don't get to have a bone shoved through your nose until after you pass an intelligence test.” I caught him slipping a look at my nose and added: “That was a joke. In my tribe, only the men get bones."

  "Was that another joke?” He looked nervous.

  I hated to admit it, but he was kind of cute when he got all flustered. Maybe it was the way his eyes bulged out, maybe the way his ample lips started quivering, or maybe I'd developed a soft spot for how helpless a weak-chinned man can look, whether or not he is helpless.

  I tried to set him at ease with a laugh. “Sorry, baby. Looks like my sense of humor's from out of town, too. I don't blame you for acting surprised that I know about Mendel, but I do. I'm a quick study. You'd be shocked by how fast I learned English."

  "You do speak it very well,” he said shyly.

  "Yeah, not bad if I do say so myself, considering I got my first lessons from a tramp steamer bilge rat. I pick up new things faster than a really nice guy picks up the next round of drinks.” I gave him another tight-lipped smile and a meaningful look.

  He was no slouch at taking a hint. He had a couple of fresh beers in front of us before I could tell him to make mine a whiskey. I don't mind beer, but the swill they served in that dockside dump was so bad it almost made you wish the Volstead Act was still in force. At least the Rhode Island bootleggers would bring in a quality product. I opened wide to drain half my glass in one gulp and said, “Not bad, but where I come from, we're used to stronger stuff."

  "You mean kava?” he asked. Oooh, smart boy.

  "Where did you learn about kava? From your mama?” I asked, giving him a sidelong smile. When he nodded, I said: “Kava's what those Pacific island lightweights drink. It's nothing next to our homebrew. I'm not being a snob about it; it's just that your mama's ancestors didn't need to drink mule-kick happyjuice as much as mine.” Wasn't that the truth! The worst case of bathtub gin D.T.s would be a sweet vacation from some of the things we had to see cold sober, back on—back in the old neighborhood.

  "You're—so you're not from the Pacific islands?” He looked disappointed. “I thought that for sure, with teeth like that."

  That brought me up short. And here I thought I was being so coy, so careful! Too late, I covered my mouth with one hand and muttered through the fingers: “When did you see my teeth?"

  "Begging your pardon, miss, but you can't swallow half a beer at one go the way you did and hope to keep something like that a secret. Or something like this.” It was his turn to smile, and he did it with lips stretched so wide I could've sworn that the dimples at the corners of his mouth came within an inch of his ears. That was weird enough, but trumped completely by what those lips had been hiding, up to now.

  My hand and my jaw dropped at the same time. I stared amazed at a double row of teeth that were as white as new snow, as sturdy as a good stone wall, and as lethally pointed as a set of daggers.

  Which was also a fair and accurate description of the secret shark-like dentist's nightmare in my own mouth. (Well, secret until that telltale glass of beer.)

  In an instant, his lips clamped shut again and he favored me with the same sort of close-mouthed smile that was my usual specialty. “I take after my father's people rather strongly, but Mamma insisted that I do something to show the world that I'm her son, too. I chose to honor her tribe's tradition when I came of age by submitting to this.” He indicated his very incisive incisors.

  "There are worse customs,” I said, remembering the one that had very nearly cost me my life, back home. You know, some beauty pageant winners get a tiara, not a death sentence. “The toughest beefsteak turns as tender as a well-aged Porterhouse, once I get my choppers on it.” Not that I'd managed to get even the cheapest cuts, these days.

  "I agree, miss: There are much worse customs in this sorry world.” My sailor-boy nodded. “I didn't realize that the ritual practices of my mother's people were so widespread. Where do you hail from, if not the Pacific islands? Borneo, perhaps?"

  "Farther west,” I said. “Over in the Indian Ocean. You wouldn't have heard of the place. All right, maybe you would've. Do you follow the show business news from New York City?"

  He frowned. “Why would I want to do that?"

  I shrugged and finished the rest of my beer. “Just asking. You never know. Anyway, I'll bet the whole mess was probably all hushed up by the glad-hand boys on the Chamber of Commerce. Barnum wouldn't approve, but there are some folks who do believe there's such a thing as bad publicity. Can't have the tourists thinking that sort of thing happens every day in Manhattan; it'd kill Broadway."

  "Uhhhhh . . . you don't say?"

  He was looking at me like I was spouting crazy talk. I guess I could've explained things, but why bother? What had happened in New York that night wasn't about me. I wish it would have been.

  Damn it, it wasn't fair! I went through just as much as that little blond chippie, and her big-shot showbiz pals knew it. Sure, they lost their star attraction, but what was stopping them from salvaging something from their losses by giving me a chance in the spotlight? I would've worn my native costume. I would've acted like I couldn't speak a word of English so someone could pretend to translate while I recounted my terrible ordeal in his hairy clutches—even though I'd dodged those clutches pretty slickly, if I do say so myself. And if one of those puffed-up producers would've thought to scrape the pavement, salvage what was left of him, hire an army of taxidermists to pretty up the remains a bit, and stuck him back on stage, I would've screamed on cue like a champ at the results. Hell, I'll bet I could've shrieked loud enough to make the audience believe—just for a moment—that he was still alive!

  I wouldn't have minded being put on display like that—playing the ignorant, half-naked, screaming savage—as long as it meant I got fed on a regular basis. An empty belly trumps pride every time. But nobody cared to hear my screams or my story. No one gave a damn about a black girl in danger, just that skinny white blond.

  Memories . . . Why are so many of them as bitter as bad beer? I bowed my head over my empty glass. “Sorry about that. You must think I'm nuts,” I muttered.

  He didn't answer, just cast a glance at my depleted drink and, without being told, brought me a boilermaker.

  "Thanks.” I knocked it back and smacked my lips. “You're okay."

  "So are you.” He blushed, I swear! “You're really . . . a very nice girl."

  "Awwww, you're sweet. I think it's actually going to be a pleasure doing business with you."

  "Er, business?” He screwed up his mouth in puzzlement, and with lips that big, it took a lot of doing. “What sort of business?"

  "You don't know?” Was he pulling my leg? It was hard to tell: He looked as if he really was confused. On the off chance that he'd been raised under a rock, I patted his hand and, as gently as I could, I told him exactly how I earned my living. He'd blushed just a bit, before, but by the time I finished my little reveal, his salt-white cheeks were stoplight red.

  "You're—you're a—a—?” He looked ready to stammer himself to death, so I stepped in.

  "—woman of easy virtue, fair prices, and occasional discounts if I like your face. It's what I do because it's all that I can do, except starve or wash dishes. I'd do that—the dishes, I mean—but these days there's always a line that goes halfway around the block for that job, and it's a line of white men.” I sighed. “I admit, the way I dress isn't exactly typical—” I gestured to include my snowy, long-sleeved blouse and oh-so-demure navy blue skirt, worthy of the primmest Gal Friday. “—but I've discovered that a lot of men get a big kick out of the contrast. Still, I thought you might have known what I am when you saw me in a place like this. You don't find too many debutantes coming in here for a sherry flip and the floor show.” He blushed a shade deeper, which led me to add, “Huh! I guess you didn't know. You sure you're a sailor?"

/>   "I've—I've led a sheltered life. I come from an isolated little seaside town up the coast a ways and we—we tend to keep to ourselves. I've never sailed on any ship that didn't hail from my home port, and whenever we land, our captain always sees to it that we don't wander off into places where we might run afoul of—of—bad companions."

  "Like me?” I gave him an arch look. “How'd you manage to give your captain the slip long enough to sneak into this joint?"

  "Sometimes—” He took a deep breath. “Sometimes there's a good enough reason for him to slacken the rules. Every so often, when the time's right and the need's pressing, he lets one of us go off in search of—"

  "—companionship?” I suggested.

  "—what's necessary."

  "Huh! First time I've heard my line of work talked about like that. And you get your turn at a good time only every so often?"

  "Yes, thank the powers that be! It's my turn tonight, though I wish it wasn't. I'm not the only one of the lads who feels that way, either, but what can we do? It's a hard thing to break with the way you've been raised and the folk who raised you."

  I wish he'd told me something I didn't know. “I've got to say, you and your mates don't sound like the normal run of gobs. Just how isolated is that town of yours?"

  "Plenty.” He managed a bashful smile, his lips wobbling. Funny how appealing they made him look. “Sometimes I think it's a lost world, know what I mean?"

  Did I? I tried not to laugh.

  "Anyway—” he went on, lowering his eyes. “Anyway, it's been nice talking to you, miss. I—I like you. Sorry to have taken up so much of your time.” He rose to go.

  I grabbed his arm so fast it surprised me. “What's the hurry? I like you, too, and I'm enjoying your company."

  "Yes, but—I like you. I do. So I'd better get out of here now."

  I shook my head. I just didn't get it. “Why?"

  "Because—because—” He cast around desperately for an answer before dredging up: “Because business is business, right? And if I'm taking up your time just talking, it's going to keep you from earning your living."

  This time I didn't try to hold back my laughter. Hell, no. I laughed so loud it drew the attention of every rum-soaked swabbie in the place, though not for long. One good glimpse of my pearly sharps and they all looked away fast. “Petrified morals and an eye on the cashbox, even when it's not yours? If your town wasn't founded by a bunch of Puritans, I'm Shirley Temple. Did your daddy's side of the family come over on the Mayflower?"

  He didn't seem to grasp the fact that I was joking. Dead serious, he replied: “That's what he told me, though the Plymouth elders took our name off the records right after we were sent away from the colony. It was a matter of—religious differences."

  I'll bet it was. The sourpuss crew who laid down the law in old Massachusetts were famous for booting out anyone who tried to get them to soften up on doctrine, but I'll bet they also got rid of folks who tried telling them they weren't being strict enough. This boy's forebears were probably too Puritan for the Puritans.

  "Tell you what, sweetheart,” I said, with a nod to the chair he'd just vacated. “I'm not a career girl all the time. Why don't you sit down and we'll talk some more. I could use a night off."

  He sat back down again slowly, with a look on his face as if he couldn't believe his luck. “That's—I'd like that, miss. The only thing is, if one of my shipmates should happen to come by, I might have to run out on you."

  "Afraid he'd report you for hanging out with one of those ‘bad companions’ your captain fears?” I chuckled. “Do what you like, as long as you don't leave me holding the bar bill."

  His sweet, shy smile was back. “Would you—would you care for another drink?"

  "And a sandwich to keep it company,” I answered with a wink.

  "Cheese or meat?"

  "What do you think?"

  It's a good thing neither one of us was too picky about what filled our bellies—him because long sea voyages tend to wean a man off fussing about his food, me because some of the things I'd grown up eating back home on the island would gag a gator. Saloon food down by the docks is mostly ballast for alcohol, and that's how we used it.

  We talked while we ate, which wasn't just rude but dangerous when you stop to think about what our teeth looked like. “So tell me,” I said, doing my best not to shred my own tongue while simultaneously chewing and making chit-chat. “If you didn't know what I was, why were you staring at me for so long?"

  "Because I thought you were beautiful,” he said so simply that it touched my heart.

  "I think I could almost believe you."

  "Why can't you?"

  "Experience, that's why,” I said. “Seeing as how you didn't know my profession until I told you, I'm giving you the benefit of the doubt, but usually when a man tells me I'm beautiful, it's just a prelude to trying to get me to drop my price before I drop anything else . . ."

  "I wasn't going to do that. But I was going to ask if you'd—” He took a deep breath. “—come away with me."

  "Well, I should hope so! The barkeep here's an okay mug, but this joint isn't exactly the place for romance. I've got a room at a hotel close by."

  "That's not what I meant,” he said, and looked away from me as he added: “I wanted—I wanted to take you home."

  "What?” My fingers curled and my forehead creased. I'd heard this one before, too. Oh, come away with me, my beautiful lass, for I have discovered in a mere instant that I love you beyond all measure! Fly with me now, and I will make an honest woman of you, and you shall never want for anything, all the days of your life!

  Translation: Forget about haggling over your price, I'm going to pretend I want to marry you so I can get what you're selling for free!

  Maybe this guy wasn't so innocent after all, no matter how naive he sounded or how harmless he looked. My first white man always said you could catch more flies with honey than with vinegar, but I already knew you could catch the most with a carnivorous plant that smelled like rotting meat. In other words, the best bait's what the prey wants most and gets least.

  In my line of work, innocence fills the bill.

  "So you want to take me home with you? Just like that?” I laughed in his face. “Go fish some other waters with that line, mister. I don't buy the whole love-at-first-sight moonshine."

  "Oh.” He looked hurt, but managed a weak smile. “It turns out that—that I do.” When I gave him the look I reserved for bunco artists who thought a black girl just had to be fool enough to believe anything, he added: “I've made you angry, haven't I? I'm sorry. My mother was rather a passionate, impulsive woman, and it seems I've inherited those traits, though not her subtlety."

  "How subtle can she be, a Pacific islander with teeth like that, living with a bunch of Puritan leftovers in some calico-and-candle-dipping backwater?” I wondered aloud.

  "You'd be surprised at how—” He searched the ceiling for the right word. “—accepting our town can be. We don't judge people by appearances as long as we share the bond of faith. You—you'd fit right in."

  I wagged a finger in his face. “If you're going to start that come-away-with-me line again—"

  "I won't, I promise, even if what my feelings truly are—” He bit back the words and cast a nervous eye toward the saloon door. “I've really taken up much too much time with you. It's not safe—not a good idea for me to linger, but I can't bear the thought of leaving you so mad at me. Would it set things right between us if I bought you one last drink before I left?"

  I was still pretty miffed, but I had to smile. “Another drink always sets things right."

  By the time he had fetched me a fresh boilermaker, I'd decided to give the boy a break. It was a mug's game, life, and how could I blame him for trying to get something for nothing? I did it all the time. As soon as he set my drink down on the table, I grabbed it with one hand and his forearm with the other. “You're not joining me?"

  He shook his head. “
I have to go. It's my first time—"

  "Do tell."

  "—and they'll be checking up on me. I shouldn't be anywhere near you when—"

  "There you are, Hezekiah!"

  I scarcely had time to whisper, “Your name's Hezekiah?” to my escort before a brawny, silver-haired man swept down on our table and began pounding my new acquaintance heartily on the back.

  "And is this lovely little lady your choice?” the older man boomed. “Well done, boy, well done! You'd be surprised how many first-timers pick a lass for all the wrong reasons. Ah, I blame this harsh modern world, teaching you boys to value shimmer over substance. If I had a nickel for every scrawny little peroxide blond we've had to give—” He paused and looked at me closely, then smiled. It was the same chinless, ear-to-ear grin my sailor sported, only this man had normal teeth. “Blast, where are my manners? It's a pleasure to meet you, miss—miss—?"

  "Timothea Smoot,” I said, lying happily. For some reason, this hail-fellow-well-met chump reminded me much too much of the showbiz types I'd known on the voyage to New York. Why waste the truth on someone who, odds were, wasn't going to waste it on you?

  He touched the brim of his cap. “Captain Malachi Whately, at your service, Miss Smoot.” His gaze drifted over the table, glittering with the collection of empty glasses from Hezekiah's recent hospitality, as well as my still-untouched boilermaker. I noticed a momentary frown of disapproval cross his face and remembered what my sailor boy had told me about how strict his captain was when it came to protecting the morals of his crew.

  "Tsk. Would you look at that?” I said as primly as possible. “What a dreadfully untidy place this is, to be sure. You must understand, I was passing through this vile neighborhood solely because I was on my way to give piano lessons to orphans. And then, without warning, I was seized with an absolutely incapacitating fit of coughing. This young man came to my rescue and brought me into this wretched place solely to obtain a glass of water and ease my distress. This mess was here when we came in, as well as the gang of ruffians who made it. Oh, Captain, you have no idea what foul language they used, and how heavily they drank!” I rolled my eyes to emphasize how shocked—shocked, do you hear?—I was to find myself in such proximity to alcoholic beverages. I also turned my head aside, in hopes that Captain Whately wouldn't smell the beer and whiskey on my breath.