Dreams of a Robot Dancing Bee

by James Tate

  “She’s your partner,” Marge offered, “I thought you were supposed to help her.”

  “But how can I help someone like that, I mean, she’s disgusting. That woman has real problems . . .”

  “Exactly,” Barbara said. “That’s exactly the point.”

  “I don’t get it, I don’t get it at all,” Valerie said, looking depressed and deeply puzzled. “It looked like it was going to be such fun. I thought we were all going to be such good friends.”

  “Maybe you should try some EST training. Those people go to bed early and never call one another.”

  “Are you guys making fun of me? If you are, I think that’s pretty cruel, I really do.”

  “Valerie, honey, why don’t you get an unlisted number. Or better yet, have a glass of wine and try to forget your partner ever existed. I don’t think you are going to help each other very much.”

  Valerie was staring at her wound again. She had been so proud of herself for admitting that she was an alcoholic, and now nobody seemed to be taking her seriously. She really hated the fat woman in Turner’s Falls for taking all the fun out of it. She hoped the miserable sow would drink herself to death soon. Then she could go back to the meeting and surely this time she would get assigned a really attractive partner and they could talk about their problems without getting so rude about it.

  ALMOST A MAN

  Franklin Quigly Denton III arrived at his personal sense of superiority early in life. His father, Franklin Quigly Denton II, was an unhappy lawyer in a small milltown and told his son right away that most people were horses’ asses and that was that. Franklin III liked his name immensely, and in that small milltown it immediately set him off from the rabble. He liked that and always walked the few respectable streets of the town with his chin up and a spring in his gait. It was quite a laughable sight to the old folks rocking on their porches in the summer. Such a little button-nosed arrogance in one so small. And he would never condescend to play with the children of the millworkers. And there were no other lawyers in town. Which left Franklin III all to himself to parade the neighborhoods as if he were destined for a great mission in this life.

  Of course his mother had no equals either, and occupied a class all her own, which meant that she couldn’t really join any clubs without slippage. She would lunch alone or with her son at the hotel restaurant and smile distantly across the room at anyone she suspected of staring or stealing looks. Mr. Denton would not have allowed her to associate with riff-raff, if she was so inclined, but of course she wasn’t.

  Franklin III was given piano lessons from the age of four, and his mother soon spoke of his becoming a concert pianist. She groomed him for the great stages of Europe: Franklin Quigly Denton III. She even imagined herself accompanying him on some of the grander tours, audiences with the great Kings and Queens . . . If she read the newspapers, of course, she would have known that most of them had long since lost their heads or were, at least, chased into anonymous exile, but nonetheless this was how she imagined the future for little Franklin and herself. The other flaw in this thinking was that little Franklin was not very good at playing the piano; he detested his teacher and rarely practiced. His teacher, a Miss Murphy, had dirt under her fingernails and sometimes smelled like a fish. Franklin, against his mother’s orders, sometimes held his nose when he sat beside Miss Murphy on the piano bench. After nine months of tolerating this insult, she finally was forced to quit even though it meant taking in more laundry and ironing.

  Another teacher was found, and Mrs. Denton went right on dreaming about Milan and Paris and Berlin. She had actually gone so far as to survey her closets and plan her wardrobe. She did not share her thoughts with Mr. Denton because she knew he did not approve of his only son becoming a concert pianist. Slippage for the family name. A lawyer was a manly and powerful thing to be, though he despised Law itself. The notion of equality before the law was odious to him. A bunch of horses’ asses.

  The piano lessons continued for twelve years. More than twenty teachers came and went. Franklin III mocked the way they dressed and the way they spoke. And, of course, his progress was painfully slow; and in the end even Mrs. Denton had difficulty sustaining her hopes that his name would ever grace any marquee grander than the local V.F.W.’s. However, it should be stated that this failure in no way distracted from the other, quite general conviction that Franklin III was cut of the finest timber, that his destiny was still to rule, to lead, to star in life’s pageant.

  Franklin did not play sports as a student in high school because he did not like to sweat, but also because he could not imagine showering with the coarse ruffians who tended to be on the teams. Instead, he preferred to practice putting by himself in his backyard. His father had always told him that putting was terribly important for a man to do well.

  Franklin had always taken it for granted that he would be accepted at any college he should choose. His father had as much as told him so. His father’s alma mater, Caldicott, for instance, would have to accept him because of the donations Mr. Denton made each year. And beyond that, the President of the college, Bernard Smythe, was a classmate of Mr. Denton. “There’s loyalty there, son. That’s something you can count on in this world, loyalty of the old school tie. Barney can be counted on. I’ve done him a favor or two in my time.”

  “But, Father, I’ve been thinking of applying to Chestnut Hill.”

  “Dentons have gone to Caldicott for three generations. It’s a fine school. But if you prefer to break with tradition, I’ll see what I can do.”

  Franklin said no more and secretly sent in his application to Chestnut Hill. Four weeks later he was stunned when the letter arrived informing him that his grades and test scores were not high enough for admission. He was only happy that he had not told anyone of his application to Chestnut Hill. He knew he would have the burden of carrying this rejection within him the rest of his life—that, in a way, he would always be lying now. Chin up!

  It came as something of a shock when it was announced that he had been chosen class valedictorian, because he didn’t really know most of his classmates. It was his name they had chosen, not him. But still it pleased him, and Mr. and Mrs. Denton, while proud, presumed it as a matter of course. Of course, Franklin III was the only obvious choice to say farewell and sum up, to look into the future.

  At the graduation ceremony, Mr. and Mrs. Denton had front row seats reserved for themselves, and in their minds it was Franklin III’s graduation and no one else’s. What could those scruffy children possibly do but work in the mill? When it was Franklin’s time to deliver his speech, Mr. and Mrs. Denton sat erect and gazed up at the podium as if final proof of their superiority were about to be delivered with undeniable finality. He was greeted with faint but polite applause. He began his speech with a kind of humorless pomp, in much the same tone his father employed when he was asked to speak on certain occasions.

  He said: “A man must stand on his principles, or else he risks joining the common masses, the pagan elements at the bottom of the social ladder who wallow in drink and lechery, and who are a burden to the state.” Mr. Denton swelled with pride at his son’s high-mindedness. But Mrs. Denton shivered and realized that this young man, her son, already sounded like an old man. He made no references to his classmates or to his experiences at school. In many ways it was an odd speech, and parents in the audience shifted in their chairs and coughed a lot, and his classmates were throwing airplanes at one another, completely oblivious to Franklin’s lofty oratory except for a certain amount of uncontrollable tittering. “I’ve always said you have to decide between action and contemplation.” It was clear to those who were still listening that Franklin Quigly Denton III had chosen contemplation. And that made Mrs. Denton reflect on the innumerable hours of solitary putting she had observed Franklin practicing, and now she realized that in fact he was contemplating something. What, she thought to herself, what do you suppose he was contemplating? It was a rich thought for her to contempla
te now. There was next to no applause as Franklin rather too grandly completed his valedictory address and took his place in the row of chairs at the front of the stage. “Way to go, Three!” someone shouted. Mr. Denton looked around, displeased at the disrespect.

  Mrs. Denton was vaguely troubled after Franklin’s speech and graduation. She couldn’t quite put her finger on it, but it had something to do with young Franklin’s insistence on the primary importance of a man’s principles. Mr. Denton, she knew, was nothing if not a man of principles, but she also knew that deep down he didn’t really believe in anything. And she feared that her son . . . oh well, he was still such a young man, just starting out on his adventure.

  Franklin wrote home every week from Caldicott, detailing his every activity. He had joined his father’s old fraternity, which made Mr. Denton happier than his wife had ever seen him. “That’s my boy,” he said, pacing the living room. “He’s going to turn out all right, you’ll see, you’ll see. He had me worried there for a while. Those damned piano lessons were a waste of time, you wouldn’t listen to me. I know what’s best for my son. He’s going to be all right. Law, that’s the ticket. Or a broker, yes, that would be all right. Wall Street. You’ll see, he’s going to be just fine.”

  And when in his second semester he wrote saying that he had declared himself to be a Philosophy major, Mr. Denton took it right in stride. “Not to worry,” he told Mrs. Denton, “State Department. Diplomacy. Quite common. Philosophy. Yes, I believe old Digges, Richard Digges, studied Philosophy at Caldicott, and look where he is. New Zealand. Ambassador. Yes, Philosophy is not a bad place to start.” Mrs. Denton contemplated that awhile and decided that it probably was a very sensible place to start, though she wasn’t exactly sure she knew what it was, Philosophy.

  Of course, Mr. Denton thought privately that it didn’t much matter what a good man studied per se. It was your fraternity brothers, those early contacts, that provided the ladder to success and the safety net should a good man ever stumble along the way. Franklin had already latched onto that ladder and there was no rocking him off now. So he didn’t worry one jot when Franklin wrote home in his fourth semester to inform them that he had changed his major to English. “English,” Mr. Denton said to his wife, “is a fine major. Good start for either a lawyer or a diplomat.”

  And when he wrote again six months later to tell them of his change to Art History, all Mr. Denton had to say on the subject was that his son was a regular Renaissance man. Yes, a Renaissance man, he like those words. Ambassador to France.

  When they visited him on Parents’ Day, Franklin ordered one very dry Martini at dinner, “Straight up, Boodles Gin. You do have Boodles, don’t you?” And luckily they did. He’s already taking a stand, Mr. Denton thought to himself. Several students passed their table and slapped young Franklin on the back. “What say, Quigly?” Mrs. Denton did not like that at all. Were they mocking her son? She supposed they were. Or just youthful affection. Franklin didn’t seem to mind or notice. He seemed very pleased with himself, as he always had, but more so now. Caldicott had finally provided him with some worthy peers and, while there never was any question that things would “turn out” for Franklin, both Mr. and Mrs. Denton now felt he was in the home stretch, that he was a certain winner.

  “I have some rather good news for you now,” Franklin announced. “I have a woman with whom I am thinking of hooking-up. She’s a Trowbridge.”

  “John Trowbridge?” inquired Mr. Denton. “A fine man. Old money. I know John, class of ’48. A fine man.”

  “I think that’s wonderful, Franklin. But you will wait until you graduate?”

  “Oh yes, Mother, never fear. I’m not about to do anything rash. Mr. Trowbridge said he can get me into Yale.”

  And that’s all that was said on the subject. Later that day, driving home, Mrs. Denton realized that she hadn’t even heard the young girl’s name, and she thought that was a bit odd, just that Franklin was thinking about “hooking-up” with her. But what did she know? It really was a man’s world, say what you like. And Franklin, she guessed, was almost a man, insisting on his Boodles Gin already. Well, she had raised him and what did she know? She supposed Mr. Denton knew what he was doing, and he seemed pleased with this Trowbridge connection. He could put to rest any fears he might have harbored about family slippage. There would almost certainly be a little Franklin Quigly Denton IV, and this one with a line into the Trowbridge clan. She wished she knew the girl’s name, though.

  PIE

  When Mr. Parker returned from lunch, his secretary, Miss Fleming, informed him that there was a man waiting to see him; she winked several times as she conveyed this information; her winks and grimaces were obviously meant to warn Mr. Parker of some aberration in the visitor, or else her face had contracted a degenerative disease overnight, Mr. Parker thought to himself. He glanced around the reception room and quickly located the problem.

  “You can have ten minutes of my time,” he said to the red-bearded man clutching a tartan cap of some kind.

  Taking up their positions in his office, Mr. Parker rested his elbows on his enormous and spotless desk and leaned forward, betraying no emotion. The visitor was busying himself unhitching his backpack and finding a place for it on the floor. He had various colored scarves tied loosely around his neck and in general looked like some tacky Scottish nomad fanatic. Before he had even introduced himself, Mr. Parker felt like he had heard it all before. The man was preoccupied with “settling-in” and oblivious to the ire he had already inspired.

  “What is it you would like?” Mr. Parker blurted.

  The man stopped fidgeting at last and looked Parker in the eye. “I was wondering if you could help me.”

  “In what way?”

  “Well, let me first tell you something about myself. My name is Brian Delaney and I think I have some ideas, some special gifts, that would help your company.”

  “In other words, you’re looking for a job?”

  “Yes, but first let me tell you about myself. I’ve started seven of my own companies, all of which are still operating today. When my father died several years ago, I divested a considerable fortune he had built on South African gold mines and with that money I started grass roots businesses in depressed communities. And after I did that, I went to live in the woods for a year, like Saint Francis. I meditate, you know. I spent a year in Thailand before that and studied with a Yogi there.”

  Mr. Parker wanted to strangle this maniac. He also considered firing Miss Fleming for allowing this nut-case to wait for him.

  “Would you get to the point,” Parker said, barely stifling his urge to scream at the man.

  The visitor looked puzzled; he had barely begun his life story.

  “Well, yes, where was I? Well, I lived in the woods for a year and felt very close to the birds and squirrels. This was probably due to my deep reading in the early Christian mystics . . .”

  “I have very little time for this,” Mr. Parker injected rudely. “What is it you want from me?”

  The visitor shifted his weight back and forth in the chair and ran his fingers through his carrot-colored beard. “But I haven’t told you why I am uniquely qualified to be the resident minister of your company.”

  “Resident minister?” Parker repeated. “We do not have a resident minister . . .”

  “That’s exactly my point. And I think I . . .”

  “You want a piece of the pie, is that it?”

  “Yes, I would like a piece of the pie,” the visitor confessed, somewhat embarrassed to hear himself use such a phrase.

  Parker was steaming now. “You sit there in the forest talking to the squirrels for a year, you lie around in Tibet worshipping some bug-infested swami, and now you want to heal the souls of top corporate executives, have I got this right, Mr. . . . Mr. . . . Mr. . . .?”

  “Delaney. Well, essentially . . .”

  “Well, there is no pie for you, Mr. Delaney. None, do you understand? Now please be so k
ind as to leave my office. I really do not have time for this.”

  The visitor began to gather all his baggage and loop it over his arms. He comes begging for a job dressed as if he were about to embark on a long safari, Parker thought. But finally he was gone.

  Mr. Parker tried to calm himself. He walked over to the window and stared at the traffic below. Everyone rushing, rushing, rushing to get somewhere. He was tired. He had a right to be tired. He had been rushing all morning. In three more hours he would rush home. He would eat too quickly. Something almost wistful about these thoughts.

  Beside his desk a globe of the world sat inert in its oak stand, a gift from his wife, how many years ago? He rarely paid it any attention. He had never twirled it as, he now supposed, she intended. Perhaps now would be a good time.

  TRACES OF PLAGUE FOUND NEAR REAGAN RANCH

  How can you think of nothing but yourself at a time like this? The Prime Minister is coming on Tuesday. The Deputy Assistant is being held at gunpoint by terrorists demanding the release of a dozen other terrorists, and you want to know if you can go skiing. My God, how have I raised you?”

  “I’m sorry father. I know you have a lot on your mind, but I can’t do anything about Richard Thayer. Unless you want to exchange me for Mr. Thayer . . .”

  “Don’t get smart with me, young man. I haven’t got time for this. I’m supposed to be at the embassy in twenty minutes and give a statement to the press. Do you have any idea how many reporters will be there from how many countries? And you want to know if you can go skiing. You realize, don’t you, that you will have to have security with you? Taxpayers’ money. Do you know what the press will have to say about that?”

  “Father, you don’t have to tell anyone. I’m certainly not going to tell anyone. The only people who have to know are Mimi, Rashid and Giselle. I’ll use the false I.D. you gave me for my birthday.”