Dreams of a Robot Dancing Bee

by James Tate

  When the call actually came from Stephanie saying that she had begun labor, Frank rushed from the office like any expectant husband. But then Stephanie called back again an hour-and-a-half later to ask when Frank had left. And that’s when Iris began to worry in earnest.

  Mush/not mush. Mush/not mush. Mush/not mush. He raked it over and over all the way home through the traffic, but could no longer even decide which was the choice for today, and he circled and circled the block around their house, trying as hard as he ever had in his life to decide what to think about, mush or not mush.

  THANKSGIVING: THE RIGHT WAY

  She had placed the turkey in the garage two days before Thanksgiving, just as she had for years without any untoward consequence. The crisp, late-November weather was perfect for storage. But something was different this year, something deep and basic had altered the very central fact of her life: her only child, Steven, had left for college, and her husband, Nicholas, had finally moved out and filed for divorce.

  And yet, on Thursday, it would still be the three of them at table, Nicholas drinking too much, and Steven, more than likely, stoned on grass, while Anna served the same meal she had for 18 years, inwardly terrified of botching it all for the two most important men in her life. Nicholas’s derision could be scalding, she had suffered it for all those years only to discover she was addicted to it. It defined her; in her mind it was all that kept her from disappearing into her own Sargasso Sea. She was still stunned by the divorce. She had assumed he was as crippled by indecisiveness as she, that he would have clung to at least one wonderful memory from the distant past, because no one clung to the past like Anna. She could not let go, she didn’t want to let go. And then Nicholas sprung it on her: it was over.

  What future could there be, with Steven drifting away, and Nicholas filled with contempt for her incompetence, her frightful dependence on him. Oh his terms were generous by almost any standards: she could keep the house, he would pay for all her insurance needs, and of course he would put Steven through college and pay for Steven’s car. Beyond that, she was on her own.

  He wanted a clean break, as clean as possible. From his point of view, they simply should have never married. He wasn’t the marrying kind and he knew this, he knew it from the beginning. The pregnancy had been an accident, and while he loved his son and had worked at being a good father, there was nothing domestic or normal about Nicholas. He came from a large Eastern European immigrant family, and all his brothers and sisters were geniuses or near-geniuses, powerful fanatics of one sort or another. And now Nicholas just wanted to be left alone to find out if anything good might come of his own unruly fanaticism.

  And Anna couldn’t let go. At least he had given in and agreed to come for Thanksgiving dinner, for Steven, of course. And Anna was trying to make as many dishes as possible ahead of time so there would be fewer opportunities for disaster.

  In her fear and caution, disaster sniffed her out. In her trembling insecurity she had planted the seeds for one more cruel humiliation. As she rounded her driveway, home from her little part-time job, she could not believe what she saw: carcass of turkey lay everywhere on the lawn, cranberries scarring the garage floor red, stuffing, green beans splattered here and there, the neighborhood cats and dogs still gnawing on severed wings and drumsticks, blissfully ignorant of the horror gripping her face, the shocked emptiness rising in her throat. All these years, and never before.

  She sat in the car, managed to turn off the engine, and started to shake, crying like a hurt child. It was herself, she knew, and not the animals. Though when she finally did get out of the car, she cursed them quietly and made desultory kicks in their direction.

  Inside the house, she tried desperately to collect herself. All the walls of the living room still displayed photographs of Nicholas and his mad family. They stared out at her and snapped: “You can’t do anything right.” She had no strength to fight back; in truth, she never had. She sat now on the well-worn couch and, with a grimly sinking feeling, studied her checkbook balance. It simply was not there. Stare as she might, she did not have fifteen dollars to her name to replace the turkey. She would have to ask Nicholas.

  He was drunk and in a foul mood, already filling-up with dread for the requisite feast the next day. And the sight of Anna standing in his doorway inflamed him: Would he never be free of this weak woman!

  As she began her wretched tale his face flushed with astonishment. They were both trapped in their own nightmares, and the beast in his must now kill the crippled lamb in hers. Fate had played out its hand.

  “My God, woman, is there no end to your stupidity? Can’t you get through one day on your own? What did you expect the neighbors’ dogs to do, stand guard over it, protect it for you? Jesus Christ and all the gods in heaven, what do you want out of me? Am I to lead you through this life every minute so you won’t bump every branch along the road?”

  “I’m sorry. I know it was stupid, but it never happened before. Please, just give me the fifteen dollars, I don’t want to disturb you.”

  And after another hour of insults, curses, disparagement of every kind, she got the fifteen dollars, purchased another turkey, and returned to her empty home, to plan the meal again. She would cook her two favorite boys three pies to make up for this bad start. It was going to be a good day, one none of them would ever forget. By God, she was going to get it right this time.

  FOLK SONG

  From the first outward appearances she was an earthmother. A vegetarian, attentive to her garden, she jogged four miles every morning before 7 a.m. In the summer she wore a ten year old swimsuit that no longer fit. Sweating among the zuks, bulging beyond the cukes, she appeared easy, yearning for recognizable things.

  But, in truth, Darcie’s mother had committed suicide, and this was something that stood between herself and the rest of the world. She had unconsciously blamed her father, and took little solace from his success in later years.

  After an unsuccessful first marriage, Darcie had taken a degree in social work and family counseling. In many ways she lived her life by the code words she learned there, with fond hopes of “bonding” and “coupling” and “parenting.” She didn’t make new friends but clung fast to her original college-mates, now off in all directions.

  After a year or so of living alone and trying to keep up the house and garden by herself, she consciously set forth on a mate-finding expedition. There were plenty of ‘types’ she knew she didn’t want: the “too smart,” the “too aggressive,” the “too demanding or needy.” As the months and years went by, she defined this mate into a honed image, what the exact complement to her life should be.

  And Johnny was finally it, a 31 year old innocent, living at home with his parents, a good Catholic boy. And Johnny was handy, he liked physical labor, and this fit her needs to a tee. After their first few dates, he jumped right in and was mowing her lawn with zealous dedication. He sawed wood and stacked it for the coming winter. He stripped rotting shingles from her house and pounded on new ones. It was the first time in his life that he felt like a grown-up, like he was coming into his own identity. He would mow long after sunset just to please her.

  Darcie didn’t really like his friends, or his family for that matter, so they spent most nights alone watching television or listening to the folk music from her college days.

  He seemed to pass her tests for compatibility, and they began to discuss the possibility of marriage in the not-too-distant future. Darcie was taking an intense, crash-course at one of the local colleges in order to improve her position at the social agency. It was a time of great stress for her, but then again tolerance for any kind of stress was not her strong suit. She had always said she wanted a family, but when she discovered that she was actually pregnant, a new gloom settled over the household.

  Johnny, of course, attributed the mood to the stress caused by the demands on her by schoolwork, and he did everything to help out. After a long day of work for the forestry service, he
would hurry home to prepare dinner for her, then start the mower just before sunset and not pause for breath until he could no longer see two feet in front of himself. Then, in the hour or so before retiring to bed, they would discuss the future, which more and more tended toward a recitation of Darcie’s fears and complaints. Would the baby be normal? Would Darcie have the strength to continue her job? It took several weeks of this kind of talk before Johnny realized that he was elected to raise the child and that Darcie’s depression was not a passing thing.

  It was strange for him because, basically, he was a good-natured, uncomplicated fellow. And now, just as he thought his life was taking shape, he had this horrible, sinking feeling. He was caught in a much darker web than he had ever known existed. Darcie trusted nobody, was afraid of almost everything. And the vegetable garden, the folk songs, the talk of having a family, were they simply the leftovers on a dead person’s plate?

  Darcie insisted that they couldn’t marry until she had completed her crash-course, she was under too much pressure, and this complicated matters for Johnny since his family was Catholic. The fact that she was pregnant would be noticeable to all by that time, and, while Johnny could withstand the slight disapproval of several of his family, it still tainted the event for him. Why not a quiet little ceremony now, and then, after the class was finished, invite family and friends to celebrate? She wouldn’t hear of it. The marriage would be at the end of the course, and she five months with child.

  As that time approached, invitations were sent out, indicating that it would be a potluck reception. Her friends were befuddled by this note of stinginess for it was well-known that her father was a prosperous Florida real estate tycoon who was devoted to his only daughter. But privately Darcie insisted she wouldn’t take a cent from him, as though he was responsible for her mother’s suicide.

  Johnny was realizing that he hadn’t seen any of his old pals in months, and that the beginnings of estrangement could be felt with his family. His world had shrunk to Darcie’s terrible, but ineffable needs and fears.

  At the reception, in Darcie’s backyard, his own worst fears were rewarded when Darcie introduced him to her favorite aunt, Molly, her mother’s sister. Darcie had talked of her often, with great fondness, and all his hopes sank as he now attempted to talk with her. She was obese, ashen-faced, and incapable of any sort of communication. He reached out to her in his sweetest way, but she recoiled, beyond contact.

  Johnny watched Darcie’s father now, desperate for some understanding. The father was glad-handing his way through the crowd, a little tight perhaps, but likeable enough. A sixty year old bachelor playboy, it was clear he was a harmless oaf, a bag-of-wind maybe, but he was what he was, and hid his pain at not being allowed to give his daughter away on her wedding day. He made-up for any lack of depth with sheer chatability. Johnny watched him, and thought to himself: this man is not a murderer, he is not guilty, but a victim himself.

  The next day, it was business as usual. Darcie complained that she was too tired to go to his family’s house for dinner, as they had planned. Johnny was disappointed and embarrassed when he called to make excuses.

  In fact, Darcie was tired all the time for months after the wedding. Only once did she summon the energy to go shopping for baby clothes. And then when she returned, Johnny was stunned to find out that she had purchased them all at a Goodwill store, faded, colorless jumpers from another era.

  THE DEMONSTRATION

  The demonstrators were seated in the middle of the street across from City Hall. They held placards and sang folk songs as they obstructed traffic flow. There were sixty or seventy of them, mostly people with a long history of demonstrating and protesting, professionals. The mood of the group was genial and proud, another moral victory, another notch on their civil disobedience grade-cards.

  When the police arrived with their buses for hauling harmless protestors, members of the group handed the officers daisies, and the officers thanked them for their small kindness. The officers were, for the most part, younger than the protestors, and they showed them a certain deference.

  “It’s a nice day for a demonstration,” a baby-faced policeman in dark blue said to a grandmotherly demonstrator with a long braid. “You couldn’t have had better weather.”

  “The papers had predicted rain. I guess we’re just lucky,” she replied. “I brought a poncho just in case.”

  “My name is Officer Kearny, and you know we’re going to have to arrest you.”

  “Nice to meet you Officer Kearny. My name is Rosemary Lewis. I know it’s your job, don’t feel bad about that. And, besides, what good would it do if we just sat here all day and you didn’t come and arrest us. We would never get in the papers. We need media coverage if we are to get our message out.”

  “Oh I understand, I’m very sympathetic with your cause, to tell you the truth. It’s just that I always wanted to be a policeman, police work runs in my family.”

  “I respect that, Officer Kearny. But still I’m afraid you’re going to have to drag me onto the bus. It’s the way I’ve always done it, passive resistance, the Gandhi method. He recommends that, and he wrote the book on passive resistance. I hope you don’t have a bad back, you’re too young for that.”

  “Well, to tell you the truth, I do have a problem, but I don’t want it on my record, so I risk the heavy work when it’s necessary, like today.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. You should do lots of sit ups and swim. Yes, swimming is the answer for a bad back.”

  The man sitting next to Mrs. Lewis couldn’t help but take in this pleasant exchange. He too was a veteran demonstrator and could rattle off dates and places of two decades of major demonstrations the way others rattle off baseball statistics. Of course he knew many in this crowd today, and he knew everything he needed to know about Rosemary Lewis. She was a notoriously self-righteous and humorless Goody-Two-Shoes who dominated loudspeakers at rallies until somebody had to drag her away, protesting. He disliked her type immensely, preferring instead the singing and the beer and the camaraderie that accompanied a good demonstration, so that when the young officer—young enough to be his son, it occurred to him—bent over and took Mrs. Lewis under the arms, Grover Sheffield, without thinking about it, stood up and grabbed her ankles, and the two men carried the passive lump onto the bus like a sack of flour.

  Officer Kearny thanked him and Grover Sheffield took a seat on the bus across from the outraged Mrs. Lewis. She stared straight ahead and fumed, and then finally she couldn’t stand it any longer.

  “You are a traitor to the cause, Mr. Sheffield. A traitor, that’s what you are, and I will tell the reporter at the station.”

  “Assuming there will be one.”

  “What?”

  “I said, assuming there will be one. Surely there must be more burning business.”

  “Well! I have never . . .!” Mrs. Lewis’s life was demonstrating, and Sheffield’s insinuation that today’s events had been anything less than heroic got her goat. She had a police record, after all.

  As the bus filled up and the singing resumed, the policemen stood around talking among themselves. Grover Sheffield looked out the window at them. He caught Officer Kearny’s eye and waved to him to come to his window.

  “I hope you didn’t hurt your back today. My brother’s a back specialist in Brimsville. Here’s his card. Tell him I sent you, okay?”

  The officer took the card and smiled. “Thanks, mister. I’m sorry we had to arrest you, you seem like a nice group of people. Good luck with your protesting.” He seemed embarrassed now and turned and walked away, back to his colleagues in crime-busting.

  “Traitor,” Mrs. Lewis spat.

  “Oh, cork it, Rosemary.”

  BEEP

  There was something faintly amiss with Skip, but I couldn’t put my finger on it at first. We’d be driving along in the center of town and for no good reason Skip would roll down the window and yell at some absolute stranger, something innocuous
like “Hey!” or “Zow!” Skip is a grown man I should explain. He’d yell these things very loudly and I was, frankly, embarrassed, but I paid little note to it. And the pedestrians, for the most part, just ignored him.

  He was in town for a month or so helping me out on a job, so I felt some responsibility for entertaining him. I’d take him out to dinner most nights and he’d talk about his two kids. He was wild about those kids, Jessie and Katrina. Jessie was the star of his little league, the way Skip told it, and Katrina could do no wrong. But then, right in the middle of a sentence, his eyes would glaze over, his hands would do a spastic dance over his head, and he would turn to an innocent diner at the next table, and shout some gibberish into their astonished face, “Mutti-mutti-mutti-mutt-mutt!” I was incredibly embarrassed at these odd moments, but had no explanation whatsoever. And the diner, well, he or she often left the restaurant almost immediately.

  You can’t very well ask somebody directly about this kind of habit. He was a good worker, though, an electrical engineer like myself, and I was taking a liking to him. He called home every night, and then conveyed all the news to me the next day. Jessie, it seemed, was batting 1.000 all summer. And Katrina was picking blueberries and getting to be very compassionate about the plight of migrant workers. His wife Gail sounded like a very special person, too. She missed Skip horribly, she reported each phone call.

  I had Skip over to the house on Sundays. We’d have a few beers and play badminton or croquet. He was a tough competitor. But then, out of nowhere, he’d let out some ridiculous howl or bark or squeal—not when we were playing, which might be excused, but when we were just standing around looking at the roses, “mmnmmmunyaaaaaauuu!” and my neighbors would actually open their front doors and look up and down the street, as if the aliens had finally arrived. And again, I had no explanation. In fact, I tried to hide behind a tree on more than one occasion, which is not nice for a grown man.