by Mark Souza
“No. I love my parents. I had a great childhood.”
“What about your current home life? Are things okay between you and your husband?”
“Yes, fine.”
Dr. Mackie’s face broadened into a grin. “In my business, the word fine is an indicator, a red flag. It implies tolerance of a situation on the verge of not being fine. Does that describe your relationship with your husband?”
“No, Moyer is a wonderful man.”
“I didn’t ask whether or not he was a good man, I asked about your relationship. What about your relationship troubles you?”
“Moyer is so gentle and patient. But at times he can be a bit reclusive and distant. It’s frustrating. His emotions are a bit smothered. At times I wonder if he has emotions at all and whether I really know him. I feel I’m being walled off.”
“Is he what you want in a mate?”
“I think so.”
“That doesn’t sound very definitive. Do you often wish you had married someone else?”
“Sometimes, but I wouldn’t say often.”
“Is he the source of your anger?”
“As I said, he can be very frustrating.” She bit at her lip as she watched Dr. Mackie’s face for a reaction. Was she making a mistake? Throwing blame at Moyer might not get them any closer to a baby. Next, Mackie might have Moyer attending sessions. It was a bit like the children’s tale where a man gets a cat to get rid of a mouse, then a dog to get rid of the cat, and so on.
“Do you fight often?”
“No, and that in itself can be maddening. He has a way of diffusing things before they get started. Sometimes I just need to get it all out. I need him to get angry, too. But he won’t. It’s not a fight if no one fights back. I wind up feeling guilty for picking on him.”
“Did he do his share helping out with the replica?”
“Yes.”
“And yet you consider him the main source of your anger?”
“No, I wouldn’t say that.”
“Mrs. Winfield, please understand. I am trying to determine if your anger is internally or externally based.”
“Is one worse than the other?”
“You mean in terms of qualifying for a parenting certificate? Both can be problematic depending on the circumstances.”
Was Dr. Mackie being intentionally vague? Was he trying to prevent Robyn from tailoring her responses to whatever would give her the best chance at their child? Or was he messing with her for his own amusement?
“I see in your file you had a recent change of work assignment.”
“Yes.”
“How is that going?”
“Fine.”
A smile played at Dr. Mackie’s cheeks and Robyn remembered what he’d said about fine.
“What do you do?”
“I have a position with Oshun Maintenance Services.”
“That’s pretty broad. What do you do specifically? How would you describe your job?”
“I’m a cleaning woman,” she said, trying to keep emotion out of her voice.
“Do you like what you do? Does this work suit you?”
Robyn’s jaw clenched before she thought to stop it. This wasn’t the place to show anger. A change of expression washed over Dr. Mackie’s face, it bordered on glee. He’d noticed her anger flare.
“No,” she admitted. “I hate it. I spend all day bent over or on my knees. By the end of my shift my back aches and my hands bleed. I…” She heard the shrill tone of her own voice, the pleased nod of Mackie’s head, and stopped mid-sentence with the realization she was seconds from a breakdown and had probably already gone too far.
“So this wouldn’t be your first choice of work I take it?”
Robyn shook her head. “Not by a long shot.”
“May I ask what you did before?”
“I was a programmer and encryption specialist, and damn good at it.”
“So you lost your job during the post-Mars recession and were repurposed. You feel this work is beneath someone with your skills, and you resent the loss of status. This makes you angry. Would you say that’s accurate?”
Robyn nodded her agreement, glad someone finally understood.
Mackie peered past her and sighed, “Our time is up. I think we made a good start, don’t you?” Robyn’s mind jolted at the word start. What did start mean? “I’ll have my assistant book another session.”
“When do I get to return to baby classes?”
“There is no definite timetable. Each person is different. It could be as short as twenty sessions, it might be more.”
“Twenty — no! I have a baby due and classes to take. What am I supposed to do?”
“That isn’t my concern.”
“There must be ways of handling situations like these. What will it take? Money? Anything you want from me, you can have.” Mackie had furrowed his brow and she couldn’t tell if he was indignant, or seriously considering her proposal.
“I understand your predicament, I really do. I see scores of people every week in the same position. But I take my duty very seriously.
“Please see Mrs. Crosby on the way out and set up another appointment.”
Robyn glanced around the office. It seemed to be spinning. She rushed from the room trying hard to keep from crying. There would be no second appointment. It was a waste of time. Whether she attended or not, her daughter was as good as gone. She would be someone else’s child soon.
A single thought haunted Robyn as she staggered to the station. If years from now Robyn saw her child in the street or sat next to her on the tube, would she recognize her own daughter?
Chapter 20
Moyer felt the surge of emotion from the apartment long before he reached the door. The day at work had been long and hectic, and the emotions waiting ahead were dark with despair. The idea of turning around and heading for a bar was tempting. Maybe with a little time the situation would resolve itself. Or maybe it would be easier to deal with if half numbed with alcohol.
He couldn’t turn away. Robyn was in too much pain. She shouldn’t be left alone. Outside the door he hesitated, drew in a deep breath and sighed in resignation. An already long day was growing longer with no end in sight. All he wanted was sleep, and at this point, if he never awoke, that would be fine by him.
Inside, Robyn sat on the sofa, tissues bunched up and scattered on the coffee table. Her eyes and nose were red and swollen, her shoulders wracked as she silently sobbed. When she noticed Moyer, she stretched her arms out for him like a flood victim hoping to be plucked to safety from a rooftop.
“I screwed up, Moyer. I’m so sorry.”
He sat beside Robyn and tugged her tight to his side. Robyn buried her face in his chest and clung on. Her sobs shook him. Her cries were smothered by his shirt. Inside, Moyer was conflicted. The specter of becoming a father had been lifted off him. He didn’t know if he’d ever be ready. But instead of feeling relieved, he felt guilty. What seemed like good news for him crushed Robyn. Her biggest desire had been ripped from her. “What happened?” he asked.
She said something he couldn’t make out. He pressed her away from him. She refused to make eye contact. Through the hics of her sobs, she managed to get out, “I flunked my psych eval. Someone else is getting our baby.”
“What?”
“The doctor said I’d need at least twenty weeks of counseling. By then it will be too late. It’s all my fault.”
Moyer stroked her hair and let her cry. Half an hour later she was spent and asleep against Moyer’s chest. Moyer lifted her off the sofa and carried her to bed. While part of him was relieved, of not having to worry whether he would become as feckless a parent as his father, he couldn’t bear watching Robyn have her dreams crushed.
Saturday, 24 March
Robyn picked at her granola, her eyes and nose still pink from the night before. Moyer headed for the door with a heavy sack slung over his shoulder. “Where are you going so early?” she asked.
&nbs
p; “I thought I’d sell off some of my old books. I’ve read them all.”
Robyn crinkled her nose in concern. “Are you going to make it to church?”
Moyer slumped and let out a sigh trying to sell Robyn on his disappointment. “Not this time. Please make my apologies to your parents.”
“My father isn’t going to be happy.”
“Is he ever?” Moyer said. Inwardly he was overjoyed at the prospect of escaping Jack’s scrutiny and backhanded remarks. It was as if 500 kilos of dread had been lifted off his chest.
“Is this going to be dangerous? I don’t know if my father’s connections run deep enough to get you out if you are caught with contraband or selling on the black market. And you know he’d never let you live it down.”
“I know someone who will pay top price and there won’t be any trouble. I promise. I’ve worked with him before.”
Robyn didn’t look convinced. Her final words were, “Be careful and don’t get caught.”
Robyn’s paranoia infected Moyer. He’d traded books before and never worried much about it. Now he imagined the eyes of strangers fixed on him and the sack slung over his shoulder as he trudged to the tube. The sack set him apart and attracted attention — perhaps too much attention.
As he approached the station entrance, he had second thoughts. Thousands would be riding the tube, dozens in his car. Most would be hooked into the net and oblivious, but all it took was one curious rider to land Moyer in prison. And then there was the added scrutiny associated with working on the Worm. Petro and Berman had both hinted that he was being watched.
He turned away and tried to come to grips with the walk ahead of him if he didn’t ride the tube. It was ten kilometers to Dubay Station, a few minutes on the tube, over two hours on foot. At least it was daylight, and a sunny, unseasonably warm spring day. And his route was through a good part of town.
Tyler Higsby had always been fair with Moyer. The man loved books. He treasured the written word and the engagement of imagination, the heft of them, and the aroma. It wasn’t uncommon for Moyer and Higsby to spend hours discussing favorite books after their transactions were done. It was more than sales to Higsby. The man would swoon when he saw what Moyer had in his sack.
Moyer had barely started and already the book-laden sack was cutting a groove into his shoulder. Traffic on surface streets was sparse. Not many people walked outside anymore, even in professional housing, safe as it was. This was good news to Moyer. It meant he was less likely to bump into someone, less likely someone might think his presence was suspicious. Though the more he thought on it, the more it seemed that with no one on the streets, the more curious his trek might appear. Would someone become concerned and put in a call to Security Services? Perhaps avoiding the tube was a mistake.
He remembered when his father once took him to the Independence Day fireworks display. He towed Moyer through the crowd by the hand, through side streets crowded with middle class families hoping for a view, and led him toward the grandstands in Freedom Circle reserved for politicians, officials, corporate executives, and the influential. “Act as if you belong and no one will question us,” he’d said.
He was right. They found a pair of open seats right at the front and viewed the entire show unobstructed, and no one stopped them or said a thing. It was magic. For a day he’d been one of the elite. Perhaps that was the key, not giving off the cues that made people question. In his father’s words, act as if you belong.
A few kilometers further along, as sweat rolled down Moyer’s back, being caught no longer seemed important. He’d drifted into a dull stupor, the rhythm of his marching fell in unison with his breathing, the pain in his shoulder and arm from the weight of the books crested in regular intervals begging for a shift of sides. He kept his thoughts positive, imagining Robyn’s surprise at the gift he planned for her and trudged on.
By the time he reached the GunningBuilding, both shoulders ached and his arms were rubbery and sapped of strength. He rested the sack next to the door and pressed the button to Higsby’s apartment and waited. When no one answered, Moyer wondered if he was home. Perhaps like Robyn, he’d gone to church, though Higsby struck Moyer as a Speed-Pass man. Still, he hadn’t considered when he’d left home that Higsby might be out.
He looked at the sack and tried to decide whether he’d bother to carry them back. A part of him refused to leave something so valuable behind, though the throbbing pain in his shoulders signaled he might not have a choice.
A voice barked from the speaker and startled him. “Who is it?”
Moyer huffed a sigh of relief and wrapped the end of the sack around his hand. “Moyer Winfield bearing gifts.” The door buzzed and the latch clunked open. Moyer dragged the sack to the elevator and pressed seven.
From the entrance, Tyler Higsby’s apartment appeared as regular as any other. The furnishings were unremarkable and sterile. No real personal touches had been added as if Higsby didn’t care, couldn’t afford them, or wasn’t home enough for them to matter. He was neat for a bachelor. It wasn’t until someone happened into his spare bedroom that his passion became apparent. Floor to ceiling book shelves lined all four walls, the shelves filled to sagging. Piles of books covered every horizontal surface. The room was redolent with the mildewy aroma of history and preserved imagination.
Higsby was a slight man with a shock of unruly white hair and wide-set eyes that seemed incapable of focusing on anything. He sat on the arm of a wingback chair amid the book stacks and nodded toward the bag hanging from Moyer’s arm. “What have you got for me?”
Moyer slid the load from his shoulder and set it on the floor. He pulled a title from the bag and handed it to Higsby with a grin. Higsby stared at the cover. “East of Eden, very nice, but I have one.”
“Not a first edition and not in this condition,” Moyer said. Higsby turned the book in his hands and inspected the spine. He opened the cover and then performed a glissando through the pages. “A collector would pay top price,” Moyer said.
Higsby nodded. “Are you here to trade or sell?”
“Sell,” Moyer said. Higsby’s brows rose though his eyes never left the book. It marked the first time Moyer had ever opted to sell. From Higsby’s fascination, Moyer knew the book was destined for Higsby’s personal collection. This gave him a leg up in the negotiation.
“How much do you want for it?”
“I’ve done some research. In this condition, it should fetch 2,000 credits.”
Higsby frowned. “Yes but you need to leave a little meat on the bone so I can make a profit as well. And I bear all the risk. Seven hundred.”
“We both know this isn’t going to be sold. You have been fair with me in the past,” Moyer said, “1,300, firm.”
Higsby grimaced and held the book at arm’s length as if it reeked. He looked it over again and opened it to the first page. His eyes scanned the first lines. “I don’t know if I like doing business with you, Moyer. You know me too well. It’s a deal.” He set the book down and settled his eyes on Moyer’s sack. “What else do you have?”
Moyer slid a slender book from his pillowcase. He couldn’t keep the grin off his face. It was a shame he was only able to read it once. He handed the book to Higsby with the cover turned down to see his reaction when he turned it over and realized what he had.
Higsby’s eyes widened when he saw the title. His mouth dropped open. The book quivered in his hands. For a moment he couldn’t speak.
“This is banned!” he sputtered.
Moyer’s hopes sank. He had planned to buy Robyn a gift, and those hopes rested on the sale of this book and one other. He hadn’t anticipated Higsby’s reaction, hadn’t thought Higsby would shy away from any book let alone one so rare. Yet the man was clearly afraid and practically in shock.
“Do you know what would happen to me if this was found in my possession? Do you have any idea?” Moyer reached to take the book back and Higsby jerked it away. “I didn’t say I didn’t want i
t.” He cracked it open and read the first line aloud. He glanced at Moyer, his eyes wide with excitement. “1984! My God, I’ve never seen one of these. I was beginning to think I never would. Where did you get it?”
“It was a gift.”
“From who?”
“I don’t think it would be prudent to bring names into this. Let’s just say it was a friend.”
“You have very generous friends.”
“Are you interested?” Moyer asked.
“Yes, yes. How much were you thinking?”
“It is very rare.”
“And banned,” Higsby reminded. “That will shrink the pool of buyers. Not many of my customers will take on that kind of risk.”
“What about 25,000 then,” Moyer said.
“Done!”
Moyer was surprised by the lack of dickering. He wondered how high the price might have gone if he’d started much higher. He pulled another book from his bag, the last of his big hitters, The Winter of Our Discontent.
Higsby eagerly took it from Moyer’s hands and thumbed through the pages. A smile spread across his face. It was rare, and it was pristine. “Your generous friend again?”
Moyer nodded. He decided on different tack this time. “How much will you give me for it?”
“Fifteen hundred,” Higsby offered.
It was five hundred more than Moyer would have asked. “Seventeen,” he countered.
Higsby kept reading and nodded agreement. Moyer smiled. He had more than he needed. The extra money would go into savings. For a moment he thought of keeping the rest of his books. Then he pictured the ten kilometer walk carrying them home and let the lot of them go for two thousand more.
Moyer left Higsby’s apartment overjoyed. He’d never seen Higsby happier, either. He started for the tube at Dubay Station, and blanked his mind. He didn’t need anyone who might infiltrate his net-chip picking up on the fact that he had come into a great deal of money. He had one more destination in mind, into Labor Housing to visit someone who worked at the Department of County Records. With any luck, if Robyn and her folks were chatty, and no one mugged him in Labor Housing, he would be home before Robyn with her surprise in hand.