Asimov's Science Fiction 10-11/2001

by Dell Magazines

  Helena gives her zipper a tug before slipping into her front room.

  She's not sure what to do. Nothing is a viable, sensible option. Stand and wait and do nothing. Because caution is always sensible, she reminds herself. Just last week, another local woman was raped, and they still haven't found the monster responsible. But then the doorbell rings again, gnawing away her resolve. Cathedral bells, it's supposed to sound like. But it's a cheap wireless bell that she installed herself, and the batteries are dying, and a bright sharp hum lingers. She can still hear the hum as she unbolts and opens the front door. Standing on her tiny concrete porch is a tall thin boy. He looks to be sixteen, with few pimples and a neat diamond-shaped scar standing on his right cheek. She doesn't know his face. Or does she? Placing a hand on the locked latch of her storm door, Helena begins with a soft cough, then growls, “Yes?”

  The boy seems to be staring at the rain gutter, eyes held in a half-squint and his narrow body held erect with his hands empty at his sides and his young, surprisingly deep voice saying to someone, “You're going to think this is retarded.” Apparently speaking to her, he asks, “Can I pick one of your flowers?”

  She thinks nothing at all. Except for a sudden relief that he isn't a rapist ready to crash through the glass. Why did she open her door to a stranger? How much good sense does that show? Even if it's daylight, in a good neighborhood... !

  “Ma'am?” he prompts.

  She says, “I guess. Of course.”

  Then she smiles, her expression going to waste.

  The boy says, “Thank you, ma'am,” without ever looking at her face. He seems embarrassed, turning and stepping off the porch, following the narrow walk to the driveway and the driveway out to where his ugly little car waits.

  Helena closes her door and bolts it.

  By the time she looks outside, the boy is carrying a single red tulip by the stalk. Her tulips are past their prime. One good shake, and that blossom flies apart. But no, he seems to be careful. Considerate. Climbing behind the wheel, the boy gently sets the flower on the seat beside him, then starts the little engine with a coarse rattle that brings back the music. Unchanged. Deep, and rhythmic. A male singer chants about some burning issue or love, but she can't quite make out the words, standing at her window, watching as the boy pulls into her driveway in order to back out again, turning back the way he started, again vanishing somewhere past the soft pink lilacs.

  Helena can't help but wonder who's getting her flower.

  Her big sedan is parked beside her very little house. East is the quick route. But today, Helena steers west. For a moment or two, she considers all the good sensible reasons to be curious about a stranger passing through her neighborhood. But she's not actually following the boy, she promises herself. Slowing at the corner, she looks ahead and then right, seeing the little car parked on the street, and silent. Nobody sitting inside it now.

  The boy stopped in front of Lydia's house.

  Unsure what she's thinking, Helena turns right and slows, staring at the brick bungalow with its little porch and little windows, its blinds and drapes pulled shut. She catches herself nearly stopping in the middle of the street. Then she accelerates, but only a little bit. And always staring.

  Lydia's car is nowhere to be seen.

  But her daughter's sporty little red car is in the driveway. For some reason, Sarah is home from school today. That bright and pretty girl whom Helena has always liked, and been friendly with, and occasionally felt motherly toward. And the blinds have been pulled shut. And Helena still isn't sure what she is thinking. Except that she has the burning premonition that someone here needs to be given a good sharp warning.

  Dies Saturni.

  Helena loves men.

  And in all the good modern ways, she tries to understand and respect them.

  Men are relatively common at work. Coaxed by the courts and changing times, state government has made heroic efforts to find room for qualified citizens of every ilk. Not that her male co-workers hold their share of the high posts. In most cases, departments are still ruled by gray-haired women with political minds and provincial morals. But some men have risen higher than Helena ever will, and she doesn't begrudge them their successes. Not at all. They are good smart and decent people, and each one deserves every opportunity that he has earned, or that he has been given. No person journeys through life today without holding such a charitable view toward the other half of her species. Helena believes. And she says what she believes whenever the occasion demands it.

  When she's with her male work-friends, it seems as if they can chat about anything, without taboos. Office gossip. Politics. Crude jokes, and insulting the old religions. If handled with care, even romance and sex are viable topics. Helena likes to believe that the men are pals and confidants, and that they genuinely trust her. She definitely wants to feel worthy of their trust. But as with everything, there are limits. Her closest friends are always women. Single, like her. Or dykes. Most with children, while a few are involved in some kind of marriage. Sitting in the breakroom with her girlfriends, or sharing a pitcher of beer after work, she hears herself speaking out of a different part of her mind. With women, she's more likely to use questionable language. To speak frankly about sex. And on occasion mention God and Christ without the modern scorn. Likewise men in the company of other men have their own mores. More than once, Helena has eavesdropped on their conversations. They can be the most modern, civilized creatures. Wealthy in their own right, and educated, and loyal to their nation and their assorted families. Yet despite all that, they forever carry a useful fatalism and a deep and abiding fear. Centuries of slow reform have built this world, and its considerable freedoms. But in their harsh jokes, they expose their real hearts. Everything they have won can vanish again. Suddenly, without the pretense of fairness. Each time they mutter “Bitches,” their ancient fierceness betrays itself. Even when their curses are dressed up in smiles and laughter. One of them whispers, “Stupid cunt,” and that's all it takes for them to laugh together, happy beyond words, and the woman listening at the breakroom door has no choice but to grimace, and shiver.

  * * *

  Yet this isn't the old world; the new freedoms lift everyone higher.

  In this enormously prosperous society, a single woman has her own rich opportunities, and risks, and the responsibilities that come with these blessings. Helena has owned her little house for twelve years. With the bank's help and approval, of course. She does all of the vacuuming and dusting. Whenever the urge and energy strike, she redecorates one of her little rooms, and she does as she pleases with her grass and gardens. No sisters or fellow disciples offer their poor advice, or goodhearted criticism, or forbid what you so much want to do. Like that weekend morning when Helena decided to paint her trim and her little garage. It was her impulse. She was the one who drove to the paint store. She selected the bright shade of blue and the ordinary white. Then she saved herself a small fortune by doing the work herself.

  Mostly.

  Lydia had just moved into the neighborhood. She brought her daughter and an older son, plus their father. Callan, the father, was a part-time presence. Home some nights. Other nights, absent. He worked construction jobs and as a bartender and sometimes a handyman for hire. He was a smiling, handsome fellow. A little short, but not too short. Boyish in the face, but old around his dark eyes. The consequence of being a smoker and a determined drunk, no doubt.

  Lydia's property sits perpendicular to Helena's backyard. It was a Saturday afternoon, sunny and warm, and Helena was busily painting the backside of her garage. Callan was standing behind the fence, making small talk while watching her backside. In the most offhand fashion, she admitted that she didn't like climbing too high on her ladder, which was why she hadn't finished the trim just beneath the peak of her house. No, Helena wasn't begging for favors. She took pride in doing her own fix-it jobs. But Callan took the confession as a plea, and laughing in that fearless way that only men can, he tol
d her, “I'll do the ugly for you. How about that?”

  She heard herself say, “If you don't mind. I guess.”

  But he turned away and started for Lydia's back door. “If I'm going to do this chore,” he explained, “I'll need a good shot of vodka first.”

  He was a talkative, usually pleasant drunk.

  After the painting was done, Helena invited him inside her house. No vodka, she warned. But she had beer. And Callan happily drank her beer, regaling her with stories about his adventurous little life. He had done his stint in the Service, he boasted. Australia, then the Middle East. “Eleven kids on three continents,” was his favorite boast. Which was an astonishing, almost baffling number. How could so many women allow themselves to get pregnant with his seed? Callan's charms were simple and probably didn't reach very deep. By his own estimate, he wasn't particularly bright or creative. Really, his only substantial claim was that he was an exceptional lover. “Enough cock for two men,” he promised, sitting on her sofa with the spent beer cans crushed at this feet and his knees apart and his pants hiked up high and tight.

  Helena decided to call his bluff, asking, “Is there enough cock for two women?”

  He blinked, flashing a boyish grin as he sang out, “Always, darling. Forever!”

  This was eight years ago.

  They slipped into her bedroom, and plopping down on the bed, Helena instructed him to undress as she watched. Callan seemed perfectly happy. But once he was naked, stroking himself to prove his boast, he happened to glance above her tall dresser. A picture hung there. Helena had bought the picture at a garage sale. For its frame, she explained. Wider than it was tall, with an arching and halfway ornate backbone, the frame was made of some cheap metal meant to resemble brass, embossed with a vine and flowers that might or might not be honeysuckles. She had kept the picture inside because she hadn't found any other that quite fit the frame, she told him. Though in some ways, she rather liked that image. There was something comforting about seeing Christ sitting among the flock.

  Men can be extraordinarily superstitious.

  Callan, particularly. He immediately dropped his prick. His erection began to fade, the scared blood in full retreat, and with a suddenly soft voice, he announced, “It bothers me. Would you get it out of here?”

  Helena had to laugh, but to mollify the man, she covered the offending image with her paint-spattered shirt. Yet Callan remained ill-at-ease. It took another twenty minutes to get him back into shape again, and then, he wasn't particularly fun. Tentative. Self-conscious. Far from the horny maverick that he'd promised in the first place.

  Lydia knew about the two of them.

  But Helena and her neighbor remained friendly, if not friends, and it was a subject neither woman brought up. Nor did it need to be. Men were free to sleep with whomever wanted them. Besides, she and Callan screwed just a few times, in all. It wasn't as if Helena intended to bear Callan's twelfth child. Frankly, she had better taste than poor Lydia. When and if the time came, there were legions of potential fathers better qualified than that charming and superstitious little drunk.

  Then five years ago, Callan seemed to vanish.

  At first, it didn't seem remarkable. But several weeks became several months, and his dented old truck still wasn't parked against the curb. The sun and rain began to fade the oil spot on the pavement, which was very strange. And that's why one day, standing at the back fence, Helena asked about him.

  Lydia is a handsome, raspy-voiced woman. She responded by staring off into the distance, then with her voice soft and certain, she said, “Really, I don't believe that's even slightly your business.”

  Which was probably true.

  A week or two later, on a pleasantly warm Saturday afternoon, Helena was kneeling in her front yard, weeding. And suddenly Callan's old truck appeared, chugging past her house and pulling up onto Lydia's yard, the drunken man staggering out of it and up the porch steps, holding a whiskey bottle by its neck as he shoved his way into the house. Lydia's windows were open; Helena couldn't help but hear the shouting. And where the curtains were open, she could see the combatants moving. Or standing perfectly still. In some strange fashion, it was a pleasure to watch their fight. Helena's little life seemed suddenly peaceful and perfect; not having children or permanent men were blessings, plainly. Callan screamed incoherently. Lydia cursed him horribly. Little Sarah was begging them to get along. Please! Then her older brother warned someone to shut up. And that was followed by the hard quick pop, and a terrible silence instantly settled over that sad little house.

  Moments later, Lydia staggered from the back door, one hand pressed against her bloodied face. Helena was standing in her own backyard by then. Lydia seemed to glance her way, her expression shifting and unreadable. Then on rubbery legs, she walked to the next house on her street, and a few minutes later, the police and medics descended, burly officers restraining the drunken man by his arms and ankles, and Lydia climbing out of the ambulance long enough to shout, “You fucking dick-faced asshole!”

  Callan had always boasted to Helena about his innate luck. “That's why women want kids from me,” he loved to explain. “They want what I have. How everything always comes out right for me in the end.”

  Helena took a day of vacation to attend the trial. And for a little while, it seemed as if the famous Callan luck would hold. Callan's son took the stand. A burly teenager with his father's good looks and easy charm, he changed his story, trying to convince the jury that his mother had injured herself by falling. He certainly told a convincing lie. But then Lydia put her hand on the Bible and pointed straight at Callan, telling the eight women and four men on the jury, “He hit me. Here.” She pointed at her swollen, broken cheekbone. “Here,” she repeated. “He's the one responsible.”

  Neither lawyer asked for the daughter's testimony. Perhaps because she was so young and so obviously distraught by this tragedy.

  Nor did anyone call on Helena. And she didn't offer her opinions, either. She didn't want to appear to be a busybody or a fool, telling what she might have seen, or what she thought she had heard, all while looking through windows some fifty feet away.

  Callan's sole defense was that he couldn't remember anything. He had drunk that much, and the horrible day was lost to him, and for everything that he might have done, he was sorry sorry sorry.

  The jury deliberated for a heartbeat, it seemed.

  They decided that Callan would live in custody for thirty years, working every day inside one of the sprawling factories where men indistinguishable from him could make restitution for their significant, nearly unforgivable crimes.

  Which was how it should be.

  But for weeks, Helena couldn't sleep through an entire night. Odd dreams would awaken her, and persistent fears kept her awake, eyes staring up through the suffocating darkness, her mind darting. No, Callan wasn't a good man. What could be more obvious than that? And she herself hadn't seen or heard anything conclusive. If anyone had let her take the stand—a huge assumption, that—then she would have offered nothing but a vague impression. As she watched the fight, and listened, it seemed to her that it was Callan who was standing in front of the kitchen window, both hands on the countertop to keep his drunken self upright. And when his son screamed, he said, “Shut up, you bitch!” And the sharp sudden pop came while Callan was still holding tight to the countertop, fighting to keep the pitching of the earth from throwing him down.

  But even if that was true—even if the son had struck Lydia—how could Helena have helped anyone by talking? If a mother wants to protect her first-born, then what good would words from nosy neighbor accomplish?

  No, she kept telling herself, she'd done what was best.

  Or at least, what was the least awful.

  But she couldn't stop thinking of Callan. Feeling sorry for that drunken man-child. She would remember him naked in her bedroom, happily playing with himself ... and she invented an odd and complex fantasy where the picture on the wall ha
dn't spoiled the first moment, and their affair grew into something larger and more permanent. She discovers what is good about him, then she cultures it. And slowly, with patience, she makes Callan into a man worthy of a woman's trust and love.

  The sun would eventually rise, illuminating the opposite wall, and the picture.

  One morning, tired enough to cry, Helena rose from her bed and pulled the picture from its hook, intending to put it away. But as so often happens when you take down an old picture, she looked at it carefully for the first time in years. Christ sitting in a pasture, she saw. The delicate, lovely face looking more European than Middle Eastern. That long silky hair and the deep, eternal eyes. And those tiny hands gently cradling the face of a newborn lamb.

  What was the Daughter of God saying to the animal? she asked herself.

  What great and ancient wisdom of peace and charity and love was being wasted on that stupid, stupid beast?

  Dies Solis.

  Helena hasn't attended church in twenty years. But sometimes she feels a strange envy when her oldest neighbors—women and the occasional shriveled up man—drive slowly past in the early morning, dressed in their best clothes, having somewhere important to be. Even though she isn't a believer anymore, the old tugs remain. The faith of a childhood can't be purged. Ever. And there is a piece of her that can't even grieve that fact. Even now, she can still worry about her immortal soul.

  Instead of church and prayer, Helena spends her mornings pushing her lawn mower. The machine is cheap and loud, and it smokes, and it's old enough that it lacks any modern safety features. Which makes the chore into a little adventure. One misstep, and she can lose a big toe or maybe half of her foot. Images of carnage help her concentrate, and afterward, she can feel as if she has accomplished something large.

  This is late morning, and she is struggling with the corners of her backyard. Two elderly women approach without being noticed. Their first shouts go unheard. But then Helena senses motion, and she turns, startled to see them. The mower dies with a last puff of oily smoke. She just stares at the round faces and the long white hair. Then to her mother, she asks, “What's wrong?” because something definitely is. She asks both of them, “What are you doing in town?”