Mother says, “Shopping, eventually. And to see you, dear.”
Both women are dressed for church. But their wide leather belts have been loosened and dress shoes have been replaced with comfortable gray sneakers.
Aunt Ester explains, “We started out after early service.”
Ester never misses church.
“You should have called first,” says Helena. “I could have had brunch waiting. And I wouldn't be such a mess.”
“You look good and honest,” says Ester.
Mother says, “Honey.”
That single word alerts Helena. She looks at her mother's sober expression, and again she asks, “What's wrong?”
“Nothing.”
Both women say it.
Then Mother adds, “We just wanted to tell you in person.” And she pauses for a dangerous moment, gathering herself before saying, “We've sold the farm. We got an offer ... a very generous one ... and it's time, we decided....”
Helena wipes her forehead with her driest hand. “Who? Who gets it?”
“One of the local corporations,” says Ester. She's a large woman—one of the largest that Helena has ever known—and not just because of her dimensions. Ester is a creature of substantial beliefs and strengths. Doubt is foreign to her. A weakness, and good reason for disgust. Hinting at some old debate, she looks at Mother and shakes her head once, for emphasis. Then she admits, “We're old women. Not enough of our kids want to be farmers. And the corporations are the only ones who can make us comfortable in our retirement.”
“The house, too?” Helena squeaks.
“Oh, we keep that,” Mother interjects. “That and the surrounding ground. For as long as we want to live there.”
We are seven women, in all. Mother and Ester and another sister, plus four unrelated women. They became Disciples of Christ together in a bonding ceremony some forty-five years ago. Their sprawling farm was a gift from their various mothers. And it was an amazing success for Mother and Ester, since their mother's old farm was the smallest and poorest portion of the dowry.
“We could have left it to you and the others,” says Ester. “But with these new rules ... well, it makes it impossible to keep things together....”
Taxes, she means. And the fair inheritance laws.
Helena starts to say, “I understand.”
But Mother interrupts, telling her, “Nothing changes until next year. Officially.”
Helena nods.
Trying to look anywhere else, her eyes wander. Past the steel chain and post fence is a tiny square of grass. Lydia's backyard. Lying on a faded green blanket, basking in the late spring sun, is the daughter. Is Sarah. She wears nothing but a tiny swimsuit and a pale, springtime tan that by summer will have turned to a brown gold. She's a pretty black-haired girl with her mother's wide hips and prominent bustline. Eyes shut, ears embraced by headphones, she seems immune to the world around her. A self-involved woman-child, Helena thinks. Probably fantasizing about her tulip-toting boyfriend ... and now Helena blinks and turns away, shaking her head for every good reason.
“What's this flower?” asks Mother.
“Fritillaria,” Helena says.
“It's beautiful,” she says. “Don't you think so, Ester?”
A luxurious emerald stalk and thick leaves have risen out of the perennial bed, sprouting large crimson flowers that are pointed downward. To Helena, the plant resembles one of those ornate antique lamps from the days of the Great Queens and their farflung Empires. Quietly, she says, “Smell it. But carefully.”
Her aunt keels. Sniffs. Says, “Ugh.”
“It's a difficult odor,” Helena concedes.
Mother risks her own little sniff, then says, “I don't mind it.” Straightening, she tries to show a big smile, saying, “Maybe we could grow them in our garden. Where do you find it, darling?”
Helena tries to reply.
But Ester interrupts, announcing, “I don't think we need such a thing.”
She says, “It reeks like a skunk.”
Mother says nothing, and everything shows on her face. The color has drained out of her. Her features instantly turn to cold wax, and the eyes seem to focus on a faraway point, and in the same instant, they turn blind.
Ester tries to laugh, saying, “Now, now. Don't pout.”
Helena stares at the clipped grass, holding her breath.
“You know perfectly well,” says the older sister. “Frances won't like its looks. And Eve is sensitive to every bad odor.”
“I know,” Mother whispers.
“Fritillaria is a big white bulb,” Helena offers. “You plant it in the fall. The same depth you plant tulips.”
“Cock depth,” says Ester, repeating the bawdy old joke. Then with an artificial cheerfulness, she tells her sister, “We'll let you put one or two of these monsters up by the old barn. Eve never visits the barn anymore.”
“I don't either,” says Mother.
Ester conspicuously ignores her.
Mother takes a breath and turns and says to the garage, “Come down and see us sometime, darling.” She says, “Soon,” as if pleading. And before anyone can offer a word or make the tiniest sound, she marches for the gate, leaving the backyard as quickly as she can without actually bursting into a run.
Ester shrugs as she always does, laughing at her baby sister's peculiarities. Then she glances across the fence, asking, “Is that your little neighbor girl?”
Helena stares at her aunt.
Saying nothing.
Ester feels the stare, and calmly ignores it.
“She's grown into quite the pretty young thing,” the old woman declares. The undisputed leader of her disciple, now and always, she glances at Helena, and winks once, then adds, “A girl like that ... shit, I could plow an entire county with all the eager young cock she could lure in. Don't doubt it, darling!”
Dies Lunae.
Helena glances at her bedstand clock, measuring how long she has to fiddle with her always difficult hair. Only a few minutes, she realizes. So she does a hurry-up job before rushing out the door with the sack lunch that she fixed last night. Callan used to tease her about her punctual nature. He would spy her as he was heading out to his newest job, or as he was arriving home from an all-night drunk, or maybe he was just standing out in the yard, waiting for Helena. He would wave and laugh, and without a care in the world, he would shout the predictable words:
“I could set my watch by you, woman. You're that predictable!”
The simple memory gnaws. For no sensible reason, Helena finds herself debating her nature with an imaginary Callan, muttering to herself as she backs out of the garage and onto the street. Saint Judith Boulevard takes her straight to work. Honestly, there have been plenty of times when she arrived late. Because of weather, or traffic mishaps, or sometimes they'll hold a big rally down at the parenthood clinic. But not this morning, she notes. The clinic is at the corner of Judith and New Hope. A low brick building without windows, it is surrounded by a high iron fence and pivoting cameras. Just a dozen quiet protesters are patrolling the sidewalk this morning. A listless group, they hold hand-painted signs overhead. Two serious men for every earnest woman. Which is typical of these groups.
A bearded young man carries a red-lettered sign.
“Life Is Always Precious!” Helena reads as she drives past.
Then she isn't thinking about Callan anymore, or the protesters, either. Just like that, her conscious mind is swirling, ancient memories suddenly so fresh and raw that it's all she can do to keep her car on the road.
* * *
Sometimes the department head invites a few of her favorites out for drinks after work. Today's excuse is an excellent ranking by the Auditor's office. Helena doesn't want to be included, but she's beckoned and feels obliged to make an appearance. Have a beer, then slip away. That's her plan. But some sneaky soul refills her glass from the common pitcher, and what can she do? Sit and take part. Ignore her mood, and ignore the day's t
ensions. And whatever happens, she reminds herself that she needs to smile.
Her supervisor sits beside her, increasing her secret misery.
Morris is a tall, long-legged man, and a decorated veteran, who served as a lieutenant in the final Asian wars. People in a position to know claim that he was only a lowly supply officer, and that he was wounded only because of incredibly bad luck. Or good luck, depending on your perspective. Even today, scars on a man are supposed to have weight and a curious beauty. They prove bravery and suffering and devotion to higher causes. But on Morris, that raised chunk of flesh on his throat is nothing but ugly. It always draws the eye, making Helena notice that his neck is ridiculously long, and the rest of him is pale and soft, and in so many ways, homely.
At one point, when he's sure that the department head is paying attention, he says to Helena, “We've adopted another one. Did I tell you?”
He has. Several times.
But she knows to smile and ask, “Is that so?” with a feigned ignorance.
“From a little city-state,” he continues. “Hue. On the southeast coast.”
The department head—a corpulent, gray-haired woman at the end of the table—leans forward on her elbows, asking, “Now how many does it make, Mr. Morris?”
“Eight,” he declares happily.
Maybe it's the beer, or maybe beer is her excuse. Either way, Helena prods him, saying, “I bet it's another girl.”
“Naturally,” he booms. Then with a self-congratulatory laugh, Morris flips open his wallet and passes around the newest family portrait. A glance is all that Helena needs. Eight girls of various ages, from various parts of Asia, stand among his own five children. His handsome and astonishingly energetic wife kneels down in front. They supposedly have a monogamous marriage. Very modern, and scrupulously fair. Morris never sleeps around. “I was a virgin when I was married,” he will tell anyone who mistakenly brings up the subject. “And my wife is the only lover for me.”
Everyone at the table has heard Morris describe his vital, heartfelt beliefs.
But the department head likes to watch his performances, and she prompts him by saying, “You're doing these young ladies such a service.”
“We just wish we could save more,” he replies. A predictable and pretentious man, he can't resist telling the world about his virtuous soul. He always uses the same words: “We” because his marriage is the perfect partnership. And “save” because everyone knows where these lovely little girls come from.
Amused looks are traded between the women.
He seems blind to their grins. With a heavy, overly dramatic voice, Morris warns, “There might come another war in China. Manchuria and the South are feuding again, and the Viets are trying to make new alliances.”
Asian politics are complex and frequently horrific. Helena rarely bothers sorting out who's angry at whom, or which ones wield nuclear weapons, or which of these angry little states are going to be supported, for a day or two, by the Western Powers.
“Too many balls are in charge over there,” Morris tells them.
Helena breaks into a cackling, half-drunken laugh.
The gray-haired woman gives her a look. “Now darling,” she rumbles. “Wouldn't you want to help save a few of our little sisters?”
The beer makes Helena clumsy.
Makes her bold.
“I want to help,” she claims. Except with her next breath, she points out, “These countries are nightmares. For our sisters, and the men, too. And sometimes I think, ma'am, that maybe our policies are a little bit to blame—”
“Nonsense,” Morris interrupts. “Obviously, you've never lived in Asia.”
“I guess I knew that,” Helena replies.
Her co-workers laugh quietly. Women and the few men, both.
Morris licks his lips, then adds, “You certainly didn't give up five years of your life trying to put that continent to peace!”
She stares at his ugly face, and the scarred neck.
Then she surprises herself, remarking, “Everyone knows about you. You were inside your air-conditioned office, hiding between file cabinets, and a piece of shrapnel slipped through and nicked you, and you didn't let them stitch you up because you wanted to have a good pretty scar.”
An astonished silence descends.
Morris’ face is even paler than usual, his eyes round and cold, his expression moving from shock into utter embarrassment.
Helena feels ashamed, a little bit. She blinks and drops her gaze. The Morris family portrait has been passed around the table, ending up in front of her, and something in it catches her interest. She picks it up, ignoring the adopted daughters and the perfect wife and mother. And she disregards Morris’ blood-daughters, too. Instead, her gaze focuses on the lanky teenage son standing in the back row, looking put upon by the camera, his face tilted and the diamond-shaped scar obvious on his cheek.
I know that face, she keeps thinking.
Then she remembers where she saw him, and the photograph slips from her hands, sliding into a ring of condensation.
Morris rescues his picture, wiping it dry against his sleeve, trying hard to kill Helena with hard looks and a pouting lower lip.
Dies Martis.
She fully intends to go to work today.
But when she's half-dressed, Helena has an abrupt change of heart. Standing in her bedroom with her little television playing, she isn't consciously listening to the news. But then the newscaster describes another rape not twenty blocks from her front door, and a cold suffocating dread takes her, and with an old woman's frailty, she suddenly collapses on the edge of her bed.
The morning weatherman appears. A roundish middle-aged fellow, he smiles warmly, looking utterly harmless for the camera. With a practiced jolliness, he describes approaching fronts and the promise of heavy rains. And somewhere in the midst of his forecast, Helena calls the office to say that she's under the weather and perhaps she'll recover by tomorrow.
For most of the morning, Helena lives like a sick person. A light breakfast. Comfortable clothes. A stack of unread magazines, and she parks herself in front of her big television. But the game shows and talk shows—normal fare when she's dying of the flu—can't seem more absurd or trivial. Which is why she finally changes into gardening clothes and slips into the backyard, telling herself more than once that she doesn't care how it would look if someone from the office were to drop by.
A little before noon, Sarah arrives home.
Helena is on her knees, fighting the good fight against creeping charlie. Just a glance tells her what is happening. The girl practically sprints from her car to her front door, and a moment later, curtains left open by her mother are closed, and the blinds are closed, and Helena can almost taste the air of expectation holding sway.
It's lunchtime at school, she reasons.
And she rises and removes her knee pads and moves to the front yard with her favorite clippers in hand.
The tulips are in ruins. But the lilacs are at their peak. She clips free three lavender flowerheads, then wonders if she's an absolute idiot. But no, the deep heart-like thrumming of a stereo finds her, and she strolls off the end of the driveway just before the boy appears, finding her waiting in the street, her free hand lifting, demanding that he stops.
If anything, he seems worried.
Scared, even.
But he brakes and kills the music and rolls down the window, saying, “Yeah?” with a hint of anger in his voice. Abrupt, and very male. He seems to be asking himself who is this crazy lady standing between him and his girlfriend. “What is it?” he sputters. Then, “Ma'am.”
“Give her these flowers,” Helena tells him.
He notices the lilacs. Finally.
And a wave of recognition grabs him. He blinks and glances at her face, then at her house. He barely looked at her face until now. And Helena isn't an ugly woman, even if she's nearly middle-aged. Men still appreciate her figure and her face, and she tries to show the best of b
oth as she leans into the open window, forcing him to take her gift as she asks, “What's your name, son?”
He opens his mouth, then remembers to speak.
“Luke,” he blurts.
“Luke,” she repeats. And she stands again as he takes the flowers by their stalks. “My name is Helena.”
He says, “Yeah. All right.”
This isn't going well. Of course she had no idea any of this would happen today, or that it would ever happen. And she isn't even certain what she wants to accomplish now. But the panic builds on his splendid young face. His looks come from his mother, Helena decides. He has to suspect some kind of trouble. An old lady's trap is waiting. But he finally takes her little gift willingly, which is always a good sign.
Hoping to escape, the boy says, “Thank you.”
“You're quite welcome, Luke.”
Eyes forward. Hands on the wheel now.
Then she says it.
“Let me give you fair warning,” she tells him. “Are you listening, Luke? You need to know. Sarah and her mother can be very hard on men. Unfair, and treacherous.”
He looks straight ahead, and bristles.
Then without another word, he turns on his ugly music and drives away. Not slowly. But not moving fast, either.
* * *
Just once, Helena visited Callan in prison.
The arrangements were involved and laborious, mostly because he wasn't her relative and there was no child between them. Forms were filled out, then filed. Then she drove north and west for part of the day, coming to a small city dressed with concrete walls and endless reaches of electrified wire. Again, long forms demanded her attention, and her signature was matched against every signature on file. Then a pair of quiet women searched her thoroughly. Clothes. Hair. Mouth. Other cavities. Nobody expected to find anything, but it seemed important to embarrass Helena in enormous ways. Which is what they accomplished, sure enough.
Forty thousand men lived inside that strange and dangerous city. And the one man whom she had sought out was almost a stranger to her.
Asimov's Science Fiction 10-11/2001 Page 18