Coyote folded his arms and pursed his lips. “You would call it overprotectiveness, wouldn’t you? Sometimes I think you don’t care about Sparrow one way or the other.”
Spider looked away with a tight jaw.
“Now, Coyote,” said Swann quietly, “keep in mind what the doctors said about—”
“The doctors can go rape themselves!” he yelled.
Rabbit screwed up her face and began to wail. Spider hugged her saying, “There, Rabbit, it’s okay,” and giving Coyote an angry look over the little girl’s shoulder. Swann, startled, said nothing.
Coyote took a deep breath and tried to speak more calmly. “I’m sorry I shouted, I’m just worried about Sparrow. Swann, those doctors didn’t know the boy. They were just bumbling behaviorists, trying to juggle their statistics to come up with something meaningful. Professionals are all alike.”
Spider made a choking noise, looked incredulous.
“The doctors did say,” said Swann, “to go easy, not to push.”
“Push!” Coyote shook his head. “You think I’m pushing? I’m just trying to help my child grow up emotionally balanced.”
“Then you’re trying too hard,” said Spider.
“Don’t you think I love that boy?”
“Shh!”
“You—” He turned away, turned back. “You make it seem like I’m on some kind of an ego trip.”
Spider looked startled, and laughed.
He walked to the door.
“It’s hard,” came Swann’s low voice behind him. He gripped the molding around the doorway, slowly inhaled.
“What?” he said.
“Love,” said his mother. “It’s hard to share.”
Coyote grunted and pushed himself outside. The sun was already halfway up the sky, scattering small clouds before its brilliance. It was going to be a warm day. Hands thrust deep in the pockets of his skirt, he shuffled around the curve of the dome. Why did he have so much trouble talking to Spider? It had been like this for months. She was distant, critical, argumentative. She ignored him; worst of all she ignored her own son.
It wasn’t, he decided, that he minded taking most of the responsibility for Sparrow. After all, the boy was his son, too. And he admitted that Spider’s work was demanding and liable to make her touchy, preoccupied. But . . . well, hell, just look at her now. She found lots of time to snuggle with Swann for long, intimate conversations, and she spent hours with Rabbit every week that she could have been spending with Sparrow. Coyote was sure he had caught jealous looks in Sparrow’s eyes when he saw his mother and Rabbit together. And wasn’t that just what an extended family was supposed to prevent— jealousy? If the cultural revolution had one major flaw, he thought, it was that it had to use the people of yesterday’s world. Coyote kicked at a dirt clod and shook his head.
And then there was Walker. Wasn’t there something a little perverse about Spider’s relationship with her? No, not the sex—Coyote was an adult, he’d had his quota of homosexual flings in the past, there was nothing wrong with that. No, it had to do with the emotional intensity of Spider and Walker’s affair. There was something unhealthy, he felt, something adolescent about their lovey-dovey manner. Their relationship was too exclusive. He felt completely and utterly left out of their lives, and was sure the others felt that way, too. It wasn’t that he was jealous—Gods, it had been months since he and Spider had coupled, longer than that since they had really been friends. It wasn’t his problem, it was theirs—
He rounded the side of the main dome and headed toward the garden. It was good to see it sprouting so soon. He had designed and built the garden that very first autumn after he and Spider had moved here, replacing the traditional flat garden plot that Swann had used for years. Coyote’s garden rose in a slow shape of earth from the surrounding lawn, the shape, as it happened, of Spider’s left breast when she slept, though he had never told her that. She would just criticize him for perpetuating some fertility goddess myth or other. Whatever the image, it was a good, functional design. Where the nipple would be, a pool of water slowly crested, fed from the household well by a windmill not far away. The water trickled through a network of stoneware pipes that fed the plants. The planting rows spiraled down from the pool, cut by several radial paths that ran straight down from the peak. Coyote mounted the shallow slope, choosing the longer, spiral route to the top. As he rounded the curve of the garden he saw Sparrow, crouched low, playing in the dirt on the other side. He paused to take three deep breaths before approaching.
* * * *
Was that a weed? Sparrow leaned over the mound of dirt to study the tiny sprout. Its leaves were sharper and more jagged than the tomato leaves popping up along the row. His fingers reached out to pluck it, then paused, stroked the little plant instead. Even dandelions were good in salads, and good for making wishes later in the year. Why was a particular plant good in some places and bad in others? Why did they call them weeds? Poor little dandelion, thought Sparrow, you’re not really bad, you’re just growing in the wrong place, is all. And that’s not your fault. Weeds don’t decide to be weeds!
A sudden shadow fell across the dirt and Sparrow jerked away. Coyote loomed over him, smiling, leaning down. Sparrow caught his breath, then glanced down again and saw that he had accidentally gouged the little weed out of the dirt with his fingers. He began to cry, and Coyote’s arm came around his shoulders, but he moved out of reach and picked up the dandelion sprout carefully. Its hairlike roots held a few crumbs of dirt; already it looked like it was wilting.
He glanced reproachfully at Coyote, who looked concerned and said, “It’s okay, we can plant it back again.”
Sparrow shook his head and held the plant up for Coyote to see.
“Ah,” said Coyote. He looked around, then pointed toward the meadow. “Let’s transplant it over there.”
Together they walked down the garden slope and across the bright green clover and grass. Coyote knelt and dug into the soft earth with his thick, stubby fingers. Carefully they filled crumbs of dirt in around the fragile roots until the sprout looked just as safe and sound as it had in the garden.
Sparrow nudged Coyote’s shoulder and made signs with his hands. Will it be okay now?
Coyote smiled. “I think so. Weeds are pretty tough critters.”
Sparrow sighed and sat back on his heels. This little patch of dirt, not much wider than his hand, with its single sprout, was his very own garden. He decided he preferred it to the big family plot. He would come out and water it every day, make sure his dandelion grew big leaves and a bright yellow flower. And then in the fall—
Coyote took his hand. “Come on,” he said, “it’s time to get cleaned up.”
Sparrow frowned, signed with his free hand: What for?
Coyote pretended to swoon with amazement, making Sparrow laugh. “Have you forgotten already? This is the day of Walker’s big surprise!”
* * * *
Spider pulled a bicycle off the rack and wheeled it out of the shed into bright sunshine, where Fuchsia stood holding Rabbit in his arms. Spatters of slip had dried white against the rich brown flesh of his face, clung in tiny hard droplets in the hair of his chest and arms.
“Hey,” he said to her, “thanks again. Rose said he wouldn’t mind taking her if you changed your mind.”
Spider shook her and smiled. “No, really, I’d like to. It’ll be fun.” She laughed, adjusted her sunglasses. “Rabbit’s too young to give me any flak. Aren’tcha, girl?” She lifted Rabbit from her brother’s arms, the white of her hands stark against even Rabbit’s pink skin, and sat her in the babybasket between the handle bars. “Okeedoke?”
Rabbit gurgled. Fuchsia waved and started back toward the house.
“Hey!” she called. He turned his head. “You,” she said, grinning, “are the only man in the world I can really get along with.” Fuchsia laughed, then faltered, his dark eyes caught on something behind her. She turned and found Sparrow and Coyote walking up, hand
in hand. Coyote’s cheeks were sucked in, but he was smiling—she glanced back at Fuchsia, but he was gone around the curve of the dome. She blew a long breath between her teeth, attempted a smile and turned back.
“Well, hi there, Sparrow, how’s my man?”
Sparrow smiled back, glanced once at Coyote, and ran the last few steps. Spider leaned down to hug him, but the top-heavy bike began to tip and she had to stagger on one foot to keep from falling. With the jolt her sunglasses fell off—she swore and clenched her eyes against the glare —and Rabbit started to cry. “Hey, Rabbit, hey,” she said, hugging the little girl, then, “Sparrow, could you hand me those—oh, thanks.” She took the glasses that were slipped into her hand and put them on, blinked. Coyote stood beside her, biting his lip.
“Oh, thanks,” she said again. “Where’s Sparrow?”
“Ran off. What do you expect? Want me to—?”
“No, no, that’s okay, I’ll talk to him later.” Gods, she thought, I’d rather he screamed at me than looked like that. She tried to smile, and immediately wished she hadn’t. “Hey, look,” she said. “I’m going on ahead to spend some time with Walker. The rest of you catch up later, okay?” She pushed off quickly, wasn’t sure if she heard a reply, pedaled past the domes and across the meadow into die woods. As soon as she felt securely out of sight she sat back on the bike seat and coasted, trying to take deep, slow breaths. She could feel her shoulders trembling. Gods above, why did Coyote affect her like that? Rape that man anyway! she snarled to herself, and waited for the instant remorse. Nothing came. She just felt tired and relieved to be alone. At least little Rabbit wouldn’t yank her into some ugly scene.
She began to pump again along the narrow paved path, sailing quietly through the soft, scattered light and sounds of the forest. Beneath the trees, the sunshine wasn’t nearly so painful. The thick pine-needle bed of the woods absorbed almost all sound, exuding in return a rich, exhilarating smell, a sexual smell, a smell of lazy combustion as the acidic needles turned to warm earth. She could make out four species of bird by their calls. As she picked up speed, the breeze washed across her face and through her cloud of hair, and tired though she was laughed and put some muscle into the bike.
Rabbit was happy in her basket, swinging her legs, waving her arms in some private dance, singing to herself in minor keys. Spider topped a short rise and coasted down the other side, letting go the handle bars and spreading her arms like wings. She sang some lines from an old, sad song that Swann liked to play on her guitar. I wish I had a river soooo long, I would spread my wings and fly-yyyy ...
At the bottom of the hill, the pavement forked at a thick, craggy-barked old fir that everyone called Douglas, the oldest in the forest. One way led to the community center where Swann and Coyote and Rose worked part time to fulfill their household’s community quota. Spider took the other path, that circuitous route that passed by every other homestead on this side of the valley. From here it would be a good fifteen-minute ride to Walker’s farm.
All told, there were forty-seven households in the village of Noti, some as large as twenty or thirty people, a few triples, couples, and solitaires. Their homesteads were sprinkled over six square kilos of the valley, separated by woods and fields, joined by the bike paths and the loose, co-operative anarchy with which they conducted community affairs. Noti had been one of the first rural ghost towns repopulated with the dissolution of cities in the techno-cultural revolution, and though from time to time some of the inhabitants had fallen short of manifesting the revolution in their own lives, the community as a whole had been functioning successfully for nearly a decade.
Each of the households was self-sufficient in survival needs—food, clothing, shelter, and affection—but large groups of people can accomplish things that handfuls cannot. Not, at least, so enjoyably. The Noti neighbors came together for dome-raising, harvesting, path-paving, and well-digging, for the collective purchase of raw goods, for dances and for theater. While the majority made their living by household craft and labor, trading their surpluses within the village population, a few such as Spider worked at outside jobs.
Spider was a programmer for Global Relief, an international government corporation that designed food distribution systems and agricultural prescriptions for places hard hit by the turn-of-the-century droughts. Spider’s current project was the Midwest American Desert Reclamation Project. She had a remote console at home, through which she did most of her work. The only physical manifestation of the corporation was its annual conference.
As she rode the bicycle farther down the valley, Spider left the forest and glided through the rye fields that surrounded Walker’s home. She passed one or two old frame houses, relics of the early nineteen hundreds, now unuseably rotten and left to compost at their own easy pace. She swerved to avoid a couple of pedestrians, waved back to them, and shortly pulled up front of the main house of the farm, a tall, tetrahedral barn of rough cedar shakes. She parked the bike with the jungle of others and carried Rabbit through the cool, refreshing light of the grape arbor and into the kitchen. Several folks lounged around a table in conversation. Some looked up, waved.
“Howdy,” said Spider, setting down Rabbit, who crawled away toward other children. “Hi, Walker.” She bent to hug her friend. Walker’s belly was huge and warm between them.
“Hey, lover, I’m glad you made it back.” Walker ran her fingers over Spider’s eyes, her cheeks, across the broad flat nostrils of her nose to her mouth. They kissed, tongue caressing tongue, and parted. “Until I heard the ship this morning,” murmured Walker, “I’d nearly decided to wait another day.”
Spider laughed. “Silly, I told you I’d be back in time. You’ve had your heart set on the cusp for months now.” Spider stood. “Hey. I want you for myself for a while.”
Walker grinned. “Twist my arm, will you!” She eased herself to her feet, brushed back her short hair, and found Spider’s hand. “Be back in a while!” she called back as they walked out the door.
They crossed the stubbly lawn and stretched out beneath a cherry tree’s shimmering white masses. Spider plucked a thick blade of grass and nibbled its tip, watching the subtle changes of color in Walker’s eyes, cloudy as agate.
“So when’s the big event?”
“I finally decided on three forty-two,” said Walker. “I started the contractions this morning. I had been planning for seven this evening but I changed my mind. This way I’ll lose that conjunction of Venus and Mars, but I’ll get a beautiful trine, and it puts the Moon in Cancer, which is all right with me.”
Spider had to laugh. “You know, I haven’t the foggiest idea what you’re talking about.”
Walker’s bushy eyebrows rose. “You should at least be aware that your Moon’s in Cancer, too!”
“Great,” said Spider. “We’ll start a club.” She leaned over to kiss Walker’s cheek. “But don’t you think you ought to have consulted you-know-who about the time?”
Walker frowned—”Who? Oh!”—and laughed, saying, “Silly, that’s the whole point; I decided what would be the right time by tuning in on what’s happening inside. I wouldn’t try to force anything! This will be the most important day in this new life.” She ran her hand across the fabric on her belly.
Spider bit a lip. “Hey, Walker?”
“Hmm?” Walker turned her head toward her, though her eyes seemed to look somewhere over Spider’s left shoulder (Spider resisted the urge to glance back). “What is it?”
“I wanted to say... to ask... well...”
Walker’s finger tips found Spider’s lips and pressed against them gently. “Yes,” she said softly, “I’ve already started asking the others. I think it will be fine.”
Spider kissed her palm. “You haven’t read my thoughts completely.”
Walker’s eyebrows came together into one long, thick hedge. “I thought—I mean—don’t you want to move here?”
Spider took a deep breath and let it sigh away.
“
Oh,” said Walker finally. “Oh. Of course.” She lifted her head off the grass. “Do they bother you so much?”
“Yes,” said Spider at length.
“Oh, I love you dearly, but you have to understand that I can’t leave my family now.”
“Your family per se doesn’t bother me,” said Spider. “It’s just the men.”
“I know that’s what you mean. But why?”
Spider blew out a breath, sat up, pulling af her hair and rubbing her forehead. “I don’t know. I mean I do, I know the feeling inside and out; it’s been getting stronger and stronger for the past year or two. Why it’s come to me, that I can’t say, unless it’s the particular men I’ve been around. They just don’t . . . connect, you know? With anything that’s me. Call it a lack of common experience. All I know is that I don’t want to live with them any more.” She glanced down at Walker and shifted slightly to intersect with Walker’s gaze.
Universe 9 - [Anthology] Page 7