The Remaking

by J. T. O'Connell

"Hey, grab a couple of plates from that cupboard, will you?" Desmond pointed as he reached into a drawer.

  Sela brought over the dishes. Desmond scooped a serving onto each plate with a serving spoon. Then he grabbed forks, and they migrated over to the table.

  "Oh!" Desmond stood up again just as soon as he touched the seat. "Do you want something besides water to drink?"

  "Water is fine," she replied.

  He grabbed two glasses from a cupboard and a pitcher of filtered water from the refrigerator. "I'm sort of… particular about how meals should taste when I'm the chef. Water is a good choice. Won't interfere," he poured.

  Sela had scarcely been able to wrench her eyes away from the meal. Her stomach had taken notice and grumbled at its prolonged emptiness. She was used to eating much earlier.

  It was linguine with a light parmesan and garlic sauce. Desmond had mixed in diced vegetables and chicken as well. Sela chewed on a forkful and her eyes went wide.

  "Either," she licked her lips and twisted her fork into more noodles. "Either you're an amazing chef, or I'm way past dinnertime."

  Desmond smiled, "I'm alright, I guess."

  She remembered that Desmond had mentioned waiting tables in his past, "Did you cook too?"

  He shook his head, "No, but you can learn a lot when you work in a restaurant. Just have to ask questions."

  Sela already knew she would want a second serving.

  "It's come in handy, though." He said, lifting a forkful to his lips.

  "Don't you eat out a lot?" Sela asked.

  "Nah, I only do that when it's business, when it's for the Vines."

  "Ah," Sela responded. She almost asked whether or not he took out girls to fancy places. Something told her not to ask. What if he brings dates to his apartment and cooks for them?

  That wasn't right though, and she knew it. He would have a hairbrush in the guest bathroom. That pesky voice spoke up again and asked whether dates would be using that bathroom anyhow. She suppressed that annoying worry.

  "Oh, that reminds me," she said, picking up her glass. "I'll put the towels I used in your hamper if you show me where it is."

  Desmond blinked and raised an eyebrow, "What reminded you of that?"

  "Er, nothing," she murmured, trying to hide her face behind her glass. Nice going! the voice said. "How—How long did you wait tables for?"

  "Year or two," he answered. "It paid the bills alright, but…" He leaned back in his chair, "When you do our sort of work, you can't have a set schedule that gets in the way."

  Sela nodded.

  They ate in silence for almost a full minute.

  Then Sela stared at Desmond for twenty seconds.

  He noticed twice and asked, "What's up?"

  "Well, I…" She had spent the last minute and a half trying to reformulate the sentence into some sort of perfection that could never be. It couldn't be invasive or awkward or… or what?

  Time to say something, Sela!

  "I just… I don't really know much about you, Desmond."

  He looked at her for several seconds, and then turned his eyes downward to his half-eaten plate for a little longer. He set his fork down slowly, and crossed his hands, leaning his elbows on the table and his mouth against his laced fingers.

  "That's true," he began, pausing. "That's very true."

  Sela squirmed in her chair. If he asked her to be more up front, what would she say?

  And yet, she was curious. He was… unique. Different somehow. How had he come to be this person with so many different talents, some less savory than others, she reminded herself.

  "I don't talk… don’t talk about it very often," Desmond said. Then he leaned back and folded his hands in his lap, elbows angling outward from his sides just slightly. "I guess you have every right to ask.

  "I grew up," Desmond started slowly, carefully. "I grew up in Oakland, across the bay from San Francisco.

  "Nice neighborhood, upper middle-class, good schools. All that. My dad was… owned his own business. He uh." Desmond took a bite of noodles and chewed, "He made digital tire gauges. Sold them to car dealerships and lube shops all over the country. We weren't rich, but it felt like we were sometimes."

  Sela finished her food, deciding she didn't want to interrupt his reminiscing to get a second plate. Not yet.

  "There's something weird that happens. My dad grew up poor. My grandpa was an immigrant and never learned English very well. But, I didn't know about all that."

  Sela wrinkled her brow and Desmond shrugged.

  "I mean, I knew, but I didn't know. I had no idea what it meant to be poor. Me and my sisters grew up with everything we could want."

  "And then the Remaking?"

  "No, actually. That came a bit later." Desmond said. "I uh, I was the oldest and…"

  She could see the pain stenciled across his face, his eyes stuck in a past he wished he could change.

  "…and I didn't appreciate what my parents had done to provide for me and my siblings; I didn't respect it.

  "I started screwing around, getting mixed up with the wrong kind of friends. My grades were slipping and my parents wanted to pull my chain, reel me back in a bit. And I thought that was the worst thing anyone could ever do to anyone." He grimaced.

  "So what happened?" Sela asked, trying to exude empathy.

  "Just got worse and worse," he answered, his eyes distant. "I started spending nights at friends' houses. Not like sleepovers, but sort of pretending I could live there."

  He paused. The apartment was utterly silent.

  "See, my dad's business was struggling. The Remaking was starting to change everything. My parents had enough to deal with already, without me giving them a hard time.

  "And then, when I was a junior in high school; I probably was going to have to repeat that grade. We got into a fight. A bad fight." His bottom lip quivered. Sela could see a glint of light off a few tears welling in the bottom of his eyes.

  "I thought they were trying to make my life hell, and I… just took off…"

  "You ran away," Sela said. She wanted to reach out and put a hand on his arm. Somehow, she couldn't.

  "I stole my mother's credit card and bought a plane ticket to New York."

  Sela pressed a hand against her mouth.

  "I've been on my own ever since." Desmond blinked and glanced at his lap, putting a finger to his eye to draw away a single tear.

  "There were a lot of really… really hard lessons that I learned the hardest way possible. It's taken me a long time to change. I had a lot of foolishness to get rid of; probably still do."

  Sela sucked her lips in, and then chanced it. She reached out and put her hand on his arm. Beneath her fingers, she felt his muscles tense at her touch, and then relax slightly.

  He looked at her and sighed. "It can be rough losing your family."

  Sela thought about her own parents, and had no trouble imagining Desmond's pain. She may have refused her father's offer of Sovereign City, but Desmond had fought against his parents for years before leaving them.

  "Where are they now?" She asked, slowly withdrawing her hand.

  "Well," Desmond took a deep breath. "My dad always resisted the Remaking. I couldn't find much information on it, but… The… He's not… around anymore."

  "Oh Desmond," Sela moaned. "I'm so sorry!"

  "It's okay," he said. That was what people say in that situation. She could see that, however long he had known, he hadn't yet come completely to terms with it yet.

  "And your mother and sisters?"

  "Sophion." The supercity where San Francisco had once been.

  "Are they alright?" Sela asked.

  "They're managing," he shrugged. "That's why I've been doing side work for Max Gaines. I send them as much money as I can."

  "Yeah," Sela almost whispered. What can you say to someone dealing with something like that? she wondered. What could he say to her to comfort her frequent anguish? Nothing, really, and she couldn't let him know anyhow.r />
  Sela asked, "Did you get to New York then?" He inhaled to begin an answer, but she cut him off asking, "Wait, why aren't you living in Halcyon?" That was the supercity that had once been New York City.

  Desmond inhaled again and started a new answer. "See, by that time, the Remaking was in pretty full swing and New York wasn't the city you used to see in all the movies and such." He frowned, "I hated it. I hated the people. I hated the town. I hated that I had to work to get food and new clothes.

  "I kept thinking that maybe one of the smaller cities would be better, and of course they weren't. And then the storms started."

  He twisted the last of his linguine onto his fork. "I got picked up in Pittsburg by a Remaking roundup squad. They were shipping hundreds, maybe thousands of us into Megora on trains and buses and stuff."

  He shook his head with the memory. "Horrible. Just horrible." Then he settled his eyes on Sela. "I thought my parents' rules were bad. But they were nothing compared to the Remaking.

  "As soon as I could, I got involved with Unmakers, which turned out to be a dead end. And then I managed to hook up with the Vines."

  Sela sat back and realized she didn't want another serving of linguine. Her appetite had been satisfied, and her craving lost to Desmond's sad autobiography.

  She didn't know what to say. How many more people in Megora had stories similar to his?

  She asked Desmond, "How many sisters do you have?"

  "Three," he answered, now with a faint smile.

  "Can you…?"

  "Communicate with them?" Desmond could see the question in her expression. "No, it's just… too dangerous. I have to be very careful how I send them money too. Caution, first and foremost," he said.

  Desmond looked at her for a long moment and then quietly said, "What about you, Sela?"

  She raised her eyebrows, "What about me?"

  His eyes bored into hers. He spoke gently, "What burdens do you hide?"

  Sela felt her heart rate increase. He was asking her about it. Her father. The Vines could not find out about that. They could not!

  She looked down at her plate and reached for the pitcher to refill her water, "I uhm…" she stammered, unsure how to deflect the inquiry. No one had ever asked so… directly! No one wanted to face the loss of their past, so few pried into the history of those around them.

  "I live on my own," she said. It was true enough. "I just have to take care of myself."

  Desmond stared at her for a few seconds more, then finally shrugged. "Sometimes it's easier to tell someone right up front. Well," he paused and smiled thinly, "easier after you tell them, that is."

  Sela chuckled nervously and then changed the subject, "You want help with the dishes?"

  They washed the dishes and then cleaned up the kitchen, making sure to store the extra linguine in the refrigerator. Sela noticed what a collection of spices Desmond had, and they talked about the particularity of using the right ingredients.

  Sela realized that Desmond was a much better cook than she would ever be. She was… alright, and she said as much. But Desmond really went out of his way to learn how to craft great meals.

  After that, they both agreed that it was time to call it a night. By party standards it wasn't late. They were both exhausted from the job, and it was later than Sela usually stayed up, at least.

  Desmond took the towels from Sela. They were nearly dry from hanging, but needed to be washed. They agreed on a time to awaken, "at least by ten," and each went to bed.

  Rays of morning sunlight glowed through the hanging-slat shades. The window was broad, and even with the shades drawn closed, the glow was enough to brighten the room.

  Sela stretched in the bed. The covers were heavy, making her feel cocooned and warm. As she slid out from under them, the conditioned air felt chilly. She stretched toward the ceiling and shivered.

  She had worn a pair of sweat pants Desmond had given her. They fit loosely. She changed into the clothes that were in the duffel. The night before, she had draped the silk dress over the papasan. Now she carefully folded it as Emory's assistant had demonstrated, and placed it into a thick plastic bag to protect it.

  She brushed her hair, applied her usual, minimal makeup, and then repacked her duffel bag, making sure she wasn’t forgetting anything. Sela probably would not come back to Desmond’s apartment before going home.

  Michelle Duncan would be there, so it might take place at the Hannan Enterprises office. Sela doubted that, somehow. Michelle had said it was best to keep a low profile about visiting the office, and Sela certainly had not been back there since her sole visit.

  Whether Desmond had returned, she did not know. All of their preparation had happened elsewhere: at a rock gym, at restaurants, and also in Megora’s enormous public library.

  Sela took one last look at herself in the bathroom mirror. She had slept well; not a shred of fatigue remained. Her legs were antsy for a jog. The clock meter on her card said 9:40, though. They had to leave by ten thirty.

  Layer by layer, she made the bed, and then set the packed duffel atop. She went out into the living room.

  Desmond was at the table, a book in hand, A Conflict of Visions. Sela had never heard of it. Beside him, a mug of black coffee cooled.

  He looked up, “Morning.” Desmond set down the book.

  “Good morning,” she replied.

  “Want some breakfast?” he asked, moving to stand.

  “Oh no, no. That’s alright,” Sela held up a hand. “I don’t want to be a bother.”

  “It’s no bother,” he stood and picked up his mug. “What would you like?”

  Sela hesitated, and then followed him into the kitchen, “Something… Something easy. I don’t want to take you away from your reading.”

  Desmond laughed, “I’ve read that book twice already. How does french toast sound?”

  Her mouth watered with the thought. “That sounds amazing.”

  “I have raspberry syrup, maple syrup, and honey.” Desmond grabbed a few eggs out of the refrigerator and a loaf. “Sourdough bread,” he smiled. “Baked it myself.”

  “I don’t think I’ve ever had sourdough french toast,” Sela commented.

  “It’s great,” he said. He cut four thick slices of bread and set them beside a cast iron skillet. “This is what I was going to have for breakfast. I was just waiting for you.”

  As he cracked and whisked the eggs in a bowl, Sela asked, “Must be a pretty good book, if you’re reading it for the third time.”

  “It is,” Desmond set the bowl down and turned on the range. “It’s really packed with a lot of insight into the different ways people think.” He poured a bit of cooking oil into the skillet. “I should lend it to you.”

  “Ah,” Sela started. “Maybe when you’re finished with it,” she added, “again.”

  Usually, she read fiction, things that could help her escape the daily grind of Megora, the Provisional Council, and the Remaking. Distractions. She occasionally skimmed some of the news articles and opinion pieces, even though all of it was vetted for “appropriateness” by the Agency of Vision. Sela could scarcely imagine reading a whole book of nonfiction.

  “It’s great,” Desmond went on. “It shows how the fundamental assumptions people make can drastically affect how they approach problems in the world and in society.”

  “Like what?” Sela asked.

  “Well, like the Council, for instance.” Desmond began dipping the slices of bread into the egg and setting them to fry. “By the way, you can grab yourself anything I have in the fridge, anything you want to drink.”

  Sela went over to look as Desmond continued, “See, the Remaking rests on the assumption that people are pliable, that you can change human nature. If you can do that, then you can mold people into whatever shape you want.”

  “Yeah, but it’s wrong to manipulate people that way. People should be free to make their own choices.” She selected the carton of orange juice.

  “Right, bu
t you’re assuming that everyone is of equal worth,” Desmond said as he flipped the slices with a fork.

  “Isn’t that fairly obvious?” she asked.

  “Evidently it’s not, if you consider how manipulative the Council is, and how selective they are about it.”

  That’s true, Sela thought. She poured the orange juice and the put the carton back in the refrigerator.

  “Anyway,” Desmond went on, “it’s not even clear that such manipulation can work, moral quandaries aside.”

  Sela shrugged, “People respond to incentives.”

  “Right,” Desmond acknowledge, “But only to a certain extent. It’s different. You change how people behave by changing their incentives, but they don’t stay that way. If you stop coercing people, they will revert to whatever they did before.”

  Sela wrinkled her eyebrow skeptically and sipped the juice. It was tart and strong.

  Desmond saw her doubt. “Look, these are generalizations, but it’s generally true. When you look how societies behave throughout history, it’s clear that government can’t reshape mankind.”

  Sela replied, “I dunno about that. I just think it’s wrong for them to try it.”

  “Oh, I agree that it’s wrong,” Desmond added. “But if we understand that government actually cannot Remake humanity, then you’ll get some very distinct ideas from that as well.”

  He tapped the range controls to shut off the heat, and lifted two slices onto each plate. “What do you want on it?”

  “Raspberry, please,” Sela smiled.

  “Raspberry it is,” he grabbed a bottle from yet another cupboard. They carted everything over to the bar and sat down.

  Once again, Desmond’s cooking was superb. Sela probably could have made french toast this good, except she had never baked a loaf a bread in her life. She had no idea how to make sourdough bread.

  After a few bites, Sela asked, “What sort of ideas do you get with that assumption, then?”

  “The tragic view?” he asked.

  Sela frowned, “Tragic?”

  “Yeah,” he nodded. “It’s tragic that you can’t fix mankind. There’s a lot wrong with humanity.” Desmond saw the confusion on her face, “See, you can’t manipulate all of the problems out of society, not completely. You end up making all new problems, or you destroy society in the effort. That’s what the Remaking is. That’s what it’s all about. They’re strangling humanity because they want perfection, because they have a perfect idea in mind.”