by Robert Maxxe
None of that excused Nick's lying, of course, but his reasons weren't obscure. A lot of promises had been made to his friend, Dougie, and taking the heat for breaking those promises was hard for a kid Nick's age. But he'd hardly be the first twelve-year-old who'd had some wholehearted enthusiasm bum out overnight.
Mixed into his motives, too, was Dana. Upon reflection, Carrie had to concede that her volatile response to the girl might have arisen from . . . jealousy. Much as she wanted to be better than other mothers—not to be caught in the old Freudian pitfalls—it was hard to lose that sweet monopoly on her son's adoration.
Back in the house she let the baby-sitter go, looked in on Emily and straightened the blankets around her, then trekked wearily into her own room.
The bathwater she had deserted to answer Joanne Bannerman's call was still in the tub. Carrie drained it and knelt to clean away the ring on the porcelain. Her mind strayed back to earlier in the evening, when she'd looked forward to a date with Lon Evans, and then to the fantasy with Mike that had been interrupted. Suddenly she was overcome by the old grief. Oh God, she wanted him back—not a new man, a substitute. Futile as it was, she bowed her head and rested motionless on her knees, praying that he could be here to help with the children. They were growing up: the problems were really just beginning.
The noise of the door slamming downstairs brought her out of the hopeless prayer.
"Nicky?" she called. Using his little-boy name again. Wishing.
"Yeah . . ."
She heard him run up the stairs, bee-lining for his room. Her hurried words came without thinking.
"Band practice go all right?"
A mean trick, but she had to test his duplicity once more; she still couldn't quite believe he'd lied, would go on lying.
"Pretty good," he called back.
She heard the door of his room close.
She thought of barging in right now on a raid for the truth. But then she reached for the tub faucet and unleashed a fresh flow of hot water. There'd be time to have it out with Nick. Right now she needed nothing so much as to finish a fantasy.
13
The next afternoon Carrie went to Millport Elementary and Middle School, timing her arrival carefully for just ten minutes after classes had been dismissed. Before having a disciplinary talk with Nick, she needed to know the full extent of his deceit.
As Carrie had hoped, Grace Mullen was still in Nick's classroom, conscientiously performing the various tasks that would prepare for the next day's lessons. She was at the blackboard when Carrie entered, just finishing an equation for tomorrow's math class. As she turned from the blackboard, dusting chalk off her fingertips, the teacher saw Carrie.
"Oh, Mrs. Foster," she trilled. "What a nice surprise . . ."
She was an extremely thin, round-shouldered woman in her mid-thirties with mousy brown hair and a complexion pitted by the scars of severe childhood acne. She would have fit perfectly into the mold of spinster schoolmarm—except that five years ago Grace Mullen had paid ninety-five dollars to a computer dating service, and one of the six dates supplied to her had turned out to be a legless Vietnam veteran whom she had married ten weeks later in an all-white church ceremony. The vet was confined to a wheelchair; but he was attractive, humorous, self-supporting as a TV repairman, and known to adore his wife. The romance was widely talked about in Millport, not so much for its value as gossip, but because it was the kind of story that made people feel good. Grace Mullen was a teacher of extraordinary talent, admired and beloved by her students and their parents; they were all glad she wasn't lonely.
"Hello, Grace," Carrie responded warmly. "I hope it's not too inconvenient, catching you like this at the end of the day."
"Not at all. I was planning to be here awhile, anyway. The new English texts came in, and I want to get them distributed. But first, what can I do for you?" Hands clasped at her waist, she stood looking earnestly at Carrie.
Carrie felt suddenly unprepared, as if she were back in grade school being called on to answer a difficult question in class. Nick had never been a problem child in the past; she'd never had to discuss him with teachers or psychologists. Her first thought now was to ask if she could help Grace distribute the textbooks while they talked.
"Certainly," the teacher said, in the same cheery tone she might use to encourage a pupil's initiative. She went to a closet and pulled out an open cardboard carton. Carrie joined her and both women dipped into the box for armloads of books.
"Just place one on each desk," Grace instructed as she began walking between two rows of desks. "Now what did you want to talk about?"
Carrie went down a different aisle. "I just wanted to know about Nick . . . if he's doing all right. . . ."
"Nick?" The teacher stopped and looked at Carrie. "Goodness, I can't imagine why you'd be worried about that boy. So far he's having an absolutely wonderful year. I could stand having a dozen Nicks, Mrs. Foster. He's so attentive, curious, quick to grasp—"
The relief flooded through Carrie. "Then he is keeping up with the class, doing all his homework?"
Grace Mullen let out a short laugh. "Ah well, now there we do have a little problem. . . ."
Carrie sighed loudly, quickly deflated.
"Oh, I don't mean to worry you," Grace rushed on. "It's not at all a matter of his keeping up. Keeping him down would be more like it. He's straining at the bit all the time."
"What do you mean?"
Both women had finished passing out their load of books. They walked back to the carton together.
"Nick doesn't stop with his assigned homework," Grace Mullen explained. "He's four or five assignments ahead in every book, moving faster all the time. Lately, I've actually started to rein him in. Because, you see, it's not good for the rest of the class. I like to keep them working together." She paused. "In fact, since you're here, Mrs. Foster—"
"Please call me Carrie."
"Why, thank you," Grace said quietly, truly touched by the ordinary amenity. "The thing is, I wouldn't mind if you'd tell Nick to ease up a little. He really doesn't have to do quite so much—not unless he's determined to go to Harvard by the time he's fourteen."
Still amazed by the teacher's revelations, Carrie could only shake her head.
Grace misunderstood. "Of course, I don't want to stifle him. But if he really must move so quickly, you ought to consider making special arrangements—"
"No, no. I'll be happy to do whatever you advise. I'm just . . . so pleased to hear he's doing well."
She laid down the last of her second armload of books and gave Grace Mullen an appreciative smile, the prelude to departure.
But now the teacher was looking concerned. "What made you worry, Mrs. Fo—Carrie? Have there been problems at home with Nick? I know he's at an age when things do start getting difficult for parents."
Carrie hesitated. It felt like a betrayal to tell someone who had such a high regard for her son about one slip, one lie.
"There haven't really been problems," she replied at last. "But Nick has been spending a lot of time lately in ways that I'm not sure are good for him. You've heard, I suppose, about the arcade that opened recently on Elm Street . . .?"
"Oh, I see," Grace Mullen said quickly. "You're concerned because Nick has become a spacie."
"A what?"
"A spacie," Grace repeated, smiling this time. "It's what the children call someone who's gotten interested in that game, the one down at the arcade—I can't think of the name—"
"Spacescape," Carrie supplied.
"Yes, that's it. There seem to be some children who are much more interested in Spacescape than others. They have clubs, sort of, or maybe they're teams; I don't know exactly how it works. But the kids involved are known as spacies—they call themselves that."
"Spacies." Carrie repeated it to herself once more. "Nick's never mentioned the word, or said anything about these clubs. . . ."
"Well, it's certainly no dark secret," Grace said. "But at school
it's just a little easier to pick up on these things. You hear the kids talking about it so much in the halls, or the cafeteria. Who's a spacie and who isn't. Which spacies are going to play the game tonight. . . ."
"From the sound of it," Carrie observed, "the school hasn't done anything to discourage these clubs."
"There doesn't seem any reason to. They're not like social cliques; there's no nasty aspect of excluding unpopular children, accepting only the favorites. I gather that anyone at all who likes to play is a spacie, it's just a term of identification. As for the academic side, we worried about that, at first. But it turns out that most of the spacies are among our best students, like Nick. Playing the game hasn't done any harm to their work."
Carrie studied the sincere expression on the teacher's homely, intelligent face. "Then, in your opinion, there's nothing wrong with Nick being a . . . spacie." She used the word a bit reluctantly, as if it ratified the existence of a domain where Nick would be forever cut off from her.
"Providing, of course, that a child has perspective and doesn't become obsessed," Grace answered firmly, "I think it's fine. It's just another fad, like the yo-yo or the hula hoop or collecting bubble-gum cards. They come and go, don't they?"
Carrie took a deep breath and smiled broadly at the teacher. She had been very tense when she arrived, but she felt much better now. "You've been a great help, Grace. I trust your judgment."
"Thank you, Carrie." Walking with her to the door, Grace added lightly, "Bear in mind, though, that I could be one of the worst people in the world to ask about this. I'm not impartial."
"Not—?" Carrie spun around in the doorway. "Don't tell me you're a spacie, too?"
But Grace Mullen was laughing. No, not merely laughing—giggling. "Dear me, no," she gasped, and put a hand over her mouth, hiding her uneven teeth until the giggles subsided. "I'd just never be the one to stop anybody from playing a computer game. Because, you know, I played one once—I played and I won everything I'd ever wanted." Her face was lit now by a look of transcendent fulfillment. "So you couldn't blame me for being a little prejudiced, could you?"
It was her husband she was talking about, Carrie realized, the prize she'd won from a computer dating service—a kind of computer game.
"No," Carrie said. "I couldn't blame you."
They said good-bye and shook hands.
Walking down the corridor, Carrie wondered what it was like to live with a man who'd been chosen for you by a machine, an electronic cupid. What was love—where was the marvelous mystery in it —if a computer could analyze personalities and match the two who were meant for each other? Or was she being a romantic snob? What was so goddamn wonderful about the random process by which life created couples? Accident, chance, fate put someone in your path at a certain receptive moment. Was that really so much better than a computer shuffling through a few thousand cards and dropping the right one into a slot? The computer arranged in seconds what life took years to do.
Or not to do. Three years she'd been alone. Lon Evans? Was he anything more than a stranger who'd looked into her eyes and stirred the banked fires of leftover passions?
Carrie looked back along the corridor toward the classroom. Grace Mullen had faced the same problem once, the need for love. Carrie stood for a long moment, deciding whether to walk back and ask Grace for the name of that dating service. . . .
At last she continued walking to the exit at the end of the corridor. She had to believe there was more to love than data recorded and analyzed by an electronic brain.
Before going back to her car, Carrie went around to the athletic fields behind the school. From out of sight by the corner of the small grandstand, she watched the soccer team doing its warm-up calisthenics. Yes, Nick was right there in the jersey and shorts marked with his team number. His hair was already lank with sweat from the exercise—that kind of kid, he threw himself into everything wholeheartedly. The game, too.
Carrie smiled as she watched him. She'd have to make allowances for Nick, be tolerant of his involvement with Spacescape. He was really quite a special kid. Her number seventeen. Her prodigy.
Her spacie.
Back in her office she picked up the phone, tried the information listings for a couple of different counties, and finally succeeded in getting the number for Intellitronics Incorporated in Meadowdale.
When she asked to speak to Lon Evans she was put on hold for a very long time, and then had to go through two more secretaries. It reminded her of times she would call Mike at work, wait forever to get him on the line, and then he'd be too busy to give her more than a breathless half minute.
At last Lon was located down on the production floor. Despite the interruption in his work, he was extremely courteous and apologetic. "Gosh, Carrie, I'm sorry you had to wait so long. If I'd known you were going to call here, I'd have left word to put you straight—"
"I don't mind, Lon," she said. "I know how busy you must be."
He asked considerately, but without prying, about last night's emergency, and if it had turned out all right. She told him all was fine and explained she was calling to reschedule their date. "Now I'm the one who can't stand the suspense," she said, feeling she owed him some extra encouragement this time.
Sounding genuinely crestfallen, he replied that some hitches in production had cropped up and he'd have to work late tonight, and possibly tomorrow as well. "But how about the weekend?" he suggested. "Don't they say Saturday night is the loneliest night of the week? It'd be nice to spend it with someone for a change."
"Yes, it will," she agreed, wondering then if he'd meant the whole night. And if she did.
He talked on excitedly for another minute about their date. He wanted to bring her back to his house for drinks—the caviar was still on ice—then they'd have dinner at La Mer, the good seafood place in town, or try a place in the Hamptons if Carrie preferred, and then go somewhere afterward.
"Do you like discos?" he asked.
Better to find out right at the start how much they had in common. She answered truthfully. "I'm afraid the music's always a little too loud for me."
"Praise the Lord," he said. "I'd have taken you . . . but I can't stand the places myself. We'll find something fun to do, though." With a laugh, he added, "Maybe we'll stop in at the arcade and play with the spacies."
She laughed, too, and they both said how much they were looking forward to Saturday, and then the call was over.
Only later she started to wonder how Lon had known about them.
14
After dinner that evening, while Emily went off to watch The Muppet Show, Carrie asked Nick to stay at the table. He tried to rush away, saying he had friends to meet, but she commanded him to stay put. "You'll meet your friends after we've finished."
Nick slumped back into his chair and Carrie took a sip of her coffee. It didn't help her throat feel less dry. "I had a call last night from Joanne Bannerman," she began.
Nick nodded and his shoulders sagged slightly.
"It was so pointless, Nick. You must have known that sooner or later I'd learn you weren't going to Dougie's."
Nick kept his head bowed, but Carrie could see his chin trembling, the guilt getting to him.
"Why, Nick?" she asked.
"I just didn't think you'd understand."
"You mean . . . about being a spacie."
He looked up, eyes wide. He seemed to throw off the burden of guilt, like an impostor more relieved than distressed at having his masquerade exposed.
"That's right," he said. "How did you—"
"I saw Mrs. Mullen today. She hears the kids talking about it in school."
Nick peered at her intently. "And you don't mind?"
"I don't know. If I could have heard about it from you, that would have made it easier. When you lie, I have to assume it's because you think there's something to hide. Is there, Nick? Is there something wrong about being a spacie?"
"No!" he cried out with all the vehemence of the innoce
nt unjustly charged. Carrie was reassured. But then he spoiled it. "Except maybe . . ." He trailed off.
"Maybe what?" she demanded.
Nick looked down, scratched at the edge of the formica. "It takes time, see. You have to play the game a lot. You have to go along with it. And I knew you wouldn't like it if I was always down at the arcade."
What did that mean, Carrie wondered, he had to "go along with it"? Peer pressure, she supposed. He had to go along with the faddish involvement of his friends. Thinking back to her meeting with Grace, Carrie crafted her words carefully.
"Listen, Nick, I know you're doing very well in school—so well, by the way, that your teacher would like you to ease up a little. And you're keeping up with athletics. So I can't come down too hard on how you spend your spare time. I just wish you'd set a sensible limit on playing the game. It doesn't have to be every spare moment. Not every night."
Nick shrugged. "It's not up to me," he muttered.
Her patience was strained. "Nick, you're the player. Only you decide—"
"No, it's not that way," he came back quickly. "It depends on the game. If you want to get out farther and faster, if you want to go all the way, then you have to go where it takes you. . . ."
She took a moment to try and interpret for herself what he was saying. To get out farther and faster . . . go all the way. Must be their slang for playing the game better. Going "all the way" might refer to winning, getting to the top in some competition among the spacies.
"Nick, there's no reason you can't cut down a little. It's fine in moderation, but getting too wrapped up—"