Here he offers us a compassionate, powerful, and richly imaginative study of the ultimate Culture Shock gap, the abyss between the Young and the Old, and how that gap might widen in the future, in strange and unexpected ways.…
* * *
My grandchildren have brought time back to me. Even when they have gone, my house will never be the same. Of course, I didn’t hear them when they arrived—on this as on many other mornings, I hadn’t bothered to turn on my eardrums—but a tingling jab from the console beside my bed finally caught my attention. What had I been doing? Lying in the shadowed heat, watching the sea breeze lift the dappled blinds? Not even that. I had been somewhere distant. A traveler in white empty space.
The blinds flicker. My bedhelper emerges from its wallspace, extending mantis arms for me to grab. One heave, and I’m sitting up. Another, and I’m standing. The salt air pushes hot, cool. I pause to blink. Slow, quick, with both eyes. A moment’s concentration. Despite everything Doc Fanian’s told me, it’s never become like riding a bicycle, but then who am I, now, to ride a bike? And then my eardrums are on, and the sound of everything leaps into me. I hear the waves, the sea, the lizards stirring on the rocks, distant birdsong, the faint whispering trees. I hear the slow drip of the showerhead on the bathroom tiles, and the putter of a rainbow-winged flyer somewhere up in the hot blue sky. I hear the papery breath and heartbeat of an old man aroused from his mid-morning slumbers. And I hear voices—young voices—outside my front door.
“He can’t be in.”
“Well, he can’t be out…”
“Let’s—”
“—No, you.”
“I’ll—”
“—listen. I think…”
“It’s him.”
Looking down at myself, I see that, yes, I am clothed, after a fashion: shorts and a T-shirt—crumpled, but at least not the ones I slept in last night. So I did get dressed today, eat breakfast, clean up afterward, shave.…
“Are you in there, Papa?”
My granddaughter Agatha’s voice.
“Wait a moment,” I croak, sleep-stiff, not really believing. Heading for the hall.
The front door presents an obstacle. There’s the voice recognition system my son Bill had fitted for me. Not that anyone mugs or burgles anyone else any longer, but Bill’s a worrier—he’s past eighty now, and of that age.
“Are you all right in there?”
Saul’s voice this time.
“Yes, I’m fine.”
The simple routine of the voicecode momentarily befuddles me. The tiny screen says User Not Recognized. I try again, and then again, but my voice is as dry as my limbs are until the lubricants get working. My grandchildren can hear me outside, and I know they’ll think Papa’s talking to himself.
At last. My front door swings open.
Saul and Agatha. Both incredibly real in the morning brightness with the cypressed road shimmering behind them. I want them to stand there for a few moments so I can catch my breath—and for the corneas I had fitted last winter to darken—but I’m hugged and I’m kissed and they’re past me and into the house before any of my senses can adjust. I turn back into the hall. Their luggage lies in a heap. Salt-rimed, sandy, the colors bleached, bulging with washing and the excitements of far-off places. Venice. Paris. New York. The Sea of Tranquillity. Even then, I have to touch to be sure.
“Hey Papa, where’s the food?”
Agatha crouches down on the tiles in my old-fashioned kitchen, gazing into the open fridge. And Saul’s tipping back a self-cooling carafe he’s found above the sink, his brown throat working. They’re both in cut-off shorts, ragged tops. Stuff they’ve obviously had on for days. And here’s me worrying about what I’m wearing—but the same rules don’t apply. Agatha stands up, fills her mouth with a cube of ammoniac brie from the depths of the fridge. Saul wipes his lips on the back of his hand, smiles. As though he senses that the hug on the doorstep might have passed me by, he comes over to me. He gives me another. Held tight, towered over, I feel the rub of his stubbled jaw against my bald head as he murmurs Papa, it’s good to be here. And Agatha joins in, kisses me with cheese crumbs on her lips, bringing the sense of all the miles she’s traveled to get here, the salt dust of a million far-off places. I’m tempted to pull away when I feel the soft pressure of her breasts against my arm. But this moment is too sweet, too innocent. I wish it could go on forever.
Finally, we step back and regard each other.
“You should have let me know you were coming,” I say, wondering why I have to spoil this moment by complaining. “I’d have stocked up.”
“We tried, Papa,” Agatha says.
Saul nods. “A few days ago at the shuttleport in Athens, Papa. And then I don’t know how many times on the ferry through the islands. But all we got was the engaged flag.”
“I’ve been meaning,” I say, “to get the console fixed.”
Saul smiles, not believing for one moment. He asks, “Would you like me to take a look?”
I shrug. Then I nod Yes, because the console really does need reprogramming. And Saul and Agatha were probably genuinely worried when they couldn’t get through, even though nothing serious could happen without one of my implant alarms going off.
“But you don’t mind us coming, do you, Papa? I mean, if we’re getting in the way or anything. Just say and we’ll go.” Agatha’s teasing, of course, just to see the look on Papa’s face.
“No, no.” I lift my hands in surrender, feeling the joints starting to ease. “It’s wonderful to have you here. Stay with us as long as you want. Do whatever you like. That’s what grandparents are for.”
They nod sagely, as though Papa’s spoken a great truth. But sharp-eyed glances are exchanged across the ancient kitchen table, and I catch the echo of my words before they fade. And I realize what Papa’s gone and said. We. Us.
Why did I use the plural? Why? When Hannah’s been dead for more than seventy years?
* * *
An hour later, after the hormones and lubricants have stabilized, I’m heading down to the port in my rattletrap open-top Ford. Off shopping to feed those hungry mouths even though I want to hold onto every moment of Saul and Agatha’s company.
White houses, cool streets framing slabs of sea and sky. I drive down here to the port once or twice a week to get what little stuff I need these days, but today I’m seeing things I’ve never noticed before. Canaries and flowers on the window ledges. A stall filled with candied fruit and marzipan mice, wafting a sugared breeze. I park the Ford in the square, slap on my autolegs and head off just as the noonday bells begin to chime.
By the time I reach Antonio’s, my usual baker, the display on the fat-wheeled trolley I picked up in the concourse by the fountains is already reading Full Load. I really should have selected the larger model, but you have to put in extra money or something. Antonio grins. He’s a big man, fronting slopes of golden crust, cherry-nippled lines of iced bun. Sweaty and floured, he loves his job the way everyone seems to these days.
I’m pointing everywhere. Two, no, three loaves. And up there; never mind, I’ll have some anyway. And those long twirly things—are they sweet?—I’ve always wondered.…
“You’ve got visitors?” He packs the crisp warm loaves into crisp brown bags.
“My grandchildren.” I smile, broody as a hen. “They came out of nowhere this morning.”
“That’s great,” he beams. He’d slap my shoulder if he could reach that far across the marble counter. “How old?”
I shrug. What is it now? Bill’s eighty-something. So—nearly thirty. But that can’t be right.…
“Anyway,” he hands me the bags, too polite to ask if I can manage. “Now’s a good time.” My autolegs hiss as I back out toward the door. The loaded trolley follows.
But he’s right. Now is a good time. The very best.
I drop the bags of bread on my way back to the square. The trolley’s too full to help even if I knew how to ask it, and I can’t
bend down without climbing out of the autolegs, but a grey-haired woman gathers them up from the pavement and helps me back to the car.
“You drive?” she asks as I clank across the square toward my Ford and the trolley rumbles behind in attendance. It’s a museum piece. She chuckles again. Her face is hidden under the shadow-weave of a straw sunhat.
Then she says, “Grandchildren—how lovely,” as nectarines and oranges tumble into the back seat. I can’t remember telling her about Saul and Agatha as we walked—in my absorption, I can’t even remember speaking—but perhaps it’s the only possible explanation for someone of my age doing this amount of shopping. When I look up to thank her, she’s already heading off under the date palms. The sway of a floral print dress. Crinkled elbows and heels, sandals flapping, soft wisps of grey hair, the rings on her slightly lumpen fingers catching in sunlight. I’m staring, thinking. Thinking, if only.
* * *
Back at the house, hours after the quick trip I’d intended, the front door is open, unlocked. The thing usually bleeps like mad when I leave it even fractionally ajar, but my grandchildren have obviously managed to disable it. I step out of my autolegs. I stand there in my own hall, feeling the tingling in my synthetic hip, waiting for my corneas to adjust to the change in light.
“I’m back!”
There’s silence—or as close to silence as these eardrums will allow. Beating waves. Beating heart. And breathing. Soft, slow breathing. I follow the sound.
Inside my bathroom, it looks as if Saul and Agatha have been washing a large and very uncooperative dog. Sodden towels are everywhere, and the floor is a soapy lake, but then they’re of a generation that’s used to machines clearing up after them. Beyond, in the shadowed double room they’ve taken for their own, my grandchildren lie curled. Agatha’s in my old off-white dressing gown—which, now I’ve seen her in it, I’ll never want to wash or replace. Her hair spills across the pillow, her thumb rests close to her mouth. And Saul’s stretched on the mattress facing the other way, naked, his bum pressed against hers. Long flanks of honey-brown. He’s smooth and still, lovely as a statue.
There’s a tomb-memorial I saw once—in an old cathedral, in old England—of two sleeping children, carved in white marble. I must have been there with Hannah, for I remember the ease of her presence beside me, or at least the absence of the ache that has hardly ever left me since. And I remember staring at those sweet white faces and thinking how impossible that kind of serenity was, even in the wildest depths of childhood. But now it happens all the time. Everything’s an everyday miracle.
I back away. Close the door, making a clumsy noise that I hope doesn’t wake them. I unload the shopping in the kitchen by hand, watching the contents of my bags diminish as if by magic as I place them on the shelves. So much becoming so little. But never mind; there’s enough for a late lunch, maybe dinner. And my grandchildren are sleeping and the house swirls with their dreams. It’s time, anyway, to ring Bill.
* * *
My son’s in his office. Bill always looks different on the console, and as usual I wonder if this is a face he puts on especially for me. In theory, Bill’s like Antonio—working simply because he loves his job—but I find that hard to believe. Everything about Bill speaks of duty rather than pleasure. I see the evening towers of a great city through a window beyond his shoulder. The lights of homeward-bound flyers drifting like sparks in a bonfire-pink sky. But which city? Bill’s always moving, chasing business. My console finds him anyway, but it isn’t programmed to tell you where unless you specifically ask. And I don’t know how.
“Hi, Dad.”
Two or three beats. Somewhere, nowhere, space dissolves, instantaneously relaying this silence between us. Bill’s waiting for me to say why I’ve called. He knows Papa wouldn’t call unless he had a reason.
I say, “You look fine, son.”
He inclines his head in acknowledgment. His hair’s still mostly a natural red-brown—which was Hannah’s color—but I see that he’s started to recede, and go grey. And there are deep creases around the hollows of his eyes as he stares at me. If I didn’t know any better, I’d almost say that my son was starting to look old. “You too, Dad.”
“Your kids are here. Saul and Agatha.”
“I see.” He blinks, moves swiftly on. “How are they?”
“They’re—” I want to say, great, wonderful, incredible; all those big stupid puppy dog words. “—they’re fine. Asleep at the moment, of course.”
“Where have they been?”
I wish I could just shrug, but I’ve never been comfortable using nonverbal gestures over the phone. “We haven’t really talked yet, Bill. They’re tired. I just thought I’d let you know.”
Bill purses his long, narrow lips. He’s about to say something, but then he holds it back. Tired. Haven’t talked yet. Thought I’d let you know. Oh, the casualness of it all! As though Saul and Agatha were here with their Papa last month and will probably call in next as well.
“Well, thanks, Dad. You must give them my love.”
“Any other messages?”
“Tell them I’d be happy if they could give me a call.”
“Sure, I’ll do that. How’s Meg?”
“She’s fine.”
“The two of you should come down here.”
“You could come here, Dad.”
“We must arrange something. Anyway, I’m sure you’re—”
“—pretty busy, yes. But thanks for ringing, Dad.”
“Take care, son.”
“You too.”
The screen snows. After a few moments’ fiddling, I manage to turn it off.
I set about getting a meal for my two sleeping beauties. Salads, cheese, crusty bread, slices of pepper and carrot, garlicy dips. Everything new and fresh and raw. As I do so, the conversation with Bill drones on in my head. These last few years, they can go on for hours inside me after we’ve spoken. Phrases and sentences tumbling off into new meaning. Things unsaid. Now, I’m not even sure why I bothered to call him. There’s obviously no reason why he should be worried about Saul and Agatha. Was it just to brag—Hey, look, I’ve got your kids!—or was it in the hope that, ringing out of the blue in what were apparently office hours in whatever city he was in, I’d really make contact?
Slicing with my old steel knives on the rainbow-wet cutting board, I remember Bill the young man, Bill the child, Bill the baby. Bill when Hannah and I didn’t even have a name for him two weeks out of the hospital. As Hannah had grown big in those ancient days of pre-birth uncertainty, we’d planned on Paul for a boy, Esther for a girl. But when he arrived, when we took him home and bathed him, when we looked at this tiny creature like some red Indian totem with his bulbous eyes, enormous balls, and alarmingly erect penis, Paul had seemed entirely wrong. He used to warble when he smelled Hannah close to him—we called it his milk song. And he waved his legs in the air and chuckled and laughed at an age when babies supposedly aren’t able to do that kind of thing. So we called him William. An impish, mischievous name. In our daft parental certainty, even all the dick and willy connotations had seemed entirely appropriate. But by the time he was two, he was Bill to everyone. A solid, practical name that fit, even though calling him Bill was something we’d never dreamed or wanted or intended.
* * *
In the heat of mid-afternoon, beneath the awning on the patio between sky and sea, Papa’s with his offsprings, sated with food. I feel a little sick, to be honest, but I’m hoping it doesn’t show.
“Your dad rang,” I say, finding the wine has turned the meaning of the sentence around—as though, for once, Bill had actually made the effort and contacted me.
“Rang?” Agatha puzzles over the old, unfamiliar phrase. Rang. Called. She nods. “Oh yeah?” She lifts an espadrilled foot to avoid squashing the ants who are carrying off breadcrumbs and scraps of salad. “What did he say?”
“Not much.” I’d be happy if they’d call. Did he mean he’d be unhappy otherwis
e? “Bill seemed pretty busy,” I say. “Oh, and he wanted to know where you’ve been these last few months.”
Saul laughs. “That sounds like Dad, all right.”
“He’s just interested,” I say, feeling I should put up some kind of defense.
Agatha shakes her head. “You know what Dad gets like, Papa.” She wrinkles her nose. “All serious and worried. Not that you shouldn’t be serious about things. But not about everything.”
“And he’s so bloody possessive,” Saul agrees, scratching his ribs.
I try not to nod. But they’re just saying what children have always said: waving and shouting across a generation gap that gets bigger and bigger. Hannah and me, we put off having Bill until we were late-thirties for the sake of our careers. Bill and his wife Meg, they must have both been gone fifty when they had these two. Not that they were worn out—in another age, they’d have passed for thirty—but old is old is old.
The flyers circle in the great blue dome above the bay, clear silver eggs with the rainbow flicker of improbably tiny wings; the crickets chirp amid the myrtled rocks; the yachts catch the breeze. I’d like to say something serious to Saul and Agatha as we sit out here on the patio, to try to find out what’s really going on between them and Bill, and maybe even make an attempt at repair. But instead, we start to talk about holidays. I ask them if they really have been to the Sea of Tranquillity, to the moon.
“Do you want to see?”
“I’d love to.”
Saul dives back into the house. Without actually thinking—nearly a century out of date—I’m expecting him to return with a wad of photos in an envelope. But he returns with this box, a little VR thing with tiny rows of user-defined touchpads. He holds it out toward me, but I shake my head.
The Year's Best SF 11 # 1993 Page 7