Nebula Awards Showcase 54

by Nibedita Sen

  “When they told me he was gone,” she said, half to me and half to no one, “my own head went a-rolling. I had no mind, no purpose. I wanted only to be in the street, in the crowds. In my slippers I walked through the muck, seeing nothing, facing no one, until I was brought up short … by whiteness. White on white, like a heap of saint-souls. I stood, marveling, before a shop-window full of Low Country linen. So, so beautiful. Mother used to say, ah, Meg, it’s a shame to bring it home, it ne’er can be so pure again. I suddenly had a single thought: a winding-sheet. Father must be wrapped for burial. Of course. But I had no purse. I had left the house in such grief and such haste, I had come away with nothing. Yet I pointlessly, automatically patted the little sewing-pocket of my skirts, and pulled from that pocket three gold sovereigns, which were not there before. And so I came home no longer mad and pitiable, but sensible, and done with my errand, and this winding-sheet was worth two pounds at the most.” She flapped at me the bit of cloth she’d been a-worrying. “Just look at it! Little better than dagswain. Such is the world without my father, friend Aliquo: petty miracles, and petty frauds.” She shook her head, seemed to focus on me. “But my household will e’er remember your good offices. I pray you, seek your perfect homeland. I hope it exists—but you’ll not find it here.” Her eyes ceased to see me. “Ay, not here.”

  She and her man turned and walked away. “We’ll pickle him, I think,” I heard her say, “with some elderflower.”

  As that grim burden swung at Roper’s hip, down the alley and into the street, her father’s not-voice resumed its wailing.

  God damn you. God damn you! God damn you ALL!

  I stood at the alley’s mouth and watched them grow smaller in the distance, the voice diminishing all the while, until they could not be seen, and More could not be heard.

  • • •

  Freed of my burden, freed of my hopes, I walked southward, away from the city, toward the sea. I moved among women and men, but saw no one, heard nothing.

  Two days later, I crouched on a quay on the wet lip of England, hidden behind shipping-barrels, and removed from my pouch the not-More head I had carried all that way.

  “Farewell, friend Zapolet,” I told it, and laid it onto the surface of the water, as gently as More must have laid his firstborn babe, wiggling and shiny, ’pon her coverlet. I watched the Zapolet’s staring head roll ’neath the waves, as the babe sinks into the adult. Then it was gone forever.

  I re-entered the crowd and found a line to stand in, waiting to book passage. Something tugged at my breeches. A grimy child, of indeterminate sex, holding a tray of sweetmeats.

  “Suckets, Milord?”

  Suckets, repeated More.

  I bellowed and whirled, my feet crushing the scattered sweetmeats as the child fled. I stared into the incredulous faces of strangers jostling to get away from me. Gulls shrieked. The ocean heaved. Ships’ colors whipped in the hot wind.

  Thou fool, said More. Whose head do you think I’m in?

  • • •

  I write this letter in an English inn, a half-day’s walk from London.

  I said at the outset that I had failed, and so I believed at the time. Perhaps I will believe that again. In the meantime, with every northward step away from home, questions roil in my head—philosophical questions, such as those chewed after dinner, in the refectories of Aircastle. I will pose them to you.

  Was I treated well, or ill, when my lover’s husband discovered me in the arms of his wife, and assumed the entire fault was mine?

  Was I treated well, or ill, when I, a mere girl, was charged with “forbidden embraces,” with “defiling the marriage bed”? When my lover was persuaded to swear untruths against me, to save herself?

  Was I treated well, or ill, when I was sentenced to slavery? When I was assured my bondage would be temporary if I was good, and if I denied my nature forevermore? When I was told, moreover, that I was fortunate, that voyagers stepped onto our docks daily in hopes of achieving slavery in Utopia, so preferable to freedom elsewhere?

  Was I treated well, or ill, when my natural strength and agility placed me in endless daily training, in service to a citizenry that viewed combat and assassination as tasks fit only for mercenaries and slaves?

  Was I treated well, or ill, when I was ordered to rescue a half-mythical figure in a faraway land where even my sex must be denied and disguised, if I am to function at all, and promised my freedom if I succeeded?

  It is true, my former fellow citizens, my former masters and mistresses, I did not rescue More. He is dead. He reminds me daily of this fact, and of the impossibility of a better world to come, though in an ever fainter voice, one that I am growing used to. Mostly, now, he speaks a single name.

  More is unsaved, and yet, I write you today as a free woman, to say farewell.

  Our homeland is not perfect. No homeland is. But all lands can be made more perfect—even this England. And all lands have perfection within them: somewhere, sometime, someone.

  Thus ends my story and my service, ye Prince and Tranibors of our good land, ye Syphogrants and families thereof. May my example be instructive to you and to your assigns. Though I never return to Utopia, never walk again beside the Waterless Stream, I will feel my people with me always, all those stern and rational generations. I will always be your agent, but I serve another, now.

  The Substance of My Lives, The Accidents of Our Births

  by José Pablo Iriarte

  I seem to make an outcast of myself every time I’m a teenager. Which is fine, I guess. I’ll take one good dog and one good friend over being a phony and fitting in.

  Alicia points. “There he is, Jamie!”

  A couple hundred feet away, our trailer park’s newest resident grabs a box from the van parked in front of his single-wide. He’s gray-haired and buff, like if The Rock were an old man.

  Alicia and I are sprawled on top of a wooden picnic table in the park’s rusted old playground.

  She frowns, her eyebrows coming together to form a tiny crease above her nose. “I’ve never known anybody who killed someone before.”

  I shrug.

  “I mean, maybe I have, I guess, but I’ve never known I’ve known them. Know what I mean?”

  “No.”

  I don’t really care about the new guy, even if he did murder someone once. I’m mostly just out here to not have to listen to old Mrs. Francis concern-trolling my mom. When I was a kid who sometimes acted like a boy and sometimes like a girl, it was “just a phase.” Now that I’m sixteen, it’s “worrying” and “not safe for the younger children” and something we should “talk to a therapist about.”

  What Mrs. Francis doesn’t know is that I remember every life I’ve lived for nearly four hundred years—not in detail, but like a book I read once and have a few hazy recollections about. In over a dozen lifetimes I can recall, I’ve been male and female enough times for those words to mean little more to me than a particular shirt—not who I am.

  My mom’s too polite to tell a neighbor what she can do with her un-asked-for parenting advice. Trailer walls are thin, though, and if I have to hear it too . . . well, Sabal Palms Trailer Park might end up with two murderers living in it.

  Next to me, my dog Meetu nudges my hand with her head, asking for more scritches. She’s supposed to protect me from people who are as bothered by me as Mrs. Francis is, but would rather use their fists to try and fix me. People like Connor Haines, the biggest asshole in the eleventh grade. But the reality is that Meetu is basically a teddy bear trapped in a pit bull’s body.

  Alicia shifts on the table. “I can’t believe my mom let him rent here.” Her mother manages the park, so I guess she could have blocked him if she’d wanted to.

  “Even ex-murderers gotta live somewhere.”

  She gives me her patented don’t-be-obtuse combination eyeroll and headshake that I’ve never seen anybody else quite match. Even when it’s directed at me, I can’t help but grin.

  “There’
s no such thing as an ‘ex-murderer,’” she says. “Once you kill someone, you’re a murderer.”

  I brush my hair out of my face. “He went to jail. He did his time, right? They let him out, so where else is he gonna live?” We’ve certainly had other people with checkered pasts here.

  “They shouldn’t have let him out. You take somebody’s life, you ought to rot for the rest of yours.”

  Meetu shoves her giant head under my arm and rests it on my lap. Guess I’m not going anywhere for a while.

  “There’s no heaven,” Alicia declares. “The Jesus freaks are wrong about that. There’s nothing but this. If people realized that, they’d take this life more seriously. You only get one.”

  She’s wrong, but I can’t explain to her how I know, so I don’t bother trying.

  A woman about my mom’s age helps the man unpack, while a toddler stumbles around the grassy area in front of the trailer. He seems kind of old to have a little kid, but maybe he’s making up for lost time.

  “I can’t understand what kind of woman would want to live with a killer, much less have a child with him.” She peers at the table beneath her and runs a fingernail along a carved heart that’s older than we are. “Not that I get wanting to be with any man.”

  The new neighbor comes out for another load. He glances our way, and even at this distance, our eyes lock, and a cold itch runs from the small of my back to the top of my scalp.

  I know him. I know him from before.

  I don’t mean I know his soul. I know him.

  Alicia gives me a little shove, and I realize she’s been talking at me for a while.

  “Are you okay?”

  I blink. Even Meetu looks concerned, her muscular head cocked.

  “I’m fine.”

  “Are you sure?”

  I nod, but she doesn’t stop staring and looking worried, so I add, “You’re right. It’s weird living next to a murderer.”

  Her face softens. “I didn’t hurt your feelings, did I? When I said . . . that? I wasn’t talking about you.”

  “Nah,” I say. “I know you weren’t.”

  The new guy goes back into his trailer.

  “What did you say his name was?” I ask.

  “Benjamin,” she answers softly. After a few quiet seconds, she adds, “You did a really nice job on your nails.”

  I glance down at my newly red nails. She’s painted them for me a couple times before, but this is the first time I’ve done them myself. I’m grateful that she doesn’t qualify the compliment. Doesn’t add, for a guy. But of course she wouldn’t—that’s why I—that’s why she’s my best friend.

  • • •

  I try to let it go. So I’ve got a neighbor that I knew in a past life. So he’s a convict. The past is dead. Who cares.

  Over the next couple days, though, my mind keeps returning to Benjamin. I feel like he was important for some reason. By the middle of the week I admit to myself that I’m not going to move on until I figure out what role he played in my life.

  I’m not quite sure how to do that, though. I could ask Alicia for help. She’s got a laptop and internet. I don’t even have a smartphone. I don’t want to open up the can of worms that is my past lives, though, so instead I decide to see what I can find out at the library.

  I feed Meetu an early dinner while Mom’s still at work, grab my backpack and bus pass, and head out.

  Once I’m there, I have to face the fact that I don’t have the first idea how to research anything about this guy. I don’t even know his full name.

  What’s B’s last name? I text Alicia.

  Avery. Why?

  What do I say that won’t make her ask a thousand questions I don’t want to answer? Just wondering.

  UR totally gonna snoop arent you?

  I consider possible deflections. Lying to Alicia feels scuzzy, though, and anyway, I can’t think of any lies to tell. maybe just a little

  I stare at my tiny screen, worried that she’s going to offer to join me. After a minute her reply shows up, though, and it’s just haha well lmk what you dig up.

  I sigh, feeling both relieved and ashamed of my relief.

  Even with his last name, I struggle. I don’t know how to weed out other people named Benjamin, other people named Avery, other murderers. I don’t even know when he went to jail—how long is a sentence for murder, anyway?

  Finally I stumble across what I’m looking for—a news archive from the 1970s, with a grainy black and white photo of a man that looks a lot younger, but that’s definitely him.

  A Vietnam War veteran, possibly shell-shocked and deranged since coming back. A crime of passion—the victim, his best friend’s wife. A body dug up by the shore of Peace Creek, not far away at all. Then I come across a photo of the formerly happy couple: Larry Dearborn and his wife Jamie.

  Janie. Not Jamie. Janie. But the name doesn’t matter.

  It’s me.

  • • •

  It’s raining when I stagger out of the library. On the bus ride home I lean my head against the window and watch the torrents sheeting down the glass.

  Janie would be in her sixties, if she’d lived. I don’t remember ever being old. I always seem to die young. I don’t remember dying. End-of-life memories are hazy, same as beginning-of-life memories.

  I glance away from the window and notice a little girl staring at me from the seat across the aisle. Her father sits next to her, but he’s focused on his phone.

  “Are you a boy or a girl?” she asks.

  Before I can catch myself, my stock answer comes out. “No.”

  She tilts her head in confusion.

  I imagine how I must look to her. Rain-soaked long hair, purple V-neck, red nails. Hell, she’s just a kid. “I’m a little of both,” I add.

  Her eyes widen. “Oh!”

  I turn back toward the window. Now that I’ve seen the photos and read the articles, bits and pieces of that life are coming back to me.

  Benjamin looks like I imagine a murderer would—big and tough and unhappy. The newspaper says he killed me.

  So why does that feel wrong?

  • • •

  The next day, school drags on more than usual. I can’t focus on Henry James or rational functions when my alleged murderer just moved into the neighborhood.

  My walk home is the vulnerable spot in my routine, because Meetu’s not with me. So of course that’s when Connor Haines ambushes me.

  He’s sitting on the concrete Sabal Palms sign outside the trailer park. His sycophant friend Eddie stands by his side.

  A spike of fear travels through my body.

  “What’s up, Jimmy,” he calls.

  I don’t bother correcting him. I was “Jimmy” when he met me—it was only four years ago that I decided “Jamie” fit better. More importantly, Connor doesn’t care.

  I consider my options. I could turn around. Go inside the Steak and Shake one block down and wait him out. Or I could run and try to reach my trailer ahead of him, and hide out there. But if I wanted to hide, my hair would be shorter and my nails wouldn’t be red. It may cost me, but I won’t start running or hiding now.

  They fall in step with me as I pass the sign.

  “Where’s your dress, Jimmy?” Eddie asks.

  Eddie is smaller than I am. I’m not a fighter, though, and he can be brave knowing he’s got Connor backing his play.

  “It was too ugly for me, so I gave it to Connor’s mom.”

  I barely see Connor’s fist before it hits my face. I stagger sideways, tasting blood.

  “Why you gotta be such a freak, Jimmy?” Connor asks. “I don’t care if you like guys, but why you gotta act like a girl?”

  My clothes aren’t particularly girlish today: blue jeans and a teal Polo. And I’m neither a gay boy nor a trans girl. Trying to explain is a losing game, though, so I just try to push past.

  Eddie’s fist lands in my stomach, driving the air out of me.

  Connor grabs my arm. “Don’t wa
lk away when we’re talking to you, Jimmy. It’s rude. A real lady would know better.”

  “What’s going on fellas?”

  Benjamin’s standing a dozen feet away. His arms are crossed, his sleeves barely making it halfway down his bulging biceps.

  “We’re just talking to our friend,” Connor says.

  “You’ve talked enough. Unless you want me to talk too.”

  Connor releases my arm and backs away. “See you at school tomorrow, Jimmy,” he sneers.

  “Yeah,” Eddie adds. “Don’t forget to wear your dress.”

  I watch them walk away. I understand what they’re saying—sooner or later they’ll find me when I have nobody to protect me.

  “You’re bleeding,” Benjamin says. “Is your mom home?”

  “She’s at work.”

  I probably shouldn’t say that to the convicted murderer.

  “Why don’t you let me help you.”

  My instinct is to mumble some excuse, but I don’t believe he’s a murderer. Anyway, I want to know how he fit into my old life and why everybody thought he killed me, so I follow him.

  His trailer’s one of the first ones, and I see his windows are open. Probably how he noticed Connor and Eddie harassing me.

  I’ve seen dumpier trailers, but not often.

  The previous tenant had been a hoarder. When she died in her trailer last year, Alicia and her mom had to clean the place out, and I helped. The place had been full of arts and crafts junk and half-eaten containers of food. We’d worn masks, and no amount of vacuuming and Lysol had made it tolerable inside.

  Just goes to show there’s always somebody desperate enough to settle for anything.

  I don’t smell the death smell anymore—what I smell is about a half dozen Plug-Ins, all churning away at once. I guess that’s an improvement.

  Benjamin and his family don’t have much furniture. A worn futon backs up against one wall of the living room, and a rickety table leans awkwardly under the kitchen light. A makeshift bookshelf sags with paperbacks and magazines. I wonder if they’re his wife’s—girlfriend’s?—and then my face heats up. I’m the last person who should be making assumptions.