Well, we had all these children out planting trees, see, because we figured that ... that was part of their education, to see how, you know, the root systems ... and also the sense of responsibility, taking care of things, being individually responsible. You know what I mean. And the trees all died. They were orange trees. I don’t know why they died, they just died. Something wrong with the soil possibly or maybe the stuff we got from the nursery wasn’t the best. We complained about it. So we’ve got thirty kids there, each kid had his or her own little tree to plant and we’ve got these thirty dead trees. All these kids looking at these little brown sticks, it was depressing.
It wouldn’t have been so bad except that just a couple of weeks before the thing with the trees, the snakes all died. But I think that the snakes – well, the reason that the snakes kicked off was that ... you remember, the boiler was shut off for four days because of the strike, and that was explicable. It was something you could explain to the kids because of the strike. I mean, none of their parents would let them cross the picket line and they knew there was a strike going on and what it meant. So when things got started up again and we found the snakes they weren’t too disturbed.
With the herb gardens it was probably a case of overwatering, and at least now they know not to overwater. The children were very conscientious with the herb gardens and some of them probably ... you know, slipped them a little extra water when we weren’t looking. Or maybe ... well, I don’t like to think about sabotage, although it did occur to us. I mean, it was something that crossed our minds. We were thinking that way probably because before that the gerbils had died, and the white mice had died, and the salamander ... well, now they know not to carry them around in plastic bags.
Of course we expected the tropical fish to die, that was no surprise. Those numbers, you look at them crooked and they’re belly-up on the surface. But the lesson plan called for a tropical fish input at that point, there was nothing we could do, it happens every year, you just have to hurry past it.
We weren’t even supposed to have a puppy.
We weren’t even supposed to have one, it was just a puppy the Murdoch girl found under a Gristede’s truck one day and she was afraid the truck would run over it when the driver had finished making his delivery, so she stuck it in her knapsack and brought it to the school with her. So we had this puppy. As soon as I saw the puppy I thought, Oh Christ, I bet it will live for about two weeks and then... And that’s what it did. It wasn’t supposed to be in the classroom at all, there’s some kind of regulation about it, but you can’t tell them they can’t have a puppy when the puppy is already there, right in front of them, running around on the floor and yap yap yapping. They named it Edgar – that is, they named it after me. They had a lot of fun running after it and yelling, “Here, Edgar! Nice Edgar!” Then they’d laugh like hell. They enjoyed the ambiguity. I enjoyed it myself. I don’t mind being kidded. They made a little house for it in the supply closet and all that. I don’t know what it died of. Distemper, I guess. It probably hadn’t had any shots. I got it out of there before the kids got to school. I checked the supply closet each morning, routinely, because I knew what was going to happen. I gave it to the custodian.
And then there was this Korean orphan that the class adopted through the Help the Children program, all the kids brought in a quarter a month, that was the idea. It was an unfortunate thing, the kid’s name was Kim and maybe we adopted him too late or something. The cause of death was not stated in the letter we got, they suggested we adopt another child instead and sent us some interesting case histories, but we didn’t have the heart. The class took it pretty hard, they began (I think, nobody ever said anything to me directly) to feel that maybe there was something wrong with the school. But I don’t think there’s anything wrong with the school, particularly, I’ve seen better and I’ve seen worse. It was just a run of bad luck. We had an extraordinary number of parents passing away, for instance. There were I think two heart attacks and two suicides, one drowning, and four killed together in a car accident. One stroke. And we had the usual heavy mortality rate among the grandparents, or maybe it was heavier this year, it seemed so. And finally the tragedy.
The tragedy occurred when Matthew Wein and Tony Mavrogordo were playing over where they’re excavating for the new federal office building. There were all these big wooden beams stacked, you know, at the edge of the excavation. There’s a court case coming out of that, the parents are claiming that the beams were poorly stacked. I don’t know what’s true and what’s not. It’s been a strange year.
I forgot to mention Billy Brandt’s father who was knifed fatally when he grappled with a masked intruder in his home.
One day, we had a discussion in class. They asked me, where did they go? The trees, the salamander, the tropical fish, Edgar, the poppas and mommas, Matthew and Tony, where did they go? And I said, I don’t know, I don’t know. And they said, who knows? and I said, nobody knows. And they said, is death that which gives meaning to life? And I said no, life is that which gives meaning to life. Then they said, but isn’t death, considered as a fundamental datum, the means by which the taken-for-granted mundanity of the everyday may be transcended in the direction of –
I said, yes, maybe.
They said, we don’t like it.
I said, that’s sound.
They said, it’s a bloody shame!
I said, it is.
They said, will you make love now with Helen (our teaching assistant) so that we can see how it is done? We know you like Helen.
I do like Helen but I said that I would not.
We’ve heard so much about it, they said, but we’ve never seen it.
I said I would be fired and that it was never, or almost never, done as a demonstration. Helen looked out the window.
They said, please, please make love with Helen, we require an assertion of value, we are frightened.
I said that they shouldn’t be frightened (although I am often frightened) and that there was value everywhere. Helen came and embraced me. I kissed her a few times on the brow. We held each other. The children were excited. Then there was a knock on the door, I opened the door, and the new gerbil walked in. The children cheered wildly.
Liked this story? Read more of the same genre.
Not your thing? Browse other short stories here.
Up next: Lamb to the Slaughter, a short story about the murder of police detective Patrick Maloney by his wife Mary.
"They're made out of meat."
"Meat?"
"Meat. They're made out of meat."
"Meat?"
"There's no doubt about it. We picked up several from different parts of the planet, took them aboard our recon vessels, and probed them all the way through. They're completely meat."
"That's impossible. What about the radio signals? The messages to the stars?"
"They use the radio waves to talk, but the signals don't come from them. The signals come from machines."
"So who made the machines? That's who we want to contact."
"They made the machines. That's what I'm trying to tell you. Meat made the machines."
"That's ridiculous. How can meat make a machine? You're asking me to believe in sentient meat."
"I'm not asking you, I'm telling you. These creatures are the only sentient race in that sector and they're made out of meat."
"Maybe they're like the orfolei. You know, a carbon-based intelligence that goes through a meat stage."
"Nope. They're born meat and they die meat. We studied them for several of their life spans, which didn't take long. Do you have any idea what's the life span of meat?"
"Spare me. Okay, maybe they're only part meat. You know, like the weddilei. A meat head with an electron plasma brain inside."
"Nope. We thought of that, since they do have meat heads, like the weddilei. But I told you, we probed them. They're meat all the way through."
"No brain?"
"Oh, there's a brain all right. It's just that the brain is made out of meat! That's what I've been trying to tell you."
"So ... what does the thinking?"
"You're not understanding, are you? You're refusing to deal with what I'm telling you. The brain does the thinking. The meat."
"Thinking meat! You're asking me to believe in thinking meat!"
"Yes, thinking meat! Conscious meat! Loving meat. Dreaming meat. The meat is the whole deal! Are you beginning to get the picture or do I have to start all over?"
"Omigod. You're serious then. They're made out of meat."
"Thank you. Finally. Yes. They are indeed made out of meat. And they've been trying to get in touch with us for almost a hundred of their years."
"Omigod. So what does this meat have in mind?"
"First it wants to talk to us. Then I imagine it wants to explore the Universe, contact other sentiences, swap ideas and information. The usual."
"We're supposed to talk to meat."
"That's the idea. That's the message they're sending out by radio. 'Hello. Anyone out there. Anybody home.' That sort of thing."
"They actually do talk, then. They use words, ideas, concepts?"
"Oh, yes. Except they do it with meat."
"I thought you just told me they used radio."
"They do, but what do you think is on the radio? Meat sounds. You know how when you slap or flap meat, it makes a noise? They talk by flapping their meat at each other. They can even sing by squirting air through their meat."
"Omigod. Singing meat. This is altogether too much. So what do you advise?"
"Officially or unofficially?"
"Both."
"Officially, we are required to contact, welcome and log in any and all sentient races or multibeings in this quadrant of the Universe, without prejudice, fear or favor. Unofficially, I advise that we erase the records and forget the whole thing."
"I was hoping you would say that."
"It seems harsh, but there is a limit. Do we really want to make contact with meat?"
"I agree one hundred percent. What's there to say? 'Hello, meat. How's it going?' But will this work? How many planets are we dealing with here?"
"Just one. They can travel to other planets in special meat containers, but they can't live on them. And being meat, they can only travel through C space. Which limits them to the speed of light and makes the possibility of their ever making contact pretty slim. Infinitesimal, in fact."
"So we just pretend there's no one home in the Universe."
"That's it."
"Cruel. But you said it yourself, who wants to meet meat? And the ones who have been aboard our vessels, the ones you probed? You're sure they won't remember?"
"They'll be considered crackpots if they do. We went into their heads and smoothed out their meat so that we're just a dream to them."
"A dream to meat! How strangely appropriate, that we should be meat's dream."
"And we marked the entire sector unoccupied."
"Good. Agreed, officially and unofficially. Case closed. Any others? Anyone interesting on that side of the galaxy?"
"Yes, a rather shy but sweet hydrogen core cluster intelligence in a class nine star in G445 zone. Was in contact two galactic rotations ago, wants to be friendly again."
"They always come around."
"And why not? Imagine how unbearably, how unutterably cold the Universe would be if one were all alone ..."
Liked this story? Read more of the same genre.
Not your thing? Browse more stories here.
Up next: The School, a story describing a series of classroom calamities with a distinctly postmodern flavor.
Sometimes the only warning is a flash of sun on the lens of a sniper’s scope. Today I’m lucky enough to catch the mistake.
Funny, I think as I duck down behind the nearest parked car, I don’t feel lucky.
The car is a tiny thing, an ultra enviro-friendly Honda Righteous painted an unambiguous green. Good for the planet, bad for cover. Ahead there’s an H5 so massive and red I first take it for a fire truck. The selfish bastard parked illegally, blocking an alley, and for that I’m grateful.
I take a quick look at the roof of the building across the street before starting my dash to the Hummer. Halfway there a woman in plastic devil horns steps into my attempt to dodge her and her clipboard.
“Would-you-care-to-sign-our-petiton-in-favor-of-the-effort-against-ending-the-Florida-blockade?” Damn, she’s good. She sounds like she trained with a preBay auctioneer.
I feint left and dart right, putting her between me and the Shooter and countering, “I-already-signed-it-thanks!” so she won’t follow. It’s not the first lie I’ve told today, and it’s not likely to be the last.
Temporarily safe behind the Hummer, I lean against the heavily tinted windows of the far back seat door, glad to be standing upright but panting and sweating and wishing I wasn’t wearing the black jumpsuit I reserve for funerals and job interviews. Nanofiber, my ass—it can’t even keep up with a little physical activity on a hot April day.
I start the long walk toward the front bumper, figuring I’ll duck into the alley and continue on my way one block over. It seems like a good plan until another Shooter steps out of the alley.
This one has a pistol. I’d go cross-eyed if I tried to look down the barrel.
“Oh, come on,” I say, backing away slowly. “Not the face.”
He dips the barrel down a bit. I sigh and start pulling the zipper at the high neck of my jumpsuit in the same direction. I stop just shy of revealing cleavage—I’ll get shot in the face before I give this punk an eyeful.
He shrugs and fires.
“You little bastard!” I yell at his retreating back as I pull out the dart out of my forehead. “I want your license number!”
Of course he doesn’t bother to stop. They never do.
The itching starts almost immediately, and I reflexively reach up and touch the bump above my eyes. I know better than to scratch it, but I do anyway. The scratching releases a flood of chemicals that create a powerful and specific food craving. I brace myself.
French fries. French fries from the den of the evil clown, where they don’t even pretend to use potatoes anymore. I hate those french fries, so golden and crispy on the outside, so moist and fluffy on the inside—
No no no no no, I do not want them.
I manage to get past the first shadow the clown casts on my route with relative calm, but by the second the itching is more intense and all I can imagine are french fries. Disgusting, nasty, tasty, delicious french fries.
This is not the way to walk into a job interview.
The site of my two o’clock appointment looms in the office tower ahead…right behind a third opportunity to relieve the craving. I keep moving, trying not to think about how well the diabetes-inducing corn syrupy sweet ketchup complements the blood pressure-raising salty savor of the fries.
I make a full circuit through the revolving doors of the office building before going back toward the object of my involuntary, chemically-enhanced desire.
The food odors pounce immediately and I can almost feel the molecules sticking to my clothes. Even if I turn around now I’ll smell like fast food.
“Let’s get this over with,” I say unnecessarily to the credit scanner, staring it down until it greenlights my ability to pay for food I don’t really want. None of the automat compartments contain fries, which is unusual, so I punch hard at a picture of french fries on the order panel. The dents in the panel tell me I’m not the only customer who feels antagonistic about buying food here.
It shouldn’t take more than a minute or two for the fries to appear in a compartment, so when they don’t I start pounding on the automat.
“Hey, hurry it up!” I yell, scratching furiously at the bump on my forehead.
The back door of the empty fry compartment slides open. An eye stares out at me.
“What?”
“Fries. I need fries.”
“We’re out of fries,” the voice behind the automat says.
“How can you be out of fries? You’ve got Shooters out there making people crave the damned things!”
“That’s why we’re out.”
“Doesn’t the head office coordinate this stuff?”
The eye blinks twice and the door slides shut.
It’s 1:47, enough time to go back to the second place if I hurry. But I don’t hurry. I pace in the street, muttering to myself like a lunatic. It’s almost five minutes before I quit trying to control the craving and dash back the way I came.
I give the next credit scanner an especially dirty look, then yank open the one compartment with fries. I stop only to pump blobs of ketchup from the dispenser. On my way out I pass an old man scratching his arm as he raves through an open compartment, “How can you be out of fish sandwiches?!”
“Try the one on Third and Pine,” I say around a mouthful of fries.
~~~
CraveTech’s offices are both plush and haphazard, the combined result of a record-breaking IPO and the latest design fad: early dot-com retro. I arrive sweaty, greasy, nauseated, and thoroughly pissed off. I smile at the receptionist anyway, a fashionably sulky blonde boy seated in a vintage Aeron chair behind a desk made out of two sawhorses topped with an old door and a crystal vase.
“Alex Monroe. I have a two o’clock with Mr. Avery.”
“Two o’clock?” he says pointedly. It’s 2:02. “Have a seat. Something to drink while you’re waiting?”
“Water please.” I’ll probably retain every ounce. Damn salty french fries. There are pills that reduce bloating, of course—they sell them out of the same automat—but I wouldn’t hand over any more of my money.
I’ve just taken my first sip when a young man pops out of the office. He looks like a typical startup manager: handsome, well-dressed, and almost certainly in over his head.
“Ms. Monroe, welcome!” He bounds up to me, hand extended. During the handshake he nods toward my forehead. “Ah, I see you use our products!” He laughs heartily at his own joke. I laugh back. I want this job.
“It’s a wonderful time to be in chemical advertising, Ms. Monroe,” he says, shepherding me into his office. I notice he has a proper desk. “We have some exciting deals in the works. Exciting, exciting deals.”
“Really?” I say, distracted by the fry-lump in my stomach.
“Oh, yes. Now that the Supreme Court has reversed most of those class action suits, Shooters don’t have to be stealthy. We’ve had to discontinue the tobacco lines for the time being, but otherwise it’s open season on consumers.”
I make another effort to join in his laughter, and reaching toward the bump on my head add, “It certainly is effective.”
“Indeed.” He smiles like he loaded the dart himself. “So,” he says, picking up my resume, “I see your background is in print.”
“Yes, but I’ve done some work in fragrance influence, and I’m very interested in chemical advertising’s potential.”
“Well, it is a growing field, plenty of room for trailblazers, especially with campaigns as impressive as these.” He sets my resume aside. “And of course we still have quite a lot of synergy with print.” He pulls an inch-long Crave dart out of a drawer and drops it on the desk between us. I resist the urge to cringe at the sight of the wretched thing.
“What do you see?” he asks.
I want to say a menace, but instead I tap the delivery barrel and give the context-appropriate answer. “Unused ad space.”
Suddenly he’s a schoolmaster who has finally found a bright pupil in a classroom full of dunces.
“Exactly, Ms. Monroe. Exactly. No square millimeter wasted, that’s what I say.” He leans across the table and whispers conspiratorially, “We’re looking at co-branding an AOL-Time-Warner-Starbucks Lattepalooza Crave with a Forever Fitness session discount.”
“Wow.”
“Yes. Coupons on the darts. How does that grab you?”
“Coupons.”
“Tiny coupons, like the ones on swizzle sticks. Can’t you just see it? You get Stuck, so you want the product, but you’re also concerned about your weight. The coupon helps. The coupon tells you the provider cares about your concerns. It tells you they understand.” He leans back in his chair, my cue to speak.
“Interesting. But I’d go log-in rebate rather than immediate discount. Same message, same coverage, easier on the bottom line.”
He leans forward again. “I like the way you think, Ms. Monroe.”
~~~
I hate meeting at Sandra’s house—her cats are constantly trying to climb up on my lap, I suspect because they know I’m allergic to them. But Sandra is my best friend from college, and also my cell leader, so I usually end up here at least once a week.
“Whoa, right in the forehead,” she says when she opens the door.
“Yeah, and that’s an ugly one on your neck.”
“That’s a hickey.”
“Oh, uh, sorry. Or congratulations, I guess.”
“Eh,” she shrugs, heading to the kitchen.
I follow. “Um, aren’t you a little old to be getting those?”
“Maybe, but Liam’s not too old to be giving them.” Sandra has a taste for idealistic young revolutionaries.
She starts to make herbal tea, and I know enough not to ask for coffee instead.
We take the tea to the lumpy, cat-hair covered futon in the living room. “How’d the interview go?”
“Shaky start. Getting Stuck really threw me off. But I did manage to laugh at his jokes, and, sad to say, I’m more or less qualified.”
“You do speak their language.” Sandra likes to remind me that I’ve only recently stopped being part of the problem. “So where do things stand?” she asks.
“He said he only had one more interview, and he’d call to let me know by the end of the week.”
“Did you pick up anything while you were there?”
“Not much about the next formulas. AOL-Time-Warner-Starbucks is definitely in now, but that’s old news.”
“But you think you can get access? The job’s in the right division?”
“Close enough. Marketing’s always looking over R&D’s shoulder. It won’t seem strange for me to be poking around.”
“What should I tell our counter-formula development contact?”
“Well, assuming I get the job, and assuming I can start right away, three weeks. Maybe four. It’ll depend on their security.”
She seems satisfied with this answer. “What about Plan B? How’s the Mata Hari routine working on our favorite evil genius?”
“He’s not evil—he’s just oblivious.”
She raises an eyebrow at this. “Dangerously oblivious.”
“Yes, I know.” I concentrate on picking cat hair off my clothes. “It’s going fine. Fourth date tonight. Expensive place. I should get going, actually.” I rise and head for the door. She stops me and stares pointedly at my forehead.
“Alex, don’t forget—he’s the enemy.” I consciously abort an eye-roll and substitute a smile.
“Dangerously oblivious genius equals enemy. Check.” I give her a little wave as I step outside.
“Which restaurant are you going to?” Sandra asks from the doorway.
“Prima.”
Her brow furrows. “Don’t they serve real meat?”
“Oh yes—and I’ll be ordering a steak,” I say, taking a moment to enjoy her disapproving look.
~~~
“I’ll have the porterhouse. Rare, please.”
“Make that two,” Tom says. “Mine medium.”
“Very good,” the server says. “I’ll be back with the first course shortly.” He gives us each a prim little four-star nod as he leaves.
I put my elbows on the white linen tablecloth and rest my chin on my interlaced fingers. “I’m not sure I can ever love a man who would ruin a perfectly good steak.”
Tom leans into the candlelight, too. “And I’m not sure I can trust a woman who likes her meat nearly raw.”
“I guess we’ll just have to stay together for the sex.”
“And the children.” He raises his glass to his lips.
“I’m not having sex with children, you pervert.”
He chokes on his wine and grabs his napkin. I have to give him points for not looking around to make sure we haven’t been overheard.
“If I’d known you’d be shooting wine out of your nose I’d have suggested a Merlot,” I say as innocently as I can manage.
“How,” he coughs, “did I ever end up in such hazardous company?”
~~~
We met accidentally at a Better Living Through Chemistry Expo sponsored by Dow-DuPont-Bristol-Myers-Squibb-PepsiCo six weeks ago.
Actually, we met at a hotel bar during the expo.
I was running my report through my head, thinking about the companies that had the most bad news for humanity in the works. He sat down a couple of barstools away. We traded a little eye contact and a few shy smiles in the dim light.
“So which of these evil bastards are you representing?”
He laughed. “CraveTech.”
“Ooh, a startup. Exciting.”
“Yeah. What about you?”
“Me? I’m with an underground group whose goal is to liberate people from the tyranny of corporate chemical dependence.”
“Huh. Underground, you said?”
“Yeah, we’re not very good at that part.” I was already starting to like his laugh, especially since it came so easily. “Actually, I freelance in marketing.”
“Anything I might have seen?”
“Maybe the Junior Chemical Engineer campaign.”
“‘Big Molecules for Little Hands.’”
“That’s the one,” I said, suddenly aware I was twisting a lock of my hair around my finger. I reached for my drink.
“Wasn’t there a massive judgment against them in one of the last big class action suits?”
“No, that was Union-Pfizer’s My First Exothermic Reaction. Ours were just repackaged Make Your Own Cologne! kits left over from the last Queer Eye reunion tour.”
“Clever.” He got up and closed the barstool gap between us.
“Despicable. So what do you do at CraveTech?”
“I run the place.”
“That’s funny,” I said, laughing until he slid the nearest candle closer. I squinted at a face I almost recognized from the cover of Time-Newsweek.
“Where are your glasses?”
“Contacts tonight.”
“You lose the glasses when you don’t want to be recognized.”
“Yeah, sort of a—”
“Reverse Clark Kent thing.”
He smiled. “Yeah,” and I could feel his geeky little heart reaching out for mine.
~~~
Tonight he’s wearing his glasses. He looks cute in them.
“Of course, the really exciting work is in BeMod,” he says, slicing into his steak.
“BeMod?” This seems like a good time to play dumb.
“Behavior Modification. The current dart formulas can make you want to ingest something—food, smoke, whatever. That’s easy.”
“Easy for you,” I say, raising my eyebrows toward the bump that’s only just beginning to subside.
At least he has the grace to look embarrassed. “Yeah, uh, sorry about that. But once we ship the darts to the providers, it’s pretty much out of CraveTech’s hands. I get Stuck sometimes, too, you know.”
I spell the word oblivious in my head over and over, until I lose the urge to punch him. It takes four this time, so I miss hearing yet another version of the “If It Wasn’t CraveTech It Would Be Someone Else” speech.
“…anyway, it’s all just using the chemistry of cravings,” he’s saying when I’m calm enough to tune back in. “The fact that you have to buy whatever it is you’re craving is an indirect consequence.”
“An awfully profitable indirect consequence.” I stab at a carrot.
“Yes, but see, that’s the thing: the next big leap in the field is to skip straight to the buying part. We’ve been doing some promising work with what happens to brain chemistry when avid consumers watch successful commercials.”
“So you’re trying to synthesize a drug that will make people go out and buy MaxWhite toothpaste.”
“Or a pair of NeoNikes. Or an H5.”
“Oh my God.”
He unleashes his Boy Genius grin. “Yeah. Pretty cool, huh?”
~~~
I report for my first day at CraveTech two weeks later. No one mentions that I’m dating the CEO, so I assume it hasn’t gotten out. Still, I make a point of flirting back—and being overheard—when the cute young thing from Amazon-FedEx-Kinko’s makes her rounds.
I’d told Tom up front that I was applying for the job. He was encouraging, but made it clear he would keep his nose out of it and leave things to Avery. I never see Tom around the marketing department—he seems more interested in making things than selling them, which I find endearing. If only he weren’t making such awful things.
~~~
I flop down on Sandra’s futon, narrowly missing a cat.
She puts mugs of tea on the table while I fish an envelope out of my shoulder bag. When she sits down next to me I place the envelope in her hands.
“Information,” I say, “and lots of it.” She takes the data card out of the envelope and peers at it as if she can actually make sense of what it contains.
“This is all of them?”
“All the formulas set to come out over the next six months. I’ve included a release schedule so you’ll know which ones will be hitting the street first.”
“The counter-formula team is gonna love this.”
“They’d better. That little card represents a month of my life spent smiling at banalities and pretending to care about other people’s kids.”
“So you’re ready to quit.” She sounds relieved.
“I’d love to, but I don’t think I can just yet. I still haven’t found anything about this BeMod stuff. Tom keeps going on about it, but as far as I can tell it hasn’t surfaced in R&D.”
“Isn’t it weird that he seems so serious about BeMod but you can’t find it at CraveTech?”
I laugh. “So you think he has some other lab where he’s developing chemicals he can use to rule the world?”
“Maybe not rule the world…just make a shitload of money, which is close enough.”
“You’re serious, aren’t you?”
She shifts uncomfortably on the futon. “It just seems like he’s been awfully specific about this BeMod stuff, and it hasn’t turned up where you’d expect it.”
“So what are you suggesting?”
“I think it’s time you broke up with him, and maybe quit CraveTech, too.”
“But if this BeMod stuff is in development somewhere, we’ll need to get our hands on it and start on a counter-formula as soon as we can.”
“That’s true.”
“And how do we do that if I don’t keep seeing him?”
The cell leader finally overcomes the college buddy. “Just be careful. Don’t get too attached to him.”
I pick up the data card, two gig worth of corporate espionage. “Does this seem like I’m too attached?”
~~~
I arrive at Tom’s place in a foul mood. He doesn’t notice. Dangerously oblivious.
We’re still in the foyer when he starts in about BeMod.
“I read a fascinating study on endorphins today. Apparently you can stimulate—”
“Can we please talk about something other than biochemistry?” I drop my bag on the floor.
He looks surprised and a little hurt. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize I was boring you.”
“You’re not boring me.” I reach for his hand as we head into the living room. “I just think we have more in common than an interest in BeMods and DC Comics.” I haven’t gotten around to telling him I prefer Marvel.
He stops and pulls me back toward him. “I love you.”
“See, there you go—I love me, too. Something else we have in common.”
“Oh for God’s sake,” he sighs, collapsing on his down-filled couch. “I’m trying to be serious.”
“I know.” I sit down next to him. “I’m sorry. I just need a little more time.”
“Okay. A little more time,” he says, kissing my forehead and then my neck.
It’s so easy to kiss him back.
~~~
The next time I go to Sandra’s, she has a data card for me.
“What’s this?”
“A press release. It says CraveTech is voluntarily recalling all darts because internal studies have shown them to trigger heart attacks and strokes in a small but substantial segment of the population. We need you to send it out from the CraveTech network.”
I hand the card back to her. “The media will figure out it’s bogus.”
“Not before the stock plummets. We’re set up to trigger a small drop, and the release will do the rest.”
“You know I won’t be able to go back there after I send it. They’ll trace it to me.”
“I know.” I stare hard at her. She doesn’t flinch.
“And I’ll have to break up with Tom.”
“You need to do that anyway, Alex. It’s been almost six months. That’s too long. It’s longer than you’ve dated anyone for real.”
“Sandra, sending this press release is just throwing a brick through a window. It’s meaningless in the long run. They’ll replace the window. The stock price will readjust.”
“But it will slow them down.”
“Sandra, if it isn’t CraveTech, it’ll be…”
“What?”
“Nothing.” I take the card.
“You’ll send the release?”
“I’ll send it.”
~~~
I put the few personal items that decorated my cubicle in a gym bag. I never had a picture of Tom on my desk. That would have been indiscreet.
The press release glows on my work station, one twitch away from every major news outlet and the most incendiary of the minor ones. If I had a picture of Tom, I might have stared at it for a while, maybe even whispered Sorry to it.
But I don’t, so I just flick Send.
~~~
I’ve come to break up with him. “You’re early,” he says when he greets me at the door. “I’ve planned something special.” I follow him out to the deck.
“For what?”
“Our six-month anniversary.” There’s a cloth-covered table and dining chairs, a silver champagne bucket on a stand. “In another twenty minutes there’ll be a sunset, too.” He says this like he paid for it. “But, you know,” he looks oddly apologetic, “you’re early.”
“Tom, I’m sorry…we’re not going to have a six-month anniversary.”
I expect anything from him but the crooked Boy Genius smile I love so much. “This isn’t about the press release, is it?”
I sit, a little inelegantly in my surprise.
“What press release?”
He laughs. “This conversation will probably be less awkward if I just tell you I had all your CraveTech e-mails routed to me before they went out.”
Ah.
“I was a little surprised that you actually sent it, but I do understand. I appreciate your beliefs. I love you for them—I want you to know that.” He pours us each a glass of champagne. “And besides, you really helped me out with those counter-formulas.”
I pick up my glass then set it down again. “Helped you out?”
“Absolutely. My people made a couple of tweaks, though. Your group’s design wasn’t very cost effective at the ten thousand unit level.”
“Wait, wait, wait. You’re going to manufacture our counter-formulas?”
“Oh, yes. The marketing campaign has been in development at a subsidiary company for weeks now. And the profit projections—Alex, you wouldn’t believe it. Apparently people really, really hate the craving darts.” Oh, my oblivious darling. “They’ll pay twice the cost of the actual food just to make the cravings go away.”
“But they won’t have to. We’ll be giving away the counter-formula for free.”
“Funny thing about that—the research shows people would rather pay a couple of bucks to get the antidote from a familiar, trusted source than from a pack of anarchists with a habit of blowing up buses.”
“Blowing up buses? What’re you—”
“Oh, it’s a little something we’re planning for the fourth quarter. Disinformation campaign. It’s ready for implementation now, but we think everyone will be more inclined to actively hate you during the holidays.”
“Hate me?” I stand up and start backing toward the door.
“Well, not you, your group. They’ll love you, Alex. You’ll be managing my charitable organizations, giving away money to worthy causes right and left. People love that. And they’ll love me. People love CEOs whose wives do that kind of stuff.”
“Wives?” He brings out a pistol and fires a dart into my neck. I pull out the dart and drop it on the ground.
“What was in that thing?”
He answers my question with a question as he pops open a little black velvet box.
“Alex, will you marry me?”
“Tom, you sneaky little—” I say, lost between admiration and horror. “Will I marry you?”
Of course I will.
~~~
Tom Jr. has a hard time waking up in the morning. He gets it from me, not his father, who is always up before the crack of dawn, especially since the BeMod wide dispersal aerosol went into production.
“Tommy, wake up!” I call out toward his room. There’s only a muffled grumbling in response.
I walk up to his doorway. “Really, Tommy, it’s time to get going. You’ll be late for school.”
He rolls over, groaning, but doesn’t make a move to get up. I unholster my parenting gun and shift the round in the chamber from Go to Bed to Wake Up.
“Get up, Tommy,” I say as I draw a bead on his sleep-tousled head. “I’m not going to tell you again.”
Most terribly cold it was; it snowed, and was nearly quite dark, and evening-- the last evening of the year. In this cold and darkness there went along the street a poor little girl, bareheaded, and with naked feet. When she left home she had slippers on, it is true; but what was the good of that? They were very large slippers, which her mother had hitherto worn; so large were they; and the poor little thing lost them as she scuffled away across the street, because of two carriages that rolled by dreadfully fast.
One slipper was nowhere to be found; the other had been laid hold of by an urchin, and off he ran with it; he thought it would do capitally for a cradle when he some day or other should have children himself. So the little maiden walked on with her tiny naked feet, that were quite red and blue from cold. She carried a quantity of matches in an old apron, and she held a bundle of them in her hand. Nobody had bought anything of her the whole livelong day; no one had given her a single farthing.
She crept along trembling with cold and hunger--a very picture of sorrow, the poor little thing!
The flakes of snow covered her long fair hair, which fell in beautiful curls around her neck; but of that, of course, she never once now thought. From all the windows the candles were gleaming, and it smelt so deliciously of roast goose, for you know it was New Year's Eve; yes, of that she thought.
In a corner formed by two houses, of which one advanced more than the other, she seated herself down and cowered together. Her little feet she had drawn close up to her, but she grew colder and colder, and to go home she did not venture, for she had not sold any matches and could not bring a farthing of money: from her father she would certainly get blows, and at home it was cold too, for above her she had only the roof, through which the wind whistled, even though the largest cracks were stopped up with straw and rags.
Her little hands were almost numbed with cold. Oh! a match might afford her a world of comfort, if she only dared take a single one out of the bundle, draw it against the wall, and warm her fingers by it. She drew one out. "Rischt!" how it blazed, how it burnt! It was a warm, bright flame, like a candle, as she held her hands over it: it was a wonderful light. It seemed really to the little maiden as though she were sitting before a large iron stove, with burnished brass feet and a brass ornament at top. The fire burned with such blessed influence; it warmed so delightfully. The little girl had already stretched out her feet to warm them too; but--the small flame went out, the stove vanished: she had only the remains of the burnt-out match in her hand.
She rubbed another against the wall: it burned brightly, and where the light fell on the wall, there the wall became transparent like a veil, so that she could see into the room. On the table was spread a snow-white tablecloth; upon it was a splendid porcelain service, and the roast goose was steaming famously with its stuffing of apple and dried plums. And what was still more capital to behold was, the goose hopped down from the dish, reeled about on the floor with knife and fork in its breast, till it came up to the poor little girl; when--the match went out and nothing but the thick, cold, damp wall was left behind. She lighted another match. Now there she was sitting under the most magnificent Christmas tree: it was still larger, and more decorated than the one which she had seen through the glass door in the rich merchant's house.
Thousands of lights were burning on the green branches, and gaily-colored pictures, such as she had seen in the shop-windows, looked down upon her. The little maiden stretched out her hands towards them when--the match went out. The lights of the Christmas tree rose higher and higher, she saw them now as stars in heaven; one fell down and formed a long trail of fire.
"Someone is just dead!" said the little girl; for her old grandmother, the only person who had loved her, and who was now no more, had told her, that when a star falls, a soul ascends to God.
She drew another match against the wall: it was again light, and in the lustre there stood the old grandmother, so bright and radiant, so mild, and with such an expression of love.
"Grandmother!" cried the little one. "Oh, take me with you! You go away when the match burns out; you vanish like the warm stove, like the delicious roast goose, and like the magnificent Christmas tree!" And she rubbed the whole bundle of matches quickly against the wall, for she wanted to be quite sure of keeping her grandmother near her. And the matches gave such a brilliant light that it was brighter than at noon-day: never formerly had the grandmother been so beautiful and so tall. She took the little maiden, on her arm, and both flew in brightness and in joy so high, so very high, and then above was neither cold, nor hunger, nor anxiety--they were with God.
But in the corner, at the cold hour of dawn, sat the poor girl, with rosy cheeks and with a smiling mouth, leaning against the wall--frozen to death on the last evening of the old year. Stiff and stark sat the child there with her matches, of which one bundle had been burnt. "She wanted to warm herself," people said. No one had the slightest suspicion of what beautiful things she had seen; no one even dreamed of the splendor in which, with her grandmother she had entered on the joys of a new year.
The matron had given her leave to go out as soon as the women's tea was over and Maria looked forward to her evening out. The kitchen was spick and span: the cook said you could see yourself in the big copper boilers. The fire was nice and bright and on one of the side-tables were four very big barmbracks. These barmbracks seemed uncut; but if you went closer you would see that they had been cut into long thick even slices and were ready to be handed round at tea. Maria had cut them herself.
Maria was a very, very small person indeed but she had a very long nose and a very long chin. She talked a little through her nose, always soothingly: "Yes, my dear," and "No, my dear." She was always sent for when the women quarrelled over their tubs and always succeeded in making peace. One day the matron had said to her:
"Maria, you are a veritable peace-maker!"
And the sub-matron and two of the Board ladies had heard the compliment. And Ginger Mooney was always saying what she wouldn't do to the dummy who had charge of the irons if it wasn't for Maria. Everyone was so fond of Maria.
The women would have their tea at six o'clock and she would be able to get away before seven. From Ballsbridge to the Pillar, twenty minutes; from the Pillar to Drumcondra, twenty minutes; and twenty minutes to buy the things. She would be there before eight. She took out her purse with the silver clasps and read again the words A Present from Belfast. She was very fond of that purse because Joe had brought it to her five years before when he and Alphy had gone to Belfast on a Whit-Monday trip. In the purse were two half-crowns and some coppers. She would have five shillings clear after paying tram fare. What a nice evening they would have, all the children singing! Only she hoped that Joe wouldn't come in drunk. He was so different when he took any drink.
Often he had wanted her to go and live with them;-but she would have felt herself in the way though Joe's wife was ever so nice with her and she had become accustomed to the life of the laundry. Joe was a good fellow. She had nursed him and Alphy too; and Joe used often say:
"Mamma is mamma but Maria is my proper mother."
After the break-up at home the boys had got her that position in the Dublin by Lamplight laundry, and she liked it. She used to have such a bad opinion of Protestants but now she thought they were very nice people, a little quiet and serious, but still very nice people to live with. Then she had her plants in the conservatory and she liked looking after them. She had lovely ferns and wax-plants and, whenever anyone came to visit her, she always gave the visitor one or two slips from her conservatory. There was one thing she didn't like and that was the tracts on the walks; but the matron was such a nice person to deal with, so genteel.
When the cook told her everything was ready she went into the women's room and began to pull the big bell. In a few minutes the women began to come in by twos and threes, wiping their steaming hands in their petticoats and pulling down the sleeves of their blouses over their red steaming arms. They settled down before their huge mugs which the cook and the dummy filled up with hot tea, already mixed with milk and sugar in huge tin cans. Maria superintended the distribution of the barmbrack and saw that every woman got her four slices. There was a great deal of laughing and joking during the meal. Lizzie Fleming said Maria was sure to get the ring and, though Fleming had said that for so many Hallow Eves, Maria had to laugh and say she didn't want any ring or man either; and when she laughed her grey-green eyes sparkled with disappointed shyness and the tip of her nose nearly met the tip of her chin. Then Ginger Mooney lifted her mug of tea and proposed Maria's health while all the other women clattered with their mugs on the table, and said she was sorry she hadn't a sup of porter to drink it in. And Maria laughed again till the tip of her nose nearly met the tip of her chin and till her minute body nearly shook itself asunder because she knew that Mooney meant well though, of course, she had the notions of a common woman.
But wasn't Maria glad when the women had finished their tea and the cook and the dummy had begun to clear away the tea-things! She went into her little bedroom and, remembering that the next morning was a mass morning, changed the hand of the alarm from seven to six. Then she took off her working skirt and her house-boots and laid her best skirt out on the bed and her tiny dress-boots beside the foot of the bed. She changed her blouse too and, as she stood before the mirror, she thought of how she used to dress for mass on Sunday morning when she was a young girl; and she looked with quaint affection at the diminutive body which she had so often adorned, In spite of its years she found it a nice tidy little body.
When she got outside the streets were shining with rain and she was glad of her old brown waterproof. The tram was full and she had to sit on the little stool at the end of the car, facing all the people, with her toes barely touching the floor. She arranged in her mind all she was going to do and thought how much better it was to be independent and to have your own money in your pocket. She hoped they would have a nice evening. She was sure they would but she could not help thinking what a pity it was Alphy and Joe were not speaking. They were always falling out now but when they were boys together they used to be the best of friends: but such was life.
She got out of her tram at the Pillar and ferreted her way quickly among the crowds. She went into Downes's cake-shop but the shop was so full of people that it was a long time before she could get herself attended to. She bought a dozen of mixed penny cakes, and at last came out of the shop laden with a big bag. Then she thought what else would she buy: she wanted to buy something really nice. They would be sure to have plenty of apples and nuts. It was hard to know what to buy and all she could think of was cake. She decided to buy some plumcake but Downes's plumcake had not enough almond icing on top of it so she went over to a shop in Henry Street. Here she was a long time in suiting herself and the stylish young lady behind the counter, who was evidently a little annoyed by her, asked her was it wedding-cake she wanted to buy. That made Maria blush and smile at the young lady; but the young lady took it all very seriously and finally cut a thick slice of plumcake, parcelled it up and said:"Two-and-four, please."
She thought she would have to stand in the Drumcondra tram because none of the young men seemed to notice her but an elderly gentleman made room for her. He was a stout gentleman and he wore a brown hard hat; he had a square red face and a greyish moustache. Maria thought he was a colonel-looking gentleman and she reflected how much more polite he was than the young men who simply stared straight before them. The gentleman began to chat with her about Hallow Eve and the rainy weather. He supposed the bag was full of good things for the little ones and said it was only right that the youngsters should enjoy themselves while they were young. Maria agreed with him and favoured him with demure nods and hems. He was very nice with her, and when she was getting out at the Canal Bridge she thanked him and bowed, and he bowed to her and raised his hat and smiled agreeably, and while she was going up along the terrace, bending her tiny head under the rain, she thought how easy it was to know a gentleman even when he has a drop taken.
Everybody said: "0, here's Maria!" when she came to Joe's house. Joe was there, having come home from business, and all the children had their Sunday dresses on. There were two big girls in from next door and games were going on. Maria gave the bag of cakes to the eldest boy, Alphy, to divide and Mrs. Donnelly said it was too good of her to bring such a big bag of cakes and made all the children say:
"Thanks, Maria."
But Maria said she had brought something special for papa and mamma, something they would be sure to like, and she began to look for her plumcake. She tried in Downes's bag and then in the pockets of her waterproof and then on the hallstand but nowhere could she find it. Then she asked all the children had any of them eaten it -- by mistake, of course -- but the children all said no and looked as if they did not like to eat cakes if they were to be accused of stealing. Everybody had a solution for the mystery and Mrs. Donnelly said it was plain that Maria had left it behind her in the tram. Maria, remembering how confused the gentleman with the greyish moustache had made her, coloured with shame and vexation and disappointment. At the thought of the failure of her little surprise and of the two and fourpence she had thrown away for nothing she nearly cried outright.
But Joe said it didn't matter and made her sit down by the fire. He was very nice with her. He told her all that went on in his office, repeating for her a smart answer which he had made to the manager. Maria did not understand why Joe laughed so much over the answer he had made but she said that the manager must have been a very overbearing person to deal with. Joe said he wasn't so bad when you knew how to take him, that he was a decent sort so long as you didn't rub him the wrong way. Mrs. Donnelly played the piano for the children and they danced and sang. Then the two next-door girls handed round the nuts. Nobody could find the nutcrackers and Joe was nearly getting cross over it and asked how did they expect Maria to crack nuts without a nutcracker. But Maria said she didn't like nuts and that they weren't to bother about her. Then Joe asked would she take a bottle of stout and Mrs. Donnelly said there was port wine too in the house if she would prefer that. Maria said she would rather they didn't ask her to take anything: but Joe insisted.
So Maria let him have his way and they sat by the fire talking over old times and Maria thought she would put in a good word for Alphy. But Joe cried that God might strike him stone dead if ever he spoke a word to his brother again and Maria said she was sorry she had mentioned the matter. Mrs. Donnelly told her husband it was a great shame for him to speak that way of his own flesh and blood but Joe said that Alphy was no brother of his and there was nearly being a row on the head of it. But Joe said he would not lose his temper on account of the night it was and asked his wife to open some more stout. The two next-door girls had arranged some Hallow Eve games and soon everything was merry again. Maria was delighted to see the children so merry and Joe and his wife in such good spirits. The next-door girls put some saucers on the table and then led the children up to the table, blindfold. One got the prayer-book and the other three got the water; and when one of the next-door girls got the ring Mrs. Donnelly shook her finger at the blushing girl as much as to say: 0, I know all about it! They insisted then on blindfolding Maria and leading her up to the table to see what she would get; and, while they were putting on the bandage, Maria laughed and laughed again till the tip of her nose nearly met the tip of her chin.
They led her up to the table amid laughing and joking and she put her hand out in the air as she was told to do. She moved her hand about here and there in the air and descended on one of the saucers. She felt a soft wet substance with her fingers and was surprised that nobody spoke or took off her bandage. There was a pause for a few seconds; and then a great deal of scuffling and whispering. Somebody said something about the garden, and at last Mrs. Donnelly said something very cross to one of the next-door girls and told her to throw it out at once: that was no play. Maria understood that it was wrong that time and so she had to do it over again: and this time she got the prayer-book.
After that Mrs. Donnelly played Miss McCloud's Reel for the children and Joe made Maria take a glass of wine. Soon they were all quite merry again and Mrs. Donnelly said Maria would enter a convent before the year was out because she had got the prayer-book. Maria had never seen Joe so nice to her as he was that night, so full of pleasant talk and reminiscences. She said they were all very good to her.
At last the children grew tired and sleepy and Joe asked Maria would she not sing some little song before she went, one of the old songs. Mrs. Donnelly said "Do, please, Maria!" and so Maria had to get up and stand beside the piano. Mrs. Donnelly bade the children be quiet and listen to Maria's song. Then she played the prelude and said "Now, Maria!" and Maria, blushing very much began to sing in a tiny quavering voice. She sang I Dreamt that I Dwelt, and when she came to the second verse she sang again:
I dreamt that I dwelt in marble halls
With vassals and serfs at my side,
And of all who assembled within those walls
That I was the hope and the pride.
I had riches too great to count; could boast
Of a high ancestral name,
But I also dreamt, which pleased me most,
That you loved me still the same.
But no one tried to show her her mistake; and when she had ended her song Joe was very much moved. He said that there was no time like the long ago and no music for him like poor old Balfe, whatever other people might say; and his eyes filled up so much with tears that he could not find what he was looking for and in the end he had to ask his wife to tell him where the corkscrew was.
The room was warm and clean, the curtains drawn, the two table lamps alight-hers and the one by the empty chair opposite. On the sideboard behind her, two tall glasses, soda water, whiskey. Fresh ice cubes in the Thermos bucket.
Mary Maloney was waiting for her husband to come home from work.
Now and again she would glance up at the clock, but without anxiety, merely to please herself with the thought that each minute gone by made it nearer the time when he would come. There was a slow smiling air about her, and about everything she did. The drop of a head as she bent over her sewing was curiously tranquil. Her skin--for this was her sixth month with child--had acquired a wonderful translucent quality, the mouth was soft, and the eyes, with their new placid look, seemed larger darker than before. When the clock said ten minutes to five, she began to listen, and a few moments later, punctually as always, she heard the tires on the gravel outside, and the car door slamming, the footsteps passing the window, the key turning in the lock. She laid aside her sewing, stood up, and went forward to kiss him as he came in.
"Hullo darling," she said.
"Hullo darling," he answered.
She took his coat and hung it in the closet. Then she walked over and made the drinks, a strongish one for him, a weak one for herself; and soon she was back again in her chair with the sewing, and he in the other, opposite, holding the tall glass with both hands, rocking it so the ice cubes tinkled against the side.
For her, this was always a blissful time of day. She knew he didn't want to speak much until the first drink was finished, and she, on her side, was content to sit quietly, enjoying his company after the long hours alone in the house. She loved to luxuriate in the presence of this man, and to feel-almost as a sunbather feels the sun-that warm male glow that came out of him to her when they were alone together. She loved him for the way he sat loosely in a chair, for the way he came in a door, or moved slowly across the room with long strides. She loved intent, far look in his eyes when they rested in her, the funny shape of the mouth, and especially the way he remained silent about his tiredness, sitting still with himself until the whiskey had taken some of it away.
"Tired darling?"
"Yes," he said. "I'm tired," And as he spoke, he did an unusual thing. He lifted his glass and drained it in one swallow although there was still half of it, at least half of it left.. She wasn't really watching him, but she knew what he had done because she heard the ice cubes falling back against the bottom of the empty glass when he lowered his arm. He paused a moment, leaning forward in the chair, then he got up and went slowly over to fetch himself another.
"I'll get it!" she cried, jumping up.
"Sit down," he said.
When he came back, she noticed that the new drink was dark amber with the quantity of whiskey in it.
"Darling, shall I get your slippers?"
"No."
She watched him as he began to sip the dark yellow drink, and she could see little oily swirls in the liquid because it was so strong.
"I think it's a shame," she said, "that when a policeman gets to be as senior as you, they keep him walking about on his feet all day long.
"He didn't answer, so she bent her head again and went on with her sewing; but each time he lifted the drink to his lips, she heard the ice cubes clinking against the side of the glass.
"Darling," she said. "Would you like me to get you some cheese? I haven't made any supper because it's Thursday."
"No," he said.
"If you're too tired to eat out," she went on, "it's still not too late. There's plenty of meat and stuff in the freezer, and you can have it right here and not even move out of the chair."
Her eyes waited on him for an answer, a smile, a little nod, but he made no sign.
"Anyway," she went on, "I'll get you some cheese and crackers first.""I don't want it," he said.
She moved uneasily in her chair, the large eyes still watching his face. "But you must eat! I'll fix it anyway, and then you can have it or not, as you like."
She stood up and placed her sewing on the table by the lamp.
"Sit down," he said. "Just for a minute, sit down."It wasn't till then that she began to get frightened."Go on," he said. "Sit down."
She lowered herself back slowly into the chair, watching him all the time with those large, bewildered eyes. He had finished the second drink and was staring down into the glass, frowning.
"Listen," he said. "I've got something to tell you."
"What is it, darling? What's the matter?"
He had now become absolutely motionless, and he kept his head down so that the light from the lamp beside him fell across the upper part of his face, leaving the chin and mouth in shadow. She noticed there was a little muscle moving near the corner of his left eye.
"This is going to be a bit of a shock to you, I'm afraid," he said. "But I've thought about it a good deal and I've decided the only thing to do is tell you right away. I hope you won't blame me too much."
And he told her. It didn't take long, four or five minutes at most, and she say very still through it all, watching him with a kind of dazed horror as he went further and further away from her with each word.
"So there it is," he added. "And I know it's kind of a bad time to be telling you, bet there simply wasn't any other way. Of course I'll give you money and see you're looked after. But there needn't really be any fuss. I hope not anyway. It wouldn't be very good for my job."
Her first instinct was not to believe any of it, to reject it all. It occurred to her that perhaps he hadn't even spoken, that she herself had imagined the whole thing. Maybe, if she went about her business and acted as though she hadn't been listening, then later, when she sort of woke up again, she might find none of it had ever happened.
"I'll get the supper," she managed to whisper, and this time he didn't stop her.
When she walked across the room she couldn't feel her feet touching the floor. She couldn't feel anything at all- except a slight nausea and a desire to vomit. Everything was automatic now-down the steps to the cellar, the light switch, the deep freeze, the hand inside the cabinet taking hold of the first object it met. She lifted it out, and looked at it. It was wrapped in paper, so she took off the paper and looked at it again.
A leg of lamb.
All right then, they would have lamb for supper. She carried it upstairs, holding the thin bone-end of it with both her hands, and as she went through the living-room, she saw him standing over by the window with his back to her, and she stopped.
"For God's sake," he said, hearing her, but not turning round. "Don't make supper for me. I'm going out."
At that point, Mary Maloney simply walked up behind him and without any pause she swung the big frozen leg of lamb high in the air and brought it down as hard as she could on the back of his head.
She might just as well have hit him with a steel club.
She stepped back a pace, waiting, and the funny thing was that he remained standing there for at least four or five seconds, gently swaying. Then he crashed to the carpet.
The violence of the crash, the noise, the small table overturning, helped bring her out of he shock. She came out slowly, feeling cold and surprised, and she stood for a while blinking at the body, still holding the ridiculous piece of meat tight with both hands.
All right, she told herself. So I've killed him.
It was extraordinary, now, how clear her mind became all of a sudden. She began thinking very fast. As the wife of a detective, she knew quite well what the penalty would be. That was fine. It made no difference to her. In fact, it would be a relief. On the other hand, what about the child? What were the laws about murderers with unborn children? Did they kill then both-mother and child? Or did they wait until the tenth month? What did they do?
Mary Maloney didn't know. And she certainly wasn't prepared to take a chance.
She carried the meat into the kitchen, placed it in a pan, turned the oven on high, and shoved it inside. Then she washed her hands and ran upstairs to the bedroom. She sat down before the mirror, tidied her hair, touched up her lops and face. She tried a smile. It came out rather peculiar. She tried again.
"Hullo Sam," she said brightly, aloud.
The voice sounded peculiar too.
"I want some potatoes please, Sam. Yes, and I think a can of peas."
That was better. Both the smile and the voice were coming out better now. She rehearsed it several times more. Then she ran downstairs, took her coat, went out the back door, down the garden, into the street.
It wasn't six o'clock yet and the lights were still on in the grocery shop.
"Hullo Sam," she said brightly, smiling at the man behind the counter.
"Why, good evening, Mrs. Maloney. How're you?"
"I want some potatoes please, Sam. Yes, and I think a can of peas.
"The man turned and reached up behind him on the shelf for the peas.
"Patrick's decided he's tired and doesn't want to eat out tonight," she told him. "We usually go out Thursdays, you know, and now he's caught me without any vegetables in the house."
"Then how about meat, Mrs. Maloney?"
"No, I've got meat, thanks. I got a nice leg of lamb from the freezer."
"Oh."
"I don't know much like cooking it frozen, Sam, but I'm taking a chance on it this time. You think it'll be all right?"
"Personally," the grocer said, "I don't believe it makes any difference. You want these Idaho potatoes?"
"Oh yes, that'll be fine. Two of those."
"Anything else?" The grocer cocked his head on one side, looking at her pleasantly. "How about afterwards? What you going to give him for afterwards?"
"Well-what would you suggest, Sam?"
The man glanced around his shop. "How about a nice big slice of cheesecake? I know he likes that."
"Perfect," she said. "He loves it."
And when it was all wrapped and she had paid, she put on her brightest smile and said, "Thank you, Sam. Goodnight."
"Goodnight, Mrs. Maloney. And thank you."
And now, she told herself as she hurried back, all she was doing now, she was returning home to her husband and he was waiting for his supper; and she must cook it good, and make it as tasty as possible because the poor man was tired; and if, when she entered the house, she happened to find anything unusual, or tragic, or terrible, then naturally it would be a shock and she'd become frantic with grief and horror. Mind you, she wasn't expecting to find anything. She was just going home with the vegetables. Mrs. Patrick Maloney going home with the vegetables on Thursday evening to cook supper for her husband.
That's the way, she told herself. Do everything right and natural. Keep things absolutely natural and there'll be no need for any acting at all.
Therefore, when she entered the kitchen by the back door, she was humming a little tune to herself and smiling."Patrick!" she called. "How are you, darling?"
She put the parcel down on the table and went through into the living room; and when she saw him lying there on the floor with his legs doubled up and one arm twisted back underneath his body, it really was rather a shock. All the old love and longing for him welled up inside her, and she ran over to him, knelt down beside him, and began to cry her heart out. It was easy. No acting was necessary.
A few minutes later she got up and went to the phone. She knew the number of the police station, and when the man at the other end answered, she cried to him, "Quick! Come quick! Patrick's dead!"
"Who's speaking?"
"Mrs. Maloney. Mrs. Patrick Maloney."
"You mean Patrick Maloney's dead?"
"I think so," she sobbed. "He's lying on the floor and I think he's dead."
"Be right over," the man said.
The car came very quickly, and when she opened the front door, two policeman walked in. She knew them both-she knew nearly all the man at that precinct-and she fell right into a chair, then went over to join the other one, who was called O'Malley, kneeling by the body.
"Is he dead?" she cried.
"I'm afraid he is. What happened?"
Briefly, she told her story about going out to the grocer and coming back to find him on the floor. While she was talking, crying and talking, Noonan discovered a small patch of congealed blood on the dead man's head. He showed it to O'Malley who got up at once and hurried to the phone.
Soon, other men began to come into the house. First a doctor, then two detectives, one of whom she know by name. Later, a police photographer arrived and took pictures, and a man who know about fingerprints. There was a great deal of whispering and muttering beside the corpse, and the detectives kept asking her a lot of questions. But they always treated her kindly. She told her story again, this time right from the beginning, when Patrick had come in, and she was sewing, and he was tired, so tired he hadn't wanted to go out for supper. She told how she'd put the meat in the oven-"it's there now, cooking"- and how she'd slopped out to the grocer for vegetables, and come back to find him lying on the floor.
“Which grocer?" one of the detectives asked.
She told him, and he turned and whispered something to the other detective who immediately went outside into the street.
In fifteen minutes he was back with a page of notes, and there was more whispering, and through her sobbing she heard a few of the whispered phrases-"...acted quite normal...very cheerful...wanted to give him a good supper...peas...cheesecake...impossible that she..."
After a while, the photographer and the doctor departed and two other men came in and took the corpse away on a stretcher. Then the fingerprint man went away. The two detectives remained, and so did the two policeman. They were exceptionally nice to her, and Jack Noonan asked if she wouldn't rather go somewhere else, to her sister's house perhaps, or to his own wife who would take care of her and put her up for the night.
No, she said. She didn't feel she could move even a yard at the moment. Would they mind awfully of she stayed just where she was until she felt better. She didn't feel too good at the moment, she really didn't.
Then hadn't she better lie down on the bed? Jack Noonan asked.No, she said. She'd like to stay right where she was, in this chair. A little later, perhaps, when she felt better, she would move.
So they left her there while they went about their business, searching the house. Occasionally on of the detectives asked her another question. Sometimes Jack Noonan spoke at her gently as he passed by. Her husband, he told her, had been killed by a blow on the back of the head administered with a heavy blunt instrument, almost certainly a large piece of metal. They were looking for the weapon. The murderer may have taken it with him, but on the other hand he may have thrown it away or hidden it somewhere on the premises.
"It's the old story," he said. "Get the weapon, and you've got the man."
Later, one of the detectives came up and sat beside her. Did she know, he asked, of anything in the house that could've been used as the weapon? Would she mind having a look around to see if anything was missing-a very big spanner, for example, or a heavy metal vase.
They didn't have any heavy metal vases, she said.
"Or a big spanner?"
She didn't think they had a big spanner. But there might be some things like that in the garage.
The search went on. She knew that there were other policemen in the garden all around the house. She could hear their footsteps on the gravel outside, and sometimes she saw a flash of a torch through a chink in the curtains. It began to get late, nearly nine she noticed by the clock on the mantle. The four men searching the rooms seemed to be growing weary, a trifle exasperated.
"Jack," she said, the next tome Sergeant Noonan went by. "Would you mind giving me a drink?"
"Sure I'll give you a drink. You mean this whiskey?"
"Yes please. But just a small one. It might make me feel better."
He handed her the glass.
"Why don't you have one yourself," she said. "You must be awfully tired. Please do. You've been very good to me."
"Well," he answered. "It's not strictly allowed, but I might take just a drop to keep me going."
One by one the others came in and were persuaded to take a little nip of whiskey. They stood around rather awkwardly with the drinks in their hands, uncomfortable in her presence, trying to say consoling things to her. Sergeant Noonan wandered into the kitchen, come out quickly and said, "Look, Mrs. Maloney. You know that oven of yours is still on, and the meat still inside."
"Oh dear me!" she cried. "So it is!"
"I better turn it off for you, hadn't I?"
"Will you do that, Jack. Thank you so much."
When the sergeant returned the second time, she looked at him with her large, dark tearful eyes. "Jack Noonan," she said.
"Yes?"
"Would you do me a small favor-you and these others?"
"We can try, Mrs. Maloney."
"Well," she said. "Here you all are, and good friends of dear Patrick's too, and helping to catch the man who killed him. You must be terrible hungry by now because it's long past your suppertime, and I know Patrick would never forgive me, God bless his soul, if I allowed you to remain in his house without offering you decent hospitality. Why don't you eat up that lamb that's in the oven. It'll be cooked just right by now."
"Wouldn't dream of it," Sergeant Noonan said.
"Please," she begged. "Please eat it. Personally I couldn't touch a thing, certainly not what's been in the house when he was here. But it's all right for you. It'd be a favor to me if you'd eat it up. Then you can go on with your work again afterwards."
There was a good deal of hesitating among the four policemen, but they were clearly hungry, and in the end they were persuaded to go into the kitchen and help themselves. The woman stayed where she was, listening to them speaking among themselves, their voices thick and sloppy because their mouths were full of meat.
"Have some more, Charlie?"
"No. Better not finish it."
"She wants us to finish it. She said so. Be doing her a favor."
"Okay then. Give me some more."
"That's the hell of a big club the gut must've used to hit poor Patrick," one of them was saying. "The doc says his skull was smashed all to pieces just like from a sledgehammer."
"That's why it ought to be easy to find."
"Exactly what I say."
"Whoever done it, they're not going to be carrying a thing like that around with them longer than they need."
One of them belched.
"Personally, I think it's right here on the premises."
"Probably right under our very noses. What you think, Jack?"
And in the other room, Mary Maloney began to giggle.
