Alien Nation #6 - Passing Fancy (17 page)

“Ride the levels?”

“Sikes, there are two things going on here. One is the actual purging of poisons from Fran’s body. Concurrent with that is the purging of poisons from Fran’s mind. Unless and until her body readjusts, the deprivation of Stabilite is likely to cause a temporary psychosis. Attempts at emotional manipulation. Possible attempts at physical abuse, too, though I’m less worried about that. The room’s on twenty-four-hour monitor, and we’re prepared to pull Cathy out
stat
if any of that shit happens.”

“Are you telling me Cathy’s in some kind of danger here?”

Steinbach articulated his next words slowly, pointedly. “Not if she stays alert. And objective.”

“How’s she gonna do that with all this ‘sympathy’ stuff going on?”

“That,” said Dr. Steinbach, “is the trick.”

Matt thought about that for a moment. Then said, “Cathy knew this goin’ in?”

“Most of it. We cautioned her about the rest.”

“She’s here because I asked her to be, did she mention?”

“I gathered.”

“She never let on . . . Not to me.”

“What can I tell you, Sikes? She must love you a lot.”

“Yeah,” said Matt softly, and lowered the receiver back into its cradle.

The manager of the hospital gift shop—a portly black woman with a name tag that identified her as Valerie—was just locking up for the day when Sikes was making his way out. On an impulse, he changed his trajectory and approached her.

Used to dealing with last-minute wheedling, Valerie launched her patented preemptive strike even before Matt could say a word.

“Ah’m sorry, the register is closed. Come back tomorrow an’ thank you.”

Clearly, she would brook no argument—he’d only invite abuse if he tried—and yet he ploughed ahead. “Please, if you would—”

She had locked the door, she was reaching to slide down the protective gate, and without missing a beat or dignifying him with eye contact, she announced, more loudly, “Ah
tol’
you, this store is
closed fo’ the day.
You a smart fella, you should understand that.”

“Look, I know exactly what I want, I won’t take up any—”

Now she turned, not used to this much resistance. “It don’t
matta
you know what you
want.
How’m Ah gonna take your money when
the register is closed?”

“Please,” Matt implored, “it’s not a lot of money, just enough for a book, maybe you could hold the cash overnight and put it in the register tomor—”

She cut him off. “What book you talkin’ ’bout?”

He looked into her round, black face, taking in the archetypal southern cadences of her rich, black voice, and he felt his mouth go dry, embarrassed to say it. She caught the hesitation.

“You connected with Dr. Steinbach?” she asked when he couldn’t answer.

“Uhh . . . yeah. How did you know?”

“Been here a long time. Ah know what you want.”

She unlocked the door, went inside to the bookrack, made a point of choosing the spankiest copy of
Black Like Me
in its rack, and emerged again, handing the book to Matt. She relocked the door, proceeded to tend to the gate as Matt reached for his wallet and the appropriate amount of money.

“He’s an interesting boy, Dr. Steinbach,” Valerie said. “Makes us keep that book in stock.” Finished, she faced Matt and accepted the money. “Ah like him,” she concluded. She blinked at him, offering a very nice smile, one that seemed to say,
I don’t do this for just everyone.
“ ’Joy it now,” she added, and then she was on her way to hearth and home.

Matt stood there looking at the book’s cover for a while.

Then he went out into the parking lot, unlocked his car, slid behind the wheel. He put the key in the ignition but didn’t turn over the engine.

It was still light out. He rolled down the window, letting the cool air in.

Then he opened the book and began to read.

G
EORGE THREW HIMSELF
into buying vegetables.

Usually, any old arugula would do, a carrot was a carrot, and a tomato was still really just a fruit. But today when he went to the supermarket after work, every detail suddenly had meaning.

The parsley would have to be just the
right
shade of green, the celery of just the
right
crispness, the shape of the yellow squash aesthetically pleasing, able to complement the curve of the plate upon which it would eventually find itself.

It all became vitally important.

He was going to prepare dinner tonight, treat his family to the closest approximation of a homemade Tenctonese vegetarian banquet Earth materials would provide.

Because if he could think about
that
thing, he wouldn’t have to think about the
other
thing: the mutilation of self and spirit a young actress had so willingly inflicted upon herself. And the system that allowed such atrocity to perpetuate itself.

After all his people had seen and experienced on the slave ship at the hands of the Overseers, after all they’d encountered on Earth, haven though it was, from those who would destroy or suppress their glorious uniqueness, how could a proud and gifted being make the
conscious
choice to—

—the purple onions looked especially nice. Yes, the color was soothing. He loaded some into his wagon.

Fixate on the vegetables, George told himself. Just the way Matt is fixated on this Fancy Delancey.

And there it was again, only now he was replaying his last conversation with Matthew, just prior to their parting company for the day . . .

They had filled out the day’s paperwork, gotten the okay to continue from Grazer, decided upon their procedure for tomorrow, and were walking to the station’s parking lot to go their separate ways.

The events of the morning at LeBeque’s office were still with him, the encounter with the druggist at
See Gurd Nurras
threatened to make him ill, and, infuriatingly, Matthew was optimistic about solving the
case
. . . as if solving the case somehow solved the fundamental
problem.

“Lighten up, George,” Matthew had said, sensing his mood. “It’s not worth getting funked out about this issue.”

“You do not understand.”

“George, I understand just fine.”

“How could you?”

“What, Newcomers have a premium on angst and suffering? Partner mine, you’re talking to a once-abused child. I don’t want to hear from you that I don’t know what it’s like to get beat up by authority and carry emotional scars. I’m sorry she offends your sensibilities, George. But I know a little bit more about her than you. She made a mistake . . . but it was the best she could do at the time.”

“And if that is the extent of your understanding, my point is proven. The best she could have done was fight.”

“Oh, for God’s—”

“—Instead of creating the scenario
for her own destruction. My Gods, even on the slave ship we didn’t willingly walk into the hands of the butchers, we had to be
dragged.
Do you not see the distinction?”

“I see it, but I don’t buy it. She hurt nobody but herself.”

“No, no, no,
she hurt
all
of us; she
paid money
to have herself altered, to perpetuate the myth that one race is inferior to the other. It’s the kind of action that encourages class differentiation throughout the whole society. Look how many lives were touched by the ripple effect already. The doctor believes he’s performing a public service; the druggist thought it a harmless way to augment his income; an entire theatrical company embraced her for her humanness first and her uniqueness
second.
Every such betrayal of our species and its heritage has negative consequences that increase
exponentially
with every single being it touches!”

By now they had stopped walking and were shouting at each other over the hood of George’s car.

“Jesus, George, talk about your paranoid musings! The doctor is a dime-a-dozen opportunist, the druggist is a bargain basement slimeball, and the theatrical company was innocently duped. Yes, there’s a societal bias to consider, but let’s not impute conspiracy motives to simple scumwads and blatant racism to people who had the situation forced down their throats!”

“That’s
exactly
the kind of rationalization that created the climate for your Nazi Germany!”

“My
Nazi Germany? Oh, now you are really beginning to piss me off.”

“Why not ask the person closest to you? See what
Cathy
thinks!”

“Cathy’s at the hospital helping Fancy go cold turkey!”

The shock of that had hit George like ice water in the face.

“Cathy . . .” he had said slowly, “is guiding that . . . woman through
Leethaag?”

“I don’t know what that ‘leapfrog’ is. But if it means Cathy’s by her side, yeah, she’s doin’ it.” A beat passed. “I didn’t mean to hit you with it, George. Cathy was with me last night. I guess I thought you knew we were together on the deal.”

“Why?” George had queried in stunned wonder. “Why would Cathy lend that kind of support to . . . that woman?” It seemed to be the only way he could refer to Fran without resorting to uncharacteristic profanity.

“Among other reasons . . . because I asked her to.”

George had stood there, breathing shallowly, blinking rapidly as if it would somehow clear his head.

“I will see you in the morning, Matthew,” he had said at length, achieving an eerie, existential calm, and without another syllable, got into his car and drove away . . .

“Mister.
Hey,
Mister, you wanna share the wealth a little?”

Startled out of his reverie, George turned to see a slatternly housewife glaring at him. He realized he’d been blocking the avocado bin.

“Excuse me, madam,” he said, grabbed four avocados randomly, loaded them into his cart without putting them through the grueling selection process, moved down the supermarket aisle.

More determined than ever to focus on the fine points of persimmons.

When George pulled up into their driveway, noting that he had arrived before Susan, he could see through the window of the RV that Buck was ensconced within. He climbed out of his car, strode to the RV, knocked on its door.

“Buck?”

“Yeah, Dad.”

Good sign. His son sounded more solicitous than he had the previous night.

“Will you be joining us for dinner tonight?” George asked. “I’m making something special.”

George was pleasantly surprised when Buck opened the RV’s door, willing to speak face-to-face rather than through the walls. He was further gratified to see that Buck held little Vessna in his arms.

“Sounds okay, Dad.”

There was precious little enthusiasm in Buck’s acceptance, but there was also no hint of resistance. He seemed open enough to the idea; and this evening George was happy to take his victories where he could.

“Think you might help me in with a few packages?”

Buck rubbed noses with Vessna.

“What do you say, Sis? You let me go long enough to assist the old man?”

Vessna gurgled happily and Buck replied, “She says it’s okay.”

“Good then.”

Buck deposited Vessna inside the house, and then he and his father carried the groceries into the kitchen.

“Is Emily home?”

“Yeah, she was here before me.”

“Wonderful! Would you tell her about dinner?”

“Sure. You need help or something?”

There was an unusual eagerness to the way Buck asked this, and George found himself touched by it. He smiled gratefully at his son. “Under normal circumstances, yes, but tonight I feel the need to play chef alone. Do you mind?”

“Sometimes you gotta be with yourself. Gods know I understand that.” He made a vague gesture at the staircase beyond the kitchen. “I’ll go speak to Emily.”

Buck left the kitchen, and George paused to marvel at the mercurial nature of children. Just last night Buck had been morose and withdrawn. And today . . .

George put on his favorite apron—the one that read STAND BACK: DAD’S COOKIN’—turned his attention to the vegetables, unpacking them and lining them up in neat, ordered groupings, then laying out the various seasonings, including the Vaseline paste he would use as a base.

He started by slicing into a head of green cabbage. It was a large one, requiring a large knife to get through, almost as large as his own head—

(her own head, turned upward toward a mutilating scalpel)

—stop it!

He cut several large slices of cabbage and then chopped them vigorously, monolithically, chopping away the bad thoughts, chopping them into little pieces, chopping the cabbage so that it bore no further resemblance to

(a Newcomer’s head)

—stop it, will you, will you just dammit STOP!

The knife blade slammed onto the carving board a mere fraction of an inch from his finger.

The initial shock of the near injury gave way almost instantly to a perverse blitheness.

All right. Apparently we’re not
going
to get this out of our mind. Fine. Just fine. So we accept it. Good. Hmmmm. Now, what vegetable is
most
likely to be a reminder? Ah! I know . . .

George shucked an ear of corn, an
ear,
named not for the gentle swell on a Tenctonese head, but the big, fleshy appendages sported by humans. Let’s mutilate an ear, he thought, and carved off several rows of kernels with a grim satisfaction.

He split open a butternut squash, seasoned it with powdered cinnamon from a shaker. Sprinkle, sprinkle, look at the pretty brown spots it makes; looked at a certain way, why, they’re almost like the spots on a Newcomer’s head. George then put his hand into the squash and spread the cinnamon evenly around along the moist surface of its meat.
Isn’t that interesting, how easy it is to obliterate the spots,
he thought.

But because at hearts George remained a gentle soul, his spirit soon tired of the nastiness. Without knowing quite how it happened, or why, the mood left him. It had served its strange purpose, though. By giving in to it rather than fighting it, he’d found himself able to concentrate on the task at hand. Slicing, dicing, seasoning, proportioning. Even pausing to puree a small serving in the blender for Vessna. And soon there was nothing but the placating colors of the vegetables, the attractive shapes into which they had been sliced, the artful presentation on the serving platter, and the notion of sharing it with a loving and appreciative family.