The Incrementalists (18 page)

“Are you a leave-me-alone-when-I-vomit person, or a stay-and-comfort—”

“The former.”

“I’ll go.” Jimmy stood, filling the space between tub and sink. “But I will make eggs for you unless you tell me you want ham.”

“Eggs are good,” I said.

Jimmy left. I threw up. But it left me feeling better, so I turned the shower on. Phil had great water pressure and right then, that alone would have been enough to make me love him.

I stood in the drenching heat and remembered his body sliding into bed beside mine, his arms shaking, and my face against his long throat. We slept together the same way he had put a flaming stake between my eyes—with no difference between what was real and what was symbolic. Our bodies were extraneous, boats on the unmanageable ocean, but we could swim. If we could filter all the material out, take the dust from the mud, we’d have been water, but my body in the water whispered “bullshit.” It wanted him. I wanted him. In a real and material, not-metaphorical way.

I turned off the tap and dried myself off. Wrapped in Phil’s bathrobe, I ate eggs while Jimmy scrubbed out emptied flower vases. I passed on the tea. He made coffee. I carried two cups with my laptop into the bedroom. Phil was shirtless in jeans and a Gordian knot of bedding. I plumped up pillows and wedged my back against the headboard with my hip against his back. I alternately Googled and grazed for switches that would work as RMMD icons or audio, and I stroked the gorgeous place where the top of Phil’s biceps swallowed the end of his collarbone and the start of his shoulder blade, not because it was beautiful, but because it was his. No, because it was him.

Phil

The smell of coffee and the touch of her hand woke me up, which is a far, far better way to wake up than many others. After what seemed a long time, I said, “If I sit up and drink coffee, will you still be able to do that?”

“It will challenge me,” she said, “to find something else.”

I sat up, took the coffee, drank some, and set it down. I looked at her. “Thank you. How are you feeling?”

“The headache’s gone. You saved my life.”

“We all did. Jimmy found the antidote, Ray procured and administered it. Welcome to the family. We work together and hardly ever try to kill each other. I’m sorry that happened.”

She put a hand on my leg over the blanket; it woke me up faster than coffee. “You told me before that it was rarely dangerous. I guess I’m just lucky.”

“I should have added that it’s regularly dangerous to your peace of mind. But peace of mind, as Oskar would say, is a bourgeois luxury.”

She gave a gentle laugh. It sent shivers through me. “He would say that.”

“Do you remember who Celeste is?”

“No. Should I?”

“In some sense.” I drank more coffee. Saving someone’s life is a wonderful feeling. Try it. You feel like, if you don’t mind a TV reference, a big damn hero. I’ve done it before. I’ve also been saved. The latter is not always such a good feeling. You’re glad to be alive, and the gratitude you feel isn’t feigned, but it can make things weird with your rescuer. Especially if your rescuer is someone you very badly want. Your head plays games, and your rescuer’s head plays games, because you might feel obliged, and the rescuer might be afraid that you feel obliged. Lust and obligation have a tendency to get in each other’s way and mess up both. In the worst case, it turns into a battle of obligations. More than a few marriages have broken on those rocks.

So I enjoyed her touch, and enjoyed the coffee, and only clenched my jaw metaphorically, and shifted my position very slightly so what I was feeling wasn’t quite so obvious. From time to time her hand would move when she had to type something, but then she’d bring it back to my leg. I studied her face. What I’d first thought was American Indian could also be a touch of South Pacific Islander. Or, God knows in this country, anything else. She was fully concentrating on what she was doing, and her total focus reminded me of Ray.

Given an endless supply of coffee, I could have just stayed there indefinitely, even enjoying unfulfilled lust. But as I was staring at the empty cup and weighing my options, there was a soft tap on the door.

“Come in,” I said, and there was Jimmy.

“Matsu is here. Take your time, we’re filling him in.”

He shut the door.

Ren was looking at me. “I don’t remember much about Matsu,” she said. “He’s a fighter, isn’t he?”

I nodded.

“Are you expecting a fight?”

“No. But he’s almost Salt, and he’s not stupid, and he has a good perspective on things. And he gets under Oskar’s skin the way Oskar gets under everyone else’s. These are all good things. I’m going to get up and face the world now.” I kissed her cheek and got out of bed. I grabbed underwear, socks, and a shirt, then took myself to the bathroom to prepare to face the world.

She was wearing my bathrobe, so I had to use a towel to dry myself, but eventually I emerged, coffee cup in hand, ready for human society. I went past everyone, straight to the coffeemaker, got the last cup, started another pot, then came back.

“Hello, Matt.”

Matt is as blond and blue-eyed as Oskar, but a bit shorter and considerably leaner. He radiates calm the way Oskar radiates intensity, and is reserved the way Jimmy is effusive. I can’t think of anyone I’ve known for as long and know less about. In this Second, he was about forty years old, which put him right at the peak of his abilities—his body had by now caught up to his knowledge, but hadn’t yet started to degenerate. He rose and smiled and gave me a hug that was at once warm and reserved.

I sat down on the couch since Oskar had my chair again. Matt sat across from me and said, “I’m looking forward to meeting Ren.”

“She’s working, but I’m sure she’ll be out soon.”

“Working?” said Jimmy. “On what?”

“I imagine her sugar spoon, or else she’s gathering switches for some meddlework I know nothing about, or grazing for Celeste.”

“Yes,” said Matt. “Celeste. That is a problem, isn’t it?”

“So is Irina,” I said. “Would you mind stubbing her for me, Matt?”

“I won’t do that, no.”

“Just asking.”

Ray said, “Celeste, Irina, and the alpha-lock. All related problems. How do we address them?”

Oskar said nothing; I suspect he was trying to control his annoyance at having to share the same air as Matt.

The door opened, and Ren emerged, and my heart did a thing. I guess it showed, because I looked over and caught Jimmy watching me. He said, “I don’t know, but permit me to suggest that stubbing Ren is not one of the options.”

“Glad to hear it,” she said, and sat down on the couch next to me.

Ren

It was a formidable group of men to greet in a bathrobe, but my hair was clean, and Phil introduced me to Matsu, sitting cross-legged in an office chair someone had rolled in from Phil’s office, while Jimmy refilled my coffee.

I sat on the sofa by Phil, where Irina had perched on the armrest last night, and tried not to feel some residual sinister pall over the cushions. Ramon was standing by the glass doors again, but their curtains were open to reveal the date palm and the scraggly yard. With Oskar in Phil’s chair and Jimmy in what I’d already started to think of as mine, we were a stranger, sleepier reprise of last night.

“It’s good to see you looking well,” Ramon said, and I remembered Phil’s litany of the people who’d saved my life, and how I’d gone to bed naked, and felt my face pink up.

“Thanks,” I said. “Thanks, all of you.” I looked at Oskar and Jimmy. “That was scary.”

Phil squeezed my knee. Jimmy nodded.

Ramon said, “Indeed,” while his eyes searched my face and hair and fingers, then he said, “We can wait for you. Or work without you.”

“I’m okay,” I said.

“Very well. You suggested the hypothesis last night, that perhaps rather than suicide, Celeste’s death had been murder.”

No way I was going to say, “Who’s Celeste” again.

“Were you perhaps intuiting Irina’s attempt on your life and misinterpreting?”

“I don’t think so,” I said. Having been on the receiving side of a murderous hatred, I felt sorry for Celeste suddenly, whoever she was.

“You believe she was killed, and the notion of her suicide suggested to you by someone with access to your memories?”

“It’s just that I don’t remember Celeste,” I said. “So before everyone else remembers her as a suicide, based on something I’ve said, I needed to say I didn’t remember.”

I had the uncomfortable feeling of having just made very little sense in front of a lot of very smart people.

“Oskar,” Ramon said, “this casts suspicion on you, of course. You had the most to gain from Celeste’s death. You should, perhaps, excuse yourself.”

If I’d held everyone’s eyes before, Oskar now had them eyes, ears, and curly hairs.

“Fine,” he said, disgusted.

“Hang on,” Phil said, almost on his feet. “If we’re going to start excusing people, we need to do better than casting suspicion around like fishing line.”

“It’s okay,” said Oskar, rising to his full height.

“It’s not,” Phil said.

“No, it is,” I said, “because Oskar knows he can get into your Garden.”

Oskar, very slowly, sat back down.

“No, not really,” Phil said. “It doesn’t work like that.”

“I’m sorry, Oskar,” I said. “You reached out to me last night, and it saved me, your voice telling me to stay awake when breathing seemed like more trouble than I felt like taking, but I already knew.”

“No,” Phil said again.

I said, “Have any of you seen him in your Garden?”

Ramon reached into the neck of Oskar’s shirt and studied the gold charm on the red cord. He dropped it and straightened. “I have seen him in mine.”

“I haven’t,” Matsu said.

“Nor I,” said Jimmy.

“I’ll just go then,” Oskar volunteered.

Matsu stood, and Oskar stayed in his chair.

Jimmy dropped his head into his hands. “The whole Garden is running amok or breaking down. It’s all going alpha. All the noise is signal. Everyone’s meddling with everyone else. It’s like the Dark Years, but now we’re all too agile to catch.”

“And it’s no longer just us,” Oskar said. “Don’t forget the nemones are meddling too.”

“We must find the alpha-lock,” Ramon said.

“There’s ritual,” Phil said.

“Or sex,” Oskar’s voice was almost a whisper.

“Irina is Salt,” Jimmy said. “And we need five.”

“Oskar and I will stay behind.” Matsu’s voice was a threat and a promise. “We are not.”

“Ren?”

“For this,” I said, “I should get dressed.”

“Phil?”

Phil

“No,” I said.

Ren looked at me, startled and worried.

Ray said, “But—” and I held a hand up.

“Sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean no to going. Or getting dressed. I meant no to Oskar and Matt staying behind.” I had everyone’s attention, except for Ren who ducked into the bedroom. “First of all, fuck tradition. Second, fuck ritual. There’s no law that says it has to be five, it’s custom and you all know it. Jesus, our only rule is that we have no rules.”

“But—” said Ray.

“I want us all to meet in my Garden to see where Celeste’s final memory should be. I want Matt there because I trust him and because I’m betting he fights as well in the virtual world as he does in the real world.”

Oskar said, “You think—”

“And,” I said, steamrolling him, but so caught up in the moment that I couldn’t enjoy it, “I want Oskar there because this is all directed at him.”

I stopped there, waiting to see who’d speak first. It was Ray. “You know this, how?”

“Oh, come on, Ray. You can see the pattern, can’t you? Who was Celeste afraid of? Where is all the suspicion pointing? Who did you just suggest couldn’t be here?”

“The argument that suspicion points to someone is not, in itself, proof that—”

“Oh, bullshit, Ray.”

He muttered something I didn’t understand, probably in Catalan, then he said, “It’s Ramon.”

Oskar was utterly still; what else could he be?

Jimmy said, “I think you’re right,” which caused some confusion because neither Ray nor I were looking at him. “You, Phil,” he added. “It looks more than anything else like Celeste trying to—”

“Celeste is dead,” said Ren coming back from my bedroom wearing clothes.

“Valid point,” said Ray.

“You remember?” I said.

She nodded.

“Then,” I said, “let’s go now, while you still do.”

We all looked at Ray. He hesitated, then nodded. I think his driving motive was curiosity, but I was fine with that.

Oskar said, “Someone needs to explain it to Ren. She still hasn’t had the memory rush yet.”

“Explaining it to me would be nice too,” I muttered.

“The Garden,” said Jimmy, “is whatever you want it to be. Your individual Garden is a product of your subconscious, but everything else is arbitrary. You can fly. You can walk through walls. You can create or destroy objects at will.

“When someone else brings you into his or her Garden, it works a bit differently. It’s a shared, imagined world. You see it as that person imagines it is, but you can’t hurt someone else’s actual Garden, or make permanent changes. You can move or change a seed, but it’ll revert when you leave. And you experience the memories more viscerally when you take them in their native symbol. When I, in my Garden, drink as wine a memory Phil seeded as a flower, I know the information that memory contains. When he allows me to pluck his blue bud, I live the experience as he did.”

Oskar coughed, Ramon studied his boot toes, and Jimmy covered the awkward silence by plowing on.

“What we’re going to try to do now is all of us reach Phil’s Garden. We’ll all be in this room, and we can talk to each other, and we’ll simultaneously be there, individually, and can look over—”

“Wait,” she said. “Individually?”

He nodded.

“So, I won’t see any of you there?”

“No, but we’ll be right here—”

“Is it possible to be together there, too?”

Jimmy looked at me. Ray said, “It’s possible, but unnecessary.”

“If you’d be more comfortable,” said Oskar, “that’s fine.”