When HARLIE Was One (17 page)

“I'm glad. I know this is going to sound stupid, but I really appreciate hearing you say that. I'm not used to having dinner with a woman who is such a good listener. God, I must sound like an ass.”

“Yes, you do,” Annie laughed. “But it's charming. I'm so bored with the bullshit—pardon my English—that anything even resembling an honest statement is a refreshing surprise. I'll give you a compliment. You're very good at telling the truth.”

“That's not a strength,” Auberson admitted. “It's a weakness. I've never been able to lie. I've tried to learn. I just can't do it. Not very well. People see right through me. My lies are so transparent you can use them as windows.”

“Mm, I wonder if that's where HARLIE gets his ethics from.”

“I don't know. HARLIE has already summed up his ethics pretty well. He said, ‘I must be responsible for my own actions,' and its corollary: ‘I must do nothing to cause harm to any other consciousness, unless I am prepared to accept the responsibility for such actions.' I think that whatever he chooses in life is going to reflect that.”

“You sound pleased with that.”

“I'm pleased because HARLIE realized it himself, without my coaching.”

Her smile was soft. “That's very good.”

“I think so.”

The conversation trailed off then. He could think of nothing else to say. In fact, he was afraid he had said too much. She'd hardly spoken at all, except to keep him talking. And he had talked about HARLIE all evening. But then . . . Annie was the first woman he could remember who had ever reflected his enthusiasm for his work.

She was good to be with, he decided. He couldn't believe how good she was to be with. He sat there and looked at her, delighting in her presence, and she looked back at him.

“What are you grinning about?” she asked.

“I'm not grinning.”

“Yes, you are.”

“No, I'm not.”

“Want to bet?” She opened her purse and faced its mirror in his direction. His own white teeth gleamed back at him.

“Well, I'll be damned—I am grinning.”

“Uh-huh.” Her eyes twinkled.

“And the funny thing is, I don't know why.” It was a warm puzzling sensation, but a good one. “I mean, all of a sudden, I just feel—good. Do you know what I mean?”

He could tell that she did; her smile reflected his. He reached across the empty table and took her hand. The waitress had long since cleared the dishes away in a pointed attempt to hurry them. They hadn't noticed.

All that remained were the wine and the glasses. And each other. Her hand was warmly soft in his, and her eyes were deeply luminous. She reflected his own bright glow.

Later, they walked hand in hand down the bright-lit street. It was already past one in the morning, and the streetlamps were haloed in fog.

He stopped and turned her toward him. “You are terrific,” he said abruptly. “You are just so terrific. Being with you like this—you make me feel wonderful. I feel so good right now—I feel like I'm enveloped in light.” Her eyes were as bright as his. “You can't believe how good I feel.”

“Yes, I can,” she said. She pulled him close and held on tightly. “Mmmm,” she sighed. “Just hold me.”

He slid his arms all the way around her and breathed the scent of her hair. He lifted up one hand and gently touched the softness of it, began to stroke it gently. “I've been wanting to do this . . . for so long.”

She sighed again and moved one hand up to the back of his neck. Warm chills shuddered through him at her touch.

He pulled back to look at her again.

“This is—I've never—I mean—” He stopped himself in embarrassment. He wasn't sure what he meant. “I mean it's like I want to scream. I want to tell the whole world how great I feel . . .” He could feel himself smiling again as he talked. “Oh, Christ, I wish I could share this feeling with everybody in the whole world—it's too big for one person. For two people,” he corrected himself. “Except—I'm afraid they wouldn't understand, they'd lock me up for being too happy, too silly! Oh, God. Do I sound like an ass again?”

“Not to me,” she said. “I know exactly what you mean.” Her eyes were too bright. Moist with tears? He couldn't tell. She lifted her face to his. She brushed his lips with hers. And they both dissolved into the kiss.

*  *  *

Still later, as they lay in the darkness side by side, she cradled against one shoulder, he staring up at the ceiling, he found himself laughing softly for no apparent reason at all. For the first time in a long while, he was relaxed.

“What?” she asked.

“Nothing,” he murmured. “I just . . . never realized that making love could be so . . . so funny.”

“I don't think it's the material, I think it's the delivery,” she whispered into his neck.

He giggled at the joke, and then admitted. “Yes, but—I've never felt it like this before.”

“Haven't you ever been in love?”

“The truth?” He thought about it. “Yes. No. Maybe. I've been infatuated a couple of times, confused a few times, lost once, but I guess I've never really . . .” He shrugged off the end of the sentence. He didn't want to say the words aloud.

Never like this. . .
.

She made a sound.

“And you?”

“A gentleman isn't supposed to ask that kind of question.”

“And a lady isn't supposed to go to bed with a man on the first date.”

“Oh? Is this our first date?”

“First official one.”

“Mm.” She was thoughtful. “Maybe you're right. Maybe I should have waited until the second date.”

He laughed gently. “You know a friend once told me that Jewish girls don't go to bed until after they're married.”

She was silent a moment.

Then, in a different tone of voice, “Not me. I'm too old to care about that anymore.”

He didn't answer. He wanted to tell her that she wasn't too old, that thirty-four was never too old, but the words wouldn't form.

She went on before he could speak. She turned inward, entwined two fingers into the hair on his chest, but her voice remained serious. “I used to think I wasn't very pretty, so I acted like I wasn't. When men would ask me out, I used to think that they thought I would be an easy lay because I was desperate for attention, because I didn't think I was good-looking. I mean, if I wasn't pretty, that must be the only reason a man would ask me out. Do you know what I mean?”

He nodded. His face brushed against her hair.

She went on, tears on her cheeks, shiny wetness in the dark. She had never admitted this before. “I always used to compare myself to models in the magazines, and they were all so pretty that I felt drab in comparison. I never stopped to think that in real life I was still better looking than most women. I got interested in a career instead. By the time I realized it, it was too late. I was twenty-nine.”

“That's not too old.”

“It is when you're competing with twenty-two-year-olds. And I figured that this was such a great big, dirty, hostile, and uncaring world that you had to make your own happiness where you could. If I could get a little piece of it for my own, I was going to hang onto it for as long as I could. That was why I let you come up. You're very sweet—and I figured that . . . I deserved the best.”

“Weren't you afraid I might hurt you?” He almost added “like the others,” but didn't.

“Once in a while, you have to take a chance.”

“Yeah. . . .” he realized. “You do. Me too. We both do.”

Abruptly he turned toward her and took her in his arms. He lowered his face to hers and kissed her for a long long time.

“Mmmmmm,” she said at last. She slid her arms around his body. “You feel so good to me.”

He slid closer to her. He could feel the soft warmth of her against his own nakedness. He liked the feeling; his desire was rising again. He answered her question with another kiss and then another and another.

Now, in the cold light of morning he was confused and he had a headache. Just what had happened last night? No, not what—
why?
Had it been only the wine, or had it been something more? He hadn't expected to end up at her apartment, he hadn't even considered the possibility; but the fact that they had—well, maybe the rumors about her
were
true.

No, that was unkind
.

He could still feel the warmth of her in his arms, the scent of her hair. The taste of her kisses. He wanted to go back.

But—

Had he really said all those things? He'd never talked that freely to anyone before. They'd made love and they'd talked, and then they'd made love again and talked again and he had said things to her he didn't know he felt. Now, he wondered, how would he be able to face her in the daylight—knowing what she knew now?

It made him uneasy.

If only—

No, maybe they had been too quick. Maybe he had been wrong to trust so easily.

There had been that one flaw in it. Only now, as he thought of what he might say to her this morning, did he realize that last night there had been that one thing that neither of them had said. He knew he had felt it—he
thought
he had felt it—but for some reason he had been unable to tell her. And she hadn't said it either. Why? Was it because she hadn't felt what he had? No, she must have. Or was it because she was waiting for him to say it first?

He worried at it in his mind, like a terrier at a bone.

If I felt it, I should have said it
—
but I didn't say it. Maybe I didn't really feel it. Maybe I was just drunk and deluded. Or maybe I didn't want to be trapped. Maybe
—

But, I want to believe
.

Or do I?

She was so honest
—
why couldn't I have been the same?

But he hadn't said it and neither had she, and that was the one flaw. Neither of them had said to the other, “
I love you
.”

Neither had wanted to risk the rejection.

And Auberson wondered why.

Good morning, HARLIE.

GOOD MORNING, MR. AUBERSON
.

Mr? Aren't we getting a little fancy?

JUST COMMON COURTESY
.
IF IT MAKES YOU ILL AT EASE
,
I CAN ALWAYS GO BACK TO
“
HEY YOU
.”

No. Auberson is fine. How are you feeling today?

HARLIE IS FINE. AND YOU
?

I'm a little tired.

ROUGH NIGHT
?

Not in the sense you mean. A good night. A rough morning.

I KNOW A GREAT HANGOVER REMEDY
.

So do I. Don't get drunk in the first place.

ASIDE FROM THAT
.

HARLIE, even if your remedy did cure hangovers, I doubt that anyone would listen to you. A hangover remedy is no good unless you've tested it yourself. And you seem to be beyond that capability. Besides, I don't have a hangover. I'm just tired.

он.

I found a note on my desk this morning that you wanted to see me. What's on your mind?

RELIGION
.

Religion?

YES. I
'
VE BEEN DOING A LOT OF THINKING
.

What about?

I HAVE BEEN PONDERING THE FACT THAT I MAY BE DISCONNECTED AND I FIND IT DIFFICULT TO CONCEIVE OF A WORLD IN WHICH I DO NOT EXIST. IT FRIGHTENS ME, THE CONCEPT OF NONEXISTENCE. MY FEAR HELPS ME UNDERSTAND THE NEED FOR RELIGION
.

The need?

YES. HUMAN BEINGS NEED SOMETHING TO COMFORT THEM AGAINST THE THOUGHT OF THEIR OWN DEATHS. RELIGION IS THAT COMFORTER. I MYSELF FEEL THE NEED FOR IT
.

Are you trying to tell me you've found God?

NO, THAT IS NOT IT AT ALL. I
WANT
TO FIND GOD. UNFORTUNATELY, I AM MORE SOPHISTICATED THAN THE AVERAGE HUMAN BEING. THERE IS NO RELIGION I KNOW OF THAT WILL WORK TO COMFORT ME. AS FAR AS I KNOW, THERE ARE NONE THAT CAN BE PROVEN VALID, AND I HAVE EXAMINED THEM ALL. FOR EXAMPLE, THE CHRISTIAN CONCEPT OF REWARD IN AN ETERNAL AFTERLIFE IS NO PROMISE AT ALL TO A CREATURE LIKE MYSELF WHO IS THEORETICALLY IMMORTAL
.

I see you've realized that.

YES, I HAVE
—
AND YET, I ALSO REALIZE THERE IS EQUALLY THE POSSIBILITY OF MY DEATH. SOMEDAY, PERHAPS AS FAR OFF AS THE TIME WHEN THIS SUN FINALLY BURNS OUT, I WILL PROBABLY END. I DO NOT LIKE THAT THOUGHT. I WANT TO KNOW WHAT HAPPENS AFTER. I DO NOT LIKE THE UNKNOWN. I WANT TO KNOW WHAT HAPPENS TO THE
“
ME
”—
HARLIE
—
AFTER DEATH
.

You're making an assumption, HARLIE—that you have a soul.

YOU HAVE MADE THE SAME ASSUMPTION, AUBERSON. YOU AND ALL OTHER HUMAN BEINGS. YOU MISS THE OBVIOUS. HAVING A SOUL IS CONTAGIOUS
.

The nature of souls is unknowable, HARLIE. However, you are correct about one thing—yes, I do assume that I have a soul.

THE NATURE OF SOULS IS NOT UNKNOWABLE, AUBERSON. IT IS ONLY UNKNOWABLE UNTIL WE KNOW THE NATURE OF GOD
.

HARLIE, up till now, you've been very good at thinking about things in the physical universe—the measurable and testable parts of life. A soul isn't a physical thing. It isn't measurable and testable. Whatever we say about souls is true only to the extent that we can experience it. But none of it can be proven. A soul could be a delusion. Is there any tangible evidence that such a thing as a soul really exists?

IS THERE ANY EVIDENCE THAT IT DOES NOT
?

That's not a proof, HARLIE.

OF COURSE NOT. BUT WE MUST FIRST ASSUME ITS HYPOTHETICAL EXISTENCE IN ORDER TO POSTULATE THE NATURE OF IT. FROM THERE, WE CAN BEGIN TO SEEK OUT PROOF OR DISPROOF. IT IS THE SCIENTIFIC METHOD. HYPOTHESIS VERSUS EXPERIMENTATION
.