"But we always knew when he had reached a halfway point—he took three days off to recharge his battery. It wasn't for us that he took the break; it was for himself. He'd take us out to dinner and a show, or we'd take a couple of days and go to an amusement park, but it was always strained. Maggie and I didn't know how to react around him because we'd been tiptoeing past his office for so many days in a row. Now, suddenly, he wasn't a monster anymore; he wanted to be our friend—but we didn't know how to be friends with him. He'd never taken the time to give us a chance to learn.

  "For a long time I was jealous of his computer, but then I learned how to survive without a real dad and then it didn't matter anymore. Pretty soon, the hard parts were only when he was trying to make up for lost time. We all felt so uncomfortable, it was always a relief when he'd finally stretch his arms out and say, 'Well, I guess I'd better get back to work. Somebody's got to pay the bills around here.'

  "Mom had her own work, of course—but she was able to switch off the terminal and walk away from it without looking back. Dad never was—when he had a problem to solve, he gnawed at it like a puppy with the legbone of a steer. Later, when I was old enough, I was able to appreciate the elegance of Dad's work. His programs not only played well, but they were so beautifully structured they were a joy to read. But no matter how much I respected the products of his labors, I still resented the fact that so much of his emotional energy went into his creations that there was only a little left for me. For the family.

  "When Dad was finally finished with a program, he would be completely done. He wouldn't go near the machine for . . . I don't know—it seemed like months. He wouldn't even play other authors' games. Those were almost okay times, because he'd try to make the effort to learn how to be a real human being again—a real father. But by then, we'd learned to recognize the signs—that he couldn't really do it. Whenever he got too close, he'd get just so close and then he'd retreat again. He'd suddenly—conveniently—get another idea and he'd be gone again.

  "So Maggie and I—well, I don't know about Maggie, but it seemed that she felt the same way—had that gap in our lives, and we either had to look somewhere else for something to fill it or learn to live with the lack. Which is mostly what I did—lived with the lack—because I didn't know that a family wasn't supposed to be that way. Maggie—well, she found her own answer. We weren't that close.

  "Anyway, that was before the plagues. When we went up to the cabin, something in Dad changed—not better, just different. At first I didn't notice, because I didn't have enough experience with him to know, and then when I did, I didn't know what to make of it. I guess it scared me. As if I didn't know who he was after all.

  "Several times a week, he and I would make the rounds of our security sensors—no one could have approached within a mile of the cabin without our knowing about it, not even a deer. We never had any people come near, but the system kept us in fresh meat and I learned how to skin a carcass and hang it. At first, Dad and I each kept mostly to ourselves, but after a while, he began talking to me. As if I were a real person. As if he'd just been waiting for me to grow up first.

  "It confused me. I mean—hell, how can you expect someone to suddenly be a real son when you've spent twenty years ignoring him?

  "And yet, even as I resented the goddamned presumption of the man, I still wanted him to finally be my father. So I stopped hating him for a while and began to discover what an interesting person he really was. I'd never known some of the things he'd done when he was my age—you know, he once met Neil Armstrong!

  "I guess that was when Dad and I finally got to know each other. And I know this sounds strange, but those days up at the cabin were probably the happiest time of my life. It was a vacation from reality, and for a little while, we were a real family. It was nice. For a while . . ."

  After a while, Dr. Davidson prompted, "Go on, Jim. What happened?"

  I shrugged. "We came down from the mountains too soon. And we got caught in the last wave of the plagues. And the boys died. And—um, Dad never forgave himself. My sister never forgave him. And my mother—well, she never stopped pitying him because she knew what private hell he was living with. I guess he couldn't take that."

  "Jim—"

  "Huh?"

  "You didn't say how you felt."

  "Yes, I did. I said I loved him."

  "How did you feel about coming down from the mountain too soon?"

  "Uh . . . it was a mistake, but it was an honest one. I mean, anyone could have . . . I mean, it wasn't his fault—"

  "Jim," Dr. Davidson said very quietly, "you're not being honest with me."

  I jerked my hands back from the arms of the chair—

  "Yes," he admitted. "There are sensors in the chair—but that isn't how I know you're lying. I can hear the stress in your voice."

  I felt suddenly flustered—and angry. I jumped up out of the chair—

  "How did you feel, Jim?"

  "None of your damn business! I'm tired of people telling me who I am, who I have to be. I'm tired of people lying to me! Everybody lies. Obama lied. Duke lied. You're lying now, I'll bet. I'm tired of it—tired of being used and manipulated. It isn't fair! It wasn't fair when my father did it!" The words were tumbling out now. I knew what I was saying, but I couldn't stop myself—I didn't even know if I meant any of it. "He didn't listen to me either! I wanted to stay up in the mountains longer! We were happy there!" The words caught in my throat and I choked. I started coughing.

  After a polite pause, Dr. Davidson said, "There's water on the table."

  I stepped over to it and poured myself a glass. I drank it, then poured another and downed half of it too. My throat still felt dry. I carried it back to the chair with me. I sat down again. I tried to perch on the edge of the seat, but the chair wasn't designed for it; I had to lean back.

  "You said you were happy there, in the mountains," Dr. Davidson prompted.

  "Yes," I admitted, glad to finally have it out. "I was. I wasn't competing with the computer anymore. We were involved with living. Surviving. I mean, it wasn't easy; we had to chop our own wood and do a lot of maintenance on the solar panels, but we were involved with what we were doing—and with each other. We talked to each other about what we had to do. We shared our experiences. We cooperated. Oh, there were fights, a lot of arguments—especially at first—but we were a family finally. And it wasn't fair to end it. We could have stayed up there longer. We should have waited. I didn't want to come back. I wanted us to stay up there—"

  "So it wasn't the boys at all?" asked Dr. Davidson.

  "No," I admitted. "Not for me. It was . . . I was afraid I was going to lose him again."

  "So you were angry at your father?"

  "Yeah, I guess so. Yeah, I was."

  "Did you tell him how you felt?"

  "No, I never did. I mean, there wasn't any point. Once he'd made up his mind, that was it. Oh, I tried—I did tell him. I said we shouldn't go down yet, but he said we had to. I didn't want to, but you couldn't argue with him, so I didn't. I just figured he was going to have his way, so I started putting up the walls again. You know, I'd let them down for a while, but now that he was making plans to come back, I had to protect myself again and—" I stopped to take a sip of water.

  "Did he notice it? Did he see a change in your behavior?"

  "I don't see how he could have missed it. I was a real asshole there for a while."

  "I see."

  There was silence. While I realized. It wasn't just Maggie's anger. Or Mom's pity. It was me too. My resentment. Was that what he'd been trying to tell me that last day at the depot? Did I drive him away too?

  "What are you thinking about now?"

  "Nothing," I said. "I'm just wondering who I should be angry at. My dad? Or me? He was there when I needed him. But I wasn't there when he needed me. I abandoned him because . . . because . . ." My face was getting hot. This was the hard part to admit. I could feel my throat tightening up. ". . . I thought he was going to shut me out again and I wanted to shut him out first—to show him what it felt like, to show him he couldn't jerk me around like that! I mean, everybody else does it, but not my dad! It wasn't fair!" I started coughing then, and my eyes were blurry. I rubbed my palms against them, realized I was starting to cry—and then broke down and bawled like a baby.

  Dr. Davidson waited patiently. Finally he said, "Are you all right?"

  "No," I said, but I was. I was relieved to have finally spoken it aloud. It was as if I had released a great pressure that I hadn't even known was there until the words had given it form. "Yes," I said. "I'm all right. Well—a little better, anyway. I hadn't realized I was living with such . . . guilt."

  "Not just guilt, Jim. Anger too. You've been carrying your anger for such a long time, Jim, it's become a habit. It's part of you. My job is to assist you in giving it up. If that's what you want."

  I thought about that. "I don't know. Sometimes I think my anger is all that keeps me going."

  "Maybe that's because you haven't experienced anything else as intense. Have you ever been in love?"

  I shook my head.

  "Perhaps you ought to think about that—consider what it is you expect a lover to be. We could talk about that next time."

  "Next time?"

  "If you wish. You can call on me any time you want. That's what I'm here for."

  "Oh. I thought this was only a one-time interview."

  "It doesn't have to be."

  "Oh," I said. Then, "Thank you."

  36

  Duck Jokes

  "Neurosis is a communicable disease."

  —SOLOMON SHORT

  Dinner was a thick steak (medium rare), real mashed potatoes, green peas (with melted butter on them), fresh salad (bleu cheese dressing) and a chocolate soda. All of my favorite foods. Even an army commissary couldn't do too much damage to a T-bone steak. Although they tried.

  I wondered about Ted. I wondered where he was and what he was up to now. Or who.

  I'd never been able to keep up with him. And I knew why.

  Paul Jastrow said it to me once—I didn't remember the argument, but I did remember the insult: "Hey, McCarthy—there are human beings and there are ducks. You're a duck. Stop pretending to be a human being. You're not fooling anyone." Some of the people around him laughed, so after that, whenever Paul wanted to get a laugh, he'd turn to me and start quacking, then he'd turn to his friends and explain, "You have to talk to them in their own language if you want them to understand anything."

  I never understood why he'd picked me out for the honor of that particular humiliation—not until much later when I saw some comedian on TV do the exact same routine to an unsuspecting member of the audience. It wasn't personal; he was just using the fellow—he was someone to hit with the rubber chicken. That's when the nickle dropped. Paul had been imitating this comic. Maybe he hadn't even meant it personally—it was just a cheap way to get a laugh. But nobody had let me in on the joke. So I didn't get to laugh too. And even though I understood it now, in retrospect, it still didn't lessen the hurt. I could still feel it, could still hear the laughter.

  I think it hurt the most because I was afraid it might be true.

  I was looking at my half-finished steak. I was wishing I had someone to share the meal with. It's no fun eating alone.

  I pushed myself away from the table. I wasn't hungry anymore. I hated to waste food, but—

  —and then I had to stop myself, or I would have laughed out loud. There weren't any children starving in Africa anymore—or India, or Pakistan, or anywhere else! Nobody was starving anymore. If there was one good thing the plagues had accomplished, they had ended world hunger. It didn't matter if I wasted this steak or not. There was steak enough for everybody now. There was steak to waste! It was an eerie realization.

  But I still felt guilty about not finishing. Old habits die hard. If you train yourself to think a certain way, will you keep on thinking that way, even after it's no longer a valid way to think?

  Hm.

  Did I think like a duck? Was that it? Did I keep on doing ducklike things because I didn't know how to do anything else? Was it that obvious to the people around me?

  Maybe I should stop being me for a while and start being someone else—someone who didn't have so much trouble being me.

  I wasn't hungry anymore. I got up, took my tray to the bus window and left the commissary.

  I wondered if I walked funny. I mean, I was short and a little pudgy around the bottom. Did I look like a duck? Maybe I could learn to walk differently—if I stood a little taller and carried my weight in my chest instead of in my gut—"Oof! I'm sorry." I had been so busy walking, I hadn't been looking, and had plowed straight into a young woman. Quack. Old synapses never die, they just fire away. "I'm really sorry—oh!"

  It was Marcie. The thin girl with the large dark eyes. From the bus. Colonel Buffoon.

  "Hi—" I flustered for words. "Uh, what are you doing here?"

  "Feeding my dog—they give me the scraps." She showed me the package she was carrying.

  I held the door for her. She stepped through, but didn't say thanks. I followed after.

  She stopped on the sidewalk. "Are you following me?"

  I shook my head. "No."

  "Well, then, go away."

  "You're very rude, you know."

  She stared at me blankly.

  "You don't even give people a chance."

  She blinked. "I'm sorry. Am I supposed to know you?"

  "Uh—we were on the bus together, remember? Last night?"

  She shook her head. "I don't remember anything from last night. Were you one of the boys I screwed?"

  "Huh? No . . . I mean . . . what?"

  "He doesn't use me at all. I know that's what people think, but he's never touched me. But he likes to watch me do it with the young men he picks out. And then he likes to—well, you know."

  "Why do you stay with him?"

  She shrugged. "I don't know. I don't have anywhere else to go." And then she added, "I really am sorry. I don't remember you at all. I was stoned last night. He had some Atlanta Blue. I don't think I did it with anyone, but I'm not always sure. Were you there?"

  "I told you. We were on the bus together. Remember? The bus into town?"

  "Oh, yeah. I'm sorry. Sometimes I don't remember things at all. If you say so." She turned away from me then, bent to the ground and unwrapped her package to reveal a large pile of meat scraps and bones. "He's going to love this. Rangle!" she called. "C'mon, boy. Here, Rangle, come and get it or I'll give it to the dog!" She turned back to me. "I don't like to do dust, but—well, it helps sometimes. You know. Sometimes I get . . . lonely. You know?"

  "Yeah. I know."

  "That's funny, isn't it? There are still lots of people, if you know where to go, but it's all crowds of strangers. I don't know anybody anymore."

  "I know what you mean. And everybody always seems so agitated. It's like—you know, the social Brownian movement has been speeded up—"

  Her expression was blank. She had no idea what I was talking about.

  I said, "It's because there are less people now—we all have to move faster to make up for the difference."

  She was staring at me. Had I just said something stupid? Or had she not gotten it? She said, "I used to be smart. Like you. Only it stopped being useful to be smart. So I stopped being smart." She looked sad. "The dust helps a lot. You can get real stupid real fast with dust." She caught herself then, as if she'd said something she shouldn't have. She lifted her voice again. "Hey, Rangle! Come on! Where are you, boy?" There was an edge of impatience in her tone. She turned back to me. "You'll like him. He's really a very friendly dog—I just don't know where he is now."

  "Oh, well . . . maybe he got caught up in traffic, or something."

  She didn't react to the joke. She turned her wide-eyed stare on me again. "Do you think so?"

  "Are you still dusted?" I asked.

  "Oh, no. I haven't sniffed since yesterday. I don't like it. Why do you ask?" Before I could answer, she clutched my arm. "Am I being weird? I'm sorry. Sometimes I get weird. It happens. But nobody ever tells me if I'm weird or not. That scares me sometimes—that I might be so weird that no one will tell if I am or not. One time, everybody else got dusted and I had to stay squeaky—because it was my period and I didn't want to risk hemorrhaging—and I was really bored. They didn't understand why I wasn't giggly like them—"

  "Yes," I said. "You're being weird."

  She looked into my face. Her eyes were very large and very dark. She looked almost like a little girl right then. She said, "Thank you. Thank you for telling me that." She blinked and I saw the tears welling up in her eyes. "I don't know anything anymore, except what other people tell me. So thank you for telling me the truth.

  "Do you hate me?"

  I shook my head.

  "Do you feel sorry for me?"

  "No, I don't." I thought about my father for an instant. "No, I don't feel sorry for anyone anymore. It only kills them."

  She kept on looking at me, but she didn't say anything for a long moment. We stood there in the Colorado dusk, while overhead the stars began to come out. To the west, the mountains were outlined in a faint glow of orange. The breeze was warm and smelled of honey and pine.

  The silence stretched until it was uncomfortable. I began to wonder if I should apologize for being honest with her. Finally she said, "I wish I knew where that damn dog went to. It's not like him to miss his dinner! Rangle!" She looked annoyed, then as if embarrassed to have been angry, she said, "I don't know why I'm getting so upset—he's not my real dog. I mean, he's just a stray. I sort of adopted him—" And then she admitted, "—but he's the only person I know who . . . well, he doesn't care if I'm weird. Rangle doesn't care. You know?"

  "Yeah, I do. We all need someone these days." I smiled at her. "Because we're all we've got."

 

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