Falling in love with Josh had changed her mind about that. Josh was a sweet man, and his sweetness was merely and purely human. It justified much. But he needed to know who she was. She needed to tell him what she had done.
Uncle Ethan had put out a tray of crackers and dip, which made Cassie smile. “Like a party,” she said.
“I know it’s not a party. But I thought—it’s at least an occasion. Seeing Ris again. Telling your aunt you’re getting married.”
“Getting her permission,” Cassie said.
“You don’t need her permission to get married.”
No—not permission to get married. Permission to speak, Cassie thought.
She went to the window. Antioch Street was empty, veiled in snow, a page without words.
“Any sign of her?”
“Not yet.”
“Well. Don’t be too disappointed if she doesn’t show up.”
“Thank you for letting me invite her here.”
“To be honest?” her uncle said. “I never thought she’d agree to come.”
It was nine o’clock when a car turned the corner and parked as close to the curb as the mounded snow permitted. From the window Cassie saw her aunt get out, stand up, tug her cloth cap over her ears, trudge to the building.
Cassie met her at the door of Uncle Ethan’s apartment. “Thank you,” Cassie said breathlessly. “Thank you for doing this.”
Aunt Ris embraced her. Cassie pressed her cheek against her aunt’s shoulder, the cloth coat wet with melting snow.
“Ethan,” Aunt Ris said neutrally.
“Hello, Ris. Would you like something to drink?”
“No. I want to hear what Cassie has to say. But I can’t stay long.”
“Of course,” he said, wincing.
Cassie and her uncle had searched Antofagasta for weeks before they returned to the States, and for six months after that Cassie had made increasingly frantic inquiries among Society survivors, until a letter from her aunt arrived.
I am so sorry, it began. I spoke to Beth’s father—I thought I should tell him what he needed to know—and he said you had already been in touch. He gave me this address. I’m afraid I have bad news. The letter went on to describe the death of Thomas. Of the thing they had called Thomas. One more belated horror from what had been, for Cassie and her family, an age of horrors, and in many ways the most devastating of them all.
Later—when it became possible to re-read the letter without staining the page with her tears—Cassie noticed how often her aunt had used the word “sorry.” Seven times in two handwritten pages. She also noticed that her aunt had neglected to include a return address.
Which did not deter her from trying to get in touch. After another six months Cassie received a letter asking her to stop. A meeting wouldn’t be good for either of us, I think. And Cassie ignored it. And in the summer of that year Aunt Ris finally consented to see her.
They had lunch together in a cafeteria in Delaware Park. Cassie had been prepared to confront her aunt’s unhappiness, but she was surprised by the coldness that came along with it—as if all the kindness in her had drained away like water from a holey bucket. “I’m sorry,” Aunt Ris had said (again) at the end of it. “But I can’t do this. Be around you people, I mean. There are parts of my life I can’t get back. I don’t want them back. I just want to forget them. And you’re only making it harder.”
Still, Cassie hadn’t given up. Aunt Ris had agreed that Cassie could write to her, “If you really need to.” And that was what Cassie had done. She composed small, careful, impersonal notes and mailed them at irregular intervals. She hoped her aunt felt obliged to read them, if not to respond.
Most recently Cassie had written to Aunt Ris about Josh. Cassie had met Josh through her membership in the Albright-Knox Art Gallery. A spontaneous conversation about French impressionism had turned into a first date: thank you, Henri Matisse. Josh was single, thirty years old, an engineer at a Cheektowaga tool-and-die firm that had managed to survive the communications crisis. He had no connection with the Correspondence Society.
Last week Josh had asked Cassie to marry him. And Cassie had agreed. But she didn’t want to import a lie into their marriage. That was why she needed to speak to her uncle and her aunt.
Cassie talked a little about Josh, about how much he meant to her and how important it was not to lie to him even about what happened in the Atacama—especially about what happened in the Atacama. But she had promised her uncle never to share that secret. That was why she needed his permission… and her aunt’s permission, too, since Aunt Ris was an essential part of the story.
Cassie would not, of course, speak publically about any of this. The existence of the Correspondence Society had become common knowledge, but their role in it was known only to themselves. That wouldn’t change. She just needed to be able to speak freely to Josh.
“And how do you suppose he’ll react,” Aunt Ris said, “when you tell him you’re responsible for the state of the world today?”
“That’s not fair,” Uncle Ethan said. “Cassie’s not responsible for what happened in the Atacama or what came after. If anyone is, I am. I’m the one who pulled the trigger.”
“And loaded the gun in the first place. You’re right!” She turned to Cassie. “What exactly do you propose to say to Josh? Are you going to tell him the truth about Thomas? The truth about Leo? Are you going to tell him how they used us? Used you?”
It wasn’t as simple as that. Cassie had given careful thought to the question of what Leo and Thomas had done and why. Both had been agents of the hypercolony. Both had wanted to destroy the parasitized breeding ground. They would have known they needed a human accomplice. At first Leo had chosen Beth to play that role—Beth was motivated and demonstrably capable of violence. But Leo had found a better weapon in Cassie. More reliable. More versatile. And just as easy to manipulate.
Thomas had motivated her from a different direction. He had encouraged her to trust Leo, to follow Leo, to defer to Leo, but more than that, he had given her something to protect, an example of courage she felt obligated to live up to.
Would she say these things to Josh? Of course she would. That was the point. Would it change things between them? She hoped not. “I mean to tell him everything.”
“And I’m sure I can’t talk you out of it.” Aunt Ris nodded. “All right. You have my blessing. I hope it works out. And I hope he understands.”
“He will.”
“Are you sure about that?”
Cassie hesitated. “I trust him.”
“Really? I can’t imagine what that’s like. I honestly don’t remember. But I suppose I envy you a little.” Aunt Ris stood up. She hadn’t even taken her coat off. “Have a good life, Cassie. I mean it. I wish you the best. But I don’t want to see you again. And I resent you asking me to come here to conduct business we could have conducted by mail.”
“I needed to talk to both of you…”
“No you didn’t. You were harboring some idea that we might be reconciled. But that’s not possible. What ever there was between us, your uncle took it away.”
“That’s not true!”
“But it is.”
“I’m sure Uncle Ethan didn’t know—”
About Thomas, she meant to say, but her uncle cleared his throat and said, “Stop, Cassie. She’s right.” He was framed by the window that overlooked Antioch Street, the falling snow, frost on glass. His shoulders were braced but his head was bowed. “I knew exactly what would happen. They told me in great detail.”