“We were married. What else?”
Harvey looked away, smile fading completely this time, and his image seemed to get grainy, as though her question had overwhelmed the computer, for a moment drawing back the curtain of reality. “I’m sorry, Juanita. Dying is a difficult process, and I’ve forgotten things. I only remember that we once felt strongly for each other. Can’t we reminisce about those times? Tell me about how it used to be.”
Juanita felt her body tense, felt herself swept away on a wave of emotion she hadn’t seen coming, felt pressure building up inside her, like a teakettle coming to boil. He was doing it again—smooth, charming, spinning a web of lies. But this time she knew, knew who he really was. Suddenly she was moving toward him, no longer hesitant, no longer afraid. In a moment she was on him, swinging her arms, lashing with her fists, kicking. But she felt nothing as her flailing limbs passed through him, scattering him into condensed clouds that swirled and reformed, like a flock of birds avoiding a hawk.
The only satisfaction, the only satisfaction at all, was that Harvey reacted to her blows, only not the way she wanted. He was laughing, pulling away, trying ineffectively to block her with his arms. “Damn it, Juanita, stop! That tickles!”
She did stop, stepping back just a step, to see what she had done. Harvey was still laughing, trying to compose himself, or at least, the computer was putting on a pretty good show. How much of this was show, pre-programmed reactions to make the visitors happy, and how much was real personality, recreated in the machine? Did it matter?
She moved half a step closer, getting in his face, arms back, chest out. “Hit me,” she said. “I’m not afraid of you, Harvey. Hit me!”
Harvey just stood there, looking bemused, shaking his head.
“Damn you, you bastard, hit me! Just like you used to! Like the time you broke my arm! Have you forgotten that too?”
But it seemed that Harvey had. He held his hands out, and she saw that his lips were moving, but there was no sound. The image shimmered, then seemed about to break up entirely. She remembered what she’d been thinking earlier, about how people had to throw out their vision of a person when presented with anomalous information. That was fine if that vision was someone else, but what if that vision was all you were? This thing wasn’t Harvey, she knew that now, and it had never hurt her. She watched it, breaking up almost completely, arms outstretched toward her. To whatever extent this thing was conscious, she was killing it.
“You didn’t hit me, Harvey. I just said that because I was angry. I’m sorry.” And with her words, she healed him. Suddenly the image was whole, and Harvey was smiling as though nothing had happened.
“I understand, it must have been difficult for you, Juanita. I can’t blame you for being angry at me.”
She drew her arms across her chest, and thought of the real Harvey, cold and buried in the ground under her feet. She thought of him and felt nothing. He was buried, old business; let him stay that way.
“I have to go, Harvey. I just had to say good-bye. I won’t be back.”
Harvey smiled sadly. “I understand, it’s that way sometimes. Good-bye, Juanita.”
She started to walk away, but turned for one last look at the Harvey that never was, or perhaps the Harvey that might have been. He was all the things she had once loved, with none of the anger, none of the greed, none of the hate. He was Harvey filtered through the hearts of the people who had cared for him, who had never known his dark side. He was perfect, and he didn’t exist. All that was left of Harvey was a kaleidoscope of memories, all equally right, all equally wrong, as illusory as the people who inhabited this cemetery, and just as real.
She walked down the hill, not looking back. Sometimes, she would pass too close to a headstone, and she would smile and greet the person who materialized there. Let people have their illusions. Sometimes illusions were a good thing.
The cab was waiting, but first she had to stop and straighten things out with Ms. Thomas, to restore her old image of Harvey. She’d have to lie, of course, tell her that Harvey hadn’t hit her at all. What harm could it do? It was old business.
Let this be the place where the past was buried.