“Yes, well, and what’s happened to yours?”
“Nervous habit,” I said. “I’m working on my head now.”
She glanced up at my thinning pate. “In any case, you seem better.”
“Yes, I believe I’ve turned the corner.”
“That’s good to hear; I’ve been so worried.”
“In fact, I have just now thought of a name for my belt valet.”
“You have? What is it?”
“Skippy.”
She laughed a big belly laugh. “Skippy? Skippy?”
“Well, he’s young,” I explained.
“Very young, apparently.”
Our conversation was starting to feel like old times, but these weren’t the old times, and I said, “Tomorrow I’m going to teach Skippy how to hold a press conference.”
“I see,” Eleanor said uncertainly. “Thank you for telling me. What will it be about?”
I could see the storm of calculation in her eyes as her Cabinet whispered to her. Had I thrown them all a curve? Come up with something unexpected? I perversely hoped so.
“About my arrest, I suppose. About my searing.”
“That wasn’t your fault, Sam. You don’t owe anyone an explanation about that.”
“I know. Yet, I feel I must bear witness. I think people will want to know what happened to me. That’s all I’m saying. I’m a public figure, after all. Or at least I was once.”
“No offense, Sam, but stinkers are all over the news lately. Your case won’t stand out, except as you’re related to me. Is your purpose to harm me and Ellen?”
That was not my purpose.
“And besides,” she continued, “talking publicly about your searing would violate the terms of your release. You know that.”
I did. I stood up and offered her the sleeping baby. “Here, take her.” El reached for Ellen before we both remembered we weren’t in the same room. A moment later, a jenny came in, wordlessly took the baby from me, and withdrew, closing the door behind her.
I turned to Eleanor and flung my arms out from my sides. “Look at me, El. Look at what they’ve done to me.”
“I know, Sam. I know,” she said and tried to touch my chest with her ghostly fingers. “I’m working on it, believe me. If it’s the last thing I ever do, I will track those people down. You can count on it. And when I do, I will destroy them for what they’ve done to us. That’s my promise to you.”
It was a promise for revenge that I wasn’t prepared to turn down at the time, though I knew it was beside the point. It would do nothing to set things right.
I looked around at the limestone walls surrounding us, at the oak tree outside the window, at the fish pond beyond, and I said, “I don’t think I can live here.”
“But it’s our home, Sam.”
“No, it’s your home.”
She had the good grace not to argue the point. Instead she said, “Where will you go?”
I didn’t know. Till that moment, I didn’t even know I was leaving. “Good question,” I said. “Where do damaged people go?”
2.1
That morning at the charterhouse, Samson P. Kodiak pled exhaustion. Claimed he was beat. Had a bad night of it. More tired now than when he went to bed in the first place. Wouldn’t Kitty consider going to the park without him just this once? She could ask Denny or Francis or Barry to escort her.
“Dearest,” Kitty replied, “stay put. I’ll be right up.” Kitty was already dressed and waiting for him in her fifth-floor room. She had been expecting his knock on her door at any moment, and here it turned out that he wasn’t even out of bed yet. Kitty was more than a tiny bit peeved—today was supposed to be the big day. She was wearing her brand-new blue and white sailor outfit with the sparkly tap shoes. Her hair was a helmet of corkscrew curls that bobbled like springs whenever she waggled her head. And the old fart wanted to miss it?
Kitty Kodiak slammed her door, skipped along the hall, tap-danced up a flight of steps, paused to reconsider, turned around, and danced down five floors to the NanoJiffy instead. There she ordered his habitual breakfast: corn mush and jam, juice and coffeesh. Balancing the tray in her small hands, Kitty carried it up ten floors to the roof where Samson used the garden shed for his bedroom. Halfway across the roof, already she could smell him. Samson Kodiak had a serious personal odor issue. The fragrance that came off him was so strong it could make your eyes water. And his mouth was an open grave. Sam’s odor drove house flies outdoors. Once, it set off a smoke alarm. But it wasn’t his fault that he stank so bad, and Kitty loved him anyway.
“Morning, dahling,” she drawled, nudging the screen door open with her little rump and maneuvering the tray into the cramped space. If Samson heard her, he pretended not to. He lay on his cot, flat on his back, eyes shut, hands crisscrossed over his chest like a pharaoh. When Kitty saw him like this, she jumped, spilling his coffeesh.
Samson opened his eyes and ratcheted his skullish head on the pillow to see her. “Ah,” he said in a rusty voice, “the Good Ship Lollipop. Wanted to be there.”
At this, Kitty came unstuck, skipped across the cluttered floor, and tapped a flourish with her shoes, careful not to spill any more coffeesh. “You can, Sam! I’ll stay home today! We’ll go tomorrow.” She searched for somewhere to set the tray and ended up using his disgusting old elephant foot footstool next to the cot. “Look, I brought you breakfast.”
“Thank you, dearest,” he said, his eyelids drooping. “While you were on your way up, I asked Denny, and he says he’ll escort you. He’s waiting for you down in the NanoJiffy. I’m buying him a Danish. Use my allowance account to pay his fares. Buy him lunch too.”
“No, Sam. I’m going to stay here and nurse you back to health.”
“I don’t need a nurse, sweetheart. I just need peace and quiet. Now go to the park and leave me be.” As though to close the matter, Samson resumed his mummylike pose. Indeed, the flesh covering his throat was as dark and stiff as jerked meat, and his nose and lips had shrunken, making it difficult to completely close his mouth. His fetid breath whistled through the gaps, and in a little while he began to snore.
Kitty let herself out as quietly as possible. Samson, who only pretended to sleep, realized she hadn’t kissed him good-bye. He almost called her back. He almost told his mentar, Hubert, to stop her. But he didn’t because then he’d just have to part with her all over again, and he knew he hadn’t the heart.
“Good-bye, sweetness,” he whispered after her. “Have a good long life.”
In a little while, another Kodiak housemeet came up to the roof, as Samson expected he might. It was the Kodiak houseer, Kale, who no doubt had bumped into Kitty on her way downstairs. Kale bustled into the shed and said, “So what does the autodoc say?”
Samson chuckled; Kale was refreshingly direct, as usual. Without waiting for an answer, the houseer fussed about the tiny space, rearranging garden tools on pegs and collecting Samson’s soiled things into a bag for the digester. He glanced at the untouched breakfast tray. So busy and efficient, Samson thought, as though he was tapped for time or—as we used to say—double-parked. Pretty impressive for a middle-aged man with no income, no prospects, and no drive.
Samson said, “Autodoc advises us to plan the funeral, old friend.”
Kale stood still at last and said, “Surely there must be something someone can do. I mean, it can’t be as bad as all that. What if we take you to—what if we take you to a clinic?”
Samson shook his head. “No, no clinic for me,” he said. “That would be a useless waste of credits.”